#��::|| the corrupted | vampire verse

[ofspvrta]

"You're not actually... a vampire." It was said loud, but with this hesitation. Not that it should be surprising. Creatures have bred, created, and birthed weirder creatures. Kane is one. Death and the remnants of whatever magic haunts this world created him. And it's not even that her smell is this insanely good thing, it's just slightly better than a humans. Some actual dogs have better smell than her. But vampires? They smell atrocious. They have this strong scent of blood and like... decay. As it it stands, being undead is just a smelly thing. Always.

θ::|| @viridanira

It's a strange question to be asked when being interrupted from her feeding. She drops the Templar, head lifting slowly as the blood drips down her chin. Two glowing red eyes shine through in the darkness as do the red lines etched into her skin. "That's — " she wipes the blood from her mouth, staining her already ruined shirt with crimson, " — a rather odd observation." Straightening her posture, the corrupted immortal looks the other over. Not a vampire either, something else. Her eyes narrow as she sniffs the air, a faint scent of canine reaching her nose. "Werewolf. Been some time since I encountered one of your kind."

Adjusting her coat, she covers up most of the ruined shirt she wore underneath it. "You witness someone drinking blood from someone's throat and you assume they aren't a vampire? That's very confusing logic." Consider the ancient woman curious. "Especially given that you know the supernatural exists, clearly." She wants to sus her out more but she doesn't advance just yet. The last thing she needs is to fight a fucking werewolf. "Is me killing a man going to be a problem for you, wolf?"

[vxmpirehunterd]

💕 ( tik tok , the cursed king is waiting. )

Send 💕 and my muse will use The Love Calculator to see how compatible they are.

sweating profusely because a random man's malevolent aura reminds him of his own damned father!

"I swear I don't have daddy issues."

"I don't think we'd work out. Because there's too many similarities between us and I'm scared."

[sharp-teeth-and-archived]

WHAT  KIND  OF  HERB  ARE  YOU ?

* 𝐄𝐃𝐌𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐖𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓

GARLIC

You leave an impression wherever you go. Your heart is so strong, so determined, so willing to go after whatever hole you see in the world, whatever wound you need to fix next. You're there. You're justice, hot red and pure gold, fairness incarnate, a paladin in shining armor come to protect and cleanse and heal and yet sometimes you wonder if you're the most corrupt, dirty being in the world, a fraud, a monster in hero's clothing. The world is so intense and you are so small, so fragile, and no matter how hard you try you're never good enough. You want to be good. You want to be good enough. You try so hard and yet the world is so dark and angry and cruel. Perfection is always just out of reach and you want things to be okay so bad you bleed with it. You just want things to be right, to be good, to be fair, but you don't know if they ever can be. If you can ever be.

[ofspvrta]

@torntruth

[godzexperiment]

the not so fun fact that angels are meant to keep themselves in line, some specifically more so than others (aka more inclined to have to kill the out of liners) and also the whole "killing" of lucifer

about how nix knows those places of banishment used, not used and the sensations thereof. of how nix knows how to hold his own, harm his siblings rather well (especially if he's in weapon mode? all his vast love isn't there)

however nix generally would rather not separate them from their body/or kill them and doing so is typically an last resort type of situation even in weapon mode

[imperiuswrecked]

Castlevania: Nocturne thoughts that keep me awake below the cut

1. I don't know why I've seen people act like Mizrak only just met Richter and Maria in S1, like it's pretty clear from their first interaction they know him and he knows them. Tera, Maria, Mizrak, The Abbot all lived in that town for years, probably their whole lives as far as we know for Maria, The Abbot, Mizrak. While Tera and Richter lived there for years. Which means that Mizrak knew Richter and Maria when they were kids. I bet Maria used to show up just to find someone to play with at the Abby, like the Chruch was a central point of focus for community in those days. Mizrak could have been like a older brother/cousin to her when she was little, and he was younger. He could have been patiently sharpening his sword, while she made a crown of flowers and placed them on his head. He probably would try to teach her Bible verses or encourage her and Tera to attend church, but gave up after a while. Mizrak pulling little Maria out of scrapes, or taking her home when she got into trouble. Then one day she shows up with her cousin and he has double the work of keeping them out of trouble and he's like a 20 something monk knight. So now he has like 2 kids trailing around him, asking him endless questions, making fun of his serious nature, he practices in the courtyard and Richter begins to copy his moves. So he ends up teaching him how to sword fight so he can protect Maria and Tera when Mizrak isnt around. Like why was there even monk knights to begin with in a small town. The Vampires. He and his brotherhood of knights were the towns protectors, the Vampires werenr many but it was enough for people to want there to be knights, to give money to the church to house and feed and cloth them so they could focus on their work. He'll, I bet Mizrak's heart nearly exploded when he first catches the cousins taking down a Vampire in the woods he was hunting. He then sometimes teamed up with them on the occasional hunt. Mizrak has no issues just falling into the group dynamic and he even takes up the role of provider, getting them safe shelter, clean water, and hunting food. Like that is a man who took on the older cousin/brother role to Richter and Maria years ago but no one really noticed because it felt so natural, and Mizrak is a quiet guy who doesn't talk much, or show his emotions, he tries to be an example to them through his morals and character and faith.

2. Just because The Abbot, Emmanuel, is a cowardly bitch in current times doesn't mean anything. Tera literally said how she was shown kindness when she got to the town. As a speaker witch who lost her whole family, her sister, being an outcast and hunted probably, a normal nice guy would have been catnip. They probably had a love affair but the Abbot was younger too, he probably was like "we can't have a child out of wedlock, etc" like it's very The Scarlet Letter vibes: Outcast woman lives on the edge of town with a baby girl, no one knows it's the priest whose the dad, the priest suffers internally for years and tries to repent but whatever they do it's not good enough to make up for the fact that they are a coward. The Abbot's moral failing didn't start now. It started years ago when he chose his priesthood over doing the right thing for his child, and the woman he loved. Maria killing him for being a deadbeat dad is all the excuse she needs, even without Emmanuel giving up Tera to Erzsebet. It's why Tera tried to appeal to him even till the end, because she spent years still in love with the young man who was kind to her once, a long time ago, and she thought she could still reach him, not knowing his moral decay and fervent belief that he was doing God's Will had crushed that once kind man.

3. The same theme runs true for Drolta. A priestess corrupted over time, until the end goal she was working towards for so long is so far removed from where she started, but she is so deep into her centuries long belief that what she is doing is right, and it's what her Goddess wills, that no matter what path she takes, what means she uses to reach her end, it's all worth it because she is her Goddess's most faithful servent. The confusion at the end when she's confronted by Sekhmet and reality comes to rip down her entire being blindsides Drolta. It's very tragic because Drolta did start out as a healer too, she wanted to help her people, to serve her Goddess, but life is not kind, and she chooses her dark path every step of the way, leaving more and more of that once good woman behind. The road to hell is paved with good intentions is something both Drolta and The Abbot shared once. Was Drolta aware at some point she had lost her path? Did she care? Did she grieve her former self? Or did she ignore and rip out all those soft emotions because she had spent centuries trying to bring her Goddess back and to admit it was all for nothing meant her corruption was for nothing? Like it got to the point she genuinely believed that she was the only person worthy of becoming Sekhmet, but only after she was sure she would not die like all the others who tried, only after Erzsebet's use was over, and Drolta was a powerful NightCreature did she dare to take that power. Cowardly in a way that she didn't want to give up her immortal vampire life to try and be Sekhmet's vessel.

