you'd best be hurtin' || Lettuce/Leet. they/he/it/she (best be cautious with that she). 21. Likes n Follows from sirlettuce32. Not 18+ exclusive but will occasionally post/reblog 18+ content, and will tag it as 18+ as well as any relevant (noncon, dubcon, nsfw, spicytimes, etc) tags.
Oh my god okay this discourse is so old at this point and in order to not stoke the fires I did not respond to this when I first got it. But I was so amused by it that I had to post about it at some point.
I got these asks amongst others following me telling someone they were not welcome in a server I was modding because of some shit. And I just. Idk, why was I a minor in a server at some point and then by July of 2021, I had an adult role? Who knows! Let's get our best minds on it.
So if I'm 21 now, in 2021 I would've been 18... huh that's the year people in my country become adults! I doubt that's relevant to anything. So is it possible that, at some point earlier, I'd been a minor? And then I turned into an adult? No that sounds crazy. Wait what's this?!
whoaaa. No that can't be true I must just be a filthy liar and that completely discredits me!
Whumperless Whump Event Day 1 - Self-done stitches
When I first saw the prompt list for @whumperless-whump-event I knew it would be a perfect fit for Pathologic. Half of the prompts are already canon and the other half.. well. My mind is brewing with ideas, so get ready for (hopefully!) a month of Artemy and Daniil whump.
I'll try to keep most of it SFW but well... *points above* It's going to be a Mature rating for sure.
i realllly wish there was more diversity in whump (as all 3 main roles but especially whumpee). i'm not tryna say that the characters or their creators are bad or evil at all but it does get kind of old when the overwhelming majority of characters in whump are "skinny, usually white, male."
People of color in the whump community, how do you feel about POC characters?
(I know some people take issue with the term "person of color", I'm using it for convenience here, but this poll applies to anyone who considers themself nonwhite. Feel free to add specifics about your identity in the tags.)
(If you're white, scroll down for the results button and please reblog for sample size.)
?
I like seeing POC in whump regardless of their role or other characters' race
I only like it if both the whumper and whumpee are POC
I only like POC whumpers
I only like POC whumpees
I don't like seeing POC in whump at all
I don't have a strong opinion, do whatever you want
It's complicated (explain in reblog/tags)
I'm white but I want to see results
Voting ended onJan 29, 2024
I'm curious about how people view nonwhite characters in whump. On one hand, diversity is a good thing. On the other hand, violence against a character of color could trigger people, and a character of color as the whumper could play into racial stereotypes. This also depends on the specific race of the characters-- obviously, POC are not a monolith-- but there aren't enough poll options for that.
I'd really appreciate hearing people's thoughts, especially people of color in the whump community! Please reblog this to spread it around!
can we take a moment to just think about how incredibly scary magical healing is in-context?
You get your insides ripped open but your friend waves his hands and your flesh just pulls back together, agony and evisceration pulling back to a ‘kinda hurts’ level of pain and you’re physically whole, with the 100% expectation that you’ll get back up and keep fighting whatever it was that struck you down the first time.
You break your arm after falling somewhere and after you’re healed instead of looking for ‘another way around’ everybody just looks at you and goes “okay try again”.
You’ve been fighting for hours, you’re hungry, thirsty, bleeding, crying from exhaustion, and a hand-wave happens and only two of those things go away. you’re still hungry, you’re still weak from thirst, but the handwave means you have ‘no excuse’ to stop.
You act out aggressively maybe punch a wall or gnash your teeth or hit your head on something and it’s hand-waved because it’s ‘such a small injury you probably can’t even feel it anymore’ but the point was that you felt it at all?
Your pain literally means nothing because as long as you’re not bleeding you’re not injured, right? Here drink this potion and who cares about the emotional exhaustion of that butchered village, why are you so reserved in camp don’t you think it’s fun retelling that time you fell through a burning building and with a hand-wave you got back up again and ran out with those two kids and their dog?
