#cannabilism mention tw

[another-whump-sideblog]

From your ask game. For any whumpee you'd like to gush about.

39. What is wrong with you?

20. Do you like [Whumper]?

17. What is the worst punishment you've received?

Thank you! I’m gonna do this for Liam/Bunny/Ethan/Austin

TWs in the tags

What is wrong with you?

Liam frowns. “I don’t— I don’t know. Whatever has to be wrong with someone to fall for a trap the way I did. And brain damage, now… I don’t know, I feel like a better question would be what isn’t wrong with me.”

Do you like Jane?

“…No? What kind of question is that?”

What is the worst punishment you’ve ever received?

He shudders. “That’s— that’s not—“ he covers his face. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

But he feels compelled to say it anyway. “When— after— she made me—“ another shudder wracks his body. “She— she made me— I had to eat them—“

He hugs himself and starts sobbing. “It was my fault!”

[catfishofoldin99colours]

it's SO interesting seeing how different people react to the story of mouthwashing and how it unfolds, particularly the element of playing as curly and Jimmy

Having seen both gab smolders and jacksepticeye play it now, it's interesting seeing how differently they react to it all

Gab reacts to it similar to how she reacts to most pov horror games she plays, in that she takes the story in stride and the actions of the characters are accepted and interpreted through a lens of understanding that this is a horror story, and everyone is the worst version of themselves. What surprises her the most is just *how* intense the themes and suffering gets, such as the cannabalism and sheer vitriol Jimmy says to curly, but she's not surprised that Jimmy is awful at all. Even him being the main pov character for majority of the game play doesn't necessarily make any reveals about him (he got Anya pregnant, he was the one who crashed the ship) into a lesser being in her head, she's more intrigued by what they reveal about the story. That's not to say she thinks he's great at all, but any information doesn't take him down from a pedestal in her head because she never had one on him in the first place.

Given she loves horror stories and horror games and frequently talks about the horror books she reads, this makes sense. She's primed to come to a horror story knowing it's a tragedy and no one is good and accepts that immediately.

Jack, on the other hand, interprets the lenses of Jimmy as the inherent main character, and he is, but jack takes it as, 'he is the victim the story is happening to' rather than 'he is as much complacent and active in the horrors going on as the story wants to make him experience.' he gives Jimmy a normal voice when reading out his dialogue, and everyone else gets some kind of voice acting - a deviation from the norm, which is immediately Jimmy in his eyes. Even curly gets a rough scratchy voice and through that until jack sees his face, it can inferred jack sees him as the grizzled old man that Jimmy arguably is instead of curly (tho in the wake of most people seeing curly as nothing but a victim and incapable of causing any harm when he very much did, this is kind of refreshing to me).

It's only when Swansea is dead and Jimmy is REALLY descending into madness, that jack considers the idea that Jimmy may be the bad guy, and that in turn, he has been perpetuating many actions that have led to the horrible situation getting worse.

Interestingly, the puzzle - gab, who up until that point has been thoroughly horrified by everything that does happen and how graphic the game has been, seems to find a sort of dissociative comfort in making the pipes line up so curly can digest his own leg. Meanwhile jack cannot stop focusing on the horror of making curly digest his own leg to the point that he takes a while to figure out how the puzzle works to complete it, and eventually settles into a very uncomfortable silence as he makes it work.

It's two really interesting ways that this game has been interpreted and I kinda fucking love thinking about it.

[verygaypurplething]

Cool thing I wrote 💯💯💯💯

Wolfsbane cookie gets insatiable meat cravings and tries to take this out on shadow milk cookie.

Idk which dashes to use when so. That's a thing

Don't repost. Reblogs appreciated.

Tw: cannabilism/gore mention. Attempted cannibalism

Wolfsbane fell on the beast’s chest, “Yet I wonder, with all impossibilities never unproven, is your heart truly sweet in flavor? If I tear deep enough into your sweet veins will I notice the impurities only stem from how far away they are from your heart? If this insatiable savory taste I have- this craving for flesh and blood- if I delude myself truly through my ultimately weak nature-” It gasped, “Do you fear this reverse ventriloquism we’ve attached ourselves to? That I could pull the strings of your love just as I would your viscera?”

With all the instincts of a parasite, the flower forced open its master’s jaw. Creeping from the tip of his tongue into his throat, sucking the moisture out of his tongue, only to be severed from its flattering gesture.

Shadow Milk Cookie grabbed Wolfsbane by the hair, freeing himself from its desperate hunt. Out of breath, he simply held it there, as if it were a misbehaving kitten. He sighed, still feeling the flower’s hunger boring into him, “I’m not letting you eat me.”

Wolfsbane glared, partially offended by how obvious the statement was, yet disappointed by the confirmation. Its eyes darted around his body, searching for a point of entry.

[fatesurvived]

Jackie Taylor on surviving in the wilderness // TW: mentions of CANNABILISM & death.

Jackie fell asleep outside in the cold, that much was true but one of the girls came to get her in the middle of the night, saving her life as it turned out. She was borderline hypothermic and only hours away from death. When she came to things weren’t washed away, she couldn’t easily forgive or forget but she wanted to get the hell out of there. Her focus was shifted between three things:

Get rescued.

Don’t get eaten.

Bitterness and possible revenge on Shauna and Jeff.

When the topic of cannibalism came up, Jackie couldn’t stomach the thought, refusing to touch the meat. She held strong on that choice for several days until she could no longer… If she wanted to survive to be a bitch to Jeff and Shauna she needed to eat. As much as it repulsed her and made her skin crawl, she ate.

[fatesurvived-arc]

Jackie Taylor on surviving in the wilderness.

TW: mentions of cannabilism & death.

