#I WOULDN'T HAVE POSTED IT OTHERWISE BUT THE SIN

[oculusxcaro]

how pure are you ?

She's very uncomfortable with this relevation, maybe even a little hurt.

[spookierdeer]

OL EUA YUGQ G XGOYOT OT MXGVK PAOIK, OZ ZAXTY OTZU G MXGVK. NGVVE NGRRUCKKT! 🎃⚠️

(costume talk and yapping under the cut)

starting from back to the front:

stan and ford are handing out candy this year, stan dressed in his vampire costume and planning to scare kids and ford is wearing a mabel (turtleneck!) pumpkin sweater, about as festive as he's willing to dress up this year. ford was originally planning to hole himself up in his lab and work on data analysis or whatever nerd shit he has going on but stan invites him to help scare the hell out of kids. ford declines initially, better things to do, but after checking to see how stan's doing (badly), ford decides to help by bursting out of the bushes with a glowing laser gun, face cloaked in shadow. it's more fun than he expects or admits and he eventually fully joins stan.

soos and melody are trick or treating in a couple costume, soos as zelda and melody as link. melody wanted to cosplay link for awhile and you cannot convince me soos wouldn't jump at the chance to dress up as a badass anime elf princess who can fire lasers.

mabel, pacifica, and waddles are dressed as utena, anthy, and chu chu respectively. i have a headcanon that post working at the diner and slowly getting used to normal kid things, pacifica discovers anime. specifically shojo princess anime. she finds utena and loses her mind over it in private, with mabel eventually breaking down her walls and getting her to admit to the sin of liking anime. mabel gets pacifica to show her her favorites and mabel immediately insists they need to cosplay as utena and anthy for halloween, pacifica is a princess after all! (said in jest, but baby gay panic ensues on pacifica's end. mabel is pretty oblivious to her plight and doesn't realize why being pacifica's knight makes her feel so giddy until later on.)

dipper sees pacifica joining mabel as an excuse to flake out on trick or treating without being a total jerk, especially since they'll be joined by candy and grenda later. i know he's working on not trying to grow up too fast by the end of the series, but kids and teens are full of anxiety and doubts and i figure he would be pretty awkward about a lot of things still, even after learning otherwise. wirt doesn't want to dress up since the previous halloween ended with him in the unknown then waking up in the hospital, but greg still wants to go trick or treating. dipper tags along to help babysit greg despite it not really being necessary, wirt's just glad to have someone to chat with while he takes greg, especially someone who doesn't leap to finding him strange. greg is going as a ghost elephant and wirt assumes it's just the weird kid tradition of layering costumes over the years, but greg's logic is that he "died" as an elephant last year so now the elephant is a ghost. if wirt heard this he would probably end up freaked out, but kids are often more aware of things than expected. dipper is wearing wendy's hat since she traded with him at the end of the series.

putting wirt and greg in there could feel a little random, but these are my two favorite shows to watch during autumn and i associate them with each other. plus, it's otgw's ten year anniversary and it's so perfectly halloween, i think it makes enough sense to put them together. idk i love joy and whimsy, i am cringe and i am free.

i initally wanted to include other characters, candy, grenda, and wendy for sure but i was also considering coraline, wybie, and norman. felt way too complicated so maybe i'll draw something with those characters some other time.

[thedexcat]

ENA:DBBQ Speculation Megapost

OBVIOUSLY SPOILERS AHEAD Hyperfixation waxes and wanes over the ocean of interpretive works, and I once again find myself on the shores of a new captivation. Now, I'm not the type to listen to other's interpretations of things before forming my own thoughts. Perhaps this will be retreading old ground, perhaps there will be fresh takes. I just want to commit my thoughts to writing before I slide down the slippery slope of feature-length lore videos and whatnot.

So, where to begin on the subject of ENA: Dream BBQ Chapter 1? I think a good starting point would be...

1: The Title Character Herselves, ENA

Right from the very first trailer, we could all tell: This ENA is different from the one we know from the webseries. Some say that this is a different ENA from before. Others suggest that perhaps something changed her. Maybe it's something in between. For the purposes of this post, I will be referring to this ENA as being her own individual, with no connection to the previous ENA until proven otherwise. The ENA of Dream BBQ will be simply be referred to as ENA. The ENA of the webseries will be referred to as "Ur-ENA"

So, we have a salesperson with a bit of a short temper. But as we experience the world through her eyes, there are some questions that come to mind. The first of which is, "What is her job anyway?" Well, right off the bat, there's some troubling implications. She appears to be after a "Boss", who has gone into hiding, and whom ENA and Froggy refer to as their "Target". The obvious interpretation is that ENA is a contract killer of some sort. But... there is room for doubt.

It was Froggy who first refers to The Boss as a "Work Target", very specifically using English words, that "wacky language" as he calls it. He may have coined this phrase without necessarily knowing the connotations of referring to a person as a "Target". This is brought up by Theodora the Genie, who asks ENA, "Do you even know the ingredients of that word salad?"

But, for reasons we'll get into later, it wouldn't be particularly surprising to anyone if ENA was hired to kill someone. Not after the incident.

CHEESE AND RICE, ENA

As you talk to more and more people in the game, it becomes clear that this ENA is universally despised. Even a lot of the more agreeable characters tend to have some hint of resentment in their words when speaking to her.

This brings us to what appears to be the underlying theme of Dream BBQ: Sin and Forgiveness. ENA has evidentially committed some unspeakable act in the past, some great Sin that has made her known throughout all the worlds. As to the severity of this Sin? We get a hint when ENA first lays eyes on the Bathroom, a place that has been referred to as somewhere where Sins are absolved and Truth is revealed (seriously, two of the stalls have a damn confessional window between them).

"A giant bathroom? Uggh... It's not enough for this many bodies. I hate myself."

This seems to be heavily implying that ENA was apparently responsible for a horrific massacre that occurred in the past. An act beyond any hope of redemption, hammered home by the conversation with Theodora if you actually make it to the Bathroom.

When first speaking to Theodora, she mistakenly forgives ENA's Sins briefly, which immediately mends the gaping wound in her body. Whatever is going on with Human(?) ENA, it seems clear that the wound is representative of guilt rather than a literal physical injury. Ultimately, Theodora offers to fulfill one of ENA's Asperations, and you're presented with the only dialogue options offered in the current version of the game. You're given a list of choices, but you quickly learn that desires are never fulfilled, nor quenched. Any option that would immediately bring ENA peace is doomed to fail for one reason or another.

Like the rest of them... Like the rest of them... A blissful life? No, that aspiration is beyond what ENA is capable of herself, and cannot be granted.

Eternal happiness? No, the natural order of things cannot be changed.

Frank's forgiveness? Refuted outright, in a way that implicitly says "You know perfectly well why you cannot have that." Punishing the Moon? No, the only one that deserves to be punished for being born is ENA herself. All that ENA can aspire to is to perform the task that she has been given. Nothing more. You leave with more questions than you entered with.

Despite all this, ENA carries on with an unwavering faith in G0D and destiny. Several of her interactions bring up matters of faith in a way that seems to... agitate people. Perhaps they see her penitent ways as a means to evade the consequences of her past actions. Perhaps they may even be right. Regardless, ENA seems to find comfort in the idea of an inevitable fate outside of her control.

(And now for the super speculative part that has me going off of 'vibes' more than anything concrete.) As for her Sin, well, my personal interpretation is that the Incident occurred due to ENA being negligent rather than malicious. I could be way off, but the intense weight of her guilt feels like it comes from a 'personal failure', a mindset reflected in her extremely adamant work ethic.

When attending the Purge Event, even though it's for the sake of reaching the Bathroom, she seems completely devastated by the thought that she is on some level slacking off while on the job.

Her limbs get tangled in gnarled branches emerging from her heart. In these moments, she is fighting against herself. Are the branches restraining her from performing her duties, representing her intrusive desire to lose her worries in the vore disco Purge Event? Or are the branches the opposite, her sense of responsibility unnaturally forcing her not to partake in any of the frivolity?

Honestly, it's too soon to tell exactly. Regardless of the specifics, my personal takeaway is that her work ethic probably stems from some disaster that she could have averted if she were more dutiful. Yet she is still at odds with herself, perhaps yearning to live her life in the carefree way that she (probably) used to. Anyway. That's my analysis/interpretation of ENA herself. But I'm not done with this post yet. We've barely touched the subject of...

2- The Genies of the Doors

Beyond each Door lies a land governed by a Genie. In keeping with the 'digital' theming of the series, I've taken to calling each land beyond a Door a "Domain".

Beyond the Lonely Door is the Domain of the recluse Theodora.

Beyond the Crowd Door is Domain of the deviant Pierro.

And lastly, beyond the Horse Door lies the Domain of a fresh corpse.

Therein lies an interesting issue: Genies, while powerful granters of desires, can be killed. Not only that, but one person you can question at the start of the game has this to say: "No Pierro the Genie, no town." This implies that their existence somehow reshapes the world around them, fitting for such powerful entities. So... what does that imply about a Genie getting killed? The game branches twice in the first chapter. The first branching moment is whether to go to the Purge Event or to complete all the sidequests to unlock the Humanboard and ascend to the orb in the sky. These two branches end up leading to the same destination, the nexus outside the Bathroom. Here, the game branches a second time...

If you fail to cross the river (or interact with the puking guy on the other side. fuck that guy he made me do even more runs.) you end up taking a roundabout path to your destination, and you ultimately find that Theodora, the Genie of the Lonely Door, has died at the bottom of what seems to be a well.

But hang on... If you successfully cross the river and go directly to the Bathroom, Theodora is alive and well! In the well! So what gives?

Well, after your meeting with her in either branch, the world begins to change. Places begin to lose their definition, becoming either distorted or changing into pure white geometry. Landmarks become clipart drifting in the air. Real estate investors swoop in on the newly freed up land. The Domain of Theodora is no more, and the Lonely Door is closing.

Many of the people are gone, replaced by familiar strangers.

...I would like to take this moment to point out that the main theme song of the game, Anemoia, is a word meaning "Nostalgia for a time or place that one has never known."

Anyway, this inevitable loss of identity seems to imply that no matter which route you take, Theodora dies. Whether you're too early or too late, ENA doesn't find out who or what killed the genie. Between this and the murder of the unnamed third genie, there is some malicious entity just barely out of sight, slaying genies for unknown reasons. When considering what this could mean for the story down the line, I recall a certain line spoken by a certain goblin of a girl.