Older warriors who get a shiver around magic-users not because of the whole ‘fireball’ thing but the ‘I don’t know what a normal pain tolerance is anymore’ effect of too much healing. Permanent paralysis and loss of sensation in limbs is pretty much a given in the later years of any fighter’s life. Did I have a stroke or did the mage just heal too hard and now this side of my face doesn’t work? No i’m not dead from the dragon’s claws but I can’t even bend my torso anymore because of how the scar tissue grew out of me like a vine.
Magical healing is great and keeps casualties down.
Or maybe magical healing doesn’t leave scars or damage. It is magical, after all.
So after years of fighting, your skin is still perfect. Unmarred. In fact, you’re actually in better shape than regular people who don’t get magical healing when they fall out of trees or walk into doors or cut themselves while cooking dinner. You’re in such good shape that it’s unnatural.
And the really good healing magic takes away more than just the obvious injuries. You first start noticing it after about ten years when you go home and haha, you look the same age as your younger sibling, that’s funny.
Not so funny ten years later when they look older. Or forty years later, when you bury them still looking like you did at twenty. When do you retire from this gig anyway? How much damage is too much damage?
How many times do you glimpse the afterlife, or worse, how many times don’t you? What do you live through, get used to, show no outward sign of except a perfectly healthy body, too perfect for any person living a real life.
How many times are you sitting in a tavern with your friends and you hear the whispers, because the people around you know. How can they not know? Your weapons shine with enchantments and your armour is better than the best money can buy and there is not a damn scar on you. You hardly seem human to them.
How long before you hardly seem human to yourself?
And you find yourself struggling to remember the places where the scars should have been, phantom pains that wake you screaming, touching all the old injuries and finding nothing there. It’s all in your head. Was it ever anywhere else?
How long before you’re fighting a lich or a vampire or some other undead monster and you wonder…
Content Warnings: Mild adult content, Blood Drinking, Mentions of Violence/Gore, Implied/Referenced Past Abuse
Majexatli always set up their tent a little farther away from the center of camp than the others, something Halsin did as well. Astarion chalked it up to some druidic strangeness, no doubt if he asked either of them they could blather on about nature. Majexatli hardly ever used their tent, though, most nights they simply took a bedroll or wildshaped into a wolf and curled up somewhere on the ground. It’s part of why he had tried to go for their blood in the first place, they were sleeping unguarded, unprotected by a tent, just out of sight of the others. He had meant to try and hunt for some animal to drain, but they had been right there.
The Shadow Cursed lands didn’t have the animals, or even living people, not enough to keep Astarion fed. And Majexatli had given near blanket permission to feed off them ever since the first time... It was foolish really, stupid, for some supposedly wise and experienced Druid to be so careless. Astarion doubted they had meant it, instead feeding himself on wild animals and occasional enemies unless they approached him. But after two days in these cursed lands, Astarion could feel hunger gnawing at him.
Majexatli had excused themselves to their tent hours ago, they were most likely already asleep, and there was certainly no way he could feed on them while they were asleep. At first, he had tried, when they gave him permission, not to rouse them and just take a sip while they slept, it seemed the best way forward, the least intrusive. But they were vigilant enough that even sleeping he couldn’t even approach their tent without them waking and having their quarterstaff in hand or a dagger at his throat.
Maybe there was a chance tomorrow they would come across some animals, or at least something that wasn’t undead. Maybe—
He approached their tent with a sigh, not bothering to soften his footsteps.
Surprisingly, he didn’t find himself being seized by a hold person or crushed into the ground by an owlbear, even as he reached the edge of their tent. The entrance flap was open, a faint flicker of warm candlelight casting shadows across the floor.
Astarion had never seen the inside of their tent before, he realized as he looked inside. The ground was covered in a simple rough canvas, though half of the floor was taken up by various furs. A small log was on one side, covered in moss and small flowers, a lyre propped up against it, neatly folded hide armor laid atop it, next to a shallow woven basket currently filled with some of the plants and mushrooms Majexatli always went out of their way to collect. Their backpack along with various satchels lay half unpacked strewn across the floor nearby.
