#Thread: Inge

[dirtwatchman]

PARTIES: @dirtwatchman and @nightmaretist TIME: First week of May WHERE: Dance Macabre SUMMARY:  Two undead meet up for a drink that was owed months ago. The night gets interesting for Caleb and Inge as they both start to realize what the other is. WARNINGS: Eludes to domestic abuse at times

Clubs weren’t his usual scene. Caleb much preferred a quiet restaurant over the lively atmosphere of a dance bar but there were two things that had made him suggest Dance Macabre that night; the girl he’d promised a drink to was there when they’d started their conversation which meant he knew she liked it and the unusual presence he had started to feel around him was motivation to be in the middle of a ton of people. Something dark, almost sinister, was on his tail and he didn’t know why. It would come and go, the dark presence surrounding him one moment and then gone the next only for him to feel as if he were being watched again a day or two later. He just hoped that having more people around would deter whatever it was following him around from giving him the reason.

He sat at the bar, his own drink in front of him untouched while the weight of everything sat on his shoulders. People around him were laughing and having a good time, none of them paying attention to the anxious man in the corner as he waited for Inge. Hopefully, she wouldn’t notice anything off about him either. There was no need to scare away a possible new friend before they’d even gotten the chance to talk.

When he looked up and saw her making her way through the crowd, he let the worry slip away and waved to her. Caleb’s smile was forced, barely lifting in the corners, but he’d managed one at least. “I didn’t know what you wanted so I went ahead and got my own. Feel free to choose whatever you like.” He had promised it for her birthday after all. “Happy Birthday…a few months late, that is.”

If this life was still to be called that – a life, despite the accusations of being a walking corpse – then Inge found only value in it if there was still spontaneity. Sometimes she was, as everyone, overrun with a desire to become something of a recluse. To be alone with her astral, her nightmares and her sculptures and nothing more. But she’d never done well with solitude and most importantly, she never felt dead until she gave into loneliness.

So even if she was in pain and angry, even if she felt something dark and ugly unfurl within herself, she went out. Dance Macabre was a favorite, as was the club in New York she astral projected to from time to time. She didn’t dance as fervently as she once had – her back and gut still aching – but she drank and she flirted and she talked. She went out to meet a stranger, because why not? Without spontaneity, she might as well be dead. Truly dead.

She approached the semi-stranger with a smile on her lips, sitting down next to him at the bar. “Why, thank you,” she said. Inge wondered – as she did with all patrons at this club – if he was undead or just simply willing to go to strange places. “Better late than never, right?” She gave a wink, leaned to the bartender to order herself a glass of white wine. “So when is your birthday? Maybe we can pre-celebrate that too, tonight.”

His eyes were on hers as she spoke but he looked away as she asked about his birthday. It was a day that he never really cared for but it had gotten so much worse after he’d died. Most of the time Caleb wouldn’t even tell what day it was, finding ways to keep others out of the know so that they wouldn’t bother with it at all. It only brought back bad memories of the past and dread for the future he now had. “It’s already passed as well. Guess it’s a late celebration for both of us.” Which wasn’t a lie. Hopefully she wouldn’t notice that he’d not said the date. He didn’t want that conversation.

So, maybe changing the subject was for the best. As he glanced around the club, he noticed that things were a little out of the ordinary. Or at least this place wasn’t what he imagined most clubs to be like. Strange dark red drinks were being served at another bar, what he assumed were fake fingers being given to a few people who actually looked familiar, and there were quite a few ghosts lingering around on the dance floor. Was it Halloween themed like Hallow’s Eats?

His gaze went back to Inge, confusion clear on his face. “Wait, what is this place? I didn’t take much of a look before you got here but it’s kind of strange.” She’d been the one who was here the night of her actual birthday and this was the perfect opportunity to change the subject so Caleb didn’t have to talk about his least favorite day of the year. “Are those…fingers? They don’t look gummy…”

He didn’t seem excited to speak about his birthday, which was often an indication of something. Inge wasn’t the type to pry into people’s sensitive and personal business, though, as she thought those things depressing and not her area of expertise. She went to places like these to indulge, not to therapize. So she paid it no mind. “A late celebration! Perfect. Better late than never.”

She gave the bartender a smile – glad that it wasn’t that Mack Ross girl who’d taken a bite out of her – when he handed her her drink and took a nice and hefty sip. Dance Macabre had a wide range of drinks, but they also just had good wine. They hadn’t found a way to liquidize nightmares and turn them into a product just yet. For the best, she figured. Commodifying something like that would be very depressing.

Caleb seemed unfamiliar with the club’s wide range. Inge blinked at him, innocuously. “Oh, it’s a little … avant garde, you know? Edgy.” She looked at the fingers. The human fingers. She didn’t often wish to be a different flavor of undead, but being able to munch on those while staring someone dead in the eye would be very amusing. “Attracts a certain kind of people. And those? Oh, yes. They’re fingers.” She smiled. “Look very real, don’t they?”

She seemed perfectly okay with dropping the subject in favor of the new one and for that Caleb was so grateful. There were a lot of nosy people around, it was nice to know she wasn’t one of them and in spite of the uncomfortable feeling of being watched he was starting to relax enough to enjoy this for the good time it should be. 

But then he kept staring at the fingers, one having been slid to someone closer to the two of them than the previous orders had. The zombie had seen enough detached fingers in his life to be able to tell if they were real or not and those were definitely real. Suddenly the night had brought on more mystery even if it made more sense that he recognized some of these people; they were clients, people that he fed regularly. Did he somehow stumble upon a zombie bar? How had Caleb never known this existed?

Oh, because he didn’t have fun.

Then his attention was turned back to Inge, wondering if she was the same as him or if she thought it all very niche. He glanced at her wine and then back to her eyes, deciding to go along with the charade just in case. “A little too real. It’s kind of disturbing.” But he was smiling into his drink as he lifted it to his lips. “Are you into that kind of thing? I feel like some of your paintings could indicate that you are but I don’t want to assume. Maybe you just like this place for the music.”

Though the imagery of eating another human was fascinating in a way – there was a reason shows and stories about cannibals took off – Inge was glad she could sate her cravings with nightmares. It was more refined. And if she wanted to she could gorge on a human being in a dream without all the mess anyway. (A part of her also appreciate that it didn’t require murder, but that was boring and moral.)

She was bemused by the other’s reaction, by the way he brought up her paintings as if they were any indication that she’d like to chew on severed fingers. She decided it was a compliment. Inge figured the other was human, or at least mortal — which was a little unfortunate, but did not mean this was to be a complete waste of her time.

“Oh, I’m not into munching on dead fingers. Alive ones, maybe,” she said, “But I have a few friends who like those along with their beers. You don’t?” She blinked at him as if she’d asked him what his friends did for work as she sipped her wine. “Maybe you should order one and see if it’s your kinda thing.”

He honestly wasn’t sure if she was being serious or not, the deadpanned way she’d mentioned liking her fingers live and well making him reconsider whether she was undead or not. Caleb was staring at her when she asked, his head starting to shake slowly once his brain had recovered from the short circuiting the reply had caused. Was she serious? “Not much for fingers myself, no.” He’d never liked the bony part that came with eating the human body and it was very hard to eat around them in a finger. 

Her suggestion to get one of his own was about to be denied until that unease came back to him from the shadows. It started to infiltrate his mind, push him towards agreeing, towards chaos. Again, he was afraid to say no. Something about this thing, whatever it was, was so menacing that even from the shadows it had a tight hold on him and Caleb found himself nodding slowly.

“But I guess it couldn’t hurt to see what the fuss is about. They look pretty popular.” It was a stupid decision and he knew it even as he placed the order with the bartender but defying this entity seemed stupider in the long run. What was he going to do though? Eat a real finger in front of someone who appeared, by all accounts, normal? Something told him yes. And he didn’t like it. 

“Not even for sucking one off?” Inge asked it innocuously once again. There wasn’t really any ulterior motive there — she wasn’t as interested in random hook ups any more, which was because of her newly gained scar and definitely not because she was hung up on some fae. But she was in a bar and she was flirty by nature because she could be and so she gave Caleb a small smirk. “Pity.”

She would understand it if he rejected her proposal. It was quite ludacris to order a decapitated finger if human beings weren’t part of your diet and even Inge wasn't particularly fond of holding the mushy things. They reminded her of knakworsten, dutch sausages that would snap when you broke them. Those were actually tasty, though she didn’t eat them any more because they contained too much salt for her to not feel a little sickened by them.

There was a stir in the shadows, but she didn’t think much of it. This was a club after all, with moving lights and strange dark corners. “Alright then,” she said, leaning forward towards the barkeep, “One of your fingers, please. A long one preferably.” As the employee busied herself with getting one of them, she eyed Caleb curiously. Was he just a human, doing something just for the heck of it, just to see if those were actual fingers? Or was he undead like her, aiming to get a snack without seeming too suspicious? “First time for everything, right?”

“Oh.” His eyebrows raised at the forward question, surprise shining through as he stumbled over it in his mind. He really hoped this hadn’t been what their interaction had been leading up to. Not that she wasn’t beautiful or fun or anything he just wasn’t available….maybe. Caleb still wasn’t clear on that part and was too anxious to bring it up with the one person he really needed to bring it up with. Still, looking back on it all, he might have misread the intentions with the back and forth on the internet. “That's uh….I'm not saying that I don't like that part.” He really should have kept his mouth shut. Not only was he stumbling in his mind but he was stumbling over his words now too. 