"Rude entities like you get punished for the sins of others." Someone is maliciously reshaping the world. And if these acts are as disastrous as they seem, then ENA is in a prime position to take the fall in their stead. She's already known to have caused some kind of calamity, and she's attempting to seek audience with the genies as they're actively being killed off. Should we meet with Pierro in a later installment, I imagine that things will take a swift downturn from there. It's a shame we don't know anything about the third genie...

...or do we? *Vsauce theme*

3- The Shadow of Ur-ENA

The connections between Dream BBQ and the webseries are few and nebulous... but they are there if you look in the right places. The Extinction Party is mentioned by one of the taxi driver's heads, and the location of that episode can be briefly spotted behind one of the doors of the Purge Event. The Domain beyond the Lonely Door starts morphing into the setting of Auction Day. But there's one point of connection that's been nagging at me... and it's pretty obtuse 🐬

Dialing a hidden phone number, we're met with Phindoll....'s answering machine. The message explains that he's looking for some kind of employment. Perhaps he suddenly lost his job? Who was he working for back when we saw him last? ...Oh, yeah. Runas. That wish-granting entity... on the other side of a... Door... ... The Great Runas might be fucking dead, guys.

We've now seen implications that this game takes place before Auction Day... but after Temptation Stairway. If linear causality has any role in this story, it's as a horrified onlooker.

Of course, this can be reconciled if Runas turns out to be the new genie that replaces the murdered one. But dialogue early in the game suggests that temporal shenanigans may be afoot. After all, the low-poly lady at the desk claims...

"You are too late! The Boss isn't even born yet!"

She's... a very blunt, straightforward person. None of her other lines are nearly as ambiguous and confusing as this one, so I'm inclined to take this line at face value. We are in no position to be making assumptions about how concepts like time even work in this setting. So what does this all mean? ... ... I dunno. We only have chapter 1 to work off of, after all.

But if Runas was in fact the murdered Genie, then there is one suspect in particular that pops into my mind. Someone who has met Runas. Someone who was... unimpressed. Dissatisfied. And found herself trapped inside his domain for a long, long time.

That's all for now. There's some glaring points in the story that I simply didn't have enough insight on to really remark upon. (Was that the Holy Code in the ending cutscene? What does ENA's body-hopping power entail? What was with the other ENA in the sewers, and who was she talking to?) Also at this point, my fingers are snapping in half from typing out all of these thoughts. A lot of this was just my personal interpretation, so don't be surprised if it clashes with the analysis of other people. In all likelihood, when the future chapters come out, I'll look back at this post and laugh at how dumb I was.

[harmonysanreads]

i feel like yan!phainon wouldn't want to restrain you physically like tie you up or keep you locked up in a room and etc i think he'd have some form of self-conscience that he's a hero and that doing the above will make himself seem otherwise so he like protects darling at all costs and ends up being overprotective (like the last post you made) because he doesn't want to resort to physically restricting behavior? unless you make things difficult for him but that's just how i think of him for now whjebdjwhebewf praying hoyo cooks with him

I was quite certain about this as well but after recent news of Flame Reaver, a different thought is bugging me if I am to be honest.

Frankly speaking, for an unknown duration of time, Phainon was a man who had nothing left ; his home, the people he once held dear, even his true name had to be left behind. Only vengeance, hatred, a desire for revenge or, perhaps a promise he'd made kept him living an excuse of an existence. You could say that is still the case now, on a deeper level at least. But Phainon would like to not dwell on the negatives all the time. He has a valiant objective, a name that instigates respect among the people, friends that he can fight alongside with, status and wealth.

However, is he sure that those are things he... wants? In a temperate mood, he might say yes. But in all honesty, he isn't sure. In a particularly low-point in his life, he might outright say no, as well. But there is something else, someone else that makes his heart ache at the thought of letting go and leaving behind — you. You're not someone that was pushed to him to carry like all his duties, even if you are, he'd rather take a meteor to his face than give you such label.

Saving Amphoreus through the Flame-Chase? Getting vengeance in Aedes Elysiae's name? Nothing comes close to what he feels when the possibilities are replaced with your name. This is the one mission he'd put all his certainty to. If he is destined to be a hero, he'd much rather be your hero — or, try to. In the beginning it was relatively easy and it was rather difficult to complain about his ‘antics’ when they could be rationalized with some thinking. Not that many people would be bothered to think either, whatever keeps their prophesized Deliverer happy they guess.

Things truly start to become complicated when a shadow from a distant time gets involved in the picture — for you, that is. You see, despite how suffocating Phainon would get in the past, it was well-known to everyone that you held the reigns in the end. It was always ridiculously easy to get Phainon to bend to your will as well, as despite everything, he is a simple man deep down. So, when one day you find your usual tactics completely fail against him, faced with a determination to keep you hidden like he'd die the most gruesome death without making it a reality — no one knew what to do.

Phainon apologizes to you without sparing a breath throughout the ordeal, groveling for a sin he knows he won't receive mercy for. But that is okay, he's always said that he'd take it with a smile even if you sneered at him with a death-sentence. As long as you're safe from that other him, he's willing to go to whatever low is necessary.

[edgeray]

“LATE NIGHT DEVIL, PUT YOUR HANDS ON ME

and never never never ever let go”- Teeth, 5 Seconds of Summer

Mafia AU! Arlecchino x Reader Oneshot

Author's Note: It's been a while since I've actually published anything on here. Well, my gay ass is back with another oneshot. This one has been in the works for at least a month. I'm considering making a Part 2, but that will definitely take at least a couple weeks for me to publish (if not months). I wish I was kidding. School literally hates me and my teachers are incessant on killing my GPA. This is also a gift for @megistusdiary because it'll be her birthday when I post this. Please go check out her blog for amazing genshin wlw content (especially Arlecchino content!) Would you guys like this on AO3 as well?

Content Warning/Info: This is a long af oneshot (6.3k words), long af descriptions and kinda long intro, Arlecchino is referred to with they/them pronouns, implied female but no usage of feminine pronouns for Reader, general dark-ish content, pet names, Arlecchino is a lil scary, I've never been to a club so I apologize for the very inaccurate information, nor have I ever been apart of the mafia so also inaccurate, a bit suggestive but otherwise sfw, if I'm missing anything feel free to tell me!

---

Monsters are said to have lied underneath beds–waiting to ensnare an unknowing victim–or stalk hidden among the depths of a closet–awaiting an opportune moment to strike its next prey. Monsters are fabled entities that are used to scare off children from bad behavior and are quickly eased from the mind by coddling parents. The mere notion of a monster shooed away like a pesky fly, swept underneath the subconscious like forgotten specks of dirt. 

You know otherwise. Real monsters don’t lurk on the undersides of mattresses; no, they lurk both in the skies above and the depths below. They do not stalk dark closets because they instead stalk alleys in daylit streets. Monsters are very real, that you know is true since you’ve seen your fair share of them. You’ve met monsters in person–they’ve come to you before. Terrifying is an understatement for them, and each time one has appeared as a client, you’re no less scared shitless.

You’ve learned that even inhumane demons find themselves in need of entertainment; like the sinful creatures they are, they seek self-pleasure. And that is how you found yourself in this particular circle of hell, meant to serve and please demons, devils, and monsters alike. Perhaps it was a revolting job, working at a strip club run by a criminal organization but it paid decent money for being danced on the fingertips of whoever you were unfortunate enough to be assigned to.

If it was a regular strip club, being an exotic dancer would have been fine. It wouldn't be so bad. Lustful and prying eyes can be accustomed to quickly, and so are the flattering compliments and the awkward flirting by middle-aged married men. However, there was a difference between lecherous and predatory gazes. Here, you aren’t even viewed as a person, no, the clients here, those that come in reeking of smoke or blood (though sometimes both), armed with knives and guns on their person, see you as nothing more than a toy or prey for them. Even in the eyes of your employer, you're less than human in their eyes. 

‘You harm our merchandise, you’ll pay for it,’ is the warning given to every guest when they first enter. Merchandise. That's what you are. And that single line of words is the only thing that assures you of your safety among mafia members, gangsters, crooks, and whatnot. You've heard that the organization behind this strip club does well in enforcing that rule according to other dancers, but you personally don't want to see if the statement is true. You've been here for a little over a year, and besides bruising grips and pulled hair you’ve surprisingly yet to be seriously injured in any way. So maybe monsters do have a little humanity in them. 

You're quickly growing to be a fan favorite as of recently, which means more money goes your way, but you're not sure how you feel about all the attention on you. It's most likely because of how often you offer private dances and private rooms to clients. Whatever gets you the most money; the faster you make money the faster you can pay off your debt and be out of here. 

Tonight is supposed to be no different from other nights. You perform on stage, you rile up the crowd, you get showered in tips, and if there is a customer that looks mentally sane enough not to murder you in private, you take them to the back. Except, tonight, you're approached by your boss, who informs you that the entirety of the club was reserved by the Fatui, a well-known mafia more powerful and larger than the one that backs you up, for some celebration. These kinds of occurrences in the club rarely crop up, but when they do, they're often the most opportune time to bag in an abundant amount of money. Big shots like the Fatui pay and tip well, but there's one unsaid risk that comes with this: as a mere dancer like yourself, your life quite literally dangles in the Fatuis’ hands tonight. The organization that owns this establishment can't retaliate against the Fatuis if they so choose to dismiss the warning. They can't even compare to the might of the Fatui.

Simply put, if a Fatui kills you tonight, no one could do more besides bat their eyelashes. You're not at all pleased with this predicament of practically bordering on death, especially when you know one wrong move with one too hot-tempered Fatui could land you at the pearly gates. Keep pleasing the crowd, keep entertaining them, keep racking in the money, you remind yourself as you continue your dance, twirling around the pole sensually, and the customers devour every movement with their eyes. The only comfort you're given is that you've heard the Fatui are quite reasonable and diplomatic most of the time. This is especially true for the Harbingers, you've heard, the twelve most elite members that serve under the Tsaritsa, and the ones that are the most exclusive customers this night. That doesn't mean the Harbingers are any more humane than the average crook. Having worked in a strip club run by the mafia and surrounded by criminal organizations, the more rumored something is, the more dangerous it is. They can be considered devils amongst demons even. That's simply how vile they're supposed to be. 

The most concerning problem about the Harbingers is that you don’t know what they look like, only the occasional whisper has alluded to how to distinguish between the twelve. Perhaps, you can survive through the night if you try not to draw too much attention; let the other dancers shine instead and hope you don’t get requested for a private room or dance. That way, you can ensure you don’t end up dead. 

