#i hate writing accents

[the-ace-with-spades]

Relating to this post, a snippet of the different first meeting/secret identity au fic (I think I'll stick with exhumation as the title):

The MacTavish House, Erskine, Renfrewshire, Scotland December 2017

Johnny got a call on Christmas Day.

Unknown number, with the Greater Manchester code at the beginning. He missed it, busy helping his Da and sisters with the tree decorating, but when the notification showed up on his Samsung, he felt something heavy drop from his throat to his stomach.

Simon hadn't been answering his texts, yesterday and today.

He was doing, well, not well, but better. He knew he was cleared to go back to work, finally, even if on a limited duty for a couple of months, but he was still having the PTSD episodes, still wasn't sleeping, still was on a constant high-vigilance and it didn't sit right with him. Even months later, everyone was worried about him — his mum, Tommy, Beth — but John wasn't sure they actually understood the extent Simon's issues run. John had opted to ignore it, for the sake of not arguing with Simon, but Simon's family seemed to have a very distorted image of him, like he was this invincible man capable of holding them all together, solving all their problems and never really needing much care himself.

It was easy to fall for the image — Simon, the unmovable wall of a man, standing guard over all of them — and John had fallen for it himself, just to have it shattered when Simon walked away from his grave after whatever happened that had him declared MIA for almost six months. The Simon that came back seemed the same now, to anyone who didn’t look closely, but John knew something died in him in the time he grieved his disappearance.

He loved him all the same.

It didn’t matter if he had nightmares through the nights they were in the same bed, it didn’t matter if he stayed awake and unmoving under John’s arms, it didn’t matter if he spaced out and stared at people’s faces like he could see their bare bones smiling at him, it didn’t matter if he kept scratching at the gnarly scars, opening them again and again. He was still John’s Simon.

He hadn't felt good about leaving him alone for the three days he’d be in Scotland, but it was his first Christmas back since he came—back, and Simon wanted to spent it with his family and not John’s and insisted John went, seeing as he didn't have many opportunities to meet his family much either.

“Promise I’ll try to meet your ma for Easter,” he had told John. He wasn’t sure how much of that promise would actually be kept — John didn’t think Simon would be doing that much better by Easter.

It was just three days and then John would be back in Manchester with the G Squad during the day and Simon during the evening.

He tried to find a quiet place. Impossible with half of their family in his parents’ house, but after shushing one of his nephews out of the living room and sending off his ma back to the kitchen after a couple of, “Yes, A’ll tell him ye’re sending love, ma, even though Am not even callin’ him reit noo,” and a promise to help her season the meat. He stood in the corner, not too far away from the Christmas tree, watching the snow moul their empty laundry line.

He called back the Manchester number.

It kept on ringing and ringing, and he was about to give up when he heard, “Detective Sergeant Wright speaking.”

Chapter 1 will most likely also have those scene headings:

Interrgoration Room, Unnamed Base, New Mexico, USA January 2018

(which is Price & Ghost)

Unnamed Joint Base, Classified Location, Urzikistan October 2022

Unspecified Location, near Verdansk, Kastovia March 2021

(Soap joining the task force)

[bj-cuntycunt]

New Star Trek headcanon: Chekov thinks McCoy is from Georgia (country) and not Georgia (USA) and keeps calling him "neighbor" because Russia's next to Georgia. McCoy is very confused.

[sai-int]

hey yall mind if i practice my angst? no? well don't mind if i do....

simon riley x gn!reader, angst, i wrote this while listening to fireside by arctic monkeys, so listen to that

The rain hammered against the windows of your flat, drowning out the sound of your footsteps pacing the small living room. Simon stood by the door, soaked through, his black hoodie clinging to his broad frame, water pooling at his boots. His hair, dirty blonde and darkened by the rain, fell messily over his forehead, dripping onto the floor. He looked at you with that same unreadable expression he always wore—a mask, even now.

“You shouldn’t have come,” you said, voice tight, arms crossed over your chest as if it might shield you from what was coming.

“Had to,” he said simply, his voice low, rough. It wasn’t an excuse; it was just a fact, like the rain outside or the way he always had to have the last word.

You shook your head, biting back the lump rising in your throat. “Why, Simon? What could you possibly need from me that you don’t already have?”

He took a step forward, his boots squelching against the floor. He looked like he wanted to say something, but the words got caught somewhere between his throat and his pride.

“You don’t get to do this,” you snapped, your voice sharper than you intended. “You don’t get to show up here, looking like that, saying nothing, and expect me to just… what? Fall apart for you? Again?”

