#whosxafraid

[tabbyrp]

Day 29 of 31

@whosxafraid

Who's afraid of the big bad wolf? The big bad wolf, the big bad wolf Who is afraid of the big bad wolf? Tra la la la la

[morgansmornings]

@whosxafraid

This is just... There are too many feels and not enough brain power to explain properly what this makes me feel. I love this ship. I love the story we crafted. And I love you most of all. Best Bird ever. I can't... with you right now.

[therealgamble]

@whosxafraid

[ivakir]

@whosxafraid​ asked: 13. Is there one trope you can’t stand? ; meme for roleplay muns

A girl with cool hobbies / career meets some guy who changes her for the "better" side. From a cool warrior she becomes a "caring mother with 100 children", she gives up her career to raise her children, meanwhile the second parent’s life doesn’t change at all.

   Words cannot describe how much I hate this trope. It's my personal nightmare that wakes me up at night.

   Yeah, the trope is very realistic, that is, we can see these examples in society. Though I will not say anything about the choice (if it really was a choice) of real women. I will only talk about fiction.

    I would not have been so angry so much if I had seen the same trope played in reverse. That is, a man with a career and interests finds a very average girl with no interests and a very average appearance. Under her influence he decides to quit his career and devote himself entirely to domestic life. Even as I write this, I realize in retrospect that this thought now seems to be on the verge of fantasy.

    I mean, I don't know... I usually see all these cool female characters choosing ordinary guys (well, it's clear that this was done to make it easier for the male audience associate with them) as boyfriends, partners, husbands, who don’t even have goals in life or at least some interesting hobby, who are “well, he just joked funny” or “well, he’s just brave” - in general, it makes me ask "Why?". I get the impression that the creators were just lazy, they didn't want to think much and went with "Well let's give her an average dude with nothing and turn her into a mother, because this is what women do, right?".

    With regard to roleplaying, I quite often see here the trope "mother is the head of the family". Very often I see this with werewolf characters or with characters associated with the mafia. On the one hand, I would say that this is not bad, but on the other hand, it still seems to me that either the role player also sees motherhood as the only choice for their female character, or it's just a projection, a dream of a big friendly family they don't have in reality and dreams of having some sort of control of their family and life. Which is not bad. Don't read it as if I am trying to psychoanalyze here. However, such an interpretation doesn't make me thrilled either. I guess, it’s just a matter of taste. 

     In my experience, I had only one time when Ivakir had a family with children, but I felt that what was happening was very wrong. At the moment, I would not play any tropes associated with children or "finding a partner and settling down".

[brooklynislandgirl]

3. Are you a top or bottom?

The Meme From The Lost Lagoon || Not Accepting

The dark of his voice splashes down her spine and threatens to immolate her from within. The undercurrent is unspeakably sharp, and she's come to learn that nothing bodes well when he wields it the way he's doing right now. Slowly she half turns and raises her gaze to take in his face, to try and read something in it that might provide more of a clue as to how much trouble was standing in the middle of her tower. Beyond the shadows lies her bower, the bed unmade, the sheets storm-tossed from the hands of nightmare always eager to pluck pieces of her away when she is unguarded. Stares not at her but past at the myriad bottles both favoured and not but it doesn't make her offer him a drink. He'll pour himself one with or without her leave if he chooses. She doesn't believe he's here for a crystal decanter of single malt. She regrets her choice of music right at that moment, and the irony of the title. Though for as hard as her heart beats within her chest, she doesn't dare reach for the remote to turn it off. She's witnessed him vivisect an underling with a far more cordiality, unbothered by the screaming as each piece of victim is flayed from its bones. She's watched him feed morsels of steak tartare to his hounds, slavering teeth a whisper away from breaking skin. She has seen so many things where the surface of him was calm despite the roiling waters beneath. But not like this. She swallows hard. One hand slides slowly, elegantly down the ladder of her ribs, not unlike a snake crawling for its hole. The slit is high, designed to expose more skin than the dress conceals. Fingertips rest lightly on the bone athame strapped there, both a focus for her arts and the last best tool for self defense. "You know best, Lúcás," She says slowly. Her own timbre low, caressing. And he knows there is no ounce of her that denies anything. No request unanswered, no command unobeyed. She bends for him, bends and bends, limitlessly. But he still hasn't broken her, despite what anyone else might whisper in his ear. She is what he has made of her. Glass and poison, sharp edges but for those he holds. "I...am a threat."

