#that I shouldn’t want to live cause I’m disabled | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

frozenjokes · 22 days ago

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scar requests cubfan135 chill out with all the homocide. this goes poorly BUT scar has a lasso!!! nothing bad happens after that

ao3 link

LOOP 17

Scar woke up.

He did not catch himself, he never did, but chest and muzzle slamming against the hardwood floor hurt so much worse today. Months. Months he hadn’t had to die. He didn’t have the strength to pull himself up off his knees; mentally, yes, but physically, fuck, this was so much worse than he’d- fuck. He didn’t want to do this. He couldn’t do this again, and again and again and again- finding another layout fit to start the puzzle again would be so much of this, arms shaking, stomach hollow. He felt smaller. He was sure he was.

His Little, always in his arms, was gone. That might have shaken him more than his death in the first place.

How could Cleo have done this? Reset everything? She didn’t even- she didn’t even try! Cub wanted her to try and she didn’t-

Scar released a heavy breath. He took a few more, then pushed himself to his feet. How had he lived like this? He’d felt the difference in his strength and energy after his time spent alone, he’d certainly felt it, but..

He wasn’t even sure he had the energy to argue with them now. He was so tired. Had it been getting late? Maybe it didn’t matter. If dragging his feet through the hall to the safe room wouldn’t have killed him, he wouldn’t have bothered putting the effort in.

Cub had not gotten out of bed. Cleo was only sitting on the edge of theirs, staring dead at the floor. She looked up when Scar pushed inside.

“Oh, shit.” There was apathy there, but a shaky concern breached the surface, enough to make Cub look up. He didn’t speak, but stared long enough for Scar to know there was a noticeable physical difference. Yeah.. he didn’t have the thick fur to hide the way his skin stretched over his bones. He didn’t like looking at the humans like this; being seen so clearly.

“Have anything to say, Cleo?” Scar hissed instead, tail lashing in his discomfort.

Cleo frowned, shaking her head. “He was going to die, Scar. We could not finish without him. It sucks, I know it sucks, but I’m not going to draw out anyone’s suffering for a lost cause. I’m just sorry you don’t get to start the loop in a good state. We.. we’ll try again soon. As soon as everyone’s ready.” Cub grunted softly, but Cleo ignored him. “We got pretty unlucky during the last walkthrough period. It shouldn’t take nearly that long next time.”

“Cub wanted you to try, you didn’t even try.”

Cleo snorted, “I did try. You saw all the first aid shit all over the place. Cub doesn’t like to start over, but he would do the same thing if our positions were swapped. He has done the same thing. This isn’t our first rodeo. This isn’t the first time we’ve tried pushing on with a horrible injury either, but if we don’t die from something like blood loss, we go to infection, and if we miraculously survive something like that, it’s months of agony and working around a new disability the escape rooms weren’t designed for. We don’t have the supplies or the training to treat these kinds of injuries for a reason.”

“The puzzles aren’t meant to be solved to completion,” Cub mumbled, “We aren’t meant to escape.”

“Wh-” Scar whipped his head in a hard shake, ear pinned back as far as it could go, “Why, then? What’s the point?”

Cub and Cleo were quiet. They looked at each other, a brief glance turned long, tired. Cleo sighed through their nose. “They don’t know what to do with us. I think I told you that already, but it’s true. They don’t want us dead yet, we’re either too accomplished to kill or too weird; a mix of both if I’m being honest. Both of us are at risk of a random, spontaneous death, which no one wants because we’re too valuable to lose. Neither of us can be left unsupervised. Cub will go right back to environmental genocide and they’re worried I’m going to turn contagious or something, which is completely ridiculous. I’m done with necromancy, the damn government doesn’t have a thing to worry about, but.” Cleo shrugged. “So there’s a time component. That’s the bulk of it. There’s also the fact that both of us are at risk of going insane in one way or another, not that Cub isn’t already sitting in that bucket. I guess it’s no skin off Earth’s back either way.”

“Only clinically, and what the fuck do they know. You’re just as volatile as me,” Cub huffed, but Cleo continued without acknowledgment.

“A lot can change in ten years. There currently isn’t enough research on necromancy and the sculk for the humans on Earth to utilize the skills or the- just figure out what the hell is going on with Cub really, he isn’t particularly useful beyond the knowledge of Being An Extremely Bad Thing that the sculk managed to create. They need to puzzle out how that happened and how to stop it from happening again. They weren’t ready for Cub yet, so they launched him into space where he can’t hurt anyone. Simple. God knows the horrible fucking things they want me for, but they’re not getting shit. I’m perfectly happy being the only person in the whole damn universe to come back on her own. I don’t know what I’m in for after this but I.. already lost everything. Bought myself a new life at the cost of my old one. It was pretty stupid to think everything would just.. go back to normal.” Cleo sighed, but Scar wasn’t in a pitying mood.

“So it’s impossible. It’s impossible to get out early. This is all just something to do, something to work for so you don’t go insane- as if both of you are sane, come on! Why didn’t you tell me!?”

“It’s not impossible,” Cub mumbled, but Cleo elaborated when he did not.

“It’s been done, and unless we’re being lied to, every puzzle designed on this ship is solvable. It’s hard, but it’s possible.”

“There's a chance the puzzles aren’t possible!?” Scar felt lightheaded. Cub and Cleo were quiet for a long time.

“Better not to think about it. It doesn’t matter. Without fail, Scar, you will believe once you finish that first room that you can do it all. That this is the one. That you’re going to get out of here in a few short months. Because you have to. Because there is nothing else to do but play the game.” Cleo sighed, “In the end.. I don’t think the puzzles are impossible. Even when we get stuck, we usually push through before one of us kicks it. It’s just.. six months is a long time to be perfect. That’s a long time not to make a mistake. Plenty of time to get complacent, to get tired, one trap is all it takes, and it’s more than likely you trip more than one over the course of so many months. That’s what makes it impossible.” They stopped, correcting, “Unlikely.”

“Unlikely,” Scar repeated, the word like poison against his tongue. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s not fair,” Cub agreed, sitting up. “Well. I’m going to go make this everyone else’s problem. Goodbye.”

“Wait- What are you doing-? Where are you going?” Scar tried to catch Cub’s sleeve as he slipped past, but Cub ducked left out of reach, not looking back and not responding. “What is he doing?” Scar whirled to Cleo, who shrugged, unconcerned.

“Probably gonna challenge himself to make some device that kills both of us at the same time. Something like that.”

“What!? No!” But Cub was already disappearing through the door to the control room hall, Scar staring helplessly when he was not acknowledged. “This- No. We are not doing this again.”

Cleo snorted, not looking up from where she had settled back on her bed. “Good luck.” Apparently Scar’s movement caught their eye, because they looked up when Scar began to march toward the door. “Is that- Where did you get that? Is that a fucking lasso? Have you always had that?”

Scar did not answer, throwing open the door and pushing inside, holding the loop of his lasso firmly, twirling it above his head. “Cub!”

Cub hesitated on the other half of the hall, surely stopping in his tracks at Scar’s commanding proclamation.

“Is that. What is that. Is that a fucking lasso? Have you always had that?”

“Quiet! You are going to walk your ass right back to the safe room mister, and we are going to talk this out. No more killing each other! No more murder! You agreed to this.”

“I literally never said that.” Cub stared, eyes flicking from Scar to his lasso, intimidated by his prowess. “There’s no way you get me with that. Not from all the way across the room, no way.”

“Are you so sure?”

“I am one hundred percent sure, where the fuck did you get that?”

With the precision and accuracy only possessed by the members of the ScarFire mercenaries, Scar threw his lasso, catching Cub by the shoulders and forcing him back, Cub would SURELY REGRET doubting Scar’s abilities , being dragged face first across the floor as he was.