Your time to go upstage comes sooner than you’re prepared for. Your hands are clammy, and your form trembles in a way that only happened during your first month. Both reactions don’t make for a very good combination when your survival relies on you not fucking up and disappointing criminal customers. As you approach the pole, just like every time you’ve done, you make sure that the crowd’s gazes are in the backdrop of your mind, and instead, fixate on repeating the movements you’ve been taught and have mastered with your experience. Bet your survival on the provocative sway of your hips, the practiced showcase of your legs, and the allure of your dancing form. Beguile the crowd, but not too much, just enough to wow them. From what you can tell by the volume of the crowd, you’re doing a good job pleasing the Fatui enough. Your body stops tremoring after a few minutes on stage, and with one last final push of courage, you focus your eyes on the crowd before you.

Unsurprisingly, the makeup of the Fatui are men, though there are notably quite a few women. Either way, all of their attention is on you. As your eyes scan across a crowd, for one reason or another, you stop at a particular set of eyes near the back of the crowd. Intent, pitch-black abysses stare back, like they were trying to bore into your soul and devour every single motion of yours. They don’t quite hold the same ravenous desire as many of those before you right now, you mentally note with curiosity. It feels like your form is being calculated, in the way a predator would cautiously observe their next prey, a sensation you’ve experienced a few times, but each is no less chilling. The weight of their engrossed gaze causes you to shiver momentarily, and you snap away from their disturbing gaze to prevent any fumbling or faltering while you’re on stage. 

Tonight marks the first time you actively seek out the same viewer while on stage, or even, during your entire time here. For some reason, you feel awfully bold, or curious, whichever two comforts you more, and unlike the meek little rabbit you usually are, you instead search for the viewer’s gaze. You find the pair of eyes with relative ease, as you remember that above their eyes are distinctive snow-white strands with streaks as black as their orbs. You take a moment to study them, and they remind you of a lion–or lioness–among hyenas. The aura they exude varied quite a bit compared to the other Fatui in front of you: not rambunctious, or arrogant; it's apparent they held an aura of indomitable authority just from the way they held themselves. Perfect posture with their clasped hands nested in their lap, with one leg raised over the other. They’re an embodiment of perfected elegance, however, much like a porcelain doll, they’re also expressionless, their appearance unmarred. You don’t examine the Fatui’s form for much longer because their scrutiny on you pricks at your skin irritatedly. 

You don’t look for them again throughout your performance. In fact, you hope you never meet those charcoal pits again. You’re afraid that if you do, you’ll be ensnared by whatever beastly claws or fangs you know that Fatui hides underneath that impenetrable mask. The moment your time on stage ends, you rush back to the changing room to shake off your nerves. You sit down at a nearby chair, taking in deep sighs as you attempt to forget how you were stared down like a you were cornered, defenseless animal. And that is what you are, as much as you hate it. There’s nothing that can protect you from the Fatui. Maybe if you hide, never show your face for the rest of the night, they’ll forget they ever saw you and they’ll target another dancer. Surely, that will work, won’t it? 

You’re able to steady your breathing before you can delve into a panic attack. Tonight, you decide, you’re not going to take any customers to any private rooms or take any private dances. You’d be missing out on a lot of money, but your life is more of a priority as of currently; not after the ‘encounter’ with that individual, you don’t want to think about how many more are just like them, hiding in the crowd like they were awaiting an opportunity to pounce on your vulnerable form. 

Unfortunately, it seems like someone else has other plans for you because your manager storms into the room asking for your whereabouts before his eyes narrow on you. You immediately sit up, stiff as a board when he practically marches his way towards you. 

"Someone wants you." 

You sigh and shake your head. You should have known. "Not tonight." 

He clicks his tongue. "You know I can't allow that tonight." 

You bite your lip. "Just pass them to someone else." 

"They're not someone you or I can refuse." 

"Who?" You question with a shuddering breath, your nails digging into your thigh. 

"The fourth one. The Knave. Lord Arlecchino."

Fuck your life. You might as well pull the trigger now. You’ve heard faint whispers of each Harbinger from the customers audacious enough to speak of them. The youngest, the eleventh, charming and boyish. The ninth, money-obsessed but a pretty looker. The eighth, elegant and cold, yet no less alluring. The seventh, as human-like as their robotic creations, which to say isn’t very. The sixth, is hotheaded and mysterious. The fifth, unknown. And the fourth?

Insane. Ruthless. Bloodthirsty. That’s how the fourth is described. You shiver at the horrors that appear on the forefront of your mind when imagining what may come for you. If you're lucky, you'll be alive at the end of the night, more than likely clinging to the edge of living. 

“Well? What are you waiting for? Get ready as soon as you can.” 

And you do. It’s not long until you stand in front of the private room’s door, your guest is already inside more than likely. The Fourth Harbinger is waiting, you remind yourself, fruitlessly trying to swallow down your stress. You can be dead the minute you step inside, this room could be marked as your grave. Whatever he tells you to do, you’ll obey wordlessly to survive. Just nod along, smile, and do whatever it is that he tells you regardless of the demand. You inhale deeply, regaining some ease of mind, before you bring your knuckles to the door, knocking. 

“Come in,” comes a deep, flat voice, slightly muffled by its distance but what surprises you is how feminine the Harbinger sounds. Maybe you got the wrong room. You glance back at the room number plate on the door, and it’s the room you remember your manager mentioning. It’s the right room. Maybe someone else? You don’t have time to wonder, however, as you enter the room, knowing that if it is the Fourth, it wouldn’t be wise to keep him (Her? Them? You’ll just stick with ‘them’ now.) waiting. 

“Lord Arlecchino?” You inquire as you enter the room, closing the door behind you. Sucking in a harsh inhale, you instantly recognize their distinct hair. It’s them. Your sight is immediately greeted by the figure sitting on the couch before you, sitting in exactly the same way you discovered them–crossed-legged and lounging back with unfaltering confidence. The Knave wears a scarlet blazer over a black compressed turtleneck, with a matching set of crimson leggings. Upon closer inspection, you’re able to make out red irises in their jet-black eyes. Despite the blatant and literal red flag, something about their appearance draws you in even when they scream danger. They’re… you’re not quite sure how to describe them. You admire the unblemished and pale skin, their elegant and rugged demeanor is like the perfect balance between femininity and masculinity. Are they beautiful, or are they handsome? You think both. 

Arlecchino stares back at you like they’re considering devouring you then and there. You can’t suppress the shudder that runs down your spine. You’re a sheep before a wolf. There’s something so chilling about them that even with your experience with other clients, none has ever made you feel this way with just their mere gaze alone. This is what separates the average crook from one of the most powerful mafia members you've ever heard of.

You wait for a response but they only continue to observe you. You take the silence as confirmation to your question and that they’re anticipating something from you. Biting back a sigh of resignation, your hands hook underneath the band of your bra top and you lift it just the slightest amount before a cutting voice makes you freeze.

“What are you doing?” the Harbinger demands, their tone chilling and apathetic, making you want to shrink in yourself immediately. Your blood pumps loudly in your ears and your hands tremble a bit. Something about how designing their gaze makes you suddenly self-aware in a way you’ve never felt before another client–you’re practically half-naked in front of them with your skimpy bra top, undergarments, and fishnets and now is the only moment that you've actually considered how little covering is on you. 

Why are they stopping you? Isn’t this what they wanted you to do? Or maybe they just want to do it themselves. Those types of customers always have the most bruising of grips and suffocating of holds. You stiffen at the notion. How are you going to survive this night with a Fatui Harbinger of all things? How many of your limbs are going to be fractured and how many of your bones are going to end up broken? 

“I…I’m undressing,” your meek voice sounds out and you hate the crack in your speech. The Harbinger continues to scrutinize you. You don’t dare continue disrobing yourself. 

There are several beats of wordless response before they then stand up from the couch. 

Oh shit. You’ve fucked up. Are they going to kill you now? Is this your end? 

Every thought is telling you to run in the opposite direction as they stalk up to you, but you're petrified as you realize with a chill that they’re taller than you. You’re not short by any means, a bit above average height, but they tower over you, looking down at you from above and casting judgment on you like a god. Once they stride toward you, you avoid eye contact by looking straight, observing their neck and clavicle that protrudes from underneath the fabric. You tense when they raise a hand, their manicured fingers placing themselves underneath your chin and long, carmine nails dig into the underside of your jaw, making you wince. They forcefully tilt your head, raising your focus onto their face. 

It’s like they plunged their hands down your throat and ripped out the oxygen from your lungs, leaving you unable to breathe. Up close, the first thing you notice is their lips, plump and red from their lipstick. Briefly, you wonder what color their lipstick would look on your skin. Then your eyes travel up, red-crossed eyes gaze back at you and you gape quietly at the distinct shape of their pupils. You swear that their pupils flash red as you finally lock eye contact with them. 

“Did I tell you to?” Their tone is cold compared to the strange softness of their handsome (beautiful?) face. 

Something in your gut coils inwardly and you want to look away, but their firm hold on your chin prevents you. You bite your bottom lip to repress a whimper. You’re delicate glass in their hands, and they can break you so, so easily. 

“No, sir.” Only the numerous times you’ve said this phrase ensures you don’t stumble over your words. They don’t answer promptly, but as they observe your features, their lips quirk up the slightest amount. 

“You know how to address me. Very good,” Arlecchino purrs after several beats of silence, in a low, oh-so-sultry tone, and oh. Oh. 

You’re not sure why, but their last two words make your stomach churn, but not in a discomforting way. In the way that lights a fire underneath your skin and spreads heat to every part of your body. You’ve never quite felt this way with another customer. You couldn’t believe that your body reacts this way just from a single praise but it doesn’t stop the pooling heat in your bowels. The chill down your spine still remains in place, but there’s an off-putting equilibrium of iciness and fervor generated from the client. 

The Fatui’s eyes stay fixated on you wordlessly until the hand on your chin turns your head, finally breaking you free of their intense behold. Their grip slackens so that they can trace their nails gently down your throat, every inch of surface their fingertips brush against ignites a blaze on your skin. A shuddering exhale leaves your lips and it seems like they take notice because from the corner of your eye, the small uptick of their mouth grows. Despite how sensual and probing the Harbinger’s touch feels, there’s nothing lecherous about it–purely just intrigue and fascination. It’s a touch you both have and never experienced before. Cold nails rake against your throat, not enough to mark or scratch, but enough to invoke shivers. 

