#you really need to do some self-reflection

[inspired-lesson-plans]

Instead of taking a nap I just had the greatest idea.

Children's cartoon series that focuses on the lives of all the English letters. Each one has its own personality that is in part derived from its phonic function, and they all have relationships with each other that come from how the different letters relate to each other.

This was inspired by the thought that kids might learn the alphabet just as well if the letters had full names like Kappa instead of the tiny names they have today. This evolved into the thought that every letter has its own personality and that we could tell stories about them because they're all characters (ha).

Here are a few notes that I thought of in the shower and couldn't sleep until I wrote them all down:

Subconsciously I am 100% basing this on a combination of the Mr Men books and the Wayside School series.

Every letter has a proper name based on their ancestral Greek letter names*, but they are typically called by their nicknames (the English versions). I do not know what to do about C and the like.

The letters have genders because that makes them easier to remember.

They should have English or Australian accents because it's a kid's cartoon.

Speech bubbles must always be present when characters are talking. This is a phonics-focused edutainment show. The kids need to read.

C & K are married. K gets jealous when she sees her wife hanging around H because she knows what kind of effect H has on letters like S or T.

In one episode K is really upset and she refuses to make a sound when forming words like KNOW or KNIFE. Some of the letters don't get it, but her friend G helps her out.

I & E are sisters. E is the popular sister whom everyone wants to include in everything. The other vowels say "We're just not the same without you!"

I is always trying to be like E, which is why she's often trying to make the same vowel sound. When E is asked to help spell the word FRIEND, she brings her little sister along even though I doesn't actually do anything.

In one episode, E feels overwhelmed by everyone's expectations of her, so she decides to take a Self Care day. But that means that all the other letters need to figure out how to make words without any E's. Soon they start to panic because their words are all messing up now. This is reflected in the dialogue, such as "A S_lf Car_ Day? What do_s that m_an?" This is pronounced without the underscores, for comedic effect. Anyway, I decides that she has to take her sister's place. After some fumbling around, she realizes that she can't do everything her sister does, but she can still be useful. SKATE can't be SKATI, but with some help they can still make SKATING, for instance.

Ampersand is a letter. At first they think they're a punctuation mark, but then their adoptive family (grandparent . parents ! and ? siblings , ; – ) reveals that their full name is "And per se and", which means "& itself" and used to be said at the end of the alphabet song.

I am very open to discussion on this.

Please, reach out if you have any thoughts. I do not have anywhere near the skills to do something like this for real, but I want this idea to be out there and for someone to make it. And I am willing to be involved.

This is Tumblr, let's collaborate.

*Fun fact that I just learned, the Roman alphabet is taken from the Etruscans, who borrowed it from Greek immigrants but shortened their names. And the Romans called Y the "Greek I", which is why when I go to the DMV I keep on hearing a Spanish voice calling for "Igriega". (Sources 1, 2)

[axl-ion]

I like Speeding Bullet (Sniper x Scout) as those 2 guys that are rough around the edges, but in different ways. Feel free to read this either platonically, romantically or aesthetically.

Scout is the type to always come home with scraped knees and bruises all around the body. He had rough childhood because he grew up partaking in violence and fights. He's got abandonment issues, he yearns for recognition and attention. Yet his playstyle encourages some level of being sneaky, because Scout is a Pick class - as a Scout you should flank the other team, pick your fights wisely and then run away if you survive. You're TOAST if you face a Sentry, unless you position yourself in that perfect blind spot, where the Sentry can't see you, but you can pistol it down (provided you HAVE a pistol and aren't like me who runs around with the Cleaver). You should NOT face Soldiers or Demomen unless you're great with jumping around the rockets and pipes. But also Scout is the class that can push the cart and cap points twice the speed of other classes. In that direction, Scout is overcomplishing.

