#fuck trying categorize that shit
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therottenkingsreckoning · 1 year ago
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My gender is not a good idea as I have no interest in this program
Type "my gender is" on your phone and let your phone finish the sentence, then tag your moots to keep the chain going, I'll go first.
My gender is a little bit more intense than I thought I could have done
@mirukosbitchywife @get-junpeid
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ssspringroll · 11 months ago
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A himbo, as promised
This look is what happens when you try to be Y2K but youve only ever seen Earth in vintage tourism brochures
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istherewifiinhell · 11 months ago
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This unique character in a scifi has a transfigured and uncanny appearence and the story hinges on the tradegy that unfolds when only two people on opposite sides of a conflict can actually treat it with any kindness and respect.
But well.... we decided that was kinda ableist cause the ables were being meannnnn and the character is UGLY and CHILDLIKE so instead when we revisted it we made HER pretty and she had just like scifi autism [which ONLY presents socially it would NEVER effect someones appearence or GAIT]
You understand im killing you with knives yes?
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benbamboozled · 2 years ago
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“Shipping Batcest is harmful for real-life adopted families”
First of all, no, no it’s not. “Fictional people fans think should kiss” could not be more abstracted from real life. Get some fuckin perspective, mate.
Second of all, let’s be real here. You just don’t like it. It’s okay to just not like things, or to even be squicked by them. You don’t have to make up reasons why it’s actually bAaAaAaD. You can just go “it squicks me. Next!”
Thirdly, if your issue really is “I believe the very concept to be disrespectful to adopted families” there’s an easy fix for this.
The obvious solution?
Make them all blood related.
Boom. No more issues with “adopted vs. blood related family” anymore!
You’re welcome.
#clearly the only currently ethical Batcest ship is BruDami *nods sagely*#i don’t *need* people to ship Batcest.#it’s totally okay to NOT ship things!#i would just prefer it if people dropped the morality façade and were just open with the fact that they don’t like that people like things.#‘I think the way you play with your paper dolls on your own time is harmful in some vague way with literally no supportive evidence’#fucking LISTEN TO YOURSELVES.#you could be sparking joy for others!#this also conveniently ignores that canon is CONSTANTLY bouncing around#what the batkids think of each other/how Bruce categorized them in his life.#like the entire EXISTENCE of Damian is based on the idea that a blood son is ‘more real’—#AND THAT IS CANON ITSELF.#so…do you renounce all Batcanon? cut ties to it entirely? if not—why not?#oh…so it turns out that it’s only ‘terrible and bad and disrespectful’ and blah blah if it’s done—#—​within a sphere wherein you believe yourself to have some amount of power!#you can’t ‘fiction = reality’ fandom while finding a million and one excuses for why ‘fiction != reality’ for motherfuckin CANON.#CANON—which has SO MUCH MORE reach and impact than goddamn…the niche hobby space that is fandom!#i will probably delete this because I try not to get this salty on main…#…unless it’s about Jim Starlin lol.#BUT THIS KINDA SHIT GETS MY BACK UP?#don’t pretend like having a squick is some moral stance with actual meaning besides ‘it ew to me.’
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And if I said my one wish from season 2 was to see Jim stab Ed (serious goose style, with full - real life - 'being stabbed' consequences). What then. What if I tagged Ed when I said it. Should be fine, right? Not like you're ONLY allowed to post worshipful simpering praise of the characters in the tags, right?
Better yet, I want Izzy to cut something off of Ed and shove it down his throat and THEN let Lucius toss Ed overboard in the middle of the night.
Is this the kind of shit yall wanna see in the Edward Teach tag? Cause we can play that fucking game. BELIEVE me, we can play that fucking game.
