#SCREAMING HOWLING WAILING THROWING UP

[stormyoceans]

THEY ARE MY WHOLE ENTIRE STUPID BLEEDING BEATING HEART SERVED ON A SILVER PLATTER IM GENUINELY RUNNING OUT OF WAYS TO EXPLAIN TO YOU ALL JUST HOW MUCH I LOVE THEM

[xerxestexastoast]

Source thread: https://www.reddit.com/r/AskReddit/comments/8k2qzb/comment/dz4j78b/?utm_source=reddit&utm_medium=web2x&context=3

[cloudcountry]

Could I request how would Cater, Jamil, Rook and Idia react to their (s/o)’s overblot? :0

SUMMARY: your significant other, who has been part of an overblot before, has to witness you going through the exact same thing.

COMMENTS: hi so im experimenting with yuu overblotting and so. you and grim are fusing because i said so.

yk after writing this i realize i was absolutely inspired by delicious in dungeon. if you get it you get it.

You’ll have to forgive Cater if he blurts out some stupid slang or a joke as he watches ink consume your body—as he watches you fuse with Grim. The result is a terrifying monster, blue flames shooting out of your very human face, ink pouring out of your eyes and mouth and nose as Grim's claws grow sharper and his legs grow longer.

He’s vaguely aware of Trey trying to get him out of there and Riddle throwing himself into a fight to attempt to disarm you and Grim—whatever you have become. Cater isn’t even sure if you’re separate anymore, but he hears your screams and the echoing growls of Grim, and the blue flames are searing his skin but he isn’t budging.

He shoves Trey off of him and goes running towards you, heart pounding in his chest. He has to save you. He has to help you. His signature spell is activating and he doesn’t even know he’s doing it—he just knows he has to get you back, one way or another.

Jamil knows what’s happening before anybody else. He can see the frustration at being treated the way you are, and he sees the way your hands shake. He tries to reach out but it’s not enough, and maybe it never would have been because he’s too late, and the air is hot with anger and longing for a home neither you nor Grim had.

You become one. He sees it and he can do nothing but watch as you sprout hairy arms and legs, claws tearing through your skin as blue flames shoot out from you. Ink spurts from your eyes and mouth, pouring onto the floor as you howl and wail. He can hear the echoing, pitched remnants of Grim in your voice as you charge, heading straight for the students. Jamil whips out his pen, pointing it in front of him and casting a barrier.

He needs to get everyone else out of here. He can’t be the one to fight you—he can’t do that to you. His ears are ringing and only now is he aware of Kalim rapid firing questions at him but he doesn’t have the time, he grabs Kalim and yells at him to leave, to get the Headmage, to get you help. You can’t die on him. You just can’t.

Rook thinks you’re beautiful. He always will, no matter what state you may find yourself in, no matter what form you may take. That’s part of the reason he stands there in awe, watching as you transform in front of his very eyes. Tears are rolling down his face as you scream out in pain, and his body reacts by running to you but someone is holding him back, his sobs mixing with you and Grim’s howls as you merge in a tornado of inky blackness.

People are screaming, someone is yelling that he needs to get out of there, he falls to his knees as your form—no, the form you’ve taken, writhes and screeches on the ground. It sounds like nails on a chalkboard, it sounds like nightmares, it sounds like pain and suffering and like nothing will ever be okay—

Two backs appear in his vision, a perfectly manicured hand shielding his vision from the sight. Rook looks up, eyes locking with Vil’s. Epel is beside him, pen at the ready. “Can you stand?” Vil asks, and anyone else wouldn’t be able to hear the tenderness in his voice. Rook takes his hand and stands, breathing shakily as he stares at your form, vision blurry but locked onto you—he’s going to save you, no matter what.

Idia’s hands are shaking as you scream. He needs to go to you, to make sure you’re okay but he’s petrified, feet tripping over nothing as he stumbles to your side. He reaches out for you but you shove him away, a sharp NO ripped from your throat. Idia swallows his tears as he whips out his tablet, sending an SOS message to STYX as a familiar black ink splatters to the ground at his feet.

You tried to protect him. It makes him feel so worthless but he gets through it, knowing this must have been how you felt when he overblotted. Why can’t he do anything right? He went through the same thing and he can’t do anything to help you. Isn’t this his family’s business? He should know what to do by now!

He doesn’t leave from that spot, even when people are screaming at him to evacuate, even when STYX arrives to take you away, even when Ortho explains the situation to them because Idia can’t talk. The only thing he manages to say, with eyes glued to the malformed shape you’ve taken, is that he demands to be taken back with you to his home so he can oversee your treatment. He needs you to be better. He doesn’t know what he’d do otherwise.

[galamalion]

𐕣. 𝐅𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐋, 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇

summary. time inevitably approaches all, but an otherworldly suitor has other plans for you.

⤷ contents. yandere!vampire!chrollo lucilfer x fem!reader, yandere themes, imprisonment, unhealthy relationships, blood // wc. 2.0k

⤷ notes. a very happy birthday to @ddarker-dreams! i wanted to write something cute and evil as a thanks for all the chrollo treats she's given out! hope you enjoy! <3

Dusk began to creep in across the horizon, dimly counting down the few hours before night would fall, allowing the silver moon to take its place among the stars. Golden rays began to dim, passing through the extravagant window in the room you’d been staying in, casting a faint glow across furniture and floor alike. 

Perhaps ‘staying’ wasn’t the correct word to use, though. It made you sound like a visitor, which you certainly were not. The metal lock on the door, the same shade as the setting sun, sealed you into a plush and comfortable tomb, only allowed to wander beneath illuminating moonlight. 

It was the only time he was allowed out too, after all.

You remembered the first time you met that man—Chrollo, as he called himself, though perhaps he had gone by a different name in years past. He called you glorious, a singular rose in a field of boring dandelions, waiting to be plucked and worshiped by a kindred soul. As the daughter of a farmer, his honeyed words made you feel warm inside. Night after night you would meet with him in the woods beside your village, listening to him speak about poetry, books, and the world outside your own quiet one. He made you feel alive—like setting a helpless dove free from a poorly made cage of twigs.

If only he told you the dove was just flying into a golden prison. Maybe you would have run then, told your mother and father about the wicked and beautiful stranger in the woods. But his stories and words wove you into a web too tight to escape, and too alluring to even want to.

You sighed, both out of boredom and out of anguish. Your sleeping habits had changed since you’d been brought to this ancient castle. Now you would wake up just before sunset, giving you time to prepare yourself for Chrollo’s bothersome speeches. Back when you were younger you would have found them poetic—dashing, even. But now, all you wanted was for him to leave you alone. Return you back to your family, your friends, and your village.

