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#I want them to tag so badly

vitamin-zeeth · 4 months

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Just watched night at the museum the squeakuel why is there so much raw sexual tension between the night guard and the museum director

#literally any scene in 2 or 3 between them is so. they want to fuck each other so badly #im thinking about it snd they for sure hooked up between 2&3 #hold on i wonder if they have an ao3 tag #brb #night at the museum #night at the museum 2 #larry daley #natm #natm fandom #natm 2

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redysetdare · 9 months

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So uhh.... I really dislike the Traffic light trio kid designs in the show because to me they look like the old art that just made babies look like shrunken adult men because literally nothing changes about the characters besides the height. Which lead me to decide I wanted to show how I would design the traffic light kids.

For Mei, Because her family seems rather strict i decided to make her look a bit more cleaned up. She explained in "Coming home" how she wasn't very proper when she played, which her parents looked down upon. So I imagine they would've liked for her to usually be more refined in how she looked - which means when things get out of place or messed up from her playing it's seen as a bigger deal. I also gave her some scales by her eyes because mei having dragon features gives me life and i think they look cute.

For MK i just made his hair shorter but also it's not exactly sticking up because he doesn't have his headband yet. He's got pretty simple clothes for the most part, with the coolest thing being that he has light up shoes (i like to think that's what drew Mei to him when they first met. she's not allowed to have light up shoes haha). He still is predominantly orange in color palette and I gave him some shorts because he's a pretty active kid so he likes to move around a lot. (Also headcanon that he didn't like pants all that much as a kid because they felt bad)

And then finally we have Red Boy. Which ohh boy i did the most research on this kid haha. I looked at other iterations of Red boy in different jttw media and kinda took inspiration from those! I took the most inspiration from his outfit in the 1986 series iirc (I cannot find my references I had collected...) I also got rid of his glasses because YES it might be petty but glasses hadn't exactly been invented yet in the era that jttw takes place in (Yes i researched glasses for this. Yes it was all done through spite). Anyways I decided to keep his hair long and I decided to put it up into two small buns - mostly becuz to me it would be cute to have them burst into little balls of flames hehe. I also gave him little bull horn ornaments to tie back to his family and also gave him back his spear. There's a version of him with and without a cape because some iterations have him with one and i thought it was cute :)

Annnnd thats all i have to say really.

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7-galaxys · 2 months

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hey you should totally read "to extend our reach to the stars above" by Cinnamin_Is_a_Star. siffrin is a team rocket villain. thats all you need to know

#IM DONE MESSING WITH THIS #i cant find the author's socials #in stars and time #i so badly want to tag them #couldnt get sif doing their lazy smile out of my mind.#might post doodles later idk

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bungobble-my-balls · 6 months

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Re-reading the bsd manga and picking up more stuff now and it is an experience.

Because Asagiri and Harukawa wtf is THIS

You can't just drop this and never bring up these two together again.

I know WHY this is here. It's at the end of volume 10 where it's revealed that Gin is Akutagawa's younger sister, so it's art showing the two younger sister's in the Mafia and the ADA.

But WHY do they look so good here! They look straight up devious too like they know something or have secrets?? Naomi I am looking directly at you because you look so suspicious here but I don't know what to suspect you of.

They're back to back and melding into eachother like they're rivals or something too, this single image feels so important but it's literally the ONLY mention we ever have of these two at the same time.

This literally gives me the same feeling of looking at art of sskk in the ying/yang position or soukoku in opposing/matching colours.

I know it's probably because they're the sisters in opposing organisations but why does this art make me feel like this is much less about their organisations and more about THEM opposing/paralleling eachother.

I am now hoping so much that this art is also foreshadowing because whatever this art of them and whatever dynamic it implies is just so interesting to think about.

#Asagiri has this power over me where I'm unable to stop myself from wanting so badly to see dynamics between his side characters #like everytime I think of/find a new rarepair platonic or romantic I am instantly creating an entire arc and side story on them #akutagawa gin #gin #naomi tanizaki #Naomi #this isn't even intended to be a romantic pairing analysis but it only feels right to tag whatever their ship name is too #naomi x gin #Naogin #idk if that's it but that's what I'm going with #bsd #Bungou Stray Dogs

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lastoneout · 1 month

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I'm genuinely convinced the thought process goes:

> people who abuse children are horrible, irredeemable monsters who deserve to have their human rights stripped away and burn in hell for all eternity, no good person would ever hurt a child

> *tons of scientific evidence comes out showing that hitting your kids is basically abuse and does immense harm with absolutely no good to balance it out and in the worst cases it leaves lasting psychological damage those kids carry for life*

> but wait...my parents spanked me as punishment, but they aren't horrible evil people who deserve to die! I love my parents and they loved me, they're good people and good people would never hurt a child, and I surely don't have issues as a result of being hit, so that must mean hitting your kids isn't abusive