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anaalnathrakhs · 6 months ago
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"i thought you said you'd make an effort" MOTHERFUCKER THIS IS ONLY COMPLAINT #1 OUT OF A VERY LONG LIST JUST BE GRATEFUL I CAN WAIT UNTIL THE GUESTS ARE GONE TO SNAP
#YEAH I MAKE AN EFFORT THATS WHY I ONLY COMPLAIN ABOUT THE STUFF I REALLY CANNOT DEAL WITH LONGTERM#god#it's just#incredibly annoying how my mom just goes OUT OF HER WAY to shrink the scope again when i just explained to her what would work#''so you can't speak up and if we do nothing it doesn't work'' yeah no shit then speak up YOU then. like i just said you probably should#i mean. you did say you don't control what guests bring. BUT YES YOU DO#yes you can speak to them about it#you can discuss and make it less systematic#you can express your thoughts#so you actually just lie to sympathize with me but you don't give a shit#and yet you still act like you tried everything like you just don't know what else could be done#i told you what was my problem i told you what would make it better#say you have other priorities#say you expect me to make an effort and not to be the fucking freak i was my whole childhood#that you were kind enough to tolerate most of the time#even though i was sooooo fucking weird when you knew i had problems but couldn't categorize them so why would i need to do things different#say you don't understand why i hurts me if i can ''try to make an effort''#sorry the only kind of family reunion we have is food-based and i can't try and have good relationships w my family if i dont can it#and eat whatever's in front of me so that they can be happy i'm finally normal and grown up#god jesus christ#yeah it IS your house and i don't get to veto or force anything#dont act surprised when your smart plan for dealing with difficult things is expect your kid to shut the fuck up about any problem they hav#and then huh. weird. your kid isn't happy.#i try to foster a good relationship holy shit#i try to go past the things i don't like and compromise and engage w them#how is that not doing my best#i'm sorry i don't feel great when difficult things happen and also i can't control any of it#when you can and you've also shown me many time i can't expect actually meaningful support from you#broadcasting my misery#vent
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thecatinthepurplepants · 9 months ago
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I've been listening to A Voice From Darkness podcast and episode 8 was... a fucking ride
Dr. Ryder: oh, okay *already audibly amused* our next comes from Eric who writes: I heard you once fought Dracula. Is that true?
Me: oh haha, even if the supernatural and vampires exist in this setting I doubt that Dracula is real 🤭😏
Dr. Ryder: No, Eric, that's not true...
Me: that's funny, I wonder where he heard tha-
Dr. Ryder: - you're confusing me for my grandfather!
Me:
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doomedbythe-narrative · 9 months ago
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the way y’all hype up songs like fucking bimbo doll or certain songs by certain rappers that literally minimize women down to their ability to perform sexually but draw the line at dylan mulvaney is realllll funny to me.
just saying sounds like terf rhetoric to me.
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thenukacolachallenge · 1 year ago
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"if you dont reblog fandom works, soon there wont be any fandom works to reblog" is such a blatant fucking guilt tripping lie and im so sick of seeing it lol
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taz-writes · 1 year ago
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object memories
A fic I wrote as part of my D&D druid’s backstory that I’m in the mood to share. Do you ever write something for the sole purpose of splashing around in your own prose like a dog in a kiddie pool?
TLDR: POV character Hush and her father were held prisoner by a cult for 10 years in solitary confinement, before being ritually sacrificed. Unbeknownst to the cult, Hush wasn’t quite dead and woke up later in the mass grave mortally wounded but alive. As a druid, Hush can shapeshift into animals if she’s seen and studied them before. This fic is about how she 'discovered’ her first four wildshapes in the aftermath of her ordeal, while learning to survive alone in the wilderness and fend off the hunger that threatened to consume her.
~4,600 words; CWs: gore, animal death, take ‘em seriously I’m not kidding around. I feel like there’s also something going on here with the hunger stuff, but I truly don’t know what the fuck to even call that CW. If somebody knows, let me know lol.
The rat was the first. 
She doesn’t know exactly when she reached the tipping point, but she grew intimately acquainted with the ways of the rats over the years. She spent an eternity in that dungeon, curled in the corner among her clinking chains, feeling them scurry over her in her sleep. Grew acquainted with how they move, how they think, grew used to fighting them away from what little she had to eat, bartering with them for the space, for help to stay clean, teaching them to bring her things. She watched them for generations, while they nested in the dirty little pallet that she slept on,  until they were closer friends than she’d ever had among humans. 
She knew them, inside and out, long before she knew how to change into anything. When she awoke in the aftermath and the wildshapes came, the rat was like a second skin. She slipped into the shape like a shield, slick with blood, and slithered out with the last of her breath. 
The world outside was big. 
She couldn’t heal. The first word she spoke when she took her given shape again was a rattling, empty gasp that sent sticky gore oozing through the feeble scabs over the gash in her neck. It didn’t matter how desperately she grasped for the language, how well she knew the incantation, how crisp and adamant the gestures were that should have saved her. There was no magic without sound. And her angelic heritage did little to help when whatever the source of her limited innate healing, it simply didn’t respond. 
She spent the first week or so in the glade on the edge of the forest where she collapsed after running out of time as the rat. The summer heat broiled her skin, even through the shield of the canopy, leaving her parched and aching and crisp like a dead leaf. In the haze of exhaustion, she began to treat her wounds. 