Atop the furs and sitting at a pair of low wooden tables, was Majexatli. The table in front of them was cluttered with papers and books and maps, quills and ink, a lantern with cracked glass whose candle was burning low. To their side the other table was covered in jars, vials, alembics, a mortar and pestle, from one of the tent’s supports was strung bundle after bundle of herbs left to dry.
Majexatli was shirtless, something Astarion had never seen. They always wandered about camp in either their armor or modest camp clothes, always disappeared off into the woods to bathe rather than doing so in the river at the edge of damp. While Astarion thought better than to stare, not wanting to invoke Majexatli’s ire, the scars were impossible to miss even with only a glance.
Thick, deep, jagged gouges—claw marks, clearly—reaching from their waist on the right all the way up over their left shoulder. They took up most of their chest, even the gentle swell of pecs was interrupted, split, twisted. The dark shadows cast by the candlelight only exaggerated the lines on their face, the silver streaks in their hair, the depth of the scars on their chest, the way what few ridges survived were twisted and pulled taut.
He made a point to look away, clearing his throat.
It was impossible to know what his current standing with them was. The two of them had never been on great terms. Oh, he hated their naive heroism. They weren’t quite like Wyll, bright-eyed and woefully disillusioned, Majexatli was older, seemed tired, jaded. At first, Astarion thought surely they would see his side, yet they instead would derail the entire party to help anyone. It seemed likely they hate him in return, they had no problem grating on his nerves, criticizing his sensible ideas, grimacing at his cruelty. Though for whatever reason, they let him drink their blood, stupidly offered to help fight Cazador, asked him questions about himself same as they did to the others, heard him out each time he tried to explain to them the idiocracy of their altruism.
Hells, he had tried to hook up with them—surely that’s what they wanted, he thought. Nearly every time he fed on them the two of them seemed to play a strange game of chicken, waiting to see who would be the first to break, who would give into arousal first. He wanted to hold out, but Majexatli seemed immovable, keeping their hands firmly by their side when he fed.
Once he let his hands wander slightly, just enough to be plausibly an accident, brushing his hand over the front of their chest where their nipple would be, where he now saw there was nothing but scars and twisted muscles. He had tasted the fear in their veins before he felt them tense, though they didn’t push him off, even as their claws dug into the bedroll beneath them. They didn’t stop him, they could have, they were twice his size at least, they could probably deadlift Halsin and barely break a sweat. They could stop him, but they didn’t.
The confusion had soured his appetite.
Sometimes in the evenings, when Astarion tried to trance, he remembered the first time, when he had gone too far, drank too much. They had turned into a bear, tossed him off, and pinned him down before he could even blink. He vividly remembered the feeling of them straddling his waist when they came out of wildshape, pressed against him he could feel their arousal, even with their blood loss, their face radiating heat, eyes lidded, mouth so close to his. Even though moments ago he had been faced with the snarling maw, the bared teeth of a beast that could crack his ribcage open even if he had armor, Astarion was already half hard. He knew his face would have been flushed red, lips stained with Majexatli’s blood—the first blood he had ever drank from a person, sweet and rich and intoxicating. Oh, it would have been so easy for them to grind down, for their sharp teeth to dig into his lip, to slide hands under clothing—
But, no, Majexatli had apologized, rolled off him, and laid back on their bedroll in silence, going back to sleep. They went on the next morning to give him that blanket permission to drink their blood, clearly wanting more, only to never so much as let their hands touch him anywhere other than a shoulder. And then at the tiefling party, when he finally broke and offered a night of passion, of whatever carnal pleasure they wanted to take from him, they hadn’t jumped at Astarion’s offer. No, they had paused, given him a tentative “maybe” and ultimately went to bed alone—
“Blood?”
Majexatli’s voice cut through his thoughts, snapping him out of his reverie. Looking back at them he froze for a moment as he saw that they hadn’t covered up. They had set down the book in front of them on the table but otherwise hadn’t moved. Their quarterstaff still lay by their bedroll, favored dagger nowhere in sight. It seemed wrong.
