#the pain and suffering of hating the heat and living in a tropical country

[orangeshinigami]

This time of year is always so funny to me as a brazilian girlie bc while everyone else is complaining about the cold, it’s like 35 degrees celsius here send help I’m abt to melt

[queerautism]

i dont feel cold as physical pain - in fact, i actually love the cold. i do, however, feel physically ill when it's hot and/or humid. my sensory issues sky rocket during hot seasons (which is all the time, i live in a tropical country, please save me from this misery) and i hate it and everyone around here thinks im just being dramatic when i am actually suffering really bad

Oh god that sounds awful yeah! Hot weather messes up my sensory issues super badly too, I seriously struggle with it so much when I have to be in Spain during the summer, but at least there it's dry heat I think?

[bitebiggerthanherbark]

Introduction to Wolfsbane || CLOSED

  Just when she thought it couldn’t get stranger than being thrown face-first into a roomful of prepubescent mutants, now there were zombies. Eat your brains out, slobbering like a hellhound in heat, flesh-melting, rank breathed zombies. Not that she needed one, but yes, she had a crossbow slung across her back.

  Would she dare waste the opportunity? Daryl Dixon, eat your own heart out.

  It had been three years since the intial outbreak, only months since Rahne had  decided to sneak her way back onto Earth, declawing herself from her own co-dependent haven on Asgard with Hrimhari (embarrassing didn’t even begin to cover it). She’d ditched her Mutants team entirely for the puppy-dog love of a teenaged girl’s fantasy, romance high and common sense at an all-time low. Pathetic. It took a long time for her to break herself from the spell Hrimhari had, metaphorically-speaking, cast on her, looking in the mirror to see someone weak, spineless, a wilting flower in a world of fire, sheltered by a pretty glass-casing. She needed to shatter the glass. It was a hard choice, almost Stockholm Syndrome in a sense, but eventually she left Asgard in search of her team, reciting apology after apology through her head until she reached Earth to discover...a freaking zombie outbreak!

  Selfishly, she was annoyed that, yet again, things couldn’t just be easy. Waltz back into the X-Mansion with a world-class apology, win her team back (if they even recognized the new Rahne), and move on with her life.

  But, no. Zombies. Zombies! Like...forget it. Things were the way they were, and now she would have to deal like the rest of the surviving Earth-dwellers. At first, she wasn’t going to deal. At first, she planned to call upon Loki to revoke the deal they’d made to send her to Earth in the first place, cower herself under her safe, little glass case and allow Hrimhari to fawn over her once again.

  But the voice of her adopted mother, Dr. Moira MacTaggert, yanked her by the ear and pulled her back to her senses. Earth was in trouble, and she had abilites that could aid the fight. What right did she have to refuse to help?

  Besides, Hrimhari must’ve known Earth was in trouble, leaving out the truth to hold her hostage...for even longer...yeah, she made the right call to ditch him.

  So, here she was, hightailinging it out of the zombie-ridden city (go figure) on the back of her stolen Harley to catch her hush-hush, Mutant Research Center-initiated hoverboard (typically used only for access from Muir Island to the Scottish mainland, but emergency missions clearly took precedence over protocol) to New York. How overjoyed the Avengers will be to find…another emotionally-stunted, washed-out superhero knocking at their pimped-out bunker door. Cake and confetti to celebrate. Here here.

  Okay, so that was a bit of a lighthearted introduction to the rapidly-growing infection that had claimed the lives of billions throughout Earth, she was aware. How could anyone not be by this very depressing point? Long-since bored by…no, that’s the wrong word. Used to (sure) the constant day-to-day battle just to find a functioning toilet and maybe a granola bar. She realized months ago that saving civilians was an almost futile effort, attempting to hide away a group in one basement to only lose them a few hours later when she would leave to save more people. Around in circles she would run through the backwoods of whatever country she found herself in, wolf senses overstimulated to a clinical degree, only to find more people infected, or dead. Which was worse?

  She wasn’t sure when she gave up hope, but she remembers the nights of prayer at the altar of several long-forgotten churches, the same hollow feeling haunting her the following day when her efforts only piled more bodies upon the mass grave that filled her heart. Her body was bruised, but her knees were cracking under the pressure of unanswered pleads to ears that refused to listen.

  She couldn’t remember the moment she realized God had abandoned them all.

  But she could vividly remember the moment she questioned His existence after she watched two children painfully transform into the infected zombies, once huddling together in protective unity, gone their separate ways to roam the devastated Earth, stunted in their ruined youth. This wasn’t the first time she’d come to the conclusion, but her question was always the same. It was the very bratty, cliched question of, “What kind of God could cause this much pain and suffering, but still claim Himself to be of pure light and goodness?” Either a hypocritical asshole cracking open a cold one in the sky, or a nonexistent entity created by man to explain away life’s problems as “out of their hands” in order to ease their own guilt.

  But she digresses. Actively. Every sleepless night, she digresses herself further into an early grave with indecision, trying to follow a single line of thought for once in her life, only to watch the sun rise over her lazily patched-up sleeping bag.

  Though, what was the internal struggle of a barely-legal, borderline alcoholic, traveling one-woman circus in the face of world annihilation?

  It was a rhetorical question, but here’s the answer anyway: absolutely fucking pointless.

  And you can quote her on that.

  She didn’t really know what to think anymore. The only thing she could think was that her carousel of self-hatred to self-love to self-pity was growing tiresome. She needed a drink. Two drinks. Five. The bottles she’d battled zombies to retrieve sloshed heavily in the bag at the back of her bike, the Purge having become a staggering reality. What was stealing when there was no one left alive to claim anything?

  That was dark. But startling accurate.

  She wasn’t sure what help she could really be to the Avengers other than an extra hand on guard duty, but Moira seemed adamant about her addition to the team. Maybe she was just being an over-supportive, super-genius mom. She supposed it was better than over-protective.

  Either way, Rahne was approaching the launch-point at Muir Island, infected flea bags milling the docks with their blank, yet somehow ravenous stares, their gaunt expressions silently screaming. They were always screaming.

  Fear had been replaced with indifference as she rode straight through the zombies, a path cleared in her wake. It was hard to imagine these things had once been regular humans, delivering mail, painting sunsets, watching porn, drinking tea, living and breathing with beating hearts in their chests.

  Not to state the obvious, but things were different now. Empathy could only extend so far when the creature before you was salivating over the meat sack in your head.

  She arrived to the hoverboard in a daze, as she did most things. She slung her Harley over her shoulder as easily as a sack of potatoes and carried it on-board, snapping the door back in place to shut out Earth’s untimely demise. She pulled the bandana and oxygen mask from her face, dropping her hood back to finally take a real breath. Wished it was a tropical, ocean breeze, but beggars can’t be choosers.

  Taking control of the ship, she was about to hit the thrusters before a message popped up on her screen. From Moira, as to be expected since she’d pushed everyone else out of her life.

  The message wasn’t necessarily sentimental. It never was with Moira. Warnings about keeping hydrated, not giving herself any more piercings or tattoos (ha!), taking the serum she had provided to battle symptoms, yada, yada, yada, something, something, “I love you, Rahne. Don’t take that for granted.” And then, she signed off.

  I love you.

  Don’t take that for granted.

  The words startled Rahne. She re-listened to them over and over again. 

  The immature, rebellious part of herself reworded the message to, “stop being a little bitch before you are completely alone...bitch.”

  The cut went deep, and as much as she hated to admit it, as per usual, Moira was right.

  She shook her head, shutting down the message. She didn’t have time to have a little therapy session and reflect on her own person plights. This was war. 

  The bigger bite always wins the fight.

  Trust is earned.