The sacrificial shift they’d dressed her in shredded easily. She wound long strips of it carefully around her waist and chest, stomach churning at the horrid sight of the injuries, and tied the rest as tightly as she could across her ragged neck before the pressure made her choke. Every motion left her dizzy and sick. She might have laid there on and off for hours or days or a month, languishing in the softest patch of moss she managed to find and dragging herself back and forth from the clear little stream that burbled a few yards away. As many moments as she could, she hid behind the rat again. The rat wasn’t bleeding. The rat was safe. The rat could forage, devouring whatever it could find, just enough to sustain her. 
She learned the rabbits next. 
Timid creatures, cautious and quick, they watched her with their wide beaded-bright eyes and darted to safety at the sound of her rattling breaths. While she waited to recover her strength between wildshapes, she watched them back, tracking the little families back and forth among the wild grasses. They were solitary, but not alone—never truly alone. 
There was a nest not far from her resting place. She stumbled across the babies on her way to the stream. Their tiny forms huddled together in a depression in the grass and she looked one in the eyes and its little ears trembled, it tucked itself deeper in the shadows, bracing, and a sudden knife twisted in the center left of her stomach. 
It took too long to realize it wasn’t the wound this time. 
Her sunburnt skin ached desperately, throbbing to the rhythm of a heart that wasn’t hers. She fumbled past to the edge of the water and dipped her face below the surface, where the chill could bring her to her senses, but the soft curves of the current brushed their way along her cheeks like the perfect ghosts of her father’s hands. 
Her lungs burned before she came back up for air. 
The next time she changed, the new shape was a rescue. She was a stranger but she smelled like the glade, and the other rabbits allowed her there. In the shadowed night they huddled together, warmed by each other’s skin, and her tiny rabbit’s heart began to calm as it hadn’t before in a very long time. 
She couldn’t remain forever. She was keenly aware, the longer she lingered, that she was far too close to the cult. Any member could stumble across her here, out on a forage or traveling to the compound, and she wouldn’t get another chance at freedom. She couldn’t risk it. When her stomach sealed enough that the insides of her abdomen didn’t spill to the outside after any major movement, she staggered to her feet like a newborn fawn and began the journey. 
She stuck to the woods. Waterdeep was a death trap, anyone could be cult-aligned, anyone could see her and they thought she was dead but she couldn’t know who might know her face. The roads were too much of a risk, populated as they were. Stealth was her only option. The angels guided her when she slept, teaching her how to find north and south in the stars, how to know clean water from stagnant, how to name the leaves and berries around her and tell which ones were safe. She treated her aches with willow bark and bandaged herself with buffers of soft clean leaves. She passed the days in the shelter of her animal forms or huddled in the shade, thinking of anything but the black spots that swarmed intermittent in her vision and the weakness in her limbs. She stayed alive. It was a near thing. 
When the berry season faded, and the leaves began to turn, the hunger snarled in her like a wild beast. 
She stumbled to the nearest town under cover of night, shielding her body with her arms, following the smell of something delicious she couldn’t name that made her gut twist with starving, nauseous desperation. It was too open, the streets too broad, but every building’s door loomed and narrowed and filled her mouth with the suffocating taste of molding earth until her heart pattered the way it did in the rabbit’s body and the outlines of the structures blurred and blackened before her eyes. A too-cold breeze swirled through the streets and she shuddered from head to toe. 
There was a man ahead in dark robes that swirled and her heart moved like rabbit’s feet fleeing in her ribcage. She forced herself to the alley, forced herself back, and bolted into the safety of the sacred darkness. 
It was like that at the next few towns, too. There were kind people, here and there. One gave her a soft dark shirt and soft dark pants when she met him in the night, thrust them at her and skittered off when she tried through rattling gasps to ask if he wanted payment; a few innkeepers let her stay the night and gave her meals in the morning that softened the hunger’s brutal edge. But it couldn’t last, because the figures in the alleyways always came back, and names that she remembered from another life haunted her until she fled back to the safety of the trees. 
The days grew colder. 
The woods were safer further south, deep and dark, filled with birdsong and the golden colors of the waning year, the colors bright as life. She’d taken a sharp rock and cut a stick to hold her weight, easing the pressure on the days when walking was too much. Her breathing was growing easier, and her neck didn’t bleed anymore. But the words that would call magic to her side still couldn’t find their way from her mind out through her lips. 
She was losing strength. The angels taught her traps and snares, but her feeble hands couldn’t tie the knots tight enough, and the few beasts she trapped slipped free when she tried to claim them. The herd of deer that once bolted at the sight of her now didn’t even flinch, the great many-pointed stag that led their numbers watching her passively while his mate and children drank at the riverside and foraged from the dying grasses. There was little to forage and less to live by, and some days the wavering mists of exhaustion hardly left her vision. 