“I can come back later if—“
“It’s fine, I’ve just been doing some reading,” They looked up at him, studying his face for a moment, “I can put on something if you prefer…?”
Their face was unreadable, it always was, they had to make it difficult. Astarion forced a flirtatious smile.
“Oh, I couldn’t care less, darling, I just don’t want you to decide to skin me afterward for seeing this,”
He hoped he sounded charismatic, nonchalant, not like a starving man, nor someone hopelessly out of his depth in whatever mental lanceboard Majexatli was playing at. Majexatli in turn studied his face, no doubt considering their next play.
“Alright,” They said eventually, “How do you want me?”
A calculated move, perhaps they wanted him to beg, to lay bare how desperate he was, how much he relied on them. But… something about it unsettled Astarion, something in their gaze, something in their eyes reflecting back at him, something he didn’t want to see, didn’t want to know the shape of.
If it was another time, someone else, maybe he would sprawl himself across their bedroll languidly, batting his eyes and loosening his shirt enough for it to slip off a shoulder in an act he knew by rote to entice them to his side. But…
“You can stay just as you are if you like, I wouldn’t want to interrupt your reading,”
Majexatli almost seemed caught off guard, almost, the faintest raise of eyebrows, the slightest pause before nodding. They pulled their braid over their right shoulder—it didn’t have its usual ribbon, the sight felt like something forbidden—exposing the left side of their neck where he already had marked them. Two small pale scars, not fully healed, among a sea of freckles.
By the time Astarion had removed his shoes and come to settle behind them, Majexatli had picked up their book again. They jumped every so slightly as he put a hand on their shoulder, impossible to tell if it was from the touch itself or the coldness of Astarion’s skin—Astarion didn’t feel cold himself, but pressing against their back, feeling the warmth they radiating gods he couldn’t help but shiver, lean in closer to them.
Majexatli inhaled sharply as he sank his fangs into them, tilting their head further to the side for him and he could taste the spark of pleasure, the racing of their heart. Astarion hadn’t drank of many people, so it’s not as though he had enough experience to judge how their blood tasted in comparison to others, but he honestly couldn’t imagine anyone tasting as good as Majexatli. Their blood was rich, slightly sweet yet complex, flavor mingling with the earthy scent of the herbs they worked with, filling him with a fiery warmth that pooled in his belly.
It was a struggle to not lose himself, to not drink until he felt truly full, until the weight in his stomach was drowned in blood. Astarion wanted to be sated but also wanted to shove him off, pin him down, press their sharp teeth to his flesh and draw blood in payback.
Instead, he pulled away as soon as he felt the sharp hunger in himself dull, drinking just enough to buy himself another day or two.
Still buzzing from even a small drink of their blood, without thinking, he rested his cheek on their shoulder, let a hand wander slightly. Astarion hadn’t realized he had put a hand on their waist until he felt them stiffen slightly as he felt ridges give way to deep scarred flesh. He swallowed, warmth quickly fading as reality once again settled in.
He pulled away without a word, focusing on straightening his clothes, composing himself as he stood. Looking down at Majexatli, he saw them wince, their fingers lingering over the scars on their waist, where Astarion’s had been moments before.
“Do they hurt?”
It seemed neutral, casual enough. Majexatli wasn’t one for conversation, not like this usually, but he wanted to do something about the tense silence and couldn’t help his curiosity.
Astarion opened his mouth to say something, but he felt his tadpole squirm behind his eyes, images flashing in his mind faster than he could fully comprehend.
The face of a young half-elf, fair skin, a kind face, smiling standing by their side in a verdant landscape, warmth and adoration blooming in their chest, consciously snuffing out lingering doubts while hindsight has their skin crawling—
Curling up in a bedroll in the dark, a mantra repeating in their head He can make me great. He loves me. I just need to do what he says. I can have a home. He wants to help me. He’s a good person. I won’t have to be alone.