Simon’s jaw clenched, his shoulders rising slightly like he was bracing for impact. He always did that—closed himself off just enough to make you feel the distance. And yet, here he was.

“I don’ know how t'do this,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Do what, Simon?” you asked, stepping closer, your frustration boiling over. “Be honest? Let someone in? Or is it just me you can’t handle?”

He flinched at that, but his eyes never left yours. Those eyes—dark, stormy, always hiding more than they showed—locked onto yours with an intensity that made your chest ache.

“'M here, aren’t I?” he said, his voice rough, almost defensive.

“Barely,” you shot back. “You’re here, but you’re not. You’re in my life, but never really. You’ve lived in my heart so long, I don’t even know what it feels like to be without you, and it’s killing me.”

His shoulders sagged, and for a moment, you thought you saw something break in him—some piece of the armor he always wore. “'Never wanted t'hurt you,” he said, quieter now.

“But you do,” you whispered. “Every time you leave, every time you shut me out, you hurt me. And I let you. Because I keep thinking maybe this time, it’ll be different.”

The silence between you was deafening, broken only by the rain and the soft sound of your unsteady breaths. He looked down at the floor, his hands flexing at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“Maybe I should go,” he said finally, the words like a knife to your chest.

“Yeah,” you said, your voice trembling. “Maybe you should.”

He turned to leave, but then he stopped, his hand hovering over the doorknob. He didn’t look back when he said, “I wish I could be better f'you.”

You laughed bitterly, wiping at your eyes. “No, Simon. You just wish I didn’t want more than this. But I do. I deserve more.”

He nodded once, his shoulders stiff, and then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

You stood there, staring at the door, the weight of his absence settling over you like a heavy blanket. You hated him in that moment—for his silence, for his distance, for the way he always left before you could even begin to put yourself back together.

The rain lingered long after Simon left, clinging to the air, clinging to you. You stayed by the door, staring at the spot where he had stood, the faint smell of cedarwood and cigarette smoke still lingering like a ghost in the room. It felt cruel how the world didn’t stop, how life kept moving while you stood frozen in the aftermath of him.

Simon Riley. He had been a hurricane in your life—silent, destructive, and devastatingly brief. Every time he walked away, he left pieces of himself behind, and you hated that you were the one who had to pick them up, to carry the weight he refused to bear.

The flat felt colder now, emptier, as if he had taken the warmth with him. You crossed the room, your fingers ghosting over the armrest of the couch where he used to sit, his legs spread wide, his head tilted back as if he could find peace in your living room when he couldn’t find it anywhere else.

There were nights when Simon spoke in his sleep. He never realized it, but you’d stay awake just to listen to the pieces he let slip—names, places, apologies that never made sense. It was the only time he ever truly let you in, and even then, it felt like stealing.

You sat on the couch now, wrapping your arms around yourself, staring at the coffee table where he used to rest his boots, always muttering something about how your flat was “too clean to feel like a real home.” His words had been teasing, but there was an ache in them too—a longing for something he couldn’t name.

The thing was, you knew he cared. In his own quiet, fractured way, Simon cared. It was in the way he lingered by your door like he didn’t want to leave but couldn’t stay. It was in the way his eyes softened when he looked at you, just for a second, before he caught himself. It was in the way he always came back, even though he knew it would hurt both of you.

But caring wasn’t enough. Not when his silence felt like a wall you couldn’t climb. Not when he held you at arm’s length even while standing close enough to touch.

You leaned back, your head hitting the cushion, and closed your eyes, willing yourself not to cry. But the tears came anyway, hot and bitter, slipping down your cheeks and pooling in the hollow of your throat.

Somewhere, Simon was probably walking in the rain, his hood pulled up, his hands stuffed in his pockets. He’d tell himself it was better this way, that leaving was the kindest thing he could do. He’d convince himself that you’d move on, that you’d be happier without him.

But he’d be wrong. Because he wasn’t just a part of your life. He was the center of it, the axis everything else revolved around. And now that he was gone, you didn’t know how to spin without him.

In the quiet of your flat, you thought about calling him, about saying all the things you never could when he was standing in front of you. But what would you even say? Come back? Stay? Love me the way I love you?

He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. And you were tired of breaking yourself trying to fix him.

Instead, you picked up your phone and deleted his number. It wasn’t enough to erase him from your life, but it was a start. Because if Simon Riley couldn’t choose you, then you had to choose yourself.