Sometimes, on the nights the angels didn’t come, she dreamed of the stag instead. Of his glinting eyes in the brush, watching her, unafraid. She murmured prayers in the morning to whatever forces listened. 
She met the wolves in the pits of a moonless night, by way of gleaming golden eyes and an uncanny silence sweeping over her resting place, and she knew they’d come for her. She resolved herself to at least go down on her feet. 
When the first wolf lunged, she lashed out with her staff, squeezing her eyes shut against the wave of fatigue that swept through her body from head to toe and sent the blood rushing out of her head, and felt herself make contact. The beast yelped, and she blinked spots from her vision just in time to fend off a second, sending it sprawling across the scrubby ground. Her hands shook.
“Please,” she tried to rasp, though nothing but a helpless wheeze came out. The wolves paced. She shifted back, making space, feeling acid adrenaline spread slow like venom down her arms and into her fingertips, biting back the way every motion tore at the scabby flesh of her still-healing abdomen. 
The wolves kept pacing. In the dark, they moved like dancers, every footstep intentionally measured. Silent, despite their size, dwarfing her with heavy bodies—direwolves, not just wolves, but their largest and most vicious cousins. 
Her stomach growled with a ferocity that nearly sent her to her knees. 
The third wolf lunged. She grasped for the little magic she knew, one of the rare spells that remained without her voice, and scared it back with a shard of ice that burst into bitter steam across the pack. Its yelp was piercing and sharp and left her dizzy. Through the haze as she recovered, she watched the wolf pack flee. 
She dreamed of the stag that night. She dreamed of blood and the careful steps of hunting beasts, tender in the foliage. She dreamed that she staggered to uncertain feet and the stag was there, his muzzle nudging against her arm, strong and stable, as she found her way upright. She wrapped her arms around him. He was warm and smelled of musk and the gentle decay of the forest floor in fall. He didn’t flee. His fur was soft like the velveteen skin of something whose name she’d forgotten, a precious something she’d loved in another life, beyond her memory, behind the veil of the endless dark. She awoke grasping for it, the name on her lips but not close enough to catch it, even if she’d had the voice to speak. 
She dreamed fitfully, in bursts, interrupted by the empty claws of a hollow stomach scratching at the inside of her vessel like nails on slate.
The next day, something whimpered in the bushes when she went to change her bandages at the stream. She braced herself against her staff, and nudged aside the leafy branches, and found the wolf. It was panting,  golden eyes glazed grey with pain, curled up defensively with hackles raised. It growled at her approach, but the sound was weak, and tapered to a whimper. 
Near its feet, the ground was muddied with black-red blood. She traced the line from its paws to the place in its side where the fur was shaved down to muscle and a thin line of bone. The ghost of a spell and an icy projectile flashed across her memory.
Her hands were shaking again. 
She went to the water. This stream ran clear and cold, down from somewhere in the mountains, carrying the mineral taste of glaciers high above. Flakes of mud and blood trailed free from her hands when she dipped them in the current, and she watched them swirl away through the eddies and whorls. 
It was all mechanical, in the end. She pried a piece of moss from the bank, hefted it, ran it through the water and watched the dirt run off the roots towards the valley. Washed it clean, squeezed it under the surface and watched it fill with water. Stood and turned back to the forest. 
The beast didn’t calm, but it didn’t bite when she pressed the pad of moss as gently as she could against the gash. It snapped, and she looked it in the eye, waiting. Its jaws were wide, teeth yellowed and worn from use. It could tear her to ribbons even now, if it had the nerve. She wouldn’t last long. 
She washed the wound, and padded it with clean dry lichen, and flinched when she touched the beast’s side and a warmth filled her fingers that hadn’t answered her since she first returned to consciousness in the grave. She caught it like a soap bubble, soft as a memory. It settled in her chest and the breath that filled her lungs was deeper than she’d had in years. 
She’d forgotten how it felt, when the warding darkness at her center answered. When the healing power in her blood responded to her call. 
She forgot it again when the hunger returned in a wave of dizzying force, chasing all other thoughts from her mind. The wolf, rising from its rest in the hollow, tilted its head with a calculating glint and watched her. Gold eyes met gold. 
It turned to follow the water, limping ever so slightly, and padded off. 
She followed. 
The pack was waiting in a stony cavern where the stream met a sparkling river. She felt their wary gazes long before she saw them, hidden as they were among the warm grey stone. But they recognized their lost member and pounced on him, tumbling together in a massive joyful bundle over the sandy patch of riverside, and before long it was like they hadn’t even seen her. She found a bright place on a rock by the shore, and waited for the sun to warm her bones more than the hunger chilled them. 
