#GRIEVING WHAT COULD HAVE BEEN

[nightshade-regrets]

Glimpse of Us, but rewritten as looking at who you could have been.

I'd take the world onto my shoulders

Though it grows too hard to move

I'd turn the rain to a rainbow

If you were living in the blue

Why, then, if I'm so perfect,

Do I still wish it were true?

Perfect don't mean that it's working,

So what can I do?

It's just out of sight,

In my mind.

'Cause sometimes,

I'd look in my eyes

And that's when I find a glimpse of us

And I'll try, oh so very much,

But I'm thinking of the way I was

'Said I'm fine and said I'd moved on

We're only here passing time in each other's arms

Hoping I'll find a glimpse of us

Tell me he savors his glory

Does he laugh the way I did?

Is this a part of our story?

One that I will never live?

Maybe one day, he'll feel lonely

And in his eyes, you'll get a glimpse

Maybe he'll start slipping slowly,

And be me again.

[cautiousgoose]

Your friends and family with chronic pain aren't doing well.

Yes, even the ones that say they are.

Yes, especially the ones that are complaining and lashing out already.

Chances are high that however bad they will admit things are it's actually worse. By a lot.

We're conditioned to be "okay". If we're breaking down at non scheduled times we aren't coping well. I promise.

Your sibling/partner/bestie/parent who is breaking down without preamble on a Tuesday is suffering. Be kind. We're sorry.

[mmpookie]

This is the worst news of my life

yuri on ice fans how are we doing today chuckles weakly

[phoenixcatch7]

The One Fact Pact

I want to see a fic where the chain is rigorously keeping their secrets and stories hidden, but they've all learned to trust one another. Like, it's past time they should probably be sharing things because it's beginning to get annoying, they all agree, but it's sorta become a habit by now? They kept those secrets and now no one really wants to share first?

So, to keep things interesting and get some momentum going, they make a deal.

Whenever they come across something that reminds them of their travels, their quest - be it an item, a familiar name, a location - they've got to share ONE fact or story about it.

But only! When they're in other people's time, because otherwise it'll just be a staged tour and one person infodumping and that's exactly what they're trying to avoid (and it won't be a fun competition they can make bets about).

And then either they go through worlds slowly building trust and understanding of each other through a long drawn out and incidental series of tidbits....

Or they immediately get stuck in wild's hyrule for ages.

Everyone's arguing over who the latest ruin belongs to. Time and wind are getting into an argument about the kokiri. No one can agree on the zonai. Wars is taking immense pleasure in pointing out anything someone else might have missed. Legend is resolutely ignoring eventide. Twilight claims the entire faron woods until they step into the hot and humid jungle for the first time.

Wild thinks he's immune because it's his world so he legally can't answer questions, but everywhere they visit there's a piece of his own story in the rubble or on the wind.

Wild: *happily making tea and checking his slate with the other hand* okay, looks like tomorrow we can reach the breach of demise and to new serenne stable. Just past that- Sky: *choking on his drink* the what?? Wild: the breach? Sky, weakly: Why's it uh, called that? Wild: oh, it's an old story. Apparently eons ago it's where a demon godking came up from underground to the surface world... *suspiciously* Why? Sky: gimme the slate. *squinting at the shape on the map*... I can neither confirm nor deny. Wild:... What do you mean? Sky, remembering the One Fact Pact: I can neither confirm nor deny. What's important is that I killed him. The entire chain, variously: YOU KILLED A DEMON GOD?!!? Sky *recalling the hardest fight of his life*: what, like it's hard?

And then he just refuses to elaborate.

