#IM SO CLOSE TO DROPPING

[oatmealzz]

Naruto hasn’t given up on Sasuke but I certainly have.

[sillyfairygarden]

a stranger with a sly smile.... i caught the hades brainworms so obviously i had to draw scarlet pearl (now with a companion bigb!)

[lucabyte]

So does anybody else ever think about how Loop felt the need to demonstrate that the party's deaths wouldn't have any effect on the loops. I know I do but that's besides the point. Anyway I don't think Loop actually needs to bathe, they just like to feel included.

[mipexch]

comic about v2 and the goal they'll never fully reach alongside a dissatisfying conclusion. intimate rivalry and all (alternative ending comic. V1 dies instead of V2 during 4-4. V2 is narrating. V1 is dead.)

[suntails]

dance of dreams

[ovaryacted]

STOP PUTTING JAVIER PEÑA ON MY FUCKING FEED! IVE SEEN HIM UP AND DOWN MY TIMELINE AND IM TIRED OF HIM!! HES SO FUCKING SEXY! PUT HIM AWAY BEFORE I START CRYING BECAUSE I’M NOT FUCKING HIM! HES A THREAT TO NATIONAL SECURITY!

[angelicdonuts]

Guys I'm so sorry (I'm not) I love fnf soooo much dude

Anyway!! There's one more after this! It's gonna be oc focused :3 !

[clairaworlds]

SIFFREN CLOAK POST TIME BBY.

Tl;dr: In my opinion the backstiching on Siffrin's cloak is used to reinforce the seams, the cloak likely has a lining flatlined into the cloak, and if you'll allow me to offer a headcannon, hand sewn.

More in depth analysis and examples below

Ok to start, let's go over Isabeau's dialog about the cloak. I'll put it in full here, other characters comments are cut out.

So right here, right, that's super interesting stitching. It's backstitching, right, which is a very solid kind of stitching, and it's used in a lot of different places... But Vaugardian clothing in general is moving away from backstitching, because, well, we think it's boring. Like here, my clothing here has something called chainstitching, and also it's in a zigzag shape, because it looks cuter I guess. But backstitching is just more durable. Now that I look at it, your hat has the same stitching too... I wonder if they were a set? And, um, look at the way the cloak is weaved, too! It's wool, and it goes one thread up, one thread down, et cetera... But, again, Vaugardian clothing likes to be more interesting visually, so if you look at Mira's cloak--

...

No, no, I'm not saying it's boring!!!!! I'm just saying it's like... It's clothing that's less like Vaugarde, or even Ka Bue's artistic clothing... It's less clothing that's to make you look pretty, or make you stand out, and more clothing that's here to keep you comfy and warm. Function over form, you know?

…

So, um, what I'm SAYING is... Considering the Craft that came into it... The temperature regulation and how it grows with you... Whoever gave you this cloak wanted to make sure you're gonna be nice and comfy for a long time, Sif!

Note: I'm not a tailor, I've made a few garments and I embroder but that's about it. Take everything with a grain of salt.

Alright, first what is he even talking about? Here's a quick example of the two stitches Isabeau mentioned and a running stich which is probably the most basic stich

Please ignore my inability to sew in a straight line. Also my horrid chain stich. I did not do it justice there so here's a better example of how it looks

we can ignore Isabeau's incorrect opinions on what qualifies as an interesting stich bc he's probably talking more about the cultural differences between Siffrin's cloak and Vaugardian clothing. Which I'll admit IS intresting. But what stuck out to me is the fact that Isabeau can see the stitching at all. Most garments hide the majority of their stitching. You can see the seams sure, but the atual stichwork is typically on the inside.

As you can see here, now that IS a cloak, and the seem hides the stichwork, the next option is that isabeau is looking at either the hem or the collar, i dout it's the collar just bc that's really close to Sif's neck/face and also bc it might not have any visible stitching either. The hem line is a possibility but if Siffrin's cloak has a lineing it might not show any visible stitching either.

Atually let's talk about lineings real quick. I imagen Siffrin's cloak has one, for several reasons, I think it'd be cool, I think it'd work with the idea that the cloak is designed to survive a LONG time becuase it reinforces and protects the garment, and it works with some fun headcannons i have. Here's an example of a lined cloak, the outside is the shiny later, the inside has the hand-embroidered stars. I'm focusing on the seems in thease pictures but a lined cloak might hide ALL its stiches including the hems.

Although that's IF the cloak is bag lined, which is a process that leaves the lineing and the outside as mostly separate layers. You basically sew two garments then stich them together at the edges. But i have a feeling Siffrin's cloak is flat lined, not bag lined, so you basically attach the lineing to the outside and sew it together like it's one peice of fabric, the lineing dosnt move as much and honestly it comes out a little nicer. So that means the stichwork would still be visible on the inside of the cloak AND the hem, but I have a feeling Isa wasn't just holding Siffrin's cloak inside out to show off the stitching, and i don't think he was talking about the hem because it's not really a load bearing structure if that makes sense and it seems to me like Isa is talking about something that would benefit from being reinforced. So what's he talking about.

Well look at this

There we go! Visable stitching on the outside of a garment!!! So what's the difference here? A couple of things but the best summary I have is: the seem is reinforced by being stiched down. Here's an example on a different garment.

To test this, I grabbed some scrap fabric and tried it out i also did a quick hem with a backstich just to see how it'd look. I used contrasting thread to make it visable

I also think Siffrin's cloak is a full circle cloak constructed with two halves sewn together like the bottom example here

This is generally eaiser to construct than a four piece version and atually HAS seems unlike a single pice verdhion. Admittedly it may be a challenge depending on the width of the fabric, although if it was made when Sif was a kid and Crafted to grow with him that's much less of an issue

So! That's my two cents on the stitching on Siffrin's cloak. Honestly I would LOVE to make a Siffrin cloud but fabric is expensive and I can't really afford it, i also don't have the time. For now I should focous on finishing the star cloak I showed earlier, incase anyones curious here's the full inside of that cloak as of now

Here's some other headcannons related to fabric and sewing.

