#this one is. hm

[razzle-zazzle]

Whumptober Day 26: sometimes i get so tired, i don't even know myself

Working to Exhaustion

2330 Words; Ouroboros AU

TW for violence, bloodsport, exploitation, murder, death

AO3 ver

“Next one’s heavy.”

Dion grunted as another box was dropped into his arms. “They’re all heavy.” He muttered, carrying it over to the shelf. But he didn’t have to carry it far, and it wasn’t that heavy. It was kind of big, though, high enough to press against Dion’s mask.

The other guy on unloading duty—Hunter? It was hard to tell, when they were all wearing the same plain white masks—whistled. “I swear, it’s like you never stop.” He commented, as Dion shoved the box into place. “The fuck did they feed you in your old life?”

“...food?” Dion pulled out his boxcutter to cut the box open.

Hunter chuckled. “A kid your age does not just handle heavy boxes like that.” He insisted.

Most people Dion’s age also didn’t have a body count, but that was besides the point. Dion rolled his eyes behind his mask.

There was always something to do in Ouroboros. And if Dion wanted to live, then he needed to be doing something. And he needed to live, no matter what—if Dion didn’t survive, then Mirtala would be the only Aquato in Ouroboros. And he couldn’t—he wouldn’t let her be left alone here. Not if he could help it.

(Mirtala didn’t deserve to be here at all, but there was nothing Dion could do on that front. His powerlessness would drive him crazy if he wasn’t able to at least provide for her.)

“Right, this one’s gotta be at least a little heavy to you.” Hunter grunted, slowly sliding the next box off the stack to pass to Dion.

Dion took the box, wincing slightly. Yeah, this one was kind of heavy—he wouldn’t want to carry that many boxes like it. But Dion knew how to handle heavy things. It was part and parcel of growing up in the circus, after all, from equipment to the other members of his family. Frazie was at least as heavy as this box, probably. Dion hadn’t had the chance to lift her in a while. Maybe she had gotten heavier, gotten the kind of muscle to make girls swoon over her.

(Dion swallowed that thought down. With any luck, he might never see Frazie again—which was for the better, because the day any more of his family ended up in Ouroboros was a day that Dion never wanted to see.)

Dion shoved the box into place on the shelf, pausing for a moment once it was in place. Still, it wasn’t that heavy.

(Queepie might have handled the weight better than Dion—

Dion shoved that thought away immediately. Queepie would be turning four soon; he should be nowhere near Ouroboros, ever. None of his family should, really—none of them but Dion.)

“Heavy, right?” Hunter prompted, already holding the next box.

Dion grunted, pulling his boxcutter out once again. So what if it was? He could handle it. He had to handle it.

Hunter shook his head. “Kids.” He grumbled. “You’re going to run smack into a wall with that kind of attitude.”

Whatever. Dion would be fine.

He had to be—there was no other way. If he slowed down for even a moment, if he let weakness show—

Dion took the next box. He’d survive.

No matter what.

+=+=+=+=+

Mirtala came back that night with a fresh bruise on her arm, her hair still damp from her shower.

“Tala—” Dion started. Stopped, his words catching on the knot of feelings in his throat. He reached out. Stopped.

Mirtala stared at him with tired eyes. She sat down on her bedroll, not saying a thing.

Dion looked away. What was he supposed to say? He didn’t want to encourage this. He never wanted Mirtala anywhere near the arena—she only just turned six. It was Dion’s job, his responsibility to take care of her—and every time she stepped into that arena, he failed.

What was he supposed to say? He didn’t know. He didn’t know.

(An apology might be a good start.

But Dion had always been a coward when it came to apologies.)

Dion’s jaw worked, his shoulders tensing. He should say something—

Too late. Mirtala laid down on her own cot, facing away from him. She huffed, curling up without a word.

I’m sorry. Dion wanted to say it. He needed to say it.

I’m sorry. The words got stuck in his throat.

Dion clenched his hands into fists, his eyes darting away from where Mirtala was lying—

Wait. “Um.” He managed, the sound of his voice surprising even himself. “Do you… do you want your unicorn?” Mirtala usually always grabbed it, when the light in their room started to fade. Dion couldn’t fathom why it was on his cot.

Mirtala rolled over, squinting at Dion. “Her name is Francis III.” She muttered.

“Oh.” Shit, when did Mirtala name it? How long ago? Wow, Dion felt like an idiot. His face was already heating up. “Well, do you want Francis III?” He really needed to apologize.