[quothesquills]

She is not his pet. She is free to come and go as she pleases. And perhaps sometimes he wonders why she comes back at all. But for the times she does? Perhaps an old man feels bad for her having no proper place to nest.

So he has had something made for her. Something special, and something unique. And no he does not care that the raven doesn’t really need it, nor really need the raven sized pool installed behind it.

He thought she should have it therefore she did. And never mind the purposefully shiny silver bow and carefully woven miniature wreath hung over the door. She can do with them as she pleases.

If any of the animal crackers like herself celebrated holidays, then those would be obscure, regional, and related to their totems and auspices and tribes, or closer to what their human kin {sometimes charges, sometimes victims} reveled in. Same with the Dream Kin, the Caern Raiders, even the spooks. She’s heard tell leeches do it to, but of all the things Quothe has mixed with, she only ever had befriended one fangy-fangy-bitey-bitey. And it had been so long ago the details are a little fuzzy beyond the reminiscence of fraying, mouldering black robes and a Romanian accent.

Luka had always been different though, hadn’t he?

And so when the winter solstice rolls around and after they’ve ~the Corax as a species~ have celebrated the rebirth of Helios, she finds the air cold and small, hollow bones desirous of warmth and light. She’s been too far gone from her seemingly eternal Siberian nights, and the frigid, lethal temperatures that clung to it.

She bypasses doors and windows and the moral fortitude to knock first and be invited in by slipping through a thinning of the Veil, leaving the spirit realm of the umbra for the more hospitable comfort of his apartment. Not that she particularly likes this one, it always seems to carry a little of the blood and dirt and foreignness of that caern raider he so loves to have torture him, which would make her nose wrinkle if beaks were capable of such things. He’s not here. She can feel that. And if experience is any teacher, she has time to change out of her feathers and into something a little more suitably kinky with which to run a hot bath for his aching bones, full of alchemical balms to soothe tired muscle.

Looking from the outside, some people would call her a devilish thorn in his side for all that she jabs and pokes at his sorest places, but that’s only to remind him of his strength. Truth is, she knows his weaknesses and rather than exploiting them, she tries to soothe them in whatever ways she can within the structure of the rules, even if that means sharing him with whatever two-legs catches his fancy out of loneliness.

But even Quothe can admit to being taken aback when he surprises her. The Birdhouse is really quite spectacular, as it is massive and she wonders where he’s been building it, and how long it’s taken. Curiosity drives her and she hops from chair to shelf to perch, examining it while her head tilts this way and that. The minaret isn’t exactly that, and it looks nothing like the homes from her youth but then again, most people didn’t exactly have more than some twigs and dirt when they were young. Eventually, the thing is approached. A series of little jumps closer and closer to the doorway. 

Then she disappears inside and is once again delighted. There’s a mess of twigs, old bits of tee-shirts that still smell like him, soft and cotton. So she sets about a little house keeping. Maneuvers every last speck of material, regardless of origin, into a new nest. One big enough to settle herself in whole and happy.  She steals the ribbon from the outside and uses that as the final touch before she settles into the safety and comfort of it, nuzzling those bits that are most a part of him. She knows the new birdbath is there too, but it can wait. For now she will close her eyes. Because the best part of the solstice gift…is being able to dream about what might have been.

[bigdlittleibignlittleozzo-moved]

@whosxafraid

He was being followed. It had taken Tony a few days to notice, but he was being followed. Whoever it was, they were good, very good, and he wasn’t sure he would’ve noticed them, except it almost seemed like they wanted to get caught. It was interesting, made him curious.

He waited in a dark alley, because all good movie confrontations took place in dark alleys, wanting to confront the person following him, to know why he, of all people, was a target. He was boring, for a vampire.

Someone entered the mouth of the alley and Tony braced himself for a fight. If whoever was following him had decided he was worth attacking, he needed to be ready for that. He wasn’t as strong as most of the other creatures of the night, so he had to be on his toes constantly, ready to run if he couldn’t defend himself.

“You’ve been following me,” he called out, “I’d like to know why? Someone looking for me?”

[storieswrittcnarch]

"writing a windigo is racist" if we go by that logic then that means anyone that's ever written anything containing a vampire is now racist against eastern europeans because the vampire lore originated there and they believed vamps 2 b evil undead beings that fed on the living. which also means anyone that ever includes a spirit/monster/other worldly being of any kind is racist against whatever race of people the lore originated with. ur idiocy amazes and seems 2 know no bounds anon.

you know what? you’re absolutely right. guess i’m racist cause i write vampires, werewolves, all kinds of monsters too. i’m just all kinds of problematic :(