#cause one of these is worse in my head

[minilittlebatbrat]

It might be because my first fandoms were from dystopian fantasy where like all the characters are morally grey but whenever I like a character I just call myself an enabler they did the bad thing it was funny and they should do it again

“apologist.” “critical.” y’all are doing too much. when my favorite characters do evil reprehensible shit I simply don’t fucking care cause it’s not real

[ehlnofay]

One day – as far-off as a century, as near as tomorrow – it will all be a grand old story.

The stories will speak of a handful of champions, rushing headlong against time and logic to save the world; the last Blades, the last Septim, and his hanger-on Hero, carving a bloody path to the Temple doors. The stories will tell of skies like burned blood, of fire and ash and uncountable legions of monsters – hundreds, thousands, millions, the quantity rising with each telling – the city streets cracked and quaking, every civilian locked up in their homes and businesses and praying for deliverance. The stories will tell of the appearance of Dagon, red-hot and roiling, a gory perversion of the sun; they’ll tell that when all seemed lost, Martin Septim sacrificed himself in a blaze of glory, calling down the avatar of Akatosh and casting Dagon and his ilk back whence he came. They’ll tell that the golden dragon threw back its head and roared, and the sky cleared and brightened at its word; they’ll tell how it petrified in place, a magnificent pillar of stone, a sacrosanct statue. A site of pilgrimage. A shrine, to the grace and glory of the gods, and the bravery and benevolence of the last Emperor, the best of men.

It will be a good story. All splendour and triumph, a bittersweet victory right out of the epics; the pages closed, the crisis done, the world saved in as golden a resolution as could be asked for. It doesn’t get better than this, a perfect saviour, a hallowed end.

What the stories won’t tell is how, under clear skies and sunlight, the Hero of Kvatch falls at the statue’s marbled feet and howls like the world is still ending.

“You fucking coward,” Pax is screaming, as best as she can. Her mouth tastes like smoke. Her voice is hoarse. “Stupid worm, fucking – selfish bastard – what’s wrong with you?”

His head is swimming, a bit; he shouldn’t have tried to stand, but he – but – he’s dragged himself up to the dais, just about, and managed to sprawl himself over the edge, a snail’s trail of blood smeared along the floor behind him. The copper tang of it is strong in his nostrils. The statue stands, proud and silent, one marble claw dug into the cracked stone of the rostrum. His whole body is beginning to ache – just because of a stupid stab wound in his side, he’d swear he’s had worse, it’s not that bad, it’s not that bad. His throat burns. He isn’t crying. He isn’t.

The sky is so fucking blue.

“What’s wrong with you?” he demands, again, and brings the heel of his hand thudding against the clawed foot hard enough that he feels the impact down his arm, through his blurry head. “Why would you – piece of shit – sorry spit-gill – I thought –”

None of their thoughts will go through to the end. “I thought,” Pax says again, and she’s not crying, and it hurts so much it’s looped back around to not hurting, and it’s all getting fuzzy at the edges, all the world narrowed down to this and this and this and all fucking hell she’d rather be anywhere, anything else. The statue is cold. Her throat is scraped raw. “Come back,” she’s begging without quite meaning to, “come back,” and she drives her palm into the stone again, and the pain sets her reeling.

And all hell, the sky is so blue; the statue enormous; and here they are, at its feet, vision blurring, staring up at its cold marble face. It’s so fucking tall, so proud, face tipped up towards the new-appeared sun, away from them.

“How could you?” Pax says, and then they can’t even see it anymore, blood unspooling from them like skeins of madder-dyed thread. Red has never been their favourite colour. The shape of the dragon, glowing like the sun, is fixed forever on the backs of their eyelids; gold, they think, is worse. The world is detached and floating about them. They taste smoke and then bile. Stone digs fierce into their spine.