Thankfully he was saved by the arrival of the drink. Or was he burdened with it? It was hard to tell when he glanced over at her again, still not sure if she could tell this thing was real or not. It certainly was, that wasn’t the question. The question was if she would start screaming when she realized it was. The woman did seem to be taunting him as she ordered but he could already tell that was something she enjoyed no matter the situation. He cleared his throat and put his hand over the glass as if that would stop her from truly seeing his garnish but he made no moves to get rid of it. 

He hated fingers.

Smiling softly, Caleb shook his head. “A first time doesn’t mean a good time. Is it weird that I’m nervous about a strange gummy finger?” Was that even working? “What if I changed my mind…?” He trailed off as a grumble struck him deep in his mind. So much for that idea.

He was flustered. It was endearing. Inge chuckled a little and took a long sip from her drink, waving with her hand as if trying to wave away his nervousness. “I’m just teasing you,” she admitted. “Whatever you like you can keep to yourself.” She could push now, tell him that she’d looove to find out, but she wasn’t planning on making this ordeal painfully awkward. A little bit of discomfort was fine, though. That’s why they were ordering the finger.

She looked at the finger with mild interest, wondering where it had come from and how Dance Macabre sourced them. Was it from the young goths that wandered in here? Or were it other people that were dissected and put up for sale? There was something very morbid about it all, especially now that she had actually seen what it was like when someone’s toes were chopped off. A pathetic part of her hoped the people who had once owned these fingers had been dead after the separation.

Apparently Caleb was having some hesitation as well. Understandable, if he was a human. Inge shrugged. She pinched the finger. The sensation made her feel a little uncomfortable, which she hated. She did really have friends who ate these things, but that before Rhett’s toes. “Nope. It’s on my tap. I won’t see it go to waste. Eat up.” She took a hefty sip of her wine. She was glad, for once, that she didn’t have heightened senses. “Plenty of people here snack on ‘em.”

The zombie was glad that she wasn’t someone who was going to pick at the subject that clearly made Caleb uncomfortable. It wasn’t often that he came across people who would willingly give up the playful torture of intimate discussion, their curiosity and amusement taking precedence over another’s comfort in his experience. It made him like her that much more as he relaxed his shoulders, made him comfortable enough to throw a teasing remark back. “I have to keep my air or mystery, right?”

It wasn’t until she reached out to touch that very real body part sitting in his drink that the discomfort returned. She had to know that she’d just touched actual flesh and not the gelatin candy he had been trying to push it off as which made his own curiosity about what she knew, what she was, grow. He couldn’t refuse. She was right, she had ordered the drink herself and the people pleaser in him wouldn’t let that go. Not to mention the darkness that surrounded the two of them pushing for him to take the bite that he was so hesitant to take. He just didn’t know if it was wise to reveal this secret to her so shortly after they’d met. 

She had to know already if she was pushing for it, right? 

Caleb reached out and took the finger, biting into it the best he could around the bone. The bite only proved to him why he hated these things so much and made him wonder what the other zombies ordering these things were thinking. Placing the finger back, planning to munch on it sparingly for the rest of the night, he did feel a little satisfaction after he swallowed…whether that was because it satisfied a little hunger or the entity who had a grip on him was anyone’s guess. “Happy? Or do I have to finish the whole thing?” He was smiling but his eyes showed the nerves that were coursing through him now that he was pretty sure she knew what he was, awaiting her reaction with bated breath.

His air of mystery. Right. Inge thought the other looked quite unassuming and he would be plain if it wasn’t for some of his more striking features. Still, she didn’t quite think him very mysterious — aside from the entire debacle of whether he was undead or not. She had that kind of doubt about plenty of people, though. She indulged him, though, “Certainly, we don’t want to reveal too much too soon.”

She wasn’t sure what she expected from Caleb once faced with the finger. Hell, she hadn’t expected to be met with her own complicated feelings about the matter — but that was something that happened more and more these days. Surges of emotion, of nasty memories trickling in. She’d have to start singing a different tune in her nightmares, incorporate these thoughts of factory floors and being stuck on walls into the dreams she offered others so she could see the memories in a different context.

Maybe this would help, too. She watched Caleb take a bite and did not bother to hide her surprise when he swallowed. It wasn’t the kind of horror a human might feel at the sight of someone eating a finger, but it was still something. She took a sip of her drink, eyes wide and intrigued. “I mean, only if you’re hungry,” she said casually. “Do you do that often, Caleb? Eat human parts?” She glanced at the finger, seeing the bone protrude. It was a nasty sight, which was why she kept looking. Nightmares were really a more refined diet. “I know a few people who do. That, blood … dreams?” She took another sip. “How long ago did you die?” It was a gamble. But she tended to live on the edge, anyway.

There was a weight lifted from his shoulders. Her reaction, though surprised, was definitely not as bad as he’d been expecting but there was also something else that had been lifted. The air wasn’t as…heavy. That presence that Caleb had been feeling for the last couple of days wasn’t near anymore. It was as if her lack of screaming didn’t interest the menacing presence at all and it decided to move on. Was that all it had taken? To reveal what he was to someone who didn’t already know for it to leave him alone? 

No, that was too easy. It had to still be there somewhere. 

For now he would just focus on his companion though. There was no need in fretting over something that wasn’t there, not until it came back. He shook his head at her first comment, pushing the finger to the side onto a little napkin before pulling the rest of the drink closer. What exactly was it served in? “I’ve never really liked fingers much.” He pressed his lips together as he nodded at her question, eyes locked on the drink in front of him so he didn’t have to look at her. “But only as often as I have to.” He knew others who ate humans like it was their day job and, while he understood, he’d never been able to…overindulge. 

Caleb looked up at the dreams comment, eyebrows furrowing as he wondered who she knew. His concern for certain people in his life started to grow but he hoped he wouldn’t have to worry too much. With her reaction, she seemed used to this. “You mean nightmares?” He finally took a drink of whatever the finger had been served in, pleasantly surprised when it turned out to be an actual cocktail. “Just over six years. It’s been a bit of an adjustment. What about you? Are you in the same boat or do you just like hanging out at bars catered to the undead?”

So the truth was out, laid on the table amidst their drinks and the half-eaten finger. Inge felt a level of relief at the final revelation that Caleb was like her — a person who had died and transformed. Wicked’s Rest came with many disadvantages but this was something she liked about the place: it attracted the undead. And though that meant the town also attracted slayers and other dislikeable figures, it almost made it tolerable. It was just better, she found, to surround herself with people who did not age. 

She had figured out a while ago that there was to categorize the undead into two categories: those that abstained and those that indulged. She fell into the latter category, making an art of her nightmares and creating more than she strictly needed for survival. Plenty of others fell into the first category, though – only eating as often as they needed to, as Caleb put it. Inge couldn’t relate. She’d long ceased to feel guilt over the nightmares she spread around. Maybe it was different if your diet required human parts, though. (She thought of Rhett’s leg without wanting to.) “Fair enough. Fingers don’t seem especially nutritious.”

She nodded at his conclusion, “Yes, nightmares. That’s my diet.” It really was more refined than brains or blood, she thought. She looked the other up and down, figured that it made sense that he was still new to this. Inge chuckled. “So I’m like you. It’s been about half a century for me, now, since I died.” It felt wrong to put it like that. “And transformed, of course. It’s why I celebrated here, you know? Most mortals don’t understand — the complications of birthdays when you don’t physically age any more.”

“They aren’t.” It was said with a breath of laughter, Caleb finding it funny but at the same time feeling the weight of this conversation thick in the air. The fact that he knew that was horrifying in itself and every time he laid out the details of his diet, no matter how small, it felt like he was discovering the horrible reality of being a zombie again. It laid heavy on his chest, images of all the bodies he’d ransacked over the years flashing in his mind until the two faces of the people that died by his own hand popped up. They were always side by side, their features locked in the horror they had felt during their final moments. He ground his teeth together as he tried to push those images away and focus on her.

But he did finish the drink in hand before he spoke again, the glass tipping up with a clink as he gulped it down. Not that it would do much good unless this bar had ways of making their drinks stronger for the dead as well. “So you’re a mare then.” It was on the tip of his tongue to point out that at least she only caused fear and it didn’t always result in death but he also knew that didn’t matter. Mayhem came with both of their diets, his just came with the physical whereas hers was more phycological. Both ways did their own catastrophic damage. 

“Transformed?” That was an interesting way to put things. The word could hold different meanings in this context but he got the feeling that Inge wasn’t ashamed of what she was or how she had to survive and that definitely piqued his interest. Not to mention how long she’d had to live this way. “I can’t even imagine being alive that long. Somehow I still think my body will find a way to give in to nature even though I’ve lived through things I shouldn’t have at this point. Are you-” He wasn’t quite sure how to pose this question so he continued the only way he could think of. “Are you happy?”

How had she even felt, six years into her transformation? Inge struggled to recall it — but time played a trick on her memory. It was back in Amsterdam, when Vera had been a teenager and she’d still been trying to figure out how to exist as a mare, as a sleepless creature of the night. She’d felt shame then, she must have … but she preferred not to think of it. Not of that, nor the time she lost, nor the child that was gone, nor her partner in all it. She was a woman of her own future, living in the twenty first century and proud. What she had been in the past was gone.

