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this might be a very controversial thing to say but it annoys me so bad when i hear people complain about ai using water when they don't do any actual research into things that also use it
the meat industry uses 200 times more water than the ai industry. Like i understand that veganism and vegetarianism isn't accessible to everyone but for the majority it absolutely is. Yes, boycott ai, but also actually take a second to think about the things that do even worse
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
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You escaped your backwoods church town years ago, trying to forget. But something’s calling you back. The woods are thicker than before. Hotter. Alive. And she’s there—Cassandra, who kissed you in the baptismal river when you were sixteen. She's older now, more alluring. Your reunion isn't sweet. You’re both different now, so you re-learn each other.
°⡴3,812 words, smut/explicit sexual content (18+), monster: half-plant hybrid x blackfem!reader, mentions of past abuse (not detailed), fingering, oral (you're receiving), against the tree-> missonary-> doggy-> upwards prone (idkw to call the position), overstimulation, degradation (if you squint), aftercare->domestic resolution, petnames/name-calling (e.g., sweetheart, sugar, and baby), dubcon, mentions or murder (she doesn't play about you), etc.⡴°
You swore you’d never come back.
Not to this heat.
Not to this town.
Not to her.
But the air is the same—it's a thick, wet weight that carries the scent of iron, crushed honeysuckle, and something spoiled deep in the soil. The forest feels like it’s rotting at a simmer, sweet and heavy, just waiting to swallow you.
You don’t see her at first. You just feel the wind change direction, turning hot against the back of your neck. Then, the cicadas go dead silent.
“Look what the Lord dragged home.”
Her voice hits you hard. You turn too fast, your boots slipping slightly in the humid dirt.
There she is. Cassandra. She’s standing barefoot in a tangle of weeds and creeping vines, her dress clinging to her damp skin as if the fabric were part of her anatomy. Her hair is longer, a dark, wild curtain of tight coils, and her skin has deepened to a rich, earthy tone. But it’s her eyes that stop your heart. They’re wrong. They don't blink in time with yours, and they catch the dim forest light in a way that looks more like a reflection on deep water than a human stare.
“Cassandra,” you say. The name feels like a stone in your throat.
She walks toward you with a slow, predatory grace, her toes digging into the cursed dirt. She looks like she owns every inch of this patch of woods and every lungful of air you’re struggling to take in.
“You were supposed to be gone,” she murmurs. She stops inches from you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off her. Her fingers trail down your arm—her touch is hot, almost feverish. "Far away. Safe.”
You tense, and her eyes sharpen. She notices.
“So why’d you come back, baby?”
You want to lie. You want to tell her it was just for the funeral, a quick stop, a momentary lapse in judgment. You open your mouth, but the humid air fills your lungs and nothing comes out.
She leans in, her nose brushing yours. You can feel her breath, smelling of cedar smoke and sugar, ghosting over your lips. It’s an unnatural scent, like something blooming way too late in the season. You know you should move, but your boots feel rooted to the ground.
“Still such a bad liar,” she whispers. “Still runnin’ from the same thing.” She tilts her head, her gaze dropping to your mouth. “Thought about me in your dreams, didn’t you?”
“I don’t dream about you,” you snap, the words coming out jagged.
Cassandra laughs, a low, dangerous sound that vibrates in your chest. Her fingers trail lower, past your hip, her nails barely grazing the waistband of your jeans.
“You think I need dreams to find you?” she hums. “You left, but you never let me out, did you?”
The heat of her hand makes your skin feel like it's blistered. “Back off,” you grit out.
“Oh, baby.” She leans in again, her voice dropping to a crawl. “I could break you in half with a whisper.”
You shove her. You put both hands on her shoulders and push with everything you have. She lets you do it, stumbling back just enough to let out another purr of a laugh.
“There it is,” she says, her eyes flashing. “Still got some fight in you.”
