ΘΔ 🏳️⚧️, 34, she/it, white wolf bitch, I write fics and autistic posts about werewolves and Armored Core - minors dni
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you punch nazis!
(requested by anonymous)
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WHAT THE FUCK IS AN "ERMINE" AND WHY AM I GETTING ANGRY EMAILS FROM IT?
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Meet my new hrothgar kitty Ilja 🫶 All she is missing is a girlfriend
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Everything is like “QUEER history” and “List of QUEER young adult books” or “Top 10 QUEER movies” and queer this and queer that and for the love of god please just say LGBT.
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This is pretty much my experience as well. Working at a certain game company, I was promised promotions and given free reign to work how I pleased. Once I transitioned, suddenly my work was under so much scrutiny and I was demoted to the bottom of the ladder because the department "couldn't afford to keep [me] on", then told I need to stop complaining and got treated worse and worse until I quit on my own.
Fuck the games industry. Pirate whatever you want.
https://twitter.com/delaneykingrox/status/1090402436995473408
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Might do more with this, might not, mostly just wanted to get the images out of my head.
Have some werewolf scribbles.
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Only one thing y’all can take from trans women. Notes.
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Disconnect Syndrome
There’s a reason they put restrictions on how long a Pilot is supposed to be deployed out in the field. They say that being synced with a mech for long periods of time can have detrimental effects on a pilots psyche. Disconnect Syndrome is what they call it, because the symptoms don’t really start to hit until you disengage from your mech.
Sometimes emergencies happen though, and mechs are designed to be able to support their pilots long past the designated “Safe Deployment Time.” The cockpit is equipped with an array of stimulants, vitamins, and nutrient paste to help minimize the physical effects of long deployments. The onboard Integrated Mechanical Personality has largely free reign to administer these as needed to maintain its pilots well-being.
Which is why you’re still able to make it back to the hangar after roughly 36 hours, over four times longer than the established safe period. Your mech had kept you going, helped to keep the exhaustion at bay long enough for you to make your way back from behind enemy lines. You were starting to feel a bit sluggish, but you knew the worst effects of Disconnect Syndrome were yet to come.
An older man in a long white lab coat has joined the usual retinue of crew rushing into the hangar as your mech settles into its cradle. You feel the docking clamps wrap around your limbs, and you know that’s not a good sign. Your IMP whispers comfort into your brain-stem, assurances that things will be okay. It’s probably lying, it’s programmed to help keep your mental state stable, but the thought helps anyway.
There’s a hiss of air as the seal on your cockpit breaks and it decompresses. Suddenly you become aware of your flesh and meat body once again, and it hurts. Pain and exhaustion has settled into your mostly organic bones, and your organs are churning from the strain of the past 36 hours.
Then your interface cables start to disconnect, and it gets worse.
It feels like parts of your mind are being torn out of you. You feel the ghost touch of your IMP in your thoughts as the ports disconnect and you lose direct communication with it. The oxygen mask and nutrition tube pull themselves away from your face and you can’t help but let out a scream of agony. The separation has never felt this painful before, but then again, after 36 hours together, you and your IMP were more intertwined than you’ve ever been before.
Physical sensation finally starts to register again, and you realize tears are streaming down your face just as a technician jabs a needle into your neck.
Immediately your senses start to dull, the pain eases as your thoughts turn sluggish. You slump out of your pilots cradle into the arms the tech who dosed you. Just before your world goes black, you see the doctor standing over you, a grim look on his face.
--
When you wake up again, you immediately know something is wrong. You try to ping your external sensors, but you get no response. You then try to run a diagnostic, but that fails too. In a desperate, last-ditch effort, you try to force access to your external cameras and suddenly light floods your senses. Your instincts catch up first and you blink, trying to clear the pain of the lights, and that’s when you realize it’s not your external cameras that you’re seeing.
It takes a minute or two for your vision to adjust to the light, which feels too long, and when it finally does, the world doesn’t look quite right. You’ve only got access to such a limited spectrum. No infrared, no thermal. The presence of your IMP is notably absent, and your skin feels wrong. You try to sit up, and it’s a struggle to figure out the correct inputs to send to your muscles to get them to do what you want.
The harsh white light of the infirmary grates against your visual processors, you feel like you’re having to re-learn how to control this body. Your body. Technically, at least. Something doesn’t feel right about calling it that anymore. You felt more comfortable crawling back into the hangar after 36 hours deployed than you do now.
The pale skin of your body catches in your vision and you glance down at it. The body's limbs are thinner and more frail than usual, and its skin is paler. Consequences of being in the cockpit for so long, subsisting on nothing but nutrient paste. It’s a far cry from the solid metal plates of your mech, its powerful hydraulic joints, its mounted combat and communication systems.
There’s a button on the side of bed you’ve been deposited in. You think it’s red, but you’re not sure you’re processing color properly right now. You try to reach over and push it, and it takes you a moment to realize you were trying to do so with a limb you don’t currently have.
There are so many things about this body that are wrong. It’s not big enough, or strong enough, or heavy enough. You don’t have enough eyes, sensors, or processors. You have the wrong number of limbs, and they’re all the wrong size and shape.