It burned like the sun, the dragon; like all the divine light of Aetherius come to earth just to sear the moisture from her eyes. Where it clawed Mehrunes Dagon, his blood boiled; when it screamed, the world moulded itself to its call. Pax hadn’t known what was happening, while it happened; sure as shit doesn’t know now. What they do know is that he’s gone. What they do know is that the dragon didn’t look at them once. They don’t taste ash on their breath, now; just fear, stagnant, sour, blood jangling bitter in their veins and seeping out to soak their gambeson.

It doesn’t hurt, anymore, there’s just this spreading, vague numbness. It doesn’t feel like their body. It’s just a thing they’re putting on. Their ears are still ringing from the crashing-in of the Temple, but there’s a faint buzzing of noise outside. They might be dying. They can’t be assed to get up.

Skeeving asshole. They’re getting blood on the dragon’s immaculate feet. The hollow sounds of voices feels distant. Could well be worse.

Then, “… a healer, here!” they hear, much closer than anything else had been before, paired with the faraway thudding of the door, and “Pax. Pax! It’s – where’s –” and there’s hands on him, a cautious manipulation of his neck, a shifting of his legs. Pressure on his sternum, and then his stomach, and a pained grunt slips out of his mouth, bound up with a slurred curse.

“Stay calm,” says an unfamiliar voice, soft and steady. “I’m just accessing the wound.”

“Go away,” Pax says, or tries to say, but his voice is whispering-hoarse and the dragon looms in the dark even still. He could open his eyes, but what would be the point?

The hands stay on him even when he bucks, holding him steady; they whisper over the stab in her gut, pulling at the drying blood, mumbling words that she can’t be fucking bothered to listen to, one voice known to her already, one voice not; pressure again on the injury, and they try, half-heartedly, to breathe out a swear – and then light, copper-bright, behind their eyelids, and burning heat, and pain pain pain eclipsing all else as something inside them wrenches back into working order, and then their eyes are open and the sky is blue and they are very fucking aware, thank you.

Pax sits up, fast enough to send the world dizzily whirling, and shoves the mage-medic away from them.

“Piss off,” he says – and it’s still hoarse, smoke-throated and scraped raw, but there’s more bite to it this time, more sound. The strange hands fall away from his side, and he looks down. His gambeson is hanging open, cords untied, the emblem of the wolf split clean down the middle. His undershirt is rucked up around his chest, too, so much of his skin is bared to the clear, bright air; all to get to the wound tucked just under their ribs. It’s an underwhelming thing – smaller than they would’ve thought, a thin short slash like a very red mouth has opened itself up in their gut. It’s stopped dribbling quite so much blood, gone scabby with rough healing, though the stuff is still smeared all over their skin, damn near enough to bathe in. It’s barely anything, really. They’re barely even hurt.

“I’m not done,” says the mage-medic, all stern. The wound itches, the taste of hasty magic gone sour in the back of their throat with all the rest of it. “I might have to find my suturing needle. It isn’t too bad, but it can’t be healed all at once.”

“Piss off,” Pax repeats – and all fucking hell it hurts, and he’s sitting up against the statue, legs lolling. He’s dizzy. He ignores it.

Ocato – his fine clothes sooty, face tight as a wound-up spring – says, “Calm down, please – he’s a skilled healer, he knows what he’s doing.” His eyes keep skipping around the room like he’s searching for another enemy lurking hidden in the shadows. “What happened? Where’s the Emperor?”

Ah – not an enemy, then.

Pax tastes bile.

“Not very quick on the uptake, are you?” she says, elbow braced against the statue’s massive marble claws (she hates touching it, she hates it, she hates it, she wants to set it crumbling apart, she doesn’t want to let anyone else touch it ever again). She can’t stop leaning because then she might topple back down again. Fuck, she needs to keep her head on straight – or lose it altogether, whichever happens faster. Her fingers feel cold. “How’re you going to run an Empire when you’re this fucking clueless?”