Before you can draw another breath, her hands are on your hips. They feel like iron. She drives you back, forcing you into the shadows of the trees. Your heels catch on moss-slick roots and sink into the heat-soaked mud, but she doesn't stop until your spine hits the rough, jagged bark of an old oak.
She pins you there, her thigh sliding between your legs and pressing hard against your center. The friction is immediate and white-hot.
"You shouldn’t be here," you breathe, but the protest is weak. Her thigh shifts, grinding upward, and a shudder wracks your entire body.
“And yet,” she whispers, her hand sliding up under your shirt. Her palm is burning against your stomach, her skin feeling polished and strange. “Here you are.”
She presses you tighter against the bark, her mouth moving to your ear. “You left me starvin’, sugar. Now I’m gonna eat.”
"No," you say, the word catching. "That's not what I came here for."
She chuckles, a dark, wet sound. "Right... you just came to these parts of the forest for the greenery, not me..." she drags the words out, a wide, unbelieving smile showing her teeth.
You try one last shove, a desperate push against her chest, but she’s as solid as the tree behind you.
“You’re still a parasite,” you say, trying to find that cold, distant voice you spent years perfecting. “Still clinging to things that don’t want you.”
Cassandra goes still.
The smile slips. For a fraction of a second, you see the monster underneath the girl you used to love—something ancient and hungry peering through the cracks of her pretty face.
She leans in close, her eyes dragging over your features with a heavy, possessive hunger, as if she’s counting every lash just to remind herself she owns them. Her breath is hot against your cheek as she speaks.
“I carried your dead weight outta that trailer myself,” she whispers, her voice scraping like a blade against a whetstone. “Don’t talk to me about want, girl ”
The air leaves your lungs in a rush. Her fingers dig into your sides, bruising and possessive, finding the softest parts of you with a terrifying familiarity. You stop fighting. The memory of the trailer, the screaming, the copper-slick heat of the blood on her hands—it pins you more effectively than her weight ever could.
Her eyes move slow and heavy over your face, hooded with a dark, honey-thick satisfaction that makes your skin crawl and heat up all at once.
“You really think I’d go and forget a mess like that, sugar?” she breathes against your skin, her voice a low, melodic rasp. “How you were wailin’ and bleedin’ all down my front? Bless your heart, baby... I saved you. You became mine the second you stopped breathin’ and started beggin’ me for the air.”
Your lip trembles. You blink fast, trying to keep the tears back. “Fuck you,” you whisper, but it has no bite. You’re shaking.Cassandra kisses you then.
It’s rough and claiming, a collision of years of rage and twisted grief. Her teeth catch your bottom lip, drawing a sharp sting of pain that tastes like copper. Her tongue forces its way in, tasting you with an aggressive hunger that says she’s earned every bit of this. You moan into her mouth, your hands coming up to grip her hair because your knees are finally giving out.
She pulls back just an inch, her lips wet and dark, stained the color of crushed mulberries. She studies the frantic flutter of your pulse against the vines, her eyes dark with a sort of maternal hunger. A slow, lazy smile spreads across her face as she watches a single bead of sweat roll down your collarbone.“That’s more like it. I let you go wanderin’ last time 'cause I had it in my head that’s what you needed... but look at you, all starved and shakin'. I ought to have brought you back home to me a long time ago.”
You’re panting, the humidity making every breath a struggle. Her hand slides down, smooth and hard, and you hear the sharp pop of your button. She unzips your jeans and slips her hand beneath the denim and the cotton, her palm hot and smooth against your skin.
You jolt, your hips bucking. “W-wait—”
Her hand claps over your mouth, the scent of damp earth and pine needles muffling your gasp. She doesn't stop. She works two sap-coated fingers inside you—slow, deep, and agonizingly filthy. Her palm grinds against your clit with a rhythmic, punishing pressure.
You cry out into her hand, your eyes wide and searching as your hips jerk against her, desperate to find the rhythm she’s dictating.
