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[kai-chan94]

full offense but none of you would have ever survived fanfiction.net in 2009

[kai-chan94]

claustrophobic whumpee

TW: Terror, imprisonment, claustrophobia, cold, hyperventilating, begging, mental breakdown, blood, scratching, self harm(!!)

Whumper grabs Whumpee’s arms and pulls them up. Whumpee stares at them in terror, unsure of what’s happening. They hadn’t done anything wrong - at least, not that they’d been aware of.

Whumpee’s heart rate speeds up as soon as they see the menacing door glaring at them from down the hall. They dig their heels into the floor, trying not to give into their resistance but not being able to stand the idea of the tiny cell again. 

“No, no, please! Please, I- I’ll be good!” 

Whumper looks down at Whumpee, their eyes cold, merciless.

“P-please! N-no, not there, I- I can’t- please, Whumper! I can’t–”

“What was that?” Whumper’s grip on Whumpee strengthened as they lifted them up to eye level as though they weighed nothing.

“S-sir,” Whumpee whispered, tears filling their eyes and blurring the cruel image of Whumper. Whumper grabs the door to the cell with their free hand and it opens with a loud, angry creak. 

“S-sir! Sir!” Whumpee squealed. “Please, I’m b-begging, d-don’t m-ma-m-make me- I’m begging-”

“I know,” Whumper growled, tossing Whumpee into the elevator-sized room, and they collapse on the floor. They let out a loud sob. Whumpee stumbles to their feet and slams themselves against the door just as it falls shut; all their wounds burst with pain. 

The door clicks locked. Instantly the world goes purely silent. Dark. They can’t see their hand in front of their face, and terror sets in quickly. Whumpee takes a step back. Another. Anoth— Their back hits the wall. Whumpee slips to the concrete floor, gripping their arms tight and squeezing their eyes shut in horror. They know how small the room is. They can practically feel it, closing in, growing smaller and smaller until they’re suffocated. The walls are so close, why are they so close?

Whumpee can feel words on the tip of their tongue, they can remember how they sounded and felt, but they won’t come out. So instead they sob, their body shaking violently, every limb trembling against the cold stone floor.

Please. Let me out.

The walls are growing closer. Squeezing their heart. The room is soundproof, which only amplifies their pounding heartbeat. It’s not even a room, really. It’s a closet. A dark, empty closet. A perfect claustrophobic nightmare. 

Whumpee curls up in the corner of the room, hugging their knees to their chest and leaning their head against the wall as the tears slip down their face. They close their eyes. They wait. They wait a long time. It’s very quiet in the little cell. The only sound is their thoughts. They’re usually whispers, but now they’re screams. They only like to be heard when there’s nothing else for them to listen to, when Whumpee is unable to lock them away in the dark part of their mind. So they scream. Whumpee lets them do it, because there’s not much else to do when they’re alone.

Well, they’re not completely alone. The screams are here, too.

They wait some more. An hour, maybe. Maybe more. Maybe less.

A little bit longer. 

Whumpee shivers. Their fingertips and nose are numb with cold. They haven’t moved, not once, since they retreated to the corner of the room. But eventually, gathering a little bit of strength, Whumpee shakily stands and shuffles blindly towards the door, holding their hands out.

They feel a surface. The door. Lightly, they knock. Nothing happens. Either way, they couldn’t hear anything on the other side, even if they wanted to. They knock again. Harder. Louder. They slam their fist on the door again and again. It’s painful, but they don’t care. Whumpee screams and pounds, kicking and banging. No response. They begin to cry as they continue on, dropping to their knees, forehead against the door, sobbing. 

They sob and shake and scream, in anger and terror and misery. They start to hyperventilate. Air doesn’t come fast enough, plenty enough. Their breaths are quick and fast-paced, but it’s not enough. Whumpee can’t breathe. The walls are closing in. They can’t breathe.

“Please, sir! Please, please let me out, let me out, LET ME OUT!”

Suddenly, something shatters. Some restraint in their head is broken, and the world falls apart. They’re miserable. They hate it all—Whumper, but also themself. Whumpee hates themself for being so weak, for crying. They hate the unfairness of it all. They hate it. THEY HATE IT. 