Sniper meanwhile is a recluse. He stays away from everyone (reflected in his playstyle, where you stay as far away as you can). He doesn't really trust people ("Have a plan to kill everyone you meet" line in Meet the Sniper and when he attacked Miss Pauling and Demoman in the comics). He grew up around violence, most likely being the target of it, having to defend himself by tossing stones at the perpetrators. He's very proud of himself, but hates being in the spotlight. He's overly self reliant, seemingly doesn't talk much to the other Mercs besides Scout, Spy and maybe others, but we don't really know. He's seeking the approval from his parents, which he isn't really getting met with. He looks a lot older than he actually is, getting mistaken by people to be closer to Medic, Spy, Heavy and Engineer in age, when he's actually closer to Scout, being just 2-3 years older. He's also a bit filthy, not just talking about him pissing in jars, but his ungloved hand is forever dirty (a detail that's often not drawn in by other fans) probably from gunpowder residue, cigarette debris and dirt (while not present in game, Sniper is shown to be able to climb up places to do his job). Also Sniper is really weak in close combat (unless you have the Jarate + Bushwacka combo)

They are contrasting in their roughness in a way, that to me, makes them fit together as both eachother's counterpart (much like Scout and Engineer/Heavy are counterparts (I can't decide which one is more of a counterpart to Scout in terms of gameplay) or Sniper and Spy are counterparts... Getting in the face of the bitch you want to kill runs in the family Ig). When it comes to gameplay, yes, they are total contrasts. Up close figher vs. distance fighter, but they are both Pick classes. They have to pick their target. They are also both young people with personalities and backgrounds that contrast eachother - one grew up in a big family, probably starved for attention, the other grew up in small family that he wants to make proud. Attention starved vs. attention avoidant. Running around vs. standing still (don't do that btw, you need to move sometimes as a Sniper or the enemy Sniper will get a free domination of you).

Hopefully with this short essay I demonstrated my love of the building principle of contrast, because yes, contrast is the best.

[overdramaticbaddie]

I don't usually do this (at least not in this fandom, I've done this elsewhere) but regarding kerdly, as like, an absolute sucker for good emotional stuff- I really like the idea of the 2, when alone perpetually being stuck in this like comical vibe, with Berdly's lighthearted yet passionate rivalisation, and yet the idea that sometimes things would get more quiet and serious and him himself getting more quiet and serious. Especially if like, so so so- we love when Kris expresses themself so, imagine them somewhat lashing out but it's more out of caring that if he wants them to be caring about him, he needs to do nothing else but be their friend, listen to them sometimes. N like, consideringn how he works, he would probably take this as an attack at first, but with the power of self reflection becoming way more considerate. That doesn't mean he'll be good at it. In fact, I can imagine Kris loosely describing things they're going through and Berdly feeling useless in that he can't give any real advice to someone he cares about so much. But slowly he like, notices how they respond to his nerdy little outbursts, maybe cracking a smile at him ragequitting on a game. I can even imagine him doing bad on purpose and get really stupid about it and Kris laughing about it and it like. Reaches into Berdly's soul and strangles him because wow, that was all his doing. Kris catching on that Berdly's acting in some circumstances and tries not to let it get to them too much. Berdly realising the power he has when he lets himself be dumb, something that comes back from chap 2 in a way, in his wonderful big wordings where he says a lot of stupid shit, calling himself Kris's personal clown. Like yeah, his gamer rage still wouldn't be all fake, but playing up your gamer rage is really fun n I think he would find it the same way. That last thing is deeefinitely not me projecting lolll.

Oh my GOD you guys are SPOILING me today omnomnom DELICIOUS FUCKING KERDLY CONTENT

[jacksabbotts]

dbf!jake seresin x artist!reader tw .' slight sexual innuendos , condoms

main masterlist | series masterlist | join the taglist | dividers by @cafekitsune

imagine running into jake at the grocery store

three days. that's how long it had been since the dinner. jake had replayed it more times than he cared to admit. the way you'd laughed soft under her breath when your dad told some corny story about jake's flight sim mishap. the way your pajama-clad knee kept brushing his under the table like it wasn't trying to kill him.

and then, the shift. you had come out of that kitchen, hand full of pie and you'd changed into a completely different person. you came back guarded and quiet. like someone had pulled the plug on you.