“No.” Mirtala said. She blinked, and yawned. “But you do.” And with that, she rolled back over, pulling the blanket tight around herself.

Dion swallowed. He grabbed Francis III, running his thumb over the felt strips making up the mane. One of the Wolves had gifted it to Mirtala when they had first gotten here—Dion looked over at his baby sister, who was the nicest person he’d ever known, and he could guess why. Even if she wasn’t his responsibility, he still wanted her to get the best that she could. Mirtala was just easy to spoil like that.

And yet he still couldn’t find the words to talk to her…

Dion looked Francis III in her beady little button eyes. He wanted to put the plush into Mirtala’s arms, adjust the blanket around her like he was tucking her in—anything to prove that he wasn’t an awful brother.

But he just sat there instead, choking on the knot in his throat.

Like a coward.

+=+=+=+=+

Dion looked up at the sound of footsteps, the mop coming to a stop.

He immediately looked back down, moving the mop again the moment he saw who was waling across the tiled floor. Oh, god, was this the end? Was he somehow mopping wrong? Or was it just fun to torment him?

Creed came to a stop not far from Dion, hands folded behind his back.

Dion continued mopping. If Creed wanted him to stop, he’d say so. Probably.

“Boy.” Creed started. Dion gripped the handle of the mop harder. “Look at me.”

Dion lifted his eyes to meet Creed’s dark brown. He paused in his mopping—he needed to rewet the mop in the bucket again, anyway—and waited to see what Creed would do.

Creed’s eyes flicked over Dion. He immediately felt like an ant confronting a boot—certain doom was all that awaited him, now.

“You’ve got a fight tonight.” Creed commented airily. “I’m sure you’ve had plenty of time to… recuperate.”

It had been a while since Dion had had a fight—he hadn’t been scheduled for the last two Death Pits. And he wasn’t allowed back into the regular fights—though Dion really didn’t want to think about that.

“Okay.” Dion said, hating the way it sounded so small in the empty air. “I’ll be ready.”

(He wouldn’t, not really—he never was.

But Dion didn’t survive by waiting until he was ready—he couldn’t. Either he got his head above water, or he drowned—and Dion refused to drown. He’d survive however he needed to.)

“Good boy.” Creed nodded. He turned around and began to walk away—

“Oh,” Creed paused, “And this next fight?”

Dion looked up at him. “Yeah?”

“Win it.” Creed growled. “Your opponent isn’t meant to make it out of that arena alive, you got it?”

Winning was what Dion normally did, though? Dion stared at Creed a moment longer, then nodded slowly. “Yeah.” He confirmed, still unsure why Creed felt the need to tell him this.

“Good.” And with that, Creed left.

Doubts and uncertainties floated around in Dion’s head. He was finally going back in the ring, and the notion terrified and excited him in equal measure. He could finally get ahead just a little bit more—but he’d have to kill someone to do so.

(Well, it wasn’t like Dion’s hands weren’t already covered in blood.

He would survive. He had to.)

Dion sighed.

Back to work.

+=+=+=+=+

Dion waited for the gate to rise. The bars of the gate casted shadows across him, the audience already a loud din outside. It sounded bigger than usual, too, which grated on Dion’s nerves. He watched as another gate opened and his opponent-to-be was forced into the arena, stumbling across the sand. His own gate hadn’t opened, yet—god, Dion hoped it wasn’t broken.

The announcer was saying something, now, trying to get the audience to chant—

“DEATH! BY! LION!”

Dion went rigid. Suddenly, the earlier interaction with Creed made a lot more sense.

But… why him? Surely Creed had more popular fighters, more capable fighters—

The gate began to rise. No more time to doubt. Dion walked out into the arena, out into the lights hanging down, the cage bars casting shadows across him—

The audience ROARED.

“AND THE LION MAKES HIS RETURN!” The announcer cheered. “Let’s see some BLOOD!”

Dion’s opponent stood, staring at him through their orange and blue Ox mask. They snorted.

“This is it?” They asked. “This is the big bad Lion?” Derision colored their voice. Dion’s face flushed behind his mask, his hands squeezing into fists. “You’re just some kid!”

“And you’re dead meat.” Dion snarled. It was him or them, and Dion had no intention of losing.

The Ox broke out into a charge, raising their hand. Metal glinted in the light, and they swung down—

Dion ducked out of the way, rolling to the side and using his hands to spring up onto a hanging cord. The “Jungle Arena” was full of hanging cords and bars, like some twisted trapeze, and Dion was quick to fling himself up out of the Ox’ reach.

