chloearit

[chloearit]

day 1 at the communal puzzle club: i see a puzzle with a sign next to it that says "please help with our communal puzzle" and i say to myself "don't mind if I do" and did the whole thing

[chloearit]

I am hanging from a hook in the ceiling

like animal carcass.

I am splayed open, salted and tenderized.

My fatty bits sectioned off with bakers twine.

Red juices weep from my wounds.

Not blood, but the meat sweating

for better flavor.

A heavy palm comes down hard on my rump.

He lifts from the flank.

He samples the breast.

Hunger animates his body but he knows he must wait until the meat is ready.

He massages oils into the fibrous texture.

Working it in with the strong flat pads of his thumbs and fingers.

The meat is shivering.

The meat is shaking.

I’m told this is a chemical process.

Even once dead and removed from the body,

the meat dances on the table.

Due to the residual energy and nerve endings present in the tissue.

The flesh will twitch.

But it must be ready.

When it is ready he’ll carve it off in slabs,

and drop them into his mouth;

a mouse falling into the mouth of a snake

hanging by the tail.

He’ll glide the knife under the muscle

and it will slide down his throat

but it must be ready.

The meat is hanging but will not dry.

It drips

and drips

more juices.

The air is escaping.

The tendons are loosening.

He ties her off again and again.

Soon little lamb.

Soon.

- MEAT 2024

[chloearit]

A doll that made a mistake

It leans over the sink, polishing scorch marks off its hand. Its witch hears it muttering to itself as it works.

Unkind words, directed at itself. "It's this one's fault."

"And what would that change?" Said the witch. The doll jumped to attention.

"Beg pardon?"

"If your injury was not your own fault, what about this situation would be different?" The witch reiterated, gesturing to the doll and the sink it stood beside. The doll looked at it's witch, puzzled. "If it wasn't this one's fault, then..."

"Then the fire would have still got out of control, you still would have been burned, and you would still be polishing singe marks off of your fingers" the witch took the rag as she spoke, applied polishing agent to the doll's hand, and slowly massaged its palm.

"Assigning and dwelling on blame for a mistake that has already occurred does not help us prevent the mistake from happening, nor does it help us mend their consequences." As she worked the polish up the doll's fingers, it squirmed and gasped in her firm grip. "So instead my doll, if you are going to reflect on a mistake, only take away lessons, and leave behind bitterness and blame."

"Yes, Mistress," the witch let go of its hand and handed the polishing rag back to the doll. Its bowed head hid a blush.

"So, my doll, what did you learn?"

The doll's blush deepened as it worked a fresh application of polish into its hand.

"That soaking incense sticks in lighter fluid is not an effective way to make lighting them easier."

"Good doll"

[chloearit]

rebel who's had her fingers stuck in the mouth of the mech pilot she's captured for hours, because the hound is conditioned to bite down on the cyanide capsule in its tooth but not on a handler. so now it's just mumbling softly around the impromptu gag, while they both wait for someone to come sedate it.

[chloearit]

i compile the story (at least main one) of the moon rabbit here! so it's easier to read the entire thing

[chloearit]

🥺.

[chloearit]

Astarion, the Decadent Descendant - bg3 Spawn Astarion comic

It's Batman! But jokes aside, hero Astarion is a lot fun to write and draw. I hope you enjoyed!

[chloearit]

This is how I originally wrote it. One of those that starts as a poem and then begs to be a song. I posted a fragment of this on tumblr a while back, but here’s the initial piece in its entirety 🤍

[chloearit]

a leia comic about loss.

[chloearit]

What is a doll?

Tell me, do you know what a doll really is? A happy little thing that is beholden to its specific purpose, a specific being - that's what they always say, right?

You do understand how they got to this point, right?

A doll is a doll before they ever end up in their shells of whatever it is they end up made out of.

They don't come into existence trained to seek out Purpose and Stillness - no that happens somewhere along the way.

A person becomes not a person.

