#she has never done anything for me

[fulltimesapphic]

Maturing is looking back on your relationship with your ex and realizing that you actually never liked her and she is very infuriating and annoying

[electric-beaugaloo]

I see your “Alice and Celia are anagrams” post and raise you a “Alice and s1 Jon are wearing the same hat”

S1 Jon is desperately skeptic bc he’s scared & doesn’t feel in control so he’s bluffing in a way that comes across as unlikable. I think Alice is also haunted by the job but faking her way through it by bullishly insisting others don’t think about it… also in a way that can come across as unlikable.

[azuree1733]

I don’t think I’ve posted these doodles here

[navree]

Incorrect, the fact that Biden has dropped out and a candidate with history of supporting medicare for all and being more receptive to a ceasefire in the I/P conflict has made me go from "I cannot morally support the Democratic nominee" to "I am voting for the Democratic nominee despite the fact she isn't perfect in every respect." I'm really happy this played out. The Dems for the most part abandoned the old Obama platform and it feels like its possible an actual progressive agenda could come to pass in my lifetime.

Kamala 2024!

If you weren't going to vote Democratic in this election before Biden dropped out you're a dorkass loser who does not care about any of the issues you're yammering about here and also a fundamentally bad person, and I hope you get run over by a bus.

But you got one thing right in all of this gibberish, Kamala 2024.

[xxether-nanoemikoxx]

Chat did I cook?

[trappedinafantasy37]

Can you believe that I have spent this entire year completely obsessed over one fictional character? Minthara Baenre, what a woman you are!

[zonaraze]

i forgot how funny shih-na's testimony is. lang cuts in every other time you press her to either talk about how amazing she is or to defend her. and he does this so much that edgeworth actually has to tell him to back off. LMAO.

[snowangeldotmp3]

hey do you guys ever think about the fact that in season 3 robin chooses to stay behind so erica and dustin can escape the russians? she chooses to stay with steve and hold the door so dustin and erica can get out. she doesn't know these kids. not as well as steve does, at least. and yet she still chooses to stay behind. it's not a huge moment. in fact, it's a blink and you'll miss it moment, but it's the fact that she chooses to put herself into the danger for these kids that she does not know. she is willingly to be caught and captured and tortured by russians. all she wanted was to get through her shitty job.

[seeking-for-rtrt]

hod in lobcorp is entirely shaped by her guilt because she has to be. it's how ayin made her. the sephirah were defined by their traumas and worst aspects to be forced to meltdown in the hell ayin created so he wouldn't be alone in it. he needed them far more than they needed him, as he himself admits.

she is molded by her guilt, it defines her, it consumes her and becomes all she is. every action she takes is to alleviate it, she needs to prove she is better than she knows she is from what she has done.

[vargamornight]

buffy leads because she is the only one she believes capable of it. willow follows because she wants the privileges of being beside the leader (aka doing whatever she wants, whenever she wants, and never facing any consequences because buffy loves her and buffy's the one in charge of consequences) without any of the responsibility of leadership (aka consequences)

willow has proven that when she is powerful enough that she doesn't need to fear consequences, she does not hold back. not one bit. she will do whatever she wants, kill whoever she wants as horrifically as she wants, and the only thing that EVER stops her is the worry that buffy won’t like her anymore, because if buffy doesn't like her anymore, then she won’t be able to get away with all of her usual bullshit.

[fishyfishyfishtimes]

Our non-marine heroine Karleeen McQueen

You know what, you already know lots of stuff about Ahti II, I’m now going to tell you about Karleeen the spidergirl, Ahti’s best friend and the protagonist of a story I’m writing! A quick information sheet:

(+ Art reference)

Karleeen (with three e’s)… well, who doesn’t know about Karleeen! Probably not by looks, but you could read all about her on the papers some years back. It’s been a while, you'd hardly recognise her if you saw her now! Especially among the other jolly beachgoers, joggers, shoppers and summertime tourists; Karleeen lives in Naantali after all, with her single father on the coast of southwest Finland. In the summer it's busy, in the winter it's very quiet, all year round it's a very appropriate place for Karleeen, she thinks.

