Snow Powered Robot @relia-robot - Tumblr Blog

A new pinned post: hello! This is my personal blog, where I reblog a lot. One of the things I reblog is my personal writing from @relia-robot-writes , which you can find here (or there) tagged with #relia writes. If you like, you can also follow me on my dreamwidth page, https://reliarobot.dreamwidth.org/, which has my writing and also is the home for many other fun authors you might enjoy who used to be on cohost; find us all together here:

#relia writes

mountainstackedwithfear

#hmm #fruit punch i think

benmce-art

Shower

edgar-allan-possum

Most important topic in conservation and no one's talking about it

rattlegeist

Save A Horse, Ryder Cowboy! [lancer comm for h3llthing]

absentwriterdoll

As it used to be.

The witch purses her lips.

And raises her head.

"Fine then."

"As it used to be."

"Me and my doll."

"Alone."

The doll squeezes its witch's hand.

She squeezes back.

Yes.

Just how it used to be.

The witch looks down at her doll.

And smiles.

"Shall we?"

The doll smiles back!

"We shall!"

mountainstackedwithfear

wizardshark

99% of queer discourse stops right before they define the true difference between bisexual and pansexual!

saspitite

FOR THE LAST FUCKING TIME

BISEXUALS GROW FROM THE GROUND

PANSEXUALS GROW FROM THE CEILING

beedokwrites

I should post this chart of my stories here too!

caffeinated-linguist

Legendary Holy Blade, by nolan192

c-53

The addition is ALSO really good

husbanddaughter

they literally deleted all existing reblogs of that post from existence btw<3

m4timel

jupiem

This piece was a bit ambitious for me, but I did it! I love these girls and had to draw them ^^ Does this count as mermay??? mayhap. ♡ Ko-fi ♡ BlueSky ♡ IG ♡ Twitter ♡

absentwriterdoll

Good Enough

"You're allowed to make mistakes, my doll."

The witch ruffles her doll's hair.

"I am too!"

"But you never make mistakes."

"Truth be told, I often wondered whether making you was a mistake."

The doll tenses up.

Then looks down.

"I thought... I thought I wasn't giving you the life you deserve."

The doll looks back up.

"I loved you so much that I thought almost everyday about giving you away to someone who would... Who would...!"

The witch sighs.

Tilts her head and puts a hand on her cheek.

"Just... Someone who would make you truly happy."

...

"But I was selfish. And I loved you. Too much to let you go."

"And I just... I hoped that life with me would be good enough."

The doll reaches up...

And ruffles its witch's hair!

"It is!"

eggnogo

recolor

milkytiddyboy

Umm... A little help?

#girl just go sideways

meli-writes

a full meal

the government says this plan will increase the integration of vampiric persons into normal society. the national health service says their trial will help 'people with disordered hemosynthetic parasitism' manage their health and avoid poor, condition-derived choice.

everyone knows it's kinda bullshit.

the clinics are too far apart, the waiting lists too long, the supply too short and the subject of endless headlines about the bagfeeders stealing from our veins. (0.4% of daily donations, to be precise.)

and you're still basically disabled without RADE (risk-aware dietary enhancement), and taking it from a partner is just a call-out post and a lost mutual aid network waiting for a breakup.

you could do bloodwork. it'll even be not-yet illegal if you don't let them fuck you, which is only the most required part if you aren't a top 0.1% earner and still wanna make rent.

no. what everyone knows really is that it's not enough, and it's not supposed to be. they want you starving, barely able to get up in the evening, getting fired totally because you can't keep up and all these complaints which are totally valid.

they want you thinking about making those poor, condition-derived choices. so they can simper about how much they sympathise with your condition and how unsafe you must feel while they lock you up and cancel all their plans and trials for being ineffective.

so you're in their corridors, their halls. it's where they want you. cheap, and vulnerable, and needy. with the people who could make it better and won't. who'll enjoy you and feed you and toss you when the headlines get too close to finding out.

but maybe this time you want to make one of those choices. and maybe, for first time in so so long, you're going to remember what it means to feel full.

meli-writes

it's quiet after you're done. nothing that happens back here is supposed to raise an alarm. they couldn't enjoy themselves if it ever did; couldn't if anyone cared to notice you.

they will notice--when the right honourable member for croydon west fails to preside over PMQs.

they will notice--when the mail is shoving PARASITE PROSTITUTE EATS YOUR SPEAKER OF THE HOUSE down every tom-dick voter's thursday morning throat.

it takes an hour for you to move.

the cold bag of flesh sagging inside of you falling out and off the state bed. what little blood is left shows only as a shadow in the crimson carpet. you shove it in the closet, and are a whisper in its mirrored face.

