Dead Account

posting this at 3 am so i can’t physically restrain myself later

this is my first time sharing writing out anywhere but my own friend group so i beg you be gentle on me. i’m only testing the waters and seeing if i’m truly comfortable sharing my stuff so this is safe and lighthearted. if this does well i will definitely look into sharing my more angsty and whumpy writing in the future.

i don’t have a summary rn so sorru check back later

contents: safe vore, male pred, m/f, m/m, multiple prey, they’re just messing around

Fearplay shit giants can say/do that'll mess me up ahaha I have no shame :(

Looming. Just tower over me. Maybe smirk, that always works too.

"You're adorable! I think I'm gonna keep you~"

Lean in super close so the only thing I'm capable of seeing is you–huuuuu that hits diff thooo

"It's cute you think you can hurt me."

Purposely being loud (like stomping, sitting heavily, talking loudly) just so that I can't stop being aware of your presence even if I wanted to

✨Tap✨your fingers✨right next✨to me✨

If I'm being a bit chaotic just silently stare. Nothing else–just eyeing me as if whatever I'm doing you could easily stop–its the confidence that's scary af.

"Why do you even bother? We both know how this'll end."

Pinning me down with one finger, bonus points if you lean in close then too

Slam✨that hand✨down next✨to me✨

Ok ok hear me out: Telling me to run, and then casually counting down until you start chasing me...the anticipation UGH

"Do struggle more...it only makes this more amusing."

If you have fangs...just um, smile. Yup that's it. Smile for the fear–camera plz.

"Was that...supposed to hurt?"

Dangling me high above the ground with my arm between your finger tips...aaaaaa

Trail your finger down my spine oof

"You're delicate...weak."

Holding me up by the back of my shirt

"You look like you'll break if I hold you wrong."

Stomp✨your foot✨right next✨to me

Thought y'all should know

You get your insides ripped open but your friend waves his hands and your flesh just pulls back together, agony and evisceration pulling back to a ‘kinda hurts’ level of pain and you’re physically whole, with the 100% expectation that you’ll get back up and keep fighting whatever it was that struck you down the first time.

You break your arm after falling somewhere and after you’re healed instead of looking for ‘another way around’ everybody just looks at you and goes “okay try again”.

You’ve been fighting for hours, you’re hungry, thirsty, bleeding, crying from exhaustion, and a hand-wave happens and only two of those things go away. you’re still hungry, you’re still weak from thirst, but the handwave means you have ‘no excuse’ to stop.

You act out aggressively maybe punch a wall or gnash your teeth or hit your head on something and it’s hand-waved because it’s ‘such a small injury you probably can’t even feel it anymore’ but the point was that you felt it at all?

Your pain literally means nothing because as long as you’re not bleeding you’re not injured, right? Here drink this potion and who cares about the emotional exhaustion of that butchered village, why are you so reserved in camp don’t you think it’s fun retelling that time you fell through a burning building and with a hand-wave you got back up again and ran out with those two kids and their dog? 

Older warriors who get a shiver around magic-users not because of the whole ‘fireball’ thing but the ‘I don’t know what a normal pain tolerance is anymore’ effect of too much healing. Permanent paralysis and loss of sensation in limbs is pretty much a given in the later years of any fighter’s life. Did I have a stroke or did the mage just heal too hard and now this side of my face doesn’t work? No i’m not dead from the dragon’s claws but I can’t even bend my torso anymore because of how the scar tissue grew out of me like a vine.

Magical healing is great and keeps casualties down.

But man.

So after years of fighting, your skin is still perfect. Unmarred. In fact, you’re actually in better shape than regular people who don’t get magical healing when they fall out of trees or walk into doors or cut themselves while cooking dinner. You’re in such good shape that it’s unnatural.

And the really good healing magic takes away more than just the obvious injuries. You first start noticing it after about ten years when you go home and haha, you look the same age as your younger sibling, that’s funny.

Not so funny ten years later when they look older. Or forty years later, when you bury them still looking like you did at twenty. When do you retire from this gig anyway? How much damage is too much damage?

How many times do you glimpse the afterlife, or worse, how many times don’t you? What do you live through, get used to, show no outward sign of except a perfectly healthy body, too perfect for any person living a real life.

How many times are you sitting in a tavern with your friends and you hear the whispers, because the people around you know. How can they not know? Your weapons shine with enchantments and your armour is better than the best money can buy and there is not a damn scar on you. You hardly seem human to them.

How long before you hardly seem human to yourself?

And you find yourself struggling to remember the places where the scars should have been, phantom pains that wake you screaming, touching all the old injuries and finding nothing there. It’s all in your head. Was it ever anywhere else?

How long before you’re fighting a lich or a vampire or some other undead monster and you wonder…

In a nutshell, “fawning” is the use of people-pleasing to diffuse conflict, feel more secure in relationships, and earn the approval of others.

It’s a maladaptive way of creating safety in our connections with others by essentially mirroring the imagined expectations and desires of other people.