[professorjirt]

is it weird and derivative to want to write Thorin’s perspective in the scene where he’s dying. like the movie and the book already cover this but I want to write it from the view of the dying dwarrow. I always wonder what was going through his head at the time, bc clearly he couldn’t say everything and there was a process that led to him saying his final words— and the juxtaposition of being at the end of life but somehow feeling like he just understood it all, dying two deaths, the one of the body and the one he could have had. I feel like there’s some left to explore? idk it’s complicated to write about scenes that have already been done as opposed to original ones

[wildsaltair]

Ranting in the tags isn’t enough so I’m going to say one more time that just because Maximus isn’t morally gray doesn’t mean he isn’t complex

[hiddenbysuccubi]

The more I listen to reviews and go over Veilguard and finished my second playthrough, the more I dislike it. It's not a 'roleplaying' game. I don't get to play any role - I just get railroaded into one. I miss being able to go up and start a conversation. Or play to set up my origin before being dropped in. I like romance to be present and build, not just only happen in the last minute. I need a game that also isn't hand holding me the entire time - and this example is a nitpick but after EVERYTHING throughout the entire game and every fightscene, getting a pop up about how enemy armor works in the middle of the last fight of the game on my second playthrough - I wanted to throw my controller. And stop being peppy about everything if people are supposed to be dying and the world is supposedly ending! It sure doesn't feel like it! How is blood magic and slavery not touched on at all in the blood magic and slavery city! Also let my character mourn damn it! It's not a roleplaying game, I miss Origin, and I've deleted it off my console to keep space free. At least with getting ME1-3 on sale I can replay something with dialogue. Even Mass Effect 3, and that's saying something coming from me.

[pinkfey]

me when the boy savior the boy saved everyone: 🤯🤯🤯

[transmascutena]

(a very quick and unpolished thing i wrote on the bus home today)

Utena, Anthy, and a conversation about love. Around 500 words.

---

“I loved him,” Utena says. She feels vulnerable admitting it, staring at the ceiling rather than at Anthy curled up at her side. “Not�� not in the way he tried to convince me I did. But…” she sighs at the feeling of Anthy's fingers moving gently up and down her arm. “But I did love him.”

Anthy is quiet, and Utena can tell she’s waiting for her to say the next thing, the logical conclusion to this line of thought. It’s the hardest part to admit to herself, let alone to someone else. Let alone to Anthy.

She takes a breath. “Sometimes I feel like I still do.” Anthy exhales against her shoulder.

“Love is,” Anthy starts, then stops. Utena feels her shake her head. “It’s not… enough, on its own. I loved him too. I still do. I think I always will.”

Utena squeezes Anthy’s hand in the dark, and for a while they simply listen to each other breathe. “I’m not sure I even know what love is,” Utena says. “I definitely didn’t, growing up. But I wanted it, more than anything. He knew that. He offered it to me, and he knew I would do anything to keep it.”

“Family,” Anthy whispers, her mouth still pressed against Utena’s shoulder.

“Yeah. Family.”

They’re both quiet for a while, aware of the weight of the conversation. The entirety of what used to be their world, all contained in that single word.

“Do you think…” Utena starts to ask, but hesitates. She doesn’t want to say the words, and doesn't want to hear Anthy’s answer.

“What is it?”

She shakes her head. “Nevermind. It doesn’t matter.”

“Everything matters,” Anthy says simply, but in a tone that tells Utena that she doesn’t have to say if she doesn’t want to.

She sighs. “I just mean, it doesn't change anything. It doesn’t make what he did… better. But I just wonder,” and she has wondered for years now, “I wonder if he loved us too. If any of it was real.”

Anthy wraps an arm Utena’s middle and touches her scar lightly. “He did,” Anthy says, confidently enough that Utena doesn’t question it. “It was as real as anything was in that place. But like I said, love is… It’s not an inherent good.”

“No,” Utena mumbles. “And he hurt us in spite of it.”

Anthy catches Utena’s eye for the first time since the conversation started. “He hurt us because of it, Utena.”

“Oh,” Utena breathes, turning her eyes back to the ceiling. She lets that revelation settle in her chest, but doesn’t know how to feel about it. She was right that it doesn’t make any of it better. She’s not sure whether or not it makes it worse.

[uncanny-tranny]

It's really frustrating being trans sometimes with cis loved ones because other cis people will go, "oh but it's such a huge adjustment for them! They're grieving for your pre-transition self/they aren't used to the change yet/it's hard on them!"