4. Olrox's time in S2 really felt like the writers didn't want to let him go, but they didn't know what to do with him, especially compared to how much his character was a force that pushes Tera, Richter, Annette, and Maria to confront the Abbot and his main character arc (other than not romancing but really romancing Mkzrak) since stepping off the ship in France has been to see what the fuck is really going on. He's too old to fall in line and worship the latest power hungry Vampire lord/lady wannabe but he needs to see what sorta threat is he up against. The instant he's off the ship, he tells them he'll be along, and goes off on recon. He knows Mizrak's name the next day and abiut the Night Creatures, which mean he probably spent that first night toying on the Abbot and the Monk Knights. He was intrigued by Mizrak and thinks to use him as his source for more information but didn't expect to fall in love with him, but does as time goes by. However you do see he still has his own thing going on, he lurks around the dungeons, he finds Edouard, he finds the book, the machine, he is playing a dangerous game with Dolta and Erzsabet. His character arc is tied to The Machine which was not destroyed in S1, and the main characters even forgot about in S2 because they are young or prehaps they think without The Abbot it can't be used, but Olrox is a very focused Vampore and he doesn't forget, he destroyed the book, but The Machine is still there and he has no means of destroying it or sending it back to Hell. Olrox being a shadow that dances around the main plot and trying to get people to focus on the real issue in S1 vs how little he does in S2 is a glaring difference, but if there is a S3, Olrox and The Machine needs be addressed otherwise it's a waste of perfectly good character and plot build up. I do hope we also see more of Olrox's history in S3 because he is such a great character. Even if we just get him talking more about his past, I'll be happy. I seriously think with how long he's lived, what a morally grey character he is, that creators could do an entire spin off show based on his past. And can we PLEASE get a name for his past lost love?

5. Erzsabet is like the perfect main villainess for the show, she is everything the revolution is fighting against. She's a noble born lady who used her power to prey on theninnocrnt while she was a human and then later continues to do so as a powerful vampire. The fact that most of the Vampires are, the Aristocracy who are the "blood sucking leeches in charge" males so much sense in terms of the setting of the show. They are draining the kices out of the oppressed working/peasant class. Erzsebet is not smart or cunning like Drolta. In fact she is quite lazy as a character, expecting everything to be done for her because she was born and raised in that life of privilege, she expects and craves worship and adoration as her due, and believes Drolta every step of the way because Drolta does know how to manage her. Erzsebet doesn't even try to control the Nughr Creatures instead waits for Drolta to come back to deal with it. This doesn't mean that Drolta groomed or tricked Erzsebet, no, Erzsebet was already this way when Drolta met her, and in fact it's because Erzsebet is a stupid, lazy, power hungry nonle woman with no care for who she hurts to satisfy her own wants, that makes her the perfect tool for Drolta's own goals. Erzsebet never sees Drolta's betrayal coming because she truly believes herself to be worthy of being Sekhmet. It's why she breaks in the final battle because she can't comprehend the fact that she is just another rich woman who doesn't get what she wants, and reality smacks her down and shows her that all that power and strength means nothing. Honestly??? It's really refreshing to have a villain character who doesn't know everything, I think I'm so used to villains always having a plan, always know what the heroes will do next or being smart enough to counteract them, and especially villainess's have to be twice and smart etc to prove what a threat they are, but Erzsebet is like "I should have everything I want because I deserve it, but I will let my servants do all the work because what do you mean I have to work to achieve my goals? It's enough that I've proven myself by not dying." Like zero awareness, just a beautiful dumb villainess who thinks 'might makes right". It really is refreshing to have someone like Erzsebet because she is still a major threat.

6. Annette really carried all of S2 and it's perfect, it's beautiful, her getting a lot more spotlight felt only natural and I loved seeing her journey, I'd do wish they hadn't kept her and Edouard away all seasons that's like my main issue because they were friends and we didn't get to see that again until the end and the same holds true for Edouard in that zi feel they didn't know what to do with him this season like Olrox, they couldn't let Edouard fade into the background because he is important to Annette, but they could have had Edouard turn the Night Creatures against Erzsebet and Drolta imo. Still Annette's arc was the strongest of all the characters and very well done. I'm only sad because I wish we had more episodes to explore her journey.

7. I really hope we get to see more of Tera in S3, I do think she wasn't utilized well in S2 when we had the promise of he becoming Erzsebet's faithful servant at the end of S1 which would have set it up nicely for some heart breaking moments between Tera and the others. And while I know Richter is the main character, I don't really have any thoughts for him because he's not a character type I particularly enjoy or find interesting wnough. He's ok to me.

8. I hope Alucard and Juste get to stick around and raise Maria, even if there's a time skip and S3 has Maria an adult, it's fun to think about. Her arc was really good in S2 as well!

[ofspvrta]

❛  i’m  yours ,  only  yours -  ❜ from Emily

μ::|| meme: 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑬𝑵𝑶𝑹𝑴𝑰𝑻𝒀 𝑶𝑭 𝑴𝒀 𝑫𝑬𝑺𝑰𝑹𝑬 . | accepting [ Ξ ]

θ::|| @torntruth | emily

Kassandra had never considered herself a possessive person, but somehow those words always managed to stir something in her. They had stolen away from the more formal aspects of the party going on below, the political needs having been met by her presence and neither of them wanting to stay longer than they needed to. There were plenty of noble sorts talking among themselves that they wouldn't notice the two lovebirds slip away in the middle of the event.

They tuck themselves into a darkened corridor, Kassandra pressing the Empress against the wall, already deep into a hungered kiss. The taste of wine lingers on lips and tongue as Emily works off the immortal's coat and Kassandra's nimble fingers work at the woman's blouse. Shrugging the coat to the floor, Kassandra pulls at Emily's own, and then tugging the blouse around her arms until her collar and neck were exposed to her, the decolletage revealed to hungry eyes. Hot kisses trail down Emily's face, to her jaw, and down her neckline doting over the vein and her collarbone.

"I'm yours, only yours -" Emily breathes, head canting back at Kassandra's affections.

"Say it again," Kassandra growls lowly, fangs nipping at the skin, hands grasping at Emily's hips. She presses her leg between Emily's, her want and desire clear.

"I'm yours."

[ofspvrta]

The hardest part of everything is knowing Kassandra has someone who cares about her now, and as such, she has someone who worries greatly about her. While in many cases she can afford to be reckless, it doesn't mean Emily is always going to see it that way. Especially once they found out that Kassandra could actually be hurt or even killed with a strong enough concentration of the Void. And she hates being fretted over as is, but to have someone genuinely worried that she would die? She worries more for Emily than herself. It feels so foreign to her.

Maybe Kassandra deserved better than the fate she was given, but she knows how stained her hands are. She doesn't always believe it herself.

In the time that Emily is away, Kassandra allows herself to rest, staying in the position she was left in. Not the nicest place to be, but rather she bleed out here than on the deck where any passerby could see her and her strange markings. Her eyes occasionally open, glancing at the clone Emily left to stand watch. "I know you can't hear me because you're just some... projection or something, I actually don't know how you work. But, if I ever do die from one of these wounds, I would want you to know you were worth holding on for." It's easier to say when she knows she's actually alone. Kassandra doesn't deal well with voicing some of the harder emotions sometimes. It wasn't something she did except with Roxana and... she ended that for her sake. Fear that she would lose control and kill her, back when her condition was new and more dangerous.

It feels like forever, which is saying something given her immortality. But after a while she lets her eyes fall completely shut, even talking to the clone doesn't do much to keep her entertained and Ikaros was keeping watch of the larger area and unable to keep watch over her directly. But a sudden sound, light as it is, breaks her from her near meditation, eyes opening to see Emily has returned to her. The real enemy, not the non-responsive clone. "I'm still here, love. You're not losing me that easily."

THERE'S NOTHING LIKE PETTY GOODNESS . and if emily is to be honest with herself , she would have killed more people on her path to save corvo. AS IT STANDS THOUGH , SHE HAD THE CROWN KILLER OVER HER HEAD . and if not for anything but petty reasons , she would not actually become the crown killer like delilah wanted. ANYTHING BUT THAT . maybe that isn't even petty , maybe she just still has a moral compass enough to see how outrageous it all was. HOW FEW MORALS DELILAH ALWAYS HAD . using , abusing , tossing aside.