First sewing macheens and other textile production macheens exist. I know isat is a veaugly fantasy historical style setting but I'll die on the hill that there's some sort of quicker way to produce textiles, primarily because fabric, fiber and clothing has historically been massively important and I have a hard time imaging that craft isn't capable of making fabric quicker.

Related to that, I think part of the reason Crafted clothing (like Sif's stuff) is more rare is becuase it has to be hand made. Maybe not hand spun and woven and sewn but in my head the more steps you do by hand the more it's Crafted.

In that veign I think Siffrin's contry has a tendency twards hand-made stuff. There are reasons for this but it's mostly vibes. Honestly I think all of isat puts a higher emphasis on arts and crafts than the real world but I like the idea that Sif's contry espechally focuses on the hand made, it makes sense with the whole ritual thing, there are plenty of rituals and superstitions arround hand-made goods.

In contrast Vaugarde trends twards evolution of techniques and technology, where someone from Siffrin's contry may be a master at an ancient technique that's been passed down for generations, a Vaugardian crafter will have developed their own unique style and often prioritizes astetics above convince, not to the point of it being low quality (like fast fashion) but more like "I decided to use two diffrent fabrics to make stripes insted of just one solid color fabric even though it's more work becuase it looks cool" Ka Bue has a heavy focous on tradition but also artistic vision, i kinda imagen it as the ballance between the two ends of the spectrum, but in a totally different way.

Next i think Siffrin's contry likes incorporating subtle decorations, like the hat with the stars on the lineing, or useing visable stitching on seams both to reinforce it and bc it's prity--sewing in a straight line is HARD, doing a backstich with consistent stichlenghts is harder, doing both by hand is impressive, having the stitching appear on the outside of the cloak would be a deliberate choice becuase you CAN just reinforce a seem on the inside of a garment. Admittedly that might be what's going on if we assume Isabeau is looking at the internal construction insted of any vidable stichwork. So yeah, function over form but with some subtle detailing.

Is this just an excuse for me to pretend that the lineing of Siffrin's cloak is hand embroidered with stars? Yes! But you can pry this headcanon out of my cold, dead hands! I love hand embroidered stars on the inside of a cloak, i literally own a cloak that i made that's like that!! (I'll finish it one day I swair! I just made a mistake and attached the lineing b4 I did the embrodery, like an idiot, and it's really annoying to work on!!)

One last thing I think is interesting is the use of the word "cloak" cloaks typically go over the shoulders and CAN close in the frount, but are still open. I'd describe Sif's cloak more as a poncho, and Mira's cloak as a shawl, but there really arnt any perfict words for every garment, so cloak is a good enough word. It'd also make sense if "cloak" is just the word for "outer layer garment that goes over the shoulders like that" in the world of isat.

[throwawayasoiafaccount]

When I see stuff like this I kinda want to bash my head into a wall:

To start off, I’m not sure whether this person was commenting on book or show Cersei, but honestly, it doesn’t even matter because she’s so much more than the ‘ambitious villain’ or the ‘murderous girlboss’ tropes in both the book and show.

(Of course, I do have my issues with the way Cersei was written in the show like most people but this is simply a rant post so I’m not going to go through the differences of Show vs Book Cersei)

Cersei is a female character who was shaped by her environment, who’s insecurities were created by her environment, and she’s a woman who’s idiotic mistakes can be traced back to how her environment shaped her. She’s much more than a murderous girlboss, she’s both a victim of the system and also a beneficiary of it, while also acting as an agent of it to keep the status quo while also desiring what the system denied her.

Cersei is NUANCED and complicated and even now people hate that about her and want her to have been a purely evil woman handcrafted in a vacuum, ignoring the context of her life because readers would rather not engage with Cersei’s victimhood and nuances because that ruins their idea of: She Was The Problem and Always The Problem. (People would rather say that she deserved her walk of shame instead of interacting meaningfully with the theme of systematic gender-based violence that is so prevalent in Cersei’s story. The exploration of patriarchal violence in Show Alicent’s story is done so horribly in comparison.)

And what really pissed me off about these tags is that this person has clearly decided that they don’t care to interact with the nuance of Cersei and are fine with flattening her, and yet they shit on others for not liking Alicent.

Because of the way Alicent is written in this show, she almost always has a ‘woe is me I can do no wrong’ attitude, which of course drives people away from the character (woe is me I deserve to take a child’s eye 🥺). However, what actually annoys me is how she’s made out to be stupid, foolish, ignorant, and inconsistent due to the horrible writing of this show, all of which are deviations from her book characterization. Also, I despise it when people want me to support writing decisions and changes made in adaptations that are downright misogynistic and are meant to attract the male gaze.

But what pisses many people, including myself, off is how the changes made negatively impacted many other characters. Alicent’s terrible characterization is like a black hole that distorts and warps the whole story! It’s annoying af!

So when people like this say: ‘She’s nuanced and people just can’t handle it 🙄;’ I say: No. She’s horribly written and a different character from the book and people have a right to be critical about these changes that stripped a female character of 1) her agency and 2) her intelligence!

And the thing is, there was little reason for the writers to have made all these changes to Alicent’s characterization! In the book she is an interesting character with clear motives and understandable reactions. She’s cunning and ambitious and acts the way a noble lady who became queen would. And despite her clear ambitions and dislike of Rhaenyra, she still makes a comment wondering about who would protect the Princess from Ser Criston, and yet she then takes Cole into her service after his falling out with Rhaenyra. That’s a perfect example of nuance! Show Alicent could never compare to book Alicent’s clear moral values and consistent disregard of said moral values in pursuit of power.