They know witches before they even know what the concept is - witches in a different way than the ones we usually speak of - witches that need no magic to effect their ways.

Take, for example, the "gifted student".

That's a doll right there.

Their Purpose is success in education. Their Stillness is respite from the otherwise ire of their witches.

They aren't a person:

They're their achievements.

And, tell me, doesn't that sound just like a doll to you?

[chloearit]

happy pride!! i just wanted to share one of my favorite scenes from If You'll Have Me, my sapphic graphic novel 🌈💕✨

IYHM can be found on this list of retailers, but it can be requested from libraries too! or support your local bookstore if you can! i will also be restocking signed copies in my shop this sunday 😊 thank you for reading~

[chloearit]

tumblr staff will let the thousands of porn bots on here run rampant yet will take down trans comics with no actual nudity

i originally reblogged this post, but since staff took it down you can't fucking see my reblog anymore. well i liked this comic, i want it on my blog, and it does not include any fucking nudity. especially compared to all the straight up porn staff allows to go free

so here it is

untitled by Pas (paxiti), all pages from May 23, 2018 to June 22, 2023

[chloearit]

interview_3aC

I got into piloting during the Third Generation. For the historically illiterate, that’s before the breakpoint, not after. Summer Offensive, Chelsk Offensive, ‘81, ‘82… All that shit.

When you say pilot now, people get a certain mental image. It wasn’t like that, back then; end of the day, a G3 frame is basically just another kind of tank. Hot like hell inside and full analogue control. You had to think five, six, seven seconds ahead sometimes, because that’s how long it’d take you to string together the inputs for what you were doing next.

I was good. I mean, I’m good at my job now, sure, but… you should’ve fuckin’ seen me then.

... Anyway. Long and short of it is, I got unlucky. Everyone does, sooner or later. Coterie railcannon caved in part of my cockpit, crushed my leg to dogmeat, and that was that. A few years later, they’d have amputated, plugged in a spare, and sent me back in, but this was ‘83, the tech wasn’t there yet. We were hearing about it, you know, shit on the grapevine about the brain-machine barrier, weird tests underground out in Lysk, but I don’t think any of us really believed in it.

I wanna say I knew what was coming, but I didn’t. Nobody did.

So. Cockpit breach. Fucked leg. They did a lot of work, got it to where I could walk on a good day, but it was obvious I wasn’t gonna cut it any more. Took my pension, checked out, spent eight years in the worst dyke bars I could find. Don’t really wanna talk about that part. That’s not what you’re here for, anyway.

So I’m a few years down the line, losing my mind somewhere in Sengrade, and I get a call. It’s this guy I used to know, I never really nailed down what he did, Information maybe, and he’s telling me about this program they’re spinning up over in Lysk, and sure that rings some alarm bells but what am I gonna do, say no? I don’t even need to hear the specifics, he’s trying to tell me it’s the next big jump in frame tech, it’s gonna win us the war, whatever, I’m already halfway onto a train.

The job turned out to be the Fifth Generation. Not only was the brain-machine barrier real, but they’d smashed clean through it. I said a G3 is basically a tank, right? So I was expecting an iteration on the form. Sharper, sleeker sure, but at the end of the day just a prettier-looking tank.

Well, I was dead fuckin’ wrong. Seeing something that size move that way, it’s… I don’t think I can put it into words. Go find a poet or something. Ask them what they think about Gen 5.

… Didn’t come for free, of course. The neural throughput on a machine that size will cook an unprepared brain like a fuckin’ egg. You need to be dosed to the gills on a whole cocktail of ten-syllable shit to take it for more than a few minutes, and the drugs make you weird. Horny, mostly - I’m sure you’ve heard about that - but you’re also looking at impaired impulse control, difficulty with long-term thinking, emotional disregulation, mania… Plus, there’s something in the cocktail or the link or both that is bastard habit-forming. You see them counting the hours between sorties. They adjust to the hyperstimulation, get calibrated to it, and then everything else is just too god-damn quiet.