Scar did not hear the machine gun click behind him, but he saw the piano fall behind Cub, a near miss as Scar’s back was sprayed by bullets, an arrow shot from the other side of the room finding purchase in his shoulder. Scar only knew blood as he wheezed for breath, Cub seeming to have disappeared in the seconds Scar closed his eyes, a hole in the floor and a muted splash serving as explanation. Ah.. So he may have miscalculated.

LOOP 18

Scar went to the safe room as fast as his legs would carry him there, weak as he was, but Cub was not going to run away from him.

Scar caught him just as Cub’s hand reached the hall doorknob, the lasso snatching his neck, pulling just hard enough to unbalance Cub until Scar could get ahold of the scruff of his coat. Cub gagged, pulling at the noose, but there was no more escape.

Behind him, Cleo clapped quietly, and Scar preened with his quarry in hand. Plucking Cub off the ground, he dragged him over to Cleo’s bed, dropping him once satisfied. Cub was quiet, effectively neutralized, and only attempted to bite once or twice when Scar removed the loop from his neck.

“You’ve gotten much faster,” Cleo said, giving Cub a pitying pat on the back. “You’ll get ‘em next time.”

“No he won’t. No more getting anyone.” Scar crossed his arms, tail tip flicking when Cleo rolled her eyes. “This is not healthy!! You two are horribly desensitized to all this violence, and that’s coming from someone whose job it is to kill people like you.” Scar began removing his space suit as he talked, shaking his head. “You two are friends. You’re meant to be friendly with each other.”

“Your imagination is not broad enough to comprehend the ways in which I am going to hurt you,” Cub growled, to which Scar corrected him with a small cuff.

“Those are the kind of words I don’t want to hear anymore. This is not normal behavior. You two- especially you, Cub, need a serious murder detox! There has to be something more productive you could be doing with your time, for goodness’s sakes, something more fun.“

“We could fuck,” Cleo suggested, nudging Cub teasingly.

“I-“ Scar wasn’t entirely sure what to do with that, opening and closing his mouth, “Yeah- sure, I guess you could do that.”

“We could.” Cub huffed, “I guess. But I want the lasso.”

Scar gaped for a moment before holding his lasso closer to his chest. “Please- Don’t defile my lasso.”

“Where did that come from anyway?” Cleo asked, picking the other end of the rope up off the ground and looping it through their fingers, which Scar was suddenly much less comfortable with.

“I’ve always had it! Right in the bag- holster thing on my suit.”

“Would’ve been nice to know,” Cub mumbled, to which Scar gave him a couple hard bats, “Didn’t know we were stranded with a prude, yeesh.”

“Yeesh,” Cleo assented, more than amused with whatever was happening here, “Well you’re going to have to get over it. It’s this or getting violently dismembered, probably.”

“You’re still getting dismembered.”

“Hey! I’m not- fine, take the stupid lasso I don’t care. Not ‘yeesh,’ I’m not a prude. Do whatever you want. I’ll be in the control room if you need me. Just- Get it out of your system.” Scar did not wait for a response before leaving them to it. Cub and Cleo weren’t really food to him anymore, not really, but similarly to how he’d feel seeing two animals go at it in the wild, he was uninterested. At least he got a warning.

So he waited. He called Mumbo, let him know everything was okay; as okay as it could be at least. The loop had reset, and he was having some trouble with the humans, but he was somewhat optimistic they would work it out. At the very least Cub had better behave after this; Scar didn’t like giving up his lasso for.. however they intended on using it. He left that detail out of his recounting to Mumbo, who still wrinkled his nose in distaste.

“Nuisance creatures, they are.”

Scar shrugged, “They’re alright. I’d rather they be frustrated like this than bashing each other’s heads in, you know.”

“Bad or worse, I suppose.” In hindsight, Mumbo was a little bit of a prude.

But Scar didn’t talk to him for more than a half hour, wanting to savor his time over the rest of the week. He didn’t think the humans would be much longer; this was already quite a bit of time to be messing around- he was pretty sure at least. He couldn’t say he knew all that well. At least there was a clock in here, so Scar had the privilege of being painfully aware of the hours as they passed.

He didn’t know what to do. He had assumed one of the humans would come around and let him know when they were done, but Scar hadn’t asked them to. But what if human mating rituals were extremely lengthy? Scar didn’t know! It would make sense if they hadn’t thought to tell him either; this wouldn’t be the first time the humans assumed things were the same on Scar’s planet as it was on theirs. Oh, this was terrible. He couldn’t even knock on the door! The rooms were soundproof- Scar didn’t think they’d hear it.

After three hours, he’d had enough. He was just going to crack open the door and ask; if he saw or heard anything, he’d leave them in peace right away! More power to them! Hopefully by the end they’d be tired, no more murderous intention. At least for today.

Creeping down the hall as if he were afraid of being caught, he hesitated when he reached the door.

It was dark. Oh. Was it night time? Scar couldn’t remember what time night started, but they’d turned the lights off, so it must be now. The humans didn’t really darken the room otherwise. It would make sense. Scar was pretty tired himself.. maybe he should have napped while he was waiting.

“Cleo?” Scar waited, but there was no answer. “Cub?” Still nothing, but Scar could hear quiet breathing through the crack. Well.. alright. He pushed through the door, closing it quickly behind him; he didn’t want the light to disturb the sleeping humans, a Cleo shaped lump in their bed all but confirming this truth. Maybe humans got really tired after mating; that would explain why they didn’t come get him.

Tip toeing inside, cool steel below his foot was the only warning before something snapped with a horrible crunch over his ankle, Scar hardly having time to scream before his legs were yanked out from under him, back slamming into the floor before he was hoisted upwards by his shattered ankle, agony beyond his wildest nightmares wrenching a ragged screech from throat. Something sharp hacked at his lower back, but Scar lacked the wherewithal to know if he’d been cut as his belt and all his holsters tumbled to the floor.

“Help. Help!” the words ripped their way out of his throat with a hoarse sob, he was spinning, spinning, upside down, his leg, his ankle, it had to stop, please, someone had to remove the pressure from his ankle. Desperation surfaced in a surge of strength to heave himself up, cut the tie keeping him suspended, but that effort put even more weight on his shattered ankle, and crying out, he went limp. “Cleo- Cub, please, please!”

As Scar spun, slowly, surely facing the beds once more, he became increasingly aware of the stillness of Cleo’s form, dread dropping like a stone in his stomach, seeming to plummet all the way down to his throat and lodging itself in his jaw. He could still scream, however, and certainly did when something grabbed the base of his scuff, yanking. Thrumming new agony pulsed down his leg, stomach, chest, every part of his body sharing the flame that exploded out from his foot, which Scar was sure would fall off if his leg didn’t disconnect itself from his body first.

“Scar.” Cub held him firm at the back of his neck, and Scar feared resistance would liven the pain and panic that had already blinded him. “It has occurred to me that you have misunderstood the dynamic of our situation here. Let’s just talk it out, that’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“Cub. Cub- Let me down. Let me down, please, please, Cub let me down.” From his limited point of view, Scar could see the thick pipes at the ceiling that Cub had used to hoist him into the air, one end tied to the steel toothed trap locked around his bloody ankle that was leaking all the way down his leg. The grip of Scar’s scruff tightened.

“You think you can control me, Scar. You think you can control me, is that right? Hold me down, tell me how it is- Let me tell you how it is, right? How things are going to be here, yeah?” Cub was so angry, so angry, Scar felt his spit on the black of his neck when he screamed, “I know what I am!”

“I’m sorry- Cub, I’m sorry, please let me go.”