... but if you were to ask emily , she fully believes kassandra deserves better than whatever lonely life that duty brings her. MAYBE SHE'S BIASED . emily would kill for kassandra.

and maybe the thing that makes her real paranoid is that the attacker waited until emily and kassandra were slightly separated to attack. MAYBE SHE SHOULDN'T BE LEAVING KASSANDRA RIGHT NOW . it would make her paranoid either way. besides since she's really honed her powers , she's almost positive the blank emily is still standing around. THOSE CLONES ARE JUST MORE LIKE LOOK-ALIKE WEAPONS MORE THAN ANYTHING . they have no thought or feeling , they're just clones of emily on the battlefield. AND THAT'S IT . emily's shadow form crawls fast until she's back at the spot where she dragged the man off. AND PRACTICALLY OBLITERATED HIS SPINE .

the moonlight even highlights random spots of blood here and there. THE SPOT ON THE WALL WHERE BRICK IS CHIPPED BY SOMEBODY'S HEAD SLAMMING INTO . there's even an indent. THERE'S NO BODY THOUGH . emily suddenly shifts , practically flying back to the boat and kassandra. fake emily is still standing around near the door , she disappears when real emily slides through the door herself in shadow form. FOR A SHADOW THERE WAS STILL A LOT OF URGENCY IN DESPERATION IN THE WAY THAT SHADOW SLID IN. kassandra is still laying there. NOTHING ELSE GOING ON .

[cultist-vessel]

𝖀𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔪𝔬𝔬𝔫 . . .

This is a Sprunki Ask / Roleplay blog. The writer goes by Crypt, Cyber, or Cipher.

This blog contains my interpretation of Jevin from Sprunki. Additional headcanons and designs may develop over time.

Interpretations can be pre, during, or post horror, I will respond to any of them.

Things that you will see:

Asks

Roleplays

Artwork

I am always happy to interact with just about anyone! You can always interact with asks, reblogs, or comments as yourself, or other characters! I am very OC and multi-fandom friendly! Crossovers are encouraged!

❗CONTENT WARNING ❗

This blog will contain mature themes, including mental and physical harm (as is with the Sprunki horror mode), suggestive content, and abuse. I do not endourse abuse in any way, and there will be no NSFW publicly on this page.

I am an adult and am willing to RP other more 'mature' subjects with other adults, but it will NEVER be open for anyone to see. In these cases, DMs or Discord are preferrable.

𝕷𝔲𝔠𝔦𝔞𝔫 𝕵𝔢𝔳𝔦𝔫 𝕷𝔲𝔫𝔞𝔦𝔯𝔢

50s

Transmasc

He / It

Any Gendered Nouns

Pansexual

5'0"

Owl Sprunki

→ Cultist leader → Worships Nodis, the God of Darkness → Often seen as grumpy → Struggles to emote → Incredibly stubborn → Holds grudges → An expert at mimicking negative emotions, though almost never uses this skill → When trying to smile, it often looks unsettling → Known to scare away wild animals with his aura alone → Plucks feathers if under stress → Maternal instincts → Low voice, heavy Russian accent → Beautiful singing voice, though often sounds sorrowful → Wildlife sometimes dies under his feet as he walks over it → Writes many books → Not much is known about him, and prefers to keep it that way → Very seceretive → Strict, yet caring of those he likes → Many violent thoughts and actions to please his lord → Has control over curroupted shadows → Well versed in magic and alchemy → Secretly an obsessive freak

Other Blogs

Main Blog - @cryptan1x

All Sprunkis Blog - @sprunki-songs

Jevin Blog - You are here!

Tunner Blog - @scaled-sheriff

Black Blog - @eclipsed-lord

Alternate Black Blog - @corruptions-eye

Durple Blog - @twilight-draconian

Brud Blog - @ditzy-desserts

Wenda Blog - @crazed-claws

Vineria Blog - @enchanted-woodlands

Nocturne Blog ( OC ) - @vampiric-nobility

[farfromstrange]

Carpe Noctem [Chapter One]

ONE: “All these spindly roots”

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Pairing: Vampire!Matt Murdock x F!Nun!Reader

Chapter Warnings: Religious imagery & symbolism, mentions of rehab, crisis of faith, mentions of blood, the typical "animal attacks" aka vampire attacks, mentions of childhood trauma, stalker vibes at the end, Dead Dove Do Not Eat (the entire series)

Chapter Summary: You return to Clinton Church for the first time since Father Lantom saved your life, but what you first believed as an opportunity to start over reveals itself as a mountain of secrecy you have yet to uncover. Needless to say, your first week as a sister at Saint Agnes leaves you with more questions than answers, and an impending sense of darkness coming to get you.

Word Count: 6.8k

A/n: I finally got this done! I started with 3k words and it doubled in size. But I suppose it is enough to set the scene a little. We will certainly be diving deeper in a short while...

Read Me On AO3!

Sunlight streams through the colorful mosaic of stained glass. Red fades into magenta and violet, and blue fades into yellow. Innocence is a fleeting concept in this modern-day garden of Eden, and salvation remains merely a whispered promise. 

Centuries rest on the shoulders of those hallowed walls; the knees of countless worshippers have left indentations on the wooden benches, too many to count, even, but a tragic beauty remains in the art of architecture that stands tall amidst worn-down brownstones in the heart of Hell’s Kitchen. 

Catholics believe in the Devil. He preys on the innocent and makes them eat their souls like Eve bit the apple. He corrupts them, slowly, passionately, and intimately until they have nothing left. Then, and only then, does he take them by the hand, and he drags their lifeless bodies down to the fiery pits of hell. 

You once danced with him. You met him, and you were charmed by him. You shared a bed with him. You loved him. But then the snake whispered about the forbidden fruit, and you had to taste it. You were already broken when he found you. You were shattered glass on white marble floors, bleeding wine into the cracks. The serpent didn’t have to try—you fell hard and fast for his blatant corruption. A silver tongue whispering the sweet promise of salvation to a broken soul, but you never saw the end of it.

Three years you spent surrounded by brick walls and sycamore trees. It was ironic, really. You, the least catholic person to have ever breathed, confined to the walls of a nunnery. For three years, you prayed your knees bloody, yet three years later, it still feels like you learned nothing at all. 

You professed your first vows shortly after you returned to New York. It is a vivid memory. You thought you would never see the city again, not after everything the cold and dark streets put you through, but it was the only place willing to give you something to live for. To survive for.

The cold of the marble stairs before the altar will forever remain etched into your skin. Candlelight reflected in your eyes. When you lifted your gaze, you remember, you met the hollow eyes of Mary as she looked down on you. Like her inanimate features were suddenly overcome by a wave of shame for you. Her hands were clasped in prayer, as most of her statues are. A figure from thousands of retellings forever cast in stone. She was given no choice, but neither were you.

The church was alight with the wonders of early spring the day you took your first vows. Yet, when you met the dead eyes of the Virgin Mary, a shadow cast over her pale features like a widow’s dark veil. The sun disappeared behind a set of clouds with the promise of rain, and the kaleidoscope of colors from the stained glass faded into gray. The walls around you resembled more of an asylum, the priest before you reciting a Bible verse you still fail to remember even to this day. You weren’t listening. A voice was calling for you, and the darkness threatened to possess you with its magic.

The longer you stared at the statue, the more the stories set into the church’s window started to come to life. A window to the soul of Christianity: Mary and Jesus, and the apostles, and Judas betraying Jesus; God’s son dying on the cross for all of our sins before rising and ascending to heaven. Judas was greedy, or so they say. He gave up his friend for money, and in return, they both suffered. 

The serpent that tempted Eve crawled out of the glass and toward you, the original sinner. Every story played like a bad movie before your eyes, coming at you inhumanly fast. The voice in the back of your mind kept getting louder, and louder and louder as it called your name. 

Your sins hung above your head like a guillotine, the very fruits of your labor you had to bear far too young. A daughter, not a son. An inconvenience to those who bore you. You were forsaken from the start, you were told, and the day you took your first vows to become a child of God after being no one’s daughter for most of your life, the walls of the church seemed to know that even after hours of confessing all of your sins to the priest, no Hail Mary could ever take them away. They would always be there until the day you die. You could have done penance until your knees were bloody—you would always be a sinner in the eyes of the church. 