Think maybe it’s carcinogenic, actually, but you didn’t hear that from me.

So, yeah. Weird. Command doesn’t want weird operating superweaponry. Weird doesn’t make sound tactical decisions. Which means all the shit that makes somebody a functioning soldier - the long-term decision making, the impulse control, the ability to give a fuck about the rules of engagement - it had to be outsourced.

The term they used at first was “special consultant”. Then “special consulting officer”, once we hit field testing. It wasn’t “handler” until later.

The first crop of us - I’m just gonna say handlers, I know how you’re gonna wanna spin this, I get it - were all ex-pilots. G3, mostly; Gen 4 didn’t leave a lot of material to work with. I guess the idea was we were the closest you could get to a G5 candidate’s frame of reference, but it was pretty clear within the first few months that that was bullshit. Some of us took to it, some of us washed out. A lot couldn’t take the wetwork, which I guess I can sympathise with.

Me, I handled it fine. Better than I should’ve, maybe. Being a tanker didn’t do shit for me, but my dad, he was a dog trainer, and… Yeah, well, you get the idea.

… No, no. The other kind of wetwork. You know what I mean.

…

The leg? Ha. Yeah, they offered me a prosthetic. ‘Course they did. But, call me a hypocrite, whatever you want - by that point I was six months in and I knew with total fuckin’ certainty I didn’t want the link. I spend enough of my time helping the military put their shit into peoples’ bodies, you know? I don’t want it walking home with me.

… No, I don’t understand why they keep signing up. Early days, sure, nobody knew what it did to you back then, but there’s been leaks, people’ve talked - hell, I’m talking right now. You can find our burnouts in any dive in the country, or what's fuckin' left of them. The candidates now, they know what we do to people here, and they just keep coming, and coming…

Though, you know… I think sometimes about the first time I saw a Gen 5 machine take off, that first day on the program. The way it moved against the blue-black of the sky, like it weighed nothing at all. And I almost get it.

[chloearit]

// discussion of csa and other potentially distressing things

One day I'd found myself alone with nothing to do. I noticed my father's old piano, off in the corner of the living room. It hadn't been used in well over a year, not since I played for him when I turned 14 shortly before his death.

I pulled it out of the corner and sat down in front of it. Started pressing some keys. Memories flashed through my mind. I started playing. After a couple failed starts I managed to play one of the pieces I'd learned almost without error. Then another. Then I just started playing freely.

I almost didn't notice when Nikita walked in the room.

I trailed off and turned to them.

They looked surprised. "You play? ... It sounds good."

"Just messing around... my father made me learn it."

They smiled and walked up to me. "You just keep revealing new skills I never knew you had."

"I didn't get to do much as a kid other than study."

Nika pressed a key. Then a couple more.

I joined in. "Father would make me play for him." I scoffed. "Not to make things weird..."

"Don't ever worry about making things weird," they muttered, tapping away at the keys.

"He made me undress, and then play. I think he got off to it."

"People get off to all kinds of weird things."

That made me pause. I stayed their hands. "How do you know that?"

"Long story." They returned to pressing keys.

"You should get a chair." I looked around the room.

They nodded, and quickly left to get one from another room.

For a moment, there was silence again. I felt Father's hands on my body.

The sound of a chair being pulled up next to me got me out of it. I made room and looked Nikita up and down as they sat.

"Do you know how to play?"

"No," they answered with a smile.

"I'll teach you."

I showed them some chords to play. They learned quickly. After a couple of repetitions, they started speaking while continuing to practice: "I had to find ways to make money after I got away from my parents. You meet a lot of weird people like that, and you hear stories. Obviously I got a lot of the creepier weirdos, but there's a lot of people who are just freaks."

"Like who?"

"One guy I heard of apparently makes his 'partners' play out elaborate death scenes with him. He comes every time without ever once touching himself. And then he just leaves. He's not a pedo though, just a freak, so I've never met him."

"He... acts out killing his partners?"

"No, no, he has them act out killing him."

"Huh."