Across the river, the bushes rustled. She knew what she’d see there. 
The stag disappeared into the brush, and her vision blackened. 
She awoke to the hot wet stickiness of a tongue on her face, and flinched, recoiling from the threat. In front of her sat the injured direwolf. 
“Hi,” she whispered, bracing herself. “Hi there.” The words stuck in her wound and scraped. 
The wolf cocked its head, stood, and licked her face again. It… did not try to bite her head off. This was not a situation she had anticipated. She particularly did not expect to be licked a third time. The wolf’s breath almost made her faint again. 
Behind the wounded animal, the packmates slunk forward, watching her. Waiting. 
The hunger in their eyes was a mirror of her own, and the shapechange came in its aching wake. 
She followed them, that night, in a wolfish skin that matched their own. It wasn’t long before she had to pause, the time limits of her wildshapes forcing her back to rest while the pack moved on, but the howl carried on. They didn’t like to leave their own behind. She learned their faces—the mother the first to lunge, the father the second, the grown pups that followed them with their own faces and minds and hearts. They walked the trails of the forest, and she learned their gait, their stalking dance, their silent patience. 
She slept between great warm bodies, and dreamed of blood and meat and the beasts that once wore the bite-marked bones on the floor of the den. 
In the days, she jostled with the pups as one of them while she could. When she couldn’t, she rested on the rock by the river, while the echoes gnawing in her stomach dueled the white-hot claws of her bone-deep scars. She scrounged late-season eggs from a duck’s nest and swallowed them raw, on her hands and knees in the riverbank mud, eggshells scraping her gums and spilled yolk staining the ground, and coughed up half what she found when her scarred neck screamed with pain from bending low. It staved off the ache for an hour. She scraped up the spilled remains in her hands and wept. 
On the fifth night, she followed the pack to a valley full of marsh-weed, where they found a limping boar. The pack struck in a whirl of fur and fangs, iron-stink staining the water. They fought her back from the bounty until the leaders took their share, but the scraps she claimed sated something, hot and vicious in the pit of her gut. 
It was enough for a day. 
She dreamed of it after, the blood that dripped from her fangs, the viscera on her tongue, the hot iron taste of it, the texture of muscle rending against her jaw. The heat on her lips and gums, bone crushing and crunching and cracking in her grasp, the relief like a soft warm pelt at the end of a long day’s journey as the soft squishing prey slid down her gullet like a prayer… 
She dreamed of it night after night after night, waking with saliva in her mouth, thinking of it between the angels’ words, the ghost of that sensation dancing through her mouth in all her forms. She sat by the river and echoed it, conjuring up the giving resistance of flesh under her teeth, biting her tongue till it bled to remember the taste. She dreamed of nothing but. She dreamed even in her waking hours, as the first autumn frost laced over the land and the pack sat full and happy from the hunt. 
She dreamed of it until the dream consumed her, empty of everything but teeth. 
She left the den on an ice-bitter evening under ponderous slate skies when the dull weight of the thought hung heavy like an overripe fruit, when she wondered what the wolves would feel like beneath her fangs, if their heavy furs would rip and tear the way that scrap of boar did or if they’d linger in the teeth and scratch and bristle. She slunk up the hill to the north on the pack’s favored trail, filling her muzzle with the scent of heavy musk and petrichor. 
The stag was waiting. 
His antlers glinted in the cold dead moonlight, graceful as a halo, round as the crescent moon. He turned his head. She met his eyes and lunged. 
She tore out the flesh of his neck like pages from a holy book, paper beneath her fangs as his blood ran like wine at a ritual. His stomach opened just as easily, staining the fallen leaves in garish scarlet, and his legs kicked feebly as she tore through the viscera that spilled free, relishing in the iron stench. Mouthful after mouthful, she ate her fill. She tore through muscle and tendon until she finally sank her teeth into his bright-hot heart and swallowed it in shreds. It might have still been beating, or the pulse between her jaws might have been her own, racing and vicious. She felt every piece reach her stomach, filling the void, hot in her chest like a hearthfire, bright as a star, sweet and tangy in the wolf’s senses and prickling in her own. 
She hunted the liver down among the mess and swallowed it next, and the kidneys, and parts she knew no name for that glistened red and pink and sickish yellow in the light. She savored the feeling, the soft wet warm of it, the taste of the life that would fuel her own. She pried out the lowest of his ribs and it crackled in her jaws and she chewed out the marrow until there was nothing left of worth. 
She didn’t know when he stopped moving, only that eventually, he did. It took too long. 