Jackie fell asleep outside in the cold, that much was true but Shauna came to get her in the middle of the night, saving her life as it turned out. She was hypothermic and only hours away from death. When she came to things weren't washed away, she couldn't easily forgive or forget but she wanted to get the hell out of there. Her focus was shifted between three things:

Get rescued.

Don't get eaten.

Bitterness and possible revenge on Shauna and Jeff.

When the topic of cannibalism came up, Jackie couldn't stomach the thought, refusing to touch the meat. She held strong on that choice for several days until she could no longer... If she wanted to survive to be a bitch to Jeff and Shauna she needed to eat. As much as it grossed her out, she ate.

[controlledchaos1342-blog]

POV: You are me. You wrote a silly day-dream thing. It took over and had a mind of its own. Multiple Days Pass. You Decide to do it Again.

-=-

“Welcome- To the Internet! Have a look around~ Everything that brain of yours can think of can be found~ We have Mountains of content~ Some better. Some worse~ If none of it’s of interest to you, You’d be the first!” I was riding on Patchy’s back, deciding to sing a random song. I was gesticulating wildly in tune and the pack wobbled and gruffed in an attempt to play along.

We had to move from our ‘home’ due to, I think summer floods? It’s warmer, and raining lots and the river started rising, so I packed things and corralled everyone to start moving as we used to when Alpha Mc Doberman was the leader.

“Welcome- To the Interne-” Big Momma gives the ‘be quiet’ gruff. Back before, Alpha would use it equally for ‘prey/predator’ as for ‘shut up you all gave me a headache /aff’ but now that... I’m the leader... the signal is pretty much purely for prey and predators. Sometimes I’ll mimic the signal when someone is bothering the others at a bad time, like midnight singing when someone really wants to sleep.

All in all, this was probably for the best because I can’t actually remember the song too well, something something come and have a seat something something pictures of famous persons’ feet, something something next line.

As it is, I curl down. Pressing myself as far into Patchy as I can with my tooth-spear, now roughly the size of an arrow with the new stick, at the ready to stab or slash if something tries to either flank them or escape via passing by the seemingly sick pack-member. Everyone else slinks forward, having found their own comfortable level to compress down while still being as agile as ever.

It seems to be in their nature to match the leaders’ habits. If the leader prefers quite then everyone is quiet, almost deathly so, where as if the leader is like me and basically talks, or sings, all the time then the whole pack becomes a chattering mess of sorts. As such they learned to match much of my habits, from the aforementioned chattering, to some trying cooked meat and plant matter at times, to a preference to stick to stable resources, to now trying to utilize kills not just for food but resources.

As we approach the shuffling, too frantic and heavy to be prey yet still we approach, I think on how in the world I ended up as the leader after Alpha’s untimely end. They find walking upright a dominance display of sorts. I had already taken up an attempt to make sure they weren’t suffering and thus became a sort of medic. All of that after having accidentally convinced Alpha that I was a lost child of their kind via terrified whimpering.

When we approach the target, it’s revealed to be more murder beasts. A part of me worries and I likely tremble and shiver a bit. The last time we encountered another group without our ‘stronghold’ cost us our Alpha, a good family member. I didn’t so much fear my own life. The repeat encounter with the Intruders showed these guys don’t know how to combat a human’s body type and fighting style. I worry another of my pack will be injured in a way I can’t mend.

The new enemies growl, chuff, and all around are probably talking now that I think about it. Patchy chuffs and bobs their head while shaking it, making a sort of figure eight with its neck motions. I sit myself up a bit and have no clue what the appropriate response to these Other’s is. “Um... Hi...”

The Other’s leader seems to chuckle, baring its fangs as it steps forward. Patchy starts to kneel, not to the enemy but to let me off with dignity. I never let the enemy out of my sight so it’s a bit awkward sliding off. Regardless I manage an important ‘statement’ by landing lightly on my feet, only using my hands to balance myself via splaying them out a bit.

This, thankfully, gets the enemy leader to stutter in its stride, almost stepping back as I swiftly switch from making sure I don’t fall over in any direction to walking steadily towards it. It’s a statement to walk upright, to have the balance and steadiness to be at one’s full height for more then a paw strike. I imagine what I’m saying right now is equivalent to ‘You are beneath me. You bow to me.’

I almost manage to stand before it before it rears up, forgoing advancement in favor of intimidation. My pack chirps in glee and croaky manages a whistle. They made the wrong move it seems. I steady myself while the enemy postures and growls, moving my ‘clawed’ hand to one side while still keeping it ready to defend my tender mid-section and aiming my tooth-spear-arrow to jab under the rib-cage.

“I do not understand your words,” I project loudly yet quiet enough that no one outside the clearing would think to investigate, glad I could figure out the method for this, glad I didn’t get consumed by stage fright despite this being infinitely worse then singing in front of a classroom of middle school children. “But we understand tones.”

I allow the enemy to growl a warning, I had been taking a breath and it couldn’t understand me. It didn’t need to think it truly interrupted me. From context and tone and tempo, unless the different packs have wildly different jargon, it was calling me food and weak and dead.

“I will win.” I project, trying to include a growl in my voice to convey better to these creatures, “You will bleed,” the enemy’s hackles are raised before me. I can’t see my own pack but their chirping and the sound of foliage suggests they’re cheering me on, even swaying their tails like when I’d dance and wiggle at the home base. “I don’t think it matters to say this bu-”

It interrupts me with not a snarl, but a swipe. I had leaned back, basically falling half into a limbo-ready position before snapping back and swiping my arrow at it, barely ‘missing’ while managing a true snarl in my voice as I straight up yell, “DO NOT INTERRUPT ME, PEASANT!”

Okay that last word was impromptu memery and silliness but the first part was honest rage. I had always disliked being interrupted. The unspoken comment of ‘your words are meaningless’. It’s normally not a problem, the pack all talk over each other and no one understands my words.