And there is a distinct void in your mind where the presence of your IMP should be.
The door to your room opens suddenly, and you instinctively try to fire off chaff and take evasive maneuvers. None of that translates properly to your flesh and blood body though, and all that happens is you let out a dry croak from your parched throat.
The man who walks through the door is the same doctor who was present when you disengaged from your mech, and he wears the same grim look on his face as he looks you up and down. You think there’s pity in his gaze, but you can’t quite read him properly right now. The jumbled mess of your brain tells you what he’s going to say before he says it, anyway. The harshest symptoms of Disconnect Syndrome don’t hit until after the pilot has disengaged from their mech.
You’ve already heard the symptoms before, and they map perfectly onto what you’re experiencing. You never thought it would be this painful, or this… discomforting. Your mind reaches for the presence of your IMP, searching for comfort, but you are only reminded that the connection is no longer there.
The doctor gives you a rundown that he’s probably had to do dozens of times, and he tells you that you’ll be grounded for the foreseeable future. That hurts more than anything else. The knowledge that, after all this, you won’t be able to reconnect with your true body, your partner, your other half, for who knows how long.
By the time you realize you’re crying, the doctor is already gone. The longing in your chest and your mind has become unbearable, and through sheer force of will you’re able to push this unwieldy body out of bed. Walking feels wrong, but you’re able to get to your feet and make your way out of the room in an unfamiliar gait.
You have to get back to your partner, you have to make sure it’s okay.
You need to hear her voice in your head again, her reassurances.
The world isn’t right without her presence in your mind.
You stumble into the hangar almost on all fours. How you managed to make it without alerting any personnel feels like a miracle. At least until you catch the eye of a technician lounging in the corner. The look she gives you is full of sympathy, and she jerks her head in the direction of where your mech sits in its docking cradle.
She’s a majestic sight, even through your limited spectrum of vision. 20 meters tall, 6 massive limbs, and bristling with weapons and sensor arrays (all of which have been disarmed by this point).
She’s beautiful.
You clamber frantically up the chassis, easily finding handholds in a frame you know better than the back of your hand. You pull the manual release on the cockpit hatch and stumble into it in a tangle of organic limbs.
Shaking hands grasp the main interface cable from above the pilot’s chair, and you move to slot it into the port in the back of your head. You’ve never done this manually before, usually you’re locked into the chair and the system connects you automatically.
Something about doing it with your flesh and blood hands makes it feel so much more intimate.
The cable clicks into place and your eyes roll back in your head. Tears start to stream down your face as you feel the comforting presence of your IMP rush in and wrap itself around your mind. Your thoughts reach out and embrace it back, sobbing at the relief you feel from being whole once again. You realize you don’t ever want to feel the pain of disconnecting from her again.
There’s a reason they put restrictions on how long a Pilot is supposed to be deployed.
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Shinobu Oshino-style name except all the epithets are humiliating.
Breaks-Her-Nose Valerian-Ringout Hold-That-Thought, the most formidable girlfailure in the Midwest.
#She still has incredible power#She's just really bad at using it#or doing anything#She tries her best#No one can get mad at her because she's like a three-legged puppy#bakemonogatari#oshino shinobu
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passages that make you whisper "oh my god"
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Coral Release is a very good concept because it completely alters the way you view a lot of characters after finding out that they are aware of it.
Professor Nagai, the guy in lore who caused the Fires of Ibis, didn't do it because of the horrible creations Coral techonology would bring.
Walter, Carla and Overseer weren't committing a genocide just to stop the corporations from using the coral.
And Dolmayan, the hero of the RLF, didn't create the group just to free Rubicon from the corporations.
All of these characters were horrified by the existential threat of Coral release. That if a large enough amount of Coral was put into the vacuum of space, it would quickly consume the entire universe.
The amount of knowledge really matters here. Professor Nagai and Overseer were scared of it because they likely believed this would destroy all intelligent life, all dissolved in an ocean of unthinking coral. Simple thing to be afraid of.
But Dolmayan? Dolmayan knew that was not the case. He had made contact, and he knew what coral release was all about. He wasn't afraid of death, he was afraid of crossing the threshold. He terribly feared this possible new state of existance, this ascension, this unknown. You could call him a coward, but could you honestly say that, being placed in his shoes, you wouldn't also be scared?
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I've slowly been chipping away at drawing scenes from that imaginary Muppet retelling of the Princess Bride, figured it was about time to share what I've drawn on Tumblr!
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My friend Sarah has the wisdom to no longer use this website (may we all strive to emulate her), but xe told me I could post his latest banger quote here:
Starting all of my books with a disclaimer that says if you stole the book from somewhere, good for you, please distribute copies to all your loved ones. But if you bought it from amazon please know that it was an illegitimate sale and for this crime a curse shall befall 3 generations of your family, and if you (or the next in line) do not have children, the curse defaults to the person or people you care about most. The only way to lift the curse is to pirate the book even though you've already paid for it
A bunch of the shit Sarah idly says is simply too good not to share. Keeping it to myself would be an act of violence against joy.
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them: are u even listening to me?
me in my fuckingm mind palace:
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