And yet, as you sat there, staring at the empty screen, you couldn’t help but wonder if he was out there thinking of you too, if he felt the same ache, the same hollow emptiness you felt.

But you’d never know. Because Simon Riley was a ghost. And ghosts always disappeared.

mlist

[buglaur]

this is kit, please commission some art from them on social bunny 🙏

[meownotgood]

if i may ask for advice... how do u make dialogue sound so natural? as much as i love viktor. i feel like i physically Cannot write anything that he would say or for any character really i've watched arcane over 10 times now but when it comes time to write suddenly idk how jayce has ever spoken!!! Help Pls i will owe u my firstborn (a completed fic)

I put my head in my hands many times... I groan while writing... I rewrite it at 3 am while staring at my phone with my eyes burning and my brain like mush.......

okay but really. I definitely understand your struggle, know that you're not alone!! dialogue is always the hardest part of a fic to get right for me. I'm always changing it even up to the minutes before I post haha...

the first thing that might help you is if you write all of your dialogue first, like the fic is a play, before you write anything else. I always draft my dialogue first to make sure it fits well with the story even without explanation. this way, you can make it seem more natural, and adjust the flow as you see fit without any distractions. the next thing I do is watch clips of the character speaking before I write, it definitely helps me to envision their voice while I'm writing (especially so for viktor... his accent is harder to nail down for me). it can also help to watch without sound, just with subtitles. this way, you can better understand the speech patterns and vocab the character might use. just reading the subtitles will show you it's a lot easier to write for them than you might think...

and anon really... the best advice is... fake it til you make it... the thing is, the audience will imagine the character regardless and won't be looking into everything closely like us silly authors. how do you want viktor to speak in your fic? just be confident with what you're writing!

[zeivira]

no rest for the wicked...

pls more

this shit is hilarious

like what are the others thoughts on this "illness" like garfiel, we've seen a bit of otto but i want more of him cuz he's best boi.

i imagine him going on full mama/big bro mood lmao

also that ficrec abt the crack fic by scissors? LMAO thx my parents knew im awake at 3am

point is

i like you now

so im gonna stalk- ahem- stick to you like a leach 🥺🌹

feed me more

The Cap’n's rule about everyone being strictly forbidden from watching him sleep—something about Garfiel being exactly like Rem but without pretty girl privilege—never actually stops the members of the camp from keeping an eye on him while the Cap’n's rests. 

The camp is nothing if not resourceful, and it’s not like they need to be inside the room when he’s sleeping to make sure he stays safe. Waiting a few feet away from the only entrance is just as effective. 

That's why when Garfiel smells a person approaching the Cap’n's room, during a time he knows he is asleep—they spent the last few days traveling to Pristella, like Hoshin traveled the desert to Banan after all—he rushes into the hallway and grabs the visitor's wrist right before it gets to knock at the Cap’n's door. 

"—the hell do ya think yer doin’?" Only after he finishes talking, under the dim hallway light of the mansion-like inn, he takes notice of the visitor's red, flame-like hair. A sharp horror, the one he had felt hours flooded through his entire body, as he realized whose wrist he grabbed. 

For a second, all is still. 

"Hello again, Sir Garfiel," the Sword Saint greets him, smiling as if they were pals and he hadn't evaded Garfiel’s senses and stopped his punch with a casual block a couple hours before. As if he weren’t the main obstacle between Garfiel and the title of Strongest. "I apologize if my presence alerted you, but all I wish to do is talk to Subaru." 

"W-well isn’ that convenient.  Anythin’ ya might need ta tell the Cap’n, ya can tell my amazin’ self instead." Big fat lie. There is a reason why the Cap’n is the Cap’n despite being borderline comatose and apparently not that much older than him. But Garfiel can’t trust anyone stronger than him, and as much as he hates himself for it…

The difference between him and Reinhard van Astrea is like a newborn Earth dragon and the Divine Dragon themself. 

His mere presence makes Garfiel's rawest instincts scream—tell him to either fight-or-flight. Garfiel doesn't want to be anywhere close to Reinhard, but much less he wants Reinhard anywhere close to the Cap’n when he sleeps. At least not until Garfiel proves himself a stronger shield than Reinhard. 

Even if the Cap’n is not defenseless—at least, not usually— he is useless while he isn't awake. And that means Galfield has to fight for both of them.

"I see," Reinhard's lips tilt downwards. "I do not mean disrespect, but what I would like to discuss would be related to something personal, unrelated to our respective camps..." 

Right. Garfield's eyebrow twitches. Right. The Cap’n said they were friends. 