But she did recall it, the shame. How it had once been there, for the way she had to feed. How it had been replaced by her pride, now. She saw it in Ariadne, who had only been undead for a year or two. She saw it in Leila, who had centuries on her. She had even seen it in Richard, who was older than any other undead she had ever met. She felt bad for them all, these creatures like her who did not think of consumption as a form of self are. “Maybe we should find you something better to eat, then.”

She chuckled mildly. “It’s still perishable, but … not as easily maimed any more, is it? For you, at least.” Vampires and zombies had that advantage over her – their ability to heal with speed. Inge had to wait human weeks and months before pains left her body, before scars were formed. “I’m only in my seventies, Caleb. I’ve hardly outlived most humans.” His question was met with another sip of her drink, too heavy to answer without contemplating it over a sip of alcohol and a little bit of procrastination. “I am, most days. Happier than I ever was as a human.” She smiled. “Not always, but most of the time. Why?”

“I’m okay right now.” He gave her a smile, hoping that she wasn’t worried about the state of his…appetite. There was no need to be. Caleb liked to think he was responsible with his consumption even when his supply was still dwindling to a dangerously low point spurring him to work harder or cut some deals. Inge’s hesitation was understandable though. Not everyone was responsible with their diet, not everyone had the means to be. Which might be why he tried not to eye a random drunk man trying to sneak the tossed finger out of the napkin next to him. At least some poor dead souls digit wasn’t being wasted even if he still felt the need to give her the money for her purchase. 

His attention was back on her after the drunk zombie walked away giggling, clearly thinking he had gotten away with his heist. “Right. It’s wild to me that mares don’t heal the way we can even though we’re all…dead flesh. But at least you guys get to astral. That always sounded kind of cool to me.”

Raising his hands in mock surrender, his smile started to fade quickly. “You’re right, it’s not that old. I guess I just…never thought I’d make it past my teens so the idea of getting that far in life is strange to me. Add to that people calling me old in my forties, it’s a little surreal.” Caleb didn’t miss the way she took a drink before answering him, the zombie taking that as a bad sign even as her words suggested otherwise. He couldn’t say for sure whether she was feigning happiness for his benefit or if she was even doing it for her own peace of mind but he understood that it wasn’t the whole truth. “I think I just wanted to know if I had something to look forward to. Everyone’s different, I know, but a little hope is nice.”

“Good,” she said, not bothering to press the subject any further. When another – presumed – zombie stepped by to snatch the finger, she did raise her eyebrows in amusement and a hint of judgment. The finger was part of her tab, after all — but if Caleb wasn’t going to finish it, then it might as well get eaten by someone else in need. Inge looked back to the sole member of her party, “Well, that’s one way to get by.” 

Her face split into a look of pride, if not something close to that happiness he’d been asking after. “Very true. I’m not sure if I’d swap it for quicker healing or higher tolerance for injury. It makes for a quick get away, too. And it is cool.” Yes, mares were truly the crème de la crème of undead. Except for the healing, of course. “Wish we’d just bleed regularly, though — it’d definitely make hospitals easier.”

The statement was said so plainly, as if it wasn’t a devastating thing in and of itself. If Inge was a more compassionate woman, if she was more sentimental, she might have searched further. “Well, here you are … You might push past two hundred.” Though not all undead made it that far, especially not in a town such as this. Slayers liked to shorten lifespans, even before they’d lived a full human year. “Of course you do!” She sounded more convinced now, because it was certainly easier to speak of the future as something promising than it was to speak of her current happiness or lack thereof. “There is so much to live for. You will look like this forever — and it’s not a bad look to have!” He was handsome, and no lines marred his face. No gray hair in sight, either. “The world is your oyster, Caleb — that much is true for each and everyone of us.” And with us, she meant her fellow undead. Not humans. “Come, let’s have another drink. Fingerless, this time. And we’ll toast to those oncoming years.”

There was a brief moment where Caleb considered asking the zombie if he needed a steadier supply for his diet but he figured this was supposed to be a fun night out so he let it go. He did have a new place to network though. Now if only he could figure out his supply shortage. “Not the smartest way but as long as he’s not rampaging…” Another reason to ask the man, Caleb wanting to make sure that he could prevent that as much as possible. 

Again, this was supposed to be fun, so he tucked those thoughts away in the back of his mind along with the shadows that were stalking him before. Smiling at how much she actually enjoyed the aspects of her…situation, the zombie wasn’t sure whether he wasn’t to argue with it or not. Healing came in handy, especially when the weird stuff really started going down. Volmugger acid most likely would have taken him out if it hadn’t been for his ability to eat a brain and be brand new again. But he had always thought the astral projection was cool, ever since he’d found out about it from Aria. “Not a believer in the grass being greener in someone else’s world, I take it.” It was a statement more than a question since Caleb was already sure he knew the answer to that one.

Inge’s confidence was admirable and he had to wonder why he always seemed drawn to people like that. There was always some kind of pull to them, some awe he held in their presence, because he knew he’d never be able to achieve that level of…well, loving himself. He was too damaged from years and years of being told he would never be good enough. “I hope not.” The statement was said under his breath, the idea of two hundred years on this earth harrowing. 

There was something about people who were confident; others would tend to believe anything they said. Inge spoke with such conviction that Caleb felt like there was no choice but to smile as he thought about what could be in the years to come. His life wasn’t that horrible at the moment, it was true, he just needed to learn how to navigate what he was with ways that made him comfortable. Six years wasn’t long enough to do that. It was what he thought about with new drinks in hand, the zombie tipping his glass to her as that familiar chill of being watched started to return. He would deal with that tomorrow, tonight he’d learn to let loose with a new friend and see where life took him.

“To the world being our oyster.”

[mikaikaika]

Quackity : Chilling after unleashing his social experiment on the ccs

Meanwhile Cellbit :

[eyndr-stories]

My first art of the year, have a little Sunhinged :]

[butch-bakugo]

Its not a shock to me that most "transandrophobia doesn't exist" people are trans women, mostly white trans women. They have a very specific image of what a trans man looks like and it's only two categories: the hyper fem, tits out, make up, twink trans man who doesn't pass nor try to and the hyper masculine, bearded, t'd up, all the surgeries, big buff trans man who you could never clock. They genuinely think every "transandrophobia truther" is lieing about not getting privileges they don't fucking have.

They genuinely believe every trans man passes and therefore we get male privilege and they get backed up by trans men who do pass and think a cis man making rape jokes with them and asking about their lift set is male privilege. Lemme shatter the illusion because as much as you like to scream about some wide spread privilege that doesn't exist, most trans people, in general, do not pass. This is especially true for trans men due to the hyperfocus society puts on feminine features. I have never met a fully passing trans man and I've met over a hundred personally irl. never. I know they exist but the fact y'all think we, en masse, get male privilege is factually just fucking wrong.

Trans men are not more acceptable or palatable to transphobes. Trans men are not more likely to pass. Trans men in mass do not get male privilege by virtue of our lack of passing and our medical history. Most trans men are still affected by the gender pay gap and thus can not afford surgeries.

You do not acknowledge the existence of non-passing trans men, only uphold the voices of trans men who pass and have the money for surgeries (a small percentage) then wonder why trans men laugh in your face when you make claims about male privilege we do not experience.

We are more likely to be conversionally raped than you. We are more like to be forcibly detransioned than you. We are more likely to experience domestic violence than you. We are more likely to experience hate crimes than you.

Trans men's hyper visibility in online spaces dose not transfer to real life visibility. You are more likely to see white cis gay men and white trans women in any media or ever mentioned than even white cis lesbians or white trans men. Your rhetoric is the origin of the "theyfab" myth. Our issues are invisible to you cause you do not care about other trans people besides yourself and other transfems. Everyone and their trans mother knows about transmysogny and the issues you personally face yet you expect trans men to be silent about their issues and feel like they should be silent because they are men. Trans men are more likely to experience litterally all forms of violence over trans women in every single avenue of violence that exists; religious, sexual, domestic, familial, etc. We are more likely to be stopped and abused before we socially transtion than anyone else due to hyper vigilance of society over afabs. You can scream all you'd like about how we only bring up our sex/the gender we are often raised as when it's convenient but you always ignore those often traumatizing experiences when it's convenient for you.

Many Transmascs and trans men had a traumatizing upbringing because society views us as "bad women" and " bad women" get treated so much worse and by many more angles than "bad men" specifically because we were forcibly assigned as women. You take advantage of a lack of nuance in the community by trying to group us with cis men specifically because you group yourself with cis women. News flash, neither of us and our experiences should be grouped with ANY cis group because we do not have cisgendered experiences.

I seriously think you think you are the most oppressed group in the trans community and you are not, not by a long shot. You are not the most oppressed group in the transgender community and that's a statistical fact. The most oppressed group, by far, are two spirits and cultural genders by virtue of them being inherently indigenous and indigenous people being the most oppressed race of people in the community regardless of the location they are indigenous to.

You are literally taking advantage of the things that were drilled into transmascs at a young age to be seen and not heard and to be quiet and let others talk, that they are lesser than everyone. Everyday there's a new story in the community of a cis man or a trans woman getting a trans man/masc pregnant to hurt them or force them off t or to detransion, this is not a fucking accident. You are not men, no one ever said you were, but you sure love to silence them like they do.