But this isn’t my pack, this isn’t someone joining in my merry or sorrowful tune the best they can. This isn’t mimicry to figure out the message. This was intended as a cut off. I remember the previous leader displays and no one interrupted anyone.

Looking past the enemy I see a couple of them cower slightly, I vaguely register birds being startled away from the area. I think Croaky coughs, because their throat got agitated from the surprise or because their instinct was to whine when they’ve been unable to do that since before I met them I can’t say.

I channel my rage, my past pain, and as much negative emotions as I can as I speak, loud but not so much as to disturb the outside again, “We fight with honor,” the enemy curls its lips to bare its teeth, but this time stays absolutely silent, “or we slaughter you.” I end the message, all be it likely only half understood, with an angry gruff and a stomp of my foot.

The fight was on, and I refused to have the first swipe. The enemy slashes down and I hop back a space, bouncing back to my prior position before it can advance and ‘miss’ a slash with my ‘clawed’ hand. It seems to laugh.

It tries to press forward, not even displaying its teeth and claws while trying to step into my space. I snarl and slash with my spear. It moves further out of the way then it had the prior two times yet I still slash it across its chest, clipping its’ face-plate. This was a statement of sorts. I basically said the truth, ‘I was not aiming to hit you before, I was aiming to surprise and unbalance.’

Its tail quivers, it snarls tries to bite my face.

I legit squeak it terror, so glad that it can’t immediately snap Alpha’s face-plate like it probably could have with my own skull as my only protection. In my mindless fear I claw on one side and stab upwards on the other. My spear ends up hitting its intestinal area, making it gasp and let go. Meanwhile my ‘clawed’ hand grabs a hold of its neck ruff, the teeth of Alpha helping me get a stable grip while my fingers dig in and clench and I refuse to let go.

It whimpers while it tries to snarl, shaking its head around. I hold on, likely risking my entire arm being dislocated, and continue to stab into it with the spear. It manages to put one clawed hand on my shoulder, trying to push me down while trying to claw into me.

The pain I feel is blinding and I start to screech, voice like an angry, dying, pained wildcat. I use my ‘clawed’ hand to grasp, clenching and unclenching it in such a way as to dig further and further into its hide. These guys need blood to go to the brain as much as I do, all other creatures I’m aware of have an important artery and vein leading up the side of the neck that provides the main blood flow between the brain and heart.

I was aiming to make it die as quickly as possible because holy fricking sh!t my arm hurts my wrist hurts my neck hurts my legs will give out if I’m not careful and then me and everyone else is fricking de-

It falls back.

I let my arms both fall limp beside me as it falls backwards.

Its own pack cower. Mine howls in achievement.

It tries to scurry backwards, sluggish from blood loss.

I step forward as it manages to shift itself onto its front.

It probably thinks I’ll finish it off, stab somewhere even more vital.

None of its own pack move to help it; too scared of this small, agile, vicious leader to try to intervene in their own leader’s fate.

I flow from walking to its side to sitting on my haunches before it. I put my hand to its side, the hand that normally wields my spear, and give it light, gentle, comforting scratches along its face-plate.

Its trembling and weak growls turn into a confused churr. “You did well for your own,” I say gently, willing it to understand my words as my own pack have learned to do, “You were of honor, you were mighty, you were good leader.”

It seems to still, not from death but from peace. Its own pack approach, lowly, tails tucked, paws thumping audibly, and a few whine on top of that. I glide up as best as I can, trying to move gracefully as my body demands rest and I walk back to my own pack.

I can’t bring myself to climb onto Patchy, or Big Momma, or Croaky. So instead we all watch the other pack mourn its leader. I slide onto the ground and nearly black out a few times from everything. Big Momma sits besides me as Patchy passes around the clearing and Croaky slinks off into the unknown.

So, Big Momma is watching me while I recover, much like how I’ll sit within arms reach of any of the others whenever they get notably hurt, Patchy is watching the perimeter, partially so the defeated pack don’t try anything and partially so nothing tries to ambush us, and Croaky went to hunt.

Somewhere in my swimming consciousness I watch the defeated pack, now down to two members, mourn their leader before digging into it, eating their fill. I watch as Croaky returns with only smaller prey and some fruits and leaves. One of the Defeated lifts its head and tilts in confusion before going back to the ‘ceremonial feast of mourning’.

Patchy returns for our own food and I let them push ‘my portion’ towards me. I ‘humph’ when they look at me, awaiting me to start eating, as the usual way to say they can start before me. I take the time I need to regain full control of my aching limbs to also inspect the teeth sewn into my leather glove. At least one of them is cracked, possibly in such a way that it could splinter and severely damage me if not removed.

Using my spear hand to inspect the mask gives relief as I remove it, it isn’t that badly damaged. I will want to treat it so help mitigate the damage some time, maybe figure out how to coat it in clear or white paint or something. But for now, the mask is just fine, even if it now has scuff marks along the sides. I set it besides me, it seeming to take a sitting space all its own as I continue to inspect the damages.

There is a small amount of blood under my cheek bones, the Defeated leader likely having pricked me with its fangs as it tried to bite my face off... literally. I decide to also remove my glove, it’s difficult enough as is to eat with it on when it’s whole and only slightly bloodied.

I manage one fruit before Patchy gets up, drawing my attention nearly completely towards the Defeated. Both surviving pack-members are before our group, curled on the ground looking pitiful despite the blood on their faces. Patchy removes their leader’s head and brings it back. The other two of my pack have already started moving to put together a fire, having learned a while ago what materials work for it and what doesn’t.