“Your room is a hunting lodge, did you know? Or were you out of there too fast to see it, out to get me, you know you can overpower me, Scar, but I’m smarter than you, and I'm starting to get sick of you people getting in my way.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you-” Scar didn’t get to finish before being whipped into a spin, the agony acute and fiery and so much impossibly worse than before, Scar still dizzied even when Cub caught him again, this time by the throat.

“Look at me.”

Scar tried, he tried, even through the terror, even through the darkness at the edges of his vision and the white spots dancing across his eyes. But he tried, and he saw it, he saw exactly what Cub meant him to see, the spots of light tattooed over his dark brown irises standing out like two irradient stars fighting the haze of thousands of years of light pollution. Scar couldn’t usually see it so clearly with Cub’s thick glasses catching so much glare from the fluorescent lights, but without them, there was no hiding those spots he desperately wanted the rest of the world to see.

“I’ve become exactly what it needs me to be. There’s no person anymore, Scar, there is nothing left to fix or save. I will do whatever I please with you until I return to Earth, and maybe they’ll watch me, they’ll see exactly what I’m capable of, and still they’re so stupid they won’t know to be afraid. I know- I know what I am! I’m meant to be everywhere! I need to spread.”

Cub did not move when Scar wound back, but what scared Scar more than anything is that Cub did not flinch when he raked his claws through the human’s face, deep, catching under his left eyelid, splitting his broad nose and busting the edge of his lip. Scar saw the pale red of stunned skin before blood caught up with the cuts, leaking out in dark clots, and still Cub did not move, he did not blink.

“I’m scared. I’m scared, Cub.” What a stupid, silly thing to say. Calling out to a man who was no longer trying to hear him. No, no, Scar believed him. This was not a man anymore.

“It’s okay,” he said, too tender to be soothing. Cub drew a hand over his face, he moved like he’d forgotten how to use his own limbs, wrist and fingers limp as his forearm guided his hand from his forehead to his chin, collecting the blood that Scar had drawn. “You can still be part of something bigger.”

Scar did not expect Cub to be able to grab him with such precision, thumb and forefinger hooked around the corners of his jaw, pushing, forcing Scar’s muzzle open and driving his own bloodied hand inside. Scar bit him, he bit him because he was scared, he gagged on the fist that Cub seemed determined to choke him with, he cried when Cub cooed at him, then withdrew with the sentiment that Scar had done so well.

Scar struggled to shut his aching jaw, blood and saliva seeping through his teeth as Cub disappeared behind him. There was some kind of sawing sound, or maybe that was just Scar’s pounding head.

And then he fell. He fell and he screamed when he didn’t think he had the strength to scream any longer, he wailed as his legs hit the floor, he could have sworn his ankle might have snapped off, but he didn’t know, he couldn’t when his eyes were stung by hot tears. He did not have the strength to sit up. He whimpered when Cub’s fingers brushed behind his ear, petting softly.

“It’s more fun when it’s a game, isn’t it,” Cub mumbled, but Scar didn’t believe it was Cub anymore, “I can keep it together. For the sake of getting out of here, I can keep it together. But you get restless. Angry. I want to see the world, worlds, don’t you? I have to. Maybe you don’t feel that way. For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re here.”

For Scar, ‘keeping it together’ seemed a monumental task, but he tried, tried to be still, move subtly, find one of the guns that Cub had cut loose from his hip. He didn’t know what Cub could see; very little apparently, but Scar hadn’t noticed any impairments or stumbling, not now. He was afraid, very afraid that Cub might try to keep him alive.

“Damn.. country roads,” Cub mumbled on, unfocused, “People drive so fast, don’t look where they’re going. I got hit, I leveled that car and it nearly killed me too, nearly.. That would have been better, I think. It would have been beautiful.” Briefly, Cub’s hand left Scar’s head to make a vague, poofing gesture, but it found its way back quickly, and Scar wondered if Cub was afraid to lose him. No, that was ridiculous. “Those damn headlights, it’s horrible in the dark. They just keep getting brighter, and why? I don’t like the light. Let the night stay dark, that’s what I think. It’s criminal. Those lights should be illegal.”

Scar was afraid to break eye contact, not that Cub was really looking at him, but Scar didn’t want him to start. Exploring with the hand furthest away from his captor, he finally found his belt. Crawling along the leather, he released a shaky breath when the first holster was out of reach.

“Are you hurting?” Cub did not ask like he expected an answer. Scar grimaced, pulling his belt closer, but the noise got Cub’s attention, turning, but he did not see, Scar was certain his eyes did not focus, so with great effort, Scar heaved himself upwards to redirect Cub’s attention, more noise to distract from his true intention.

“Don’t go,” Cub said, but Scar was more focused on his guns, his empty holsters, fuck, maybe it was obvious they’d bounce away from the fall? “Aren’t you dizzy? Why don’t you lay down. Close your eyes.”

He was dizzy. The idea of Cub's sculk being the cause made him sick to his stomach; he absolutely could not stay here and under no circumstances would he be closing his eyes. Seeing double, he managed to get eyes on one of his guns. Cub only watched as Scar dragged himself toward it.

“You’re tired, aren’t you?”

Cub would not be able to stop him. By the time understanding dawned on his form, Scar’s gun was already cocked. Cub did not speak before the bullet pierced his skull. Relief crashed out of Scar in a whimper, collapsing where he sat as the last of his energy left him. He really.. He really didn’t feel good. For the first time since he’d been dropped, he thought to check on his ankle, immediately wishing he hadn’t. Scar was.. starting to think Cub never intended on saving him. At that level of nearly severed, Scar was stunned it had ever held his entire body weight for so long. Ah..

Pain had lost all meaning at this point. Better, certainly, to lay down.. close his eyes..

#tw: blood #tw: violent death #tw: violence #hermitcraft #hermitfic #hermitcraft fic #hermitcraft au #gtws #goodtimeswithscar #cubfan135 #zombiecleo #timeloopprisonau #hermitshipping #<- there is not shipping in this fic #just a sex mention #suggestive

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girldragongizzard · 1 month ago

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Chapter 14: Preparation

“OK, Meghan, but I need to inform you that I am required by law to report if I suspect that you have plans to harm yourself or others, and that includes Mr. Säure. Even though he is a dragon, like you, he is still a citizen of the United States and currently legally recognized as a fellow human being.”

That last phrase just feels so wrong.

I did not miss a third therapy session. I’m there. I think I’ve made an error.

“Not harm,” I say. “Stop.”

“What do you mean by ‘stop’?”

“Intervene,” I carefully type out. “Convince to cease terror.”

“Shouldn’t you leave that up to the authorities?” she asks.

“Out of their league,” I say. “Either they let continue. Or they attack with military. Bad either way.”

“That’s like what happens in movies, though, isn’t it?” my counselor asks. “Don’t you think we’re all more sophisticated than that? Don’t you think there are experts who can work diplomatically with someone like Säure?”

I snort. It’s basically a sneeze. A sneeze of derision.

“No? You don’t think so? You know something they don’t?” she asks.

“Am dragon,” I say, and just stare at her.

“Then why did you ask me for my advice on the matter?” she asks.

“How,” I type into my tablet, looking up at her occasionally to indicate I’m taking my time and want her to pay attention, “do we fight fear? You are a therapist. Maybe you have idea about humans I do not.”

—

I’m starting to formulate a plan. But I’m not writing much of it down, just some of the process of putting it together, because I don’t want to tip Säure off to just what I’m doing. You’ll have to excuse me for this, it’s important.

Hang tight. I think this is going to work.

Why try to take Säure down?

That’s a good question. Mostly, for my part, because he’s targeted me specifically. He tried to eat me. But also, because he’s terrorizing my city.