When the wolf’s stomach filled, she lost the shape and scrabbled at the stag with her own weak human-shaped hands, her fingers shaking, nails digging into the slickened meat for purchase and prying up scraps to devour. She shook and shuddered and buried her own face into the stag’s shattered chest, drinking the lifeblood until it dried sticky on the edges of her skin, until she was full, until her aching stomach silenced and stopped and grew bloated with bleeding flesh. 
She raised her head and her gaze caught upon his eyes. They were wide, and glassy, and milky with the haze of death. 
She turned away from the kill and threw up nothing but bile, choking on the taste of steel. 
“Thank you,” she murmured, too hoarse for anyone to hear, shuffling to the side and cradling his head in her lap, the warm blood filling her soft dark pants and seeping through to her skin. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Thank you.” 
She leaned over him, wrapped her arms around his neck, curling her fingers into his short soft fur. Velveteen. Buried her face in his, her eyes hot and stinging, she swore she felt the ghosts of hands in her hair as the blood dried sticky on her face and melted down her cheeks. She clutched him tight enough to strain the scabs down her chest and belly, threatening to once again reopen the wounds. And she stayed there, waiting, until nothing came. Her stomach was quiet. 
As she rose to her feet, she carefully bent and lifted as much of the stag as her body could manage. He was lighter than seemed fair, even to her haggard limbs. 
Her hands didn’t shake. 
There were hunters in these woods. The angels had told her, murmurs in the night, between the endless thoughts of hunger. They could help her. She stumbled through the brush, dragging the stag behind her, listening for someone larger than herself. 
In the hours before the dawn, she found a young man in the valley, carrying a crossbow and a knife. He stiffened at her approach, and stood there wide-eyed, watching. 
The words she spoke to explain herself died in rasping whistles in her throat, but still he watched, rapt, his eyes darting between the stag and her own face. 
“You… you killed that?” the man asked, gesturing. 
She nodded. Her neck twinged. She felt the man’s gaze skirt over her scarred neck, her hands slick with blood, the wrinkled scabby mess of her stomach where it was visible between the hem of her shirt and her makeshift belt. 
“Do you… need to… take it somewhere?” She shook her head. The man swallowed. “That’s a lot of meat for one person. Erm…” He looked around, and she tilted her head. “…Do you know how to treat it? If you’re planning to eat that yourself, you probably want to salt-preserve it, it’ll spoil quickly otherwise. I could… help?” 
She shook her head quickly, forcefully, then nodded, please, and the man flinched.  But he was true to his word. 
He led her to a clearing, his hands fluttering and his soft eyes nervous as she followed like a wraith, and showed her how to lay the stag down and open the rest of its body with a clean sharp knife. How to strip the meat from the bones, careful and keen, and process it into chunks and then lay it in pieces in salt to let it dry. She watched the process with singleminded focus, noting down every last motion, memorizing each flick of the knife. 
He let her borrow his blade, so she could clean the carcass and keep that velveteen skin. With a few weeks’ drying and treatment, it would make a good blanket to last the winter through. She stripped the stag to the bones, and kept those as trophies. That night, the angels taught her to sharpen them into knives. 
When the man had left, knife and bow in hand, retreating into the shadows, she realized that he never once quite looked her in the eyes. 
She kept the skull. Late at night she stared into its face, searching for the glint of the stag’s all-knowing gaze in the depths of his bones, knowing there was nothing on the other side. She stared at him until somewhere deep inside, a part of her became him. Until his eyes became her own. 
She took the form of a deer in the morning, wearing the weight of his antlers like a crown. The herd moved by her in the bushes and watched her like a ghost. 
She went south. The winter was upon her, and it was time again to travel. The herd had enough to haunt them.
