"and my skin is pulling away nicely, like blanched tomatoes"
to whomever wrote that line: you are vile
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Witch’s blood is the rarest and most powerful blood a Vampire can ever hope to feast upon…
HAPPY SPOOKY SEASON EVERYONE IT IS TIME!!
I can’t quite organize my thoughts for this but here’s an attempt. Basically, Vampires and Witches do not mingle. They don’t hate each other but don’t have any interest in being closer alliances. Like oil and vinegar, go well together but don’t mix. Plus, they have a certain level of respect for each other. Both aren’t generally jazzed about humans though.
Legend has it that Witch’s blood increases a Vampire’s abilities nearly seven fold. But because the two are so equally matched due to their varying skill sets and powers, the Vampires decide it doesn’t really make sense to start a war with the Witches by trying to attack them. So it’s within etiquette to never attempt.
However, in a rare, once in an eon instance, Raven and Damian fall in love, creating a unique bond that results in a symbiotic relationship. Damian does benefit from feeding off her blood, while in turn Raven is able to tap into some of that immortality which provides her with a naturally extended lifespan and healing abilities.
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There’s a difference between familiar and used to.
The feeling of being so tired after doing nothing like an ache in his bones is familiar. He’s felt it before. He knows what it is. He knows what it means. He knows that he’s going to have to work harder to get out of bed today. That objectively knowing the world is always getting better isn’t going to make him feel better. He knows that there will be lead in his feet all day. And weights on his smile. And a void in his heart. He knows that. It’s familiar.
Familiar doesn’t mean used to.
He thinks if he were used to this, he’d be able to power through it better. He thinks if he just had more self-control. More will power. More desire. He’d be able to talk himself out of his own downward spiral like he might be able to talk himself out of a 1000 meter free fall.
Except you can’t talk your way out of a 1000 meter free fall. Not any more than you can talk yourself out of the familiar ache of Everything is Too Much. He knows the only way out is through. To hit the ground, get patched up at A&E, and spend a while healing. He knows he needs to rest. He knows he needs to eat. He knows he needs to go out into the sun.
He also knows that he has papers to grade. And parents who want to yell at him because the best he can manage isn’t good enough. He knows that the school year isn’t over for another three months and testing season is just around the corner and so things are about to get worse.
He knows that.
He knows that, and it cancels out all the other things he knows.
And he stays in bed on a Sunday. Heavy like lead. Strapped down like his blankets are steel bars. He can’t move. It’s too much. Everything is Too Much.
He takes a deep breath and reminds himself that that’s okay.
You can’t embrace life without embracing all of life.
Sometimes life is depression. Sometimes life is overwhelm. Sometimes life is memories of drowning slotted between the feeling you get when there’s more work to do than you can manage and you think you should manage it anyway.
Sometimes that’s what life is. You have to take the good with the bad.
He twitches aside the curtain by his bed. Lets a sliver of sunlight fall across the back of his hand. It’s enough for now. Later he might able to muster more. It’s enough for now.
He lets the sunlight warm the smallest part of his hand and reminds himself that every fall must end. And every testing season must pass. And every parent who has no idea what his job is like eventually moves on to harass some other poor sod and then the thing starts all over again.
And every time it starts over it gets a little better. And he holds onto that hope, strapped into his bed by blankets that feel too heavy to move, and he lets himself sleep another hour, because it’s Sunday and he deserves to rest, even if he doesn’t feel like it. Sometimes rest is what your body needs, even if your brain disagrees.
And if he dreams of a pale hand holding his, sometime in the next century, then that’s no one’s business but his own.
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I went through my dobermann and catapult tags looking for a specific piece of art but then I remembered it’s not on tumblr bc it likely would’ve gotten flagged or removed
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I wish I had a photo or could at least remember the name properly, but I encountered someone named something like "vore lover" or "vore master" during my last play session of Splatoon 1. Gotta appreciate the dedication it took back in the day.
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ND culture is searching up coping mechanisms and only finding guides for parents on how to deal with their ND children
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@poisonheartfrog reblogged my shadowbeans dynamic with a really good addition and i needed to create it
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How genuinely the fuck did matt make the nefarious hag grandma be even more horrifying than anyone could have imagined
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i'm a fan of letting my players do basically whatever they want in regards to character creation/ideas, so naturally i opened up a bunch of unplayable races to them in case they want to play those races. this also helps me with building major npcs, especially if those npcs may become additional party members/allies and therefore playable by my players.
anyway, my problem now is trying to figure out how a martial class neogi would work, because like...
no hands. this guy is only effective in combat because their enemies fall down from laughing so hard
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