You’re aware you should be terrified, but for a reason you can’t pin down, you can’t jerk away from their touch. You try to reason with yourself it was only because you’re one upset away from getting yourself killed but that reasoning falls apart when their hand gingerly traces your jawline and you make the softest of groans, a barely audible noise of content. Unfortunately for you, the sound seems to have reached Arlecchino’s ears and their expression softens slightly: their eyes narrow less and their brows aren’t as creased. And that smirk–if you could even call it that from how faint it is–becomes a half-smirk. 

They pull their hand away and your trance is broken, reality returning back to you as you remember that the person before you is still a Fatui Harbinger, no matter how bizarrely melting their touch was. They turn on their heel and walk towards the couch in front of you; the slightest bit of heaviness is placed on your heart. You remain stationary where you are, observing them as they seat themselves gracefully on the couch, and their attention encounters yours again. Their black pits hold expectancy in them. At first, you’re clueless as to what the criminal desires from you, but then their legs spread apart, an inviting gesture that beckons you and every rational thought leaves your easily swayed mind. Your heart skips a beat, and you're sure this time it's not out of trepidation. 

Even if you didn’t command them to, your legs would take you to their seating figure. You stand before them, feeling blatantly disrespectful to look down at Arlecchino, but you await their order. They lean back, lounging laxly against the couch, their posture never lacking their usual self-assurance. It only ties the knot in your gut tighter. You’re aware of what they’re instructing you to do, but the absent confirmation makes you hesitant. It seems like the Knave picks up on this because the room echoes with one definitive spouted word from their lips, authority and dominance ringing through their husky voice. 

“Sit.” 

Your legs buckle underneath you from the one-worded response, the demand only stoking the consuming fire inside you. Eager to please, you perch yourself on their lap, straddling them, your knees pressed into the furniture below you and encasing both of their thighs between your own. 

Oh, you think to yourself as your legs make contact with their thighs. They're firm. And for some reason, that provokes your stomach to churn in itself even more. You're so close to them, enough to feel their breath cascade against your skin. 

As you seat yourself, you nearly clumsily topple over, instinctively grasping onto their shoulders for support. Their shoulders are remarkably broad, you regard, well-muscled as well. Their hands creep up on your hips, steady but gentle hands grasping on each bare side of yours to stabilize you. The heat that radiates from their hands is infectious, regardless of the nails that burrow into your plush waist. For the first time, you flush considerably, a sweltering inferno forming in your cheeks and your head fills with dizziness. Their touch is gentle–something you rarely experience with customers–so, so gentle that you would describe it as heavenly. How can someone so inexplicably vile have heaven on their fingertips?

It's not a position you never found yourself in. In fact, it's far from the first time you've been like this with another client. But here, as you're sat on top of the Fatui Harbinger, and red x-pupils search yours, a foreign feeling passes through you. Placing your finger on it, you dubiously think it's bashfulness, but the heartbeat that sings in your ears and pulses underneath your fingertips tells you otherwise, tells you it's something more. Against that, you remove your grasp on their shoulders and place your palm flat against the couch’s surface behind the Knave. 

You squirm a bit, nervousness in your form as you remain as still as you possibly can, waiting for any more instructions. All you need to do is act like an obedient doll for them in order to survive; compliance is the best way of ensuring survival with people like these. You feel like you're merely eye candy from the way that their attention flits across your body, but you're immobile throughout the entirety of their observance. Being looked at is much better than any physical interaction. Their hands still cup your hips, but slowly, they descend to the side of your thighs, making your skin feel tingly. 

Impulsively, you mumble out a quiet "Sir…" as strange sensations brush against your skin. 

The sound surprises you and you feel on edge as their eyes travel from your lower half to your face. You gulp considerably. From their stare, they expect more of a response, a reason for their addressment, but even you don’t know yourself; it seems like an unconscious calling that just rolled off your tongue. You cow underneath their gaze, even when the two of you are at eye level. When you linger in quietude, their hand releases one of your thighs and lifts to your face, supporting your chin while their thumb rests on your bottom lip, unfurling it just the slightest amount to implore an answer from your now parted lips. Gleaming scarlet pupils grip your regard sternly, piercing into you and instilling you to spew something out. Except, you still can’t, now too entranced and lost in the crimson. 

“Doll.” 

Despite the pet name, it's devoid of any affection or warmth. It's a word that drips of command, a reminder of your place: simply a toy that they can play with however they want, a manipulated and decorated plaything for their amusement. That means you answer to them, and so when they request a response, you're under the obligation to please them. Your survival is in their palms anyway, if they wanted you to dance, you would just so they wouldn’t strangle the life out of you. 

However, its implication doesn’t prevent the tingling shudders that wrack your body nor the involuntary clenching of your thighs around theirs. Was it the gravelly voice that aroused your behavior? Your cheeks flare at the knowledge that Harbinger sensed the physical reaction. It shouldn't be possible. It shouldn't be possible, your thoughts repeat, but then they're interrupted by: 

"Oh?" Arlecchino inquires to themselves, a stark amusement in their speech. Their red glare illuminates slightly, replacing the lost darkening with a faint glow in their pupils, and the corner of their mouth curls up. It is only then that you discover something entirely new: that monsters can be sinfully, cataclysmically, terrifyingly beautiful and the sight before you is the most exquisite example. A devil has you wrapped in its claws and its fangs readied for devouring but it’s disguised as an ethereal angel; blinded by their perilous allure, you mistake their snow-white hair, their lustrous piercing rubies, their flawless porcelain skin, and their burning, fleeting touches as traits of a seraph. From a measly smirk, you forget the atrocities lying underneath their fingertips and dismiss the hazard their presence holds. 

The hand on your thigh rakes its fingers up, red nails trailing across the surface of your fishnet, wrenching out a breathy gasp from you as they travel inwards. Tingling pleasure injects into your veins as you subconsciously lean in, imploring for further sensual contact. A plea sits on your tongue and nests in your eyes as you beg them through your pitiful expression. They drink in your desperation with a slow swipe of their tongue over their lips, and that single action is debauched enough to elicit a soft groan from your throat.

“Well, aren’t you an amusing toy?” They drawl out with a preposing rasp and dark abysses glint with an insatiable hunger. 

They smirk enticingly, their thumb running across your bottom lip and smearing your lipstick on their thumb pad. Their grip on your chin tightens a bit, pulling you even closer to them before a shadow casts over you when their face nears. Before you can even fathom their intentions, they descend upon you, closing the distance between the two of you. Your lips are greeted with something pillowy soft and fervently warm, and you sharply inhale from the sensation. Every one of your nerves sings frenziedly, your muscles tense all over, and your heartbeat drums deafeningly in your ears–all of this as your body is engulfed in a fervid tornado of heat that makes you lightheaded with pleasure. It takes you several beats to realize the reason for this is that Lord Arlecchino, the Fourth Harbinger, the Knave is kissing–no, kissing is far too intimate, devouring–you voraciously like they're trying to rob you of any air, trying to imprint themselves on your mouth. Their mouth dominates yours, pushing against them with a deep fervor and famished urgency, eager to swallow every bit of shocked noise you make. 

You close your eyes and allow yourself to indulge. 

You first taste lipstick with a waxy flavor hitting your tastebuds. It’s cold against your lips, yet warm at the same time. But the physical texture and flavor of their lips are irrelevant; there’s only one true manner you would distinguish their taste: 

They taste like sin. 

The type of sin that’s chocolate coated and sprinkled with colorful toppings; depravity so sweet and charming it makes you reconsider the bounds of right and wrong. Degeneracy is far, far tastier than anything you’ve indulged in before. How can something so evil be so heavenly? Cushiony soft, placidly warm, flatteringly zealous, it’s like having a dance with a devil; so unequivocally immoral but no less gratifying. You question if they really belong to the Fatui because how can something like this come from such? You want to engrave the texture of their mouth onto your memory, feel this faux intimacy even when you’ve long parted. The Fourth Harbinger, you surmise as you surrend your will to them, is decadent–the only word that can be defined as both wicked and delectable at once–the perfect word to describe them. 

The last remaining bit of reasoning comes to the backdrop of your thoughts and begs you to not be swept away in the heavenly embrace. You discount it in favor of accepting this godsent gift by leaning further with a weak imitation of their ravishing lips and pressing back. It’s a feeble attempt to match their insatiate nature, far too domineering and forceful than you can manage but they display a token of appreciation when they squeeze your thigh, indenting your skin shallowly with the burrowing of their nails. The action exposes just how sensitive you’ve gone underneath their touch and you reward them with the sweetest of sounds. 

“Arlecchino,” you mumble with half-lidded dazed eyes in between ravenous exchanges and it evokes a depraved throaty growl from the Fatui, like provoking a call from a starving beast. They lean deeper to indulge in your taste. The gruff sound reaches your ears and it’s like a psalm–you shudder from its musical melody. 

Their clutch on your jaw releases and their fingers outline your jawline before snaking to the back of your head. Well-manicured digits entangle themselves in your hair, and there’s a gentle shove against your skull that forces you deeper into the kiss. Your hands clutch onto the couch underneath you as tight as you physically can for any sense of grounding and your knees attempt to close in even more to feel more of their body against yours. The hand on your leg, in turn, caresses the length of your thigh. 

Every graceful touch, stroke, and brush exudes an unyielding and infectious warmth that only adds to the stoking fire in your gut, and you’re bathed in so much swelter from the ecstasy that you feel dizzy. Yet, you never want it to end, you grow more addicted and drunk with each encounter of their lips. That, paired with your strained breathing, prompts your stamina to falter much sooner than the Harbinger’s. You let out a soft whine to signal your depleting oxygen, and their mouth unlatch with yours, pulling away despite your ache for more. With the separation comes a small string of saliva attached between the two of you, evidence of the shared intimacy that’s snapped when they lick their lips. The hand behind your head detangles from your hair and you silently mourn over the loss of contact. 

You heave for air, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You’re a little perturbed when you notice that they’re not even out of breath, a small but firm reminder that they’re as inhuman as humans can be. That knocks a sense of reality back into you. Customer, mafia, Fatui, Harbinger, it comes back to you like a train. Here you are swapping spit with them while in the lap of potentially the most dangerous criminal you could ever meet, but fuck were they a good kisser–you’ve never experienced anything that came close to this in your lifetime.

Any foolish doubtful contemplation of the morality of this interaction is swept away just like that when you hear:

“Greedy little thing that you are,” they regard with the most cunning and handsome of smiles, discrete amusement dripping from their words. Their dark pits behold you entirely, the same way they have always done when it seems like they were contemplating what part of you to savor the most. Only this time, you’re not so disturbed by the notion. If anything, the swirling heat in between your legs suggests the opposite.  