Now in her mid-teens (the Sirpaverse “starting point” is 2021), Karleeen is a most open and jolly girl! She loves socialising and chats with just about anybody she has a chance to interact with for more than five minutes. She’s always planning outings and looking to spend time with her best friends, too! She enjoys being silly, making wordplay and coming up with puns with ridiculous set-ups. Karleeen is a sensitive soul, she feels all of her emotions very strongly and shows them strongly, too. She sometimes has trouble regulating her emotional reactions and has a tendency to spiral. It's very difficult for Karleeen to lie, her feelings will be very clear from her facial expressions and body language no matter how hard she may pretend to feel otherwise. Not that she'd even lie! It would make her feel too bad.

Karleeen has loved nothing more her whole life than making "thingamajigs" — you know, machines, things that move, little inventions! It's so fascinating to her, how pieces that are little more than scrap on their own weave together into intricate creations that are far more than the sum of their parts. When she was a young kid she'd make things out of twigs and rocks and rope, but in her teens she's now moved onto more sophisticated methods, legos and actual robot-building sets. She's also dipping her toes into coding, so far it seems fun and it offers an additional medium for making things (only digitally this time). Karleeen would love to study mechanical engineering when she's old enough to go to a university, but it'll be a while until then! Besides for robotics Karleeen enjoys hiking in the outdoors, climbing trees, basking, collecting fun and/or useless trinkets of various kinds and strawberry-themed items, playing platformers and action-adventure games and doodling.

Karleeen’s a smart girl, but she struggles a lot with languages. Or, well, don’t let me entirely misrepresent her: she does have the achievement of knowing some ASL signs. Still, Finnish is the only language she speaks fluently and it’s her own mother tongue! She can’t quite get anything else stuck to her brain, speaking Swedish or Surish or even simple English feels like a chore. Like stated above Karleeen’s body language is very clear, one of the more common actions Karleeen does when she’s nervous, scared or sad is holding her hands and arms close to her chest.

Karleeen's favourite genre of music is classical, but she can't listen to it casually because it makes her very emotional. She likes pop, rock and soundtracks when it comes to just playing music in the car or with friends. Her favourite animals are elephants, and her favourite fish is the electric eel. Her favourite meal is minute beef steak with seasoned butter and chanterelles, but her actual favorite singular food item in general and favourite snack is wild strawberries. Her favourite drink is tap water. Her favourite flower is fireweed.

(Nowhere else to really mention this but Karleeen is also asexual and biromantic, it took a long while for her to figure out because her relationship with having human connections is rather complicated and unusual but she’s comfortable in that identity and doesn’t really overthink it, she has a lot of love in her heart for so many things so it’s only natural she would have a lot of love for many people too, she thinks)

[cienie-isengardu]

"She [Mother] would applaud my actions" << & >>" Mother would be so proud"

MK1 Smoke vs Sub Zero (Bi-Han) << & >> MK11 Sub Zero (Kuai Liang) vs Noob Saibot

[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.

[drakonovisny]

I FUCKING MISSED MY CAT SO MUCH 😭❤️❤️❤️

[paranormaljones]

I'm a Lucy Carlyle defender (how many posts have I started with that exact sentence) but less in a "she's never done anything wrong in her life" way and more of a "this is a female character who was written with full agency to respond realistically and behave accordingly in regards to her age, maturity level, and environment, which includes being allowed to respond negatively to circumstances that don't necessarily warrant a negative response, and we need more female characters written like this" way.

The important thing about beloved Lucy Carlyle is that she's allowed to make bad choices but she is not vilified for them. And she's allowed to come back from them and try to make things better, even if it takes her a little while to get there. She's also just allowed to make choices in general, good or bad.

She's allowed to be angry. She's allowed to be scared. She's allowed to be snarky. She's allowed to be sad. She's allowed to be defensive. She's allowed to be sentimental. She's allowed to behave the exact way a real person would in her circumstances. She's allowed to have emotional agency. She's not written to fulfill a trope or a fantasy. She's a whole person.

And we need more characters like her.

[trappedinafantasy37]

POV: Your evil murder kitten's mask has slipped and you can see how deep she is drowning in fear and paranoia.