Looking down and seeing their own chest torn open, intestines spilling out onto the dirt, blood bubbling in their throat, looking behind to where he had been only to find no one, unable to breathe in, I’m going to die alone—
The connection broke as quickly as it had been made, Astarion nearly fell over from the shock of it all.
“Sorry,” Majexatli said eventually, breaking the silence, “My mind’s been a bit scattered lately,”
“It’s quite alright,”
Astarion hesitated for a moment as he stood, unsure whether he should leave, if he should say something more, do something.
“He’s married now,”
It was Majexatli who spoke, though their eyes remained on the book in their lap. The same page open as had been when he first entered the tent.
“Pardon?”
“I assume you saw all that,” Majexatli gestured vaguely, finally glancing up and meeting his eyes, “He’s married now. Has children, even. A beautiful family, I’m sure. Makes sense, it’s been 20 years. I haven’t been back since. Word is he’ll make archdruid one day, his friends are highly respected as well, always have been,”
Astarion opened his mouth to say something. What should he even say? Perhaps a joke, a jab at their character, it’s what they both always did. He couldn’t bring himself to, though, not then. He knew what they were saying, the meaning beneath those words, He’s doing fine despite what he did, I’ve spent my life suffering because of him, but he lives happily and comfortably.
Maybe if Majexatli’s eyes didn’t look so tired and distant and familiar he would climb into their lap, bask in their warmth. He would drag his teeth across their neck, lap at the wound on their neck and the fresh wound, try to pull a moan from their lips, get them to melt under his touch, make them forget whatever memories plagued their mind. He would ride them into oblivion until their nerves were screaming from overstimulation and see what their blood tasted like as they came apart.
Maybe they would let him. Would he, if the roles were reversed? The thought felt sour.
“Good night, darling,”
The soft sincerity in his voice startled even him.
“My tent’s always open for you,”
And the lanceboard game reset, though the pieces unsteady; the masks were back on, though cracked. Perhaps the routine was the closest thing to comfort that either of them allowed.
Haziel, ironically, hadn't been to church since he became an angel. Other more important things he figured. It was weird to be in this church, his church, again. The Church he was baptized in. The church he had been scorned from for refusing to live as a woman. The church he knew his funeral had been held in (he had corrected the headstone out back). And now, the church he planned to make good use of.
His master followed the way of science, using chemicals and surgeries to try to cure Aziphem. But Haziel had long since known the proper to deal with demons. Just never had the chance to use it.
The quiet whimpers Aziphem made brought him back into focus and Haziel ground his cigarette on the alter before hopping down. Preacher David would throw a fit about this tomorrow. Preacher David was also screwing three married members of the congregation when Haziel had attended the church so in all honestly, he didn't give a fuck.
"Well. I think it's time we do this the old fashioned way." The angel fished the small leather bound book from his jacket pocket, tracing the cracked cover before opening it up to the creased page had practiced since he first laid eyes on Aziphem. "I wonder how you'll manage an exorcism. I hope it fucking hurts."
@coyotehusk 's goretober day 4! Crucifixion!!Just pretend this was posted yesterday. Hell if we are pretending, pretend this is finished. One day I will draw this really nice.
If your Caretaker only exists to care for the Whumpee.....If they only exist to have a sweet disposition, never be angry, never be hurt, have an endless supply of patience......If they only live to cook, clean, work, and teach Whumpee how to be Human..... Then you have my permission to make that Caretaker white.
y'know what it's been 3 years of Cass, you guys can have a couple of Cass induced thirsty as fuck art I did within like the first 7 months of designing her just to get a taste of what she did to my brain <3 (and Keith's. RIP buddy)
You know that trope where someone’s injured and lying on the floor unable to move and their friend/lover/family member is standing over them battered and bloodied like, you will not touch them. You’ll have to go through me?
Are you surprised? Fandoms have become notorious anti-writer spaces. Studios love you guys. They can cut the budgets, cut the number of writers, cut the wages of the writers, and you guys always blame the writers. “The writers ruined the show!” It’s never “the studios ruined the show.”