You’d think I was the Leopard, with the way I’m climbing around. Dion thought to himself, coming to a stop halfway up the rope. He looked down at the Ox, considering what to do.

Him or them. Dion would survive, no matter what.

He was supposed to make a show of it, too.

The Ox bellowed, grabbing the rope Dion was on. They yanked—

And Dion twisted over to the next rope with practiced ease. He didn’t want to have a favorite arena—he didn’t want to be in the arenas at all, really—but if he had to choose, it was probably this one. So many things to climb, so many ways to fling himself around!

(The arena that Mirtala made her official debut was similar, but Dion didn’t want to think about Mirtala in any arena.)

The Ox couldn’t climb as well as Dion could—if they could at all, seeing as they weren’t even trying—so Dion couldn’t lead them on a merry chase through the ropes and bars. So much for that idea.

Still, how to make this look good?

The audience was chanting, jeering, roaring for blood and violence and death. It was either Dion or the Ox—and Dion intended to win.

“That might work…” Dion muttered, flipping over backwards onto one of the hanging bars. He lifted himself up so that he was doing a handstand on it, allowing his legs to hook onto another bar higher up. He let go of the bar and looked down on the Ox.

“Are you even trying?” He jeered, “Surely you can take out ‘some kid’!” He flipped over to a knotted rope, then flung himself with a forwards flip onto a sideways one. The tightropes back home were way narrower than this. Confidence filled Dion as he paced along it, the Ox yelling below him.

“Get down here!” They shouted. “You little shit!”

Dion laughed. The sound shocked him, escaping his throat before he even recognized what it was.

What was he doing? This was a life-or-death situation! The cage bars cast shadows across the arena. The audience was cheering, jeering, roaring. Dion’s mask pressed against his face.

Fuck this. Fuck putting on a show. Dion wasn’t here to entertain, for all that Creed wanted him to. He was in here to survive, dammit!

With a cry, Dion flung himself down. He rolled as he fell, kicking out as he landed to hit the Ox square in the back. The impact flung him away, and he rolled with the impact, springing up off the floor at the soonest opportunity.

The Ox whirled around to face him, snarling through their mask. Dion darted to the side, cartwheeling up onto one of the ropes. They charged, and instead of climbing up Dion flung himself onto their shoulders when they passed, locking his ankles together in front of their face.

The Ox reached up, trying to pull Dion off—

Dion squeezed his thighs together. The Ox’ hands scrambled against Dion’s legs, prying uselessly at his boots—

Crack!

Dion jumped away as the body fell, flipping over backwards. That probably looked cool, right?

The audience was cheering. The chant from earlier returned, harsh against Dion’s ears.

“DEATH! BY! LION! DEATH! BY! LION!”

Across the arena, the gate rose. Dion stared up at the audience for only a moment longer before darting back to the tunnel.

His hands were shaking. He needed to get his mask off right now. He needed a shower, he needed a drink, he needed to lie down and stare at the wall until he felt human again—

Dion stumbled, leaning against the tunnel wall. He'd just killed someone.

But he had survived. It was him or the Ox, and he had won.

Dion stared at his hands. He had survived. Grim satisfaction knotted in his throat, and he struggled to breathe around it.

Dion had survived.

He was more willing to pay the cost than he wanted.

[bread--quest]

visitor at our museum made a comment today that made me question a lot of things so i'm making a poll about it

the scenario: it is a beautiful day outside and by beautiful i of course mean "cloudy with a chance of rain". sky is gray. smells rainy. possibly already drizzling. you don't really know How rainy it's going to get, but there will definitely be Sky Water happening for a good portion of the day.

also feel free to mention where you're from, if you think it's relevant or just want to give a shout out to your location

[delicourse]

Snake Year

[kotikaleo]

That's what family means!!!

HELLL YEAHHHHHHH!!! LET'S GO JOEL!!!!

I am back with last stained glass drawing for now. I am so so hyped to see them irl, sadly they won't be too big, only 6 inches, but I am still hyped as hell to have them in my hands!!!

As always I encourage you to tell me what you thinks, what detail you picked up from drawings, reblog, comment you know the regular and...

If you like what I do please check my shop!!

I am smart, and I have not forgot that I have to advertise myself constantly yeah yeah

[lukitua]

She stroked Rhaegal. The green dragon closed his teeth around the meat of her hand and nipped hard

Decided to make matching portraits for the remaining of Dany's children, so here's Rhaegal

[radiojamming]

I need all of you to look at my new foster kitten

Thank you for your time.