And because of this, Book Alicent isn’t easy to stomach. It’s hard for most people to come to terms with a character like her and it’s even harder for people to feel sympathetic for her at the end when she went mad with grief.

On the other hand, Show Alicent was designed in a way to garner pity, and when the writers felt like her current arc wouldn’t be enough to garner the specific reaction they wanted they would then throw in a time skip and suddenly she’s completely different and yet still Thee victim. She’s designed to be as sympathetic as fucking possible! The camera angles, the background music, and the lighting is set up in a way to make sure you the viewer feels pity or sympathy for her! Cause that’s her role in this series! She’s thee Ultimate Victim!

But too bad for the writers as many people are fed up with this kind of inconsistent writing. Even when the writers created a whole new challenge for Alicent where she’s shitted on by the green council and forced to face the beast she helped to raise, I and many others could never feel any satisfaction as it was clear that once again Alicent was being made to be Thee Ultimate Victim who was just led astray by the patriarchy and was a victim of it and was only just realizing it so don’t you pity her don’t you feel sad for her and now she’s trying to do the right thing so pls pls pls pity her 🥺~ So it shouldn’t be surprising that many people are annoyed by these eNLiGhtEnEd changes that have led to a complete deviation from the source material.

To summarize: Cersei is an excellent fucking character who’s by no means easy to stomach, and because she’s not easy to stomach she’s often reduced to annoying ass tropes by dumbasses who are reading above their comprehension level. But when you actually try to understand her, you can easily see why she turned out the way she did and you can feel sympathy for her while understanding that she’s both victim and perpetrator! On the other hand, Show Alicent is a mess and HOTD is trying to make her serve a different narrative role than she did in the books so ofc people are going to be unhappy with the changes as book readers are once again faced with the annoying reality that the writers don’t give a fuck about the source material.

[canarydarity]

(haha happy new year! Heres 6K words of DL ranchers fighting 🤩 [ao3]) dull&slow

There was no feeling like a respawn; it was like jumping off of a building with nothing below to catch you, only to discover you had in fact been fastened into a harness when the bungee cord snapped taut. Except, it also wasn’t like that at all, because the mechanics of respawning—regardless of permanence—did nothing to curb the feeling of death, the actual sensation of dying. All it really did was remove the relief that one might experience had death been final, for what is death but a merciful release from pain? 

Jimmy imagined that there were few things that could even begin to feel like what a respawn did—the simultaneous cracking of all your joints at once in a manner akin to a human glow stick; ice cream that had been left out on the counter to melt but was then shoved back into the freezer again after only making it to that indescribably viscous stage between solid and liquid; a jam in a paper shredder—the kind where half of the page is relieved and sticking out of the top, completely intact and fine, while the rest is in ribbons below, still warm to the touch at the recent dismemberment. 

And that was only the physical aspect—the violent draw of your subconscious from the brink of death to perfect health mid-panic was something else entirely. It never got any easier, no matter how many times he did it (and Jimmy did it a lot). 

This was their second respawn, but it was different in the way that it happened unlike it did the first time: together. It was new but not unexpected to shoot up in bed at the ranch, cows mooing to his left and moonlight peaking through the window to his right. Jimmy heaved some breaths in and out; logically, he knew he was fine, but his body remembered the vertigo of falling. 

Tango was next to him, still lying back in their small bed staring at the ceiling. 

For a few beats, they were quiet, they caught their breath. The buzz of the cicadas outside was heavy in a way, droning alongside the cacophony of cows and the muted clucks of chickens from below ground. 

When his eyes began to itch and dry out from staring at nothing and his heaving sounded more like huffing, Jimmy broke the silence first. 

“I was leanin’ over the edge…why was I leaning over the edge?” His words were incredulous and barely there, only formed enough to actually get them out of his mouth but not any further. Had Tango not been right next to him, he probably wouldn’t have heard. 

Tango sat up, “Jim, hey–hey!” One of Tango’s hands reached behind Jimmy and settled on his shoulder, the other moved across himself to settle on Jimmy’s arm. “It’s okay! It’s only our second life, it was bound to happen sooner or la—”

Jimmy blinked out of his daze to realize Tango was soothing him; It was not shocking in the way it hadn’t happened before—it had actually, in fact, happened quite often—but in the way it was happening now. the combination of noises pushing in all around the ranch, having just lived through dying, again, and Tango’s warmth that he would’ve appreciated any other time, made it all immediately too much. Tango was soothing him—Tango misunderstood. 

It was instinct to throw Tango’s arm off of him, to scatter, to stand and create distance, and had Jimmy been in the right state of mind he would’ve explained that and apologized, but Tango’s shocked offense was the last thing he was focusing on. 

“No, you—why was I leaning over the edge?” 

It was the only thought that had run through his head since he’d woken up and stopped feeling like an egg mid-scramble. Not worry about being on red life, not concern about having been the one to return the favor of killing Tango this time, not upset that things were shaping up like they always did. 

Tango wasn’t necessarily wrong to assume that that’s where Jimmy’s thoughts had gone, as that’s usually where they would have. But this was not Jimmy when he was anxious, when he was guilty; This was Jimmy when he was mad.

He was pacing, but he wasn’t aware when it had started. He was just—he couldn’t stop thinking about fish. Or—no, not fish, parasites; there was this parasite he’d heard about that matures in the eye of a fish but reproduces in the belly of a bird. Jimmy had heard this and thought what a stupid, impossible thing—and he’d thought he had shit luck.  

