#what matters is i wrote it down

[mushroomsie224]

He munches on a big, red, juicy pomegranate, not bothering to separate the seeds, just taking them off the fruit with his teeth and chewing them, the juice running down the corners of his mouth, his fingers stained a deep magenta. He eats quietly, the only sounds produced being the crunching of the ruby seeds. After picking off the last seed, he sets the inedible parts down and leans back in his chair, his body slowly loosening as he lets out a slow exhale and closes his eyes, not bothering to wipe his mouth.

[bixels]

The idea that uni protesters are "elitist ivy-league rich kids larping as revolutionaries" on Twitter and Reddit and even here is so fucking funny to me if you actually know anything about the student bodies at these unis. Take it from someone who's going to one of the biggest private unis in the US, 80% of the peers I know are either from the suburbs or an apartment somewhere in America, children of immigrants, or here on a student visa. I've heard about one-percenter students, but I've never met one in person. Like, don't get me wrong, the institution as a whole is still very privileged and white. I've talked with friends and classmates about feeling weird or dissonant being here and coming from such a different background. But in my art program, I see BIPOC, disabled, queer, lower-income students and faculty trying to deconstruct and tear that down and make space every day. So to take a cursory glance at a crowd of student protesters in coalitions that are led by BIPOC & 1st/2nd-gen immigrant students and HQ'd in ethnic housings and student organizations and say, "ah. children of the elite." Get real.

[vaguely-concerned]

I think the most defining thing about kremy as a person is that he desperately wants to be a man with a mustache -- while being physically, biologically incapable of producing hair follicles lol. like no wonder he takes to drag so much, that's basically most of what he's already doing with his outward identity! and the physical aspect of that is smaller, I feel, than what he's got going on psychologically. he's someone who doesn't want to be -- can't be? -- who and what he is, and who can't be what he wants to be because what he wants to be doesn't really exist, so he lives his life somewhere on the border between them. the almiraj might be no mirage, but the perfectly clever and charming and utterly untouchable version of kremy that kremy would like to be -- instead of the vulnerable neurotic mess of longing and fear and striving for control he clearly actually is -- absolutely is, I'm afraid. it's just a shadow on the wall with nothing real to cast it.

(all of this also goes into the many Gender and trans readings of him too, of course! men will say they’re fighting demons and the demons are trying to live up to a very specific brand of toxic masculinity they've sort of invented for themselves lol)  

the one deep down entrenched assumption we see kremy make again and again especially interpersonally is that if he's open with who he really is and what he feels or thinks at any given time, he would be revealed as fundamentally unacceptable and at best discarded and abandoned, at worst endangered. (it's literally spelled out with the cyclops in the witchlight carnival, but you see him go through this process all the time through the rest of the story too! being unable to lie or dissemble was a catastrophic event in this dude’s inner landscape. I’m sure that means nothing) and because he is also frequently kind of awful this assumption may not be entirely off base some of the time lol (deeply affectionate), but I think it comes from a much deeper place than that. kremy is ashamed of where he's from and who he's been -- that dirt poor wide-eyed kid from the swamp who saw all the fancy gentlemen in town and Wanted. wanted to be that, wanted to have that power, probably some confused sexuality want mixed up with it all as well for spice. wanted more than anything, perhaps, to BE something, because next to that he feels like nothing. which means abandoning the earnest kid who guilelessly loved unicorns and his meemaw and cooking without meaning to impress anyone and silly soft things in the swamp he came from while he went off to the big city and modeled himself after men like garou. (and his relationship with garou surely also had some effects on just how shifty he's become at intimacy too, aside from the building a facade of it all, that might be some secondary damage that was not his fault nor in his control at all)

even when he's acting seemingly shamelessly, he is fundamentally a shame-based psychology, is what I'm trying to get at. the only times he lets his thoughts and emotions out into the world unfiltered is when he's brought to a point of frustration where he throws up his hands and abandons manipulation or subtle machinations as an interpersonal tactic -- see: the several times he argues something with frost or gricko and then finally admits 'I literally don't actually care about this! you guys figure it out and deal with this if it matters so much to you I'm going to bed ffs' haha. his depression shines through when he’s too tired to hide it, especially in the later episodes. every open emotion is an admission he really didn't want to make and thinks is tactically disadvantageous for him. (and sometimes when he's being really for real he'll even admit to being worse than people gave him credit for, like when he admits he suspected mr. witch and mr. light were capable of doing something really really bad to torbek and handed him over anyway. kremy being that blunt and open is like. remarkable and also a sign that he's actually taking it seriously, for all that he's also revealing himself to be even more of an asshole than previously suspected lmao. that's not nothing, for kremy. BUT at the same time he is also the person who cried to see a unicorn broken and abused, and who saw something in gideon upon meeting him that no one else did or cared to at that time and offered him genuine companionship and support — as the story goes on he’s starting to admit to more things about himself, the bad and the good.)