[finifugue]

You only need two to be a world champion these days. Vettel is just an overachiever

[drawnbyraven]

live laugh lawlu

[fadeintoyou1993]

WICKED (2024) dir. John M. Chu Deleted Scene — "Elphaba's Promise"

[arcade-confetti]

Being someone who read Under The Red Hood and came out with the firm belief that, for Jason, it's not about killing Joker, it's about Jason wanting proof Batman would choose him over the Joker (bc shelia chose the joker). Makes seeing any other media where it's all about just wanting the Joker dead is a teeny bit frustrating. to be honest

Jason could've killed the Joker himself, really, really easily. Jason kidnaps the Joker before the confrontation. I can't open my comic for a reference right now, but it felt like he had the Joker for quite a bit before the confrontation. He had him. He beat him up with a crowbar. He had every single opportunity to kill the Joker himself, but he didn't because that wasn't his goal. Make no mistake, he did plan for the Joker to be dead by the end of it, but do you see what im trying to say here

Edit: If I knew this post was gonna get 1000+ notes I would've tried to word it better or something, this was a rant I made on the way to the grocery store 😭

It's not about making Batman kill either. When Batman says he won't kill, Jason adjusts and goes, 'Let ME kill the Joker or kill me to stop me' instead. The test is all about Batman choosing him. The whole final confrontation is Jason's first death again. The parent, The Joker, and the explosives. It even ends with Jason unable to move as a bomb goes off right next to him again because the parent didn't choose Jason. And instead tried finding an option that'd benefit them and (consequencely) letting the Joker walk, again, lol, lmao <-in agony

[keferon]

Head in hands.

I know the entire fandom loves Elita One being "on the good side" but I personally prefer her sitting on a throne made of dead bodies

[andatsea]

Sleep not, dream not.

--

Twitter / Shop / INPRNT / Patreon

[listen-to-the-inner-walrus]

so in an attempt to actually use positive thinking, anytime i fuck up and my brain reacts as if ive cause a minor apocalyptic event, i compare my fuck up to the 4 minute fuck up committed by the crew of the uss william d porter.

and only today, as i was having to explain what happened to my mom when i was explaining the whole comparison thing, did i realise that most people dont know about it and ive decided that needs to change because its objectively hilarious.

...which is a weird thing to say about an event that occured on a warship in 1943, specifically november 14th.

see the uss william d porter was a fletcher-class destroyer but you dont need to know what that means, just that she had guns that went bang bang and that she was escorting another ship, the uss iowa, to cairo.

while they were on their way there, they performed some gun trials like testing the anti-aircraft guns or the torpedos. and while they were running a torpedo drill, the crew of the porter managed to fire a live torpedo straight at the iowa which you know, in terms of a list of things to do while escorting a ship, shooting a torpedo at them is not on that list.

especially if the president of the united states is on board.

yeah so fdr was on board and the gun trials were actually his idea, and part of the trials was that they were conducted under radio silence.

and that means the crew of the porter couldnt just call the iowa to be like "move out the way, we accidentally shot a torpedo at you."

but they did have signal lamps and you know, the signalman on board was trained to signal this exact kind of message.

...and uh never mind, the signalman did manage to successfully tell the iowa that a torpedo was coming toward them but wasnt as successful when it came to the direction the torpedo was coming from.

not all hope is lost though because the signalman could still use the signal lamp to correct his previous mistake and-, never mind, he announced that the porter was reversing, which she wasnt.

yeah so at catastrophic mistake number 3, they broke radio silence to warn the iowa and she managed to turn out of the way just in time which meant no one got hurt. and even though the inquiry into the incident led to chief torpedoman (fantastic job title btw) lawton dawson being sentences to hard labour, fdr intervened and waved away his sentence, saying it was all an accident.

but yeah, so thats my new measure for "how much did i really fuck up?" and when i compared accidentally picking up a pencil case without a tag on it in wilko, turns out it was a very minor fuck-up. yes, the cashier had to ask another worker to grab a duplicate so they could scan the barcode, but i didnt nearly kill the president during wartime via accidental friendly fire

[lokh]

got stared at for a really long time trying to buy alcohol

[ruushes]

still endlessly indecisive abt my datv worldstate bc ive played these games too many times and have too many ocs now but ive seen a lot of people drawing their worldstate characters and i wanted to too lol so here’s my tentative pick

fantastic templates are by marianchurchland ❤️❤️💕

[arielluva]

let's play maiden dissection!