And we’re dragons having a territorial dispute. It’s inevitable.

He’s a competing predator trying to push me away from my food source, but also away from my family and my own hoard.

But also he’s a rampaging billionaire. I keep harping on that without demonstrating just how dangerous that is. He hasn’t really done anything yet besides fly around and scream at the sky and boil the bay, basically threatening everyone. Except, as a billionaire, he is a representative and enforcer of the very system that failed to accommodate my own disabilities and that put me into government funded low income housing while on SSI, and that made and kept Joel homeless before his dracomorphosis, and that had the police illegally working with his own company to kidnap people and relocate them into the wilderness because we had the fortune of becoming full blown dragons. And sure, he disavowed that last thing, but he was complicit in the habits and systems that made it possible in the first place. It was his company. Like, these are just tiny examples in a massive system of the exploitation and destruction of the populace.

I feel like I should just point outside and let the entire world be my example. You can surely see what’s going on out there. And if you can’t see that, then you might not be my audience anyway.

But, in this case, it is actually personal.

And it’s not like I’m trying to hurt or kill him, anyway, just change his perspective and behavior.

I’m going to communicate with him. As legally as I can, because I myself personally don’t want to deal with the consequences of misstepping. I’d like to keep living on the roof of my building and to continue dating Rhoda and Chapman.

And, like, that’s hard. Everything is set up so that the average person can’t do this sort of thing without getting dinged for it. Or without just being ineffectual. What incentive does he ever have to change his behavior in the first place? What leverage does anyone have to give him an incentive?

But, despite all of my instincts or C-PTSD or whatever it is that’s causing me to ideate the act of tearing him apart and spending the rest of the decade swallowing the bits and chunks, as if I can even do that, I do think I have an idea of how to do this in just this particular case.

Every dragon of his kind has a weakness.

And also, as a dragon, I have resources the average person does not.

—

The sound of three seagulls crying as they fly low overhead makes it hard for anyone to talk. It’s kind of amazing how loud they can be sometimes.

Caleb squints his eyes as if that helps keep the noise out of his head. Then he glances at Astraia and says, “We’ve got lines of communication to most of the dragons in the county, now. Each community has their own mirror of your Discord server. Well, not mirror as in a digital copy of it, but an imitation, their own thing. Believe it or not, you weren’t even the first to do it. The city of Jam had a PHPBBS going by the end of that first weekend, of all things.” He sighs, “Anyway, yeah, I think we can do this. But we’re not going to get 100% cooperation.”

“Don’t need all,” I say, knuckling my tablet to do it. “Just most.”

“Yeah, it’s still going to be tough going,” he replies. “This isn’t instant communication. Honestly, a lot of the dragons are being represented by their human friends and family. And while not everyone is always on their devices, there’s a lot of relaying going on, too. The more time we have, the easier it will be to set it all up and get everyone coordinated. Or, most of them coordinated. But, day of, we can’t rely on it.”

“Need humans, too. As many as can,” I say.

“Yeah.”

“Let’s take time,” I tell him. “Day of, Sunday?”

“Might work. Good choice for other reasons, I think,” Caleb nods.

I turn to Astraia, “You lay low. Keep healing. Coordinate.”

“It’s what I’ve been doing,” she responds, doing her eight headed trick with a newer, larger looking tablet. “We’ve had to crowd fund a garage for me, and that dovetails with the other outreach we’ve been doing. I’m good.”

“Thank you.”

“People do like to support their neighborhood dragons,” she says. “We’ve really got that going for us.”

“Banking on it,” I say. Then I work to spell it out, and everyone waits patiently while I type it “When I led roll call on Murder Thursday, the fact it worked tells us what we need to know.”

Joel yawps cheerfully.

We are on his territory, in his park, behind the defunct acid tanks. We’re here so that he stays up to date on the plan, too.

“I have something for you,” I tell him. “It might suck.”

He tilts his head.

With some effort, I pull out the pendant that Chapman made for me, and lay it on the ground next to my tablet, then I say, “Put this on, human. Take off, dragon. Magic. Chapman made. But, make you girl. No talk, only type.”

He sneeze-snorts and looks away.

Yeah, OK. Honestly didn’t think so.

—

As I’ve said before, I’ve had a little training with Wentin since it helped me to see my true nature as a dragon, and to access what I guess could be called dragon magic. Our natural abilities to engage with reality in a way that other life cannot typically do. But I haven’t had much.

And though I still won’t say all that I’ve learned, I will admit I don’t feel like it was enough, despite how little I trust the monster.

Our dream hunt through the woods of the nightmares of my youth, the one that turned into a game of me chasing it, felt like it changed something between us. And I feel like I could seriously use some extra help in what I’m trying to do.

So, I try to set up a meeting with it in its arboretum, despite all my misgivings.

I do this by sending it a direct message on Discord, and then moving on and dealing with other preparation work.

“I agree to train with you at your next earliest convenience,” I send it.

Eventually, I do get a message back from it.

“I’m sorry, My Dear Queen, but I am currently indisposed with other work. When I am done, I will let you know when I am free, and I would love to assist you in your studies at that time. I do not know when this will be.”

For how relieved I am, I’m also sharply disappointed.

But it did respond to me, it is marked as online, so I dare to ask it something that’s been bothering me. If it answers, it might still be a help.

“Did you have life as human before?” I send to it.

“Oh, dear no, My Queen. Not at all,” it says.

I’d asked the question because everything I’ve been learning about it had led me to have a doubt about its origin. To question whether it underwent dracomorphosis the way the rest of us did. But to have it confirm that doubt feels unexpected anyway. And it leaves me with a question about the most frivolous thing.

I wonder so many other things, like what its nature was before dracomorphosis. And whether it had been some other kind of creature, or whether it had always just been a nightmare monster. How is it now capable of manifesting physically?

There’s a lot to wonder about, but instead I focus on this one silly thing.

“Why are you called Wentin?” I ask.

“Oh, I love this story,” It sends. “Long ago, a child I used to hunt chose a novel way of dealing with me. And one night, she turned to face me and told me to stop. And, of course, since I no longer had consent to hunt her, I had to cease. Confused and at a loss as to what to do, I asked her what she wanted from me. And she in turn asked me if I would be her friend. For the life of me I don’t know why, but I agreed. And when she learned that I didn’t have a name, she gave me the name Wentin. She has now died long ago. But I have kept the name ever since in her memory.”

And then its status turns to red, indicating that it has logged off.

In case it will answer another frivolous question when it logs back on, I ask it, “Do you use a computer or other device to access Discord?”

I do feel a little strange trying to have such a mundane conversation with the monster of my childhood nightmares. But I get to, it seems, so I’ll keep pushing it.

I tuck my tablet away and get back to business, part of my mind chewing on its answer.

There are so many clues to other questions it just gave me, as well as a lot more questions.

—

Somewhere in there, I have a genuine date with Chapman.

We do spend some time talking business and preparation, during which I learn that sie can’t prepare much for me to use on such short notice. But that sie thinks my plan has some merit, and won’t dissuade me from trying it.

And then we spend the rest of the evening just getting to know each other better over some unexpectedly good food and live music on a Thursday night. The nice thing about using the table to communicate with each other is that we don’t have to hear what the other is saying.

I also start making longer term plans with hir. Things to do as the world maybe, hopefully settles down from the dracomorphosis. Though we both acknowledge that might not happen for a while. I want to genuinely pursue a remedy for people like Kimberly, who may feel left behind by the latest wonders of the world, who are beings of other sorts stuck in otherwise human form. And maybe if we track down and find the Artist of Transformation, or whatever they actually call themself, we might be able to do that. Chapman agrees to give this an honest shot.