Whumpee begins to scratch at themself, like a crazed animal trying to get that instinct out. They sob harder, because it hurts. It hurts but they have control, they have control, they have control, they have control–

They scratch until their fingers are wet and sticky from their bleeding arms. But they can’t stop it. If they squint, Whumpee can see the blood on the floor, in smudges or in small droplets, and sticky red handprints on the floors and walls. They stand up again, uncoordinated and dizzy, weeping uncontrollably as blood slips down their arms. Everything closes in, and they scream, clutching their head as they go down again. They can’t breathe. The walls are crashing down on them, they’re going to die, they’re going to die, they’re going to die—

Whumpee sobs, hitting the door. They slam into it with their shoulder. Again. Again. Again.

But this time it opens.

It opens just as they shove into it, and they tumble forward into the sudden light, unable to protect themselves from the ground rushing up to meet their face. But someone catches them, gently bringing them to the ground.

“’m sorry, ‘m sorry, ‘m sorry,” Whumpee whimpers, squeezing their eyes shut, but no pain comes. The arms are comfortable, wrapping around Whumpee’s shoulder to let them lean in their lap. Whumpee wants to close their tired, bleary eyes, fall asleep, and not have to wake up.

Whumpee leans into them, sobbing quietly now, their bloody fingers grasping the fabrics of the person’s shirt for comfort as if their life depends on it. Their hands stay around Whumpee without moving, and Whumpee wants the moment of safety to last forever.

Reality sets in. Whumpee opens their eyes in terror, only to discover they’d fallen into the arms of Caretaker.

@mottinthemainpot

[kai-chan94]

concept: the sheer relief that comes with being finally warm enough, the cramps of shivering muscles relaxing under a heavy blanket or two, clenched teeth and restless body losing their tension as at long last they're not cold anymore

[kai-chan94]

I’m a sucker for whumpees with scarred backs.

The criss-crossing lines, evidence of torn flesh and burns, layer upon layer of scar tissue built up until the original skin is essentially gone. The reveal when they take their shirt off. How it stands as a testament to their suffering. Mmmm.

[kai-chan94]

i’ve watched this like 8 times in a row

[kai-chan94]

Too hot.

[kai-chan94]

AO3 Collections Advice

just a gentle reminder to say that i do not, and will never, accept unsolicited invitations to add my fics to collections on ao3. doing so gives the owner of the collection power over my work - they can then make the work anonymous without my consent, or even hide it from view entirely on ao3. whilst i can undo this by removing the work from the collection, i prefer not to take the risk of this happening and me not noticing and ending up with a missing/uncredited fic

readers: using collections as a “i’ve read this and i liked it” list is a poor use of the many, many features ao3 gives you to save and rec stuff. what you are looking for instead is ao3′s bookmarks feature! you can make a bookmark of a work (they even have specific bookmark types for recs!), and then add that bookmark to a collection without any of the issues i mentioned above (i.e. if you make the collection anonymous/hidden, it won’t affect the bookmarked work). you don’t even need author permission to do add a bookmark to a collection! and probably the authors will be delighted because, hey, more exposure without any risk of to work. using collections this way is a good use of collections, especially if you label them clearly (e.g. “the best of dsmp h/c fic”, rather than “ouoguguh hurty”), and is of huge benefit to the fandom community at large because it helps people find recs!

also, even if you’re going to ignore everything else i’ve said here, you should absolutely not be trying to add author’s works to collections titled “okay fics” or “fics that are a solid 5/10″. i will get an email telling me you are trying to do this, letting me know exactly what you think of my work just the same as if you’d left a rude comment. if you do this with an author who is on auto-accept, every other person who reads that fic will see that collection title just below the fic’s tags. if you want to remind yourself to avoid a fic, use a private bookmark; you can tag that with whatever you want because it’s between you and god. just don’t be a dick in public, please.

even with collections that don’t have derogatory titles, this is still worth thinking about; do authors really want “subtext is buttsex spelled differently!” in all caps or “uwu squirm worm” on their work? probably not. i get emails trying to invite me to collections like this maybe once a week, and it is phenomenally annoying (though, self-admittedly, i’m a grumpy old bastard). more importantly, it also makes your collections functionally useless to anyone other than yourself - no one is searching for “worm” or “buttsex” when they are trying to find collections of good fics. a clearly-titled collection that gives you a good idea of what’s in it, whilst less funny to you personally, turns it from a personal list into a community resource!

other authors: you, also, should probably not be allowing random people to add your works to collections. by default, people should have to request permission to; (if you’ve changed that to auto-accept, you can change it back by doing the opposite of the instructions here), and i would strongly suggest rejecting unsolicited requests. anyone who’s not e.g. the the trusted admin of an event/challenge/etc. who is running a collection for those purposes should not have control over your work’s visibility.