The first time you’d ever begged him for that he just smiled, wiping tears off your lashes and running his hand gently through your hair.

“They’re gone,” he had cooed, coaxing your back. “There is nothing for you to return to, my dear.”

His words only brought more tears, and broken sobs along with it. A cacophony of anguished screams and hopeless crying continued night after night, and Chrollo had left you alone for them. He returned on the third night, comforting you through your discordant howling and tears, not saying a single word. Only gently stroking your hair and humming a lullaby ever so softly, bringing your wailing to a whimper as you dozed off to sleep, tears still running down your face.

You should have hated him after those words, hated him until the sun and the moon and every last star in the sky burnt out. Until your bones turned to dust and that dust turned to nothing, as all good things should. But instead, you let him comfort you, as he had done before. You let him hold you and sing to you and your hatred dissipated almost as quickly as it came. Now, the only person you can hate is yourself.

The resounding chime of a bell echoed throughout the castle, finding its way under the door and into your ears, and one look outside confirmed what the bell had just screamed to you. The moon, illustrious and horrid—a grim reminder of your fate, stood proudly amongst its brothers and sisters in the inky sky.

Oh, how you preferred the sun.

A loud knock on the door—one you’d grown to expect—caused you to stretch out of bed and to the middle of the room, throwing the closet open.

Dresses in onyx and sangria were all you had, each only slightly different in design. Some had lace trims, intricately made and without flaws. Others had slits so high you were certain your mother would have chased you out of the village herself. All chosen by Chrollo, of course. You didn’t even know what sangria was before you’d met him, a drink too rich for you to ever experience on your own.

“I’m not decent,” you called out, scanning your limited options. A faint chuckle was barely discernible through the thick wooden door, a sign that Chrollo would wait, though not for long.

You shuffled out of the loose nightgown and tossed it into a basket. With Chrollo breathing down the door you had almost no time to carefully choose your dress of the day—not that it particularly mattered to you. But it was better than letting Chrollo have control over another aspect of your life.

A simple black gown, without lace or an indecent alteration, was your choice. The neckline was plunging—far more than anything you wore—but you had learned to push your own feelings down.

“Modesty only matters when around others,” Chrollo had told you. “But here, it is just you and I. There is nothing to fear, my treasure. I am no beast.”

The fangs that creeped out from his smile warned you otherwise.

With a resigned sigh, you walked over to the door, gently rapping your fist against the thick wood. The door slid open with a loud creak—just like every other antique in the ancient palace. Your gaoler smiled upon seeing you, taking the time to look at your body.

“You resemble an ancient tome of poetry, appreciated only by its author,” Chrollo said, stepping into the room.

“Are you calling me old?”

“I apologize if you took it that way,” he chuckled, brushing a stray hair out of your face. “I merely mean to say that you are a sumptuous artifact, deserving of being remembered by history for all time.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms and ignoring the shiver that never failed to arise when Chrollo was with you.  “I prefer a simpler life, thank you.”

“I believe this one suits you far better. If you gave it a chance, I’m sure you’d come to realize the same.”

“I liked my old one.”

“Come now, my dear,” he sighed, moving a cold hand across your shoulder blades. “You always insist on speaking of the past. Why not look towards the future? It has so much to offer you.”

“Have you grown bored of comforting me?” you spat, pulling away from his touch. “Where are your soothing words, your golden gifts? Have you found a new game to play?”

Chrollo frowned, not bothering to reach for you again. Instead his arms rested at his sides, peacefully. Lifelessly.

“I have grown tired,” he emphasized, “of your refusal to move on. I have given you so much, only for it all to be rejected. I thought time would sway your choice, but it appears that I have failed to consider your…stubbornness.”

His expression had changed in the blink of an eye, now sporting his usual disconcerting smile.

“Walk with me,” he commanded, already stepping out of the room.

Your feet moved against your will, gliding across the floor and after Chrollo. It was something you hated, even more than his smug attitude and unneeded grandiose vocabulary. You could always reject him with your words, but in the end he had the power to cut your actions short. An obnoxious monster, as always.

“I have been thinking,” Chrollo began, trailing the dark halls, “about us. And my offer. I believe that I have been…entertaining your behaviors for too long. Time is a fickle thing for beings like you, and I fear you may not have much left.”

“I’m not dying,” you snorted. “Or are you just worried that I might start wrinkling early?”

Chrollo laughed at your words, “I am not afraid of fine wine, my dear. Just that your behavior will soon spiral out of control. If something were to happen, I would hate to have to chase you down. That is all.”

Your walk ended in the garden, bushes towers high above you and Chrollo. It was a place that, despite its beauty, you weren’t too fond of. It was a maze of Chrollo’s making—intentional, knowing him. If something were to enter through the garden, they would never make it to the castle before Chrollo got to them. And more importantly, you would never make it out.

A clearing stood before you, a wooden pavilion with a dozen chairs surrounding a table. Where fancy ladies would meet for fancy tea and gossip about the fancy going-ons in the palace. Like in storybooks you would read as a child.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Chrollo said, approaching the table. Upon it laid a goblet, and, despite the distance separating you, you could make out the sharp gleam of a knife.

“Choices must be made my dear, and I’m afraid that this is one I must make myself. I cannot bear the thought of being without you, and I seek to make our union permanent.”

Chrollo raised a hand in your direction, willing you to stand right before him.

“I could sink my teeth into your throat,” he chuckled. “We would become closer, that way. But you are wearing a 12th century royal Gorteauan gown, and I’d simply hate to ruin it.”

Your blood ran cold as he grabbed the knife, bringing it between you. It was almost as sharp as his fangs, but just as dangerous.

You knew what it was for, undoubtedly. Chrollo had talked about it plenty—about turning you into what he was. About stripping your mortality and bringing you a step closer to eternity. To paradise, to Eden, he claimed. You always pushed against his wishes, though. Insisting you had more life to live, that you were too scared, anything to halt the inevitable. But Chrollo was inevitable, and at the end of the day, his wishes all came true. Never yours.

The knife made purchase with the palm of Chrollo’s hand, causing droplets of crimson blood to spill out from the wound. He brought his hand up to your face, close enough for you to smell the iron from the cut.

“You only need to ingest a little bit. More than a lick, of course. But I’m quite potent,” he smirked.

If you weren’t so terrified, you maybe would have chuckled. Maybe you would have ran.

Chrollo’s smile slowly fell as you continued to do nothing, “Go on. I would hate to force you to do this as well.”

You took a shuddering breath and looked at the pool of blood, “Will…will it hurt?”

“Not a bit,” Chrollo assured you, his smile returning. “It will be painless. You’ll fall asleep afterwards, and your old life will feel like a dream. A rebirth, if you will.”