You had the Devil inside you, they said. Because you let him inside. And he did not hesitate to steal your virtue from the source, forever tainting the well of your innocence. 

“In the presence of God, the Blessed Virgin Mary, and all the saints, I humbly offer myself to His service,” you recited on those marble steps, but the shadow only continued to grow around you, wrapping its black wings around you. The fallen angel. Was it you or the Devil? 

The people around you disappeared. You weren’t taking your vows that day; you were standing trial in front of God and all his disciples who came before you. You were taking a stand, and only the jury could decide if you were worthy of your title. 

“I vow to embrace the holy virtues of chastity, poverty, and obedience, following in the footsteps of our Lord Jesus Christ and the teachings of the Holy Scriptures,” you said. “I promise to submit myself to the will of God and commit to live out these vows faithfully all the days of my life. Always.”

Amen.

You lay your broken soul bare, cuffing yourself to the congregation with unbreakable steel and throwing away the key. And there remained the voice, calling for you from the threshold to the darkness.

You thought you could ignore it. Until you returned to Hell’s Kitchen. 

Until him.

Your heels drag over the stone floors of the seemingly endless hallway stretching through Clinton Church. The walls look different when you’re not running. When you can breathe without yearning for means of self-destruction that set fire to your lungs. 

When you asked Father Lantom if you could come back to Clinton Church, he didn’t hesitate. You were unsure what it would be like. The last time you were here, the circumstances that led you into the arms of the empathetic priest were anything but conventional. The memories you have since tied to this place are a conflict between reaching your breaking point and begging for someone, anyone, to help you, and the overwhelming guilt that came with committing the worst of crimes, and a cardinal sin.

You were not a woman of God. You doubt you were a human being at all. If anything, you were a puppet. 

Father Lantom said three years ago, “When you feel ready to take your first vows, come back. I will always have a room waiting for you.” And come back, you did—for he was the one who held your hand when you were falling into an abyss headed for certain death. When you were covered in blood and feared you would burn in hell, the past came back to haunt you with pitchforks and execute you at the stake for the entire town to see. He was there, and in that moment you knew you could not disappoint him. It was then you first started believing in the idea of God.

You gaze down at your habit. The tunic, the cincture, and the veil. You have never been more dressed up, yet you have never felt more naked in the eyes of another man. The fear of judgment for choosing a path you once thought you would only pick over your dead body is rooted so deeply within you that it nails you to an invisible cross. 

“Three years,” the priest breaks the silence. You look over at him, walking beside you as he leads you around the hidden corners you’re not yet familiar with. 

You nod. “Three years,” you repeat. “Doesn’t feel like that long ago.”

Sensing your conflict and the underlying insecurity that renders you speechless a lot of the time, Father Lantom clears his throat. “You look…better,” he says.

“Thank you, Father. My time at St. Anne’s was very… self-reflective. I learned a lot.”

“Good. I’m proud of you.”

Your wide eyes snap back up at him. Oh. 

Pride is not the word you would have used. Proud of you, he said. He sent you away to cleanse your soul, and most days you are not sure if it even worked, but he is proud of you. The man who only knows the worst version of you looked at you and saw good instead of evil. It is a concept that had once been so foreign to you. 

“Thank you,” you whisper. 

“For what?” he asks.

“This. Everything.” You shrug. “I wasn’t sure if you still wanted me here, so hearing you say that…it means a lot to me.”

“I promised you would always have a room here if you chose to come back.”

There is so much sincerity in his voice. In his eyes. You swallow thickly, feeling the tears burn behind your eyes. You don’t want to cry in front of him, but the words die miserably on your tongue. Instead, you nod. You just hope your eyes manage to convey what you want to say.

The priest leads you to a door that connects the church with the grounds of the orphanage next door. “You will be living with the other sisters at Saint Agnes,” he tells you. The change of subject is welcome. “After we had to close our convent because Tony Stark could not be bothered to fund our restoration, all postulants who have since wanted to join our order were sent to study at St. Anne’s. Like you. But most of them stayed there,” his tone changes slightly into hurting. “They offer a lot more than we can. Donations can only get us so far, and we barely get those anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” you cut in. 

He sighs, waving your concern off with the flick of his wrist. “We make due, and now that you’re here… well, the sisters are going to appreciate the extra help.” Father Lantom puts on another smile like you would put on your veil. “We don’t have any separate living quarters, unfortunately,” he states, “so your room is a floor above the children’s dormitories. Sister Grace offered to show you around.”

“Sister Grace?”

“She’s the one in charge.”

Your eyes flick back to the walls you’re passing. Intricate details are carved into the stone even here, far away from the chapel. These hand-made masterpieces breathe a certain eeriness into the church. Not just life but a certain wave of mystique because even the stories from the bible are left open for interpretation, especially when they are turned into art. 

A sense of doom falls over you like a dark cloud. “Does she know?” you ask. 

Father Lantom raises his eyebrows. He studies your features. Your chin tipped toward the ceiling, observing. He notices the gentle shift in your breathing pattern as your heartbeat speeds up, and when you meet his eyes again after an agonizing bout of silence, he smiles at you once again. 

“Sister Grace?” he inquires. You nod. “Well,” he says, “She does know. She’s the abbess. I had to let her in when I told her you were coming here, but I assure you, she swore to the utmost discretion.”

You breathe out. The weight rests heavily on your chest. “And everyone else?” You turn back to him. 

The Father shakes his head. His eyes are so gentle. “It’s not my story to tell,” he says. “If there’s one thing I learned after years of talking to people—taking their confessions, listening to their fears, their anger, and their pain—it’s that we all suffer. We all have things we’d rather not talk about.”

The words penetrate your heart like a sharp dagger. 

“And as humans, we tend to often see our burdens as sins, even if those apparent sins hurt us, or we had to commit them to protect ourselves from getting hurt. And sometimes, hurt people do stupid things. Objectively stupid, that is. It doesn’t mean we are going to hell for doing what it takes to survive. People suffer, and most of the time, that suffering doesn’t stop. That’s the truth,” he says. “Now, a lot of these people come to confession because they think it will give them a clear conscience, which it does, momentarily. They believe that God will make the pain go away with the snap of his omniscient fingers. A few Hail Marys, a few extra hours at Sunday mass, and your burdens will be dealt with. That is not the truth. Confession is not therapy because penance does not heal decades of trauma. If that were how it works, we would collapse from overcrowding.”

Father Lantom breaks off with a chuckle, but you can’t find amusement in his wisest insight. It’s real, too real. You can’t even muster a pity smile. 

“Why do we do it then?” you ask. 

“Do you want the Catholic answer or my personal opinion?”

“If those don’t intersect, I’ll choose the latter. Please.”

He takes a moment. “Well, confession works as a tool,” he explains then. “God knows the difference between an actual sin and human nature. Sometimes, these two are the same, but a lot of the time, there is a big difference, and He knows that. Confession helps regain balance where you’re standing with your faith. That’s why we do it. Because faith… faith can be a strong motivator. That’s why a lot of us—sisters, priests, and… and monks—are here now. Because we found a passion and a purpose in devoting ourselves to God. It’s not for everyone, of course, but it is a clean slate if you want it to be. Whether you tell the other sisters about why you chose this path, is up to you. Not me. Because that trauma is yours, and yours alone.”

The silence stretches between you, long, longer, as the church holds its breath. You absorb every word and every breath of his like a sponge. You swallow them. A bitter pill, that’s what it is. It goes down like hard liquor. 

You walk a few more steps in that silence with his eyes on you and the world on fire within. “Father,” you whisper. The sound is not more than that. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he says. And this time, you smile at him.

Behind the door that leads to the orphanage, another hallway awaits. The walls smell faintly of moss—nature but a bit rotten. A woman in a similar habit makes her way toward the two of you from the end of the hall. She carries herself with a quiet air of authority. You can’t look through her. 

Father Lantom may have vouched for Sister Grace and her discretion, but her judgment is not his to determine. She is her own woman, with thoughts only she can determine. You’re not sure if you are ready for that, either. 

He greets her with a smile. “Sister Grace,” he says.