It's just so frustrating that people forget that trans people's feelings on this matter, too. Cis people aren't the only ones who have adjustments to make. Frankly, as much as I sympathize with cis people in this position, I can't help but be really jaded about it because so often, cis people jump to the defense of other cis people and they will seemingly forget to or refuse to give the same grace to trans people.

[distinguishedstudentcat]

ivy by taylor swift is so show!braime coded I'm going to be sick

[vonlipvig]

if i was making scandal s4 i'd have a psychological horror cyrus subplot where he's periodically haunted by a rotting, zombie-fied ghost version of james every time he continues to support the administration in his usual immoral ways, both serving as a representation of his guilt over his loss, and the constant reinforcing of his sunk-cost fallacy way of coping. but because this wasn't relevant to olivia's journey they didn't include it.

[alex51324]

Scroll down a bit...

Someone who works on CNN's front page did a thing, I bet.

(A little while ago these two headlines were close enough together to get them in the same screenshot, but the second one was moved down before I got around to actually taking the screenshot.)

[tiredgeekgirl]

fellas it has been three months since the beach episode and thinking about neil and eva in any capacity still makes me ILL

[brittlebutch]

actually it's kind of funny how people will say Alex's fatal flaw is that he 'doesn't ask for help' and that it's his determination to handle things on his own that leads to his deterioration and eventual death when his whole introduction to the present-day timeline was a very literal cry for help that simply went ignored

[ehlnofay]

Pax should have said no.

Damn it all, they should have said no. Should have said go to hell and fucked off back – stop contacting me, sort out your own shit – but they didn’t, fuck knows why, and now they’re stuck here.

(They know why. They know exactly why; absolutely anything would be better than fucking off back to Cyrodiil. What’s for them there?)

But there’s nothing worth staying for here either, and now she’s crammed in between strangers on a long table, everyone dressed in fabrics she’s never seen with dyes so saturated they seem almost gory, eating stuff that isn’t food and talking loud enough to make her want to hurl a glass into the wall. It’s bizarre. The woman next to her, ruddy-faced and bald, wears a headpiece that shines like the sun the Isles doesn���t have; the other side is taken up by a stranger in a bone-white porcelain mask who has not moved but to swill the wine around in their glass. There’s scarcely room for Pax’s chair. It all feels like such a baffling pantomime of aristocracy (she's known the real thing well enough – feasts and toasts and luxurious gifts she had no use for, and if she doesn’t stop thinking about it she actually will throw a glass), bright colours and rich settings and a god taking offerings at the head of the table.

At least, Pax thinks, no-one tries to talk to him; they’re too busy fawning over their lord. Which is probably to be expected; but it all feels so strange, so unsettling, the way they all lean in towards it like flowers turning to face the sun, like seaweed dragged at by the inescapable pull of the tides. They grow towards it through the cracks in the air, matter moving toward the inevitable centre, as if they can imagine nothing more than this.

(Even more unsettling is the way it responds in kind, listening attentively to anyone who speaks to it, leaning in as though to kiss them, as though to swallow them whole. All hell, why did Pax agree to this? Why did they come?)

(They should have told it to fuck off. Should have said no way, I don’t want to help you, don’t want to get involved in anything you’d need my help for. I don’t owe you anything. I don’t need anything from you. I don’t want anything to do with you. I’m done.)

(Pax is done. Pax is sick to death of all this shit; doesn’t want to deal with this, the vaguely described problems of a god that picks people apart like it’s unravelling a thick yarn shawl. Doesn’t want to deal with anything like this. He’s had his fill of gods.)

(Why is he still fucking here? Why did he agree to this? This is no better than eating in that weird fucking inn in town. This is no better than –)

(That’s a lie. It’s a bit better than Cyrodiil. Just as much a shithole, but it pulls the rug out from under him often enough that he doesn’t have time to think too much.)

“Not hungry?” says a prowling voice, coiling catlike into the plaits in their hair, and Pax jumps enough to jostle the masked bastard sitting ramrod straight next to him.

He looks up.