> the cycle continues, nothing changes, kids keep getting hit

and like I get it, I get it, but I just want to grab these people and be like "welcome to the complex reality most actual abuse survivors have to contend with every single day of our lives, it sucks, but since I've been through it I can give you the answer I had to work out over years of therapy for free; you are still allowed to love--and even FORGIVE--people who hurt you"

#ask to tag #abuse mention #child abuse mention #this is part of the reason I hate the current trend of people saying the only “progressive” abuse narrative #is one where the abuser is fucking murdered #because when you demonize a group of people so profoundly you have no idea what to do when someone you love dearly #might kind overlap with the category of humans you want to unperson #and you end up just excusing their behavior so you can keep acting like morality is black and white #and then turn around and attack any abuse survivor who has the audacity to talk about #how it isn't black and white for them and they don't feel empowered by narratives where the abusers die badly #or god forbid they ENJOY narratives where the abuser changes and apologizes #just stop and think for a second why some of us might find that cathartic

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lesbiancolumbo · 7 days

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im sure you've been asked this before but got any westerns you'd recommend and/or movies about masculinity by women or queer filmmakers? been thinking about men™ recently

my favorite westerns are:

the ox-bow incident westward the women (which is not really about men at all but you just said westerns so i'm putting it on here under a technicality 😎) the man who shot liberty valance red river blood on the moon the naked spur shane (this is ABSOLUTELY a film about masculinity no matter what any hater tries to tell you) 3:10 to yuma ride lonesome buck and the preacher thomasine & bushrod cowboy

films about masculinity by women/queer filmmakers: (i'm playing a bit of jump rope with this topic because i'm not sure what, specifically, you're looking for. toxic masculinity? hypermasculinity? i've picked films that for me best interrogate masculinity)

beau travail (this is the obvious rec, i assume you've seen this) mikey and nicky tea and sympathy tongues untied midnight cowboy god's own country the power of the dog (this is also a western fwiw) one night in miami farewell my concubine (this filmmaker is not queer but this film absolutely belongs in conversation here) poison fox and his friends chevalier (athina rachel tsangari)

#asks #and i wanted to include jcass's husbands here as a joke but he is neither a woman nor queer no matter how badly i want to believe!!!!!#also a film that critiques masculinity. but m&n is better so #*recs #gonna start tagging these so i can find them later lol

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ehlnofay · 8 days

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Pax should have said no.

Damn it all, they should have said no. Should have said go to hell and fucked off back – stop contacting me, sort out your own shit – but they didn’t, fuck knows why, and now they’re stuck here.

(They know why. They know exactly why; absolutely anything would be better than fucking off back to Cyrodiil. What’s for them there?)

But there’s nothing worth staying for here either, and now she’s crammed in between strangers on a long table, everyone dressed in fabrics she’s never seen with dyes so saturated they seem almost gory, eating stuff that isn’t food and talking loud enough to make her want to hurl a glass into the wall. It’s bizarre. The woman next to her, ruddy-faced and bald, wears a headpiece that shines like the sun the Isles doesn’t have; the other side is taken up by a stranger in a bone-white porcelain mask who has not moved but to swill the wine around in their glass. There’s scarcely room for Pax’s chair. It all feels like such a baffling pantomime of aristocracy (she's known the real thing well enough – feasts and toasts and luxurious gifts she had no use for, and if she doesn’t stop thinking about it she actually will throw a glass), bright colours and rich settings and a god taking offerings at the head of the table.

At least, Pax thinks, no-one tries to talk to him; they’re too busy fawning over their lord. Which is probably to be expected; but it all feels so strange, so unsettling, the way they all lean in towards it like flowers turning to face the sun, like seaweed dragged at by the inescapable pull of the tides. They grow towards it through the cracks in the air, matter moving toward the inevitable centre, as if they can imagine nothing more than this.

(Even more unsettling is the way it responds in kind, listening attentively to anyone who speaks to it, leaning in as though to kiss them, as though to swallow them whole. All hell, why did Pax agree to this? Why did they come?)

(They should have told it to fuck off. Should have said no way, I don’t want to help you, don’t want to get involved in anything you’d need my help for. I don’t owe you anything. I don’t need anything from you. I don’t want anything to do with you. I’m done.)

(Pax is done. Pax is sick to death of all this shit; doesn’t want to deal with this, the vaguely described problems of a god that picks people apart like it’s unravelling a thick yarn shawl. Doesn’t want to deal with anything like this. He’s had his fill of gods.)

(Why is he still fucking here? Why did he agree to this? This is no better than eating in that weird fucking inn in town. This is no better than –)

(That’s a lie. It’s a bit better than Cyrodiil. Just as much a shithole, but it pulls the rug out from under him often enough that he doesn’t have time to think too much.)