He continued, “Just think of what you will be now. No longer and Eve, now a Lilith. You will have power, permanence among the living, and me."

“...And it won’t hurt?”

“Not a bit,” he smiled.

You slowly lifted his hand, still freezing cold, closer to your mouth. You let the blood touch your quivering lips, staining them crimson. Perhaps you looked alluring, shaking like a deer with your reddened lips. Especially to a beast like Chrollo. A beast you would soon become. 

With one final anguished cry, you drank of his blood. It was as cold as his body, perhaps even colder. It did nothing to freeze your nerves, nor stop the tears that rolled down your cheeks. Those, too, began to feel colder and colder.

Chrollo held you close, running his free hand along your shoulder, whispering sweet comforts in your ear. Already the world seemed to be getting darker as each touch felt more dull.

“Now, now, my dearest angel. Imagine what new heights we can reach,” he chuckled, wiping stray blood from your face.

“We have all of eternity to see them. Together.”

[bebemoon]

specific movie scenes my brain likes to bring up to me now and then:

from "romeo + juliet" (1996) | juliet arrives at the church in a modest black dress with a white pilgrim's collar. she also wears a black beret and gloves with little bows at the wrist. meeting father laurence, she's in a desperate state and puts a compact pearl-grip pistol to her head. she laments and father laurence comes towards her. she levels the pistol at him instead and howls, "be not so long to speak. i long to die !"

from "a knight's tale" (2oo1) | jocelyn and william are arguing in a church and a priest comes to them to scold her, alone, for being too loud. she rounds on the man, saying, "do not shush me and spare him. now be gone ! go !" and he does go.

from "la belle et la bête" (1946) | the beast has just transformed into a prince, and noticing belle's disappointment, he asks, "but did you love the beast?" to which beguiling belle, lifting her chin, replies, "yes."

from "dangerous liasons" (1998) | the marquise de merteuil wailing and tearing apart her chambers. she throws a candelabra at the wall, sweeps everything off of her dressing table- breaking a mirror and toppling a pot of powder- and starts tearing at her own clothes as her maids arrive to see what's going on. the marquise screams at them all to get out before collapsing onto her knees. her wails continue.

from "valerie a týden divů/valerie and her week of wonders" (197o) | valerie is tied to a stake and a priest orders her to confess to the crime of being a witch. she devilishly lolls her tongue out at the priest and calls him a liar and a pyromaniac. asked once more to repent, valerie instead makes a silly little moustache out of her own hair, mocking the priest's looks, and calls him a "hairy-faced clown". the priest then sets her on fire.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

At First Sight 3

Warnings: dark elements, noncon, age gap, other dark elements. Proceed with caution. (Plus!short!reader) Please mind the warnings.

Note: Please let me know what you think as it helps me a lot with ideas and I love interacting with you all.

Part of The Club AU

Sy prods at your entrance. The resistance is dry and searing as he tries to push his tip inside you. He grunts and jerks his hips but only worses the burning pain. Your tears spill out over the brims of your eyes and you whimper, reaching back, fingertips brushing his stomach.

“Relax, sugar,” he bends over you, crushing your arm as his beet–stained breath stains your scalp. “Let me get you ready.”

He snakes his arm beneath you, finding your clit with his thick index, his rough skin scraping on your sensitive bud. You shudder, clench as his rigid dick presses against your still. He presses another finger to you and rubs, the hot friction radiating into you. 

“Please…” you beg through hiccups, “please, I’m drunk…”

“Sug, you feel that,” he growls as your core tingles, “you want this.”

You gulp as a knot lodges in your throat. You feel yourself slickening at his touch. But you don’t want this. Your head and chest are screaming no so why is your body reacting? Why can you feel that warmth seeping out in a cool slather.

He keeps his fingers flicking as his other hand crawls beneath your ass. He pumps himself as he once more lines his tip up with your entrance. He leans into you, stretching you around his tip as you let out a shrill cry of horror. He retracts only to do it again, pushing in just and inch before sliding out.

He continues the motion, dipping just inside in tandem with his fingers. You quiver as the terror, drunkenness, and pleasure mingles in a violent storm. He raises himself, keeping his hand between your legs as he lifts you with him.

You see your reflection and your breath hitches. Your face is distraught and streaked with tears, your eyes glazed with alcohol. His hand nestles along your pelvis, hiding your more intimate part from view as he toys with you. He pulls you flush to him as he thrusts, pushing further inside.

You howl and throw your head back against his chest as he curls himself around you. He makes you feel tiny and helpless. You’ve never felt like that before. 

He sinks in deeper and you clamp onto his thick forearm, feeling his hard muscle flexing as his fingers roll around your clit. His other hand grasps the bottom of your shirt, tugging it up over your chest as he snarls, puffing as he tilts his hips in tempo. He covers half your chest with his large hand, groping you as he presses you against the sink.

His breaths are punctuated by grunts as he fucks deeper and deeper into you. You whine and whimper, nearly wailing as your insides aches with every inch. Your eyes roll back as the agony underlines your drunkenness. You welcome the haziness nipping at your brain.

“Mm, sweet thing, don’t you go passing out on me,” he drags his hand from your chest and taps your cheek.

Your eyes snap open and he grips your jaw, pulling your head straight. He purrs and buries his nose in your hair.

“You see how I’m fucking you,” he growls as his pelvis claps against your ass. Each thrust thunders through you, rippling in your guts, tingling down your thighs. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? Your soaking wet for it, sug.”

He holds your head up, all of you up, as you go limp. You can’t fight him anymore. You’re too tired, you’re confused, you’re nearly delirious. He fucks you, uses you, ramming harder and harder as his shallow panting picks up.

He pushes you down, sliding his hand free of your cunt and pins you against the sink. He plants his hand on your back and ruts furiously into you. You raise your hand to the tile to keep your head from hitting the ledge. Your toes bounce on the floor as he has you nearly off your feet.

Your stomach hurts from the crush of him against you. You murmur and squeeze your eyes shut. It will end soon. Right? Please.

🍯

Your consciousness goes spotty. The pain in your core never quite relents as flashes of reality glimmer around you. The muffled thumping of the club speakers underlines the scene of you sitting on the toilet, your pants stlll at your knees, your shirt above your bra. Your head lolls only for you to wake up on your feet.

An arm keeps you upright as your soles drag on the floor. The musky scent of sweat clings to you. Your head hangs down and your figure greets you blurrily, your jeans unbuttoned and your shirt crooked across your stomach. Bodies wriggles around you, apathetic and unaware of your muted horror.

Another black void consumes you and the night air brings you back again; the back seat of a car and the hum of an engine. Finally, the moon stamps in your vision before you surrender completely to the whiskey’s call.