Soon enough, I’m picking meat from the cooking face of my enemy. I don’t think I’ll ever understand the Murder Beasts’ ways of eating honored figures when they die, but face-meat is tasty when cooked even if this isn’t a boar and I really will need to replace the chipped teeth on my glove.

I decide, before I’m even conscious of it, that I will sooner go unprotected then simply replace the mask made from Alpha’s face. That will be a special honor for only those that were beloved in the pack. Possibly only those who gave their life to protect. Possibly, if I die before it can be replaced in any way, only for past leaders as this pack misinterprets my ways.

-=-

“I wanna be the best~ Like no one ever was~” I sing, voice still recovering from my screaming just a short time ago, as I ride on Big Momma. The two survivors of the Defeated following, much quieter in their chattering with the pack.

“To catch them is my real test~ To train them is my cause~” I’m sure they don’t understand my singing shtick. I don’t fully understand why their following. Oh, I have a few ideas. Maybe Murder Beasts regularly engulf ‘worthy’ members of defeated packs and so they’re basically on probation? Maybe they don’t know what else to do and I ‘should’ have chased them off by now? Maybe they’re an emergency meal plan and they’ve just accepted their fate?

“You teach me~ And I’ll teach you~” I try to sing softly, I try to sing sweetly. I’m pretty sure my voice cracks and turns sour a couple times.

Croaky, the one that most enjoys trying to sing despite being the least qualified for it, tries to mimic the way I would say ‘Pokemon’ at this part. The tempo is right, the tone is right, but I don’t think any of them will ever manage the type of vocalization that human vocal chords can achieve.

I managed to replace some of the teeth on my ‘clawed’ hand, it now being a mix of Alpha’s and the Defeated Leader’s, and I switched the tooth on my spear for a large fang from the Defeated. Now it was closer to being a proper spear, even with its arrow-sized length.

After some more warbled bars, me switching into different Pokemon theme songs, and a few gathered fruit, we approach a clearing with a small pond. It’s not enough to make into a proper home base, but it’s enough to gather supplies and treat injuries more effectively.

We all move to do our thing; I go to the water, pulling out one of the more worn out pieces of leather so I can wash off a bit of the stuff stuck to myself and be ready to help clean anyone who approaches, Big Momma goes to hunt, one of our Defeated following behind her, Croaky goes to pace around to not only check the perimeter but also to gather scrap wood and small creatures for multiple uses, the other Defeated following and seeming to try to figure out the pattern. Finally there’s Patchy who lays nearby, ready to help if something goes wrong without wasting energy.

I stare in the pond and decide to fish, attempting to not only stab the water’s inhabitants with my spear but also to simply snatch them up with my ‘clawed’ hand. I manage a few of them and pass them in Patchy’s direction, letting them keep watch of the seafood. Pond-food?

The Defeated still nearby is the only one who pays any mind to my sudden burst of giggles, not used to the high pitched sound erupting from me. This just makes me giggle more. “heheh~ Kani kani kani, ikan~ Rasa rasa ras-shahahah! Frick I don’t remember the words at all~”

Guess I can’t sing the fish song, especially through my giggles. Soon enough the two return, not just with good fire wood and some bugs and berries for extra flavor, but also good skewer sticks to better cook the fish and whatever meat Big Momma and Thing Two return.

I remove my mask, while I can cook and eat most things with it on, I have trouble eating fish like that and sometimes just want to give my face a chance to ‘breathe’. Thing Two sits a bit further then Patchy and Croaky from the fire, likely unused to the sudden ‘warm flower blooming’ before it. I lean myself fully over it, reaching for the space across from me and pat the ground before leaning back and working on setting things to cook, occasionally munching on the bugs like syrup filled hard candies.

Really, eating bugs isn’t that bad. They taste nutty and as long as they don’t bite or anything you’re fine. I’m proud to say I can get a cricket to jump into my mouth... three out of five times. By the time Big Momma and Thing One return with a couple of deer the fish and some of the fruit are cooked enough to enjoy happily.

It takes a bit of coaxing, but both Thing Siblings are willing to give the cooked fish and a piece of fruit a try, along with the deer. I had started eating one of the fish rather then waiting for a portion of deer to finish cooking, not wanting to overload the two with my brand of weirdness too much.

Meal time is a toss up as to whether there will be chatter or not, sometimes any one of us could end up talking, sometimes we all eat in silence, sometimes the food nearly goes cold and congealed from how much we talk at each other. This time is mostly quiet, seemingly only filled with a bit of chirping to make sure the new friends don’t think it’s the designated silent time.

“The self is made up of the body, the mind, and the soul.” I say random thoughts as they come to me, rehashing thoughts I’d had since my first home. I could sing, but no song stands out as something to sing right now. Instead I focus more on eating and watch the surroundings, mostly moving my eyes rather then my head.

During one of my more complete sweeps, swiveling my head almost entirely around I spot something in the surroundings. My eyes refuse to move away from it, though my head moves as though I’ve focused back on the piece of deer on hand. Is it what I think it is? Or is this just the human inclination to see the pattern of faces in as many places as possible?

“We are the little folk we~” I sing gently, a low growl mingled into my song for the pack to understand that I’m not only singing for pleasure, but to hide my worry from anything but them, “We are the rot in the root~”

I can never remember this song right, but I get the gist enough that they all know the tune, the flow, the way the song feels like a rasping rally. This isn’t rasping. While the new ones aren’t aware of this song they sense the other’s apprehension even as everyone continues to eat as normal.

“We are the worm in the wood~” this was powerful. This version of the song was more in line with how I spoke to the Defeated leader before they fell before me. This was a declaration of combat. “We are the thorn in the foot.”