That was until he’d heard the rest. Under control of the parasite, infected fish swim closer and closer to the surface of the water, leading it to be spotted and picked up by a bird; the parasite ends up where it needed to be all along, and that damned stupid fish is what gets it there. It doesn’t know what it’s doing, it’s not choosing to swim near the surface—by that point, the parasite is choosing for it—but it’s still— 

It just—

The fish gets itself eaten, essentially. The scariest part, Jimmy thought, was that he wasn’t sure the fish even knew. Was it aware it had been infected? Or was it swimming up and up and up and thinking what the fuck am I doing? Was it resting precariously below the surface, watching in fear as the birds circle, knowing all it had to do to avoid being eaten was swim the fuck back down, but for some reason, it just couldn’t?

Jimmy just—why was he leaning over the edge? His hands were wrapped around his stomach, griping his sides, hard. His teeth were grinding together, or he was biting his lip, or he was mumbling nonsense that even he didn’t know what meant. 

The floorboards of the ranch creaked and groaned with his pacing, and Tango remained watching from the bed, his face still painted in confusion. 

A noise—something caught between a whine and a grumble—worked its way out of Jimmy's throat, and more words came with it.  

“I saw them with their bows and arrows out—Joel, Etho, Scott—and I—” He shook his head. “We’d have been fine if I just didn’t peak my head over!” 

Jimmy turned back to Tango and pointed at him; Tango blinked, but the accusation delivered wasn’t for him. “And they weren’t even shooting at Grian, at—why weren’t they shooting at anyone else?”

Tango shook his head a little, opened his mouth to reply, but Jimmy wasn’t done. “I don’t understand—I don’t—” he grabbed at his hair and pulled; he bit into his lip again, not stopping when it started to hurt even though he knew Tango must’ve felt the ghost of it too. Jimmy rocked in place, “I even thought it. I thought ‘what are you leaning over the edge for, idiot!’ And then!” 

Jimmy spun, but no form of movement could match the direction of his thoughts, the restlessness of his mind. He felt like he was malfunctioning, every action begun and then subsequently aborted in favor of another; as if he could stop it all if he could just get himself to feel physically how he felt mentally, equilibrium a sort of saving grace. 

Jimmy hit himself in the head once like he could knock things back into place, fix whatever was loose in there–get the paper to start shredding again; in pieces, maybe, things would be okay. There was a call behind him of stop that, hey, none of that! and the bed creaked as Tango finally made the move to stand. 

“I don’t understand,” Jimmy mumbled again. They were inside, but his hair still felt the wind ruffle through it as though he were at high altitude; his hands touched nothing, but he could grip the hardwood of the defense tower all the same, rough and splintering. Joel and Etho had stood so far below, looking up, each with a hand up to their eyes to shield them from the sun. Jimmy remembered every detail about that moment—Grian had been leaning over right next to him. “Stupid parasite and it—why weren’t they shooting at anyone else? All I had to do was not lean over…”

Jimmy startled when Tango spoke again, he’d forgotten for a moment he wasn’t alone. 

“I don’t follow—parasite? What pa—”

Right, he wasn’t alone. 

“Gosh, and I’ve killed you, too, we’re–we’re red!” Jimmy said, facing Tango again. “And we’re back to nothing, we’ve lost everything—the horns, they’d have taken them by now, surely.” The anger from before seeped back into his voice, and Tango kept his space; a part of Jimmy felt bad at that, but he mostly felt validated. The guilt would come later, his chest didn’t house the room to feel so many things at once. 

Though space didn’t mean Tango was willing to stay out of things completely. 

“Jimmy, just hold on, I can’t keep up.” Tango was clearly still thrown by the direction things had gone in—he’d been expecting to reassure, not pacify—but Jimmy didn’t have it in him to stop and explain. His hands out like he was corralling a feral animal, he said, “What are you even…? Slow down, alright.” 

And maybe that was the last straw—his soulmate, known for his rage, asking him to calm, to slow down; the stark contrast between the Tango standing in front of him—hands splayed, face confused but determined—and the Tango who’d needed to be restrained as the ranch smoldered behind them; the fact that it was Jimmy who was being looked at like a time bomb with not even 5 seconds left to spare. 

This time, the accusation was meant for Tango, and Jimmy watched him stumble a little in shock when he received it. He threw his hand out like he’d needed that extra strength to pull the question from him, like his throat wasn’t up for the challenge alone, like he had to prove this was something he wanted to start and start now.  

“Why aren’t you mad?”

Tango’s face wound up with disbelief. “What?” 

Jimmy’s voice wasn’t made to be raised, but he gave it his best effort. It hurt, in a way—his throat not used to the coarse delivery; it hurt more for the fact that he’d made Tango the object of its direction. 

“You’re sitting here, and you’re calm,” he spat. “And—and you’re telling ME to be calm! Me!” Jimmy huffed again at the ridiculousness of the entire situation. “Why aren’t you mad?”

This time as Jimmy spoke, Tango wound down; he visibly CTRL+ALT+DLT-ed, a total system shutdown reboot. His hands dropped back to his sides and he stood up straighter. His face reset until he was just blankly watching Jimmy sputter and steam. He was still in a way Tango rarely was.

Jimmy thought it was the most un-Tango-like thing he’d ever seen, and that just made things worse. 

“Because it was going to happen either way, I could’ve just as eas—” its delivery was flat, like Tango knew he was stepping off of a bear trap but onto a landmine; though he did it anyway, and in most circumstances, his dedication to the idea of if at first you don’t succeed! was something Jimmy found endearing. If it wasn’t clear enough already, this was not most circumstances. 

Jimmy made a noise of dissent. This wasn’t—

“No, not—that’s not what I meant.”