The next you awake, sharp yellow light sears in your eyes. You stare at a ceiling that isn’t your own in a bed even less familiar. Your heart lurches as you lay and think, trying to remember… anything.

You hold your breath as you search the depths of your mind. Rhonda and Starla, the club, lights pulsing, music pumping… Loud snoring rumbles through you and the bed. You turn to look at the man next to you. You recognise him but it takes a moment to recall his name.

Sy.

How did you get here? The last you can summon, you were waiting by the bar for a drink with him. Then it’s all gone.

You exhale as your lip trembles. You look down at your body and nearly scream. The blanket clings to your chest and your legs stick out the bottom. You’re naked. Did you–

You sit up so suddenly a wave of dizziness has you keeling over your thighs. Your stomach churns and clap your hand to your mouth. Oh god, you’re going to puke. You turn, panic coursing up with a mouthful of vomit. The snoring ends in a harsh snort.

“Sug, where’re–” his voice gristles as he tickles your spine.

You lunge out of bed and search the room frantically. You run through the first door you see and clammer into the hallway. You fall nearly sideways through another doorway and barely get yourself over the porcelain bowl. You hurl into it, bracing the seat as you retch loudly.

What did you do!?

[whumpsoda]

How did Florence end up as a pet?

Masterlist

cw: pet whump, box boy universe/bbu adjacent, betrayal, whumper turned whumpee, Institutionalized slavery, conditioned whumpee

——————

He screamed again, impossibly louder this time, echoing over the fluorescent white plastered over the room’s entirety. The sounds clawed his throat red and raw, but he couldn’t stop. If he did, they’d have won. 

At the very beginning his yelling had contained actual words, curses and such, which had eventually twisted into fiery, fury filled cries of nonsense. It wouldn’t do anything for him, he knew, and yet he couldn’t allow himself to stop. He’d had so many trainees do the same, and he’d never so much as wished someone would listen until it was him. 

He desperately blinked away oncoming tears, a mixture of moisture made from unbridled anger and horror. Screaming, screaming, and screaming into the abyss, globs of spit flying past his lips as he fought tirelessly against the restraints with no give in return. 

Fuck this. Fuck this. 

Finally he slumped to the wall, cold and painfully white, the same he’d been surrounding himself with since he’d been accepted as a handler years ago, climbing up the ranks quick. He had pure talent in breaking in pets, and they were throwing him away, just like that? Just because someone made a mistake they shouldn’t have and he was the one deemed to take the blame?

They-

They couldn’t-

Oh, but they very much could.

WRU had been stealing people off the streets for God knows how long, what would be the issue in taking one of their very own? Soon enough they’d be using his very own techniques to knock the rocks out of his head, leaving him brainlessly groveling at their fucking feet. And he wouldn’t know any better, because they’d utilize the drip to get him there, wiping him to a blank slate like all the property they called boxie’s.

Still adorned in his handler uniform, he was sure they would soon enough replace it with the standard white shirt and black shorts all of the trainees got. Because, at least to WRU, he was officially a trainee. The realization made his belly churn, tying itself in coarse knots.

Pounding his feet to the floor he again howled, shaking himself around to make as much of a commotion possible.

A strangled shriek, this time wild with pain, sounded as the coarse collar strapped around his neck went off, the same shock he had suscepted so many pets to crackling into his flesh. Keeled over he shook with intensity, croaking wails erupting from a spot inside he’d never before heard.

As the shock soon ceased he trembled, beads of sweat cascading from his scalp. “S- s- st- op!”

The click of the door and thumping of boots, the same he wore, were audible as a juicy dribble of spit fell to the floor. “Welcome to training, 942065.” Someone sang, and he knew just who it was. “What? Not excited?”

His skittish gaze met with that of his coworker’s, Arthur fucking Everett. The guy he’d been out for countless drinks with, the guy he’d invited into his home, the guy he could have even someday called a friend.

A nerve almost popped right then and there as his rage skyrocketed. “F- fuck you! Fuck you, fuck you, fuck all of this!” 

“Woah there, ‘065, none of that was an appropriate way to speak to your superior, was it? I assumed you’d already be familiar with the rules, but I suppose we’ll just have to work on those like any other trainee.”

Seething, the trainee spat through gritted, quivering teeth. “I- I’m goi- ng to f- fucking kill you.”

Everett merely waved him off. “Sure you are, ‘065, I’d love to see that.” 

“Fuck you!”

“Ah, ah, ah. I wouldn’t recommend that, ‘065. Not unless you’re looking for more discipline.” Everett tisked, halting his newest trainee with the threat of another shock. His thumb wavered over the dreaded button as he kneeled to his former coworker’s level. “Y’know what, ‘065? Would you like to know your designation? Or should I keep it a surprise?”

“Shut up! Shut up, shut the fuck up! You know my fucking name!” He shook his head fiercely, like the feral animal he appeared to be.

“Trainees don’t have names, ‘065, only numbers. I have no clue what you’re on about.”

“My name is-!”

The pet blinked slow, eyes a hollowed out and hazy green. “My… name…?” He mumbled, brows furrowed in puzzlement as he cocked his head like the confused dog he was. He wanted to appease Handler Everett, to give him the right answer, and this seemed to be a trick. ‘065 was good at recognizing tricks.

His handler nodded. He spoke sharply, confident in himself and his words. “Yes, trainee, your name.”

��065 took a drawn out moment to think, recalling in his mind exactly what he needed to say. Unlike Handler Everett, he spoke slow and heavy, making sure every word was perfectly mechanical. “Trainees don’t… have names. Would you like… my designation, Handler Everett?” He looked to his handler with wide eyes, teeth peeking out from his gently parted lips.

“Good boy, ‘065.” Handler Everett cooed, gifting ‘065 a pat to the head, the most gentle touch he would ever receive in the facility, something he was eternally grateful for. “That’s just what I wanted to hear. You’ve come a long way in your training, y’know.”

The trainee practically drooled over the prospect of pleasing his superior. “Really, handler Everett?”

His handler huffed a chuckle. “Really, ‘065.”

——————

Masterlist

Taglist - @softvampirewhump @ivymyers @taterswhump @octopus-reactivated @tippytappytyping

@distracted-obsessions @starfields08000 @bitchaknso @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @scoundrelwithboba

@whumped-by-glitter

If anyone wants to be removed or added to the taglist, please let me know! :)

[highlady-sorcha]

Nights With a Newborn (Azriel x Reader)

Hey all. This is another one that’s on my Wattpad that I wanted to bring over here for you guys. Thank you so much for all the love on that Cassian fluff piece I posted! I’m so shocked that it has nine likes right now! I never would have imagined that!! 