Perhaps we can help transgender humans on the way, if sudden transformation and other spectacular expressions of Art are here to stay.

Or, at least, maybe we can bring a few people some joy while the world seems to continue to vibrate itself apart, as it is apparently doing.

I suppose you might conclude I’ve thoughtlessly thrown my lot in with what Säure calls the Architects, without suspicion or question.

Maybe I have.

But, mostly, I’m following Chapman, because sie has given me reason to trust hir. And I like hir. A lot.

I might be a little dazzled or smitten or something, but I guess I’ll eventually learn.

In the meantime, I’m swallowing bits of marinated lamb wrapped in herby and fragrant other foods, something I don’t think I’d have ever tried before, while enjoying a live band that’s developed a strange and dark fusion of traditional Greek music and bluegrass, with lyrics about the Odyssey.

It’s a very Fairport moment.

—

On Friday, there isn’t much prep left to do, besides wait for the threads that I’ve started to continue weaving themselves together and the net to spread. Fortunately, today’s the day I’ve put aside to tend to Rhoda.

We’ve been back to our nightly tea. And I’ve been spending the night in her apartment, curled up by her front door, ever since that first night she drew her line, made her rule, and offered me shelter. We’ve effectively been living together.

But I need to talk to her about this.

Normally, after a day out and about, I arrive on her doorstep in my faerie trans princess gown and tiara, and relax back into dracoform once inside her door. I’ve been doing this because it’s just easier to get to her apartment that way.

This time I’m much earlier and I relax before I knock. This is our agreed upon signal for this.

Of course, she peers through her peephole before she opens the door, so she already knows.

She opens the door and just says, “I’ll start the tea.”

Her acknowledgement. By being business-like, instead of welcoming me home, she’s telling me she’s prepared to rescind her rule about the apartment for the night.

I see a haunted and exhausted look in her eye, though, and I dread what this conversation will entail.

But she lets me make my way into the apartment, and once she closes the door behind me, she’s smiling and coming to cup my jaw and give me a kiss on my snout. And then she says, “Welcome home.”

“Thank you, Rhoda,” I say. The one full phrase I can smoothly use my syrinx for.

She’s still moving more slowly and thoughtfully than usual when she goes into the kitchen to get the kettle and fill it with water. The tea set itself is already arranged on her coffee table, complete with my customary bowl. The water she’s about to heat is actually for my bowl, her tea is now steeping.

“You seem to have had a busy week!” she calls from the kitchen.

“Yes,” I say.

She comes back and sits down and then plugs the kettle in and sets it on the table.

“Let’s go ahead and talk about that, then,” she says. “Whatever we need to air out is fine. Catch me up.”

I have my explanation as a set of sentences in my tablet that I play one at a time, pausing in between to let Rhoda react or to ask any questions. She just prompts me to continue, so I do. But by the time I’m done explaining my whole plan to her, my bowl is full of tea and I can taste it fully by licking the air.

I then turn the conversation over to her by playing my final precomposed sentences, “I imagine all sorts of ways that this could cause worry and be difficult to bear. We can try something different.”

She considers that for a while, finger touching her lip to keep it from quivering, and then she blinks a couple times and shakes her head, “No. This is good, Meghan. I won’t say I’m happy about your role in this, but I am proud of you for coming up with the whole idea. I can’t think of anything else to try that would be any safer. And somebody has to do something.”

I don’t bother telling her that she’s someone who can do something. We’ve already covered that. She doesn’t want that power or what using it for that level of influence will do to her. She doesn’t want the responsibility or the weight of it, nevermind that the proclamation she’s already made is clearly having a profound and powerful effect. My goal here is to take some of that weight off her shoulders.

I bow my head and stay quiet a little longer to see if she has more to say. She does.

“You have to come home after this, Meghan. I’ve been working on a project that’s important to me, and I think you’re the only one who can edit it properly. I need your insight. Your experiences. I need you to help me make sense of some things I don’t think I can fully understand, and I don’t really know anybody else who is qualified. Except maybe Chapman, but I’d rather it be you.” She lowers her head at me and says, “So, after you do this on Sunday, you come home. Please.”

I know what she means. I know how important it is to her. I hope I can deliver.

#writeblr #dragons #transgender #transformation #original fiction #serial fiction

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yutaholic · 11 months ago

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Thank you for even making that post because I honestly feel like I’m going to explode!! Championing every issue is EXHAUSTING. I have such empathy fatigue. Bombardment of “rules”, behavioral guidelines, services, companies, networks + food brands & PEOPLE to boycott ALL THE TIME. Fandom is space many of us come to unplug from reality…it’s certainly my hyperfixation & ppl be like “well then get another one because you shouldn’t support–” IT DOESN’T WORK LIKE THAT. Fuck. I can’t take it anymore. Calls to action being in EVERY single place have weakened my mental state even more than it was before which was already on “pending disability” level of severe & now I’m just. burned t-absolute-f out….at everything!! I can literally FEEL myself unraveling. Kpop stans & their toxic activism can go to hell. They’re so worried about making sure to condemn others for “not doing enough” or being bad people, that they don’t even realize their actions are making them into bad people. This shit takes a toll on mental health, there is science behind this, it is real and what happens to human beings when inundated with constant terrible news, and it’s not just being ~too privileged to care~ but these performative mfs have no concept of blacklisting anymore and just want to assume the absolute worst about someone, call them names & wish harm on folks who are at the end of their ropes! It’s maddening! So even if compassion fatigue isn’t why you didn’t go out of your way to Denounce and Drag™️ him (bc you totally have the right to simply not want to do that on a fanfic blog!) I’m just glad someone else stated that this is supposed to be an ESCAPE. fuck.

Baby, burnout will fuck you up. Don't do that to yourself. Take the time you need and recoup. Life is a constant war and you can afford to lose a battle here and there to focus on your own health and well-being. Getting yourself back into a good place mentally will be a huge win. We both know the ppl obsessed with performative activism aren't doing anything from a place of compassion. The real ones are out there making change, not sending people death threats online from the comfort and safety of their mommy's basement.

When I posted the pic of NCT Dream and Big Time Rush, I wrote in the tags how BTR was something my sister and I loved and bonded over. We watched the show even though it was obviously a kids show and we were both adults. It was just something that gave us joy. My sister passed away years ago and anything BTR-related will make me teary because I think about how much we laughed together over it.

So the first thing I get are messages over how problematic BTR is, that I should delete the post or I'm pro-genocide if I don't dislike them. Ngl that made me so upset because I got a bunch of faceless people trying to taint some precious memories of me and my sister. If they came at me trying to educate me on things I didn't know that would be different, but it's straight to judgment and hatred toward me over something I posted that was totally innocent.

Meanwhile I get criticized for posting about a kpop group instead of reblogging every call to action post. I donate my money to these causes, but I don't post about it because I don't need my ass kissed for doing what I know to be right. I am 1000% sure the anons in my inbox that try to police me have never given a dime to anything, but are policing people's blogs for not reblogging posts or talking about it more.

I feel bad that I haven't been very active on here this year so I try to come on when I have some free time to interact with you guys. I make a silly post about Doyoung and get anons tearing into me for it like I'm his social media manager. Okay so because the world is going to shit we aren't allowed to enjoy anything?? Can't make jokes about anything. Can't show support for anything. Just wrong on every fucking count.

Believe me I am so goddamn aware of how lucky I am that I can sit here and say I'm very privileged that I live comfortably in the life I have. I know what's going on in the world and I do my part to help where I can, but I also have to keep functioning. I don't want every minute of my life to be seeped in anger, I did that for a long time and it not only eats away at you, it makes you ineffective in actually changing the things making you angry in the first place.