A few beats of silence. They argued with the awkward hesitation of two people who’d never fought before and therefore didn’t know the procedure; neither of them had had time to memorize their lines. Fight was something they didn’t do—partially because they hadn’t been together long enough to garner the need, and partially because they got along with a simplicity they hadn’t expected. There was a question in this lapse between one comment and the next, an are we really going to do this?  

Tango blinked at Jimmy. “You don’t mean why am I not mad at you?” 

It would’ve been an easy out if he had. A way to walk them back to familiar ground—the kind where Jimmy was apologetic and guilty and anxious and Tango was steady and reassuring and kind. 

He couldn’t lie and say that wasn’t part of it; he was a liability, and he would never be over Tango being his collateral damage. 

He looked away from Tango, “Well—”

“Jimmy…” Pity was such an ugly, regretful thing. 

“No! No—yes, that’s not what I mean.” And it really wasn’t—at least, not at first, not completely. That was the undertone that would drive all his decisions and thoughts and feelings, it’s true, but this was different. This was—they’d died, Jimmy killed them, and Tango wasn’t upset about it; moreover, Tango was docile, passive. He was—

“Then I don’t understand what you’re asking me.”

—resigned. 

Jimmy didn’t yet look back, because he knew it would be his turn to talk when he did. All that he had to explain lacked the rationale to be said aloud; simply put, he was mad because Tango wasn’t. 

“You’re gonna have to give me something to go off of here, Jim.”

Eyes still fixed resolutely on the wall, Jimmy repeated the only sentiment he really could express at the time. “You’re not mad…” He let the end trail off, embarrassed it was all he had to offer, knowing it was unfair to Tango, knowing a normal person would’ve been able to voice more; just another way Jimmy fell behind. 

“At?”

“At anything!” He was discovering that when he did yell, his voice got high, and he tended to cut off the ends of his words. They shortened, got sucked up into the emotion until they weren’t letters anymore but sounds. “You’re—I had to restrain you, practically, after Scar burned down the ranch! And I wasn’t there, but I heard about last life and I—”

He felt like his sentences were being recorded in takes; start and stop, start—stop, mark! He would sound so much better edited together. He needed a script, surely he’d be able to say the right words had someone else given them to him. He’d do it right then, he knew. Of course arguing, too, was something he wasn’t good at.

Jimmy gestured at Tango, “You’re not mad, at anything, you’re just standin’ here! We’re going to die and it’s like you don’t even…like you’re not upset.” The final clause came out dejected and unsure; it sounded like it belonged to a completely different conversation. If he were reading lines, he’d likely receive notes about consistency and remaining in character. It was hard to do that when he wasn’t sure who he was or was ever supposed to be.

Tango looked no less confused. “That’s how the game works, Jimmy—we’re all going to die at some point.”

“I know that, Tango, I know.” Jimmy bit his lip. “How are you just okay with it?”

Tango’s eyebrows raised in shock, the kind that spoke to his questioning the audacity of something. “Well, I’m not happy about it, bu—”

“You are, though.” 

Eyes narrow, frustration finally starting to seep in, Tango said: “No, I’m not.”

“You are!” This felt more tantrum than argument; more whining about not getting his way than making a point about having been wronged; he wasn’t really sure he had been wronged. At least, not by Tango. But he didn’t know how to rewind, he didn’t think there was a going back. 

“Damnit, Jimmy, I’m not. You think I want to lose this?” 

No, Jimmy didn’t—and that’s why he was so confused. 

“Then why aren’t you angry that’s what I don’t…” This line of questioning wasn’t going to work—he’d already discovered that again and again. He needed to figure out a different direction to head in. “Even now I’m yellin’ at you and you’re just there.”

“So now you’re mad because I’m not yelling at you?” Annoyance, frustration, irritation—they were close, but none of them were what Jimmy wanted. Or—not what he wanted but what he needed. People were mad at him far too often for him to crave it in this uncommon time when no one was, but he needed to know Tango was with him on this.

“No, Tango!” Jimmy whined.

“Well you’re not explaining anything, what am I supposed to think? That’s what it sounds like you’re saying to me!” His voice finally at an above-normal volume, Jimmy shrunk; reality wasn’t ever quite like expectation, was it? The simultaneous relief mixed with the guilt, and everything got worse; he thought maybe that’d been his goal all along, he could see it now that it had occurred. And yet, it wasn’t right; sure, Tango was mad—but he still didn’t get it. Tango kept rambling.

“You’re mad that I’m not mad, and you say it’s not about you, but then you’re also mad I’m not yelling at you—which I have yet to figure out, by the way, and—” 

Following Tango’s wild hand gestures, Jimmy’s eyes landed on their wall of chests, and he knew what he needed to do. He scooted past Tango, who turned to keep facing him, and started rooting around until he found what he was looking for. 

“Oh, and you’re ignoring me too, now, which is neat,” Tango said to his back.

He’d wrapped it in a bundle of spare wool hoping that bed made they wouldn’t need much else and Tango wouldn’t find it on accident, but he pulled it out now and turned back to face Tango gripping it in his hand.

His soulmate shut up immediately, his gaze first on Jimmy’s hand, and then up at his eyes. 

“Where did you get that.” The anger was finally there, but Jimmy didn’t immediately respond. “Why do you have that?”

The golden apple was cold in his hand, colder than he thought it should have been. It glowed slightly in the darkness of the ranch, a yellow hue that spread out in a dim radius; he had the bizarre thought that it would've made a good nightlight had it not been illegal. Jimmy had always been a bit scared of the dark (he’d been pleased, then, when the game had started and he found that his soulmate glowed just the same). He didn’t need the apple sitting on the lid of their chests to provide light—not so long as he had Tango; how ironic then that he only got both or none, that consuming—and therefore getting rid of—the apple would rid him of Tango, too. 