*****************************************************************************************************

A human wouldn't be able to hear it, but any fae that wasn't completely and utterly deaf could. Azriel's newborn daughter shrieked like a banshee in her room at the other end of the house. You'd been up and down with her several times already. She'd nursed, she was clean and there was nothing else she needed. At this point, howling in the hours long before dawn, she just didn't want to sleep.

  As a new mom, you were exhausted. Bearing the child had nearly killed you, despite your fae healing, and Azriel had been ten times more protective of both you and the new baby because of it. Sometimes, you just needed a few minutes to yourself to sleep and slip away into a world where no one needed anything from you, no one wanted to touch you- nothing.

 Azriel shifted on the mattress behind you, the tip of one of his leathery wings brushed the small of your back where your tank top had slid up. It killed him leaving the little girl to cry. Every cry and sob from her was enough to send him running. Tonight, every scream that ripped from her little body twisted his heart in an invisible vice grip, making it hard to breathe. He couldn't help but to think of all the nights as a child where he was left in that cell by his wicked stepmother, with nothing for company but shadows and sadness. The last thing he wanted for his beloved little girl was to know any part of the pain he had.

 After a particularly painful gurgling screech from the baby's room Az sat up on the edge of the bed, rubbing any bit of sleep from his eyes with his scarred hands. His wings stretched wide behind him, pulling any stiffness from the delicate joints. You knew what his next step was.

 Sighing, you rolled over, reaching for him. The window on his side of the bed was open, allowing the Velaris summer breeze to flow in, shifting the gauze curtains back and forth. The edges of him were cast in pure silver, sculpting him in the image of a gentle and loving god.

 "Az, she's ok. I promise. There is nothing she could possibly need, and we're just going to drive ourselves crazy if we keep running over there." You told him as gently as you could.

 He sighed and ran his hands through his short black locks, throwing them this way and that.

"I know (y/n), I'm trying to trust you. I'm sorry.. it's just so hard." He whispered, his voice filled with agony.

  Your heart clenched at the words. Pushing the heavy, plush quilts back, you reached out for him, swallowing back the pain in the new scar on your belly.

 Your ran your hand down his spine, then back up. Trying to give him some comfort from just touch.

 "Az, not going to her now, when she needs to learn to calm herself down when there's nothing wrong does not make you a bad father."

 "Doesn't it?" He asked desperately, turning around to face you. "She's crying for comfort, and here I'm sitting on my ass. There's almost nothing I can do for her."

 "You do plenty. You bathe and change her. Cuddle her, read to her."

 "Still," he said sadly. "Anytime she cries, I feel like I've failed. I feel no better than my father, allowing me to be thrown in that cell and never let out."

 His hands clenched over the tops of his knees as he turned back to the window.

 You shrank back away from him. Was he right? Did you allowing the little one to soothe herself mean that you were in any way like Az's parents?

Seeming to sense your thoughts, Az sighed, and laid back onto the mattress. The muscles in his shoulders and back were still bundled with tenseness.

 He reached down to pull the covers over himself as the baby wailed, still. Az rolled onto his side and gently pulled you to him, careful to avoid the tender line on your belly. He wrapped his arms around your middle, and buried his face in the back of your neck, nuzzling into your hair. Your gentle apricot and summer air scent that normally surrounded you now mixed gently with the rosiness of babies and the warm, milky scent of a nursing mother.

 He breathed in deeply, and let his breath out slowly.

 "I love you so much (y/n), this will pass. We will get through this part together," he murmured against the back of your neck.

  You laid your hands over where his arms crossed just below your swollen breasts.

"I love you too, and I know we will Az. She's beautiful, she's perfect. She was meant to be ours, and we're doing the very best we can." You whispered.

The muscles in his arms relaxed then, and your weariness stole over you. Nights without sleep and days spent with Madja, overseeing your recovery while still caring for the baby had robbed you of your usual vitality. It wasn't long at all before despite the squealing still echoing through the house, you slipped under the heavy, velvety influence of sleep.

Az held you close in your dreams. Silently, he summoned his shadows to him. They swirled about him in a gentle, silent storm. In his mind, he whispered to them, giving commands, quietly sending them on a mission.

 The storm cloud left him then, and within moments, the baby soothed and settled down. Quiet stole through the house as the shadows slipped back into your room. They raced over to Azriel and swirled around him. They sent an image of a peacefully sleeping baby into his mind. Dressed in a cotton sleeper that allowed her hands and chubby little feet free, the tiny girl had pulled her thumb into her mouth. Her shock of wild black hair was tousled about in a wild bedhead cloud. Her tiny black wings were folded behind her, and as he watched, they expanded to their full span in a little stretch before tucking back against her body.

 The image left his mind as he sent the shadows away, back to their normal duties of skulking around the house where no one could see them. His heart was warmer, fuller, knowing that she was alright. Even if he hadn't gone himself to check on her and settle her down- he'd done what a father should, and shown his little girl love when she needed it.

 Maybe the shadows would be how he survived this stage of parenting, he thought, as he snuggled closer and drifted to sleep.

[ohwormwood]

random thoughts i have while playing isat pt. 7

[woe, spoilers be upon ye!]

opened the game and immediately went "im gonna make odile question my sanity!!!" but of course when i enter the house Siffrin decides to turn the scripted tutorial enemy into bean paste and ruins the run--

anyways. this panel will haunt me

i. i dont even know how but. I beat the king without him ever getting a chance to make his first attack. i just kept spamming slow and two jackpots later he was dead. i didn't even knoiw that was possible.

after a bit of fucking around i decided that i was gonna move on to act 5 and promptly burst into tears

update: i accidentally posted this too early dont look at me

sat and cried through the entirety of the party's interactions in act 5

screaming crying throwing up

even the king took one look at this dude and was like "are you good man like, you can take a rest before we do this you're literally about to topple over"

that post where odile says the oven copypasta during the mal du pays scene has permanently altered my brain and i literally laughed out loud when this line appeared

i haven't talked about it before but. a while ago i made a concept for a game based off the backrooms and omori, and odile talking about someone who is forgotten may not exist is the basis for the entire game's plot, it makes me want to go back and flesh it out a bit more!!!

i am deadset on the idea of making an edit with mirabelle's reflection craft but it's an uno reverse card

simultaneously in my brain: an edit where the sound mirabelle's reflection craft makes is the metal pipe meme

i am. such a fucking sucker for sickfics. i cannot get enough of them. act 5 has enough sickfic tropes to make a million spinoff fics on its own, it brings me life and i love it dearly

wailing

this line sends me into orbit every time i see it

odile attacking siffrin. hurts so, so so badly on an emotional level for me. Because like??? i get it. i get it and it sucks and she obviously doesn't want to, but she's scared. But siffrin is even more scared in that moment, and the immediate association of that pain with being hated by odile hurts me so much.