"...the Cap’n's asleep," his voice sounds hoarse even to his ears. Maybe if he makes his tone drier than the Augura Sand Dunes, he can get Reinhard to give up and leave?

Reinhard's eyes widen. "Is that so. From what I gathered he mostly slept during the night." 

Garfield scowls. Of course the Sword Saint knew that much. "The Cap’n does, but he couldn' sleep during the trip, as we moved without pause, just like the Emperor of the Briar who never knew rest," Garfield crosses his arms. "So he is sleeping now and won't wake up in a while." 

"I see..." Reinhard says, and an uncomfortable silence falls between them. His gaze felt so heavy that if Garfiel moved carelessly, he wouldn’t know what his fate would b— "I wanted to ask about my father, actually—” Reinhard spoke up, breaking the silence. “I heard there were some issues close to Lady Priscilla's domain that involved Subaru and him." 

It takes Garfield a second to realize what he is talking about. His joy over learning the one and only Sword Saint's father was joining Emilia's camp to help Subaru stop the Argyle healer evaporated the moment his eyes actually lied on the man. After a couple days he just became Old Man, a skilled drunkard with a sob story, rather than a member of the family his mother used to read him stories about. 

"Issues,” Garfield snorts at Reinhard’s choice of word. “Tha's one way of sayin’ it." He makes a face. "Yeah, I was there too. The Old Man made us go lookin’ for a stupid chalice with the power to cure all sickness, but in the end it's only power w’s turning water into booze. Big ass let down." 

Reinhard’s shoulders sag. "So that’s what happened…” Reinhard’s eyes finally looked past Garfiel and looked at the still closed door, an unreadable thought reflected in them. “...I am glad father was with Subaru and you nonetheless. I can't imagine him taking another disappointment well..." 

How could any member of the group that went after the dumb cup not be disappointed? The chalice would have been able to cure not only the Old Man’s wife, but the Cap’n too. As the camp’s shield it’s his duty to protect everyone from everything—including hereditary diseases. When the Old Man mentioned the rumors, he was the first to tell Emilia they absolutely needed to go.

Still— the entire conversation leaves a bad taste in his mouth. The Cap’n was already carrying enough on his shoulder, with being the Hero that defeated the Archbishop of Sloth, the White Whale and the Great Rabbit— did he really need to trouble himself with family drama when the man ain’t even dead? “Why?” 

Reinhard blinks. “Well, it has been many years—” 

“—no, not that.” Garfiel’s scowl grows. “Why do ya need to imagine it? Yar dad’s alive, you could ask him.”

Reinhard just stares, before a bitter smile covers his lips. “Although true, my father doesn’t enjoy my company, so I wouldn’t like to impose myself when unnecessary.” 

But he is alive, is what he wants to say. “My mom’s dead,” is what he says instead. Because damn— he saw the Old Man, the even Older Man and him talk during dinner and how Ottobro almost lost his head trying to stop Old and Older from killing each other, right before Priscilla arrived saying this was the most amusing shitshow she had seen in weeks. The Old Man genuinely didn’t want to be with Reinhard and his dad.

But he is alive. All three of them are. They can talk. While Garfiel's mom is dead and gone and he can't tell her how much he loves her. "Just because your father is with us, and the Cap’n is strong enough to carry the weight of yar family drama, doesn't mean he should."

Reinhard's eyes widen again. "I—" 

"The Cap’n sleeps longer when he overworks himself," Garfield cuts, his words stronger than any punch he ever did. 

And Reinhard's mouth shuts with an audible click, expression shifting into one of horror— as it should. 

"He carries everyone's problems on his back— no matter how tired he is...!" He clenches his fists. "The Cap’n is so cool, cooler than the Sage and Reid! But precisely because he is like that is that we need to push ourselves harder. Be the people the Cap’n wants us to be, even if he is too shy to tell us. Because— because...!" 

“—will you two please SHUT UP?!" The Cap’n's door parts open with a bang, and the Cap’n appears in the doorway, rubbing his eyes while scowling. “Some of us are actually trying to sleep around here!”