“Hush now, sugar,” she croons, pressing her forehead to yours so you got no choice but to drown in those dark, darling eyes of hers. “Be still, baby. Let me worship what I prayed for.”
Something shifts on the ground behind her.
You gasp as thin, pale green vines rise from the forest floor. They’re slick with dew and move with a life of their own, curling around your ankles and sliding up your thighs. They feel cool and firm, brushing against your skin until one delicate, leaf-tipped tendril curls beneath your bra and tugs sharply at your nipple.
You whimper into her palm. Another vine slithers higher, coiling around your breast and squeezing just enough to make you arch your back off the tree and into her hand. Cassandra watches your face go slack, her fingers working harder, curling upward to hit that spot that makes your whole body go numb.
“Look at you,” she breathes, her voice thick with something unholy. “Still so easy for me. Still mine.”
The tears are falling now, hot and silent. Her hand moves faster, the friction of her palm and the intrusive touch of the vines pushing you toward the edge. You grind back against her, your soaked center clenching around her fingers. You feel it then—the press of something thick and heavy between her legs. It’s not inside you yet, but it’s there, hot and pulsing against your thigh. You sob into her hand, your body tightening, vibrating at the same frequency as the humming forest.
She presses her mouth to your ear, her voice a low, vibrating scripture. “S'okay, sugar. Go ahead... cum all over my fingers.” With a jagged cry that is swallowed by her hand, you come undone. You writhe against the bark, your muscles clenching and trembling in waves as her vines hold you tight and her fingers claim everything you tried to keep for yourself.
You’re still crying when she pulls her fingers out—slick, shaking, and dripping with the heavy evidence of the orgasm she just forced out of you. A string of your own heat stretches from your center to her knuckles before snapping. She lets her hand drop from your mouth, but you don’t speak. You can’t.Your lips are swollen from her teeth. Your thighs are shaking so hard you can barely keep your footing. The rough bark of the oak is digging into your spine, but you only feel it as a distant, dull pressure through the thick fog behind your eyes.
Then she whispers, “Do you remember what he said to you that night?”
Your heart clenches, a sharp, cold jab in your chest. You shake your head, even though the memory is burned into your brain. You remember the door. The way the trailer smelled like stale beer. The slur he spit in your face right before he raised his hand to finish what he’d started.
“He said nobody would ever want you,” Cassandra breathes. She leans in, hooking a finger under your chin to force your eyes to hers. “Said you were dirty. Shameful.”
Your breath hitches, a broken sound in the quiet of the woods.Her forehead presses to yours, her skin fever-hot. “I killed him for that.”
Your eyes snap wide, searching her wrong, shining gaze. “W-what—?”
“I dragged him out into these woods,” she whispers, her voice a low, smooth sound that feels like it’s risin’ up from the very root-rot of the soil.
“I dragged him out into these woods,” she whispers, her voice a low vibration that feels like it’s coming from the ground itself. “Made the vines split his ribs open so he’d choke on the truth.”
There’s a terrifying, soft-edged pride in her gaze, a sensual satisfaction as she watches the realization settle into your bones. She leans in until her nose brushes yours, her breath smelling of crushed pine and ancient, damp earth.
“I took him way out past the creek,” she murmurs, her lips curling into a slow ghost of a smile. “I let those vines split his ribs wide open like a ripe melon—just so I could hear him finally choke on the truth.”
You sob, the sound raw and ugly, and she kisses you again. It’s a deep, possessive swallow of a kiss that tastes like salt and cedar.
Then, she shifts. She lets her own need press into you before you can even process what she just confessed. You feel it—hot, thick, and obscene—heavy between her legs. It isn't human. It’s a dark, living thing grown specifically for you. It’s slick with a clear, viscous sap and covered in firm, tiny bristles that run over each other like a stalk. It pulses with a hunger that matches the humming of the trees.
It slides up your soaked folds, teasing the sensitive skin, pulsing against your clit.