This was just supposed to be a blog where I posted my stories. One of the few places I could go and not constantly be reminded of how fucked up the world is. I've always said that people who told me reading a fic of mine made their day a little better or helped them escape for a bit were always my favorite. That was what I came here for and I loved being able to share the tiniest moments of peace and quiet with others through stories with guaranteed happy endings.

I'm frustrated because I have 4 drafts ready to go next year. I got the story posts done and made all the headers. But I don't want to post them. I have no problem admitting I'm selfish and spiteful. Even though I can turn off anon, I can't block these miserable people and I don't want them reading my stuff. They don't get to consume my content and then tell me to off myself right after.

A massive fuck you to those of you that ruined this blog for me.

#empathy fatigue is real #and the reason these shitheads arent getting tired #is because theyre not doing any of it from empathy

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of-mutton-and-wool · 6 months ago

Text

So more cotl reincarnate thoughts

Basically reminder

Because the youngest died first

The youngest are the oldest and the oldest are the youngest

I’m not entirely sure if their disabilities carry into this life ( I am leaning towards yes so, we are going to assume these apply here)

Oh and it’s like hundreds of years after the main plot so it’s modern times

Shamura

- their about 14-15ish at the start of this au

- their parents are pretty neglectful. They keep food in the fridge but never have time to see shamura, so they mostly spent time by themselves when they were at a age where they could ‘take care of themselves’

- because of this neglect shamura struggles in social interactions because nobody taught them anything how to really interact with their peers

- plus they struggle in school due to undiagnosed memory issues + adhd (they don’t know. Doctors scare them so they try not to say anything)

- they aren’t exactly bullied? But like, they aren’t exactly friends with anyone either

- … its lonely at school.

- because of this shamura is very enthusiastic and latched onto anyone who gives them the time of day

- this leads to shamura befriending Leshy, the city’s local Florida man.

- they got a shitty laptop for their 12th birthday and have unrestricted internet access (to their gain and detriment)!

- their main interests are mythology, video games, and programming + hacking

- they honestly feel the safest inside their room in a little tent they created with webbing and tents

- they babysit camellia from time to time!!

- once did soccer. Got kicked off because they bit another kid

Leshy

- like, 30

- he was born blind :].

- he’s married!!! To the yellow cat, Elio!! They have a daughter and her name is camellia!!

-how does that work? I don’t know! Its best not to ask

- he loves his family very much

- he’s known for causing trouble around the city, no major crime (to his dismay, but he has a husband and daughter he wants to stay close to).

- he thinks the governing body of the city is a bunch of cowards

- I’m not entirely sure how Leshy gets around just yet but I’m tempted to give him a service worm which assists him in his schemes! Or he’s lived in the city his whole life. Maybe both.

-cops hate him. He hates the cops.

- sorta concerned that shamura hangs around him because ‘shouldn’t you be hanging out with your peers??? ‘

- but hey leshys got a pal!

- Leshy 🤝 shamura (living in the unmarketable part of town)

- he can purr :]

- Leshy really resents his parents. They were the opposite of shamura’s, they were VERY overprotective and basically locked Leshy at home

- he doesn’t talk to them anymore. They’ve long since moved out so they will leave him alone.

- when he’s upset Leshy tends to fall back into some old self destructive habits

- despite being very lively he doesn’t often go to crowded parts of town because he much prefers to be able to hear thank you very much.

Heket

- late 20s (probably about 28)

- she feels… stuck. She didn’t have enough money for collage and she ended up dropping out of high school for reasons I can’t think of right now

- she lives with her family and siblings. They operate decently successful supermarket.

- heket wants to be satisfied but she’s not. There is this anger inside her she can’t do anything about.

- she’s had her fair share of petty crime in her youth. Unlike Leshy she’s mellowed out.

- she’s selectively mute again due to lore reasons. She knows sign language and usually keeps a notepad on her.

- She sees kallamar a lot, and being the only other person she knows who knows sign language, she and him are good aquitances

- the type to blast music when she’s upset

- the only one I would trust behind a steering wheel

- decent relationship with her parents (shocking).

- decent with kids as well! She babysits her siblings a lot. Babysat shamura when they were younger (they haven’t spoken since)

- probably started smoking in high school and has yet to quit the habit

- honestly romantic intimacy scares her so she’s not in the romance scene

- she actually used to be in a band! She still has her base and plays it sometimes, reminds her of simpler times

- also as a way to try and manage her anger she took up crocheting. While not particularly patient she can make a damn good granny square.

- she doesn’t drink. She just doesn’t consider herself a fun person to drink around.

Kallamar

- about 24ish

- cunty,, in collage. He’s a trust fund kid </3

- he’s in college for medicine but really kallamar wants to be a fashion designer (but daddy said no because ‘that’s not a man’s job’)

- still, when he isn’t drowning in work kallamar daydreams about running his own clothing brand.

- kallamar frequents a local convenience store because they are the only place to have the drinks he likes, and thus he’s become friendly with heket!

- considers her his friend. Your honor he’s just a little lonely

- you will NEVER catch him lacking in the fit department. Will GUSH about his choices if you let him

- some of his fits are definitely not practical tho, he just doesn’t know when to not wear something

- he makes most of the stuff he wears! His mother taught him

- he thinks he’s pretty. Not in a vain way, he just thinks he’s an attractive person

- pericings guy.

- he’s an average student, not particularly special.

- he envies heket a little because it looks like she’s got it all figured out and has her whole life set out

- kallamar is paralyzed by uncertainty in his one future

- he’s got a fast reaction time, VERY good at dance dance revolution.

- he’s to afraid to get a tattoo but he paints little symbols on himself!

- very sassy. Kinda mean to, in his head he’s Regina George but in reality he’s just kinda pathetic

- however he gives really good advice.

No narinder lore (yet) sorry :[

#cotl #cult of the lamb #cotl au #cult of the lamb au #cotl reincarnate au

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bluedalahorse · 7 months ago

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Here’s a random Young Royals ask:

What career do you think Sara will have in the future? Or what do you think her dream job would be?

I hope your day is lovely and amazing!!

Thank you! I hope your day is lovely and amazing too.

This is a great ask, and one where you might get more than you asked for. In part because I’ve thought about it a lot. I have not only a dream job in mind for Sara, but also some nightmare jobs as well. (Don’t worry, it’s all related to fanfic plots living in my head, and I promise they end in a good place.)

Is it okay if I start with Sara’s nightmare job? This one sort of popped into my head as I was envisioning what a Second Chance Romance could look like between Sara and August, maybe a decade after canon where August has done a lot of work and made various restitutions to Simon and gotten much more of his shit together.

As for that story… I thought it might be interesting, as far as like, what generates a plot and character arc, to put Sara at a job that’s taking advantage of her compassion and desire for justice. In my experience it’s pretty common for younger people to end up in situations like that in their first jobs, and I think it’d be interesting if Sara was in a place where she won’t deal with that in a romantic partner anymore, but she hasn’t learned to recognize it in a work situation yet. (This is pretty common in growing up—you tackle one issue in one part of one’s life and it sneakily migrates to another part.) So she’s working this nightmare job for an autism charity I’ve sneakily called PuzzleChildren (it’s a reference, shout if you get it!) which is trying to rehabilitate its image after news breaks that they haven’t really hired any actually autistic people. Sara’s hired by them, and they sound sincere at first so she’s trying her best to make things work with her coworkers and bosses, but over time she just kind of realizes that this place is shit and has no intention of changing. And then she moves into a line of work that’s much more fulfilling for her.