Often times, it stems from traumatic experiences early on in life, as I described in last month’s article.

It resonated with so many you, and since then, I’ve gotten a lot of questions on how to recognize this type of response in ourselves, particularly in our day-to-day interactions.

I can only speak from personal experience, but there are a number of commonalities among “fawn” types that I think are worth noting.

I’m going to share seven struggles that a lot of us seem to experience as people-pleasers. If it sounds familiar, you, my friend, probably know a thing or two about fawning.

I keep seeing the guide of clothing made by pittssmitts and while I love the way Mateo breaks everything down and makes excellent points and offer sincere outfit advice, I feel like his guide doesn’t really work for plus sized guys like me (I tried most of the outfits but I’m too round for them to work on me)

So I made this complementary advice to go with his guide, this one is all based on my personal experience shopping and passing in public, I’m a very closeted trans man (for safety reasons) But I still manage to pass really well!

Most strangers use the correct pronouns without me asking them to, and this all while going binderless into this savage cold world

Also, there are so many things with SFW vore that can involve a “minor” character (familial, protection, etc) that can be safe and not sexual at all.

Immortals don’t give a shit about people. We really don’t. Sorry if that offends you in some way, but our whole lives we’re told that we are better than humans. We are more powerful, infallible, god-like. And we believe that because it’s convenient and we don’t want to give that power up. So we spend our time doing only what brings us the most pleasure. Take Zeus, for instance. I don’t really feel that I need to explain that one. Even you mortals know how much Zeus lived for himself. And so I lived my life. I punish some people. I reward others. A bunch of you I’ll never interact with, because you’re very, how do I phrase this delicately, middle of the road types of people. Not great, not bad. Just there. So I ignore you. You call me a bitch because I don’t reward you. Others call me a bitch because I punish them. Others call me a bitch because I reward someone else and they feel they’ve been treated unfairly. Almost everyone on your tiny little planet has called me a bitch at some point. Its common vernacular now. I do what the universe dictates is orderly. I maintain homeostasis for you ungrateful humans.

If you were paying any attention at all you’d have noticed that for a while, things were going unusually well. I was happy. My vengeance was lessened. You have Clementine to thank for that. A mortal, like you, but truly kind. She always defended me. I don’t know why. I had never really done anything for her, but she refused to let people call me a bitch. And I rewarded her for it. My family told me I was going soft. We’re not supposed to fall for mortals, though many of us do anyway. But I didn’t care about tradition, about what my family had to say on the matter. I fell for Clementine.

There was a large park across the road from her house. I would sit on a bench and watch her in her garden. I saw the way that her garden pleased her and so I set to work to make it perfect. Ivy sprouted up and clung to the walls of her house. Her vegetables were nutritious, bountiful, and beautiful. I bloomed flowers, I sprouted grass; I sent birds and rabbits and squirrels. I sent her bees. Gods, she loved those bees. So I sent more. I gave her a hive, and it produced the best honey. Her yard was lush and green, even through the drought. Children would stop by her gate to talk to her, and maybe she would give them a strawberry, a carrot, a taste of honey. She was loved and admired. She was talked about and envied. And every day she would putter about her garden, her faded jeans rolled to expose her ankles, stains permanent on the knees from kneeling in grass and dirt every day. Always a white tee shirt tucked into her jeans, and an unnecessarily large straw hat that sent light flickering and dancing over her skin. I would sit on that bench and she would always smile, maybe wave. One time she brought me a flower, a small rose, not fully bloomed. And I fell for her more every day after that.

And then she was gone. She was not in her garden that Tuesday. I sat on that stupid white bench, picking at the peeling paint, feeling splinters under my nails. And she wasn’t there. And I knew something was wrong. I tried to make myself cross the street, go through her door, find her. But my limbs were heavy. All I could do was sit. A group of children stood by the gate, walked away disappointed, whispering. Eventually I pushed myself off of that fucking bench. I don’t know how I got into her room, but suddenly, I was there. And there she was. Lying on the floor. Her beautiful dark hair matted to her face, the blood staining the carpet. It matched her lipstick, I thought. Her beautiful lips. No breath would ever pass through them. No kind smile, no offerings of honey or roses. I would never hear her whisper in my ear, laugh at something I said. She was gone. Dead. I found the man that killed her. It was random, he claimed. He just followed her home and killed her. It’s funny, you all called me a bitch, and I didn’t really care. But now? Bitch is too kind a word for what I am. I am grieving. When a god grieves, she does so calmly, and with incredible grace and control.

I am no god.

In both work and observing, I have learned something about kids. A lot of parents try to get their boys to go fight. Of the young ones that do, they tend to be shy. You get the ones who just swing the boffer swords around with no regard for life, but, mostly, they’re reserved. It’s adorable. I mean, they’re kids.

At which point this six-ish-year-old girl whips out her certificate from the axe throwing booth and says “Nah, I’m fine.”