At the empty placemat across from him sits a figure veiled in gossamer, glittering in the glow of the lit-up lichen on the distant throne; the fabric of its endless shawls pulls apart at the ends, peeling away from itself, shedding patches like iridescent insect wings every time it shifts. If Pax squints, they can see through it to the grand marbled wall behind.

She glances back at the chair at the head of the table, where something lounges, eyes dripping gold, intricately carved cane laid across its knees; its too-many fingers are laced with the hand of a man whose gown blooms floral. Flatly, she says, “What the fuck?”

“Aren’t you hungry?” Sheogorath asks, pouting; she can hear it laughing down the other end of the table. “It’s a proper feast. We pulled out all the stops.”

Pax shifts their eyes away to peer down at their plate. “You have served me worms,” she says. She flicks the dish with a fingernail. “In jelly. With flowers.”

“Larva, actually,” Sheogorath replies. It’s still at the other end of the table. It doesn’t seem eager to explain this. When it smiles, the gossamer falls away; its whole face splits in half.

It’s all so fucking stupid. Pax takes a deep breath – in through the nose, ignore all the odd spiced smells, and out – and does not yell at it, or try to hit it, because she’s gotten herself into a situation where that’s not really an option, because she’s a fucking idiot. Why didn’t she just say no?

(She knows why.)

The Mad God’s teeth flash bright as the ornate silver cutlery. Its chair scrapes back from the table. “It melts in your mouth,” it tells her, eyes glittering, “but I won’t make you try it. Walk with me?”

The figure still sits at the head of the table, snatching something from someone’s plate, always, always laughing. Its limbs sprawl like tentacles, like the silken threads of a tapestry, to encompass the whole room. The dinner guests stare as though bewitched, bedevilled, beguiled. Not one of them is looking at Pax. If he were to drop dead with his face in the food his corpse would not be discovered until sunrise.

Pax sniffs and shoves his chair back from the table. He lets Sheogorath (the second Sheogorath – but it must be, what else could it be?) lead him through a narrow door into some winding hallway, the walls lined and rimed with ornate coloured-glass windows. (It’s so much quieter. Still as garishly bright, but Pax is getting the sense that that is inescapable, here; the clothes they wear, as crumpled and covered in travelling-grime as ever and startlingly out of place against the odd jagged finery of the dinner party, seem unimaginably dull in comparison. Everything seems unimaginably dull in comparison.) Outside the windows, they can catch glimpses of the city – its winding, lamp-lit streets, the jumbled mess of its architecture, the sky arcing above it like a child’s attempt at watercolours. Pax wants to smash it, tear it down.

There’s no sun here, but still it’s night. The sky has shifted to purple and black.

“Isn’t it nice?” says their companion; when they look back, it’s nothing more than a shifting impression in the stained-glass window, a series of hairline cracks. It still manages, somehow, to smile at them.

It’s not. The sky is a shadow and the flamboyance of the palace is scraping at their spine. “Sure,” Pax says flatly. When she flexes her fingers, the bruising staining the base knuckle of her thumb aches.

Sheogorath looks at her – an ancient man leaning on a stick, a flickering painting, a bloody corpse, a little girl in velvet-red skirts, a breath. In its mercurial shifting she catches the flowery blossom of the man at the table’s collar, an unpleasant glimpse of her own braided hair, the smell of sulphur. It tips its head. She can’t focus on it anywhere but for the eyes.

“You don’t like my dinner parties,” it announces, as though it’s a revelation, a tragedy; its body crumbles like sea cliffs slowly eroded by the ways. It’s annoying – bloody obnoxious, and incomprehensible, and kind of weird that it noticed, that it would even care. (She’s never liked dinner parties. Nobody ever commented on it before.)

I’ve had well enough of them, Pax could say, or no, I don’t like you, but it’s the fucking Mad God, Daedric Prince of – Pax doesn’t even know what, he’s never known much about this shit, only that it’s well worth avoiding. Prince of the mad and the missing and the foolish, of breaking and breaking and putting yourself back together backwards. She should have said no, but she didn’t, and who knows what would happen if she went back on that now?

It's slinking closer. All that stay static enough to make out are eyes and teeth.

