#fifteen years maybe
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wehaveagathering · 8 months ago
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Matt Rempe // b. June 29, 2002 Derek Boogaard // b. June 23, 1982; d. May 13, 2011 Chris Simon // b. January 30, 1972; d. March 18, 2024
Rest in peace, Chris Simon.
Like You, Roque Dalton; translated by Jack Hirschman.
Michael Mooney / Tim Nwachukwu / Jared Silber / [screengrab] / Michael Mooney / Joshua Sarner / Len Redkoles / Jared Silber / Sarah Stier / Joshua Sarner / Michael Mooney / Chris Tanouye / Andre Ringuette / Paul Bereswill / Bruce Bennett / Bruce Kluckhohn / Jim McIsaac
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artzy-ari · 3 months ago
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Keanu Reeves voicing Shadow
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qoldenskies · 26 days ago
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i think about splinter walking in on the aftermath of caged lungs a lot
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#canary continuity#rottmnt#like#pov: you are splinter. you have spent the past few months feeling Off#theres this odd air in your home that you cant place and some distance from your sons again#but you trust their independence and you tend to wane in and out again already#and theyve all been encouraging you to go out there and get a social life!!#even before the curse you dont know about yet theyve been nothing but supportive#maybe a bit pushy lately. but you think theyre just happy for you#teenagers are rebellious. youre sure theyll use your absence for shenanigans but thats a part of being a teen#so you go for a night out.#its a break from the odd tension youve felt#you come home feeling relaxed. lighter. youre smiling to yourself as you walk back into your home#for a moment its quiet and you can just breathe in the comfortable silence#and then you smell blood. not the faint clinging tang of it youd smelled for a few weeks and dismissed. FRESH blood#your veins chill with panic. dread prickles down your spine. you run towards the smell#and then you hear your oldest sons SCREAMING.#both of them dont scream like donnie and mikey do. they SHOUT a lot. they dont SCREAM#they dont scream like their souls are being torn out of their chest. not like that#(for a moment you freeze. and all you can think about is torn flesh and the snap of bones. cheering. blood caked across your bruised fists.#and then the panic hits you at once and you BOLT#and you walk into the culmination of fifteen years of your careless mistakes.#and nothing is ever the same again
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sachart · 5 months ago
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Snug as a bug
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mitskiluvr · 6 months ago
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that body never belonged to you in the first place
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bowl-of-fruit-loops · 1 year ago
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I see your “satoru couldn’t bear to see suguru’s body destroyed” and I raise you “shoko couldn’t bear to do it”
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teleport-warning · 1 year ago
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Day 2: Rebirth
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thegreatyin · 7 months ago
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i love how roughly 2 hours into zwillingstürme the most screentime ebenholz has gotten so far has consisted entirely of him being 1) actively miserable and 2) actively suicidal. this is slash gen btw. i love it when my favorite blorbos just go through the absolute fucking wringer to end all wringers
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stackslip · 4 months ago
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the nina chimera thing is practically a meme by now and honestly i remembered not being particularly affected by it in mangahood. imagine my shock when fma 03 manages to make it a billion times more harrowing, simply by giving nina more screentime + letting ed slowly investigate and make his own conclusions re shou + nina being reduced to a splatter on the wall by a traumatized scar, leading to ed desperately trying to transmute her back and his hands being covered in her gore. and then roy comes in and essentially tells him, in the worst way possible, you are a child and this is nothing compared to what you will be asked to do as a dog of the military. you have sold your soul.
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lloydgaymerdyke · 7 months ago
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harumi lover since day one one thing abt me i will always give teenage girls the benefit of the doubt they innocent til proven guilty 🥰🥰🥰
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oscargender · 3 months ago
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32… all this time I had been assuming that Chu Wanning was AT LEAST 40… probably closer to 50-60, and he just looks young because of his cultivation… 32…
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bigskydreaming · 1 year ago
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But also I’m just saying, Scott McCall did not smirk like a smug asshole at the twins after taking apart one’s motorcycle to lure the other into getting caught with their motorcycle in the school hallway just for ppl to act like this guy was new to Shenanigans. Like. That was a Scott-Allison-Isaac group project, Stiles was nowhere near it, I know its been 84 million years since then but the myth of Scott having no sense of humor or prankster energy of his own will always make me itch irritably.
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ehlnofay · 7 months ago
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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.”
#for context - in my version of events sheogorath's recruitment of the HoK is a lot more active#it needs someone who can fulfill the metaphysical niche of the hero. it needs someone experienced enough that they might not even die tryin#and it needs someone desperate enough to take the deal#pax is fifteen years old has alienated everything that maybe could have been a support system and is grieving very badly.#perfect mantling material!!#so sheogorath pursued them very specifically and was very judicious about what they revealed when. which is why pax already has some kind o#relationship with it here - they've interacted before - in that for weeks pax's reflection has been constantly begging them to 'visit'#writing the interactions of these guys is a lot of fun because there is always so much sheogorath is keeping from pax. it is#extremely strategic in how it presents itself#and pax falls for it hook line and sinker. though we can't really blame them#it's hard to outsmart something that's in your head#and at this point pax is pretty much made up of their worst impulses#which sheogorath cannot and does not help with#see: this piece#“I would NEVER make you do something you don't want to do <3 if you'd like to go back to your miserable self-destructive hellscape that's#YOUR CHOICE. but wouldn't it be more fun to be regular destructive here... i made you brass knuckles... 🥺“#im obsessed with them#the elder scrolls#tesblr#tes#my writing#fay writes#oc tag#pax#oblivion#shivering isles#the shivering isles
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psychicwound · 8 months ago
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jamie mccrimmon is incapable of not picking up little sisters everywhere he goes... first victoria... next zoe... now katarina...
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mitskiluvr · 1 year ago
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soulmatism is phoenix only knowing miles for like 2 years in elementary school yet IMMEDIATELY knowing that something is horribly wrong when he sees miles in the newspaper years later being called a demon prosecutor
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thetardisisnotourdivision · 1 month ago
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Hey did I ever tell y'all about the time I dreamed that I had a baby daughter called Ellie that began with my finding out I was pregnant and ended on like her third birthday?
I legitimately woke up thinking "I should go check on Ellie" and then realised she was never real and when I tell you I SOBBED. I've been haunted by an implacable sense of loss ever since. Did I travel to another dimension? Wtf happened because that was insane.
#I'm not even joking when I say it felt REAL#I have this baby doll (it was my mum's when she was a kid and I have it now) that sometimes I just hold and it makes me feel better???#Did I astral project into another life?????#Was it just a really fucking intense fever dream??????#For the record I was like fifteen I have never even done the do let alone had a pregnancy scare#But yeah my little Ellie#And she never fuckin existed#I woke up halfway through planning her birthday party like baking a cake or sm and I was thinking#“I'll give her the little green cardigan I knitted”#Woke up to a silent house and was like “she's never usually quiet this time in the morning”#Then realised what had happened and started CRYING#idk man it's insane#From a psychological point of view it's fascinating but I've tried and tried to analyse the dream and?????#I always come up with something different???? I can't pinpoint the actual cause and effect of the whole thing?????#Madness honestly#And it was just a normal day too nothing weird had happened it wasn't a coma and I wasn't knocked out it was just a Dream#A very very real one#For the record I don't think Ellie had a father#I think it was just an immaculate conception that nobody ever questioned#Might have been IVF now I think about it#That would make more sense#dream#weird dreams#Ig I should add a grief trigger warning???#tw grief#one time i dreamt#Very confused and it's been like two years so wtf yeah that was... Intense#The most dream of all time#Maybe I'm just fucking insane lol but yeah
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