Garfiel rushes back to his room only minutes later, but also doesn't miss Reinhard walking in direction to the Old Man's room rather than the hallway he originally came from.

beta read by @daemonerik

[burnt-tortellini]

south english writing tips for non-uk CoD writers

im so tired of seeing gaz say “bruv” every 10 seconds OR hear about ghosts “mom”

i have no clue how much of this applies in other places/is obvious but!

ok so common slang

bloke/lad - a man

bev/bossman/brother/mush - a man but in a friendlier way (like gaz might call soap or price mush)

missus - someones wife (usually “the missus” is the wife of whoever is talking/being talked about, i dont usually hear people say “*insert names* missus” there also isnt a male equivalent sadly)

scran - good food or to eat (eg. “scranned that nandos” or “going to the chinese later to pick up some scran”)

kip - nap but you usually “take” a kip rather than “have” a kip if that makes sense?

cardy - cardigan/zip up hoodie (usually gen x or older women i hear saying this)(and me until i was 10 and got bullied of out it💔💔)

tory - technically supporters of the conservative party but the definition has been broadened to people who are posh/rich (derogatory)

bender - gay (derogatory, if you couldnt tell)

wank - jerk off

wanker/bellend/twat/knobhead/fuckface - common insults (also cunt is a lot more common over here, its still a bad word but it doesnt hold the same weight as in the states, ESPECIALLY among teenage boys)(although they just say slurs anyway so)

babe/hun - typically used by girls either as a term of endearment or to be patronising (you could call a random person in a shop hun or use it in an argument it really depends)

any word ending in “ic” can be turned into “____iccy” for instance “i look better in this piccy” or “digestives are proper good choccy biccys”

dead ____ - typically used by northerners as a substitute for “really” (eg. dead nice cake is a really nice cake), southerners usually use “proper” instead

chav - female equivalent of a roadman, hard to explain in terms that make sense. if i say “so…? spray, orange foundation, m to the b” does that make sense to you ???

roadman - male equivalent of a chav, balaclavas, nike tech jackets, bikes/scooters, vapes, central cee, usually congregate outside of maccies in packs

side note: idk how well known this is outside of the uk but along side the middle finger we have a reverse peace sign, usually combined with a wanking motion but can just be used like a middle finger. also a closed fist doing a wank motion holds the same effect

i will probably edit and add more as i think of them but feel free to reblog with anything i missed!!

[allbeendonebefore]

me sprinkling more ancient greek phrases in the dialogue to prove i learned one thing and then realizing i gotta go back and fix the dialect because i only studied attic and most of the characters in this chapter speak doric OTL

[mintyeve322]

Non-Southern American writers writing American Southern accents in fanfics is always so funny because I swear they aren't reading what they're typing out loud. There is no way thats how you think a Southern accent sounds. (I don't have one, at least not a thick one, but I grew up knowing a lot of people who did so I know what it's suppose to sound like.)

The biggest thing I see is taking every consonant at the end of every word off, especially "-ing" words like "talkin'", "walkin'", "fixin'", etc. This works a lot! However, you only drop the consonant at certain times, you don't always drop it because it makes speaking the sentence feel clunky in your mouth. "-ing" words are the most common words for the drop to happen to, so most of the time its fine, but not always.

Another issue I see is with words for "you". A lot of people assume southern people never say the word you correctly, which isn't necessarily wrong (depending on the accent) but they also assume we only have one substitute word for saying it. Most frequently, I've seen people incorrectly using "y'all" (peep where that apostrophe is btws you heathens) for every use of the word you, which is just not correct. Y'all is a contraction of the words "you" and "all". Additional words can be added to y'all, like "y'all're" or, more grammatically correct but not necessary tonally correct, "y'all 're" which is to say, "you all are" but typically that phrase is combined into one long word, "y'all're" when spoken.

I also see "ya" used instead of you, which isn't wrong but is often overused. "Ya" is just one of several ways "you" can be pronounced in a sentence and often more than one pronunciation of "you" is used at a time. For example:

"You ain't never seen anything like it! When ya turn this handle, the machine works its magic and before ya know it, yer whole list 'a chores is done!"

"You ain't" could also be written as "Y'ain't". To translate the previous sentence into a sentence without an accent:

"You have never seen anything like it! When you turn this handle, the machine works its magic and before you know it, your whole list of chores is done!"

Double negatives are also very common in southern dialogue.

"I ain't never seen anything like it." is a phrase I have heard and used in real life. "anything" can also be replaced with "nothin'" for an additional level of negative and still be realistic.

I've seen several fics where the previous sentence, however, would be written like this:

"Ya've never seen anythin' like it! When ya turn this handle, the machine works its magic and before ya know it, ya whole list of chores is done!"

While thats not necessarily wrong, there are accents where it would sound similar to that, "anything" isn't frequently shortened. If anything, haha, the "i" in "anything" may be turned into an "a", but you wouldn't end that word with an "n".