Jimmy didn’t want to be left alone in the dark, but that was sort of why he looked back at Tango and he said, “I think you should eat it.”

“No.” It was both a response and an expression of disbelief rolled into one; a no, this conversation is not happening, not now, and a no way in hell is that thing getting anywhere near my mouth. The stillness was back, but it was more dangerous this time; less resigned, more preparing to strike.

Jimmy repeated himself, lifting his arm and holding the apple between them as he did. “Tango, you should eat it.”

“No.” Tango shook his head. “Jimmy, I said no.” 

“Why not?”

“Why not?” A sardonic, humorless laugh made its way out of Tango, and Jimmy flinched at the sound; a broken echo of their usual selves. “This is a joke, right? There’s something here that I’m missing that makes this all super-happy-funny and we’ll laugh about it in 5 minutes.”

“I’m serious, Tango.”

His hands on his hips, Tango nodded at Jimmy as he said, “you are.” It was deceptively compliant, mockingly understanding. Jimmy was misled often enough in conversation to recognize when he was being set up, but he hadn’t quite yet learned the skill of letting things go; he walked again and again through a door labeled trap! which was how he knew he was doing it now. 

“Yes...” 

“Serious-serious, you’re seriously asking me why I don’t want to eat a golden apple.” Tango doubling down, Tango continuing to misunderstand, the fact that Jimmy couldn’t blame him for any of it, the feeling of everything at once, and the knowledge that all was out of his control; he felt his eyes well up with tears of frustration. 

“That’s what I just said...” Dejected, a clown waiting for the punchline—waiting for others to laugh at his expense; setting up joke after joke, forgetting what it was like to not provide the entertainment. 

“Well I just wanted to confirm before I informed you that that’s the stupidest question I’ve ever been asked in my entire life.” It was at this point that Jimmy let out a breath, and a tear fell with it. “Like, wow it’s almost an accomplishment how stupid that question is.”

“Tango…” He’d plead but he knew he didn’t have the right—not in this conversation of his own devising. It wouldn’t be a lie to say he didn’t know how they got here, but it wouldn’t be the truth either. 

“Really! I’d make you a ribbon to commemorate and everything if we had literally anything to our name at all.”

Catching the opportunity to jump back in, Jimmy took it. “Okay, that—that’s my point.” 

“That I haven't offered to make you a rib—” 

Jimmy cut Tango off again before he could stuff the conversation with more nonsense in defense. “That we have nothing—have had nothing since we started!” 

It was more than just luck—it was design. There came a point where chance ended, a place coincidence didn’t reach. Jimmy had dwelled long enough in the space between unlucky and doomed to know that one was cyclic, intermittent, while the other was ceaseless, fixed. Luck would come and go, but damnation? That kind of fate had been here since before all of them, and would remain long after. 

The subject was taboo, but there wasn’t a single person on this server who was unaware that Jimmy was ill-fated. They poked and prodded him about it, but any level of seriousness to the conversation was buried under veiled laughter and slightly glassy eyes; the kind of sheen to a stare that said even if they tried, they couldn’t know what it was they talked about. To everyone else, Jimmy’s “curse” was a bit they’d overindulged in; to Jimmy, it was a burden he wasn’t allowed to acknowledge. They didn’t let him. 

He’d thought maybe…Tango was being forced to share it; maybe something would click; maybe they’d let him have this for just a few weeks. 

Jimmy didn’t think he could get any more stupid. 

The sarcasm remained equipped, defenses high. “Well, I’m sorry that you think I’m not doing enough to provide for you, Jimmy, bu—”

Jimmy groaned again. “Tango can you be serious for 2 minutes! 2 minutes, please!” 

“No!” Tango was looking at him in a way he never did; a look that conveyed I cannot believe you, the underlying sentiment of dismissal that hurt more for it coming from the only person who’d ever really listened to him without reservation.“You know what, no, I cannot. If you’re going to start a ridiculous argument you’re going to get ridiculous responses—you don’t like it, too bad.”

Jimmy had been involved in a lot of ridiculous arguments before—it came with being a reactive person; he existed with defenses always already half-raised, on high alert for anything that might make him the center of negative attention. 

But this wasn’t one of them. The ranch, Tango, soulmates—they were easily the most valuable things he’d ever had—and that was why he couldn’t have them. He was going to lose it—he was already losing it; it never hurt so much when he was the only thing he had. “Gosh, dont you get it?! There’s nothing we can do—nothing! I’m gonna kill us, you understand?”

It felt good to say it out loud, to watch Tango blink in the face of such bluntness. Somehow his shock betrayed his lucidity, and proved to Jimmy what he’d feared all along: Tango felt it too. 

And that made him circle all the way back to the beginning of this stupid roundabout conversation. Maybe he didn’t know it in so many words, having less time to experience it than Jimmy did but Tango knew—their time was running out; running out in a way it didn’t for anyone else playing these games; running out in a way Jimmy had—until now—never before been allowed to acknowledge. Tango knew. 

And Tango wasn’t mad. 

“Ugh, this is—this is childish, is what it is! I don’t…I can’t believe this is happening. This is—it’s madness.” What did they bother going in circles for if they were just going to end up right where they’d started?

“You’re the one trying to force feed me a golden apple,” Tango grumbled, eyebrows raised and face mocking as he looked at the cows. A few of them were standing against the fence staring back, mooing insistently; a strange audience for a strange night. 

“Because I’m sick of it, Tango!” He was, once again, not the right recipient of this complaint, but what else was Jimmy to do? Seasons of grief built up in one desperate conversation, it was becoming more a list of grievances than a call to action. “Of all of it! Of the jokes, of losing, of—of not being in control of anything, of dying—and you—”

“Me?” Tango huffed, interrupting. “Wow, tell me how you really feel, Jim.”