he hadn't seen you since. not once, not even in the background. no hey jake in passing, no sarcastic commentary while he helped your dad in the barn. you'd quite literally disappeared. body and mind.

he told himself to let it go. that you just needed space. that maybe he'd crossed a line when he decided to defend you, a woman he barely knew, to your parents of all people.

but still. he found himself aimlessly drifting the aisles of the tiny corner grocery store after his last teaching simulation at the navy camp—not because he needed anything, not really. just gatorade. and maybe . . . hope. Which might have been pathetic, but here he was anyway.

he crouched to lift the case of gatorade—bottom shelf, of course—and caught the edge of his reflection in the glossy linoleum floor. sweat-worn henley, cuffed boots and a cowboy hat that was half a disguise, half a crutch. maybe if he looked like his old self, he’d feel like his old self. the version who didn’t get rattled by the shape of a girl’s smile.

the plastic creaked faintly beneath his fingers, and then the sound of flip-flops filled his ears. heard them before he saw you. squeaky, awkward, the kind of sound that didn’t belong in a place this quiet. and then just—you.

you stopped like you’d been yanked back on a leash, sketchbook clutched to her chest, hoodie half-swallowed your face, joggers limp at the hem like you hadn’t cared enough to pull youself together.

still the most beautiful fucking thing he’d seen in three days.

he stood slow—so you wouldn’t spook. and when your eyes met his, he smiled. not cocky. not smug but careful.

‘hey,’ he said, voice lower than intended.

you blinked at him like you didn’t quite believe it was him. your grip on the sketchbook tightened, like you might bolt and you couldn’t bare to leave it behind ( it didn’t matter that the one you currently held was empty. it was the principle of it ). ‘jake,’ you managed. ‘hi.’

god, her voice, he thought. that slight rasp. it made something in him go still. ‘didn’t mean to sneak up on you,’ he added, gesturing vaguely at himself. ‘i didn’t think i’d see you in the wild like this. after the other night… well, uh, you’ve been avoiding me. i just figured you needed some space.’

your eyes flared. 'no,' you said quickly. 'jake, i— i wasn’t. i’m not avoiding you. it wasn’t about you.'

his brow furrowed, unbidden. 'kinda felt like it. reel like i’m at your house more than my own. your dad… he likes to hang out, you know how he is.'

something flickered behind your eyes—like guilt, or shame.

'you barely looked at me,' he said gently. 'and i—' he exhaled. 'i didn’t mean to make things uncomfortable for you. i don’t know if i said something i shouldn’t’ve or… if i crossed a line during dinner.'

'no,' you said, firmer. 'you didn’t do anything wrong.'

he wanted to believe that. but the look on your face—drawn, exhausted, like you hadn’t slept in days—didn’t match the words.

he glanced down, noticed the sketchbook again.

'what’s that?' he asked, a little desperate to shift gears. make you smile again. loosen whatever was wrapped so tight around your ribs.

you hugged it tighter. 'nothing. it’s nothing.'

jake raised a brow. 'didn’t know nothin’ came spiral-bound.'

'it’s just paper,' you said too fast. too defensive.

he squinted, playful. 'paper?'

'yes.'

'didn't know we had an art store in town.'

'we dont,' you started, 'this is from the school supplies aisle. right next to the discount printer ink and lisa frank folders. it obviously not high quality but it'll work for what i need.”

his mouth curved. 'so it’s serious.'

'what?' you blinked.

'the drawing,' he said, nodding toward the sketchbook again. 'you don’t strike me as the type to go out of your way for subpar drawing paper. unless it were imperative.'

the way your entire body stiffened—it nearly floored him. red crept up the back of your neck. your knuckles whitened.

he smiled—soft, curious. 'you fill the last one already?'

'yeah,' you croaked.

'must’ve been inspired.'

'guess so.'

jake nodded, trying to hide the surge of heat in his own chest. god, she was cute when she got flustered. he wanted to tease you, just a little. just enough to make you smile again.

'what was it this time?' he asked, still light. 'still life? portraits?'

you didn’t answer.

you looked . . . nervous. and then—stepped back and knocked into the shelf behind you. hard. something tumbled from the shelf and hit the floor with a thud.