The usage of "ya" here is also a bit much unless the person is from the DEEP South, notably Louisiana, Alabama, or FAR Southern Georgia. Not Florida though, the Florida Southern accent, as far as I've experienced, is rare and sounds more like a Kentucky accent in my opinion.

People from more middle-range Southern states like Tennessee or Kentucky are going to speak with a sharper southern accent, while using that many "ya"s would be more common with characters that have deeper (not meaning stronger or thicker but literally in tone sounding more deep or rounded) accents from the deep South.

This is all opinion based on observation, but it's been rough reading fanfictions with southern characters in them being written with just... horrific accents. I understand not being able to write the accent at all and therefore just not including it, but it's been downright comedic some of the attempts at an accent people have been making in these fics. I refuse to name names bc this isn't meant to hate on anyone or shame someone for not understanding an accent, but it's something I've been thinking about a lot.

I also appreciate for my fellow Southerners needing to tone it down when writing a character with an accent, because if I wrote everything my southern characters said with phonetic spelling, holding nothing back, I fear it would not be legible. Having to pick and choose how much you want to change in someone's dialogue to make it clear they have an accent while still making the dialogue legible is a skill I sometimes doubt I even possess.

[orangerosebush]

Socmed discussions about Saltburn, to me —

1) reveal that people are even more squeamish about explicit gay sexuality than they think they are

(And if this is what passes for shocking erotic excess, then we, in the anglosphere, are in a more — not making a comment about individuals here — restrained moment with mainstream American/British adult cinema than we were with mainstream adult heterosexual cinema in the 90s, eg the erotic thriller)

And

2) suggest people are increasingly making art that is in conversation with, if not explicitly nostalgic for, the 2010-16 Tumblr-era.

(I really truly suspect Saltburn is, in part, an adaptation of the tropes and aesthetics that were in certain “The Social Network” fan spaces.)

[slytherinshua]

the way I went from 0-100 with ten is actually crazy like one day I did not even stan wayv and the next day he was in competition with my top ult biases can this be studied what is he on…

[traumafactory28]

My Boundaries pertaining Furries.

Because of how hated upon its been.

I can no longer take this subject lightly due to how many jokes are made that are borderline bullying and referencing bestiality.

As well as the ignorance upon mixing Furries and Therians.

I can handle jokes about ANYTHING else. Dark jokes are my favorite. Gore stories? Go for it. Jokes about Furries? Never. I can't anymore.

My partner is a Furry, but even before we go together, I still respected Furries and their hobby. But I literally cannot stand talking about the subject with strangers or friends anymore.

The amount of godamn Furry "jokes" I get after someone finds out is astounding. And to my face.

Like, what the fuck

That's my partner, you assholes.

I can't say anything specific rn of whats been said, but again a lot of bestiality jokes, Therian accusations and being constantly called "Furry fucker"

The last one would be fine if they knew the godamn difference, but they don't, and they mean it in a derogatory way.

For some reason, people are convinced that I won't become defensive and protective of my partner after accusing them and joking about how they like fucking animals or how I like fucking them Because 'theyre an animal'. It has somehow become socially acceptable to openly be negative and insult a group of innocent to their and their loved ones' faces. It's absolutely utterly disgusting. Then we look at the ignorance upon mixing Furries and Therians? Despicable and incredibly rude to both parties.

Therians feel like they are animals, leave them the fuck alone.

Furries make costumes and characters with animal characteristics. Leave them the fuck alone.

Neither mean they become or are zoophiles and participate in bestiality.

The amount of bullying this subject can cause has resulted in thousands of suicides in the Furry community. And I'll be damned if my partner becomes one of them.

I, myself, am not a Furry; I don't have the money nor creativity to indulge in such activities. Nor am I Therian. I'm just someone who can respect strangers and what they want with their lives and what makes them happy.

Until people acknowledge the difference between joking about and insulting the Furry community, as well as the psychological damage of constant mockery, I do not want to hear yall speak to me or my partner again.

I recently had to remove a post about my loving partner and their new outfit due to such bullshit. You made them sad and uncomfortable, so they asked me to take it down. Shame on you.

This is mostly a vent post, but I needed to get it out there. I don't care about how many see this.

[sunspinecity]

50$ to print 10 of the same skin has always been so insane to me. you're telling me it's 50$ to print....only 10.....of a single skin....and that's normal. And not only is that normal, that's what's required for a skin shop. where ppl may not even sign up for 10 runs. and then you're left in the shitter with at minimum 1-4 skins nobody wanted (not to mention if some people decide not to pay afterward) that you have to just pray someone finds & buys on the auction house. And it's 50$. Uhuh. And then that's just the artist's issue and fault and we're gonna blame them instead of the fact that a 10 print run costs as much as groceries.