Jimmy shook his head and looked down, a dismissal; his answer immediate and unhesitant. “No, that’s not what I—” 

Sick of Tango—it wasn’t possible, but he saw in his hands that he still clutched the golden apple, and he was reminded again of all the ways in which he was dangerous; of the ways in which he was the heavy rock tied around Tango’s ankle, sinking slowly despite all efforts. He closed his eyes, tight, hard enough to hurt, and swallowed the bile in his throat. “You know what, yeah. I am.”

He looked up again to look at Tango, forcing himself to look determined, sure. “Yes, I’m sick of you.”

“Jimmy…” There was a warning there, but following warnings was never Jimmy’s strong suit. 

“I am!” He didn’t think there was much of a chance Tango would believe him, but he loved Tango enough that he owed it to him to try. “I’m sick of you and how calm you’re being. We’re losing everything, again, always and you’re just standin’ around and I’m sick of it, Tango.” 

Tango refused to answer, and Jimmy knew to be any convincing at all, he had to commit. 

“I’m sick of this place,” he gestured around the ranch, rebuilt since the fire but still nowhere near as advanced as the other bases on the server; they could try and try and try but they’d never reach that level; they couldn’t be allowed to have an actual chance. “and—and how we built it from nothing and it still didn’t matter. We weren’t even doing that bad, and we’re still losing, and I’m sick of that, too!” 

Tango standing still, Tango with his hands on his hips, Tango refusing to rise to the bait in Jimmy’s words. “I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t believe me? Fine, I’ll just keep going then.” He shrugged, undeterred, glancing around as if he wasn’t bothered—and his eyes landed on the cows in the corner, still watching them as if simply their being awake meant they’d be getting fed. Jimmy raised the arm with the golden apple, using it to point at them. “These stupid cows mooing all the time—the chickens—might as well just kill ‘em all now, 'cause they’re not going to matter either, are they? I’m over this place, and—and everyone else treating us like a joke.”

He looked back at Tango when he’d finished. “And I know you’re sick of it too, you are.”

“I’m not.” This, finally, was familiar ground—Jimmy projecting, Tango reassuring—but for once, Jimmy wished his anxiety proven right, he wished Tango would give in and admit that this wasn’t what he wanted—that Jimmy wasn’t what he wanted; not if it meant the absence of a fair chance.  

“You are, you have to be.” And it was somewhat like begging. Jimmy’s never begged someone to be sick of him before—he was usually pleading for the opposite; how backward, how wrong, everything in him screaming what are you doing?! No one else had ever treated him like Tango did. 

He sniffed once—as he was still crying—and kept listing things; the sort of fears it would kill him if Tango validated, but he said them anyway. If there was any chance it’d get Tango to eat the apple and be safe. 

“You’re sick of having to cater to me, right? Of having to answer a million questions and reassure.” Tango began to shake his head, but Jimmy ignored it and kept going, stepping closer to his soulmate. 

“And I bet you’re sick of losing, too. You don’t want to lose, Tango, not again, right?” It was a low blow, but Tango didn’t look hurt so much as he looked sad; he accepted Jimmy’s meanness as a product of his fear, and he curbed his offense to make room for the heartbreak. 

Figures that Jimmy starts a needless argument insulting Tango endlessly and was still the most pitied in the room. He didn’t know if it was a product of his selfishness or Tango’s altruism, but the effect remained the same. 

Within arms reach at last, Tango raised a hand but stopped it midway between them, unsure if breaching this distance was yet allowed. When Jimmy didn’t do anything about it, Tango lowered his hand until it rested on the front-facing part of Jimmy’s shoulder, eyebrows furrowed, not trusting that this was over.

Jimmy mirrored Tango with his own hand, feeling the warmth of Tango’s vest and above-average temperature below—the heat that’d been keeping him warm at night when they couldn’t splurge on extra blankets or were sleeping in a half-burned-down building or just because. He only allowed himself to feel it for a second before he pushed—not hard, but enough to make Tango take a step back, more because he wasn’t expecting it than due to force. 

“Come on,” Jimmy pled. “Fight back. Get mad, hit me.”

“I’m not going to hit you, Jimmy.”

Jimmy stepped forward and pushed again, both hands; not harder but more firm. “Fight back, Tango, come on.”

“No.” Tango’s face was scrunched together in the most vehement disagreement he could give, and, out of options—out of energy—Jimmy made another noise somewhere between a whine and a groan and raised his hands again, only for Tango to catch them this time and drag Jimmy closer; dropping his hands the second he was within holding distance, one of Tagno’s arms wrapped around him and the other cradled the back of Jimmy’s head as he pulled it down towards his shoulder. Their height difference made it difficult at first, but they’d been practicing for weeks. 

Jimmy went without protest, arms at Tango’s waist, screwing his eyes shut tight enough that he could almost pretend he didn’t hear the I’ve got you’s that he didn’t deserve but Tango was nonetheless whispering to the side of his head. He wanted to protest—or, no, he wanted to want to protest; to keep trying until Tango understood, until Jimmy screwed up enough that Tango got fed up and left the way anyone else would’ve done weeks ago, possibly just upon finding out they were paired. 

“You’re okay—we’re okay,” Tango said. “I’ve got you. We’re going to be okay,” hand steady on the back of Jimmy’s head, holding fast when he tried to shake it and express his opposition. Jimmy didn’t think that ‘okay’ had a place here, not for them, not anymore. 

They were on their last life now, he could feel the effects of being red thrumming through him, though they weren’t as much to blame for the damage he’d caused as he wished; this disaster, like most, was entirely Jimmy’s own. 