“You gon' tell me to stop again, baby?”
You whimper, your head falling back against the rough bark of the tree. She tilts her head, her gaze crawling over you with a slow, heavy heat that feels more like a touch than a look. Her eyes aren't just watching you; they’re devouring you, tracing the pulse in your throat and the way your skin breaks out where the bark scrapes.
The vines tighten with a wet, rhythmic creak, winding like emerald snakes around your waist, your thighs, and your chest—pinning you open and shivering for her appraisal. She leans in close enough for you to smell the cloyingly sweet scent of crushed jasmine and damp earth on her skin.
“Are you really gonna keep on lyin’ to me, or are you finally ready to let me fill you up the way you're meant to be?”
The words are barely a breath. “Please.”
She grins, showing her teeth. Then she pushes in.
Inch by inch, she forces that monstrous length into you. It’s too much. Too soon. Your body seizes around her, your internal muscles choking on the stretch as she expands you. Your hands scramble against the bark, fingers digging into the moss. Your breath leaves you in a sharp, pained punch.
“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” she coos, her hips beginning a slow, deep grind that makes the wet sounds of your joining echo through the clearing. Her gaze never leaving yours as she tracks every little twitch of your mouth. “Can’t take it?”
You moan, a broken, high-pitched sound. She reaches up and grabs your throat—not tight enough to stop your air, just enough to remind you that you belong to her. You sob as she pushes even deeper, the ridged texture of her internal stalk scraping against your walls.
You feel her everywhere. She’s thick, slick, and writhing like she’s alive inside you, splitting you open in ways no man ever could. Your lower stomach feels tight, a heavy pressure building as she hits your cervix. You cry out, your legs spasming against the vines that are the only things keeping you upright.
Cassandra watches you fall apart. “That’s it, cry for me. Let me ruin what’s left.”
She starts moving—rolling her hips in wide, brutal circles, grinding that length deeper and dragging your body up the bark with every thrust. You can barely breathe. You’re choking on whimpers and broken pleas. You arch and scream when a vine flicks your nipple again, and she moans like the sound of your agony is what she’s been starving for.
"Look at you. Stuffed full and still needin’ more.”
She fucks you harder, the pace turning dizzying and brutal. Her body pins you full-length to the tree, your sweat mixing with her sap. Her lips are at your ear, whispering that filthy scripture.
“You’re the altar, baby. Now you just be still and let me worship—I’m gonna go on and spill myself right inside you.”
You’re close again—too close. Your body spasms, clenching around her like a vice as she thrusts faster. Your eyes roll back into your head. And when you cum—sobbing, your voice going hoarse—she grinds in to the hilt. She moans against your neck as she finishes, too. You feel the heat of her flood inside you, a thick, hot rush that coats your insides. Her hips jerk as she empties herself, still moving, still trying to push deeper into your soul.
She holds you there, gasping and ruined, and kisses your wet cheek.
“There now,” she murmurs, her voice soft and wicked. “That’s what you came back for.”
You’re panting, the air humid and heavy. The second orgasm hasn’t even finished tearing through you when Cassandra lets your legs drop. Your knees give out, and you crumple into the dirt like something hollowed out.
Your cheek hits the cool moss. Your thighs twitch, coated in a mess of your release and her pale, shimmering sap. You try to breathe, but everything tastes like smoke and her. You’re crying again, not from pain, but because she’s just too much.
But she isn’t done.
She kneels beside you in the mud, cooing like she’s soothing a child. You don’t trust the sweetness. Not when she’s still hard, still slick, and pressing that weight against your opening like it belongs there.
“There, there, now” she purrs, her fingers lingering as she brushes a damp curl from your forehead. “You were made for this. Built to take it, baby.”
You whimper and push at her chest—a weak, shaking effort. Her eyes spark with that dark, predatory light, her gaze feasting on the way your hands tremble against her. You shove her harder, and her grin spreads, slow and jagged, until it’s truly terrifying.