And what might that be? Well, I’m still deciding, but there’s a few career paths where I can see Sara being particularly happy:

Some sort of career in Environmental or Disability Justice. I’m not exactly sure why. It’s just vibes. I do think Sara is a person who cares deeply about people and causes, and both of those are areas where I can see her learning more at university and just finding a place that makes sense for her.

Helping people, especially other neurodivergent people, using some kind of animal therapy. Doesn’t have to be horses! Or maybe Sara will train service dogs or something. It’s possible Sara’s affinity for horses could translate over to other animals, and she could find a career path in that general direction.

Graphic novelist or picture book writer. We see Sara drawing in one scene in season 1, and for that reason, she’s always been someone who likes to draw in my head. We also know she’s a keen observer of human behavior and could have some interesting insights if she ever decided to write a story. I can see her doing memoir graphic novels with a similar tone to like, stuff by Marjane Satrapi or Maggie Thrash. Of course if the monarchy’s still around they might want to sue her for her honesty. But they shouldn’t.

What do you think? I can see lots of possibilities for Sara in the future!

#young royals #sara eriksson #asks

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genderkoolaid · 2 years ago

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As a trans and disabled person, I have no strong opinions on endo systems but I actively hate “transdisabled” people. Most of the community I see treats disability like an aesthetic, like I chose to have my legs not work and that I look cool in my chair. And yeah maybe I do look cool but my disability brings so much fucking pain it feels disrespectful to act like it’s something I should be happy about. If you’re not in pain, you’re not in pain. Gender is a social construct but disability (to an extent, and I’m talking about my disability which severely impacts my nervous system and also causes access tissue to grow leading to severe pain) is not a social construct. It is something I have to suffer through every fucking day and to try and co-opt and draw conclusions between me and someone who doesn’t have to go through that is so disrespectful to me. You do not want this, it is painful and frightening and I have a good chance of dying before 30. If you feel like you have these symptoms and can’t afford a doctor I have no hate against self dxing. But acting like you have a disability with no symptoms is just a plain fuck you to those who suffer from them everyday.

Again, if you feel transdisabled due to an underlying psychological issue, I wish you the best and I hope you’re able to access adequate mental health care. But you do not have what I have. Your body is not twisted, you do not wake up everyday in agony, your body is not destroying yourself and I find it horrific of you to act like it is. For me transableism feels like it is treating the fact that I have had to fight for every step I take, every place I go, every time I’ve collapsed in absolute agony, the nights vomiting my guts out because there is tissue growing where it shouldn’t be, the amount of times I’ve screamed my throat raw into a pillow because my nerves are on fire and simplify it into a flag or an identity is so fucking disrespectful. If you have the same symptoms as I do and it is unsafe to go to a doctor or the doctor won’t believe you, I’m sorry and I support your right to self dx and I hope you find medication that helps. If you have BIID I hope you can find the therapeutic help you need in order to feel at home in your body. But you don’t have the disability I do, not to say BIID isn’t a disability or it’s a lesser disability, but you do not have what I do and it is infuriating to me to say you have what I have without experiencing a fraction of the pain that I have Final message: I don’t want to say I hate transabled people or I wish harm among them because most of them are younger people. But I want you to think about how demeaning it is to tell someone who’s body is twisted and overgrown and painful to say you want to be like that? To say you’ve been through the same thing? Stop. I know you’re not trying to be, but you’re being ableist. Trans people transition through a social construct by my pain is not social. Please seek psychological treatment for your BIID and stop making those flags

Okay, first, I need to clear this up: I do not have BIID and I am not transabled. I am already physically disabled, I use mobility aids, I am in pain constantly, my ability to eat normally is fucked up, and my quality of life has been severely negatively affected by my physical disability, to the point where it has been a major component of why I have been suicidal. Trust me, I understand. I would be pretty upset if someone came up to me and said they were envious of my disabilities, because it's rude to act that way about someone else's suffering.

My problem is, everything you have said is the exact same reasoning cis women have for seeing trans women as offensive. There are many cis women who have lived lives full of horrific misogyny, who have been deeply traumatized by misogyny, who view womanhood as intrinsic suffering and pain. And they feel that trans women are extremely disrespectful, because how could they possibly know what it's like to suffer through horrific misogyny? How could they act like womanhood is some fun game full of pink and flowers when it has been a major source of trauma in your life? These cis women feel that trans women view womanhood as an aesthetic, they only see the patriarchal construct of femininity and think it looks like fun, and they are extremely offended by the idea that a "male" can just co-opt womanhood and try to act like "he" knows anything about the horrible, traumatic experience of being a woman.

Now, disability and gender are not the same thing, nor do they function the exact same. But its the same arguments, and the same gut reaction to seeing someone seek out something that causes you so much pain, and feeling like they are spitting on your pain by doing that. Its an understandable reaction, but not one that is based in connection with those people.

The more I read about people with BIID/transabled people and their experiences, the more I really feel for them. Their experiences of dysphoria are real, and lead many to the strong desire to hurt themselves in order to relieve it, in lieu of available surgery; many trans people can relate to that desire. Their experiences of euphoria are also real- the few people who have achieved their desired disability seem to, fairly consistently (although the data is Scarce), genuinely feel relief and are able to live happier lives. Here is one study on a man who had his leg removed and was very happy with it, and another one on 21 people who were able to get surgery- for that one, every single person said they didn't regret it at all. They felt happy with their bodies, free from depression, and overall felt their quality of life had improved extremely.

Again, I understand the gut reaction to seeing someone say that they are envious of amputees or that they wish they could be disabled. It's not an evil reaction, it's not a bad reaction. But their desire does not negate anyone's suffering, just like a trans woman's euphoria does not negate a cis woman's trauma. Their pain and their joy are real, and it does not negatively affect me, or you, for them to experience and pursue that joy. They can definitely be ableist, and be disrespectful to disabled people, but that is not an inherent part of BIID/being transabled. And there are people who are already physically disabled who are happy with their lives and are fine with being disabled, especially amputees; why should that be fine, but transabled people are warped fetishizing freaks? And, again, their desires are not hurting disabled people. All of the people in the above studies spent years thinking about their desires and what it would mean (which I think is important to point out, because if you are basing your entire view of a group on teens on Tumblr, you probably aren't going to get the most nuanced, coherent perspective). I think it's rude to suggest that other people, who have never met a transabled person, just inherently know that they are fetishizing and thinking being disabled is a fun game. Shouldn't we listen to them on their experiences? Writing all of them off as not understanding what it's like to be disabled is a generalization, and the same can be said for trans people- how do we damn transabled people in a way that doesn't give fodder for transphobes? I feel like solidarity between both groups can be used to fight for greater bodily autonomy, no matter how strange their desired body seems to the culture they are in.

All in all, I completely understand why you feel the way you do. As I said, I would not want someone to tell me, to my face, that I'm lucky to be disabled. But that's not what having BIID or being transabled means- and I do think there is some value in the radical statement that being disabled is not inherently a lesser existence than being abled, and people can and are able to be happy and love their lives and their bodies as disabled people. I don't think transabled people should claim that they are physically disabled (unless they have transitioned and do have that disability), but their desires are not inherently ableist or awful. Their dysphoria is legitimate and they have a right to seek body euphoria, the same as a trans person, or someone who wants tattoos, or someone who wants to get body modifications to look like a lizard.

#okay im going to. go think about something else now #m.#ask box #transabled

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xruiningth3sh0wx · 1 month ago

Text

Another one dead

By the road,

Ruthlessly tread upon

And robbed of its soul.

A grizzly sight,

One which catches the eye,

Rubber marks etched into the skin,

It’s enough to make you want to cry.

Trampled under by rolling feet,

The usurpation of our mother’s complete.