Greedy wasn't a word often associated with you, yet you couldn't more correctly describe yourself in that moment. Greedy. Greedy for a Fatui Harbinger no less. As ashamed as you should be, there's no use denying that you crave for their touch, for their gaze, for anything and everything they're willing to give you. You want everything and more. The more you contemplate, the more it seems obvious why you wouldn’t. Are they a devil disguised as an angel, or are they an angel that fell from grace? Regardless, they bring nirvana to you. An incessant desire bubbles inside you, your throat swelling up with an urgent request on the tip of your tongue. Would they allow such a thing if you plead? Would they be offended by your impudence? Would they punish you for such? But the necessity outweighs any reconsideration of your insolence and the supplicant beg tumbles out of your loose lips. 

“Can I… touch you please, my Lord?” You croak out, wincing at just how wretched it comes out. The response from them is not immediate as the two of you stew in silence, a building sense of dejection inside of you. The expression on their face noticeably contorts, smile lessening, their brows furrowing, and their red x’s glinting dimly. Their free hand raises to near your neck and you suck in a harsh breath as their fingers enclose around your throat. The mere action sends a stinging reminder to your lust-dazed thoughts about their position, and a chill pierces you. 

Mafia, Fatui, Harbinger, the Fourth Harbinger, the Knave–the labels cycle through your thoughts. Though their grip is lax, not exactly suffocating and giving ample space to breathe, their fingertips does acutely jab into your skin, a display of their impressive grip strength. You have no doubt that they can suffocate you with one hand alone, snap your neck, or, as your mind ventures into more harrowing territories, crush your skull. Those thoughts alone has you breathless with anticipation. A heavy weight suddenly appears in your gut, so heavy that you feel like you can’t move so much as a muscle. 

Did you just go too far? Was that too much to ask? Was this how you were going to die?

The reflex to gag and inhale combat each other in your throat, a discomforting sensation that crawls up your spine while you tremble. You’re almost certain that the nails have penetrated the layer of skin, drawing beads of blood that’ll trail down your mark. You whimper at the prickly pain. Yet, in all your unease, the most masochistic thought arrives briefly at the forefront, and you can’t help but consider: this position is just as intimate as all the other interactions. You’re already so vulnerable in their lap, does the hand around your neck change your peril in any way? No, you’ve been a defenseless lamb to a slaughter the moment you’ve stepped into the domain of a menacing wolf. 

Ah. Even now, you can’t dismiss the warmth of their fingertips. 

“Do you still want to touch me when I do this?” They demand callously, their voice harsh and reverberating through the room. Their grasp closes more around, and you feel your supply of oxygen inhibited. Tears begin to brim your eyes, but you’re undeterred. Unlike Arlecchino’s, your answer is instant and breathless. Your eyes intently lock on theirs, the hardened expression enough to satisfy their question. There’s no need for contemplation. Danger, you determine, is addicting. 

“Yes.”

The previously small smile stretches across their lips considerably. Content, or dare you say it, thrill writes itself over their face and the boulder previously pressed against your shoulders is lifted. Your throat is freed from their hold, but their touch doesn’t halt there. Instead, they rotate your head for you to face to the left, exposing your side profile to them. From the corner of your eyes, you watch as their face draws closer to your skin, hot breath cascading across the small dents her nails created. The one on your thigh finally leaves, moving to one of your hips, tender strokes across your flushed surface. They lean forward, and moist, plush skin meets yours. Lips traverse over the length of your neck, teeth scraping against, making you weakly groan. It takes all of your will to still your body, only allowing for the Harbinger to do whatever they desire to your form. Their touches are burning, burning, burning–so hot that you wonder if you’re experiencing a heat wave. Peppered kisses follow the edge of your jawbone, all the way up to your earlobe. A wet kiss graces your ear and then the most sinful of statements dignifies your eardrums, like a devil whispering hymns directly into your ear. 

“I think I’ll keep you to myself after this.”

A short hum follows afterward. 

“If you want to touch me, you’ll have to work for it. You’re only mine for tonight, aren't you? Entertain me. Give me a private dance, doll. After all, you have me for all night.” 

---

Link to M-Alexa's amazing art and how I imagine Arlecchino to look like in this oneshot.

[danielsarmand]

honestly i think what i don't understand is why people expect certain things from certain characters. like why do you expect armand to earnestly give two damns about claudia and madeleine, or about anyone else beside himself and perhaps louis, or lestat, or people he has personally developed feelings for and/or entertained a relationship with? hell, why do you expect lestat, even, to truly care about claudia? louis is the one who wanted her, and for his own selfish reasons, no less! to make himself feel better about himself, to feel righteous and good, to feel like he'd atoned for his sins, to feel cleansed. and sure, he came to care for her, to love her, but never enough. never more than he loved lestat, never more than he loved his own pride and hubris.

and that is because each and every one of this characters is selfish, has been selfish, will be selfish. vampires are monsters. they are what's left when you're no longer the human you were, and some of them weren't good people to begin with, and some others have hundreds of years of abuse and trauma in place of human bones, and most of the times both things are true. louis has been warned time and time again, claudia has been warned time and time again, they have even been warned—multiple times—by the people who ended up hurting them the most. they were told there's no such thing as a good vampire, they were told to keep to themselves, they were told to leave, they were warned both with words and with actions. they proceeded to ignore all the warnings, all the signs, and to turn into wretched little things themselves in the process, because that's how it goes.

it confuses me, is all, to see posts where people are so outraged about armand not doing anything to stop what happened, or about him manipulating louis into believing he couldn't, because why did you expect him to? armand is not a good, immaculate entity. he operates under his own set of morals, his own rules, always has. at no point in the show was the audience meant to be fooled by him. we were always meant to be wary of him, because he is a 500+ yo vampire and we do not have a single example in favour of any vampire, really, let alone one so old and powerful. you cannot in your right mind ask this of armand. you cannot ask of him to be a decent, morally irreprehensible character who does the right thing and saves the day, because he was never meant to be that character for you, nor was it ever implied that he would. you cannot ask someone to be something they aren't and then get mad when—well, they're not.

the show is set in a future where things have gone very clearly awry, and the set of characters we are left with were never meant to be easily digestible, regardless of what you wanted them to be. otherwise, they wouldn't be all we're left with. so by all means, be mad at armand, be mad at lestat, be mad at louis, curse their names until you can't anymore—they deserve it! none of them, none of them, is exempt. but the surprise? the absolute confusion as to why they'd do what they each have done? nonsensical. they did all of those things—and more—because they were never good enough not to. they were never heroes. that's really all there is to it.

[nyxianwayfarer]

Corrupted Vamp!Garo Fic Idea?

Happy Hump Day, everyone! I present you all with a half-assed idea that does involve a fair bit of humping and was semi-inspired by this post... 😏

Okay, hear me out now: do you all remember how during one of the events (it might have been Rain Burst or Floral Unfurl; can't remember which... 😅) that we got treated to this tall, dark, and dripping with sin version of Garofano??

Like, are you kidding me?? I'm barking and howling like mad for her over here! 🤤

So let me begin by explaining Garo's history in this AU (SFW Section):

This will mostly be a Garo-centered fic, but I might have The Garden involved in some vague fashion. The ladies within it could be a part of some coven, where Coquelic acts as the leading figure of it as their sire.

Garofano was likely changed when she was far older in life than some of the others, so she wouldn't have the same amount of reckless impulsivity other newborns might. That probably allowed her to move up through The Garden's ranks over the centuries to become a part of Coquelic's inner circle.

Of course, when it comes to vampire covens, there's the usual violent rivalry to go along with them.

Let's say that during a struggle of power, a spellcaster from a rival coven attempted to cast a magical attack against Coquelic—hoping to destroy The Garden by killing its head—but since Garofano's loyalty to her Mentor knows no bounds, she was the one who intercepted the attack instead.

Coquelic is saved, but the toll Garofano takes for her intervention becomes very obvious over several weeks and then months as an obvious corruption of dark magic—tinged with her violet aura—begins to spread across her body.

Canonically, Garofano is one of the more modestly-dressed members of The Garden, which one can argue might be due to her age and mature nature, but for the sake of this AU, I will say that she begins covering herself up more out of necessity. Her corrupted skin is something that unnerves some members of The Garden, especially the ones outside Coquelic's inner circle.

With the growing unease her condition causes, Garofano proposes an arrangement to Coquelic: rather than risk causing a further schism between the regular ranks of The Garden and its powerful inner circle, Garofano will exile herself.

Coquelic is, of course, reluctant to agree to this. Besides being very powerful herself, Garofano is one of the women she trusts most. For Garofano's loyalty to her over the centuries, however, Coquelic offers a compromise: Garofano will be granted her self-imposed exile, but she will be forever bound to guard the very edges of Coquelic's vast territory with no other aid than what Garofano can provide for herself.

Garofano sees the declaration for what it is. Coquelic cannot be seen as weak in front of her underlings—no matter how much she cares for one of them. However, the arrangement is far kinder than Garofano could have hoped for. While she is otherwise alone out there, no one would dare risk entering Coquelic's domain without first risking her wrath, so she is still under her sire's protection in that sense.

So Garofano removes herself from The Garden's vast manor and takes upon her duty as an eternal guard, vigilantly watching the edges of Coquelic's territory.

Over the decades, she builds herself a modest cabin out there, an oasis of sorts when she isn't otherwise occupied with dispatching would-be attackers or planting fields of carnations to mark the perimeter she's been ordered to defend—an obvious sign for outsiders to keep their distance.

How you—the Reader—fits in (still SFW territory):

You are a vampire hunter.

...but you are also an outcast of your own guild. 😅

You were originally brought in as an orphan, one who had been abandoned after your family succumbed to the winter cold. What followed after that had been years of arduous training as a means to earn your keep.

You actually build a successful reputation for yourself by the time you're an adult and going on harder-ranked missions, but although you've always been told of the eternal animosity between your fellow hunters and the monsters you all hunt, you begin to question things following one reconnaissance mission gone wrong...

It should have been easy. All you had to do was follow the orders of your superior—a hunter several decades your senior—who led you both to a small town called Désir, where you would be tasked with killing the vampire who had seemingly enthralled all of its inhabitants.

But as you gathered clues regarding the vampire in question, you find several more regarding the inhabitants of Désir—namely that many of them were elderly or slowly dying due to terminal illness. You further found that the inhabitants were there by choice and that the vampire who founded the town had offered them all a peaceful and dignified end to their suffering, but only if they were ready to take the final step.

