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@akillersunrise
Just in case people *do* decide to come send me asks here for not updating my Henry Danger fanfic that started as a joke…
I’m gonna make this my pinned post.
4/26/2025: Debating moving Update Day to Monday instead of Saturday; I have group meetings on Fridays and a more-often-than-not gaming session on Saturdays, so it might be better to update on Mondays for now. The chapter is, like, halfway done. I got hit with maaaaaasssive writer’s block.
“Why are American kids the sickest of any developed nation?” I dunno, maybe because we have a for-profit medical system, social welfare programs are constantly being undermined, environmental protections have been rolled back, companies are allowed to market any kind of bullshit they want, the housing/cost of living crisis means a lot of children are living in cramped, mold infested shitholes ran by landleeches and- vaccines? Oh, you think vaccines are what is causing it?
Starting a collection
hrt that gives you fangs hrt that gives you fangs hrt that gives you fangs hrt that gives you fangs hrt that gives you fangs hrt that gives you fangs hrt that gives you fangs hrt that gives you fangs hrt that gives you fangs hrt that gives you fangs
i fear i am cooked
tw trans/gender fears and mild discussion of external transphobia (and a little internalized too)
a lot of folks on this website will specifically describe people as Cis or Neurotypical to signal someone is boring/basic when I think the word they're truly looking for in their heart is "normie" but they won't say it because it makes them sound like a 4chan user
the most neurotypical friend i have is arguably the strangest and most eccentric. the cissest straightest dudes i know text like they're scene kids. the word you're looking for is normie. just call people boring if you're gonna be pretentious anyway i dunnooo. scratching my head
one of my best friends is audhd but a cishet man.
he sends images like these a lot and does the “oughh” type noises and meows and stuff. he’s a chaotic gremlin man and i love him a lot.
not all cishets are boring. given that I can’t really make nt friends easily i can’t speak on that but i can speak on the cishets.
if y’all see this floating around: yes, it’s from me, and yes, you can find the original post on hoyolab under the same user <3
Gonna slap a good ol' reblog on this I think.
Me too
So am I.
Stephen Spielberg intended to complete Stanley Kubrick's unfinished series about famous puzzle makers, but gave up when the episode outline about a famous colorful cube was impossible to find in the elder filmmaker's long line of projects. He couldn't continue without including Kubrick's queued Rubik's cube rubric.
writing is so funny because i could write nonstop for 9hrs and then hit a block where im like "how do i transition between this moment and the next?" and then i just dont touch it for 6 months
Serious advice tho if this happens, it's likely because you already wrote past the end of the scene and wandered too far from the more logical transition point, and you should go back to the last time the writing felt "unforced" and cut everything after.
You can also just skip the transition. Really good writing can span years in a single sentence, like you can just authoritatively state fact and your reader will go with it.
This is GOLD! You just saved me like thousands of therapy costs lmao
When I was writing my fic last few months the strategy I used was "just skip all the scenes I don't want to write" and it worked great in my opinion
dick makes people mentally ill. dick havers, dick wannabes and dick lovers are all insane. it's like toxoplasmosis, you have compulsive need to defend and push and worship dicks all the time and spead your dick mania to everywhere you go.
this seems rational and grounded in empirical evidence
#lost in a fugue of penis delerium
reblog to spread your dick mania to everywhere you go
Absolutely bonkers that I'm now one of those weirdos you hear about on Twitter
I committed to the bit so hard that I also committed misdemeanor impersonation of a government official
Still the best gaming fact.
Noted: misogyny is a skill issue
“Mom, there’s someone under the bed.” You bend down and see your son there instead and he whispers “Mom that’s not me up there!” You take a step back when someone tugs your shirt. You turn, your son is in the closet asking “who are they?” You suddenly hear him calling from downstairs “Mommy?”
You sigh, raising your voice so that all of your sons can hear you. “All right, everyone into the kitchen. Now.” Hearing a shuffle in the attic, you add, “Yes, Duncan, that includes you.”
You don’t see any movement as you go down the stairs, but you’re used to that. You know they’ll all be there by the time you walk through the kitchen door.
As usual, your children have all fitted themselves into the kitchen. The dimensions of the room are a little wobbly with so many of them present, but you’ve long ago learned to ignore how the laws of physics only occasionally apply to them. A host of little faces look up at you anxiously, and you smile gently.
“It’s okay, none of you are in trouble,” you reassure them. They relax - and how astonishing is it, that they trust you so much? You’re so proud of their progress.
One, however, still looks nervous. You beckon him forward, and he comes reluctantly, shoved by his identical older brothers.