“Father. Good morning,” at him, she smiles. 

He nudges you forward. “I have someone I want you to meet.”

Her gaze shifts to you then. “The uniform is unmistakable.” She nods. “Welcome, Sister.”

It’s a start, a small step towards finding your place within these hallowed walls. 

“Thank you, Sister,” you reply. “It’s nice meeting you.”

“Likewise. Though it’s been a while since we had someone new here. So young, too.”

“I know. Father Lantom mentioned. I’ll try my hardest not to disappoint you.”

She nods. “Let’s get you settled into your room first before we worry about that. I believe Father Lantom has mass to prepare.”

Father Lantom gives you a reassuring nod. “I’ll leave you in Sister Grace’s capable hands. And remember, you are not alone. If you need help with anything, don’t hesitate to come and find me.” With that, he turns and makes his way back through the door you came from, leaving you with your fellow sister and a lump in your throat.

She leads you down the corridor. “This way,” she says. “Your room is above the children’s dormitories. Second floor. You’ll find it quiet enough for reflection but close enough to be of help when needed.”

Her tone suggests that you will be plenty busy, no matter where your room is in the building. More work means less time to think, and less time with your thoughts sounds like a blessing.

As you follow her, the faint sounds of children playing filter through the walls. It’s a comforting contrast to the silence you’ve grown accustomed to. 

Sister Grace opens a door to a narrow staircase, and you both begin to climb. “The other sisters will be eager to meet you,” she says over her shoulder.

You nod, even though she can’t see you. “I am, too,” you answer.

At the top of the stairs, she leads you down another hallway, then finally stops at a simple wooden door. “This one...will be your room.” She pushes it open to reveal the small space behind, connected to a window with a clear view of the adjacent cemetery. “I admit, it is a little scarce,” Sister Grace says, “but you are more than welcome to add a few personal touches; pictures, curtains, maybe even a plant or two. Don’t worry, Father Lantom encourages it.”

The wooden floorboards creak beneath your weight as you step inside. You look around. A single bed, neatly made with crisp white linens and a worse-for-wear mattress occupies one corner of the room, a crucifix nailed above the headrest, and casting a faint shadow on the aged plaster walls. On the other side, a desk and a wardrobe offer some storage space that leads to a second door—the bathroom. It is scarce, but you came here with nothing but a cardboard box filled with your hopes and dreams and books and diaries; people have built homes from less. 

“Our shared kitchen is downstairs. Feel free to store your food in the fridge, but don’t forget to label the containers if you don’t wish to share.” Sister Grace pauses, chuckling softly as her hazel eyes meet yours. “You wouldn’t believe it, but even nuns can be picky eaters, and very territorial about snacks.”

You smile, but your attempt at kindness falls into artificiality. “Thank you.”

“Nonsense. We look after each other around here.”

There has to be more to it, surely. Innocent may be a construct, but most of the sisters in the community were born into their faith. They started studying from a young age, always destined to dedicate themselves to the cause. You were far from religious before destiny found you dying in the flames of your old life. Whether destiny or a curse befell you that night remains open for interpretation. You have seen it both ways. An opportunity arose. You received a second chance from a very nice man, but the price to pay was your soul sacrificed to a God you once thought you would never believe in. 

Do you have faith or do you not? It is a loaded question. You think you do. You want to know you do too, but you are never fully certain. In the eyes of God, you are a loyal soldier who studied the scriptures and did her due diligence praying for penance, but when you look in the mirror, all you see is Judas. 

A heavy breath ripples through you. “You didn’t have to let me in,” you whisper. “Father Lantom didn’t have to offer me refuge, but he did. And you’re not judging me even though you have all right to… I just don’t understand.”

Her answer is a shrug. “When you were desperate,” says the sister, “God led you to us, and you found refuge at the church like so many before you. I don’t believe that was a coincidence.”

You were covered in blood when you came—your hands stained with the essence of another man’s life, clothes torn beyond recognition. You can still feel his hands on you, wandering, lurking… The crimson had seeped into the fine lines of your palms. It took you days to get rid of it, and weeks more to scrub the last remains from under your fingernails down the drain. 

You grapple with their decision. “I, uh… I wasn’t sure. At St. Anne’s, they treated me like an outsider. Because I didn’t grow up Catholic, and—”

“And you found your faith in rehab?” Sister Grace smiles knowingly. “Trust me, it happens so often that it no longer comes as a surprise.”

“But there is still judgment. There will always be judgment,” you insist.

She takes your words into account, nodding. They digest for a brief moment until she breaks into a soft chuckle—a mere breath from her full-moon lips. 

“A small piece of advice, if I may?” she asks. You hum. “If you spend all your time here questioning whether God has forgiven you for your sins, your lack of faith in the Lord, as tiny as it may be, will always stand between you and taking your final vow. And if you keep worrying about the judgment of anyone other than God, you won’t find happiness.”

You vowed to dedicate your life to religious service, and if you don’t close the last period of your study after taking temporary three vows with a solemn declaration to give up even the last of your possessions then the gap between you and God will be too big for you to ever be anything but a simple sister of the congregation. 

But is that what you want? To close that gap and give yourself fully to a higher power? It would be a live sacrifice, you knew that from the start.

You believe in God and the Devil, and you believe in eternal damnation. And you believe that you are damned, too. Doomed, forsaken, and cursed. A scratched record. God’s wrath is not a match for the fear you instill in yourself; your mere existence is maddening. 

You are drowning in a darkness you were born with, and possessed by demons you never learned how to exorcize. Not even studying a newfound faith in God to get on the right path could get rid of the monsters that are not lurking under your bed or in the shadows but in the dark corners of your mind.

The beast inside of you has gone to sleep, but God knows that he is a ticking time bomb, even in a comatose state. The Devil has planted his seed—all these spindly roots growing from your soul to the pit of your stomach, digging their claws into your fragile heart and tearing you to shreds. The protective poison ivy you grew over the years can only last so long without water before it starts to wither. 

You look over your shoulder when the door shuts gently behind Sister Grace as she leaves you be. 

The cardboard box on your desk holds an abundance of scriptures, books, and leather-bound diaries. Your diaries. They told you that writing your feelings on paper would help you heal. If you crave something you know you should and cannot have, you should write it down; you have been for years now, but with every pen wasted and every diary hidden in compartments around your room so no one can find them, the words you write turn into firewood, and your tears are the gasoline. 

Outside, the wind brushes through the trees. It beckons you, its tendrils creeping into your consciousness like creatures of the night reaching for the last flickers of light.

With a heavy heart, you flip open the worn-down leather. Seconds turn into minutes turn into hours turn into days. Knees turn bloody from praying, and the joy of one child’s happiness dies at the hands of another’s trauma. 

Dear Diary, 

Yesterday, the groundskeeper dug another hole in the cemetery. Father Lantom will officiate the funeral on Sunday. Another addition to the bones and rotting corpses hiding under a shield of dirt, but does anyone know what happens after? 

I tried to ask the Father, but he didn’t give me a satisfying answer. He told me what he thought I wanted to hear, but I did not. I can’t help but wonder if he is protecting me or keeping secrets. The latter would be highly unethical, I suppose. 

Other than maintaining a religious belief in heaven or hell or rebirth while we are alive, what does happen to us after we die? Is it definite? Is it infinite or is there something else, something... more? 

Is it the Devil? Is it God? Or is it heaven and hell? 

And why do they keep digging holes in the cemetery? The children keep asking me every day, but I do not know how to answer them. 

Dear Diary, where do we go when it is all over?

The clinking of porcelain and cutlery emerges from the kitchen like a mushroom cloud. As you approach the dining room through a long hallway, the soft soles of your vinyl shoes barely make a sound. The voices inside overlap, but a few rise from the masses, demanding your attention. Like a moth to a flame, you fly toward it. 

“…and they found another one this morning. Washed up on the river banks after the storm last night,” one of the sisters whispers to another. 

“It’s been fifteen this month alone,” another one says.  

“What kind of animal does that?” a third cuts in.

