#jude.writing

Hello tumblr do you like autistic people and living weapons and genderfuckery and also <3 codependency

womp womp, should be studying for my engineering exam, instead y'all get child soldoer content

pov your sisters fiance cheated on her with you except you didn't know he was her fiance. also your sister was just homophobic and you're ignoring that. also you're hungover.

The dog wakes with its own blood in its mouth and its master’s lipstick still tacky on the side of its lips. Its master, however, is not here. They hold court down the hall, the dog knows, enchanting future cannon fodder with a blistering smile and a frankly irresponsible amount of alcohol and the children held in their thrall make so much noise that the dog's head becomes leaden and very solid suddenly. Perhaps it should not condemn, it’s nearly submerged beneath the influence of the alcohol itself, or had been before it had dozed off. The half bottle of forty proof had helped with the noise of earlier in the afternoon, but doesn’t help the suctioning separation it feels from the animal hide it wears. Even hungover though, the world goes smudgy and unsure around it when it opens its sticky eyes with a click like teeth meeting each other, as though it is still dreaming. When the dog dreams, because it had been dreaming before it woke even if the memories of those dreams fade as mist might when crushed into a fist, it dreams of frothing gunfire and white capped waves. It dreams of a crown of thorns digging into its hairline and when the blood drips down it’s nearly another baptism. Of flight. It dreams of fathomless, cruel eyes, of long fingers tracing the spotted skin beneath its broken nose and pulling away stained by the encounter. It dreams of an embrace so warm and tight it drives the cold from its marrow. It dreams of holding an ember and letting it burn through its palms. It wakes and it does not remember much of its dream. Nor is it anywhere near sated. The dog is nearly all stomach, a miasma of dulled hunger and brittle desire. The dog emerges from beneath its own surface with a magicked fever in its muscles, a weary ache. As if it contains oil beneath its simmering surface, popping inside of its veins. Fizzing and spatting and peeling at the dog’s seams, where it is lashed together with willpower, tightly laced. When it tries to cough, a ragged-run scratch escapes its throat instead of sounds. Its blood in its mouth goes bitter when it moves past the back of its tongue. It coughs again. Then, it closes its eyes again and the noise continues to drip in, through the thin walls and the sleeping bag it pulls over its head. The sound is not gunfire, the kind of noise that might hammer the dog into something capable even if it is not able to be anything shiny or dent free. The sound is laughter and scatters inside the cavity of its skull with ridged vibrancy, coalescing into something viscous and heavy with nothing to bounce against.

tagging: some mutuals and people, hope you don't mind <3 this is just a one time tag btw. @onomatopiya @cream-and-tea @encrucijada @macywrites @coffeeandcalligraphy @xiaofiaan

hiiiiiiiiiiiiii chandra

The Powerpoint < 3, for the part I am writing right now at least (too tired to do an image ID so this will certainly be updated in the future)