“Are you new?” you ask carefully.
He nods, and you drop to one knee. “It’s okay, sweetie,” you tell him firmly. “I love all of my sons, even ones I haven’t met before. Ask your brothers, they’ll tell you.”
“’m here because I heard you were nice,” he says in a tiny voice.
You open your arms, offering a hug but waiting to let him decide whether he wants one. This child must have seen hugs before, because he flings himself into your arms and starts crying. That’s good. Some of your sons are traumatised from what they’ve seen, knowing more slaps than kisses.
Eventually, the sobs dry up, your other kids patiently waiting for your attention again. “Why do we look like this?” he asks, curious.
“Because this is what the first of you looked like - Wilson, where are you?”
A hand raises from the crowd and waves energetically.
“Wilson took on my son’s form to play Child or Double. Calling from downstairs when my son was in bed, getting tucked in when the child I bore was playing out in the garden. Once I figured it out, I hugged him and told him that as far as I was concerned, I now had twins. It took him some time before he believed me.”
Wilson shrugs unrepentantly.
“When my son died, Wilson stayed. It helped, having one of my sons with me while I grieved. Then another of you began to turn up, and I had twins again. Then more. Until now, when I have more of you than will technically fit in my kitchen.” You give your sons a look of motherly disapproval, but they only giggle. They know you don’t mind.
“It’s not like you need to feed us!” calls out one of your bolder sons. Eric, probably. Your newest, unnamed child looks up hesitantly, then steps out of your arms to join his brothers. Lucas might be a nice name, you think idly. You don’t have a Lucas yet.
“That does help,” you admit. You put steel into your next words. “However, there are Rules in this house, and one of them is no messing around at bedtime. I know that bedtime is a traditional time for the Child or Double game, but four of you is pushing it.”
You’d say more, but there’s a knock at your back door. You turn to answer it, knowing that your sons will have evaporated before your fingers grasp the handle, and brace against the cold night air as you pull the door open.
Two identical little girls stand there. One has a bruise on her cheek, and has clearly been crying recently. The other - the other is a Doubler, just like your sons. After this long, you can tell the difference.
“Please,” the Doubler says, and her voice trembles on the word. “Please. She needs somewhere to stay.”
Part of you is shocked, already looking ahead to the potential legal issues. The rest of you is all mother, and you whisk her into the nice warm kitchen and get her a glass of water.
Your son’s bed will be occupied by someone else tonight. You think he’d have been okay with that.
“The younger folks at the agency have a name for you, you know,” the man sitting at your kitchen table says. A tall man, in a simple but well-made dark suit. Nondescript haircut. Eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. The shadows drawn around him and the kitchen cast the scene in moods of early evening, though you knew it to be just past noon.
“The Mother of Nightmares,” he intones with false seriousness. Or was the smile on his lips the false one? He’s a hard man to read and he makes your sons and daughter nervous. You can feel them watching from unseen corners.
“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with your agency, nor what that could possibly mean, but it sounds like a somewhat rude thing to call someone,” you say.
He chuckles, and again you’re uncertain if it’s sincere or if he’s playing some character. “Yeah, that’s about what I thought,” he says. He turns his head to look at the adjoining hallway that isn’t not empty. “Though, it seems there’s some grain of truth to it.” He turns back to you. “You’ve made contact with a population that we’ve been trying to make inroads with for some time, and I’ve come to introduce myself on behalf of the agency.” He slides a card over. Simple and nondescript, with crisp edges and clean typeface.
“Smith,” you say, unable to keep the disbelief from your voice.
“Yes ma'am,” he replies, pretending not to hear your doubt.
“Well, Mr. Smith,” you say, “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but there’s nothing here for you to find.”
“Oh, I doubt that very seriously,” he says, “to hear Mr. Dunwicke tell it.” You can feel one of your kids, Lucas, probably- he’s still a bit more… feral than the others start towards the man, but stop when the shadows shift unexpectedly. The man continues despite the obvious tension. “And before anyone gets too excited,” he says a little too loudly, “we’re not here to round anyone up or put them in a room.”
He leans forward, “we’re here to help.”
You shake your head, “Can you get to the point, please?” The longer he’s here, the more agitated your children become. You don’t like this.