[13eyond13]

one of the lesser talked about fun things about intentionally reading more books is finding new stuff to be a bit of a hater about tbh

[szaryherbatnik]

Tough day rambles

In a world with a different setting id be a prophet or a person with cool visions, id be a person worthy of protection and trust and friendship. Here im just paranoid and i worry about the wrong things. Somewhere else when i dance on my way to a shop everyone thinks im full of joy and whimsy and they dont think im drunk or childish. Somewhere else i can be around people for more than 5 hours before i shut down for the rest of the day. Somewhere else i dont remind everyone im stupid and dumb and i dont describe everything i do and feel as "slight" and "little" and "a bit", im able to love romantically and dream of tenderness and give it and recieve it. Idk i just hate myself a lot.

[indecisive-dizzy]

Accenting the Fae

~1.6k words

A zero context thing I wrote for a Fairy!Eddie Au I came up with,,, yesterday? Recently. Enjoy! Or don't!

🍃🌼🌷🌻🪻🌺🍃🌼🌷🌻🪻🌺🍃🌼🌷🌻🪻🌺🍃

White Pines towered overhead, shading the ground cover beneath. The overgrown vines and leaves made traversal difficult for Grace. Luckily what she was looking for would be on the ground, so keeping her head low had some benefits at least.

Although, thinking about it now, Grace doubted it would be covered up by all these vines. Weren't they usually out in the open? Like in a-

A clearing. Like the one right in front her. The brush ended suddenly and Grace looked up to see a wide, sunlit patch surrounded by trees and thicket. It was radiant, the open sky above shone onto bright grass and wildflowers reflecting the light from the morning dew. In the center of it all there was a circle of red and purple mushrooms. It was gorgeous, but it's fantastical beauty put Grace on edge. She had found it.

Grace hesitated. Could this really work? Was coming out here a mistake? What if she messed up and bit off more than she could chew? What if nothing happened at all and she skipped school for nothing? It was too late now, Grace reasoned to herself, she'd been walking for hours to find this. It had to work. She walked into the clearing, standing under the sun.

With one more deep breath, Grace stepped into the circle. The ground under her boots felt the same as the ground outside the ring, soft and unassuming. After a moment of nothing she turned and nearly stepped out but as soon as she lifted her foot she felt a tug.

The breeze picked up, Grace watched the blades of grass sway and leaves swirl around the clearing. Then all at once, it stopped. She felt a presence behind her, one that left a tingling sensation in her mind. She didn't move, unsure if she should dare to do so.

"Hello?" A gentle, deep voice rang behind the teenage girl, "I can't talk to you when your back is turned." The presence laughed gently, airily without a care.

Grace turned around. Be respectful, be polite, use those Southern manners.

"Sorry, The wind distracted me," It wasn't a lie, she was temporarily mesmerized by the display.

Now that Grace was facing the source of the voice she could get a good look at him. The Faerie standing with her had curly red hair that looked cloud soft. Orange felt with a yellow triangular nose surrounded by light freckles. His bright violet eyes were lidded in a gentle, calming demeanor, his eyelids themselves were only a few shades lighter. Full, long lashes completed the beautiful draw to his eyes. But Grace knew not to stare.

He tilted his head and smiled almost sheepishly, "Oh that's alright. I can get distracted by little things too."

Grace nodded, unsure of what to say. Or where to begin. Luckily, the Fae seemed to understand that struggle as well.

"May I help you?" He continued, "You seem to want something, am I correct?"

"You may help me," Grace chose her words carefully, "I don't need somethin’ from ya, I actually would like ya to take somethin’ specific." Here it comes. Mentally, she crossed her fingers.

"Is that so? What would you like me to take, sweetheart?" The endearment dripped with a saccharine sweetness, it was impossible to tell if it's artificial or not.

"I would like for you, Fae, to take my accent," Grace's voice quivered as she finally made her request. She begs to whatever may be above that he responds well.

The Fae looked confused and stayed quiet. Seeming to think it over.

As Grace waited in nauseating anticipation, she couldn’t help but think back to why she was doing this. Life was fine back in Texas. She had friends, close family, and everyone talked the same talk. But since her parents dragged her upstate, she's been miserable. The mockery, insults, and bullying was too much to bare. And it wall all over her voice, her accent, and where she came from. Her parents did nothing, the teachers did nothing. Hell, her English teacher was constantly correcting her pronunciation every other word. She hated it. She hated her heavy accent and the trouble that came with it.