The last line is clipped, no longer allowed to echo as I flow up, not having had time for putting my claws on but easily picking up my spear. I don’t fool myself into thinking that whoever is there, if they are human, is liable to know english. If they’re a native to this world of Murder Beasts and forests then there’s always the chance that english just doesn’t exist. If they’re like me and awoke in a strange world, there’s no guarantee that they’re from a nation that spoke the same language at all. They could’ve been from japan, the philippines, russia, nigeria, they even, for all I could know and see of them now, have come from ethiopia or maya.

They stiffen when I stand, without my claws or mask but still holding my spear, and flinch as I calmly walk around the pond to them. I stop once I’m past it, my pack now needing to jump clear of it if they should need to join the fight, and raise my unarmed hand in the, hopefully still, universal sign of peace and non-aggressive approach.

I watch them intently, but with a small, gentle smile so as to assure them that I am not necessarily a threat to them. ‘It would be nice to talk to another human again,’ I think to myself as they relax. They seem to take in the situation and...

My eyes widen as they raise a bow and arrow at my pack. I snarl at them as an arrow is shot, my arm swinging out to grab. Instead I ‘blocked’ the arrow, it now embedded in my spear arm. The whole pack is snarling and are going to approach, the ‘human’ is readying another arrow.

They definitely don’t have english as their first language if the seemingly gibberish words are anything to go by. I don’t know any language enough to gauge what they might be saying, to have any clue if they might be an earthling like me. It doesn’t matter because I’m screaming incoherently.

My voice is already strained and cracking. I swing my uninjured hand to tell the pack to be defensive, to protect themselves rather then let them be open to a lucky shot. I stomp over, ignoring the arrow still in my arm, muscles strained around it as I grip my spear tightly.

They ‘human’ stumbles back and reaches for a knife at their side. I see their clothing is lightly armored but not modern. I assume something in line with the traditional fantasy’s favorite era of medieval times. They try to slash at me with their knife and I drop the spear to grab it, by the blade but managing to hold it safely all the same. Their voice is panicked and swift, and my mind is blank beyond the anger at them trying to attack my current family while I tried to be peaceful.

I don’t think twice about slashing at them, intending to dig my nonexistent claws deep into them and tear out their insides. I don’t think about how easily my hand seems to shred into them nor of the warm liquid that sprays out. I don’t think much of the satisfaction I get seeing their eyes widen then go dim.

My thoughts are painfully blank as they drop to the ground and I look at my hand to see... it seemed as though my hand was moving out from shadows despite my lack of moving it in that moment. There is lots of blood on my hand, almost as though I had reached into them and crushed their heart.

“Tha-t’s... n-ew...” my voice is too strained, cracking heavily. Suppose that means no singing for now. I look to my pack, who are approaching with tilted heads.

The Thing Siblings let drool slip from their maws, likely on purpose given that they don’t seem the sort to drool, and it clicks. They’re asking if we should feast on this one as well. I give it thought. I definitely am not going to, I don’t want to risk the human equivalent of mad cow disease. Should I let them?

My mind jumps to what the ‘human’ did. The underhanded tactic they used by aiming past me instead of either running, aiming for myself, or trying to speak. My mind jumps to the image of each and every one of my pack dead by an arrow, even the new recruits would’ve filled me with sorrow. I snarl and can’t stop myself from stomping harshly on the corpse.

“No!” My voice is hoarse but I speak definitively regardless, “No honor!” I kick the dead body, willing their spirit to get my message on the other side of the passage between life, death, and the next life, “No good! Bad! Bad!” I end up leaning down to pick up the body, barely coherent enough to remember to grab my spear with my injured hand, and drag it over to the pond.

They all watch as I flip the body over myself, into the water. “Fish food! Sleep with the fishes you fucker! May your ancestors shame you for you folly!”

My voice cracked multiple times there. The whole pack stomps and grunts and howls, seemingly joining in on disgracing the ‘human’ for their lack of honor.

We feast on the honored dead, give thanks to those who gave their life to us in one way or another. We shame the dishonored dead, letting the weak and pitiful scavengers have their fill as the body rots away.

Soon enough my heaving breaths have calmed and we’ve all returned to our meal. I take the time to push the arrow out, not the way it came in but the way it forced itself through. I make sure to clean the wound best I can but there’s still a hole in my arm... “Ma-ybe...” I focus on the area, imagining silk woven from shadows as I mime wrapping bandages on my arm.

A black, velvety soft material manifests in my hand, latching on to my arm gentle and binding the wound closed. I grin at my new-found magic. I can help so much more now. I could likely forgo the clawed glove and tooth-spear one day if I can make it work right. But I wouldn’t want to, I don’t want to risk my only offenses to disappear if my mind blanks.

But it will greatly help, whenever I’m caught without usable weapons, whenever I need to throw something at our prey and enemies, whenever one of our own is bleeding. I wish I figured this out before Alpha passed, but time isn’t something I can move through freely. The past is set in stone for me.

[wordsbymae]

Mae's Yandere Thought of The Week

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The reader returns to the small rural town she once called home to take care of her dying father. But things have changed and the once peaceful town is now harbouring a wicked evil.

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Pairing: Cult leader (male!oc) x gn! reader 18+

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

TW: parental death, a cult, forced marriage, human ritual sacrifice, an ambiguous religion (leaning towards Christianity but not outrightly Christian), mention of cannabilism at the beginning, implied after that, not on "screen", not modern? no particular time but not modern, gore and violence. MINORS DNI

note: I changed the title this week from horny to yandere cause this one has nothing smutty in it and was born from my lifelong interest in cults. This is not based on any actual past or present cults and any similarities are unintentional. My only inspiration is far cry 5, but only a very little. I've been wanting to write a cult fic for a little while now and this is only just the start.