“Not much else to say,” he says, standing. “It’s fine if you don’t believe me, for now. But, just so you’re aware, we’re watching Mr. Dunwicke, and we got him set up with a sponsor for AA. He and Claire are both doing well.” He smiles, perhaps the first genuine one you’ve seen on his face. He takes off the glasses to reveal large brown eyes. “Honestly, it’s a little outside the scope of our program, but we really do want to help them. And you. And them.” He puts the sunglasses back on and leans forward to tap the card in front you. “Just call if you need anything, even if it’s just to talk to someone who knows what’s going on. It can matter more than you might think.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, thank you, Mr. Smith,” you say.
He straightens and nods, “Well, we’ll get out of your hair. Thank you for your time. Let’s go, partner.”
As he leaves, the shadows in the room depart with him, and it’s midday in your kitchen once more.
You reassure the half-dozen small hands clutching at you that everything is okay, and gather the small horde that’s appeared beside you into a hug.
“Nightmares, honestly.”
“Mom, there’s someone under the bed.” You bend down and see your son there instead and he whispers “Mom that’s not me up there!” You take a step back when someone tugs your shirt. You turn, your son is in the closet asking “who are they?” You suddenly hear him calling from downstairs “Mommy?”
You sigh, raising your voice so that all of your sons can hear you. “All right, everyone into the kitchen. Now.” Hearing a shuffle in the attic, you add, “Yes, Duncan, that includes you.”
You don’t see any movement as you go down the stairs, but you’re used to that. You know they’ll all be there by the time you walk through the kitchen door.
As usual, your children have all fitted themselves into the kitchen. The dimensions of the room are a little wobbly with so many of them present, but you’ve long ago learned to ignore how the laws of physics only occasionally apply to them. A host of little faces look up at you anxiously, and you smile gently.
“It’s okay, none of you are in trouble,” you reassure them. They relax - and how astonishing is it, that they trust you so much? You’re so proud of their progress.
One, however, still looks nervous. You beckon him forward, and he comes reluctantly, shoved by his identical older brothers.
“Are you new?” you ask carefully.
He nods, and you drop to one knee. “It’s okay, sweetie,” you tell him firmly. “I love all of my sons, even ones I haven’t met before. Ask your brothers, they’ll tell you.”
“’m here because I heard you were nice,” he says in a tiny voice.
You open your arms, offering a hug but waiting to let him decide whether he wants one. This child must have seen hugs before, because he flings himself into your arms and starts crying. That’s good. Some of your sons are traumatised from what they’ve seen, knowing more slaps than kisses.
Eventually, the sobs dry up, your other kids patiently waiting for your attention again. “Why do we look like this?” he asks, curious.
“Because this is what the first of you looked like - Wilson, where are you?”
A hand raises from the crowd and waves energetically.
“Wilson took on my son’s form to play Child or Double. Calling from downstairs when my son was in bed, getting tucked in when the child I bore was playing out in the garden. Once I figured it out, I hugged him and told him that as far as I was concerned, I now had twins. It took him some time before he believed me.”
Wilson shrugs unrepentantly.
“When my son died, Wilson stayed. It helped, having one of my sons with me while I grieved. Then another of you began to turn up, and I had twins again. Then more. Until now, when I have more of you than will technically fit in my kitchen.” You give your sons a look of motherly disapproval, but they only giggle. They know you don’t mind.
“It’s not like you need to feed us!” calls out one of your bolder sons. Eric, probably. Your newest, unnamed child looks up hesitantly, then steps out of your arms to join his brothers. Lucas might be a nice name, you think idly. You don’t have a Lucas yet.
“That does help,” you admit. You put steel into your next words. “However, there are Rules in this house, and one of them is no messing around at bedtime. I know that bedtime is a traditional time for the Child or Double game, but four of you is pushing it.”
You’d say more, but there’s a knock at your back door. You turn to answer it, knowing that your sons will have evaporated before your fingers grasp the handle, and brace against the cold night air as you pull the door open.
Two identical little girls stand there. One has a bruise on her cheek, and has clearly been crying recently. The other - the other is a Doubler, just like your sons. After this long, you can tell the difference.
“Please,” the Doubler says, and her voice trembles on the word. “Please. She needs somewhere to stay.”
Part of you is shocked, already looking ahead to the potential legal issues. The rest of you is all mother, and you whisk her into the nice warm kitchen and get her a glass of water.
Your son’s bed will be occupied by someone else tonight. You think he’d have been okay with that.
rewatching PHM and this is all I can think of
Prev. These need to be seen @mumblesplash
I spent like 15 hours on this.
*impressed slow clap*
This was ridiculously pleasing to read out loud.
This is a legitimately fine poem. I say so with my BA in English and Philosophy and my PhD. It’s DAMN HARD to write something like this. Be impressed, yo.
That is amazing, that writing is wow.