YEAHHHH ODILE GIRLBOSS SUPREME

they're so soft and squishy and cute in this image i c a n t

incoherent WAILING. this. this image. this image just about broke me. THEYRE SO HAPPY and RELIEVED, IT HURTS,,,

the tone shift to talking to the party afterwords is still so funny to me HJBDFBSBFH like lookit him. hes so smol. so silly.

we're kidnapping bonnie guys it's official

my honest reaction to this line: LESBIANS??????

and then she hits me with:

AND I LOST IT

more silly guy siffrin,,,,, my favorite

aaaa aAAAAAAAAAAA

ISABEAU'S SPRITE CHANGING TO BE DOING A HAPPY DANCE AFTER THE CONFESSION IS SOOOOO CUTE WAAA

bonnie and odile clapping for isabeau confessing will never not be funny but ALSO it implies the bonnie knew about Isa's crush. and i for one personally believe that they picked up on it from Odile's relentless teasing of Isabeau as the #1 Isafrin shipper

mirabelle: wait you had a crush on sif?????? and i didn't know????

my roommate, who is ace: this is the aroace experience for real,,,

literally all of the second interactions with Isabeau had me and my roommate SCREAMING

HOWLING LAUGHING

OK I NEVER KNEW???? THAT SIFFRIN TOLD ISABEAU ABOUT THE BAD TOUCH EVENT?????? IN CANON???? I ALWAYS THOUGHT THAT WAS A FANON THING BUT THEY ACTUALLY ADDRESS IT IN GAME AND???? ISA'S REACTION HAD ME ON THE FLOOR

siffrin: i kissed you once,,,,

isa:

the words "im being perfectly normal about this" is something i say on a daily basis so i relate to this wholeheartedly

AYO???????? ISA WHEN DID YOU BECOME SO SMOOTH????

this. this image. made my jaw hit the GODDAMN FLOOR. I WAS NOT MENTALLY PREPARED FOR IT AT ALL AND BOTH ME AND MY ROOMMATE S C R E A M E D WHEN WE SAW IT

LIKE???? HOLY FUCK SIF JESUSSSSSSSSSSS CHRIST???? how did isabeau not implode on the spot from that look bro howwwwwwwwwww

AND THEN. AS IF THAT WASN'T ENOUGH TO MAKE MY HEART START SOBBING. ISA BLOWS YOU A KISS???? AAAA???

annnnd scene!

i will continue playing to get some of the different loop endings and i totally plan on doing two hats in the future!!! so im not quite done with this game yet i just got impatient in act 4 and i needed the Emotional Catharsis of Act 5

[stormyoceans]

ACTUAL REAL VICE VERSA RERUN IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 2024 WE ARE SOOOO BACK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[writing-frenzy]

Beautiful Disaster AU

So, here I am, on a serious Shang Qinghua/Airplane bro binge because sometimes you just crave a thing and can't let go, and I ended up getting inspired by these two posts :) Link and Link So here I go.

Edit: Forgor to set a link for part two, my bad.

Also, here is this poem that also inspired a thing and also gave the name for this AU~

`Beautiful Disaster~ By Nikita Gill If he tastes like the rainfall, Looks like a summer storm, Fights for you like a forest fire; he's a tornado of trouble. (And you need to hold on to him and never ever let him go.)

So yeah, I took a look at that, and thought it actually fit both Shen Jiu and SQH/Airplane well, if in different ways. (Shen Jiu the tornado and Airplane bro the forest fire, but oh, how SJ fights like lightening in a storm, ready to burn everything away, while SQH is tricky like the wind, saving most of his energy for when it really matters until you can't see anything past the wails and talismans.)

So yeah, watch me stumble into a scumplane with Ghost!Shen Jiu :3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It starts ever so simply, Shen Jiu watching as that fake is so happily accepted, all the other Peak Lords seeming to rejoice at having them there, even the disciples pleased and ever so willing to bark for the man wearing his face, the little beast practically panting after him every step he takes.

It disgusts him, makes him grind his teeth, makes him want to scream, shout, curse like he hasn't since he was just a desperate slave, how many visit his former home, his sanctuary now a cage of bamboo and frustration, rage, and bitterness. Watches how Peak Lord after Peak Lord visits, each charmed, some slowly, some in less than a second, guests of all types and titles leaving yet obviously wanting to stay.

All except for one.

"Ha-hahaaa, hello Peak Lord Shen, I'm here to deliver the order forms for the new training instruments and inkstones." The An Ding Peak Lord, Shang Qinghua laughs weakly, even as the fake narrows eyes at him over his favored fan. Shen Jiu glares, wishing he could rip it to shreds, throw it away, burn it so that it is no longer being defiled by this body snatcher.

"You may leave them with my disciples, Ming Fan or Binghe can take care of it." is the dismissive response of this other, lesser fake goods, even as Shen Jiu wants to scream.

"These are my duties; these are the responsibilities of a Peak Lord, you cannot hand them off to mere children, much less the beast." The real Shen QingQiu wants to howl, but it only comes out as whispered words through clenched teeth, the ghost not able to open his mouth for the anger choking him.

"Ah, about that my fellow Peak Lord, these contents are not for the eyes of disciples, I'll need your seal of approval on them as well." Shang Qinghua seems to wince, sounding rather apologetic, but it is this refusal that gains Shen Jiu's attention, actually surprised to hear someone being reasonable since the switch happened.

(The first time he's seen anyone actually refuse his cuckoo of a replacement.)

And is just in time to see the cold, cutting calculation the supposedly 'apologetic' man hides with his bowed head, before it is gone just as fast as he raises it.

It is the start of his interest in Shang Qinghua, that man he considered a rat in life, only to show just how clever he is after Shen Jiu died.

Watches how the man sneakily tests the fake, teas for cleansing snuck in here and there, talismans deceptively hidden in paintings, vases of flowers that detect malevolent, demonic energies.

And even with none of it being triped, the Fake able to somehow breeze past all these tests, Shang Qinghua still watches, guarded and suspicious, without ever letting his cuckoo even suspect it.

It is... gratifying, even if it is from that rat, to know someone still does not trust in what they see, that they too judge the fake and decide to actually question it. It is more than what his own disciples have done.

(It is more than what his Qi-ge has given, still ever so tolerant, ravished as he is for any crumbs, he can fucking get like the dogs they were.)

Changes only happen after what is apparently a disastrous conference, with intriguing, if terrifying secrets coming to light.

"Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky!"

"Peerless Cumber?!"

Hearing their words, it brings in new consideration for his circumstances, makes his already yin filled core seem to freeze at just what he is hearing.

Some kind of fate that forces you into another's dead body, chains one to follow it with little hope for change, even forcing a literary god from the sounds of it to be reborn into a human, never actually expecting their words to come to life, just trying to live as it were like any other storyteller from the streets.