Torn apart by rubber teeth,

Silently reminded it didn’t deserve to breathe.

Another one dead,

Another one gone,

Gasoline spews into the air

And motors sing their siren songs.

That foul black serpent

Wants to strangle life,

Venom spewing forth from its fangs

As they pierce the Mother like a pair of knives.

Her children are murdered

By Her biggest mistake,

Rain falling hard everyday as She

Weeps from the constant rape.

Butchered upon the

Cold concrete,

By steel machines,

Innocent creatures are torn and beat.

It was their home first,

Despite our claims.

Man has an unquenchable thirst,

A desire to kill, torture, and maim.

Another one dead,

Left to rot,

And all pass by,

The corpse they forgot.

Why should they care?

A natural consequence

Of their dominance.

The little vermin shouldn’t have been there.

And we’re told that there are innocents,

There are those who don’t deserve to die.

Find me a pure soul,

And I’ll show you a pure lie.

A giant gang of serial rapists

Is on the loose.

Murderous offspring drag their weakened

Mother right to the noose.

Another one dead,

Killed for the cause,

An ugly strip laid

And another home lost.

To make way

For the doomsday machines,

Asphalt poured deep in the ground

While species galore are wiped clean.

More and more are laid to rest.

Despite what the tyrants say,

They were our brightest and best.

Bipedal monsters pilot

Their fuming horses.

Blackened is the air,

Heading towards suicide.

Kill the inhabitants with glee,

Spill their blood with heinous pride.

It’s all so goddamned sordid.

Another one dead,

Buried inside a concrete tomb.

The sky cracks and shakes

As filthy hands dig into our Mother’s breast and womb.

Gotta make way for the coming end,

That’s why they’re speeding into oblivion,

And they all invite their family and friends,

Ushering in a decadent age, just like that old Gideon.

Metal phalluses erected,

Plunging deep,

Forcefully injected,

And some wonder why our Mother

Just wants to enter eternal sleep

As the dross that is homo hubris continues to smother.

Hell is here,

It’s where we went.

Built on Earth,

That’s where we were sent.

Every man is damned,

And I’d say they all deserve to be.

I look forward to the end of Man,

I cannot wait to see him bleed.

Someday a rain will come,

And wipe away the scum that breeds.

Scum breeds scum, all roads lead

Right into the heart of decay.

She’ll be right when upon us She feeds,

For suicide is the gospel of humanity, and the logic of to-day.

For now, all I can do is watch

As more and more are driven over.

Extinction draws near for the precious ones,

Upon the critters, it creeps closer and closer.

What did they do to deserve this fate?

It’s man that’s wrong; the furry things don’t deserve our hate.

Hate with all your heart, the spawn of Man.

Remove him from this place, to help heal the broken land.

Disable his chariots of doom,

That should bring about his end soon.

I see the scum walking about,

And I’m told they have worth,

But my hateful heart just fills with doubt.

Another one dead,

Another one dead.

Four screaming wheels

Crushed its head.

Another one dead,

Another one gone.

Man thinks he’s invincible,

But his end’s around the corner; it won’t be long.

And I pray to God, I pray to Her,

Get rid of this bipedal disease,

Send us all to Hell, where we belong,

Make sure our lives, you fucking cease.

I cannot stand the sights I see

In this here modern world that torments me,

And torments creatures both big and small,

None of us deserve a place in that sacred Nordic hall.

It’s time to start over,

Just get rid of us.

Make war upon this race called Man,

For I think it’d be rather just.

#anti civ #anarcho primitivism #nihilism #misanthropy #earth liberation #animal liberation

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steelbluehome · 2 months ago

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Indie Wire

‘A Different Man’ Was the Film Everyone at Sundance Wanted to Talk About but Didn’t Know How

Writer/director Aaron Schimberg and actor Adam Pearson discuss how the language surrounding disabilities shouldn’t become a conversation-stopper.

By Chris O'Falt

October 4, 2024

When A24 premiered the darkly humorous and twisted “A Different Man” at the Eccles Theater at the Sundance Film Festival, it quickly became one of the buzziest films at the festival. But many were confronted with the fact they didn’t have the language — or the quote-unquote right language — to discuss the disability at the plot’s heart. At one point, star Sebastian Stan had to politely correct one person who used an unaccepted term in their question.

In the film, Stan plays Edward, an aspiring actor born with (although it is never specified) neurofibromatosis, or NF1, a genetic condition in which non-cancerous tumors grow in the nervous system, causing bumps and discolorated patches on the skin. Stan dons prosthetic makeup for the first half of the movie before his character undergoes an experimental (and entirely fictional) facial reconstructive surgery.

“It’s a question that even I struggle with. I have a cleft palate, and in terms of talking about myself, I struggle with the language,” said writer/director Aaron Schimberg while on IndieWire’s Toolkit podcast. “When I was growing up, I considered myself deformed. Later, I changed that to disfigured, and that’s sort of where I’ve landed if I talk about myself; I say I’m disfigured. But I understand that this is not a perfect description, and I would feel uncomfortable using that term about anybody else.”

Schimberg does switch his language when discussing Stan’s character and actor Adam Pearson, who also starred in his first film, “Chained for Life,” and plays Stan’s nemesis in the second half of “A Different Man.” The charming character played by Pearson, who was born with NF1, forces Edward (now going by the name of Guy) to confront what he’s lost post-surgery, including his dream acting role, as the film descends into a deliously pitch-black comedy about identity. When discussing Pearson or the character Edward, Schimberg uses the term “facial difference,” which is also the language A24 suggested in its guide to press on how to navigate talking about “A Different Man.”

“Facial difference is certainly the most politically correct term. That’s the term that is the safest, but to me, it feels a little bit academic,” said Schimberg.

The more accepted “facial difference” doesn’t 100 percent sit right with Schimberg. Beyond the academic nature, aren’t all our faces different? Isn’t that visually the easiest way we tell ourselves apart from one another, regardless of a genetic condition or disability? Pearson, a disability activist, worries well-intentioned people who come to the film, and subsequent conversations, with an open heart feel discouraged from talking about it.

“I think language is a minefield now,” said Pearson. “We’ve gotten to a point where language is becoming quite counterproductive. That people feel like they can’t talk about it for fear of saying the wrong thing. And, you know, people don’t know what they don’t know. And so I want to get to a point where people can talk about this film in a way that’s meaningful. And, if they do get it wrong, get lovingly and patiently corrected so that they can learn to get it right.”

A24’s press guide adopted the APA (American Psychological Association) Style, which calls for language to “put people first, not their disabilityˮ and to “not label people by their disability.ˮ It also recommends the phrases “a person with a disfigurementˮ or “facial differenceˮ but notes some groups also use “visible differenceˮ or “altered appearance.ˮ Pearson agrees with this but quickly added that not having the correct language should never be a reason to avoid the conversation.

“I did get that live at Sundance — everyone’s up for a conversation, but there was a nervous energy to all the conversations,” said Pearson. “But again, that’s part of the film, how we push through that discomfort and nervous energy to get to an end resolution. And I would always encourage people to have the conversation. You’ve got to get it wrong to learn how to get it right, as with anything in life.”

That people would avoid talking about the film is Schimberg’s worst nightmare — and an experience he’s not unfamiliar with.

“When I made my last film, ‘Chained for Life,’ which also deals with this subject, I sort of felt that this difficulty in discussing this subject in some ways marginalized the film,” said Schimberg. After the film failed to find an audience despite a positive critical response, he told his wife he would never tackle the subject matter again because it was box office poison.

“But I’m stubborn, and after a while, I thought, I’ve got to find a way to make this commercial in some way to get it right, as with anything in life.”

#a different man #aaron schimberg #adam pearson

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