#dnd fic#this is... more gruesome than i usually go in for but it was fun to write#the way this feels like cannibalism when it definitely isn't#but at the same time in some metaphorical sense it kind of is#it's more... killing somebody and then stealing their skin#hush is a creepy forest witch who talks to angels and makes people nervous#and i love that for her#the hunter she met in the woods is just some sad little himbo trying to feed his family and thanking the gods he wasn't murdered by the fey#100% that man thought hush was either a faerie or a demon and feared for his LIFE#i told the DM that someday i would love her to just randomly bump into that guy again#because now that she's healed enough to /talk/ again she wants to thank him and will be all excited to see him#'omg it's my best friend!!!' meanwhile this poor guy is shitting himself 'oh fuck oh no i DID accidentally sell my soul to the fey'#hush is one of those characters i categorize as 'obliviously terrifying'#she is just a gal trying to survive and trying to regain her sense of self after being violently dehumanized for over a decade#she encounters other people and is overwhelmed but tries to be 'normal'#she just... fails to realize that between the aasimar angel traits and the inability to talk and the telepathy she uses to compensate...#she is very scary to other people#but then you talk to her and she is in tears of joy bc she had a fresh baguette this morning and it was really good#and it's like... ah. she's just poorly socialized
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coloursofaparadox · 1 year ago
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>:[
#ive lost like all fear of dogs at this point. i realized that earlier today when a massive rottie started a fight with my boy#and my first instinct on seeing flying teeth was to sprint towards them and shove my body in between#its very possible it was also just all self preservation leaving my body because i am absolutely going to protect my pup#i would probably fight a bear for him there is no question that i would forcibly shove another dog off with my forearm#but fuck. despite the fact that i /know/ better sometimes i have a real real bad fatigue week and i use dog parks. i have like.#a selective list of ones that i will go to categorized by 'least likely to become a boxing ring'. tons of space. multiple separate areas.#i go only at off times when its not busy! i watch dog body language and keep an eye on him at all times.#ill rotate areas if i spot a potential problem. i have him under verbal control and wouldnt even be there if i didnt. but! like!#despite all that. just fucking anyone can go there. 'oh your dogs a puppy thats why my dog attacked him!' idgaf.#speaking as someone who has raised a reactive dog. if your dog is reactive why in the absolute hell would you take them to a dog park.#why!!! lif your dog is consistently fighting other dogs why would you do that! it does not matter if he 'only attacks dogs that arent fixed'#he is still obviously not having a good fucking time and is not going to enjoy this environment holy shit#just. gggHHGGH. i avoid off leash parks as much as i can already but. fuck. idek the point of this im just.#still a bit riled over having to physically throw myself in the middle of a dog fight while the other owner did absolutely nothing.#like just hovered! while his dog was pinning mine and teeth flying attacking and was actively fighting me trying to keep him off#when i can afford it im gonna find some sort of dog group walk/hike thing instead i do not want to socialize my boy like this#i am tired and very very upset because my boy looked so scared and i swear to god if you arent grabbing your dog i will fight it myself#fuck dude. fuck dog parks and fuck me for knowing better and still using em anyways.
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fairyzar · 2 years ago
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the older i get the more confused i become in regards to my identity.
#z escribe#i have been aware that i was adopted from a young age. heck i knew before my mom told me because i watched the health channel#and i rmbr they showed a skin color chart and i pieced together...two white parents don't equal a brown kid#and i thought that the colorblind mindset was a proper one to be brought up with. obviously not as i experienced racism in elementary.#and was extremely confused why 'other' white kids didn't see me as white either...well no shit you're not white baby aza#and i went through a radical phase during middle school. hating all white people. but then my mom's white fragility deterred me from that#as any time i would voice my anger she would... quite literally in tears... try to reason with me and be like ''but i'm white people...#do you hate me?'' to which i would always have to soothe her. and honestly i have become comfortable in identifying with mixed.#it is a comfortable identity because i have grown up without any specific culture (outside of american. which. how does one even begin to#define the complexities of such an identity... the way that american as a nationality transcends as it becomes a civil religion.)#anyways. i have been thinking about a guy at a party and our conversations. and how we got to our identities and i instantly...#out of habit really. told him ''well i'm half mexican or indigenous too... but i mean it's not like i'm really latin.'' and he was like.#''no azaria. you are. don't diminish yourself and your ancestors just because you weren't able to grow up around that culture''#his comment made me think about my identity once again after a long time of not wondering what it means to be Me.#and i recently submitted a paper for an internship. and god. i was reading it to my white mom. and after i read the concluding paragraph#she asked me to read it again. to which i did. and then after a pause she sighed and said i was being ''too angry''#and when i asked her to elaborate she simply said ''well it makes it sound as if white people are evil''#mind you. my application paper is about working at a museum for african american/black art preservation. like. art history is so deeply#saturated with colonialism and racism??? and she just chose to ignore that point of my paper and focus on me critiquing her fellow white#people. and to categorize me as the 'angry black person' are you Fucking kidding me. but then even with that she was like.#''i just don't get why you're so angry. you're not even black. i mean. you don't look black at all. you look mexican''#she constantly wants my identity to be simple. to be watered down. to be digestible.#i am the product of a biracial mother and fully latin/indigenous father. that is the truth of my identity. i will NEVER be perceived as#white.#but after that i just felt so incredibly shitty and called my sister and she told me what our mom said to her that day too. and i said#something along the lines of ''sometimes i feel as if mom thinks we owe her for adopting us.'' and my sister agreed.#it broke me. it really did. to know that i am not being overdramatic in my thoughts. to know that i am not simply being ungrateful.#my sister says that she copes with it by reasoning that our parents are born in the 40s and times were a lot different then. but it is hard#for me to constantly excuse their racism and ignorance towards my identity. both regarding my queerness and ethnicity.#i am so tired. so so tired.