I honestly don't know where I went with this, it's part ghost story of cannibal miners and part cult story, I don't know if they match but I was too far deep into the first part to get rid of it or to separate my thoughts. a part of me thinks this is inspired by the gold by Pheobe bridgers

sorry if it seems to get less put together as it went along, I'm going out for pizza :)

Anyway, enjoy!

Lots of love mae xx

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In honour of my love of horror movies, since it's the spooky season, I have a new thought for you! imagine growing up in a small rural town, superstition was still rife and ghost stories were as real to you as history.

Your father used to tell you tales of the men from the hills. wicked and greedy, selfish and brutal. he would tell you how they had left for the hills when the news of gold being struck, found its way to town. They left in droves, leaving behind wives and children, mothers and fathers. most, the good ones, come home soon after, either with small ounces of gold or with nothing in their bags. But the others, the bad ones, the wicked ones, stayed. They hungered for the gold like it was bread and butter. they lusted for it, even with their eyes closed their hands still ached to dig into the soft mud of the river bed. when winter came the town, foolishly so, thought they would return, wait for the harsh winter frost to melt before returning to their beloved hills. But they did not return. weeks went by and the town worried, Thoughts and images of them freezing in their sleep or being mauled by wolves left mothers and fathers worried, and wives and children looking towards the hills in fear. If only they had fallen into death asleep, if only a wolf had ripped their throats out. Instead, as always, the truth was much more horrifying.

The town sent a group of men when the snow cleared to find them. They were gone for 6 days before they returned, eyes wide and mouths shut tight, families of the miners begged for news, but the men stayed silent, shaking their heads. One mother asked if they were any survivors from the frost, and the answer from one of them chilled the town to its bones. The men of the hills were the living dead.

The town never spoke of the miners again, those who had seen what was in those hills refused to say anything more, only that evil was in the hills. The story terrified you as a child, more when your father, the son of a rescue party member, caught you wandering into the woods. You had never been more scared of your father than that moment, when he dragged you back inside, demanding you never step foot in those woods again, that you would promise never to find yourself heading for the hills. You had stood there crying while your father held his head in his hands sitting at the kitchen table. You could see the fear in his eyes when the anger left them. He made you swear to never enter the woods, never ever, and most definitely never head for the hills for that was where the men of the hills lived. You, at the age of 13, thought yourself too old to be scared of such a tale and when your tears had subsided told him as such. What was so scary about them anyway? no one actually knew what they had done that scared the men, maybe they had just found them dead from hunger or frost.

Your father shakes his head and in his desperation to save you from the woods tells you a story he promised to never tell anyone. His father was the leader of the rescue party and he saw all. It took them 4 days to reach the miners' camp, but the stench of death could be smelt a whole day away. When they arrived they had to block their noses to fight the smell of rotten flesh. The camp looked deserted of all things living, but humans were still reminded. littered around the camp were butchered bodies of men, flesh ripped from bones and many disembowelled. At first, it looked like the men had been killed by a pack of wolves, but when counting the number of men dead, they came up short. 20 men had remained in the hills, but they could only find 7 bodies. where were the rest? had they tried to run? they would soon find their answer. From the fog and mist came a bellowing howl, the rescue party waited for the answers of other wolfs, but instead the shadowy figures of men came forward. But they didn't look like men anymore. instead, there was something wrong with them, their eyes were filled with hunger, and they had smiles wide and teeth riddled. their teeth were rotten and bits of bloody meat were stuck in the gaps. their nails were long and blood was etched under them. their faces were stained red, and their hair was knotted and mangled with dirt and grim. Your grandfather and his men raced home, not stopping to sleep or drink or eat until they finally made their way into town.

your father didn't have to explain anymore to you, you understand what had really happened. why there were blood-stained faces and hunger in their eyes, those men had really become the living dead.

but all ghost stories have to end at some point and when given the chance you left your sleepy little town behind for new exciting possibilities. and the men from the hills become nothing but a childhood fear.

You hadn't realised your greatest fear was your father dying until you were on the first train out after receiving word your father was on his deathbed. It had been ten years since you had seen him last and your only hope was you could see him one last time. The town hadn't changed at all, it looked exactly like it had when you were a child. But you could feel something under the surface of it all. Maybe it was the way your father broke down into tears of despair at the sight of you or that he would tell you to leave him to save yourself. But these were the ramblings of a dying old man. but the way the townspeople looked at you was different, stranger. you could feel their stares from behind you as you walked down the street. You could feel their eyes following you as you drove past. and then there were the signs, covering missing people's signs and a reward for information about a mutilated body found.

"let us save you"

"let us love you"

"Let us lead you into the hills of grace"

the last one always gave you the shudders.

His face was always plastered on them too. his face made you sick. he was too happy, too loving, too generous, and too kind.

they said he came from the hills. that he had one day walked from the woods, the hills raising behind him like heralds. people were wearing at first. the last time someone had left the woods they were bringing news of a massacre from the very hills he said he hailed from. but he had been so charming, so dynamic, so faithful. he said all he wanted was to save them. save them from their sins and lies. and they let him. soon the whole town fell into his arms and he was their saviour.