“Oh, you wanna play with me, sugar?” she hums, her voice a low, melodic drawl that vibrates right through your ribs. “Well, you go on ahead then. But you better say please first.”
“No,” you croak, your voice a wreck. “Go to hell.”
She laughs, a full, pleased sound, and raises a hand.
Vines snap around your wrists like snakes. They yank your arms behind your back, binding them tight and stretching your spine as she pushes you face-down into the dirt. She rolls you back over, kneeling between your legs, and thrusts in again without warning.
You scream, the sound lost in the canopy. Cassandra moans deep in her throat, shoving deeper, grinding her hips until the slap of skin on skin is the only thing you can hear. She leans over you, pinning your knees to your chest so you’re completely open.
“The body is a temple,” she hisses, her thrusts turning long and brutal, the vines around your wrists tightening with every movement. “Let me take care of it.”
Your legs kick weakly. "Oh my—ahh—Cass, that's too mu—mghn." You’re overwhelmed, drowning in the sensation, and yet you find yourself arching into her, your body betraying your words.
After a while, she grabs your waist and flips you onto your stomach. She pushes back in from behind, her hips slamming into your ass. One hand stays on your back to keep you down while the other tugs your hair until your neck arches back.
“Look at you. Cryin’ and still clenchin’ like you’re scared to let it go. You’re a filthy little thing, sweetheart. Just perfect.”
She drives in harder. Her length curves deep, dragging moans out of you that sound like confessions.
And then—you reach back.
Your bound wrists are trembling, but your fingers stretch toward her. You need to touch her. She gasps—a high, sweet, surprised sound.
“Oh, baby... I know. This gettin’ to be a bit much for a delicate thing like you.”
Her vines vanish, retreating into the shadows of the ferns. But her smaller tendrils are still there, running over your skin, squeezing your waist, flicking your heat. Your arms drop limp. She grabs your hands, lacing her fingers with yours, and pulls you upright. You’re both on your knees now, your back flush to her chest, her length buried deep inside you.
Your body bounces on hers with every grind of her hips. Her arms wrap around you tight—one across your chest, the other still laced through your fingers.
You can’t stop moaning. Her internal bud grinds up into your g-spot, stretching you so wide you can feel the outline of her in your belly.
“I loved you,” she whispers against your neck, her voice thick with emotion. “Loved you when you were broken. Loved you through every sin. And now?”
She kisses your temple, her lips soft and lingering.
She pounds up into you, dragging you down onto her over and over. You sob, grinding back against her, your fingers clutching hers as if they’re the only thing keeping you from disappearing into the forest.
And as you fall apart one last time—crying, shaking, screaming her name into the trees—she wraps herself around you like she was grown specifically to carry your ruin.
“You aren’t forsaken,” she moans into your hair, her voice a low, honeyed rasp. “You’re just mine now. Okay?”
With one final, brutal thrust, you break. The forest goes still, leaving only the sound of your shared, ragged breathing in the dark.
.⡴°
The forest floor is quiet now, the only sound the distant, wet drip of condensation from the canopy. You’re trembling in her lap, soaked in a mess of sap and sweat, feeling completely broken open. Cassandra is curled around you, her body a shield that feels both divine and terribly wrong.
Her arms don't move. She holds you with a desperate, crushing strength, as if the moment she loosens her grip, you’ll dissolve into the humid air. She’s tethering you to the earth, anchoring your soul to this patch of cursed dirt so she never has to lose you again.
For a long time, neither of you speaks. There is only the shifting wind through the heavy leaves and the soft, repetitive ghost of her lips pressing against your temple.
Eventually, you find your voice. It’s a wrecked, thin thing. “…Thank you.”
Cassandra’s entire body goes still behind you. The humming in the trees seems to skip a beat.
“For what?” her voice is low, guarded.