“The kind that isn’t an animal,” says the nun you now recognize as Sister Marjorie, the oldest of the bunch. “It happens every two months for twenty years that bodies wash up on the shore, supposedly mauled by a bear or a baboon in the middle of Hell’s Kitchen, and then the city grows quiet again. I’ve been here for forty-five years, and it still happens like clockwork.”

The one next to her sighs. “Well, maybe it’s the changing climate. Lord knows it has humans and animals going crazy alike.”

“Can’t you see?” Marjorie raises her voice. “These aren’t the actions of an animal. It’s the Devil!” 

It seems as though the mere thought puts the fear of God in them—your fellow sisters, usually so strong and collected, reduced to whispers of the rumor mill as the color fades from their skin. 

Sister Grace clicks her tongue, interrupting them all at once. “That’s enough,” she says, trying to remain calm but there is still a sense of urgency in her voice. It’s not an exclamation but a well-concealed warning. Behind that façade hides a leader you would not want to cross twice. 

Only one of Sister Marjorie’s eyes finds you standing there, eavesdropping like a misbehaving child. The other remains unmoving, caged in by a white scar across her cheek and an iris made of glass. 

You swallow the lump in your throat. “Animal attacks?” you dare to ask. 

Heads snap toward you. The table falls speechless, compelled into a sudden silence by your presence. The world stops turning. 

“Oh, dear, don’t you worry about that,” Sister Grace, the first to find her voice again, reassures you. She ushers you from the doorway to the table, but the eyes of your fellow sisters suddenly feel like tiny needles all over your skin. “It’s just idle gossip,” she says, shooting the others a glare, “nothing for you to concern yourself with.”

But the silence starts to wrap around your neck like a noose regardless. Curiosity is only appreciated when they can answer it, you have learned. In the eyes of God, lying is a sin, and you spend each day teaching the children to believe the same, but is omitting not essentially the same as lying? 

They’re scared. They don’t want to admit it; no one does. Fear does not fit under the veil of ignorance, so they try concealing it as idle gossip. The rumor mill is always spinning, and it is an outstanding excuse, but you will never forget the look in Marjorie’s eyes when you dared to ask—dared to question. 

A thud from outside causes you to sit upright in your bed later that evening. The springs that are digging into your lower back creak when you move so suddenly. 

Through the window, you can see the cemetery hulled into a fog where cold and warm air meet for the night. You put the children to bed, got them dressed in their pajamas, brushed their teeth, and told the little ones a bedtime story. They like it when you do it. Something about the way you tell them fascinates their little minds, so it has become a ritual in the week you have been here. 

The more it strikes you as odd that there is noise outside. After bedtime, no one is supposed to be out and about, and if a sister has something to do out of schedule, they have to share it with the group. For safeguarding reasons, they told you. 

Against your better judgment, you roll out of bed and into your slippers, wrapping a cardigan around your body. Your nightgown is not the warmest thing to wear on these cold walls unless it is under a thick wool blanket. 

The door creaks when you open it. Father Lantom gave you a flashlight a few nights ago because he asked you to take care of something on the church grounds for him after the sun had set, so you kept it. You weren’t sure if you would still need it. Thankfully, you did.

You follow the noise to the back door one floor below. It leads out into the backyard, and a few more feet east, a fence and a gate separate the many acres of the cemetery from the rest of the church’s grounds. 

The flashlight illuminates the path before you. “If it’s another stupid raccoon, I swear…” you mutter to yourself. It wouldn’t be the first time one of those critters found their way into the trashcans and caused mayhem in the middle of the night. 

Somehow though, it always seems to be you who catches them. The night-owl. The one who is always on guard, always on edge, even when she knows she is safe.

You wander through the backyard, closer to the fence. You tilt your head. There is a small gap in the gate to the cemetery. The fog makes it harder to see. 

“Hello?” you call out into the darkness. Nothing. 

Through the rustling of leaves and the howling of an owl in the woods far beyond Saint Agnes, a small whimper breaks the silence like a hot knife. It is faint, but unmistakable nonetheless. 

You strain your ears. “Oh no,” once again, you curse to yourself. “No, no, no…” 

You follow the sound through the gate and into the cemetery. June Montgomery and her husband share a grave. They died over twenty years ago, but it is still well-maintained by their children and grandchildren. A few steps further though, the infestation of poison ivy begins. 

The graves under the gigantic cherry tree are the most hidden, and the best hiding spots. You had to tell the children many times that the cemetery is not a hiding place, especially not for games, and never alone, even when the gates are open. The general public has access to it during the day, and if they wander too far, they will land on a populated street. It’s dangerous. 

You were so careful. You did everything by the book, and someone still managed to sneak out. 

Your heart pounds in your chest, the wet grass soaking your thin slippers until you come upon a small figure huddled behind one of the bewildered gravestones. Sara Mayfield; she died in 1945. Your sigh resembles a cry of relief. 

“Timmy!” you exclaim. “Thank God!”

He’s curled up into a ball behind the headstone. Tears stream down his cheeks in bottomless rivers. Your flashlight blinds him, and his whimpers escalate to sobs. Your heart shatters at the sight. 

“Hey there, it's okay,” you try to soothe him, crouching beside his tiny figure. “It's just me. Hi. What are you doing out here all alone?” You shed your cardigan, wrapping it around his shoulders. “It’s the middle of the night, sweetheart.”

From what you’ve learned about Timmy, his parents died in a freakish car accident about a year ago. He was in the car when his father fell asleep at the wheel and drove the car into a tree. His mother died instantaneously, but his father bled out right in front of him. He has been receiving therapy ever since he came to Saint Agnes, but he is a troubled child. 

Timmy sniffles, accepting the makeshift blanket. He recognizes you, which is a good sign. “I had a nightmare,” he confesses. “I-I wanted to see the stars, but then I heard a crash, and I got scared.”

You wrap your arms around him. “It’s okay to be scared,” you say. “But you shouldn’t wander off by yourself, especially at night. You should have come to me, or Sister Grace.”

“I’m sorry, Sister.”

“No, it’s okay. I’m just glad nothing happened to you.”

His skin is clammy and cold. You don’t know how long he has been out here, but he is also in no state to be questioned. 

“Come on,” you say and lift him into your arms. “Let’s get you back inside.”

Together, you make your way back towards the orphanage. But as you approach the gate, there it is again, that voice. Whispers of nothing in the chilly breeze. The air crackles with a certain, sinister something. A chill runs down your spine, and the back of your skull starts to burn as though someone is watching you. Listening. Lurking. And it is not a raccoon this time.

You set Timmy down on his feet. He whimpers again. “Go to your room. I’ll be right there,” you tell him. 

He looks up at you with his innocent blue eyes. “Promise?” he asks. 

“Yes. Promise.”

The boy lets go of your hand, quickly sneaking back inside. He knows better than to make any more noise. Any other sister would have threatened consequences. But he’s just a traumatized little boy, and the night is dangerous. It’s creepy. Of course, it would only add to childish fear and trauma that has had time to manifest for an entire year.

You turn around when he is safely inside, pointing your flashlight in the direction where you came from. 

You scan the blanket of fog for any sign of movement. And that’s when you see it—a shadowy, obscured figure standing amidst the graves by the woods, behind the cherry tree.

Your breath catches in your throat, the whispers echoing in your mind once more. It could not be your name. It’s something else. Latin, perhaps. What terrifies you most though is that you're not scared; you feel strangely drawn to the figure. 

You hold your breath. The figure tilts its head, and you do the same. Your heartbeat remains eerily steady throughout. You should scream. You should alert everyone that there is something—someone—out there, but they would call you crazy, surely. And maybe you are. No sane person hears voices and sees the darkness as a comforting presence. Not a nun. Not someone who is not supposed to let the Devil win. And what other explanation is there but for the figure to be a phantom of the Devil's making? 

In the blink of an eye, the figure is gone. The hold on your lungs eases, and you gasp for air like a desperate woman.

Instinctively, you turn to the door and usher inside. Timmy is still standing there. “What’s wrong?” he asks. 