You had yet to meet him, and you thanked your lucky stars. but your luck was soon to run out.

your father made you promise with his last breath that you would leave that night. you had promised, of course, it was unkind to say anything else to a dying man. But you had things to do. a funeral to organise, a will to have read, a house to sell. you couldn't just leave in the middle of the night with your father's still warm body laying alone on the bed.

he cornered you at the wake. he wasn't invited, but he came anyway. you watched in disgust as the people you grew up with practically grovelled at his feet, but his eyes were set on you. you hadn't wanted to talk to him but you didn't have much choice. you could see why the town loved him. he was polite and respectful, charming and dynamic, and he listened to what you said and complimented you. but there was something wrong with his face. maybe the fact he smiled too wide, showed too many teeth, how his fingers gripped his glass too tightly, or maybe it was his eyes.

maybe it was because there was a hunger in them.

you had tried to keep your promise, really you did. You tried to leave soon after the house was put on the market. it had only been 2 weeks since your father's passing. could two weeks longer really be so bad?

you cursed yourself as they dragged you into the chapel. you screamed and begged, but the two men holding an arm each said nothing but continued their march onwards. you tried to pull yourself back, tried even biting them, tried to beg for help from Mrs johnson, the sweet lady who lived next to your father, who babysat you and taught you how to bake after your mother died, you begged for her help, but she just looked at you with a wide smile as they dragged you past her. you pivoted your head and tried to beg for help from Johhny, a childhood friend, who promised to always have your back, instead he just smiled. there was no one, not one in this town who would help you. and the whole town was here, all standing in the chapel watching with smiles as you were dragged to your end.

he stood watching at the altar, a wicked grin gracing his face. if you hadn't known he was a sociopathic maniac you would say he looked handsome.

you were led further into the end, in the building where you once were introduced to the town, where your mother had held you high and you were blessed by those in front of you for a happy life. you once believed in their blessing, but now it was a curse.

you were held next to him, the men held your arms tight, you could only sob as he shooed them away, he held your hands in a gentle, yet restricting hold. when you first met him you thought his smile was too wide, too many teeth shown. but now you wished for it back. he looked at you like he loved you. you looked at him like he was crazy. his head tilted forward and his mouth found its way to your ear. his voice was thick and slow, filled with promise.

"let me save you"

"let me love you"

"let me lead you into the hills "

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okay pizza time!

hope you liked it!

[courtinggrievances]

A LIST OF PRIZES I’VE SEEN AS TOP TIER FIRST PLACE PRIZES;

THE BLUEPRINTS TO A WELL KNOWN AND WELL HATED SEADWELLER’S HIVE

A FUCKING!! MOTORCYCLE!! WAS TONIGHTS PRIZE. BUT THE SECOND PLACE WAS THE ONE I NEEDED ANYWAY. (WHICH WAS A MEDICULLERS BAG FULL OF MEDICINE.)

A WHEELBARROW OF VARIOUS, HIGHLY VALUED METALS. 

A CUSTOM MADE SET OF REINFORCED DAGGERS EMBEDDED WITH JEWELS

SIXTY POUNDS OF QUESTIONABLE BIO-ORGANIC COMPONENTS, A COMPUTER HACKERS FUCKING DREAM. THAT ONE WAS INTERESTING. THESE TWO GUYS GOT UP BETWEEN THE ROPES AND FOUGHT LIKE ANIMALS FOR IT, AND THEN ONE GIRL FROM THE AUDIENCE CASUALLY STROLLED UP, TOOK THE BOX, AND LEFT WHILE THEY WERE DUKING IT OUT. SHE DIDN’T EVEN GIVE A FUCK. GOALS MAN.

A BOX OF WATERBREATHERS

AND THE MOST OUTLANDISH ONE I’VE SEEN BUT BY FAR THE MOST VALUABLE- THE WEIGHT OF YOUR BEATEN OPPONENTS IN FIRST RATE MEAT CUTS. 

SERIOUSLY, DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH MONEY YOU COULD MAKE IF YOU RESOLD THAT? SURE, THE DAGGERS ARE NICE AND THE BARROW OF METAL, SURE, BUT WHERE’S THE MARKET FOR THAT? EVERYONE WANTS MEAT, ESPECIALLY MEAT YOU DIDN’T HAVE TO KILL. 

ANYWAY, THE PRIZES ARE NICE. I GOT A HUNDRED CAEGERS AND HALF THE BAG OF MEDS FOR MY TROUBLES. 

[another-whump-sideblog]

Jane’s Pets Chapter 70: Grief

TWs in the tags

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You think that if the nightmares stopped and the brain damage went away, you would be okay.

The days are usually fine. They’ve been getting better. Sometimes you’re so scared that you can barely breathe and you can hear Jane laughing, laughing, laughing, and when Diya and Greg and Barron try to help all you can see is kind strangers gutted in front of you and blended into a smoothie and if you spit it out you’ll have to lick it off the floor.

But that happens less and less. You should be relieved, but you’re not. You don’t know why it got worse so suddenly, and you don’t know why it’s getting better, so it could get ‘scratching your skin off’ bad again and you would have no idea how to make it better. And you have no idea how to prevent it.

The nights have not been getting better. Not for you and not for Diya and Greg and Barron. They’ve been having more nightmares too, undoubtedly because of the stress you’ve been putting them under lately. It’s hard for anyone to feel safe when someone in their house is screaming at all hours of the night.

You hate that you’re making things worse for them. Reminding them of being trapped with the fae or a vampire or… whatever Barron nightmares about.

The book you’ve been reading talks about how the author used lucid dreaming to combat nightmares, so you’ve been trying to lucid dream.

You haven’t been trying as hard as you could be. Writing down your dreams is supposed to help with lucid dreaming, and you’re… not going to do that. You don’t want to think about your nightmares any more than you have to. And with recurring nightmares like you have, it’s supposed to help to rewrite the ending and then visualize the dream with that ending over and over again.

That sounds like torture. You think psychology is wrong on this one.

What you can do is check if you’re dreaming often. In the book, the author describes counting their fingers and checking the time, because those things didn’t work in their dreams. If they couldn’t read the time no matter how long they tried, or if clocks produced nonsense numbers and symbols, they knew they were dreaming. If they had trouble counting their fingers or had a different number of fingers than normal, they knew they were dreaming.

There aren’t clocks in most of your nightmares, but you figure that if the thought “I should check the time to see if I’m dreaming” gets so routine that it’s in your dreams, it will still help you realize your dreaming. Because that’s not a thought you’d have back at the house, where there are no clocks.