I'm not quiet, you do not intimately know our issues the same way we do not intimately know yours, You don't get to tell us what we do and don't experience and the fact you'd rather cry wolf and suspiciously call us "bitches" than hear us out, tells me everything i need to know. That alt right to trans woman pipeline you said you escaped? Yeah, you didn't. Ur just an alt right trans woman, Try Again.

[iamnathannah]

Yup, we're back at it with another Glorbie Twitter post inspired by another famous post that got so much attention;

This time, we've got Gloria being a teen activist and Barbie lusting over it, along with our usual Duolingo slander, Sasha just being embarassed by the horniness of her moms, the Mattel CEO tweeting despite his aversion to it after being attacked by She-Ra fans, and even a random celebrity cameo out of nowhere.

As always, the ALT text is here for fun and whimsy (and of course, accessiblity)! Enjoy!

[yuexias]

@xinxiins / continued from here

[ to: 183帅哥小狗 ]：？ [ to: 183帅哥小狗 ]：zěnme háiméishuì？ [ to: 183帅哥小狗 ]：thought you mentioned you had a full filming day today?

[doomxdriven]

Kusaka hadn't spoken to this woman, Sylvia, in a long time, not since their last encounter, their little impromptu competition as it was-- he remembered that day fondly, it was a heap of thrills, though he also remembered that she hadn't seen it the same way... quite the opposite in fact.

Kusaka wondered if Sylvia was still sore over the events of that day, but if she was, it wasn't going to stop him from speaking to her. Kusaka was just too curious about Sylvia's presence here, and he finally saw a chance to speak with her in private, away from all the nosy bastards they both associated with.

"You don't actually buy any of the garbage that old man is selling, do you?" Kusaka pointedly asks as he reveals his presence, stepping out from behind a tree here in a lightly forested area near the estate of the very man he was referring to, Jin Kariya.

Smirking, Kusaka continues, his red eyes trained on the back of Sylvia's head, "you never struck me as the gullible type, princess." // @glaciialis

[astarab1aze]

continued from here / @vicariousphotographer

He felt like he was losing his grip, known to happen from time to time when the seals in his brain loosened, though the symptoms were primarily memory-related - not that it mattered here, because he was floundering, eyes caught then on a shadows distilled and far away, writhing somewhere far off in, visions retracting like elastic bound to break. Instantaneous, no no, it was the fog of his mind, a terrible daydream where false dark came upon him and whispered the name of a man who was no more. Rewind, fast-forward, and everything's normal. People going about their day, a man in front of him - bewildered, concerned.

And worse still was his own state, anxiously palming now at clammy skin and mussed hair, wildly and unceremoniously smoothing out fabric that felt a little too much like something else. Light flickers, flashes of his face, a world decaying around him- His breathing remained laboured, but he'd realized in truth where he was, situated in some space between, acosting the man, yes. Oh, and how terribly sorry he was with what little congruence he could manage then.

"Sorry, sorry," he mumbled quickly, sloppily- willing his stress away and failing miserably, hands shaking, shoulders trembling, and that damned shadow, the rust, the paint chips- Ashari would not have panicked, he would've adapted, kept calm, breathed. Illusions could flicker and ripple against reality all they liked, one was real and the other wasn't - he just had to figure out which.

Away he stepped, wringing his hands; For the first time, in a long time, unable to articulate much else, wary and conscious that which aimed to swallow him whole. What had he wandered into this time? He wondered if the bile in his throat would ever settle.

[gossipsnake]

TIMING: Current LOCATION: The Pines PARTIES:  Anita (@gossipsnake) and Inge (@nightmaretist) SUMMARY: Anita & Inge Find an Egg! CONTENT: child death tw (references to death of an adult child), pheromone influence, discussions of motherhood

Something had changed between Anita and her. Or, at least, Inge assumed it had. If there was an occurrence to change a casual friendship (with added benefits), it would be saving someone’s life from hypothermia while they were a ginormous snake. It wasn’t an unwelcome change, though. There was something nice about the deepening of this particular relationship.

So they were passing through the woods near Anita’s home, hiking the way humans might and divulging in the latest rumors. Perhaps not much had changed after all. “This Max —” She bristled still, at the sound of that banshee’s name, but she sounded amused too, “She looked like a freshman and thought she’d kill me. It was … almost endearing, you know? Like an angry toddler.” She scrunched her face up in demonstration.

When the pair turned a corner Inge’s eyes fell on an unusual sight. Which was, of course, quite usual in a town like Wicked’s Rest. Things didn’t tend to be usual. There was a great chance the trees were watching them and there was some kind of fae monster lurking in their branches — and she liked that. But this was something else. This caught her attention like nothing else. “Is that … an egg?”

_ 

Metzli and Cass, they had both seemed to want to talk about the occurrence this past winter in the woods. It wasn’t that Anita didn’t like talking about it (to a certain extent) but it did make her feel her own mortality more than she would like. She wasn’t like Metzli, or Leila, or Inge for that matter. She wasn’t immortal. But Inge hadn’t brought it up much, not explicitly. Anita could tell that things had shifted between the pair, however. They spent more time together neither at work nor naked (though they still did both of those things), and it was really quite enjoyable. 

“I’ve gotta admit, as annoying as that Max sounds, I’m kind of glad to hear I wasn’t the only one up to my ears in banshee bullshit.” Anita had told her a fair bit of what had gone on in Ireland but not quite everything. There were certain things that didn’t feel like her palace to tell. Was this growth? Like that meme from that HBO show? 

Anita was so caught up in her moment of self congratulations that she hadn’t really noticed anything strange until she heard the question, and she instinctively began to answer it before she even laid her eyes on the thing, “It wouldn’t be uncommon, this is prime bird egg laying season honestly…” she trailed off as her eyes landed on the egg in question and quickly corrected herself. “Okay, that didn’t come from any normal bird.” Almost immediately, she took a few steps closer to get a better look at the thing. 

_ 

Though her confrontation with Max had irked her, it would serve to be a story worth repeating down the line. Inge hadn’t encountered a lot of banshees in her days, after all, and it was somehow refreshing that it hadn’t been a slayer (or other type of hunter) who’d wanted to kill her for once. She would very much prefer it if no one wanted to kill her, but to get hung up on wanting such things was childish. 

“Banshee bullshit,” she repeated, “That rolls off the tongue nicely. I am still a little offended that Siobhan didn’t think to invite me, you know. I thought we had something special.” She wasn’t sure if she would have gone. She hated Siobhan. She was glad Siobhan was back, though, but only because all their other colleagues – save Anita – were dull and incapable of challenging her. “With Dolan back we’ll have plenty of banshee bullshit to come, though, but just her brand.” She hated her so much, which was why there was a hint of fondness in her voice.

There was not a lot of time to overthink her feelings about the banshee who’d left her on a wall, though. The egg was taking up most of her headspace. It smelled … strange. Earthy and musky, like a perfume she might have whiffed off someone else. Was Anita wearing a different scent? She followed the other, stepping closer to the egg. “It’s beautiful.” A branch snapped and she whipped around as if scared something would come hurt the egg. “It’s … it’s all alone, out in the open … that’s bad parenting.” 

_ 

It was no secret that Inge and Siobhan were not exactly fond of one another. But they were without a doubt Anita’s most enjoyable co-workers. While that wasn't necessarily because they were her only known non-human co-workers it certainly didn’t hurt. Though there was something about the organic chemistry professor that gave distinctly non-human energy, Anita had yet to crack that case yet. “I’m sure there will be all kinds of new and exciting bullshit to deal with when the new semester starts, banshee bullshit and others.” 

Despite being a reptile, Anita was never actually an egg herself. Rattlesnakes, like a few other species of snakes, give live birth to their young. She felt much more kinship, however, to species who laid eggs than those who didn’t. “Very bad parenting…” she repeated in agreement as she carefully looked around, wondering if there was any sign of the mother nearby. All that she saw around them was open forest and a few large predator birds flying overhead. Anita knew these woods - they were not kind. 

The smell of the egg was so distinct that, and at first, Anita was worried it was rotten. Abandoned by a mother who perhaps knew it was never going to hatch. As she moved close towards it the egg seemed to shift. “It’s hardly even in a proper nest. I wonder if its mother was eaten by something out here. Or, maybe it got separated from her somehow.” Nobody had ever accused Anita of having a maternal instinct before, but all she wanted to do was scoop this egg up and find a nice warm incubator for it. She looked over at Inge, about to say something when the egg seemed to move again. “Whatever kind of egg this is, that little guy is a fighter. I don’t want to leave it out here unprotected but I’m worried trying to move it might hurt it.” 

_ 

Inge had never thought much of eggs. Eggs were simply food — they were part of Sunday breakfast when she’d been a mortal, boiled at the exact right level of hardness for Hendrik. They went into her quiches and the sweet things she baked. She’d had chickens, with her once-husband — a trio of clucking hens that he’d gotten from the farm he worked at. She’d search for their eggs each morning and sometimes they were warm to the touch, and she incorporated them in food or gave them to her parents.