You shake your head, trying to clear your mind. “Nothing,” you say, but when you lock the door to make sure no one can get in or out, your hands shake. A single drop of sweat runs down your temple. “Come on.”

Inside, you’re freezing. Like a cold hand touched you and set you on fire, but it had claws that let the ice age into your heart, and now you’re poisoned. 

Taking Timmy back to his room, you can’t shake the feeling of unease that gnaws at your insides like a hungry beast. You tuck him in; you check under his bed for monsters, and you lock the windows. It takes a while for him to settle back into sleep, but when he finally does, you leave his room on your tiptoes and close it. 

The other children are all peacefully asleep, and your fellow sisters seem to not have noticed the commotion you caused on your way in. Every door is locked—you check twice. Still, when you get to your room, your hands tremble once again when you use the key for the fragile lock for the first time. 

Fear is not what compels you. Uneasiness, maybe, but not fear. The venom in your veins stems from something else entirely. You can’t explain it. The feeling is familiar somehow, but so foreign at the same time.

You clutch the rosary from the nightstand over your diary, facing the fog you yearn for so desperately. “Foolish, foolish idiot,” you mutter. 

Dear Diary, 

Did I force myself upon God out of… of guilt? Or was it a sign that He led me to Clinton Church that night? I thought penance would wash away my sins, that by dedicating myself to Him, I could erase the past. You know, like magic. But I was so wrong. Father Lantom… He told me that’s not how it works, and Sister Grace… She’s so sure that will stand in my way, and now I can’t help but wonder… Did I study scripture and Catholic rules for the past three years like a mad woman out of faith or because I was trying to make good for something I did by neutralizing myself?

I’m lost. I don’t know the path to righteousness, and I don’t know how to silence this… this darkness inside me. I can hear it calling my name. Every night… I’m scared that I’m not scared enough. I’m a flawed creature; I’m desperate and tired, but I don’t want to disappoint Him. But how can I? 

How do I serve a God I have been lying to from the start, and how the fuck do I fix this?

You squeeze your eyes shut, the pen cracking under the pressure, and the ink bleeds onto the page, over the letters and your broken heart. Your blue fingers wrap around the rosary again as what you have written disappears under the chemical ocean. 

In the heat of the moment, you tear the page out of its confines, but it has tainted all the ones to come. You ruined it like you ruined yourself. The page had been you once, being bled all over by an ink meant to stain for the rest of your miserable life, but you tried to glue it back in place. You tried not to fall apart like your diary just did at your very hands—as everything you touch rots or turns to ashes eventually.

You ball a fist around the paper, tossing it across the room. It hits the window. You catch your runny reflection in the glass. To think you were just looking to be loved, to be seen and forgiven ever since you were a little girl dreaming of being a princess, but instead, you are falling apart. 

But no, you will not let the Devil win. You pull the curtains closed, and you hide the cemetery where it belongs—with the dead, both in heaven and hell and everything in between. The Devil can’t have you because God already does. 

You have to seize the night before it seizes you. Anything else would be, for the lack of a better word, certain suicide. 

Tag List: @luvebugs @mxxny-lupin @1988-fiend @bluestuesday @ghostheartbeat @cheshirecat484 @faesspace (if you want to be tagged or I forgot to tag you, let me know!)

[vampiric-nobility]

𝕭𝔢𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔡 𝖈𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔩𝔢 𝖉𝔬𝔬𝔯𝔰 . . .

This is a Sprunki Ask / Roleplay blog. The writer goes by Crypt, Cyber, or Cipher.

This blog contains my OC from Sprunki. Additional headcanons and designs may develop over time.

Interpretations can be pre, during, or post horror, I will respond to any of them.

Things that you will see:

Asks

Roleplays

Artwork

I am always happy to interact with just about anyone! You can always interact with asks, reblogs, or comments as yourself, or other characters! I am very OC and multi-fandom friendly! Crossovers are encouraged!

❗CONTENT WARNING ❗

This blog will contain mature themes, including mental and physical harm (as is with the Sprunki horror mode), suggestive content, and abuse. I do not endourse abuse in any way, and there will be no NSFW publicly on this page.

I am an adult and am willing to RP other more 'mature' subjects with other adults, but it will NEVER be open for anyone to see. In these cases, DMs or Discord are preferrable.

𝕹𝔬𝔠𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔫𝔢 𝕾𝔢𝔩𝔢𝔫𝔢 𝕷𝔲𝔫𝔞𝔯𝔬𝔰𝔢

Transmasc

He / They / It

Any Nouns

Bisexual

7'2"

Around 600 years old

Onyx Sprunki

→ Sound is a cello → Last of his bloodline → Part of a once feared and noble line of vampires → Moves around in a teleporting castle → Well-versed in magic and alchemy → Sensitive hearing → Weak to sunlight, garlic, pure silver, anything holy → Walks around with a parasol when in daylight → Incredible strength and intellegence

Main Blog - @cryptan1x

All Sprunkis Blog - @sprunki-songs

Jevin Blog - @cultist-vessel

Tunner Blog - @scaled-sheriff

Black Blog - @eclipsed-lord

Alternate Black Blog - @corruptions-eye

Durple Blog - @twilight-draconian

Brud Blog - @ditzy-desserts

Wenda Blog - @crazed-claws

Vineria Blog - @enchanted-woodlands

Nocturne Blog ( OC ) - You are here!

[chuuyascumsock]

Nakahara-Verse Smut Week List

Day 1; Bartender! Chuuya - {Lingerie, Fingering, Mirror Sex, Squirting.} It’s a shame that your boyfriend dumped you, maybe Chuuya could make it better?

Day 2; Singer! Chuuya - {Branding, Objectification, Overstimulation, Cumplay.} Chuuya loves seeing just how far his fans would go to show their loyalty for him.

Day 3; Vampire! Chuuya - {Biting, Marking, Breeding, Bloodplay.} There was something about the way you acted with the village orphans that set a carnal desire aflame inside of Chuuya.

Day 4; Bodyguard! Chuuya - {Car Sex, Femdom, Praise, Stockings, Finger Sucking.} Chuuya doesn’t understand how much you appreciate his dedication to protecting you, but you’ll show him just how much you do.

Day 5; Demon! Chuuya - {Rough Sex, Corruption, Pussy Slapping, Anal.} Chuuya savors tearing you apart petal by petal until there’s nothing but your sweet nectar left for him to devour.

Day 6; Detective! Chuuya ft. Dazai - {Vouyerism, Handcuffs, Breathplay, Gunplay, Power Imbalance.} After hours of your interrogation and getting nowhere, Chuuya takes it into his own hands to get the answer out of you.

Day 7; University Student! Chuuya - {Hate Sex, Spanking, Degradation, Spitting, Hair Pulling.} You can’t stand the jock in your physics class, it’s too bad you get stuck with him on your final’s project.

Release Date; Unknown.

Status; In Progress.

[lalalian]

futuristic dr ideas pt.1 : jobs

date: march 24, 2024 (technically march 25, it's 2 AM rn)

If you're interested in more futuristic dr things, I posted a video on tiktok with more futuristic stuff

A lot of this stuff is inspired the things I've read in cyberprep books!

disclaimer: none of my ideas are made by AI, sometimes I may be aided by AI to get inspired (especially with civilizations). If I do use AI somewhere in my ideas I’ll be sure to let you guys know!

World Acclimatizer

Also known as an ‘Acclimaitzer’

These help people move to other planets by aiding them in adapting to either living in space or living on different planets. World Acclimatizers often work closely with primary care doctors, and are extremely well-versed in non-earthly sicknesses and the effects space has on the human body. Realtors from other planets will always refer their clients to an Acclimatizer if the house is located on another planet.

Planetary Humanitarian

Planetary Humanitarians promote natural and peaceful development in other planets. These people typically advocate for limited human interaction with other life, some even going as far as to never stepping off earth. Planetary Humanitarians tend to dislike Civilization Examiners.