You’re not sure if the counting fingers thing will work. Surely the fact that you have 5 fingers on each hand is deeply ingrained enough that it would hold true in a dream. But it worked for the author of the book, so it’s worth a shot.

Diya’s been doing these checks with you, also wanting a way out of the nightmares, though not willing to write them down or dwell on them like the book suggests. Ey’s on the same page as you as far as that goes. The two of you have been trying to figure out other things that would help you figure out you’re in a dream.

“I mean, there’s the phrase that’s like ‘someone pinch me’ when you think you’re dreaming, but… I’ve always been able to feel pain in dreams. Even before all the stuff with Jane happened.”

“Yeah, I don’t think there’s anything that applies to everyone when it comes to this stuff. Maybe we could get in the habit of like, tracing out a word? Since reading is supposed to be hard in dreams, writing should be too, right? And that’s something you can do basically anywhere, so we have something to check even if there’s no clocks or books or whatever in a dream.”

“…That could work. What word?”

“We don’t have to use the same one.”

“Right, right. But what kind of words were you thinking?”

“Just, like, a regular word. Flower or something.”

That works. You trace the word ‘flower’ onto your arm. You can get in the habit of doing that.

“So, we have three ways to test if we’re dreaming.” Diya claps eir hands together. “That should be good. Do you want to go on a walk?”

You nod and let Diya lead you outside and in a random direction. You’re very, very tired, but your head only hurts a little, so overall you’d say you’d feel pretty okay.

You wish Puppy and Kitty were here. You wish you knew their names. For as afraid as you’ve been lately, you know they have it worse, and you’d do almost anything to save them.

“Diya… what if they never agree to let us save them? What do we do then?”

Diya squeezes your hand. “I guess we’d start trying to kill Jane while they were still there.”

“But- but what if she punishes them to get at us? What if she kills them?”

Diya is quiet for a long time. “I don’t know.”

“I know you guys said we can’t help them if they don’t want to be helped. But they /do/, they’re just scared. They want to be saved, I know it, even if they pretend they don’t and- and lash out at people who are trying to help them. So at what point do we just help? Even if they’re pretending they don’t want us to? How long should we wait for them to choose on their own when they don’t have free choice for as long as they live in that fucking house?”

Diya chuckles weakly. “These sound like questions you should ask Barron.”

“I just- we’re supposed to respect their decisions, but- I don’t! They’re brainwashed and scared and I don’t think they can choose for themselves while living with their torturer. We should just take them. Restrain them here if we have to, because it’s better to be restrained here than to be doing anything in that house.”

“It’s… it’s not really about morality.” Diya’s voice is quiet, a big change from normal. “We don’t have the resources to keep two people here who don’t want to be here. Whether it would be right to do that or not. And… you saw what Puppy did to Greg. It’s not her fault, but she is dangerous. We’re willing to take risks to help you guys, but we can’t be reckless. We can’t help at all if we’re dead or too injured to protect you.”

That all makes logical sense. Still, you stop walking, cross your arms and frown. “We can’t just leave them there.”

Diya stops walking too, and faces you. “We’re not. We’re keeping an eye on them. The second they’re ready to leave, we’ll be there.”

That’s not enough. Not anymore. “What if I never see them again?”

“Then you never see them again, and you keep going on anyway.”

“No!” The anger is gone as quickly as it rose. You’re not supposed to say no, Jane doesn’t like it, can’t let you get away with it- “sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. You have nothing to be sorry for. I know this is frustrating.”

You cover your face with your hands. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry-“

“You’re safe. Come on, take a deep breath. What are five things you can see?”

“Mhm…” You try to breathe. Empty your lungs before taking another breath. You put your hands down. “You- I can see you, and dirt, and my hands, and the sky, and… my clothes.”

“There you go. What are four things you can touch?”

“The ground, um… the air, my clothes, um… you?” You’re asking for permission. Diya nods and envelopes you in a hug.

You rest your head on eir shoulder. Ey doesn’t ask anymore questions and ey doesn’t pull away.

You’re safe. You feel safe.

“I, personally, think your friends just need more time. But I’ve been wrong before, and if you don’t see them again… we’ll be here for you.”

You don’t want to think about that possibility, but it’s comforting to know that in the worst possible ending, you’ll still have people to support you. People who you love and who love you.

After a long, long time, you break the hug. “Let’s go home.” You say, and you and Diya go back to the cabin.

~~

Puppy can’t quite shake the sad mood following her around as she does her chores. She’s in pain and she’s tired and she misses Bunny.

Her attempts to daydream have not been helpful. She can’t stop thinking that Liam and Charlie and this free version of herself are dead.

Gone, gone, gone. Charlie replaced by Kitty, Liam replaced by Bunny, and whoever she used to be replaced with Puppy. She is daydreaming about dead people. People who don’t exist anymore and never will again. Dead.

She didn’t know Charlie very well, before Master had turned them into Kitty. But she knew Liam. He was trusting and loyal and happy. She knows that while she misses Bunny, she is also missing Liam. And Liam won’t come back when Bunny does.

Those thoughts suck the fun out of daydreaming. She just wants to pretend everything’s okay for a while. She doesn’t want to grieve her friends who are, by almost all measures, still alive.

When she finishes her chores, she goes to her room and brushes the fur of all her plushies. She can keep them happy, at least. She can keep them safe and cared for.

But that’s not true, is it? Because Master took her bunny, and Master could be doing absolutely anything to it. She might never get it back.

Someday, she will grieve Bunny and Kitty too, and there won’t be anyone else to take their places.

A/N: Let me know if I should tag anything else!

Tag list: @eatyourdamnpears @whump-in-the-closet @scp-1296 @fuzzybucketz