(Remembers how any damage he does is just as quickly erased, as if it has never happened, as if there isn't a resentful ghost clawing at the walls, ready to destroy any in its way at the first chance it gets.)

Shang Qinghua, or Airplane as it were, visits more after that, plotting and planning with his bodysnatcher, who while he still hates, would be willing to gut if possible (but... can understand, so painfully understand being forced and chained, even if he was lucky enough his Masters were very much mortal at least).

But while there are no longer any suspicions in those eyes (the calculations are of course still there), they are instead replaced by a... mournful quality?

?

"Rest in Peace, Shen-Shixiong." is said in the middle of the night one day, when his fake has long since slept, the words like a whisper in the wind. In his mind's eye, he can smell the incense of sandalwood and jasmine, with an offering of melon seeds beside it...

...!

oh...

... Not once, not since he has been stuck in his home, has he heard his Shang-Shidi call the imposter Shixiong...

For that night, Shen Jiu stares at one of the pictures on the walls of his bamboo house, keen eyes seeing the subtle symbols for mourning on it, a subtle 9 easily hidden among the strokes if one was not a master like himself, the rage a quiet thing tonight as he thinks.

-

And then, one day, seemingly normal for all it is a quiet day at his peak, Shen Jiu finds that whatever was trapping him, caging him, chaining him to his bamboo house turned prison is gone.

He doesn't miss his chance, out the door before his mind can catch up, before he fully realizes he has been freed. It is only once he is off his mountain, out from that sect, away from everyone, that Shen Jiu realizes he has a choice.

He can feel it, he can feel his body even with the distance he is, knows exactly which direction to go if he wants to reclaim it. And he could, he could do so rather easily he can tell, whatever link between it and chained binding his imposter had gone...

...But why should he?

Why should he? Why should he go back to all those so willing to trade him for his knock off, why should he go back to people who will only be disappointed in the return of the 'old Shen-QingQiu' even if it is the true one.

Why should he debase himself to go crawling back to people in a body even more wrecked then his Qi-Deviation left it, all wanting something he is not and will never be?

(Go to see that panting, drooling Beast, to the desperate, stalking Brute, to that disappointing, clinging to scraps and fakes Brother Sect Leader?

To see those calculating, distrusting, mournful brown eyes? As weak as he is now? Not worthy to even be called Shixiong.)

Shen Jiu pauses, turning aways from where he can feel his body, where all those lies and expectations are, into a different direction, where death calls and the yin energy beacons any foolish or ambitious or both to answer.

He can feel it in his distant bones, trembling in his ghostly yin qi running through his spiritual body, his other choice.

The Gates of the City of Gu are about to open.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author's note:

*Me looking at Airplane, his trust issues, his knowledge of just how fucked up his story could be, thinking of alllllll those wife plots and the trickery* No way this man didn't try a few ways to see if Shen QingQiu was possessed by something or another; not that he doubts the all knowing sword, but yeah, he doubts the fucking sword.

Also, if anyone were to find out that Airplane was technically the creator god, I headcanon people would assume he was a literary god who either gained too much power on accident or some other gods decided to fuck around for shits and giggles because they could.

Also, Shen Jiu would be smart enough to figure out about the system, even if he doesn't know exactly what it is, the concept he understands fucking terrifies him; no way would he go back into his body giving the choice, being so weak from without a cure and whatever the fuck the imposter did to it to where he can go back. He'll take his fucking chances.

(Besides... his Shidi like demons well enough, why not a Calamity?) :3

[itzsana-kiddingmenow]

Omggg sana I love ur fics smm 😭😭

I was gonna request switch Seungmin and I.n js a lil tickle fight 🙏🏽

Iysmm 💕.

ᴛᴡ: rough tickles, attempted pinning, tickle fight

ᴀ/ɴ: i know i’m late yall let’s ignore it 😩💔

𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕: @someone-who-loves-kpop-saranghae @jeonginsdiary @leeknowstan33 @v--143 @wereallgonnadieonedaybutnottoday @inkytornpagess @lajanaa @a-wild-seungberry @channieissocute125 @soap143 @seungsluvv @skznccmlee @moony-9 @sunny-117

“Oh, I’ll find you…” Seungmin growled as he walked through the halls, searching for the maknae. Had he decided to indulge in a faint children’s game to pass time? Yes, but maybe because he was just bored. 

And now he was stuck searching for Innie, who surprisingly turned out to be an amazing hider. Who would’ve known? 

Minnie groaned as he circled around again for what felt like the hundredth time. 

“Oh my fucking—where are you?!” Seungmin whined, tears practically welling in his eyes from the palpable frustration. 

Finally, after lots of time spent searching for Jeongin, Minnie managed to find him, and trust me, he was ready to make the maknae pay for every moment Seungmin wasted searching for him. 

“Hyung—Hyung wait!! We can talk this out…plehehease!!” Jeongin wailed in anticipation, Seungmin had thrown him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and was now carrying the maknae to the bedroom to face his inevitable doom. 

“Nope. No talking.” Seungminnie snarked back, throwing Jeongin onto the bed and struggling to get the maknae’s arms above his head, taking a seat on his hips. 

Jeongin, taking advantage of his strength, did everything he could to flip the tables on Seungmin, and finally, desperate, he shot his arms down and kneaded into Seungmin’s sides hard. 

A squeal erupted from Seungminnie’s throat,  and Jeongin grinned. Victory. 

“JEONGIN!! OHOHO MY GAHAHAHAHA!!—” Poor Minnie howled when two thumbs rubbed agonizingly ticklish circles into his hip bones, eyes watering immediately as Jeongin flipped them and hovered over Seungmin instead. 

“What, hyung? You really thought you could overpower me?~” Jeongin grinned with an evil quality. 

Seungmin wailed when he felt a finger dip cruelly into his belly button. “INNIE NONONOHAHAHAH!!”

Jeongin was laughing along, eyes crinkling in happiness as Seungmin twisted and squirmed and laughed hysterically, kicking out crazily and screaming Innie’s name with a feral quality. 

Until he felt two hands shoot to his ribs and dig in. 

Jeongin shrieked loudly, tumbling right off of Seungminnie’s waist and onto the bed beside him as Seungmin, still giggling and ready for his vengeance, leapt onto him and tickled him everywhere he could reach—sides to ribs to neck to armpits. 

And Jeongin was weak for it. Cackles flew from his lips as he squirmed and tried to catch Seungminnie’s hands, but he failed every time and now was left howling and screaming as he pleaded for mercy. 

“NOHOHOHO MOHOHOHOHOREEE!!”