[kai-chan94]

Matcha 

[kai-chan94]

Mihály Köles

[kai-chan94]

Paper Knives - 0.1

We're gonna kick off with my favorite girl, Roxy fucking Lalonde.

Though everyone in her profession warned her, Clara Pentri had a soft heart for the kids she worked with. She knew it would get her in trouble, really she did, and she was a far cry from young and idealistic. So when she was passed a few cases of her very own for the first time, she tried to not let her excitement show too much.

“It’s hard work,” she was cautioned by her supervisor. “Sometimes there is no good option for these kids and some of them are already beyond the scope of the help we can offer.”

Though she nodded along, Clara didn’t believe it. In time, that lesson would come and the education would be enough to break her heart, but that was for later. For now she had three files in her hands, three kids now in her care and she couldn’t wait to introduce herself to her new clients.

First was a precocious child of nine named Gabe. He liked to read, but didn’t like school too much because they didn’t let him read what he wanted and sometimes what they wanted him to read was boring and sometimes he read too fast and they were all so slow.

Next was a mulish sixteen year old named Samantha. She was closed off and hard to read, but she seemed like a very nice young woman and Clara looked forward to getting to know her better, sure that in time she would open up more.

And last was a fourteen year old named Roxy.

-

Meeting Roxy was a genuine pleasure. The girl was all smiles – a far cry from the quiet and long-suffering Gabe or exasperated and unresponsive Samantha, though they were both lovely as well. After reaching out to her foster family, Clara picked Roxy up from school, impressed by her unicorn backpack and the ribbon streamers on the sides.

“Pink is my favorite,” Roxy informed her and, having been given permission, fiddled with the radio until she found some upbeat pop music. Clara didn’t have to put any of her prepared conversation starters to use, since Roxy was happy enough to ramble about the book she was reading at the time and the cute cat that she saw from the window in the middle of math class.

Hell, if she thought that her partner would let her, she was half ready to sign the adoption papers.

Pulling up to the house her GPS directed her to, Clara was almost sad she had to let the bundle of joy leave. Though she tried to be as nonjudgmental as possible, she felt the small, slightly dingy trailer-style home wasn’t the best place to foster such a bright girl.

That wasn’t to say it was bad… But it could definitely benefit from a little TLC and a weekend project or two. The awning over the front door was rusting away from the wall, held up only by two equally rusty poles. Though given the various detritus cluttering the porch, it didn’t seem that door was used very often anyway. A mini grill ruined by the elements, plastic pots in various states of brokenness, some sun-bleached and washed out boxes…

“Thanks for the ride,” Roxy was saying. Clara tore her eyes from the graying siding and the hazy patina of grime over all of the windows. Flashing another bright smile, Roxy was already unbuckling her seat belt before the car was even in park.

“It was my pleasure, Roxy,” she said and smiled back. “Here, I’ll walk you in, okay?”

“Oh, you don’t have to. I have my key!”

“I’d like to say hello to your parents if they’re home,” she explained, already taking the keys from the ignition. There was a car parked in the grass to the side of the house, so someone had to be home, right?

“Oh, uh. Okay, yeah!” Roxy’s smile dropped as she scrambled out of the car, swinging her bag onto her back. The ribbons (unicorn hair?) bounced happily as Roxy hurried to a side door that Clara missed at first glance. She smiled at the sight.

Roxy though?

Roxy was a little stressed. Ms. Pentri seemed nice. Like, genuinely nice and that was pretty weird in her experience, but whatever. Nice of her to introduce herself; no one must have warned her about Roxy, but whatever. She wanted to come in!

And she should NOT do that for a whole lot of reasons. Specifically of one conspicuously shitty lime green Honda across the street that she was pretty sure belonged to her foster mother’s dealer. And Roxy could NOT be taken out of this home no matter how shitty it was.

She tore through the side door, screen door banging behind her. The door wasn’t locked (didn’t even properly lock anyway) and she charged right into the kitchen-slash-dining room. “Hi, I’m home from school with Ms. Pentri!”

So there she was, standing in the doorway with her brand new case worker sedately following her up the muddy ditches that served for a driveway. Before her was her exact worst nightmare. Katie, her foster mother, sat at the table with Jackson, her dealer. On the table before them was a neatly cut line.

Goddamn it, was Roxy the ONLY one trying to keep her in this stupid house?