You swallow hard, the iron-and-honeysuckle air thick in your throat. “For that night,” you say, the memory rising up like a bruise. “When I—I didn’t think anybody would ever look at me and not see… filth.”
Her arms tighten around your waist, her fingers digging slightly into your skin. You feel her heart thudding against your spine, steady and heavy as a drum.
Your voice breaks, but you force the words out. “I couldn’t even look in a mirror. Not after what they said. Not after what that preacher did. Told me if I didn’t repent, I’d be punished. Burned. Said I was cursed just for wanting what I wanted.”
You feel her breath go shallow against the nape of your neck, a dangerous heat radiating from her.
“They dragged me to that altar,” you whisper, the phantom smell of anointing oil clogging your nose. “Held me down until my joints ached. Poured that oil over me until I was blind with it. Told me to scream His name until the devil let go.” Your shoulders shake with a sob you’ve been holding for years. “I wanted to die. I prayed for it.”
You feel her shaking now, too—not with grief, but with a vibrating, monstrous rage. But she stays silent, letting you bleed out the words.
Slowly, painfully, you turn in her arms. Your muscles are sore, your skin tender from the bark and her touch, but you need to see her.
When you look at her, her eyes are a dark, glowing red. It isn't the red of crying; it’s the color of old embers, something ancient and righteous.
“You didn’t let me die,” you say, searching that terrifying, beautiful face.
“I should’ve killed them all,” she says, the words sounding like a vow. “Every last one who laid a hand on you.”
You offer her a smile—raw, ruined, and tired. “You did enough, Cass.”
She leans in, pressing her forehead to yours. Her soft, large and fever-hot, cups the back of your neck, her thumb stroking the sensitive skin there.
“You’re not dirty,” she says, her voice echoing in the hollow of your chest. “You’re pure. Worthy.”
Your breath stutters. You’ve spent a lifetime hearing the opposite.
“To them, maybe I was a demon. Maybe I still am,” she says, and she kisses your cheek, a touch as soft and reverent as a prayer. “But you... you were a sacrifice. You bled for your want, sugar. And that ain’t sin. That’s scripture.”
The weight of it hits you all at once. You start crying again, but this time the jagged edges of the pain are gone. You fall forward, burying your face in the heat of her chest, letting the salt of your tears soak into her skin.
She rocks you back and forth, a slow, steady motion that matches the swaying of the trees. Her vines rise up again, brushing over your skin with a new tenderness. They don't tease or pull; they simply hold. One delicate tendril curls around your ankle, soft as moss, anchoring you to her.
“Stay with me,” she murmurs into your hair.
You nod against the pulse in her throat, your eyes closing. “You saved me, Cass.”
She tilts your chin up, forcing you to look into those glowing, unnatural eyes one last time.
“No,” she says, her voice thick with a dark, possessive pride. “You called me. Every time you cried after you left—every time you felt that hunger—I heard it.”
She presses her palm flat against your chest, right over your hammering heart. “And now you’re home.”
-.⡴°
The cabin doesn’t have windows. Not real ones. Just jagged cracks in the rotted cypress wood where the sun tries to peek through—only to get swallowed whole by the thick, grey maw of the fog.
You’re wrapped in a heavy quilt that smells of damp pine and a floral scent that’s gone off—like lilies left too long in stagnant water, blooming too late and far too red. You’re still throbbing between your legs, a deep ache that pulse-points every time you move. You’re still wet still twitching from the way she hollowed you out an hour ago.
Cass hums in the kitchen—if you can even call it that. It’s a graveyard of iron and porcelain, a battered stove that breathes soot, a crooked sink, and chipped dishes.
You sit on the warped floorboards, back pressed against the peeling wallpaper.
She looks back and smiles. It’s a sharp, knowing thing.
“Don’t fall asleep on me now, baby. You gotta eat.”
Your stomach flips at the sound of her voice. It’s too sweet, too thick.