“Not hungry?” says a prowling voice, coiling catlike into the plaits in their hair, and Pax jumps enough to jostle the masked bastard sitting ramrod straight next to him.

He looks up.

At the empty placemat across from him sits a figure veiled in gossamer, glittering in the glow of the lit-up lichen on the distant throne; the fabric of its endless shawls pulls apart at the ends, peeling away from itself, shedding patches like iridescent insect wings every time it shifts. If Pax squints, they can see through it to the grand marbled wall behind.

She glances back at the chair at the head of the table, where something lounges, eyes dripping gold, intricately carved cane laid across its knees; its too-many fingers are laced with the hand of a man whose gown blooms floral. Flatly, she says, “What the fuck?”

“Aren’t you hungry?” Sheogorath asks, pouting; she can hear it laughing down the other end of the table. “It’s a proper feast. We pulled out all the stops.”

Pax shifts their eyes away to peer down at their plate. “You have served me worms,” she says. She flicks the dish with a fingernail. “In jelly. With flowers.”

“Larva, actually,” Sheogorath replies. It’s still at the other end of the table. It doesn’t seem eager to explain this. When it smiles, the gossamer falls away; its whole face splits in half.

It’s all so fucking stupid. Pax takes a deep breath – in through the nose, ignore all the odd spiced smells, and out – and does not yell at it, or try to hit it, because she’s gotten herself into a situation where that’s not really an option, because she’s a fucking idiot. Why didn’t she just say no?

(She knows why.)

The Mad God’s teeth flash bright as the ornate silver cutlery. Its chair scrapes back from the table. “It melts in your mouth,” it tells her, eyes glittering, “but I won’t make you try it. Walk with me?”

The figure still sits at the head of the table, snatching something from someone’s plate, always, always laughing. Its limbs sprawl like tentacles, like the silken threads of a tapestry, to encompass the whole room. The dinner guests stare as though bewitched, bedevilled, beguiled. Not one of them is looking at Pax. If he were to drop dead with his face in the food his corpse would not be discovered until sunrise.

Pax sniffs and shoves his chair back from the table. He lets Sheogorath (the second Sheogorath – but it must be, what else could it be?) lead him through a narrow door into some winding hallway, the walls lined and rimed with ornate coloured-glass windows. (It’s so much quieter. Still as garishly bright, but Pax is getting the sense that that is inescapable, here; the clothes they wear, as crumpled and covered in travelling-grime as ever and startlingly out of place against the odd jagged finery of the dinner party, seem unimaginably dull in comparison. Everything seems unimaginably dull in comparison.) Outside the windows, they can catch glimpses of the city – its winding, lamp-lit streets, the jumbled mess of its architecture, the sky arcing above it like a child’s attempt at watercolours. Pax wants to smash it, tear it down.

There’s no sun here, but still it’s night. The sky has shifted to purple and black.

“Isn’t it nice?” says their companion; when they look back, it’s nothing more than a shifting impression in the stained-glass window, a series of hairline cracks. It still manages, somehow, to smile at them.

It’s not. The sky is a shadow and the flamboyance of the palace is scraping at their spine. “Sure,” Pax says flatly. When she flexes her fingers, the bruising staining the base knuckle of her thumb aches.

Sheogorath looks at her – an ancient man leaning on a stick, a flickering painting, a bloody corpse, a little girl in velvet-red skirts, a breath. In its mercurial shifting she catches the flowery blossom of the man at the table’s collar, an unpleasant glimpse of her own braided hair, the smell of sulphur. It tips its head. She can’t focus on it anywhere but for the eyes.

“You don’t like my dinner parties,” it announces, as though it’s a revelation, a tragedy; its body crumbles like sea cliffs slowly eroded by the ways. It’s annoying – bloody obnoxious, and incomprehensible, and kind of weird that it noticed, that it would even care. (She’s never liked dinner parties. Nobody ever commented on it before.)

I’ve had well enough of them, Pax could say, or no, I don’t like you, but it’s the fucking Mad God, Daedric Prince of – Pax doesn’t even know what, he’s never known much about this shit, only that it’s well worth avoiding. Prince of the mad and the missing and the foolish, of breaking and breaking and putting yourself back together backwards. She should have said no, but she didn’t, and who knows what would happen if she went back on that now?

It's slinking closer. All that stay static enough to make out are eyes and teeth.

“Pax, yes?” it says, soft-voiced – a hand lands on his arm, small and dry and shivering, the skin as thing as a mouldering leaf. “You have no obligations here. If you want to be on your own, be on your own. We’ve plenty of space for it.”

Pax’s eyes narrow. He does not jerk away from it.

In the light of the coloured sky, the coloured windows, its face is phantasmagorical. “If you don’t want to be here,” it continues – still so skin-pricklingly gentle – “then your hand will not be forced. I’ll speed your way home if you wish.”