'you okay?'

'yeah,' you mumbled. she crouched, grabbed it—froze.

his brows knit. you stood up too fast and shoved the box back onto the shelf like it had burned you. 'what was that?'

'nothing,' you said. 'nothing at all. just a—uh—poorly stocked shelf. jake leaned to the side. squinted.

oh.

oh.

condoms. on a shelf with party cups and streamers. his mouth twitched ( and maybe something else too ). hard.

'party essentials, huh?'

'no,' you said instantly.

he couldn’t help it. he reached past her and picked it up. turned it over in his hand like he didn’t already know the brand. 'nice brand,' he mused. 'not the one i prefer, but nice. does the job, i guess.'

you shook her head like she might die on the spot. 'who the fuck—who puts condoms next to glitter glue and paper plates?'

he pressed a knuckle to his lips. 'that’s a hell of a party.'

'jake—'

'i mean, i’ve seen some bachelor parties, but damn. that’s efficient.'

'i actually hate you.'

'you sure?' he grinned. 'you were lookin’ real serious about the selection.'

you made a strangled sound and shoved the sketchbook into his chest. 'shut up.'

he caught it. let the weight settle. let himself watch you squirm.

god, she was beautiful.

'you alright, darlin’?' he asked softly.

you adjusted the sketchbook in her arms. 'yeah.'

'sure?'

you hesitated.

and in that pause—jake saw it. all of it.

the fear. the loneliness. the mother’s words she hadn’t repeated. the way you'd looked at him like you were breaking apart under the weight of something you didn’t know how to share.

you swallowed. 'yeah.' then turned to go.

'i’m going to find a checkout line and then i’m going to go home and pretend this never happened.”

he smirked. couldn’t help himself. "shame,' he called after you. 'i was gonna ask if you wanted to split the glitter glue and a couple of party hats.'

you turned so fast your hoodie swished behind you, the sketchbook tight in your arms like a shield—and fake just stood there. frozen. watching.

dazed, even.

he let out a slow exhale, his tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, trying not to smile like a goddamn idiot. but it didn’t work. the smirk slipped anyway.

you was halfway down the aisle now. flip-flops slapping. shoulders hunched like the universe had given you just a little too much embarrassment to carry in one go.

he wanted to follow you.

not in a creepy way. just . . . walk behind you. push your cart. ask what else you needed for your top-secret, glitter-glue-condom-themed art project. carry your sketchbook. hell—buy you every sketchbook in the state if it meant you'd look at him like you did that night at dinner.

jake dragged a hand down his face, chuckling quietly as he let the box of condoms fall back onto the shelf.

his heart was still thumping. stupid and warm and loose in his chest like he’d run a mile barefoot. his skin tingled, his stomach flipped, and he couldn’t remember the last time just talking to someone had made him feel like he might explode from under his own skin.

'must’ve been inspired,' he murmured to himself, echoing the line he’d tossed out just minutes before.

because you had been. he could see it in your eyes. youd drawn something—someone—with enough fire to finish a whole sketchbook in three days. and for some reason, the thought of it being him?

that knocked the wind out of him.

jake looked down at his hands. big, calloused. not exactly the kind of thing you expect to show up in someone’s sketchbook. but the way you’d hugged it like it held the ark of the covenant? the way your face flushed, throat fluttered, pupils blew wide?

it did things to him. dangerous things.

he ran his thumb over the edge of the plastic basket handle, brain full of your blush and your panic and the memory of your voice catching when yo said 'it wasn’t about you.'

bullshit. but okay.

he wasn’t stupid. you'd been hurt. not by him, maybe—but by something close enough to stick. he wanted to fix it. he would fix it. he sighed again, watching the last of you disappear toward the checkout lines, head down, sketchbook clutched like a lifeline.

he knew then—right there between the solo cups and a damn box of misplaced condoms—that you weren't just a crush. you weren't just pretty or clever or tempting in that way he only ever joked about.

you mattered.

and he was officially, irrevocably, and probably foolishly in it.

for you.

god fucking help him, he was done for.