But those eggs? What did those eggs matter? Those small, insignificant chicken eggs, that were naturally overshadowed by the egg in front of her. Now this was an egg. This egg had something to achieve besides being cracked above a bowl or boiled in water. Inge moved closer, its scent working itself into her nostrils and finding its home there. “Who would do such a thing … to leave an egg so beautiful? A child so innocent, so in need of protecting …” 

She swallowed thickly, wondering if Anita was right. Maybe its mother had died. Her mind trailed off for a moment, thinking about how she had died when her daughter had been young — but then it was quickly pulled back to the egg. She was able to lift her gaze from the egg after a moment to look at Anita. “We — well, it’s clear, isn’t it? We cannot abandon it in the wild like this.” She crouched down, placed a hand on the shell. It was warm. “It’s a fighter, and it should be looked after. And we’re … well, the perfect pair, aren’t we?” She could look over the darling egg from the astral at night and Anita was a fierce protector. “It’s beautiful, truly.”

_ 

It was reassuring that Inge seemed to feel the same way as Anita about this egg. Maybe that should have been concerning, but all she felt was relief in knowing that the two of them wanted to protect this precious egg together. Thinking of how Inge had helped her out of that dicey situation this past winter, getting help, keeping her alive  -  Anita nodded genuinely at the question, “Yes. We are the perfect pair.” Her attention quickly returned to the egg, as Anita took her phone out to take a few photographs of it. It was so beautiful and she had never seen anything like it before. It was like she suddenly understood why parents posted so many photos of their children online. 

“You’re very lucky we found you, sweet egg,” Anita said softly, “if humans had come across you they probably would have tried to make an omelet out of you. Humans are quite awful.” Just then the egg twitched again, or rather, the creature inside of the egg twitched. Anita grinned, “I think they agree.”  The egg didn’t stop twitching though. “Do you think it’s about to…” she trailed off slightly, almost astonished at how fantastic their timing seemed to be. The smell seemed to be getting a bit stronger and Anita frowned a bit as she looked at the “nest” that this little babe was laying in. “We need something softer for it, if it’s going to hatch here. I have some clothes in my bag,” she said as she took her backpack off. A lamia, or any smart shifter, never left home without a change of clothes on them. 

_ 

She had shed any maternal instinct like Anita had shed her skin, had thought herself rid of it now that her adult daughter had been dead and buried for over a decade. It had never fit her well anyway, that role. She had made a better aunt to her nieces and nephews, made a better mentor than a mother. But today, here and now, Inge knew suddenly that she had been an absolute fool to try and rid herself of this duty. She was a mother, and she needed to use her maternal skills to take care of this abandoned babe, this poor, lost little soul. She would nurture it. It was the very thing she was born for.

She nodded, “You are so very lucky. We understand you.” The egg was twitching and Inge looked at it with interest, but also with worry. It was beautiful, it was doing so good — “It might be,” she said. “But you’re right, this is no place to come to earth.” She had no extra clothes on her, and just wore what she was wearing. It wasn’t like temperatures bothered her much any more. She still worked on undoing her jacket and then the top she was wearing, standing only in her bra. It didn’t matter — the egg needed the softness. “We’ll take care of you.” She started to surround it with her own clothes, then looked at Anita. “I have nowhere I need to be.” She had multiple appointments, but she could forgo those. She already had.

_ 

Anita had seen many creatures be born. She had even seen many eggs hatch, incubated many of the snakes that lived at home with her. But never had she felt so immediately protective of an unknown creature before. As she bundled up the t-shirt and leggings that she had pulled from her bag she was so caught up in making sure that whatever was about to hatch from this egg had a soft landing spot that she hardly even made note of Inge’s half-undressed state. Hardly, she was a true MILF now but she wasn’t blind. “Classes are out for the summer, I don’t have anywhere I need to be for quite some time.” 

It was mostly true. People would worry if she disappeared for a while, wouldn’t they? Metzli would. At least a person would worry. But Anita had worries of her own to consider, worries about this precious life that she and Inge were about to foster into the world. More movement was coming from the egg now and far more rapidly until eventually, finally, the first small crack in its shell occurred. “Oh!” Anita said with a wide grin, looking over at her newfound partner in all of this. “That was impressive. A little fighter in there. She’ll fit right in with you and I.” She said with a playful nudge, the smile never leaving her face as she scanned the forest around them, making sure there were no outside threats incoming. 

_ 

All the worries she’d been occupied with were melting away, replaced with the nurturing care she felt for the sweet egg. The only way she could be made to think of those concerns was in the context of that egg — what if her demons were to catch up not only with her, but with this darling thing, too? Inge crouched down at the egg, nodding at what Anita was saying, “Same here. And whatever I do have, I can set aside. This is … oh, egg. No appointments matter in the face of you, I think.” 

Her eyes met Anita’s at the same time, a kind of glee shared between the pair that was new. She may have brought life into this world before, but this was different — this was done without her body tearing open, without her sweat and tears. And Anita was a better partner, was she not, than Hendrik had ever been in parenthood? Because Inge did recognize what was happening for what it was — a parental instinct, a need to take a young thing under her wing. “Very impressive,” she said, putting an arm around Anita as she pulled her towards her and looked at the egg. Its shell broke a little more and a round head poked out. “Oh …” Her eyes shone, her hand pressed against her mouth. “Oh — she’s … a beauty, Neets.”

_ 

Anita was no stranger to the feeling of intoxication. She often lived her life seeking it out, in fact. Not just in the form of her favored tequila but in the intoxication that could be found through an array of thrilling activities. Each type of intoxication, that brought on by killing, by lust, by adventure, by defiance, were all unique. As she was crouched down beside Inge as this sweet darling egg began to hatch Anita felt an intoxication unlike any she had experienced before. With Inge’s arm wrapped around her, there was a feeling of security as the beautiful babe shed its literal shell to be welcomed into the world protected by the two women. “Si… she really is.” Her eyes darted between the mare and the egg, equally intoxicated by how the creature was hatching and Inge’s reaction to it. “ Just like her mami’s,” Anita beamed. Practically, scientifically, Anita knew that there was no genetic relation between them and their egg but that didn’t stop the swell of pride she felt. 

The creature, their sweet egg hatchling, didn’t look reptilian. It wasn’t really a surprise to Anita since the egg itself hadn’t seemed particularly reptilian. While it would have been incredible to stumble upon a lamia egg in the wild she knew that wasn’t what had happened. She mirrored Inge’s gesture, and wrapped her own arm around her, as she used her other hand to take a few pictures (and maybe a video or two) of the egg’s hatching. “I’m glad we found her together,” she said, resting her head on Inge’s shoulder as she put her phone away to admire the egg more without the distraction of the screen. “It’ll be nice figuring all of this stuff out together, how to take care of another person. A very small vulnerable person at that.” 

_ 

Anita said what Inge felt. She bestowed the title of mother on both of them and the mare did not shy away from it this time, did not consider all the anguish and trouble that came with that part of her identity. Why would she ever denounce motherhood, after all? Why had she ever despised this feeling of responsibility? As she looked down on the egg, she knew she would give anything and all for it. “Just like her mums indeed,” she said, cocking her head to the side so she could see her hatchling child from a different angle. “Please share those pictures with me. We’ll have to take many — infants grow so very fast.” She leaned her own head against Anita’s, hand rubbing small circles on the other’s shoulder.

She nodded at her words. Her mind ventured to Vera once more, for a moment, and when she had been an infant. The nappies and the breastfeeding and the sweet smell of her and her laughter — all of it seemed to pale in comparison to her new child. Perhaps this was what she’d needed, as a mother: a different child. “I’ll teach you,” she said, “How to be a mother.” Anita didn’t know of her late daughter, but Inge didn’t remember why it should be something kept quiet. It was important they were honest with each other, for the wellbeing of their child. “I’ve done it before. It’s hard work, but for her? It’s all more than worth it, don’t you think? We —” She sighed. “Will be amazing parents.”

_ 

A symphony of questions flooded Anita’s mind at the unexpected admission that Inge had done this, motherhood, before. It hadn’t even been something that she had considered a possibility, despite knowing the other had been alive far longer than she had. Sometimes she forgot that people existed outside the context in which she knew them. There wasn’t time to dive into all of the questions she had about this past child of Inge’s though, because the child in front of them kept working so diligently to break away pieces of its shell. “I’m glad to have you as a teacher.” 

Thinking of her own lack of experience as a mother; thinking about her relationship to her own mother, Anita felt a small pang of fear wash over her. Their baby was becoming exposed to the harsh realities of the world and she couldn’t help but wonder if, even with Inge’s help, she had what it took. “I’ve not done it before, obviously. But I’ve seen it done. You can learn a lot from observation. I may not know exactly what to do … but I think I have a sense of what not to do.” She inhaled a quick, sharp breath, before nodding in agreement. “We’ll be amazing parents.” 

[nightmaretist]

TIMING: Current PARTIES: Max @screadqueens & Inge @nightmaretist LOCATION: Inge's office SUMMARY: Max pays one of Siobhan's hottest colleagues a visit. CONTENT WARNINGS: Child death (past), torture (threatened)

It was hard for Max to decide which of the rogue banshees who’d left their mark in this wretched Maine town was the more disappointing of the two. Regan’s mistakes were humiliating, to be sure — cleaning up her mess would certainly take some time — but that was to be expected. Regan had been a failure since the beginning, since the first day she’d shown up to train with Max and Tina despite her age. Siobhan was a failure in her own right, of course, but she’d at least been raised properly. The fact that she had managed to fail so spectacularly was just… sad. 