"I kinda get it though, to be honest."

"What?"

"Have you never thought about what it would be like to get killed?"

I didn't respond. Of course I had, but... "Not like that."

They laughed. "You're so straightlaced."

"I don't think that's a word anyone's ever used to describe me."

"You're not a freak."

"You don't know that."

"What's your secret, then?"

"Huh?" I looked around the room, and paused. "Is anyone else here?"

"For real?" They smiled. "Just you and me."

I took a deep breath. "I get these intrusive... experiences sometimes. I don't know what to call them."

"Flashbacks?"

"No. They're not things that ever actually happened to me. Not like that." I shook my head.

"Fantasies?"

"Weird ones. Scenes of being... raped. Being a little kid and having horrible things done to me. And. I don't know... sometimes they don't feel all that bad? They feel almost nice. I don't... like it but I do... I do get off on it... is that... wrong?"

"Well, if it is, we're both marked for damnation."

"Huh?"

"Lu. You literally kill people for a living. I think that's more morally questionable than whatever you're worried about."

"But, I- I do it because-"

"Because of what they do, right? What they did to you, to me, to other children."

"Yes."

"Not because of whatever odd fantasies they might have. Because of what they chose to do."

"But what if I become like them-"

"You're stronger than that. That's what makes you different from them. You don't just give into your base urges. You care too much to ever hurt someone who's innocent."

"You don't know that."

"Using someone like that is an extremely callous, selfish thing to do. Every normal human recoils at the thought. That's why you're so ashamed of it. That's good. But you're not a bad person if you allow yourself to stop worrying so much about it. There's a big difference between an impure thought and an evil action. I think most people are very aware of where that line is, and they will never cross it, no matter how much they like to indulge in the fantasy. I've known you for a while now, believe me when I tell you, I don't think you would ever cross that line. But if you need my help to feel more secure, I'll help you with that."

"I think I'd appreciate that."

"It's your actions that define if you're a good person or not, and the impact you have on the world. You've helped a lot of people lead better lives. You're a good person, Lúcia."

// by Lúcia and Chloe

[chloearit]

“And this is Doctor Vyktorya Wytt, the first woman to successfully teleport.”

“Wait, really? Oh my god, thaaat’s an empty room. This is an empty room.”

“Well, yes. The teleporter was successful, it’s just very, very slow.”

“…So she teleported but she hasn’t arrived yet.”

“Yes, exactly!”

“…So where — if — if she teleported, but she hasn’t arrived-”

“Take your time.”

“-then where is she?”

“In the room. Technically. We think.”

“And how long has she been—?”

“What time is it?”

“9:30.”

“Twenty years.”

“Oh.”

“But we expect her to show up any day now.”

“Oh, okay. And it’ll be, like, instantaneous for her, right? Like no time passed at all?”

The scientist blinked. “Gosh, I hope so.”

[chloearit]

''Doesn't know what it's like to receive love''

[chloearit]

The Corporation is distinctly opposed to calling pilots "angels". They've released several statements recommending that officers silence any such language, saying it "threatens the integrity of the forces", and that HAKs and the pilots who control them are "tools, not deities". But I mean, when you see the way a suit's holoprojectors form a pulsing ring around a pilot's helmet, or when one slumps forwards out of its cockpit to reveal that thick mass of wires creeping from its back, it's impossible not to see the resemblance. And when, like most of the men stationed here, you've found yourself pinned down by heavy artillery fire from two directions with no chance of survival, but out of the heavens a Bishop-class rig emerges and razes the enemy with what can only be described as holy flame? I mean hell, that's enough to make anyone a believer (pardon my language).

I have a buddy who deals with the HAKs directly. He works in biomechanics, combat simtech or whatever. I asked him once what he thought about the whole "angel" thing. He got real quiet, and he looked directly at me and said, "you don't even know the half of it." And I stared right into his eyes and I could see that same heavenly flame burning in there and I knew that he had seen something he couldn't quite understand, but that he loved with all his heart.