“Pax, yes?” it says, soft-voiced – a hand lands on his arm, small and dry and shivering, the skin as thing as a mouldering leaf. “You have no obligations here. If you want to be on your own, be on your own. We’ve plenty of space for it.”

Pax’s eyes narrow. He does not jerk away from it.

In the light of the coloured sky, the coloured windows, its face is phantasmagorical. “If you don’t want to be here,” it continues – still so skin-pricklingly gentle – “then your hand will not be forced. I’ll speed your way home if you wish.”

They can’t help but twitch at that. It’s setting their teeth on edge. (It’s lying – has to be. After its ages of coaxing them in, meting out information, not telling them where they were until they were on its doorstep, it would not give them the chance to leave.) Rough, still covered in road-grime, Pax asks, “Why should I believe you?”

(None of them have ever given them the chance to leave.)

Sheogorath, a figure of hollow skin and bone, inclines its head. “I wouldn’t lie to you, Pax,” it says. Its eyes are wide and bulging, whites on full display like a frightened horse; it grins again. “Others might. But we’re not a monolith. We’re not even especially similar.”

Pax bites down on the flat edge of their tongue. “That doesn’t mean anything to me.”

The light coming in through the windows flickers. The Mad God turns to meet it.

“I’m the youngest,” it says, its voice glittering like mist on the air. “Did you know that? I don’t remember the world without you in it.” Its form spasms, volatile, wings and limbs and eyes like a snail’s on stalks sprouting and choking and subsiding back into its mass. “I’m closer to you than any. I understand, almost.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Pax repeats. She’s gritting her teeth, tonguing at her gums where two are missing. Are two devil-gods not enough to deal with for a lifetime? Is there really going to be more of this now, too?

Rolling through the air like smoke, the voice says, “It will.”

Pax presses purple-green knuckles to her mouth. Her teeth dig into the soft meat of her lip.

Sheogorath turns to face her, hair moving as though blown by the wind, as though tugged by the tides. It sighs. “You don’t believe me,” it says. Its tongue pokes through its teeth. “That’s perfectly fine. Clever, even. But if you want to leave, all you need to do is tell me so.” It pauses, then; the train of its strange, gnarled crown shifts over its shoulders when it moves its head. “Or just leave. The door is still open.”

“You’d be fine with me just leaving,” Pax rasps around his knuckle, “after weeks of not leaving me alone?”

(Of begging him to come, poorly-hidden agitation giving way to blatant franticness, half-swallowing the fear that choked its face in every mirror it spoke to him through. Of begging him still, after he got here, after he met it – begging in a roundabout manner, casual as anything, its every motion reeking of fear. Its abject terror when he turned to leave. You’ve come this far. Why not hear an old man out? Pax told it that it wasn’t an old man, that he didn’t give a shit either way, and it slid through a child, a monster, a sulphur-burned body coughing blood, his own shuddering form in armour he hasn’t seen in months, and it said please.)

(Regained its composure, its gentleman’s face, immediately afterward. But it – the Mad God, unknowable, inconsolable – said please. Pax still doesn’t know what to do with that.)

The Mad God, now, shrugs. Taps at the hairline cracks in the stained glass windows. “I’d prefer you didn’t,” it says, one pair of hands braiding something intricate into its beard. The hand on the glass slips down. “I told you. I do need a champion.”

“And I told you,” Pax bites, something aching and ugly surging in their gut, “not to call me that again.”

A smile, bloody-mouthed and beaming. “But we will abide,” says Sheogorath, and digs its fingers into the cracks of the stone. One brick slides loose, mortar dug up under its nails. It offers it up.

Pax licks their teeth and takes it.

The brick shivers, momentarily – crumbles, in their hand, like sand slithering through their fingers, and left in their palm is a hardy slip of bone. Spiked and sprawling, carved with intricate patterns; it arranges itself around an oval of empty space, the perfect size for four sharp-knuckled fingers.

“You can always leave,” the Mad God tells them, and for a moment it does look so very young and strangely, staggeringly hopeful. “But give it a chance. I think you could love the Isles, if you choose to.”