They can’t help but twitch at that. It’s setting their teeth on edge. (It’s lying – has to be. After its ages of coaxing them in, meting out information, not telling them where they were until they were on its doorstep, it would not give them the chance to leave.) Rough, still covered in road-grime, Pax asks, “Why should I believe you?”

(None of them have ever given them the chance to leave.)

Sheogorath, a figure of hollow skin and bone, inclines its head. “I wouldn’t lie to you, Pax,” it says. Its eyes are wide and bulging, whites on full display like a frightened horse; it grins again. “Others might. But we’re not a monolith. We’re not even especially similar.”

Pax bites down on the flat edge of their tongue. “That doesn’t mean anything to me.”

The light coming in through the windows flickers. The Mad God turns to meet it.

“I’m the youngest,” it says, its voice glittering like mist on the air. “Did you know that? I don’t remember the world without you in it.” Its form spasms, volatile, wings and limbs and eyes like a snail’s on stalks sprouting and choking and subsiding back into its mass. “I’m closer to you than any. I understand, almost.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Pax repeats. She’s gritting her teeth, tonguing at her gums where two are missing. Are two devil-gods not enough to deal with for a lifetime? Is there really going to be more of this now, too?

Rolling through the air like smoke, the voice says, “It will.”

Pax presses purple-green knuckles to her mouth. Her teeth dig into the soft meat of her lip.

Sheogorath turns to face her, hair moving as though blown by the wind, as though tugged by the tides. It sighs. “You don’t believe me,” it says. Its tongue pokes through its teeth. “That’s perfectly fine. Clever, even. But if you want to leave, all you need to do is tell me so.” It pauses, then; the train of its strange, gnarled crown shifts over its shoulders when it moves its head. “Or just leave. The door is still open.”

“You’d be fine with me just leaving,” Pax rasps around his knuckle, “after weeks of not leaving me alone?”

(Of begging him to come, poorly-hidden agitation giving way to blatant franticness, half-swallowing the fear that choked its face in every mirror it spoke to him through. Of begging him still, after he got here, after he met it – begging in a roundabout manner, casual as anything, its every motion reeking of fear. Its abject terror when he turned to leave. You’ve come this far. Why not hear an old man out? Pax told it that it wasn’t an old man, that he didn’t give a shit either way, and it slid through a child, a monster, a sulphur-burned body coughing blood, his own shuddering form in armour he hasn’t seen in months, and it said please.)

(Regained its composure, its gentleman’s face, immediately afterward. But it – the Mad God, unknowable, inconsolable – said please. Pax still doesn’t know what to do with that.)

The Mad God, now, shrugs. Taps at the hairline cracks in the stained glass windows. “I’d prefer you didn’t,” it says, one pair of hands braiding something intricate into its beard. The hand on the glass slips down. “I told you. I do need a champion.”

“And I told you,” Pax bites, something aching and ugly surging in their gut, “not to call me that again.”

A smile, bloody-mouthed and beaming. “But we will abide,” says Sheogorath, and digs its fingers into the cracks of the stone. One brick slides loose, mortar dug up under its nails. It offers it up.

Pax licks their teeth and takes it.

The brick shivers, momentarily – crumbles, in their hand, like sand slithering through their fingers, and left in their palm is a hardy slip of bone. Spiked and sprawling, carved with intricate patterns; it arranges itself around an oval of empty space, the perfect size for four sharp-knuckled fingers.

“You can always leave,” the Mad God tells them, and for a moment it does look so very young and strangely, staggeringly hopeful. “But give it a chance. I think you could love the Isles, if you choose to.”

#for context - in my version of events sheogorath's recruitment of the HoK is a lot more active #it needs someone who can fulfill the metaphysical niche of the hero. it needs someone experienced enough that they might not even die tryin #and it needs someone desperate enough to take the deal #pax is fifteen years old has alienated everything that maybe could have been a support system and is grieving very badly.#perfect mantling material!!#so sheogorath pursued them very specifically and was very judicious about what they revealed when. which is why pax already has some kind o #relationship with it here - they've interacted before - in that for weeks pax's reflection has been constantly begging them to 'visit'#writing the interactions of these guys is a lot of fun because there is always so much sheogorath is keeping from pax. it is #extremely strategic in how it presents itself #and pax falls for it hook line and sinker. though we can't really blame them #it's hard to outsmart something that's in your head #and at this point pax is pretty much made up of their worst impulses #which sheogorath cannot and does not help with #see: this piece #“I would NEVER make you do something you don't want to do <3 if you'd like to go back to your miserable self-destructive hellscape that's #YOUR CHOICE. but wouldn't it be more fun to be regular destructive here... i made you brass knuckles... 🥺“#im obsessed with them #the elder scrolls #tesblr #tes #my writing #fay writes #oc tag #pax #oblivion #shivering isles #the shivering isles

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