[kai-chan94]

Paper Knives Refresher

Character List: Ruth = Beta Roxy Roxy = Alpha Roxy

Rosa = Alpha Rose Rose = Beta Rose

Dirk = Alpha Dirk Derek (Bro) = Beta Dirk

Dave = Beta Dave Dane = Alpha Dave

Birth Order: Ruth Rosa and Derek Dane Roxy and Dirk Rose and Dave

[kai-chan94]

Paper Knives, in MY 2022?

Apparently, yeah.

Q: Haven't you already tried to rewrite it and failed? A: You bet your ass I have, but this story haunts me and I am coming to terms with the fact that to be done with it is to write it.

Q: What's the story gonna be like? A: Loosely related on what was published before. Hopefully written and structured better. But what you get is what you get.

Q: Why should I care? A: Fuck if I know, pal.

Q: What about Homestuck 2 or whatever the fuck was released after Homestuck ended? A: Fuck if I know, pal. I know that Roxy has undergone some gender stuff (me too, pal), but Paper Knives Roxy goes by she/her at this current point in time.

Q: Who are you? A: Loaded question, but not the same person as past Void. Void is still a good name for me. Pronouns are they/them or if you're a fan of neopronouns void is good there too. If you refer to me using she/her I will curse you.

Anyway, upload schedule is three times a week, 500 words or so each week here on tumblr dot com. After I get a chapter's worth, I'll package it up and ship it to AO3. First post will probably go up tonight.

[kai-chan94]

Preorders are open!

The moment has arrived! Preorders for Beyond Boundaries, our NSFW TodoDeku Fantasy zine, are open now through July 10th! Individual bundles are in this thread! If you love BNHA and our boys, check it out! We have all sorts of wonderful items, including a TDDK-themed ita bag!

SHOP HERE

[kai-chan94]

Why can’t my local library be literally magic ;_;

[kai-chan94]

Oh my god I love how you draw wings!! Can you give a mini tutorial? I’m trying to draw my own Skywing elf OC but I just s u c k at drawing wings quq

aa ofc!! im not great at explaining things but i really do love drawing wings so i’ll do my best!! (this is long as fuuuck so it’s going under a readmore)

Keep reading

[kai-chan94]

Our current landlady is the very image of one of those landlords who’d be spared the guillotine.

She’s an older, polite, maternal (white, middle class) woman who just happened to have enough money to buy a spare house, and is renting it to top up her pension. She reads The Guardian and asks after my family and does the occasional repair when necessary. She’s not one of those evil landlords.

She also just repeatedly lied to our faces about our contracts to try to get us to forfeit most of the rights we have as tenants. She also visits frequently, criticising how we live and reminding us that our home belongs to her. She also condescendingly and unnecessarily explains to us how boilers and washing machines and carpets work.

She explains to us how renting works.

She explains it with an indulgent smile, like a grandmother talking to a child, as if she’s being terribly patient about correcting our misunderstandings.

And she lies.

She lies because as much as she wants to convince us, everyone else, and even herself that she’s a good person, our entire relationship is based on the power she holds over us. She uses her wealth and position in society to extort payment from us, who have nowhere to live. We sacrifice to her the majority of the income we spend our lives earning, just so we can have a roof over our heads. But any time we don’t show proper deference to her, she could have us out on the street in weeks or months. We’d lose our home, because to her it is merely an asset which in no way belongs to us, the people who live there.

Today she repeatedly lied to us about our contract, and about the law, because she wanted us to have the minimum legal power possible. If I didn’t organise with a local tenants’ union, I wouldn’t have known my rights. And if I didn’t have the security of being a member of that union behind me, I never would have had the guts to challenge her. My housemate had no idea she was lying, and would have trusted her, signing away what few rights we had under the law.

As part of this tenants’ union, I’m always fighting with the worst landlords - the ones who keep people living in squalor, the ones with a dozen properties, the ones who are violent and abusive. But today has reminded me that even the “nice” landlords are still scum.

A genuinely good person who has enough spare money to buy a spare house (which is a lot of money! they wouldn’t need more!) would just let people who need a home live there, not bleed them of their income for the privilege of a warm place to sleep.

Never trust a landlord.

But more importantly, join a tenants’ union, and take back the power they hold over you. It was one of the most empowering things I’ve ever done.

In London, I recommend London Renters Union.

In Scotland: Living Rent.

In the rest of the UK: ACORN.

+ there are tenants’ unions all over the world, and housing co-ops where everyone who lives there part-owns their home and there’s no landlord to answer to

[kai-chan94]

my OC Rel they r everything to me