You had never heard of a vampire who was so... humane in their approach to taking lives. You tried to bring this information up to your superior, but he sneered at you, wondering if you perhaps had also fallen under the vampire's thrall. Regardless, he was determined to take the vampire down with or without your help, but things became complicated quickly when a child had rushed in to defend the vampire in question, pleading for him to not hurt the nice lady, but the older hunter couldn't be deterred and swung his sword down towards the boy.

Your body was in motion before you knew what you were doing, but it didn't change the fact that your superior was dead and your target was still very much alive.

Needless to say, the leaders of your guild were furious. Rather than simply exile you, given your prowess as a hunter, you were given an otherwise impossible task: go into the territory of one of the most notorious vampire covens in existence and kill as many of them as you can.

It's nothing less than a suicide mission, but it's one that cannot be refused before the eyes of your guild lest you be killed by their hands instead.

And that's more or less how Garofano meets you when you wander into her sire's territory, defeated and questioning everything you've ever known about your purpose in life.

She defeats you summarily but lets you go with your life the first time.

But the thing is, you keep coming back. Where else were you going to go after all? Your guild will never accept you among their ranks again and all other guilds know to turn you away. Garofano's probably the only consistent presence you have through those long, lonely weeks. Yet, each time, she lets you go... until she doesn't.

Garofano, an exile herself—albeit of her own circumstance—probably recognizes a kin spirit when she sees one, and she's been just as lonely too...

So begins an unlikely relationship between a vampire and her hunter.

I should probably mention that by the time I start the fic, you two are already in an established relationship, but I'm gonna go off on a tangent here because we're slowly getting into NSFW territory. That, and I want to explain my concept of corrupted vampire Garo a bit more.

So I don't remember if the game ever went into detail with all that a Corrupted Garofano is capable of from the brief moment we saw her in the event, but there's at least a significant physical difference and a slight distortion of her voice if I recall correctly.

There's also this dark aura around her from the image above, and it looks like she's capable of using that energy to either corrupt her signature weapons or manifest different versions of them from that power. And that energy might have some tangibility to it too if it can hold her needles in the air like that.

The corruption could also grant Garofano seem level of transformative/shapeshifting ability too. I think you all know where I'm going with this if you've checked the hyperlink about Garo at the beginning of this post... 😏

Can you imagine Garofano's mouthful of tentacles? 🤤 Like, she wouldn't even have to use her hands when she goes down on you! She could use two of them to slowly spread you apart while another toys at your clit while she summons an even thicker tentacle to fill you up nice and slow...

And look at her hands in the above image! It looks like she's capable of making them longer/bigger or making them incorporeal because her hand in the lower left doesn't really hold any recognizable shape like a normal hand would. Instead, it looks entirely composed of magical energy!

Seriously, with no one else to really interact with during so many decades on her own, Garofano likely spent the large majority of her time testing her strange powers between her usual duties. So when your relationship turns more sexual, she demonstrates her tricks to you. 😌

You want tentacles? She'll give you plenty to play with.

You want to suck on her many tongues while she shifts bigger fingers to thrust into you with, stretching you deliciously? No problem!

And you might not have the best green thumb when it comes to tending to flowers or crops, but she appreciates it when you help water her garden with your juices... 🤭

Like, imagine that you're kneeling over a plot of soil, planting new seeds there, and Garofano comes up to lean against your back as she envelops her arms around you, preventing you from standing up. Before you know it, she tears open the front of your pants, revealing your pussy to the cool air as she positions you more firmly over the newly-planted seeds.

"Spring is upon us. Will you not help me welcome a flourishing harvest with your essence?" she teases.

And with her shadowy tentacles and fingers, she begins working you over thoroughly.

Some of those tendrils slide under you shirt to tease at your nipples, brushing over them or wrapping around them for a nice pinch or squeeze of pressure. One tentacle flicks slowly back and forth over you clit like a lazy tongue while Garofano fills you with thick fingers, stroking masterfully at your inner walls that has you moaning.

If Garofano weren't holding you up from behind, you likely would have collapsed face first to the ground with all the stimulation, but she's determined to give you the high you seek, the one you keep begging for as she thrusts into you.

Perhaps finally a bit sympathetic to your plight, she uses another tentacle to touch your chin and turn your head towards her, where she practically devours you, wrapping her tongues around yours, muffling your surprised, hungry moan. As distracted as you are, you don't see how the tentacle at your clit shifts in appearance, becoming more hollow and tube-like. When it situates itself around your clit and begins sucking though, you can't help your sudden cry.

It triggers your orgasm immediately, and you clench around Garofano's fingers even as you squirt your juices over the soil, watering them just as she had envisioned. With her fingers still inside you, she keeps stroking, drawing out your climax. Of course, when that inevitably pulls a second orgasm out of your, she just picks you up and lifts you over to the next available soil plot for you to "water."

You're a shivering mess after all of that, but you can't the way your heart skips a beat when she kisses the side of your head and whispers, "Good girl."

And if there's shifting involved, you can bet she's shifting on something nice and hard for you during those moments where she really wants to feel you squeezing around her. 🤤

You're both naked before the fireplace inside her cabin (she has to find some way to keep you warm throughout the colder months after all). You're resting on your back against the bear skin rug while she looms over you. Between her legs is something definitely phallic, but there's life to it in the way it twitches, dripping something translucent at its tip as it hovers over your folds. Enough precum builds up at the head that the droplet falls on top of your clit, leaving you gasping at the sensation.

Smiling, Garofano simply lifts your legs over her shoulders before slowly sinking inside you...

So to all my fellow monster fuckers out there, tell me: would you be interested reading something like this? 😏

[olderthannetfic]

I'm so glad that nobody in my native language pulls the "write for yourself! don't want comments, feedback, hits, bookmarks, or interaction!" thing. In English language fandoms it's apparently a big character flaw or a sign of immaturity to want someone to read what you wrote. Meanwhile in my fandoms we're all completely honest about the fact that... yeah. If you post it, you would like someone to read it. Otherwise, you wouldn't post it in the first place. And there's never this competition to be the least interested in what other people think that USAmericans feel the need to do. Irony poisoning isn't much of a problem in our country so you can outright say, "It makes me happy when someone comments." You're allowed to be proud of your work and think it's worthy of being looked at.

Idk, I'm sure it's cultural. Pride is a sin in Christianity and the US is very Christian. But it sounds rough. I don't think I'd enjoy having to constantly tell people how much I don't care what others think and how I don't care if anyone reads my work. It sounds so insincere to me. I doubt it's much fun to constantly have to act unenthused in order to seem cool. And it's definitely an act. People who actually believe something don't have to chant it like a mantra at every opportunity.

A part of me is honestly really sad for people who get this angry backlash whenever they want interaction with their works. Fandom may not be a social hobby in the US. It's more mainstream, so it's not the same as it is here. But I love gushing about comments. I love replying to comments. I smile when I see something of mine that I worked hard on has been thoroughly bookmarked and loved. My friends feel the same. We gush at each other about comments and responses. We don't have to act indifferent and uninterested and go, "I don't care if I get comments, I write for myself" at others so they know we're indifferent and uninterested and write for the 'right' reason. I feel sorry for writers in the US. Imagine being sad no one likes what you've made and the response is that not only are your feelings wrong, your very intentions as the writer must secretly have been to seek validation and praise and fame, otherwise you wouldn't admit to liking comments.

Whenever I see a post going "I write for myself but I wish people commented" it kind of reminds me of US cosplayers. They slather their pictures over every social media platform on Earth. They clearly would like recognition for their work. But they have to start any complaints with the disclaimer, "I cosplay because I love the character, but-" so everyone knows their intentions are pure and so are their actions. There's a level of nervousness, of 'what will people think that I think if I don't use a disclaimer?' that looks miserable to live with.

--

You know, I'm getting awfully tired of you puling infants repeatedly misinterpreting "write for yourself".

As I said here quite recently, it's standard writing advice from outside of fandom. It means that you should make aesthetic decisions based on what you like rather than on a hypothetical audience.

The observation underlying this stock advice is that writers who write what they themselves think is good produce art that is more likely to hook an audience. Writers who are chasing after some audience whose taste they don't even share usually produce limp, uninspiring work.

Yes, there are some wackadoos who are like "I have no feelings! Community is a lie!" and think that makes them sound grown up. This isn't an American problem but an edgy (wish-they-still-were-a) teenager problem.

I dislike stats-chasing nonsense because it's a hallmark of the people who want to turn fandom into influencer garbage. I suggest people obsess less over stats because caring too much about the numbers tends to make people sad when they look at some juggernaut ship from the first peak in some fandom and then have unrealistic expectations. But finding community through fandom and liking to know other people enjoyed your work is commonplace everywhere.

[paradoxcase]

Someone posted on one of the reddit asexual communities a bit ago saying that they thought they might be ace for XYZ reasons which were completely sensible reasons to think that, but that the idea that they might be ace made them feel sad because they felt like they wouldn't get to experience sex or sexual attraction the way most people did, and was that feeling sad thing an indication that they weren't really ace? And a bunch of us responded that, nah, actually that's a pretty common experience

But it made me wonder, like, is that actually a primarily ace and/or aro experience, because those identities are kind of necessarily about things you don't experience, or do other queer people feel this way, too? Like I've heard of people who start out with negative thoughts about being queer, but it's usually stuff like, I'm afraid I will be the victim of a hate crime, I'm afraid my parents will kick me out of the house, I'm afraid I won't have enough money to transition. I haven't heard as much stuff that's like, I'm sad that I didn't live up to my expectations for being "normal". I don't mean like self-hatred stuff, either, like not stuff like, there's something wrong with me, or I'm broken, or I'm gross, or I'm sinning against god just by existing, but just like, I'm sad, I'm mourning some life experiences that I thought I would have that I probably won't have after all

So, I'm curious what other people's experiences have been. Polls have limited options, so I necessarily had to condense a lot of identities into a few groups, hopefully most people are included here. If you have felt that way about multiple labels, pick whichever one you want. If you have never experienced this, just pick the group you identify most strongly with if you identify with multiple

Please reblog this, because if it only stays on my part of tumblr probably like 90% of responses will be from ace people

[sissytobitch10seconds]

So I'm going to go on a little tangent here. I usually don't do the whole symbolism is the actual meaning thing because it doesn't make sense to me most times.

But I keep seeing the take that the ending of the Umbrella Academy is telling abused people that it's their fault and they have to die for the sin of being abused. I don't think this is what the show was telling us at all, if we're going down the route of things not being taken literally.