Especially when Max found the corpse in her contact list.

It wasn’t the fun kind of corpse, wasn’t the proper kind that you could sit and watch beautifully decay. No, this corpse was a disgusting thing. The kind that walked around, the kind that defied Fate. The mere concept of the undead was sickening, and yet Siobhan had been out and about befriending one. It was horrifying, really. Regan had something of an excuse in her sad human upbringing, but Siobhan? Siobhan should have known better.

It was no matter, though. Max was more than willing to correct the mistake.

It was luck, perhaps, that the corpse found employment at the local college. It made Max the perfect banshee for the job, what with her youthful looks and her sharp wit. Blending in with the human children was an easy thing to do, a simple one. She looked like she belonged, and so the idiotic humans assumed she did. She listened to them talk about stupid things, she waited for an opportunity. And when the corpse was spotted, Max wasted no time on goodbyes before getting up to follow it.

“Excuse me,” her Irish lilt lifted the words, carrying them to the corpse’s ears. There was something dully fascinating about the unnaturalness of it, she thought; she found interest in it the same way one might find interest in an unidentified puddle with a heavy stench. The mind was drawn to disgusting things, sometimes. Max wondered if that was how things had started between Siobhan and Inge. Maybe. Maybe not. It wasn’t important either way. The corpse was a mistake Max would correct. She was sure of that. “I missed your office hours, but I’d like to discuss a few things with you. Mind extending them?”

—

She had been healing. In the slow pace of any mortal human, Inge’s injuries had started aching less, her muscles regenerating somehow. She didn’t care about the biology of it, really. Didn’t much care about most of it, as long as there was process. And so she’d been returning to her classes, opting to sit on her desk in a position that seemed casual but just hurt less than standing and walking around. 

It was good to be back. There was something about teaching that wasn’t entirely despicable to her, something about it that she did like. Maybe it was just that she wanted to be the smartest person in every room and being a professor of art did tend to ensure that. It helped that she was an undead one, as she’d certainly outlive all her students if things went her way. Perhaps it was a pitiful thing to gain confidence from, but wasn’t that the point of being a teacher? To know better? 

She’d take all she could, these days.

And so she walked the hallways again, with less trouble than she had a few months back, but still with some trouble. Sometimes she was afraid there would be permanent damage to the muscles that kept her upright, those in her lower back. Inge refused that kind of reality, though, and so she bit through the pain. 

When someone addressed her, she looked at the voice the words belonged to. She didn’t recognize the student, which made her crease her brows. In all fairness, she’d been absent-minded, if not physically absent, these past months. “Hi …” There was an empty space there where the other’s name would go if she’d known it, an open invitation for an introduction. “What is it you’d like to talk about? I have some time until my next lecture, but…” She smiled and there was a hint of sourness to it. There was an implication there, something along the lines of it better be worth my while. The other was lucky, as they were near her office. Inge looked at it down the hall. “Well, don’t be too long.”

—

She moved like she was in pain, and there was some idle fascination to that. A corpse that ached was a funny thing, Max thought. There were banshees back home, she knew, who felt some pity towards the undead. It was hardly their fault that they’d outlasted their fate, after all, and they were surely suffering because of it. But Max had no room in her heart for things like this. When she saw this body, this dead thing that Siobhan had adopted as some sort of hideous pet, all that stirred in her chest was disgust. It was humiliating, in a way; Siobhan had brought embarrassment on their entire community, hanging round with trash like this. Shouldn’t she have known better?

“Max,” she introduced herself, though not without considering it first. It didn’t matter much if the thing before her knew her name. It would be dead the way it was meant to be dead before long now, would be ‘laid to rest’ the moment it let Max into its office. A scream would be the best way to do it, she thought, though it would bring unwanted attention. Was there a window in the office? It would be simple enough to slip out after. In a town like this, surely something else would take the blame. No one would ever think to point a finger at Max, and she’d be long gone before anyone even considered doing so. Unlike Regan or Siobhan, Max had no intention of sullying herself by remaining in this town a moment longer than she had to.

“Don’t worry,” she assured the corpse. “What I have for you is very important. And something you need, I think!” It wasn’t a lie. Upholding Fate was the most important thing a banshee could be tasked with, and the corpse was in need of finding its end. Perhaps there would be peace for it, in the moment. Perhaps it would even be grateful. With a sharp smile, Max followed the corpse into its office, shutting the door behind them both.

—

Maybe this was one of the students who’d taken on the class in the time she’d been absent. Inge had offered some forged doctor’s notes to those that stood above her on the academic hierarchical ladder and spent most of her days away from lecture halls. She wasn’t very good at remembering her students on top of that, with some exceptions here and there. Some of them made art or wrote essays that stood out – negatively or positively – and those names she remembered. But Max was a stranger to her.

She moved towards her office, not bothering with the usual slew of small talk she was good at. Professor Endeman was a professor who liked to talk, after all — usually, that was. She had little to say now, though, was more focused on moving as fluently as possible. She shouldn’t have worn trousers that closed around her waist where her scar was still developing.

“Ah?,” she asked at the other’s very confident words. Whatever could it be? A project, a piece of art she’d seen at a museum, something she had read? Inge offered a smile, moved towards her desk and sat down in the chair, stretching one of her legs to put less pressure on her injury. She despised that painkillers didn’t work. She hoped the sun would go down soon, so she could return to her dear astral. “Well, don’t keep me waiting Max. Take a seat, tell me whatever it is you have for me.” Despite her fatigue (funny, considering she hadn’t slept in over forty years) she offered a look of enthusiastic intrigue. It better be worth her while.

—

Max studied the corpse, the fascination something she found herself unable to shake. She hadn’t seen many undead in her life. She hadn’t seen many people who weren’t banshees in her life, really, given the isolated nature of their community in Ireland. She’d heard tale of the abominations that defied Fate, of course, seen the disgust in the expressions of those sharing the stories, but she never imagined she’d see one up close. She didn’t think she’d have time to dissect this one the way she yearned to, but there were others in town. According to their findings, the place was crawling with them. Maybe she could find another when she was done here, now that she knew what it felt like to be in the presence of one. Maybe she could take it apart piece by piece.

“You’re friends with Professor Dolan, aren’t you? I’ve heard the two of you are close.” Max made no move to sit in the chair she’d been offered; instead, she continued to stare at the corpse, allowing her head to tilt ever-so-slightly to one side as if she was working out a particularly difficult puzzle. “What is it you think she sees in you? Does she actually enjoy being around you, or is there just something interesting about a corpse that walks and talks?”

She took a step closer, reaching out a hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll make it quick. It’s not your fault you’re an abomination, is it?”

—

If she had any functions in her body that could make her respond instinctively, the hairs in her neck would have stood upright now. The mention of Siobhan was concerning — it was hardly like they interacted a whole lot professionally but there was of course the case of the chopped off leg and her being left stuck to a wall. Inge tightened her jaw, screwing it even tighter when Max asked her about their relationship, called her a corpse.

Something was amiss. It wasn’t paranoia crawling over her skin this time — there was something wrong with the girl who remained stranding and inched too close. “I don’t think she sees an awful lot in me,” she said, fingers inching towards the drawer in her desk. She’d placed self defense measures there – of course she had. The weapons could cost her her job, but she’d rather risk that than her head. “It’s more that she envies me.” The drawer opened during that  sentence. “Because I am capable of more than she has ever been.” Love, wasn’t that what it had been? She didn’t get the banshee. 

Inge got up to her feet, staring at the younger creature, fingers wrapped around a switchblade. “You’ll not do a thing,” she said, “Besides get the hell out of my office and leave this campus.” 

—

The corpse’s hand went to the desk drawer, and Max watched it inch its way there with a faint spark of amusement behind her eyes. There was something funny about it, in a disgusting sort of way. Here was this thing that had cheated Fate once already, existed in a world that had moved on without it long after it should have been gone, and all it could think of was ways to cheat further. Wasn’t it exhausting? Shouldn’t it be tired? Max didn’t understand why it was fighting so hard. If anything, it should be honored. Such lucky few were allowed to be delivered to Fate by a banshee’s scream. 

But the corpse didn’t want the honor, it seemed. It pulled a blade from the drawer, and Max’s lips quirked upwards in a smile that turned into a bubbling giggle, unable now to hide the amusement dancing across her features. Was the blade even made of iron? She doubted it. “You should be careful with that,” she crowed, shaking her head. “You’ll hurt yourself. Not that it matters much. You’re dead already, right? A few more cuts won’t change that.”

As if the words had reminded her of it, Max allowed her hand to dance down into her pocket and retrieve a blade of her own. It was thin and sharp, gleaming silver. “You don’t have to do it yourself, though. I’ll help you with it. I’m not used to things like you, so maybe you can help me here. If I stab you in the throat, does it end you? No, right? The throat is only a vulnerable place because of breath and blood flow, and you’ve neither. What of your arteries? If I cut them, what does it do to you?” She paused, humming. “I’m sorry. I think I’ve changed my mind. We won’t be doing this quickly after all. I’d like to know more about you.”