Still murmuring and offering reassurance, fingers of one hand still scratching through Jimmy’s hair, Tango used his other to gently pry the golden apple from Jimmy—no longer putting up a fight—and toss it away without looking until it rolled on the wood flooring through the gate of the cow pen. Jimmy watched, head still on Tango’s shoulder, as the cows shuffled around for the lobbed apple, mooing increasingly louder until, after a crunch or two, it was assumed no longer there. 

He felt more so than heard Tango clear his throat, the motion vibrating through Jimmy like a warning. “I am mad,” Tango whispered, voice only half-formed at the low volume. “I am,” he repeated, “don’t think I’m not.” His tone the kind of calm that only gave way to true anger. “But what can we do?”

Jimmy closed his eyes. He didn’t know. 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~

They’re in bed after, facing each other in the dark; Tango watching Jimmy, Jimmy watching their clasped hands between them. Tango’s thumb ran along the ridges and valleys of his knuckles, waiting for something, though he didn’t know what. In his mind, Jimmy was running through all he had to offer—the things he should say, the things he couldn’t voice—but what he kept getting stuck on was:

“I didn’t mean it.”

“I know,” Tango said; not exasperated, not upset, just matter of fact. 

Jimmy raised his eyes to Tangos, shaking his head as much as he could while lying down, not willing to risk any more miscommunication, “I’m not sick of it here.” 

“I know, Jimmy.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Shhh,” Tango pulled their joined hands until Jimmy scooted forward, head under Tango’s chin, all not forgotten but, at the moment, behind them. They were on their red life, after all—there were other things to worry about. 

Jimmy knew that the fact that Tango loved him shouldn’t be one of them, but when it was more than he wanted to live, it was. There was nothing he could do about it now. They would wake up in bed tomorrow and, maybe if they were lucky, the day after that—but there wouldn't be another respawn. They were out of time, out of options—this was it. 

Tango loved him, Tango wasn’t going anywhere. He didn’t need to press his ear further into Tango’s chest to hear his heartbeat—not when it was an echo of his own—but he did it anyway and tried not to number the beats like a countdown, to assign them values and limitations. 

He squeezed Tango tighter, comfort disregarded; it was an offering where words had previously failed him, though there was no guarantee that his message would translate this way either. Physicality was another language Jimmy had never gained proficiency in—pretty much any method of communication verbal or non-verbal was—but he owed it to Tango to try. The trace of his fingers along Tango’s spine said I’m sorry, his breath on Tango’s chest whispered of how he’d spare Tango’s heart from his if he could; forehead to collarbone asked if things could still be normal tomorrow, since there was now a very real possibility that tomorrow was all they had. 

He didn’t bother interpreting the response, focus lost as Jimmy tried and failed not to drift away on the subliminal messaging of his own; that this was his loss, his failure, his fault. 

If he’d tried, maybe he’d have read the brush of Tango’s fingers through his hair as I don’t mind, the press of lips to the top of his head as reaffirming the deliberate choice being made—the decision to stay, to be a part of this. 

But he didn’t. Jimmy was stuck, and not at all like he had thought. Maybe he wasn’t the fish, maybe he was the parasite; the birds were circling and Jimmy could beg all he wanted, but Tango loved him. Tango wasn’t going to swim down. 

Tango wasn’t going anywhere.

[ogjacksonsimp]

Does anyone else hate the nickname seaweed brain?

I think it would be fine if Annabeth also complimented him, but all we, as the reader see, is her making fun of him. I can't think of a single instance where she complimented him. And since the name came from a place of bullying, she should have stopped using it as soon as they became friends. Percy in canon has only called Annabeth wise girl like 4 times he pretty much dropped the name as soon as they became friends.

In canon, he did it cause he thought the nickname Annabeth gave him was clever, but I think that's wrong given what we know of his childhood. It came of him being mean, so he stopped.

It's fine to tease your partner. I tease mine all the time, but I also make sure he knows it's just that, teasing, I also compliment him the same amount because I know his insecurities.

Percy made an attempt to take on his life and Annabeth still makes fun of him.

[moeblob]

I'm so close...... NY!Hrid is at +9. One more and I can drop the game.... I just love him so much and this alt is so happy and I need it for him...

[freaky-flawless]

I really wish Venus's doll had sneakers similar to Clawdeen's original core doll. Still with the mouth detail, and maybe vine-like laces, and a leaf shaped tongue.

[transgenderprototype]

Ill go onto someone's profile and their pinned post will have like "DNI IF YOU SUPPORT [insert artist] ILL BLOCK YOUR ASS IF YOU REBLOG THEIR ART anyway u can dm me if you want more info on why i have a vitriolic hatred for this person, i pwomise it wont be biased and full of bullshit :3"

Ill be like "okay thats fucking stupid, im not dm'ing them for what'll clearly be a biased response. I should probably look more into it.

I find out why.

"Oh these are lies. These are lies being spread because someone leaked a queer person's nsfw alt and found something they could twist into being "morally wrong" and theyre still continuing as the artist clarifies that what they drew isnt [whatever theyre trying to twist it into]."

[lunar-wandering]

the funniest thing about seeing everyone thinking that LMK s5 will drop in the next like two days is that i Know. i have knowledge.

the chinese site that normally updates to list the new episodes (via increasing the number on the playlist without actually showing the episodes) a week before they release.... hasn't updated.

gang. y'all. there's at LEAST another week before that shit drops. chill out.

[saintshigaraki]

will never forget when i was talking to a childhood friend and she was going on and on about how hot her prof was and she showed me a picture and it was literally and im not joking an OLD MAN ! an OLD MAN ! GERI FUCKING ATRIC