When Five goes to Max's diner and meets all the other Fives, they're distinguished by one word in front of their name, which implies that they're not really all that different from each other. Otherwise, they would have chosen other names for themselves. This is an important part of my theory for what the ending actually meant.

The timelines fractured when the marigold was released and created the forty three kids. I believe that because Marigold is such a strong element that literally warps the environment it belongs in (In the comics Allison created a giant John Wilks Booth to kill the Abraham Lincoln statue that had come to life, Klaus can basically raise the dead, Diego can warp space to make things turn and move, etc.) it also fractured the bodies that it inhabits. It created life inside of those women and thus it's not that far of a stretch to assume that each timeline has a part of the people it created instead of it being the standard timeline nonsense.

I mean, if it were the standard theory with timelines (i.e. the timeline is always divulging with each action or inaction that we perform) then Five wouldn't have said they needed to come together. We have always trusted Five when it comes to timeline stuff before, he was intelligent enough to have created the Commission after all.

So if the timelines hold a part of the forty-three, then they have to come together for all of the Marigold Holders to be whole. Their souls may exist in the singular timeline where the durango has consumed the marigold, but we don't know that for sure.

Thus, because each timeline represents a fraction of our beloved characters, the ending where they die is not actually telling them that they have to die because of their abuse. It's telling them (and us) that to recover from abuse and become a non-fractured person, you have to let the version of yourself that your abuser created become a part of you or die off. I know that I had to let go of the person that my abusive ex-girlfriend made so that I could feel more like my true self.

We see Lila and Diego's three kids, Claire, and Lila's parents playing in the park in the end-credits scene. Umbrella Academy isn't a stupid show, it already showed us what happened when kids without parents are born. So it implies that some form of at least Lila, Diego, and Allison exist in the final timeline.

Thus, the ending is not telling us that abused people have to die to stop causing pain or whatever the inane take is, it's telling us that to heal you have to come to terms with all the parts of yourself and let go of the bad behaviors that you exhibit. I could do a whole other post about how the Umbrellas aren't really full people, they're defense mechanisms walking around in people-suits. Our Umbrellas aren't gone, they're existing in a better form and without the pain that Reginald caused them which would fundamentally change them as people and make them unrecognizable to us.

The flower represent the abused part of them, the powers and the Academy and the end of the world and the Commission and Oblivion, that still exists but is so small in their healed selves that they don't even have to look at it if they don't want to.

[burnt-kloverfield]

Just saw Heretic, the one with Hugh Grant and Sophie Thatcher and Chloe East, about the Mormon Missionaries.

It's definitely a scary movie. It tried to be mind bending and twisty, and it was, but not in the way it was trying to be. I'm just jazzed that there's a horror movie with Mormons.

It's definitely not a Mormon Horror Movie, just only slightly closer to a Horror Movie about Mormons. I did really enjoy this movie, but it was clear that it wasn't made by Mormons. Like there's a certain flavor of behavior that mormons have that the missionaries just didn't have.

Like I'm Mormon. I was a sister missionary. I was a dang good sister missionary. These missionary characters only vaguely resembled the sister missionaries I served with. Like, they've got the cardigan down. But otherwise?

I literally leaned over to my brother in the theater and went "these are really bad missionaries." Like they didn't actually even open the Book of Mormon. They didn't read a scripture. They didn't even start with a prayer. These gals had horrible conversation skills and absolutely did not teach anything. They came in totally unprepared.

Hugh Grant is perfect and phenomenal in this, and I have met so many people saying the exact same things he has. Countless people with his talking points. (At least until we get to the legit scary parts of him. That was actually scary.)(no spoilers because holy crap)

The last part of the movie felt rushed, and like something was missing, like they cut out scenes or something, but the ending was nice and a relief. Good ending.

It was a good movie. The thing was that the details that it missed were in the cultural aspect of how Mormon missionaries(and mormons in general) actually act. Like you wouldn't know unless it was your culture or religion, you know? Like, they didn't even have a Book of Mormon in hand to give him. Sister Paxton just had her one she had all marked up and sticky noted in her bag(she didn't even have her quad with her?). And the one elder that came looking for them? Where was his companion? There are few things that a missionary gets sent home for and leaving your companion is a big one.

I do appreciate the direction they took with Sister Barnes, of her being smart and logical and sincere and tragic backstory. Very perfect set up and good foil for Sister Paxton who was born and raised mormon in Ogden Utah with 8 siblings. And honestly, I am glad that she got to be smart, too.

But it was very clear that the actress didn't know how mormon behaved or acted. She didn't pray like a mormon. Any born and raised utah mormon is going to fold her arms over her chest and bow her head and start her prayer with Dear Heavenly Father. But Chloe East instead clasped her hands. I rarely ever see Mormons clasp their hands if they're not on their knees at the side of their bed.

Like, it's not like it's a sin to pray that way, it's just that there's a way people who were born and raised a utah Mormon move and act and speak. And this wasn't it. And I could tell and it was distracting.

Like Hugh Grant spoke more like a Mormon than the sister missionaries did. He got the wording and the phrasing and cadence right for certain things. Especially the little Morony vs Moroni mispronunciation thing.

It's just interesting how clear it is to tell when someone isn't actually a part of the culture just from mannerisms.

Sorry for the long post but dang, this movie was good, and could have been so much better, but how do you convey that there's a certain way that utah mormons hold themselves.

[ami-atmosphere]

See What I See 🪞

[Read on AO3] [Full Illustration, R18] Pairing: Gale x Amihan (Tav) / WindWeave

Summary: Amihan is worried about her apparent lack of expression. Gale proves otherwise in front of a magic mirror.

Warnings: Mirror Sex, Vaginal Sex, Smut, Post-Canon

Word Count: 1.2k

“Gale,” Amihan whimpered. “Is…is this truly necessary?”

The couple stood bare in front of a magnificently-sized mirror, not one of their already existing mirrors, but one that Gale conjured himself with his magic– a demonstration, he insisted. Amihan had previously spoken of her dismay regarding her own inexpressiveness– how she knows she can appear distant and unconcerned, how it makes her feel unattractive compared to the blooming ladies of Waterdeep. Naturally, Gale disagreed with this notion and decided he must go about and prove that she already was beautiful and expressive.

“Of course, my breeze,” Gale replied. “Otherwise, I fear you would refuse to believe me, stubborn as you are.” He stood behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist.

“No, I want you to see what I see,” He whispered against her neck, voice dripping with desire.

A shiver ran through Amihan’s spine, and he smirked, feeling her tremble within his embrace. Gale knew she loved his voice, particularly when he’d take a more commanding tone. She loved giving him control, loved learning about what he likes, and that in turn was intoxicating for him. Amihan turned her face towards him, her lips parting and her eyes looking at him with that touch of innocence and pleading he loved so much.

“Show me,” she managed, voice wavering but still full of resolve.

“With pleasure.”

Immediately, his lips found hers in a heated kiss, his tongue gently coaxing her lips to open and allowing her very own to swirl with his.

“Mmph…” Amihan moaned in their kiss, her legs losing balance as he put more fervour in his movements. He was devouring her, and if not for their mortal lungs, he was convinced he would never part his lips with hers. Alas, Gale did eventually break away from the kiss, allowing the two of them to breathe, a thin string of saliva connecting them for a few more seconds. He marvelled at her reddened lips, her lustful gaze. Oh, how he loved seeing her like this.

“Simply exquisite,” he grinned. “Now, my breeze– If you would, please.”

His hand beckoned her eyes to face the mirror, and Amihan watched herself with heavy eyes. She never saw herself this way, never seen herself looking so positively sinful.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered against her ear.

“I don’t–” she tried to protest but was quickly interrupted by Gale’s wandering hands. One settled on her breast, while the other slowly moved lower towards her core.

“So sensitive…” he continued.

“Gale…” Amihan mewled, her head resting on his shoulder as both of his hands began to move simultaneously. He had always been a master of concentration and of the somatic component, and he capitalised on this skill just as much as his practised tongue on his darling wife. His hand below slid between her folds, feeling her slickness, coating his fingers with her.

“…And so wet.”

Oh, what he wouldn't give to have his tongue lap her essence at that very moment, but he relented. There are plenty of days ahead of them to do just that. Still, he found his hips moving softly against her ass, his hot, aching cock dripping generously on her ivory skin.

“Need…you…please–” Amihan begged, her voice ragged full of need. “I want…to see myself…as you fuck me…”

Seeing, hearing, feeling a person like Amihan, who's normally so full of self-control, calm, and collectedness, in this state, so deeply affected by him, begging for him— needing him. Him, only him. It was better than any pleasure the Weave could provide, and it’s a wonder he didn't burst right there and then. Of course, this was not their first time, but by the gods is it intoxicating, like anew, every single time. So how could Gale possibly deny his precious wife’s adorable pleading? When with just the sound of her voice, with the way she looked at him— hells , if she wanted him spinning around her during the act, he was certain to follow.

He lined himself to her centre, the length of him rubbing against her soft folds for some moment, coating his length with her fluids, breath hitching at the feeling. Amihan whimpered, he was so close but refused to enter still. Her hand wrapped around his arm, nails digging on his skin. His teasing was torture for both of them he knew, and yet that made their joining all the more rewarding.

With a knowing smirk, he finally let his cock enter her tight, warm entrance, and immediately Gale was reduced to a mumbling, grunting mess. He took a deep shaky breath to help himself recover composure and continue his hands’ previous ministrations, now joined with his thrusts, tender in pace but firm, and deep.

His hands were relentless in their attention to her body. One rolled a nipple between his fingers, while the other rubbed at her swollen bud, in time with his thrusts. Amihan bit back her moans, her eyes instinctively closing in her own attempt of focusing and recomposing herself.

“My love…my breeze,” Gale murmured between thrusts, “Open your eyes…you promised…please.”

“Gods, Gale–” She let out a needy whine, finding it hard to focus. Her eyes opened once more, and her gaze flitted to their reflections. Of Gale desperately rutting against her, and of her own wanton expression.

“See what I see,” he rasped with a wide smirk. “Look how alluring you are…how lewd…how expressive,” followed by indistinctive strings of praises against her neck.

Gale felt her clench around him at his words, making him drown in that sweet sensation of her tightness. His hips slammed further against her in response. Amihan held on to the mirror, watching her own expression with hazy, unfocused eyes.

“So perfect,” Gale began again, his grip on her becoming tighter, getting more possessive. “Mine…only mine. Only I get to see you like this. Only I…”

“Gale , fuck– ” Amihan cried out curses from her delicate lips. Gale could tell she was close, as was he. His thrusts became more frenzied and erratic, determined to make her reach her peak with him.