I hate to break it to you: more than half the shows you complain were “ruined by the writers”, were ruined by the studios. Studios cut the scenes and arcs you were excited for. Studios cut the budget of the show, or even raise the budget of the show and force a “bigger, louder, bolder” tone on shows that were unexpected hits (this is where we get “the Netflix look” on every show post-Stranger Things and Queen’s Gambit).
You guys do not do your research. Half your fanfics are tagged with bad faith digs at the writers, when a few searches would reveal how strapped that show was and how poorly the writers were treated. Writers are being given a single week to write each episode—I’m not kidding, one-week-per-episode is one of the reasons for the strike. How are good arcs and scenes supposed to happen under that time limit, with a max of only four writers?
Tumblr, the self-proclaimed “pro-union, pro-worker, pro-artist” site is also a major fandom site. You guys rarely practice good faith consumer etiquette for television and film writers, because your fandom salt always turns you against writers. And studios love you for it.
Yeah, individual writers do create bad writing from time to time. But so do painters, chefs, and musicians. Directors and actors sometimes refuse to film certain scenes or follow a show’s projected style and arc, and the writers always get the crap for a bad performance or a poorly directed episode. This isn’t to blame actors or directors; it’s to point out that you guys have one villain, and it’s always the writers. You guys never give writers the same grace you give animators, designers, directors, actors, composers, and editors.
Studios love you every time you say “the writers ruined the show.” Every single popular fandom is guilty of this. View any of the “why did the writers cut this scene, they hate my characters” talk when leaked scenes hit the internet. Writers barely get paid for what they do write. You think they’re writing scenes and then happily throwing them in the shredder? You guys just eat the talk that studios put out. Always have.
I hate... fanon archetypes. You know how people sand down their blorbos to fit into the same handful of incorrect quote templates and then they forget their actual canon personalities because they've gone too long without engaging with the source material? I hate it. I hate it. He would not fucking say that. The joke was slightly funny when it was on the office or whatever but we've all heard it over and over with different characters pasted into it how are you still laughing please let me out
The funny character has no other personality traits. Also he's incompetent now. The one who's kind of prickly is just weirdly mean OR sad and did nothing wrong, take your pick. Gotta have the Sunshine Boy. Woman 1 is yass slay badass. Woman 2 is the rest of the cast's Mother. If there's only one woman, she can be both. Do you want to kill yourself yet
I didn't say a fandom but you thought of one, didn't you? That's because they all do this. All of them. You search the main tags for the media of your choice and you will find them there. The same incorrect quotes you've been hearing for years. It's like a time loop. It's my own personal torment nexus
alright I’m rbing to add onto this bc it’s getting way more attention than I ever expected and people seem to be more likely to check the rbs than the replies. plus I want people to be able to rb this version.
the point of this post is not swords. it is not how well someone can fight w a cane. the point is I want to see more disabled representation and I want to see characters who use canes and I want them to use them correctly and I want them to be just as fleshed out and interesting as their abled counterparts.
my cane user friend and I were talking abt sword canes just before I made the post so I tossed it in. I collect blades—knives, daggers, swords—and I’m also a disabled cane user who collects fancy canes. so I think combining the two is cool. I don’t even think they’d be good for self defense, I just think they’re a fun thing to show off to friends!
but this post has always, first and foremost, been abt mobility aids. this is abt being a young cane user who doesn’t see rep. I’d love to see highschool dramas where a character uses a cane but it’s not used to make u pity them, it’s just a regular part of their life. I wanna see fantasy cane users where the animal head handle speaks. I wanna see sci-fi cane users and cane users in romances and cane users in main roles.
I know abt canne de combat and bartitsu and the other fighting styles u can use a cane for. that’s never been what this post is abt. I just want to see myself in media.
everyone who rbs this version gets a kiss on the forehead
everyone who rbs any version that makes my post entirely abt weapons while ignoring the mobility aid part owes me a kofi bc ik for sure there’s enough of yall for me to afford crutches
it's pain o'clock @lettuceknighted - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
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