#to be constantly surviving

[factsilike]

God, I just realized.

WWX had really been in survival mode his entire first life. Since like, the day he lost his parents as a child, hasn't he?

[potato-lord-but-not]

put the podcast guys’ boyfriends (and non corporeal besties) in a room together to trauma bond

[crumb-crumblet-s-crumbington]

willingly unloved

[3lliesan]

The Prefect after flipping off literal death for the nth time this month.

Ace: We are gathered here today to remember Life of the Ramshackle Prefect, Yuu, whose life was taken too soon... Fighting yet another Overblot.

Yuu on the nurse's bed, wrapped up in bandages for the nth time: Stop talking about me in front of other people as if I'm dead, Ace.

*All of the first years outside the Nurse room, door wide open.*

Epel: *sniff* Sometimes, I can still hear his voice.

Yuu: Man, fuck y'all!

[nyxfaei]

I know there has been takes about Arthur getting squicked out by meat after the prison pits but I raise you something else: he will eat just about anything now because no matter what- he’s had worse.

He’s enjoyed worse.

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 134

One of the young justice members is complaining about how their parents or mentors benched them after getting injured. 

And Marvel snorting and saying that that reminds him of Phantom. And of course, the YJ crew, ask who that is. 

“Oh Phantoms my big brother, pops never really understood our human halves or limits so…” and he just shrugs like he didn’t just drop Lore. And the teens smell blood in the water, they want to know more. 

[stormyoceans]

the way tattoo is so rough around the edges and has no idea what to do when faced with aran's overflowing emotions and tears (even the fake ones) but whatever gentleness he possess, even if it might not look like much to others, he's always willing to give

[novelconcepts]

There’s a line from American Gods I keep coming back to in relation to Yellowjackets, an observation made early on by Shadow in prison: “The kind of behavior that works in a specialized environment, such as prison, can fail to work and in fact become harmful when used outside such an environment.” I keep rotating it in my head in thinking about the six survivors, the roles they occupy in the wilderness, and the way the show depicts them as adults in society.

Because in the wilderness, as in prison, they’re trapped—they’re suffering, they’re traumatized, they’re terrified—but they’re also able to construct very specific boxes to live in. And, in a way, that might make it easier. Cut away the fat, narrow the story down to its base arc. You are no longer the complex young woman who weighs a moral compass before acting. You no longer have the luxury of asking questions. You are a survivor. You have only to get to the next day.

Shauna: the scribe. Lottie: the prophet. Van: the acolyte. Taissa: the skeptic. Misty: the knight. Natalie: the queen. Neat, orderly, the bricks of a new kind of society. And it works in the woods; we know this because these six survive. (Add Travis: the hunter, while you’re at it, because he does make it to adulthood).

But then they’re rescued. And it’s not just lost purpose and PTSD they’re dealing with now, but a loss of that intrinsic identity each built in the woods. How do you go home again? How do you rejoin a so-called civilized world, where all the violence is restricted to a soccer field, to an argument, to your own nightmares?

How does the scribe, the one who wrote it all out in black and white to make sense of the horrors, cope with a world that would actively reject her story? She locks that story away. But she can’t stop turning it over in her head. She can’t forget the details. They’re waiting around every corner. In the husband beside her in bed. In the child she can’t connect with across the table. In the best friend whose parents draw her in, make her the object of their grief, the friend who lives on in every corner of their hometown. She can’t forget, so she tries so hard to write a different kind of story instead, to fool everyone into seeing the soft maternal mask and not the butcher beneath, and she winds up with blood on her hands just the same.

How does the prophet come back from the religion a desperate group made of her, a group that took her tortured visions, her slipping mental health, and built a hungry need around the very things whittling her down? She builds over the bones. She creates a place out of all that well-intended damage, and she tells herself she’s helping, she’s saving them, she has to save them, because the world is greedy and needs a leader, needs a martyr, needs someone to stand up tall and reassure everyone at the end of the day that they know what’s best. The world, any world, needs someone who will take those blows so the innocent don’t have to. She’s haunted by everyone she didn’t save, by the godhood assigned to her out of misplaced damage, and when the darkness comes knocking again, there is nothing else to do but repeat old rhymes until there is blood on her hands just the same.

How does the acolyte return to a world that cares nothing for the faith of the desperate, the faith that did nothing to save most of her friends, that indeed pushed her to destroy? She runs from it. She dives into things that are safe to believe in, things that rescue lonely girls from rough home lives, things that show a young queer kid there’s still sunshine out there somewhere. She delves into fiction, makes a home inside old stories to which she already knows the endings, coaxes herself away from the belief that damned her and into a cinemascope safety net where the real stuff never has to get in. She teaches herself surface-level interests, she avoids anything she might believe in too deeply, and still she’s dragged back to the place where blood winds up on her hands just the same.