[ajastu]

this is a blog made specifically so i can ramble, so time for another one. Been thinking on n off about the concept of a new game in a beloved franchise letting you down in some way, and when expressing that disappointment crosses a certain line.

Like, from personal experience: i was disappointed by dishonored 2. i swear this has something to do with dragon age, bear with me for a moment. The plot fell flat for me, the trailer basically tells you everything that happens in the game, and it really pales in comparison to the way the narrative was crafted in the first game.

HOWEVER, no matter how much of an essay i could write about the shortcomings i, personally, see with dh2, i can still acknowledge that it was a solid fucking game, with care taken in the production of it, and that a lot of people loved it for the exact things that disappointed me, and they are not in the wrong for it.

this got long, unsurprisingly, so the rest ill put behind a read-more 👍

Whenever i talk about what i think could have been done better in the sequel, it is more of a....thought exercise. Because the fact is, we're never getting the dh2 i really wanted, and so there is no need to get upset or frustrated about it. Might as well have fun analyzing it n getting to the core of what it is exactly that felt off, but not in an angry way? more like....having a fun discussion with a friend. pulling a puzzle apart kinda deal. make it Productive, and not just a feedback loop of negative feelings. Find good things in it, even.

So, when i still see people foaming-at-the-mouth mad about veilguard, im not gonna lie, i feel kind of concerned about the mental well-being of some of them.

The fact is. Veilguard is a solid fucking game. Just, objectively speaking. The level design is (to me, at least) intuitive and fun to explore, it does not feel like a slog (looking at you, dai. that one's open world design gave me the most mind-numbingly boring fever dream once), the battle mechanic doesn't make me want to download a 'skip combat' mod, the faction mechanic is fun and closer to the spirit of dao that dai was*, the plot is coherent and has a Theme, and, despite what people like to say, the lore reveals make sense and are consistent with the previous lore in the series 🤷‍♂️. I genuinely do believe that the whole blight origin thing was already thought out before dao came out. thats just how worldbuilding works, usually.

I have a ranking of the DA games in my head, based on how much i liked them. Before datv, it was as follows:

dao (a game of its time, but one i love immensely)

da2

dai (its decent enough, but it never really grabbed me like the other two)

I expected datv to take 4th place. As it currently stands, it might just share the first place with dao, for me personally.

I remember exactly the moment when it clicked for me that playing datv felt like playing dao (it was the first blackthorne mission). And that moment was very special to me. It is also, perhaps, the only game in the series which really actually made me lose my entire mind during certain story missions, but that one might just be because i saw no spoilers before going in.

It is also so so so important to me because of the way they handled the trans and specifically nonbinary representation.

It might not have been exactly what people wanted, but no game will please every single person. like, i am sure that some people dislike the game for exactly the reasons i like it. And the thing is, neither of us is in the wrong. It all comes down to expectations, and how people handle it when something does not meet theirs.

When i went into dh2, it was after a several years long wait for a sequel. I was so excited! I built up this idea of what the game would be like, and i looked forward to seeing it become real. I had Expectations! And the game did not meet most of them. It does not mean it was a bad game. It was just not what i was expecting. I could sit here and pick at it until i start despising it, but that would be a disservice both to me and to the people who put their time and passion into making it.

Before datv's release, my expectations were as low as they could possibly be (because dai is my least fav game in the series, so i was wary about the next one, and because ive heard of the development hell and the fact they were planning to add micro-transactions to the game at some point etc etc). And i do acknowledge that this played a part in how much i ended up enjoying the game. I gave it a chance while not expecting anything, and it let me see it for what it is: a solid fucking game. a good one, even.

I can absolutely see how someone with certain expectation for da4 could be disappointed by the game not addressing the things they wanted to see addressed, or addressing them in a way they don't agree with. I've been there, even! And the fact that i personally liked datv doesn't mean other people can't or shouldn't criticize it.

The difference here lies in where exactly that criticism comes from, and what it hopes to accomplish, and whether or not at some point it becomes more harmful than useful.