—

Her mind was racing and she hated that it was light out, that she was once again in a situation where she was confined and bound to the earthly plane that was filled with horrid things. Inge stared at the other, wondering what she was, why she came here asking after Siobhan and accusing her of being dead. She didn’t seem a slayer — a slayer wouldn’t pull out a glinting knife and ask how best to kill her. But wouldn’t it be presumptuous to think the other something as rare as a banshee?

She stood there, putting most of her weight on one foot to keep her body from straining too much. If her job here was compromised too, what was left? What was to keep a slayer from bursting in next? Inge felt the tug again, that instinctive urge to run. “I don’t intend on using it against myself,” she said. “What would a few cuts do to you?” She flicked the blade open, small and pointy yet plenty effective when she needed it to be.

If the other wanted to talk, Inge could do that. She preferred to cut with weapons. She preferred to stall, to figure out a way to avoid being murdered and turned into dust in her office. “You are inexperienced,” she concluded, which was a relief. She had evaded wintered hunters before. A girl with a knife who didn’t know how to kill her could be bested too. “Why should I tell you the best way to kill me? Do you think me such a fool?” She offered a smile, saccharine and unemotional. She eyed the door, considered her chances of running around the other and returning to the hallway – but she knew the knife would find her body before she would be able to. Especially with her limited agility. And even if this Max didn’t know how to kill her, a knife was still a knife. It still hurt. “But fine, ask away. Feel free to sit.” She sat down herself, gesturing at the chair. “Office hour, right?” 

—

Did this rotting corpse really presume itself so capable? How had Siobhan been around this thing for as long as she had without putting it in its place? How had she been around it without sending it back to Fate, the way it was meant to be? It was embarrassing. Humiliating, really. Max wondered if those back home had any idea just how far Siobhan had fallen. Surely this proved that they had been justified in their decision to cast her out of the aos si in those years before Max had been born at all. Surely Max herself was better for having lived in a community that Siobhan Dolan had not been a part of. This was disgusting. This was a shameful thing.

“You’ll never know what a few cuts would do to me,” Max replied, tilting her head to the side. “You’ll never get close enough to find out. Do you think I should be frightened of you? You, who have been dead so long you’ve started to stink? I’m an agent of Fate, and you’re a fugitive of It. I want nothing more than to send you where you belong. You should be grateful. You should be asking for this.” If it had any pride at all, Max thought, it would have been. Nothing should want to exist as this thing did, and yet here it was, fighting for a life that had left it years ago. 

Inexperienced? The muscle in Max’s jaw twitched, nostrils flaring briefly in a quiet display of fury. It was something she’d heard before, of course. Even back home, even leading up to this particular excursion. We should be sending more experienced banshees, someone had said. Not children. Max’s mother had insisted that this was the best way to turn children into banshees, had put a foot down. Max would not prove her wrong. “I think you nothing at all,” she countered. “I think you a stain on the very fabric of this world. I think you a thing that ought not exist, a thing worse off for its state of being. I think you an embarrassment, a mistake. I don’t think you a fool, because in order to be a fool, one must be a person first. And you’re not that. You’re not anything at all. You’ll be less than that soon. Or more, perhaps. The only way for you to get better is for you to finish what you started doing when you were made into this — for you to finish dying. I was going to help you do it quickly. I really was. But I want to see what your blood looks like now. I want to find out if you ache, if you hurt. I won’t sit when I ask you my questions. I want to see them proven first. So…” She trailed off with a sharp smile and, with little warning, thrust her blade forward. “What does your blood look like? You don’t need to answer. I’m going to find out.”

—

Would Anita come to her aid? Or better yet: would Inge get over her pride to ask her to help her? She’d aided her, that day in the woods, but she wasn’t sure if she wanted to reach out for her now that she was still unharmed and some young thing was threatening her. It was pathetic, wasn’t it? And so she didn’t reach for her phone, just eyed the intruder with narrowed eyes and thought of escape routes. She’d be damned if she went down in this stuffy office, in a school, of all places.

“I think I have a better idea than you have about me,” she said coolly. As the other went on, she sounded like a zealot. A banshee zealot. She thought of her conversations about death with Siobhan, always held easiest online where the other wouldn’t have to see her face as she bared herself. Fate sounded awfully similar to ‘God’s plan’ and because of that just as boring. She defied it, by roaming this earth, and she thought it a good thing. “Do you not get bored, being so limited by your worldview? I don’t think you should be frightened. I think you should reassess your life, perhaps, and sound less like a mouthpiece to whatever person told you these things. And you should get your nose checked.” She wore expensive perfume and was incapable of sweating. She smelled delightful.

While the insult to her scent didn’t insult her, the tirade this Max went on made Inge halt a little. It wasn’t like she hadn’t heard these things before as she was no stranger to people who thought she ought to be dead in a more definitive way. Still, it wasn’t like music in her ears to hear these things. To be called a thing, a stain, something unfinished. As if she hadn’t transformed into something more powerful and beautiful after she’d awoken post-death! As if this wasn’t the best thing for her to be! She opened her mouth to retort as the other trailed off, but in stead of a cutting reply, she let out a furious yelp as the knife made contact with her lower arm, cutting through skin and making glittering energy pour out. “You —” She bristled, used her other arm to reach for her paperweight (a one of a kind one, mind you) and aimed it towards Max’ head. She was quick to press her now-free fingers against the laceration after she’d thrown the thing. There were too many scars that had originated in this town, now, and there’d be another added. “You’re boring, you’re narrow and you’re going to get out of my office now.”

—

Limited? It was so clear that the corpse had no idea what it was speaking of, what it was speaking to. To call a banshee, of all things, limited? It was as preposterous as it was insulting. How had Siobhan managed it all this time? How had she been in the presence of a thing that not only disrespected Fate with its very existence, but disrespected banshees with its words? More than ever, a fire burned in Max’s chest. She had half a mind to hop a plane, to fly back to Ireland and confront Siobhan herself, to take her by the shoulders and shake her and demand to know why, why, why. She didn’t understand it, didn’t understand any of it. She couldn’t comprehend why Siobhan had come to care for this town, why Regan did. She wanted to. There was a part of her that wanted, desperately to understand the appeal. Was there something she was missing? Some unseen piece, some hidden part of this puzzle? Max intended to find out, sooner or later.

But first, she was going to dispatch the corpse.

Her blade found the corpse’s arm, slicing the skin and revealing the hidden secrets beneath it. Max marveled at the shine, tilting her head to the side as it shimmered on its journey to stain the floor of the office. “Oooh,” she gasped, looking as close to delighted as she’d ever allowed herself to be. “Do you have a jar? I’d like to take some of this with me when you’re dead. I think my sister would get a real kick out of it. Do your pieces turn to dust when I take them off? I know vampires’ do. Found that one out the hard way. It would have been a lovely finger to watch decay.” How would the corpse’s limbs decay? Would they do so slowly, or would they make up for lost time and crumble all at once? Max wanted to know. 

She looked back up at the corpse just in time to see a paperweight flying at her head. She ducked quickly enough to avoid a concussive contact, but not soon enough to keep it from hitting the side of her forehead hard enough to send stars flying into her vision and rage burning through her. What did this corpse presume itself to be? What right did it think it had? Max glared, teeth grinding together as she took a step towards it. “Just for that,” she said lowly, “I’m going to cut off your fingers one at a time. I think we’ll start with the thumbs. Harder to throw things without those.”

—

Her blood – or whatever one was supposed to call it – was a thing of beauty, Inge agreed. She vaguely remembered the first time she had seen it after having nicked her finger while peeling an apple for Vera (she had hated apple peels and she had been indulgent, especially after they’d moved to Amsterdam) and staring at the glitter on the cutting board. Sometimes on sunny days she’d look at herself in the mirror, admiring the way the energy beneath her skin glimmered. But the reasons she found it beautiful were different from why this Max found it beautiful, that was for sure — hers was an obsessive intrigue and Inge was sure that she wouldn’t be able to swindle her for five thousand dollars like she had another.

No, she would be lucky to get away with her life, which was a rotten way to be lucky. 

Inge wasn’t sure what would happen with her blood should she die. Perhaps those little jars of blood on Parker’s and Rhett’s shelves would turn to dust along with the rest of her and that thought was strangely comforting — even if she had no intention to die. The thud of the glass paperweight was satisfying, as was the look that washed over the maybe-banshee’s face. She was no good at fighting, lacked the finesse and technique, but she was very good at fighting like hell. Tight corners were hers to escape, “You are so confident for someone so ignorant,” she bit to the other, clutching her arm. “And you will remain just that.”

There were tighter corners she’d been in before. She had full control of her body now, was not restrained by rope or salt or stuck to a wall, which was apparently an option as well these days. She would not be reduced to dust by a child who didn’t even know what a mare was. Inge bristled, the threat of her fingers being cut off eerily familiar to the way Siobhan had undone all of Rhett’s toes. “Who do you think you are?” She didn’t move, kept her shedding blood from view. It was not the other’s to see. “Here to teach me a lesson? For some higher purpose that, like all purpose, is a farce?” At least her purpose was selfish and not dedicated to some God or entity. She was trying to gauge how fast the other was, how her chances would be. There was nothing heavy left on her desk to throw, and she would lose a knife fight — but she had more than her knife. She had her nature, which the other despised but she revered. “If you wanted to cut off my fingers, you should have restrained me,” she said, provoking, “Siobhan, the woman you mentioned, she knew to do that before cutting off a man’s toes. What is it you’re going to do? Hold me down with your tiny body, struggle and squirm? You should have planned this, Max. You should have at least brought some fucking rope.” Maybe this was an office hour, after all.