Ocato looks them in the face; his brow, high and slanted in that way elves have, furrows. “You’re hurt,” he says, in a tone like he expects Pax to argue with him. “Martin Septim–”

“Can’t you see him?” Pax demands, tone torn in half and uglier than they’ve ever heard it before, and they slam the back of their hand against the stone for echoing emphasis. (They want to shatter all the bones in their knuckles, break every piece in their hand one by one, like wishbones. They want it bloody and bruising. They want to scratch its polished-smooth surface until their fingernails tear. They want – they want – they want –)

Ocato, the Empire’s de facto leader, says, “Ah.”

In his plummy robes, all fruit-rich and stained with ash, he looks very stark against the Temple’s cracked marble floors.

“The Avatar,” he says. “If – the Amulet – joined blood of kings and gods –”

“Ocato,” says Pax, leaning heavy against the statue’s hateful foot, “shut up.” Their voice is bowstring-taut; he looks at them, his eyes too golden to meet. His mouth twists. They tip their head back against the stone, glaring up at the chips of blue sky shown in the crater where the roof once was, and try hard to ignore the tugging ache hooked behind their ribs.

It really fucking hurts. Worse than it did before, maybe, like some gauzy veil has been ripped from it. A veil has been ripped from the world. All the colours are too-bright, hideous. Pax breathes, because there’s no alternative, and waits for the pain to ebb.

(It doesn’t, really.)

“The Gates are sealed,” Ocato says, slowly, and he’s looking at her again, she can see out of the edge of her eye. “We will speak later. I’ll have you put up in the Palace until you’re healed. Ah – Quintus, does –”

“As long as she doesn’t go back into shock,” says the mage-medic, busily flipping through some kind of supply bag at his belt, “her odds are good. Lost blood, but I don’t think anything important was too damaged – get a proper examination, all I did was give her a second wind. Stitches, rest, fluids should do it, with luck.”

“Can she stand?”

“Can or should are –”

“Shut the fuck up,” Pax snaps, “I’m right here.” Her back pressed against the cold marble of the statue, her plait half-loose and knotted, filled with ash. The sky is so fucking blue. It hurts like hell – if the healer took her out of shock, then shit, she wishes he’d put her back in. She can see in too much detail. She can feel the skin, damp and ragged and angry. She presses the heel of her hand to the injury; her palm is crusted with dust, tacky with the same half-dried blood streaked over the floors.

Ocato, in the edges of her vision, shifts, all a blur of rich clothes and sympathetic eyes and solemn voice turned soft like he’s talking to an easily spooked horse. “I know.”

The mage-medic clucks his tongue. “Let me take another look first,” he says, and takes a step forward –

Pax kicks out at him before he even gets close. “Don’t fucking touch me!”

“Pax,” says Ocato – and why, why the fuck is the Empire’s de facto leader here, now, babying them like a whimpering little puppy instead of anywhere fucking else, why is he bothering to talk to them all patronising soft, why does he care? They’ve barely fucking met – talked twice, if you can call either of those times talking. Is it because they’re the Hero of Kvatch? Is this what they’ve earned – a bit of leeway as they throw a tantrum, bleeding out at the marble feet of that stupid bloody statue? Ocato looks so fucking tired; Pax wants to hit him in the nose. “You need care.”

“I need –” and Pax chokes it off in a puff of air. The statue looms behind them. There’s blood on the floors. (Traitor liar coward come back come back I hate you come down I’ll knock your fucking teeth in stupid selfish fraud come BACK. LOOK AT ME.)

Pax closes his eyes.

“My gratitude,” Ocato says, “ – our gratitude for what you’ve done cannot be overstated. The Crisis if over. The gates are sealed. Mehrunes Dagon and his ilk can never threaten Tamriel again.”

The knobs of Pax’s braid are pressing uncomfortably against their scalp. They can hear footsteps, coming closer. They don’t respond.

“It’s a great shame we had to pay such a price,” Ocato says, and Pax would fucking love to know who’s we here, “but it’s done. Dagon is defeated. We’ve won.” He’s much too close, now; his voice pitches softer. “Martin – is dead. But he died an Emperor – and a hero to rival Tiber Septim.”