When caught up in the spiral of disappointment, it is important to stop and think about whether this is productive. whether this is contributing something to your life. I am no stranger to chewing a bone**. in fact, i am very predisposed to it. Which is exactly why i make an effort to reflect on whether or not it is worth it.

Because, at the end of the day, no matter how much criticism is being put out into the world about datv, or dh2, or what have you, the simple fact remains: it won't change anything about the game that got released. The effort and emotional turmoil is, ultimately, wasted. It is always better to turn that passion into something productive: fanworks, or an essay (in good faith!) that analyzes your own feelings on the topic and what you would want to see differently, or a whole another game/piece of media entirely. It is important to stop coming from a place of vitriol and hatred, because that will burn you out and leave you feeling worse. You have to make a choice to choose joy in your life.

When you see someone enjoying a game you didn't like, and your first reaction is seething hatred and/or a desire to send death threats, you have to ask yourself: is this really worth it?

You're not going to convince people to stop liking a game. Frankly, why would you Want to do that? What will it accomplish in your life? What will it contribute? In the grand scheme of things, a crusade like that is a very foolish thing to burn yourself out over. Put the bone down, and go get a proper meal 🤷‍♂️

________________________________________________

*i dont think that, with the state the current game industry is in, we will ever get another game with a similar bg mechanic like origins had. too many resources needed for that. but the factions are as close as it gets, in my personal opinion

**meaning, fixating on a topic, especially one that causes some kind of negative emotion

[gemmafuckingscout]

some people watching severance have never had a loved one with a plural system/dissociative identity disorder and it shows

[magnolia-sunrise]

you ever feel so in love with your own OC-

(probably wont be able to finish this today... but maybe this weeks # Wolfgang Wednesday 🤫watch this space etc )

[scoringeffects]

the reaction to rempe pmo so bad bc 1. people will always always always be gagging to jump to the defence of some fuckass whiteboy and try to remove all accountability from him by babyifying him and try their hardest to make it seem like things just happen to him when in fact they dont and everything he does is an active choice because he needs to prove to nyr that he's good enough to be in the nhl (and making nhl money) and he doesn't have the skill so he tries to be an enforcer 2. everyone rmr that golden age of the nhl ad from the start of the season? who in that ad was an enforcer. on nearly every single team right now there's guys who are climbing up franchise leaderboard and breaking franchise and league records like what is the damn point of players like rempe

[ehlnofay]

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.”

[r0semultiverse]

My take on the whole World War 3 WWIII WW3 whatever you wanna call it

This is a very simple look at why you won't die in a new World War (if it even happens) and a simple point of view responding to it. There are far better educated people to speak on this more thoroughly if you feel like researching and looking for that.

[laddersofsweetmadness]

I think it's so funny seeing men complain about a male loneliness epidemic like it's a fucking disease lol

Broooooo do you know how many wives I've seen complain about their husbands skid marks left behind on their underwear. SKID MARKS???? AND THEY'RE MARRIED????

BE SO FR RIGHT NOW.

If a man with skid marks on his underwear can still get married then yall aren't lonely ENOUGH.

Gtfoh and go make a friend 😂 I'm not at fault for your lack of social development. good god.

[dottedwaves]

alas, I can only play games where i see myself perfectly represented in the character. if i cannot recreate my exact features i simply will not be able to remember that I am, in fact, supposed to be taking on the role of this character. why do its arms move when i press this button, for they are not mine own limbs? im sorry son we simply cannot play monopoly any more. the shoe is too confusing and has disturbing implications

[whentherewerebicycles]

a bunch of people have already registered for my mentoring workshop! unfortunately this means i have to plan and host a workshop aaaaaa

[ef-1]

idolatry | august '23

[shiftingwithmars]

I hate that everyone is upset with Rick because “getting a bf/gf doesn’t just solve all your problems😡” like no ofc it doesn’t but why does everyone act like it doesn’t help?

Literally speaking from experience, I’ve felt the best I’ve ever been ever since I found people who loved and cared about me. Why the fuck does everyone in the fandom just ignore the emotional bonds between people and how they can genuinely make your life better?

[indigodawns]

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