all of which of course also is why he's having such a hard time being honest with gideon about how he feels (and the sheer immensity with which he feels it too, probably) -- that's incredibly vulnerable for a person who’s built himself up around the idea of never being vulnerable. ('i'm just a shadow, nothing you do can really touch or hurt me.') And yet if there’s peace and redemption to be found for kremy, if only within his own soul, between these versions of himself, I feel that discovering and accepting his own capacity for loving someone else so much that it transcends all selfishness or fear would be integral to it. (he loves gideon. So much it makes me a bit dizzy you guys)

[vargaslovinghours]

And never let you go ♥

Bonus without the overspill lighting:

[shannonsketches]

He said "Fuck this shit, I'm out" I'm crying. Toriyama's Vegeta was so top shelf 🤌

(From Neko Majin Z Chapter 5!)

[kai-rio]

ggy swap au my beloved

[imminent-danger-came]

MK's "I Love My Friends"/Reassurance Smile:

1x00 A Hero is Born

-

1x10 The End is Here!

-

2x00 Revenge of the Spider Queen

-

3x03 Smartie Kid

-

3x13 Time to Be Warriors

-

What!? No! I didn't mean you guys to! You thought you were going without us? MK, we get it—you're the Monkie Kid, huh? It's your job to go fight the bad guys. But we're your team little man! It's our job to get you there! No matter what!

Bonus (His Unassured Grimace):

4x12 The Plan Man

[ilovedthestars]

here's the thing. yes, some pieces of art are "better" than others. there are many criteria you can measure that with--technical skill, creativity, clarity, conceptual depth, successful execution of the artist's intentions, etc., and i do think it's useful to clarify which ones you're using as a measuring stick. but like, of course you can evaluate art. of course you can be critical (in the "art critic" sense) of art. (among other things, that's one of the most important ways to get better at making art yourself.)

however. when it comes down to evaluating what gets to count as art. what art even gets to have a seat at the table. i will go to bat for the thing that isn't as "good" every single time.

you can say you think a piece of art is bad. you can say you think it lacked technical skill, or clarity, or conceptual depth, and you consider those important elements of a successful work. i might even agree with you. but if you think that means it doesn't matter, someone is going to die on this hill and it isn't going to be me

[imeriayapping]

I'm 7,8k words deep into writing a fic and i fear when i finish it it's gonna be around 9 k and someone gonna open it being exited for a big loscar work but than became disappointed by my writing aaaaaaaa

[razzle-zazzle]

Whumptober Day 15: Childhood Trauma

Moment of Clarity

1649 Words; Runaways AU, pre-canon

TW for mentions of death

AO3 ver

Cole was sketching again.

He did it every so often, though he’d never let Lloyd see his sketchbook, despite Lloyd’s best puppy dog eyes. But that was fine—Lloyd knew where Cole put the sketchbook in his bag, and had already gone through it once. It was more about the principle of the thing, really—if Cole willingly let Lloyd look, then he probably wasn’t about to abandon Lloyd.

But Cole had refused to show off the sketchbook tonight, so Lloyd had subsided into watching the firewood slowly burn to ash. His sleeping bag was still rolled up behind him; Cole was sitting cross-legged on his. It was probably fine, though; Cole had shown no inclination to ditching Lloyd. Yet.

But it was important to keep track of, Lloyd knew. He wasn’t stupid, okay? He knew he was difficult. And he knew that being the son of an evil warlord tended to put most people off. He was loud and disruptive and had too-red eyes and little bumps on his head just barely hidden by his hair. Lloyd knew that he was easy to abandon and run away from, because everyone in his life had done it at some point. His own mother hadn’t even wanted him!

Speaking of…

“Why are you out on your own, anyway?” Lloyd asked. He had technically asked a question kind of like it, when he and Cole had initially met, and Cole’s response at the time had been a simple “none of your business.” But they’d known each other a while, now, and Cole seemed intent on keeping his promise—though Lloyd couldn’t fully trust that, not now, not ever—so maybe… Cole might open up?

Lloyd was horribly curious—it was something of a curse. And he had found an old school ID when he looked at Cole’s sketchbook, though it was wayyy different from the ones Darkley’s used and not a name Lloyd recognized.

Cole hmmed, shoulders hunching as he focused in on the page before him. “Ran away.” He grunted. Lloyd waited a moment longer for Cole to elaborate, but he didn’t.