Pax shoves him.

It’s a good fucking shove – knocks him right to the ground, his elbow hitting the marble with a painfully audible crack, Pax standing over him, shirt rucked up, their handprint on his shoulder marked in blood. “You useless, prattling jackass!” they spit, hoarse, and deal a swift, savage kick to his side. “How dare you act like this is a victory! It should have been me!”

Then their head swims, and they’re sitting again on the edge of the dais, palm pressed to their side, the sweaty cloth of their gambeson pushed half off their shoulder and its cord biting into their hand. The mage-medic is kneeling over Ocato, who still lies, stunned; Pax can’t see his eyes, now, but they remember them, brassy with shocked fear. Their bow is off by the wall where they left it. Pax’s palms are sticky with blood. The sky is so fucking blue. No matter how hard she rages the dragon won’t look down at them.

By the time the mage-medic has helped Ocato up, they’re gone. The Kvatch guard gambeson remains, smoke-smelling and crusted with blood, left like an offering at the statue’s feet. The Hero of Kvatch is never seen again.

[blackhholes]

teen wolf - down

now i don't quite know what i'm doing anymore i mean i'm struggling just to see the floor

[coolcoelacanth]

i love bringing anti-establishment vibes into the establishment

[chr0n1c-ag0ny]

Kunikida has chronic pain. he doesn't really know why, he's seen a doctor and they're like "eh, your shit outta luck" and sends him on his way.

he's always stiff and achey and he can tell when it's gonna rain and how bad it's gonna be. pops whatever over the counter pain meds he can get his hands on without thought. is always stretching his back, neck, and legs out cause that's where it's the worst. constantly running a low grade fever.

he's just a little miserable all the time and he doesn't know what to do for it ever.

Dazai notices. he notices on days where Kunikida looks away from his work more often to rub away a migraine or stretch out his back are the days he's more snappy, where he edges into the territory of actually being mean.

he notices that he shivers when a draft or waft of AC hits him.

he notices how the winter and rainy days are harder for his partner. he runs 5 minutes behind his schedule. he needs more breaks. he doesn't pick up a pencil or pen unless he absolutely has to. his hands shake. he looks like he's gonna puke every time he stops to rub at his eyes. he sits in the dark whenever he gets the chance.

he takes it easier on him those days. he at least attempts to look busy and shoulders more of their shared work. he stands closer to him, he doesn't know why, but it makes him feel a bit more at ease. he makes excuses to close windows, turn off the AC, or redirect the fan to give his partner some reprieve. he gets him tea from the cafe. he walks home with him and tells him he looks like shit (they both know he's worried and just can't say it. that he doesn't know how to say it. that he's scared to say it) and Kunikida knows he's telling him to get some rest.

sometimes dazai calls Kunikida to make sure he's alright, flipping their usual script, and if Kunikida's cheeks are a little wet after each phone call, so what?

[miiiwu]

.

[dykedvonte]

I really do like character design in mouthwashing

Anya is obvi inspired by Shelley Duval (who was also verbally abused by Cubric, if I recall correctly), the Shining protagonist. Curly is your typical captain America style charismatic leader, he is even canonically a gym bro (although I recall you mentioning that if Curly's pre-crash face wasn't revealed, you would've headcanoned him as black, so I am a bit curios, what his dynamic w/ Jimmy would've been. Like, I think this little piece of sht would be casually racist towards him, he is just that sort of asshole. If the story was set at our times he would've def vote for Trump and complain abt immigrants eating dogs or something equally rediculous lol. Also, his dynamic w/ Anya - being marginalised himself would've he been harder on Jimbo's bullshit? Or would that not matter at all in their particular situation? So many possibilities.)

Daisuke is a bright spot in an otherwise dull and grey space. Swansea is simply perfect, 10/10😁

-💀

I don’t think Jimmy would be racist towards Curly or anyone for that matter.