How does the skeptic make peace with the things she knows happened, the things that she did even without meaning to, without realizing? She buries them. She leans hard into a refusal to believe those skeletons could ever crawl back out of the graves she stuffed them into, because belief is in some ways the opposite of control. She doesn’t talk to her wife. She doesn’t talk to anyone. It’s not about what’s underneath the surface, because that’s just a mess, so instead she actively discounts the girl she became in the woods. She makes something new, something rational and orderly, someone who can’t fail. She polishes the picture to a shine, and she stands up straight, the model achievement. She goes about her original plan like it was always going to be that way, and she winds up with blood on her hands just the same.

How does the knight exist in a world with no one to serve, no one to protect, no reason propelling the devastating choices she had grown comfortable making? She rechannels it. She convinces herself she’s the smartest person in the room, the most capable, the most observant. She convinces herself other people’s mysteries are hers to solve, that she is helping in every single action she takes. She makes a career out of assisting the most fragile, the most helpless souls she can find, and she makes a hobby out of patrolling for crimes to solve, and when a chance comes to strap her armor back on and ride into battle, she rejoices in the return to normalcy. She craves that station as someone needed, someone to rely upon in the darkest of hours, and she winds up with blood on her hands because, in a way, she never left the wilderness at all.

How does the queen keep going without a queendom, without a pack, without people to lead past the horrors of tomorrow? She doesn’t. She simply does not know how. She scrounges for something, anything, that will make her feel connected to the world the way that team did. She moves in and out of a world that rejects trauma, punishes the traumatized, heckles the grieving as a spectacle. She finds comfort in the cohesive ritual of rehabilitation, this place where she gets so close to finding herself again, only to stumble when she opens her eyes and sees she’s alone. All those months feeding and guiding and gripping fast to the fight of making it to another day, and she no longer knows how to rest. How to let go without falling. She no longer wears a crown, and she never wanted it in the first place, so how on earth does she survive a world that doesn’t understand the guilt and shame of being made the centerpiece of a specialized environment you can never explain to anyone else? How, how, how do you survive without winding up with blood on your hands just the same?

All six of these girls found, for better or worse, a place in the woods. All six of them found, for better or worse, a reason to get up the next day. For each other. And then they go home, and even if they all stayed close, stayed friends, it’d still be like stepping out of chains for the first time in years. Where do you go? How do you make small choices when every decision for months was life or death? How do you keep the part of yourself stitched so innately into your survival in a world that would scream to see it? How do you do away with the survivor and still keep going?

They brought it back with them. Of course they did. It was the only way.

[harbingersecho]

"well, simmons, if you ever find yourself back on earth an-" "i won't." "i know, i know. but if you do…" "okay. sure."

[shootingthe-stars]

jily zombie apocalypse au

wolfstar vers closeups under cut :)

[fairycosmos]

so sick of every day just being about surviving it. that's all i have the energy to do but it feels like i'm not really experiencing anything at all

[jesncin]

Does Johnstantine ever introduce Ma'al to Goldie?

I don't think Johnstantine would introduce someone like Ma'al to Goldie, since he and Ma'al are on a very "friends-with-benefits-very-casual" relationship basis. But he'd off-handedly mention it, and he and Ma'al might find they have a lot more to connect on.

(and yes, I changed Johnstantine's twin backstory in my version! I have my reasons~)

[kelsh]

I have no excuses for this,,,, I was initially drawing them with their hair down then it became a tits out kind of moment,,,,

Bonus: my Durge’s own bird’s nest under her hood

[autumn-may]

Quasi-star type siblingship

[crazy-ache]

Is the Day Court truly hedonistic in its traditions and ways? Or is the current High Lord, Helion Spell-Cleaver, hiding behind its extravagant orgies as the only way to cope with a rejected mating bond? Does Helion constantly seek sex as a way to soothe the agonizing pain in his soul so he can forget the Lady of Autumn for just one moment of peace? Does he do it to keep himself from madness?

[dooblebugss]

Fio I hope you don't mind me stealing your tags for the Ghost age poll but that's exactly how I feel too, you just worded it better djdhkesh

Like yeah they're a kid but they had to survive out in the wastes for who knows how long then they had to go to Hallownest and then they had to fight for their life literally the entire time

They're a little kid who's been forced to grow up!