Cybernaut

Cybernauts work with techspace (technology relating to space) engineers to test out products. These people are often pretty popular in the media sphere because, as I mentioned earlier, many engineers are inclined to sponsor them. Cybernauts can frequently be seen in AR Gaming hubs and Cyber parkour arenas (more about those in the tiktok linked to this post)

Cybernetic Designer

Cybernetic body parts are designed by these people. These parts are not designed to look realistic like the prosthetic parts we see today. Most designers specialize in a body part, the most popular one being the left arm. Cybernetic designers are not licensed in creating full body AI androids, but they can create parts for androids.

Android Engineer

Android Engineers obviously do have some sort of license to make androids, but there are different tiers to an android making license:

Limited 2D Design: Very similar to character ai or j.ai bots, these bots do not have a physical form and can only be spoken to through text. They may have voices or a 2D body.

AR Immersive Experience: Like love and deepspace but with AR, you can feel, hear, and taste the android only through AR goggles. Some android engineers make their own goggles to allow their customers to feel a more personalized experience with new features. Why is this a completely different tier from 2D design? There's more room for corruption both mentally and digitally (hacking). The AI that makes the bots act so human can make the bot become too sentient, which could make them want to break free from the simulation.

Small Non-Human Physical Design: Most people with this license make android pets. Dogs are obviously the most popular, but jelly fish and vampire squids are popular these days. This license requires more training than the AR experience degree because these androids exist in the physical world.

Non-Human Physical Design: Designers with this license are not always involved in the abstract or purely artistic sphere. Many make hyper realistic android animals to blend in with the environment to either monitor species development, observe other planet-life in a non-invasive way, or encourage certain behaviors in animals. Even if the creature is not considered large, designers who plan to enter this field of design must earn this license because of this job requires complex AI design and ultra realistic visuals.

Non-Interactive Human Design: Designers with this tier do not create androids with crazy complex AI models. These androids are often displayed in museums, and are no where near sentient enough to even speak outside of a few lines, if that.

Life-like Interactive Human Design: This is the highest tier. People with this license often advocate for equality amongst humans and androids. Anyone with this license should exercise caution when making their androids, as talented designers can make androids that are so indistinguishable from humans that they become acknowledged as civilians rather than 'product'. Reports against designers with these license are taken extremely seriously.

Civilization Examiners

I'm planning to have a DR with this job kekekeke. I'll tell y'all storytimes if I can get myself to focus on shifting instead of scripting 😞

There's two kinds of civilization examiners: public or non-public. Public examiners assist journalists and researchers after living for days, weeks, months, or even years on a different planet. They collect data like plants, animals, environmental samples, and most importantly, get as much information as possible about other civilizations. Civilization Examiners are required to be at least semi- decent artists because they need to be able to draw what they see. They are required to come back with information about the civilization's culture, religious customs, traditions, language, fashion, appearance, parenting style, government, and more importantly, alliance potential.

edit: I forgot to talk abt non-public examiners 😭 non-public examiners work for the government and are apart of the CIA. Public examiners research about alliance potential, but not nearly as intensely as gov examiners.

istg more shifters need to talk about their futuristic drs :(

[ofspvrta]

"Try me, I've faced the complicated before." She was the complicated, something that by all means should not exist. A monster who roamed the earth for centuries. A demon according to some, a devil to others. And many variants of the words in other languages. "So you too, are cursed."

She was still prepared to draw her weapon on a whim, should this prove violent. There was very little care for any foolishness and she was already pissed that her task had been interrupted. Especially if he had come for the artifact she was here to claim.

"Dead?" Well, his blood was of no use to her, that was one problem solved. "How are you dead and yet still walking?" She didn't care to explain her side of things, it was... equally complicated, if not more so. "I am undying."

❝It's complicated to explain.❞ Plus, he's not sure how she will react to hearing every single details about his own curse. Would she freak out and fight? Be aggressive? Show sympathy? ❝My curse that is.❞

He highly doubt that this interaction will come out entirely positive. He didn't have much hope for it. Then again, he doesn't have much hope for many things. His views on life prevented him to have an optimistic view.

A sigh left his lips as he wrinkled his nose.

❝Perhaps I am a fool. Regardless if I am or not, you're correct. I'm no simple sailor. I'm a dead one. Been dead for a while. What of you? Youre no ordinary person.❞

[doggygutz]

hello!! you can call me Viscera, this is my blog dedicated to being a weird freak on the internet. it won't be exclusively nsfw/sexual, just Weird and Freaky in a variety of ways. it will feature taboo kinks and fantasies, and dead dove content, though. it'll probably mostly be reblogs but who knows, maybe i'll post my own stuff too

i'm 18 (born 05/21/2006), i use it/she/he pronouns (neos are cool too, especially nature, dog, or rabbit themed ones, just no they/them), and i'm good with all kinds of gendered language. i'm also autistic, schizospec, mentally ill, and physically disabled, some of which may come up occasionally

i'm a rabbit & dog therian, and a vampire & fallen angel otherkin, please refer to me as such!!

my interests are listed below the cut :3

sfw interests:

marvel has been a big special interest of mine since i was a kid, and i've recently gotten into the x-men movies as well!! i've watched every marvel movie, and most marvel shows

other movies i like include: all of the star wars movies, studio ghibli movies, and horror and thriller films

other shows i like include: the mandalorian, house md, hannibal, invincible, the boys, michael shur shows, breaking bad, and succession

music; my favourite bands and artists are depeche mode, the smiths, the clash, the cure, harley poe, and bo burnham! i'm also learning to use computer programs to make my own music

visual art; i enjoy photography, and paint, draw, and make jewelry, and i sometimes sculpt. i also plan on learning embroidery and improving my sewing

spirituality -- i've identified as pagan since i was 13, and i'm still exploring some more parts of spirituality and religion, and i just generally find it an interesting topic

alternative subcultures (i'm goth myself, and almost all of my friends are some flavour of alternative as well)

video games (mainly stardew valley, acnh, legend of zelda botw & totk, spiritfarer, and hollow knight)

ARGs and unfiction

animals & nature (some of my favourite animals are crows, sharks, rabbits, and wolfdogs)

nsfw interests:

bondage (especially shibari)

collars & leashes, muzzles, harnesses, and other similar gear

body worship & examination

ageplay & petplay (mainly puppy play)

primal play & scent/sweat

teratophilia (monsterfucking!!)

cnc, free use, intox (mainly weed), and somno

age gap & power imbalance

overstim & edging

sadomasochism (especially spanking, slapping, and caning) & blood, and general violence ig??

marking (bruises, scratches, bite marks, hickeys, sometimes branding)

kidnapping & imprisonment

both degradation & praise

dumbification & objectification

religious themes (imagery, costumes/uniforms, roleplay scenarios) & corruption

exhibitionism

fauxcest

some watersports

i am a switch and a verse (with a domtop lean tbh), and that applies to everything i’m into

this post will probably be updated pretty often as i learn about more stuff i’m into

i’m also a big fan of cannibalism, but it's hard for me to categorize it as either sfw or nsfw because it sort of toes the line between the two

[ofspvrta]

θ::|| @gunslingcr has encountered the corrupted

She had made the wooded area a base of operations of sorts. Away from humanity, a perfect spot to camp out while she hunted for the nearby artifact. She rigged the area around her camp with snares and other traps to keep any prying eyes out and had managed to string up a few Templars who wandered too close to the region seeking the same thing she was after. They weren't so fortunate to be let go and served to feed her corruption and keep it sated for the time being. When she had finished with them, she strung a few of them up by their feet, leaving them as grim warnings from the trees.

It was while she was resetting one of her snare traps, perfectly balanced on a branch when she heard someone heading into her area. Giving a jerk of her head, Ikaros immediately took off to scout the area. A lone man, no signs of Templar regalia on him, hoofing it into her area. That wouldn't do.

Clicking her tongue to call Ikaros back, she grabbed her bow from her back, maintaining her balance, as notched an arrow and drew back the bowstring. Steadying herself, she held her breath, counted to three in her head, and released. The arrow whistled through the air, landing right in front of his feet. Exactly as intended. A warning shot. These woods were not a safe place for him.