Like I don’t see Jimmy as a misanthrope. He’s not hateful just to be hateful, he’s spiteful. All of his envy and resentment of others comes from his own projection of shared aspects he feels inferior by. I think the biggest difference is it adds a little more ire to Jimmy’s sentiments as it takes away an easy aspect of Curly’s life. I assume Mouthwashing operates in a similar social history and structure as our world so Curly likely faced prejudices based on his race in this scenario. He had something extra outside of his control weighing him down and yet he still reached that highest rung.

For Jimmy it’s infuriating. It feeds that delusion that Curly has it so much easier, that he doesn’t have to do the real work to get to that space. He should’ve struggled more, he should be more bitter but he isn’t. He’s not like him still and he’s pissed about it. He still wouldn’t understand the underlying and systemic issues Curly would’ve faced cause he can’t. He wouldn’t try to because in doing that it’s an admission he’s just not trying like Curly is. Any comments that could be seen as racist are less targeted at Curly’s ethnicity but just at him. Jimmy’s issues are with Curly as a whole, being so idealic compared to him and everything around him. It’s not just one facet of him physically, mentally or emotionally that makes Jimmy so envious. It’s why he’s obsessed, it everything about him.

As for Anya, this is no anger toward you, but there’s this perception in fandom spaces with intersectionality that sharing a minority status creates an equal understanding of what exact struggles the others go through. You can understand the feeling of oppression but certain aspects of certain systems will still be misunderstood if they don’t apply to you. Curly is still a man and Anya a woman. Perhaps she is a woman of color, it think he may have been a bit harsher to Jimmy as he would be aware of the racial factors at play when it comes to the dehumanization and sexism perpetrated towards WOC but he still wouldn’t get it as a man.

It’s like apples and oranges to where they are both fruit but being categorically the same doesn’t make them identical. I can not describe to you the taste of an apple by using an orange. Anya would no more understand Curly’s struggles being black than he would her being the only woman on board. Of course they share the similarity of being the only one but even in this case we do work off the assumption everybody but Daisuke is white. He’d inherently have more solidarity with him on that aspect than her.

[dogs-with-lightsabers]

i come with a rendered version of my adult Yosuke that i actually liked!!

it took like a full hour and i will not take any criticism 😊

but the only thing i will note is that i give my persona users slightly pointed ears that get longer with persona usage (more piercings and neat scars)

i also got two alt hair versions that live in my head (it’s just the colors don’t worry)

[kavehayati]

Chappel Roan saying she’s sad she’s demisexual and then there’s me being aroace as a whole like don’t you think I’m even more sad 😭

[that-was-anticlimactic]

one of the worst feelings ever is wanting to write but your hands hurt too much or the words just don’t want to work so you just sit there staring at a half finished doc with tears in your eyes bc you want to write and you need to write but everything is telling you that you can’t

[aerodaltonimperial]

woke up feeling weirdly grateful to fandom (must be pride month lol) so just wanted to toss out a big thank you to anyone who has ever read my fics. you really make me feel like i matter when i hear that my words make people happy or flaily or screaming or what have you. it honestly means the world to me knowing that people take their own free time and use it to read things i have written; given everything, i can't overstate how much this helps to heal over the big me vs. writing/publishing wounds. 💚💚💚 i had really truly considered leaving fandom the past few weeks, but i don't want to any longer, and a huge part of that is you wonderful folks for being here.

[fooltofancy]

my kingdom for the fortitude to respond to the things i really, really need to respond to this weekend. or tomorrow. tomorrow would be nice.

it's not a big kingdom and u can't have the cats, but. yaknow.

[acourtofquestions]

Dont be angry, Finnula said. Be smart.

[mushed-kid]

.

[girlivealwaysbean]

hey god if you've created someone for me can you introduce me to them sooner? i kinda need them now

[hballegro]

[full of turkey and deviled eggs, half asleep] I don't think this story is sad enough actually I think I have to make it worse