So Lloyd opened his own mouth. “Was it from that school? The uh…” What was the name again? “Marty Oppen… Open…. that school?”

Cole was looking at Lloyd now, something like suspicion in his eyes and red on his cheeks. “How do you know about—” He cut himself off with a huff. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter.”

“So you did!” Lloyd concluded, pleased. “Was it a boarding school? Was it bigger than Darkley’s? How mean were the teachers? What were they teaching?” He imagined Cole in a classroom much like the science lab at Darkley’s, an evil death ray on the table before him. Just as quickly as it came, the image went away—Lloyd had seen Cole’s drawings. Death ray designs just didn’t fit him.

Cole blinked owlishly at the onslaught of questions. “Uh… yes; I don’t know, I’ve never been to Darkley’s; maybe? They were really stuffy, and—” His shoulders drew in again, expression shifty. “I’m not answering that last question.”

“What!” Lloyd gasped, laying down on the dirt and propping his face up on his hands. “But you gotta! I mean,” he added, as convincingly as he could, “You know what Darkley’s teaches, so why can’t I know what Marty Open-hemmer’s teaches? It’s only fair.”

“I’ll tell you the moment you can say the name right.” Cole promised, though it sounded an awful lot like a joke.

“How is it said?” Lloyd probed, folding his arms and resting his chin on them. From down here, with the fire between them to the side, Cole looked almost unreal, the flickering light dancing across his face.

“Ma—” Cole started, only to stop as he realized. “You’re not getting me that easy, you little shit.”

“It was worth a try.” Lloyd shrugged, lightly kicking the dirt.

Silence filled their little camp, the fire and the gentle scritch-scratch of Cole’s pencil the only real sound.

Lloyd rolled over, staring up at the darkened sky above, at the tiny embers rising from the fire, at the twinkling stars and the clouds that covered them. It was a half moon tonight. He had no idea how Cole was drawing with just the light from the fire—which probably explained all the little frustrated noises Cole was making.

Something else occurred to Lloyd. Something Cole did at—well, not every town, but often enough to be just another part of their routine. Lloyd sat up, looked at Cole, and spoke.

“Who are you sending those letters to?” Lloyd folded his knees in to rest his chin on them as he watched Cole put his sketchbook away.

Cole jolted, staring at Lloyd for a moment. His jaw worked as he considered Lloyd’s question, several emotions Lloyd wasn’t sure how to parse flitting across his face. “My dad.” He said, softly.

“Oh.” Lloyd’s own father hadn’t really… from what Lloyd knew, nobody had actually seen Lord Garmadon for years. His father had sent his shadow to visit Lloyd at Darkley’s, on rare occasion, but Lloyd otherwise hadn’t met his dad. “Do you and your dad… get along?”

Cole made a sound halfway between an amused snort and annoyed sigh. “He doesn’t know where I am.” He admitted, which wasn’t really an answer. “He doesn’t know I’m running around with the world’s most annoying gremlin—” He cut himself off. “He thinks I’m still at Mar—that school.”

That… Lloyd thought back to his own parents. His own dad probably didn’t know he wasn’t at Darkley’s anymore—he hadn’t sent his shadow to visit Lloyd at all. And his mother…

Well, at least Cole knew what his father thought of him.

“What about your mom?” Lloyd asked, suddenly not sure if he wanted to hear the answer.

Cole looked stricken, for a moment, before his expression turned thunderous. He glared at the fire, mouth drawn back in what might have been a snarl or what might have been a grimace. “She’s…” He swallowed. “She died less than a year ago.”

“Oh.” Lloyd cringed against his knees. “Sorry.” He hadn’t meant to upset Cole—

“‘S not your fault.” Cole muttered, voice tired. He laid back, staring up at the sky.

“Is that why your dad doesn’t know where you are?” Lloyd asked, then immediately cringed because why was he still talking, didn’t he know how to shut up—

Cole laughed, harsh and grim. “Ohhhh, don’t get me started! Mom’s gone, and all he ever does is go out and sing and dance and it falls to me to be responsible for everything, because first master forbid he stick around to tend to the garden or wash the dishes or do the laundry or—” He cut himself off, throwing his arm over his face as he made a drawn out sort of groan, sounding so shaky compared to usual. “And then he packs me up and sends me off to go to school and follow in his footsteps, like he wasn’t already pushing me hard enough—I don’t want to sing or dance! I’m never going to be what you want me to be!”