would that were what eyes see too.

a hidden panel makes for an exit. a mosque across the river makes for a bed and the other kind of meal without questions. you think about what they'll have when they turn the tv and leave before it. security cameras aren't made with silver; your face isn't yours any more.

would that you could turn a bat and fly. instead for all your fullness you still feel the pit dug of decades, like you could throw both lords and commons into it and still be empty.

there's a house in brixton, the worst hour of your life away. someone had a baseball cap you steal, there's sunglasses in your bag; a mask is too much. your parasol will mark you out as disordered; you put on every bit of silver you can and bear the little sun you can, police vans whining past and strangers in the street you have to hope don't care.

the girl inside has never met you, you just know her from someone who does from someone who does from someone who does. she's fae, and like a sheep. velvet cheeks and square eyes and not out to the world like you are. none of the fae are--they see how bad it's gone for everyone except the old blood who fuck their own great-grandnieces at party fundraisers--so none of them are on a police registry with your address, or on a list passed over from palantir of your friends and their friends and all the addresses of their shitty, overpriced boxes.

you take off the silver, red marks on your warm skin. she has to go to work; she'll show you how to glamour when she's back.

till then--it's quiet.

meli-writes

the tv is loud. outside is worse.

something thunders distant on windrush square. you hear it from the shared garden, where a thin line of glittering chalk keeps you safe and unseen.

everyone here is the same, almost. she's called dolly--a joke which stuck a couple months ago. it comes with different needs, a different kind of struggle, and not a reason to care about yours.

she does. gets back from work and shows you the glamour she takes to it. like the chalk line, but takes away her and humanises instead. so long as you don't get too close.

she gives you her wrist, shaved down. does it before she injects in case it takes the hormones away because maybe that's how it works.

you walk outside and no-one stops you. you circle round the square, people shouting from concrete snakes. silver takes you far enough to find a carribbean shop. you don't know what to buy, dolly can't eat the same as you. you buy too much and have sex on an old carpet when she notices the regret.

you're not full. you're also not empty. the reflection in the mirror is strange; sunflower-print dungarees that were never marketably fuckable enough to pick for yourself.

there's police in the square. people push them from a memorial, there's cardboard in their hands. you try to go back to the shop; AFOs with Fs stand at each door to the market, and you can smell the silver bullets from too close to turn away.

you used your own fucking card.

drop it before you use it this time; bungle out the shop backwards right into someone. the glamour falters and you feel it like nails on half-dead nerve-ends.

someone else grabs your arm. the whole thing fails by time you're pulled into a kitchen. everyone looks and keeps moving as three different ipads chime out the demands of delivery apps. the boy who grabbed you, dreads in a net, asks what you're doing here.

(to eat. to be full.)

"you got a phone?" no. "i can call for you." you don't know her number.

why would you. you left your phone. you couldn't use it if you had it. your card wouldn't have even worked. he calls someone anyway, and far away the thunder gets loud.

meli-writes

an apron. a cap. someone gives you a uniform. you're tired. someone gives you a bite. a little less empty.

where did they all come from. you try to run threat analysis. you need to find dolly. soft wool. hot skin. chalk to hide behind. there's only a crowd instead; officers up to the walls, the space between them long as a gun barrel.

across the gap. into the people, pulling you in before you're seen. flares burn and their smoke wafts on old, hand-sewn union banners. you must just be the excuse. drums and lungs. you don't need to breathe and it's suffocating.

a hand in the sky, pushed through a sea of flesh, from where you can't find. dolly. the tide pushes you back. if you had a voice she'd still never hear it. and a sheep won't herd this.

the tide crushes. your hand begs the sky for it to stop, and it burns. and everyone hears the scream. sees the smoke off your skin, black amongst the brick-red flares that stain every flag you would cling to.

and then everyone hears the shot.

the tide tries to pull but you end up on the rocks, a rifle pushed into your shoulder. a fleeting clack of secret hooves before they're gone.

she sends you letters.

everyone does.

enough that you're kept on remand, not in a hole to be lost forever.

a trial fails. crown prosecution services is allowed to try again. over and over. till the letters stop coming with the drops of blood you have to beg off nurses who come only to laugh at how can barely push off the floor.

they want their excuse for what's to come, and an example with it.

the group that organises the letters, and the blankets, and the small shark toy--is proscribed. it stops.

the last one left comes and the guard stomps on it before he kicks it through the thin slat into your hole.

half-crushed. your cold skin made even more pale by the puffed-out dust when you open it. a little bit left, wool-wrapped.

chalk.