“Let go, my breeze. Let me feel you, let me see you,” he cooed, the hand on her breast moving up to her chin to keep her gaze anchored to the mirror.

“Can’t…anymore…coming…Gale– I’m–”

Her back arched against him, mouth opened wide, followed by a gasp and a shiver. Gale felt her contract around him and he followed soon after, spilling inside of her with more strings of incomprehensible praises, not quite as poetic as he normally preferred to be. He kept himself within her for a few more moments, burying his nose in her hair, arms still tight around her, savouring every last drop of their release.

“I love you,” Amihan whispered, her head turning to plant a soft kiss on his temple.

“And I you. I trust I have convinced you on the matter?”

“I don’t know…” she smiled playfully. “Perhaps we need to repeat the activity three more times in order for me to make a sound judgement.”

Gale’s eyes widened in surprise at his wife’s remark, then laughed.

“Have I rubbed off on you that much, dear?”

“Quite.”

[sweetshelluvaau]

My copy and pasted post of a convostation I had with a firend about Mastermind.

Spoilers under the cut

Also the more I think about this episode the more stupid it is and how I hate it:

what does Andre gain for putting IMP on trial? Outside of three dead imps and a hellhound? It would make more sense to have Stolas on trial than Blitzo because he can use that as a power play

why wasn't Stolas not there to begin with? He's the 'victim' having his book stolen to begin with they would want his testimony. The only reason why they did it the way they did was for Stolas can see the execution on TV to come in like the big hero he is and save the man he loves gag me with a spoon please

it wouldn't make sense for Blitz to hire Striker because my God he's an imp don't they have little power to begin with? Plus Blitzo is also an assassin as he said he could do it himself. Wouldn't some of the Sins have some brains to figure out how stupid that sounds.

let's talk about Striker for a second. Why was he there? It was so ooc for him to even speak for a noble, let alone bullshit that they'd take his word over someone like Stella or idk fucking Stolas!?

Dude even Ozzie would call out bullshit right away too because Stolas told him about how Stolas wanted to set Blitzo 'free' and he has the crystal now so he can do his job legality. Of course you could have Mammon go 'of course the imp fucker would defend an imp' and that's what caused the drama to begin with suppose to whatever happened in the show. Stolas didn't give Ozzie the full story but still that's testimony enough. More than whatever bullshit Striker pulled out of his ass. Also: isn't Blitzo now under his jurisdiction anyways that could be used in their defense.

Stolas didn't take accountability for shit he kept singing about him being the 'Mastermind' but Mastermind of what you stupid cunt?! Yes it is his fault but not because he 'planned' this whole thing. He wanted to get sex out of Blitzo so he used his book as leverage to force that out of Blitzo but of course we can't have that now that would make Stolas look bad.

God the whole court plot was so stupid and poorly put together. I didn't care for the song it was shit minus for Satan because Patrick Page's voice is mmmm

Speaking of Satan: I like both his character and his voice which I knew was going to be the case anyways because um...Patrick Page but I wished they gave him a more regal outfit because otherwise I don't mind the design. Belph's design is cute but doesn't scream 'A Sin' to me. I don't like Levi's design it's kinda lackluster but I do like the idea of the two heads because 'two faced' I do think that was clever but not sure If that was Viv's intention or just ended up working out that way.

Stoltiz is canon, which means it's only gonna even more down hill from here.

But yeah those are my thoughts on Mastermind. Will I watch Sinmas? Nah most likely not but I think I had my fill of this show because there's so much horrible written melodrama I can stomach before it becomes too much. I only really watched Mastermind for Satan anyways.

[mossi-dreams]

i was originally gonna reblog the op but then i realized i had too many thoughts and I didn't wanna overrun the original post. so this gets a post for itself

the original post is here for context / reference, made by the incredible @.lulu2992

The way I see it, when it comes to the methods of each herald, John's "philosophy", same as the other heralds, all boils down to it being their job / sacred duty.

I mean, if all the heralds did the same thing, held the same purpose, there'd be a lot more internal conflicts with people stepping on each other's toes (iirc, there's a voice line about how Jacob & John very much don't get along as is, i think maybe Hurk says it?? Don't quote me on that I could be wrong) .

Also it just wouldn't have been effective in the long run. So they all have very different and distinct purposes within the Project. Jacob creates soldiers, Faith creates workers (angels), and John makes believers. Each one has an integral part of the Project.

And you can argue that John's role is really just an extension of Joseph's, potentially due to the fact that John doesn't have Joseph's full confidence, so it's best and easiest to keep him on a close and tight leash in comparison to the other heralds, since they seemingly don't need to be overseen the way John does. I mean, Joseph has Faith practically in his palm with her blind trust compounded by the overconsumption of bliss, and Jacob? Well Jacob does as he's told, he's still a soldier, after all. Despite his disdain for authority he follows it nonetheless, especially now that his "authority" is his family.

And Joseph knows this too, I like think, that's why we see so little influence and oversight in Jacob's region compared to Faith & John's. Joseph knows exactly how much control he needs to exert over each member of his family.

If anything, you could say he hand picked these roles specifically with each member in mind (and while Faith is not a singular person, but more of a role / persona, it obviously wasn't hard to replace her when a Faith started to act outside of her role).

Coming back to John again, he's honestly perfect for the role he's been placed into. Who better than to recruit believers than the pretty-faced, charming young lawyer who gave up his rather luxurious life of sin to be "born again" (in a way). Who better to oversee the "transformation" of souls than him? Faith is more concept than person nowadays, and Jacob is disinterested at best and uncharismatic at worst. So John fits the bill for his role almost perfectly. After all, one of the main characteristics of a cult is to have charismatic who can read people (John / Joseph).

So really again I think that it all boils down to John (and the other heralds) fitting perfectly in the roles that Joseph built for them, and giving them their specific "sacred duty" or whatever you wanna call it. And he did himself a favor in doing so, otherwise I guarantee you the cult would not have gotten as far off the ground as it did without that division of labor amongst the "elites" of the group (aka the heralds / Seed family as a whole)

[lavender--fairy]

Hi Lavender! Hope you’re doing well and having a good day. I’m kinda late to this app but not to the law. However I only recently came across loablr and saw all those amazing success stories but then I started doubting if they’re real. I was encouraged by your recent answer to an ask about non logical manifestations.

I really want to manifest a lot of things, mainly for my health and mental health and revise a bunch of things. Please answer my question 🙏🏼 Have you manifested a completely different life too? I really trust you ❤️

Heyy butterbean!

I have definitely manifested things that can't be explained otherwise. It's to the point where I can't deny that it really is the truth, that I have found god. I can't ever live like I formally used to, not anymore and I wouldn't want it any other way.

As for you, I want you to try it. Go all out as Neville would say. To deem your desires as impossible could be considered a sin because nothing is impossible to I AM. The word 'Sin' comes from the Greek word hamartia (ἁμαρτία), which means "to miss the mark". Neville often mentions it. To miss the mark is to doubt, worry and fear your way out of your desired state. To not align your desires with the fulfillment of it. I know you'd like to read more to ease the frenzy you're in. Here's a post for you. And here's a small excerpt:

What is rational for Neville to think he can bio-locate (being in 2 places at once)? Was it rational for Neville to think all will conspire and aid him for his desires? Was it rational for Neville to believe Imagination is his Real Self? Is any of this rational? Was it rational for Neville to remove all ideas of how life "should" be lived in his mind? Was it rational for him to just do and feel whatever he wanted? Was it rational for him to FEEL that was he was experiencing in his mind was REAL?

It is rational for the weak to say "I Am Strong?" (Joel 3:10)

[justcallmecj]

Pact Mark Location Headcanon: Asmodeus

Should I label this post as suggestive? Maybe? It's Asmo so I can't help but think his mark would be in some more lewd/suggestive places, y'know? Regardless, we'll see what I write out at the end of this. I guess this is a minor suggestive warning for anyone who may need it. Nothing explicit tho. Just now realizing Asmo has the most spots on my list...

Again, under the pretext that you are together, either all the brothers or just you two, you pick!

Asmodeus

Tramp stamp:

Again, Asmo's mark can have some more lewd locations

And there is something oddly fitting in my head about his mark basically being a tramp stamp.

I don't have much for this one other than a scene I can't get out of my head.

You in his room, or him in yours, chilling and getting ready for bed or having a spa day.

You're resting on your stomach for whatever reason and Asmo is just laying next to you, rubbing his hand against the pact mark and enjoying the feeling he gets from the fact it's sensitive to touch.

And it's not a lewd or sexual act, it's sweet and sensual, a quite moment of cute intimacy in the safety of a bedroom, away from the rest of the world.

On the other end of the spectrum imagine this when things get spicy!

Pelvic Bone:

And here is where the suggestive part comes in.

Asmodeus is the Avatar of Lust, so the mark of Lust is easy to imagine in a more intimate spot like right above the pelvis in the spot between your sex and belly button.

And in my head it kinda looks like a womb tattoo which works with Asmodues's connection to incubi and succubi

Now, I said this post wouldn't get explicit (bc I don't have the energy for that currently) but just...imagine the possibilities.

I also really see Asmo as a touchy feely person, which he is even in canon, so I see Asmo being a person who just loves to have his hands on someone, especially if they hold his pact mark.

So he loves to be next to you and simply touch the mark, whether things are sexual or not he just loves the touch.

(He does this with Solomon too and you can't tell me otherwise)

Heel:

Alright this one is iffy but it's a cool idea so I thought I'd go through with it.

Humans are often weak to lust and desire. Sure, maybe not so much as they are to greed, pride and wrath, but still weak.

So much so they do stupid things due to it that oddly enough doesn't have as many consequences as the other sins simply because it is typically viewed as a base instinct in humans. A natural weakness.

And what is a common phrase among humans for people who have a weak spot?

An Achilles heel.

The thought of Asmo's Lust mark being on your "Achilles heel" tickles a corner of my brain.

Also Asmo loves to give your anklets as a way of decorate the mark.

Inside of wrist:

This just stems from the image of Asmo kissing the inside of your wrist, whether sexual or not doesn't matter, it's just an intimate place to kiss and he loves to see your reaction from it.

I have very little reason for this one other than this.

Maybe it's also right over a pulse point and he can feel your heart rate pick up when he gets flirty or things get spicy.

I will say it again, feel free to comment some of your own location headcanons! If you want, I can write some scenarios of either your hc or these ones.