Lloyd shrunk back a bit. That was… a lot. Like, more than he felt able to unpack. But, wait—

“Sing or dance?” Lloyd asked, suddenly struck with a strong suspicion as to what that Marty school was for. “Is that what you went to Marty’s for?” He grinned, a giggle in his voice as he tried to imagine what that’d even look like.

“Shut up.” Cole groused, which only made Lloyd actually giggle. Cole groaned his annoyance to the sky, and Lloyd hid his mouth behind his hands as he imagined Cole in a tutu.

Cole sat up so suddenly that Lloyd squeaked, his laughter dissolving into worry. But Cole didn’t move any further, instead fixing Lloyd with a peculiar stare that was almost uncomfortable in its intensity.

“You don’t have to follow in your dad’s footsteps. You know that, right?” He asked, and Lloyd found, not for the first, third, or sixth time, that Cole could still say things that absolutely boggled him. “Everyone that treats you like shit because of your dad, but they’re wrong.” Cole said it with such conviction—it was almost enough for Lloyd to believe it.

“You’re not your dad.” Cole added. “You’re you.” His piece said, he laid back down, kicking dirt onto the fire and shuffling so that he was actually in his sleeping bag instead of on top of it.

Lloyd frowned. Well, he knew he was an awful warlord—he’d known it since before Darkley’s kicked him out for being a failure at evil. So it wasn’t like he would’ve been able to follow in his father’s footsteps anyway.

But the rest of Cole’s words… all his life, Lloyd had been defined by his father. His mother had left him at Darkley’s, where Lloyd’s parentage had been all that anyone cared about. His teachers had higher expectations for him, and were all the more disappointed when Lloyd couldn’t meet them. And when he and Cole asked around for someone who could take him in, it was his too-red eyes and too-sharp teeth and too-warlordy last name that made everyone close their doors in his face.

Lloyd huffed. Suuure, Cole could just run away and escape being what his father wanted, could become just another nameless kid wandering Ninjago, but Lloyd?

Lloyd grumbled as he grabbed at his sleeping bag to unfold it for the night. Nobody would see him as anything more than Lord Garmadon’s obnoxious son. Nobody but Cole, who Lloyd still wasn’t totally convinced didn’t hate him at least a little.

Lloyd Garmadon would always be tied to Lord Garmadon, but could never be anywhere half as great—or notorious. What Cole said was a nice sentiment, but it just wasn’t true. Not in the way Cole meant it.

Lloyd would never be out of his father’s shadow.

[milkyspine]

— no matter how hard you try, forgiveness isn't a death and you can't bury this while it's alive

[sorryiwasasleep]

NEW STARKID MUSICAL??? 👀👀👀🥰🥰🥰🥰

[vulpinesaint]

nobody talks about how awesome vent fics are. you can put your character in the Situations and just keep them there and keep them there and keep them there and then you finish it and you feel better. and it's free

[arsenicflame]

hey does anyone wanna bounce bellhands/they all went to pirate school together ideas with me? im trying to figure out the missing pieces of my personal set up and it might be easier with someone else!

[romaritimeharbor]

hydrangeas (the name of my demon slayer fic!) snippet upon ye... since chapter 1 is like, insanely long, i can afford to give you guys a big snippet teehee. @soleillunne

“Onee-chan! Onii-chan, look!” the brighter of the twins, Muichiro, exclaimed as he ran up to them, stumbling cutely to a stop before thrusting his arm outwards and up towards them. In it, a little flower was clasped. “It’s for you!” Amusedly trailing behind the boy were both parents and his slightly older brother, whose hand was held only somewhat securely in his mother’s. They waved with a bright smile at their parents before turning their attention back to their brother and kneeling down. “Aw,” they cooed. “Thank you Mui. That’s really sweet.” “Yuichiro has one too, but he’s too shy to give it to you,” the boy commented as he gently, gingerly placed the flower behind their ear. “Oh?” they replied, a teasing lilt in their voice as they curiously shifted their gaze from the youngest twin to the eldest. Yuichiro puffed out his slightly flushed cheeks with childish irritation that they had to actively restrain themselves from cooing at. “Is that so?” “Don’t say that, Muichiro,” Yuichiro huffed, shaking his hand free of his mother’s grip and reluctantly shuffling over to them. “Here,” he murmured, tucking his flower behind their other ear. They stared. Yuichiro knew instantly that he was in trouble. ‘Trouble,’ of course, meaning nothing serious–only that they were going to relentlessly tease him until the event became overshadowed by other tease-worthy occurrences. “You know, that’s cute,” they teased, hands reaching out and gently patting each of their heads, “you guys are the cutest.”

[pink-lemonadefairy]

that crushing feeling of realizing you have no talents no original ideas you’re not good at anything really and you basically have nothing to offer the world