She brings you a bowl. It’s heavy, chipped, and steaming. It smells of wild rabbit, iron, and rosemary. She kneels in front of you, the hem of her stained dress brushing your bare knees. She blows on the spoon before feeding it to you herself.
“There we go,” she coos, her eyes tracking the way your throat swallows. “Gotta keep your strength up, sugar. You’re gonna need it later. I ain't near done with you.”
You let the warmth settle in your gut, a small, dazed smile touching your lips before you look back down at the steam.
“…You cook now?” you murmur, your voice sounding thin and alien in the quiet.
She laughs, a low, melodic rasp. “I do everything now."
You believe her. You have to.
She strokes your cheek while you eat, her fingers lingering.
“You feel it, don’t you?” she whispers, hooking a finger under your chin to tilt your face up. “That ache in your bones? That hollowed-out peace?”
You nod—slow, hypnotic.
“I feel like I don’t need to run anymore."
Her eyes flash, a possessive gold sparked by the dim light. “That’s right. You don’t."
She leans forward, pressing her cooling lips to the pulse point in your throat—not biting, not yet. Just a slow, wet claiming that makes your breath hitch.
“Ain’t no preacher, no town, no bloodline gonna touch you again. I’ll tear the throat out of anything that tries to take back what I’ve grown.”
You don’t ask what happens to the bodies of those who try. You just eat the food she made from the earth. You let her kiss the scars that the town gave you, and you let her create new marks.
When she beckons, you move to the lopsided bed in the corner, feeling limp and warm and finally grounded. And when the green, thorned vines begin to creep over the edge of the mattress, curling around your ankles, you don’t flinch.
You open your legs for her.
You close your eyes.
And for the first time in years, you sleep without the suffocating need to be forgiven. Because you were never a sinner for wanting to be consumed.
seeing discourse about veganism and vegetarianism genuinely feels like im on a prank show.
what do you mean you can love animals while paying for them to be stripped of their individuality, tortured, used, and murdered? (research things like piglet thumping, what happens to male chicks, the cages cafos keep animals in, the average ages of animals at slaughter)
what do you mean a can of beans is more expensive than beef? (you can buy a can of chickpeas for less than a dollar. you can get frozen edamame for $2-3, same with tofu. if you have access to grocery stores, frozen edamame can last 6-12 months and its tasty, canned foods can last years. pair beans and rice and you have a complete protein that can last a long time in your pantry.)
what do you mean you cant get necessary nutrients from a vegan diet? (protein comes from plants btw. vitamin b12 is produced by bacteria, not livestock. it is literally supplemented to the animals you eat. foods like tofu, seitan, quinoa, and more are complete proteins. beans, chickpeas, and leafy greens like spinach and kale are rich in iron)
what do you mean plant based diets are a white person thing? (the countries w the most vegans/vegetarians r india and mexico btw)
what do you mean plant farming is worse than animal farming? (in the us, over 60% of crops go to feeding livestock, not humans. if everyone in the world switched to a plant-based diet, we could reduce the amount of land used for crop farming by as much as 75%)
what do you mean feminism and veganism are not connected? (female farm animals are stripped of their individuality and reduced to their organs and how their suffering can benefit humans. cows and pigs are forcefully impregnated, and they have their babies taken from them. mother pigs are forced into small cages with only enough space to lay down on their sides while their piglets nurse. they can’t move, and they can’t choose to stop nursing. dairy cows have to give birth to produce milk. they are selectively bred to produce more milk than necessary to feed their young, and they are in pain when they aren’t milked enough. dairy cows arent “happy to be milked”, they are trying to relieve the intense pressure in their udders because it hurts. female chickens are locked in cramped cages, forced to sit painfully and uncomfortably on metal bars and lay eggs, often ending up with weak, brittle bones due to the lack of calcium.)
these animals are living and conscious individuals with personalities and social lives. their suffering is real and it cannot be justified. educate yourselves and the people around you.