—

The dead had no right to arrogance. They had more rights than some might believe, of course — the rights of the dead were important to uphold — but arrogance was not among them. Things like that, Max wouldn’t even afford to the living unless they had a scream like hers. Banshees were the only ones with any claim to such things, were the only ones who could boast being above anyone else. An argument could be made for other fae being above humanity, but even that felt like a stretch Max wasn’t quite ready to make. In her mind’s eye, you were either banshee or inferior. And this body in front of her now, this pile of bones and skin that spoke despite its heart that did not beat, was certainly no banshee.

So why did it believe it had some right towards arrogance? Why did it think it had earned any ability to speak to Max this way? She was its better. How had Regan or Siobhan stomached this for so long? How had they managed in a world where no one knew how low on the totem pole they really were? If she didn’t hate them as much as she did, Max might have found room to be impressed. Instead, it was disgust that curled up in her chest, tendrils of it spreading down to her stomach and up to her throat. They should have corrected this way of thinking, she thought. They should have shown this thing just how disgusting it truly was, should have never allowed it to escape Fate for as long as it had. It was cruel, almost. Like letting a sick animal suffer instead of ending its misery. 

Max would not be so cruel.

She would experiment with it, sure. She would peel back its skin, take out its eyes, see what happened when pieces of it were removed. But she would only do these things so that she might understand, so that she might know better for the next time. The way this thing existed was no way to continue, and Max wouldn’t force it to do so. She would use it for learning, yes, but she would be kind in a way SIobhan hadn’t. She wouldn’t suffer an abomination like this to continue its existence. No one should.

“This is a school,” Max said, “and I want to learn. You’re a professor, so you’ll teach me. I’ve never seen a thing like you before. It would be a disservice not to allow me to learn from you. It would be a disservice to others like you, too. The next time I run into one of you, I want to be able to take care of it quickly. Don’t you want that? Don’t you feel loyalty to your kind? You’re already dead. This way, it can mean something.” 

It was a silly notion, the idea of restraining a corpse. It shouldn’t have been necessary. Max didn’t particularly want to tie up the body, didn’t want to rely on such things. Her mother wouldn’t have, if she were here. She doubted Clare was using rope on the one she’d gone after, either. The mention of Siobhan — and the implication that she knew better than Max did — filled her chest with a that disgusting hint of fiery anger again. “Siobhan is a disgrace,” she replied flatly, repeating something she’d heard a thousand times before. “If she weren’t, I wouldn’t have to do this. She should have taken care of you herself, you know. If she were any good, she would have.” Perhaps she was wasting time here. Maybe she should find another of this kind, one more cooperative. Maybe the best thing she could do for this one was to simply end it. Would her scream be too telling? Would it get her into trouble? She’d heard tell of a screaming moose roaming this town — perhaps the sound could be blamed on that. 

Clicking her tongue as she debated, Max relented with a shrug. “Okay. If you don’t want to teach me, I suppose I can’t make you be good at your job. We’ll do this quickly, then.” Stepping forward, she grabbed the body’s cold wrist and put another hand on its shoulder. One scream, with this physical contact, and it would explode in a beautiful shower of blood and viscera. Max wondered if it would sparkle all the while.

With a cruel smile, the banshee let her eyes go black and opened her mouth to scream.

—

She had thought herself to be wrong at two points in her unlife. First, when she had initially been transformed. When she had died in her sleep and come back like something else, something capable of moving between planes of existence, something that lived through cruel consumption. She had hated what she was then. Something that died and had come back, that should not exist by the rules she had been taught in youth and church. Death was followed by heaven, should you be forgiven, and that was that. And yet she had continued to exist, without judgment or afterlife — and it was wrong, was it not? Godless.

But she had learned to find the rightness in it. She had claimed it, this unlife and made it a life – had loved it and reveled in it, had indulged and created. She had gained a freedom her mortal life had never offered. And then came the second time she felt her existence was wrong. When her daughter looked older than her and was withering away in a hospital bed it had seemed like a cosmic fuck-you. The not aging was no longer something to be glad for, but rather something perverse. The inability to get sick was a boon, but one that only she had received. 

Inge had gotten over that. Not the death, nor the grief — those were pains you didn’t grow out of as a parent of a deceased child. But the self-hatred. It was in part because of that, that she found the views of people like Max so grating. Who were they, to tell her that her existence was a mistake? If she could appreciate it, despite the pains and discomforts, then why should she give their closed mindedness any consideration?

And so she didn’t, “This is a school. But you are no student of mine. You are rude and petulant.” The idea of Max going after others like her if she didn’t give her more insight didn’t really stir her. She would go after undead regardless of what she offered her in information or demonstration. (Though Ariadne would most likely volunteer to show her more of her blood and tell her more of her nature — she should warn her, once this was over and done with.) “My death and subsequent life mean plenty already — maybe that can be your lesson.”

It was interesting how the other spoke of Siobhan. Inge wasn’t sure how she felt about the banshee any more these days – there had been a few moments of raw honesty with the other, or at least more raw than she was with most others these days. She’d shared her grief over her daughter with her, had shone a light on her life before this new one. But she’d also hung on a wall, left behind as Siobhan had refused to kill two people that should have – by her calculations – died. What would this Max think of that? “Siobhan is much more fun than you,” she said, in a strange moment of defensiveness. 

Before she could consider any more ways to jump to Siobhan’s defense, the other moved in with haste. Inge was in her grasp, bare skin meeting bare skin, and she was not sure what the other was capable of doing in a moment like this. Did it matter? She knew what she was capable of. She focused on the area where Max’ fingers closed around her skin and pushed forth a sense of fatigue, making the banshee grow drowsy. “Here’s your lesson,” she bit, before letting the young fae fall asleep properly.

She caught her before she fell on the ground, pushed her into one of the seats she’d refused to take. Inge watched, for a moment, how peacefully the banshee slumbered. It would be so easy now, to kill her. To take that knife and slit her throat or stab her heart — but she knew what the cycle of violence looked like, now. A bloodied factory floor, a sword in her gut. She sat at her desk, got a bit of stationery and wrote in cursive, Mare 101. After underlining those words, she skipped a few lines and added: Class dismissed. She placed the note on the other’s lap, took her knife from where it had clattered on the ground and spent a few diligent minutes locking her drawers and other things. Soon enough she got up, plucked her coat of its hanger and took her leave. It was her best survival tactic, after all. To run from the corner she’d been backed into and hope nothing would nip at her heels.

[staywskz143]

Lucifer earrings ^

could be Adam or Vaggie idk ^

Angel Dust 1 ^

Angel Dust 2 ^

difficult to tell but it’s a cat Kee Kee ^

Lilith or Eve (or our fanon version of Adam 🫣) ^

^ tree of life for Adam i guess? also have paper crane earrings which could be Adam

Alastor 1 ^

Alastor 2 ^

Vaggie ^

gonna make this a thread cause i have more earrings and can’t do more than 10 images because tumblr mobile hates everyone

[maxmoffs]

I just , commented this in the tags for a reply i just did now . but i want you all to know , adding to my lil “if im not on just know when im on, best believe i will be present.” and add that , even if my replies can sometimes extend later when life hits , just know that when i DO REPLY , i will ALWAYS DELIVER 🤌🏼✨ with full love & effort . and know that in the moment , u know i was having a blast writing it out , and then i let it go and wait for reaction 🙂‍↕️ really that’s all that matters .

[fellstcr]

⚔️ // nestled just outside of vesper town , at the western-most cusp of the fanalean fields , the blue lions academy building stood proudly against the winter sun . she was humble . gardens would not be in full bloom until the spring seasons , and there was still a great amount of UPKEEP and REBUILDING to be done before the academy grounds felt like home . . .

but , for now , it was good .

[soulsxng]

@arcxnumvitae replied to your post:

Mhoirbheinn honestly wasn't expecting that so Baet would've successfully error 404'd him! But then he snaps out of it and thinks he's just messing with him, which kinda pisses Mhoirbheinn off even more.

"Ah, that's what I like to see...how lucky for me, getting to draw a reaction like that out of you." Baphomet's smile softens, and-- perhaps rather surprisingly-- he takes a step back. "I think that's probably enough for now, mm? It wouldn't be very nice if I pushed you too much after that."

[robotsafari]

its millia monday people!!

stream writhe in pain! stream still in the dark!! stream existence!!!! stream the irony of chaste!! stream lily of steel! stream love the subhuman self!

[fightwing]

HELLO FRIENDS!!! slooooowly starting to come out of hiatus SO couple of important things: 1. please LIKE this post if we have an active thread you'd like to continue (i'm gonna try and reply to some anyway, no pressure at all to continue ones you've lost interest in, this is just to help me remember who I owe. also message me or comment here if you've got one specifically you'd like to continue), 2. send me a meme if we don't have anything/if you just want new thread(s) and 3. i am slowly VERY slowly going to be catching up on stuff i missed while i was gone like followers list etc. so if youre still with me or i missed u i wanna say thank u for being patient and hmu if you'd like to write anything specific!!