"Why should I take your accent? What can I do with it?" The Fae broke the quiet, startling the other in the circle. His soft cadence never changed, but a lilt of confusion was clear.

Grace thought for a moment, she didn't quite think of that. She had assumed it would be like giving him her name or voice. He would just take it to have it.

"Well, ya could use it yourself, if ya like. Or maybe give it to someone else?" That made sense, at least to Grace, but she couldn't be too confident.

"I suppose you're right, child," The Fae hummed, "I do like the sound of your accent, and I may use it. But tell me, why do you want to part with it?"

"I want to give ya my accent because I don't like it. I am thankful you do, it’s all the more reason to give it away." Even if she thought it was, Grace tried not to make her accent seem worthless.

The Fae thought over the girl's answer, a sad look crossing his face.

"You poor thing," The Faerie sighed, "I will take your accent but I would like to give you something in return. Is there anything you want?"

"Thank you. And Yes, I would like to leave the forest safely, please, so I can get home." Grace didn't want anything, honestly, but knew it was best to take the trade. He was kind enough to offer and it would be rude to refuse. Also, she really didn’t want to go through all those roots and vines again.

The Fae nodded, curls bouncing gently with the motion, "Of course. You will return home safely, and in return I get your accent."

There was a tightness in Grace's throat that left her unable to speak. The Fae in front her motioned her closer, cupping her face once in reach. He studied her, turning her chin up as though to get a good look of her neck. Another bounce of red curls told Grace he nodded again, for what reason, she had no clue. The constriction in her throat was uncomfortable yet she was somehow able to breathe just fine. He titled her head back down and patted her cheeks. After doing so the feeling vanished and she swallowed.

"How's that?" The Fae asked, with a new rich tone accompanying that of a typical Texan accent. He did it.

Grace could only stare upon hearing his voice. Quickly, when his brows furrowed, she remembered to speak.

"It's," Grace paused stunned once more hearing herself, "Different. Thank you." Her shoulders dropped in relief, she can't believe it worked.

"You're welcome," The Faerie smiled, "Now get yourself home, darlin'. You're supposed to be in school."

"Yes, of course. Goodbye," Grace ended the interaction, ready to leave the nerve wracking moment behind.

She took one step backwards, but was stopped by his voice.

"Darn it, I almost forgot somethin'." The Fae pointed at her, like a scolding parent, "You, missy, should never do this again."

"Wha-"

"No," He interrupted, "What you did was reckless, had any other Folk shown up you'd be left with nothin' but that pretty head of hair. You're lucky I ain't so particular 'bout these sorts of things."

The Fae sighed, his expression returning to that sad look from earlier. "I'll give ya some credit, ya did some things right, but it wasn't perfect. And that imperfection is what gets ya into trouble."

Grace nodded, it was all she do. She was more or less fully shell shocked by now. This Fae, of all creatures, was scolding her behavior just like her mother would.

The Faerie nodded in return, taking a step back himself. The wind picked up once more, slower this time.

His eyes grew dark, "Don't. Do it again." The Fae waved her off with a stern, but polite, goodbye, shooing her outside the circle.

Grace stumbled backwards out, the wind kicked into gear the second her foot landed. She closed her eyes as her hair blew in her face, the wind was much stronger outside the ring than she thought.

Then it stopped. Grace's hair fell in her face, now a complete mess. She opened her eyes to... nothing. The fairy ring was gone, with no evidence of it ever having been there at all. The whole thing felt surreal. Had it even happened? Grace spoke the question aloud to find her answer.

A perfect, upstate accent fell from Grace's lips. It only just occurred to her she never said what accent she wanted instead. She could've gotten something worse, but she guessed it had been the doing of the Fae that was kind enough to give her this one.

Grace took one last look towards the sky, it was clearer than it had been before. Not a cloud in sight. She breathed a deep sigh of relief, glad for it to all be over.

Turning around, Grace started her venture home. Along the way she found a trail that led her safely out to the edge of the forest where she had entered. A trail that definitely hadn’t been there before. Mentally, she thanked the kind Fae one more time.

Grace really didn't like that expression he made before leaving. She didn't know him, but that serious, almost threatening demeanor didn't suit his eyes. She didn't want to know what would happen if she went against the Fae’s wishes, and she didn't want to find out either.

She's never going near a Fairy Ring again, that was for sure.