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dredshirtroberts · 1 year ago
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hey guess what my car trauma includes the *inside* of the car too apparently! :D :| idk i feel like getting made fun of for having to eat fast food in my car between work and school while my catalytic converter shat itself to the point that my back seat footwells were filled completely with various QSR trash maybe gave me some sort of complex. Just a hunch though, who knows.
#i fucking despise my father today#perhaps instead of making fun of people who are exhibiting signs of struggle we find out what their struggle is#and help them out with it might be a more 'christian' thing to do Dad#but that would also require me to be a people to him and for anyone's struggles to be categorized by HIM as struggling#and his criteria is *narrow* on that front#god i hate this man so much right now i am just furious#yes there was a (only sort of) related incident that set me off on this - no it's not important or actually relevant#because i live with *nice* people now who understand that folks be going through some shit and also are willing to help when they can#but also my anxiety spiked so hard and fast my body only registered it as anger and i ended up snapping at my partner for no good reason#and i'm frustrated and embarrassed and sad about that even though we just talked it out and it's okay i think#because like...they didn't need that. they don't need to deal with all of this nonsense - neither partner nor meta do#and the fact that things like this happen on a semi-regular basis makes me so....#well frustrated embarrassed and sad#and angry but i try to direct that where it's actually meant to go and not at myself as much because a lot of the things i do#are coping mechanisms and behavior patterns that i no longer need to keep me safe#but i don't have as many backup options as I had previously thought and it's hard to reach for new ones when i'm In A State#so we're just...handling it. It's fine. I'm fine.#i do hate my father though
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angorwhosebabyisthis · 2 years ago
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tfw you want to write up a proper post detailing What the Fuck about a particular thing about a character, but you're too exhausted and out of sorts to figure out the best way to format it and you'd rather make an actual concise, relatively coherent post instead of just reblogging it over and over with 'jesus fucking christ'
#LL tag#this post brought to you by adam using his intimate knowledge of a cult victim's religious trauma to shame him for being suicidal#by calling him 'a weakling' and not a real member of his race for it#after saying in his narration that it's explicitly and categorically impossible for him to be depressed because of his race#just straight up 'being suicidal is a sin and if you do it you're a filthy sinner who will go to hell' shit#because threats and other emotional manipulation aren't as effective if he doesn't care about giving up or dying#and then talks about 'leaning on him with one last question when i can see he's most vulnerable'#and the authors treating this as like mildly edgy moral dubiousness instead of a despicable thing to do#even by what should be his own goals and standards; and then having the gall to act like he's being ~compassionate and giving him a chance~#and trying to ~change him~ by telling him.............. that there's nothing wrong with being what the cult would consider 'weak'#and then chalking it up to rex's morals being 'in his blood' (jesus fucking christ lmao) when he tries to stonewall him#is just. something. it is really fucking something#adam is a piece of work miles above and beyond what the creators intended him to be#and the things he does get called on and makes any indication of being sorry for or trying to change do not even slight make a dent#in the depths of the truly evil shit that he believes. even when he tries to kill ella he blames it on being a mogadorian#instead of taking responsibility for MAKING THAT CHOICE HIMSELF. and then ella immediately goes 'no ur fine i was rooting for u lol'#and the others' response to this is to talk about how ~it's not nature you can choose to be more like us than you think~#instead of going 'YEAH SO. THAT WASN'T IN YOUR NATURE BUDDY. OWN THE FUCK UP'#and his idea of taking that to heart is 'awesome maybe it /is/ possible to torture them into changing. don't GAF if they suffer though'#and also he has demonstrated drooling over the idea of getting to torture other mogs to death in ways tailored to them specifically#& also says ~compassionately~ and p directly that he has hopes he'll eventually be able to torture his little sister into loving him again#anyway yeah please keep him away from rex and every other mog forever#LL crit tag#fuck off adam#dyn: but i'm helping you anyway#racism cw#torture cw#suicide cw#religious abuse cw
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karmaphone · 2 years ago
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yeah it's important to challenge your friends with eating disorders disordered behavior but there's a difference between setting your own boundaries & reminding them to be healthy and bullying people for an actual literal disorder
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ivy-meshle · 8 months ago
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Jesus fuck
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