Seungmin took that as his ending cue and let up, laughing as he slumped over. cet to Jeongin and poked him, and Innie breathed out loud, eyes crinkled and tears dripping off of his face as he giggled incoherently. 

“You’re the wohorst!!”

“And you’re ticklish!!” 

And now there’s a pillow in Seungmin’s face. 

divider & header made by me! comments are appreciated but not required! <3

[chimerahyperfix]

The spot of endless night-time in the sky mocks you. It chases it's way to the House through the sky like a snake approaching its prey. Because that's what the King is; a predator coming to feast on the weak. It's the sign of the end. The end you can't seem to stop. A big old "crab you" for even thinking of trying.

You try anyway. Try to climb the mountain with your bare hands. Push the boulder up the hill. You tackle the situation from all angles, but nothing works. You've worn yourself thin throwing yourself at the equation, and it's killing you. Literally.

It's stopped being as painful, which sends alarms ringing through your brain. Your nerves are frying. Dying. Being frozen in time has thawed to the sensation of pins and needles instead of being bone-chilling. Caustic liquids don't hurt to chug down as much. You can phase out of thinking when the King attacks you. You can simply turn your thoughts off and move through the day like a phantom. It concerns you and you just don't care at the same time.

Your blood sings and your voice rots and you go and go and go, pushing yourself thin until you are a walking corpse.

It's just you, though. One for many. You have you have you have you have to remember that. Remember that. Just you just one, saving everyone else. Just you. No one else will remember this.

No one else will remember this.

You sit in the big room with the big window and all the dot charts. You don't remember what it's called-- did you ever know? Who cares? It's not important right now. Sit on the floor and look out the window like a child looking over the ocean.

The King, you can see him now. His tall, dark shadow appearing over the horizon, lit by the moon. His armor shimmers like the stars he seems to love so much. [Because that's what they are, right? Is that the correct term? Stars? You're not sure. There's a torn page in your mind where it should be.]

Just seeing him drives you up a wall. Echoes of pain from how he's killed you run through your body, even though you know its imagined. Mashed to gore painted on the walls screaming howling make it stop make it stop. You don't care anymore. He can come, and he'll kill you. Or you'll kill him! Eventually! It has to happen!

Maybe he can feel your stare. It looks, to you, like he looks up just a little bit, to look in your direction. You, alone, sitting behind a giant window under a shaded masterpiece, clashing sky of sun and moon and all his stupid stars. [Stars feels like the right term, it feels nice in your mouth, but you're not sure. You don't know, if it's right or wrong or if you've just crabbing made something up to describe simple spots in the sky.]

You want to kill him. You want to make sure no one ever has to hear his stupid wails again, or fight his monsters, or be frozen in time or look at his stupid crabbing sky ever again. Make that armor of his a cradle, a grave, a casket or a cage, it doesn't matter, you're going to bury him in it. Trap him six feet under like time has trapped you, a squirming angry animal of a thing behind bars of a birdcage.

No one will find you here. That's fine. The other housemaidens have started to avoid you, because you've become an angry little thing overnight. You don’t bother Mirabelle and some loops you flat out avoid Euphrasie, because they shouldn't have to see you like this, clinging to what was you from over a hundred today's ago. You don't want to worry the two of them, overstep a boundary you can't remember or something, because you've done this all for them and the consequences of your capital-C Change can come later when the King is gone and you don't have to do today over.

For now, you will wait. This loop probably won't be the one because, realistically, when will it be? When will you win? Are you going to be trapped here forever, doomed to repeat the same day over and over in a cage made of craft and wishes and pure spite?

You just wanted to help. Look where that got you. Over and over, forever.

[poisonf0rest]

𝐍𝐞𝐰 𝐌𝐨𝐨𝐧

The sun has not risen for twenty-six years.

Daysdeath, ragnarök, the eternal eclipse, the final punishment of the Saints, the will of The Great Ones— it matters not what you choose to call it. Its name will not change its nature. Its name will not spare us from the reality that is the world plunged into a never ending night, a never ending Hunt where the only mercy is death.

And even death does not come easy now.

The blood of beast and man run the streets of Yharnam red, and with every passing hour, each one as unchanging as the last, the remnants of humanity dwindle. Perhaps it was the bloodlust that The Hunt inspired that further awakened that beast within man, or perhaps in a final act of desperation man has cast away his own humanity, hoping that would be enough to allow him to survive.

Fools. As if that did not doom them further.

But there are still those that dare fight. These Hunters who call themselves human even as they slay beasts who were once our neighbors and family and lovers. These Hunters hunt humans to save humanity.

Tonight seems to be especially brutal, the ceaseless wails and screams echoing throughout the never-ending darkness. And yet this Hunter does not heed them, his claymore merciless as it severs through flesh and bone, not the cracking of skulls nor the sickening gurgle of blood enough to deter him from his hunt.

Beautiful, horrible, the blood of his prey falling around him as it glows the same unearthly red as his hair.

He does not rest. Wrenching his sword from the ribs of a mutant, the Hunter staggers backward, slipping on the mess of gore and entrails tangled upon the cobblestones, already spotting a pack of Scourge Beasts feasting on what must have been the remains of someone foolish enough to be caught outside tonight.

The Hunter rolls back his shoulders, dragging his claymore to the side as he charges, an arc of blood spraying from the blade as it lodges itself into the thick, furry neck of one of the Scourge Beasts. It screams. The howl shakes the Hunter to the bone, his arms trembling as he fights to free his blade now tangled in the flesh and fur.

The Beast staggers to its hind legs, forcing the Hunter to release the sword's hilt as it thrashes wildly with its enormous paws. Another two are running up behind him. But the Hunter noticed too late. The monster's claws slash into his side, and the force rams him into a nearby wall, smashing through layer after layer of crumbling brick.

The pack is already upon him. Rolling, the Hunter curses as one Scourge Beast snaps its jaws mere inches from his leg, a shot from his pistole blasting through the damned thing's jaw. He shoots twice, thrice, darting between the raging monsters to find his claymore still lodged in the flesh of the first beast, its head hanging off by ripped skin, swinging as it charges once more. The Hunter does the same.

Running straight for it, he fires once more, blasting its left paw to pieces as it skids across the bloodstained ground, the Hunter leaping above it as he lands on his sword, kicking it clean through the beast's spine.

Another annoyed curse leaves the Hunter's scowling lips as he counts the bullets he has left, turning to face the remaining Scourge Beasts.

Three bullets. Four beasts.

The first two charge, tongues drooling out from their rotten mouths as the Hunter darts beneath them, claymore singing as it scythes through the beasts, the pair collapsing upon each other as he finished them off with a single shot. Two bullets.

Turning, the Hunter narrowly dodges another swipe, its claws slicing through empty air as he pulls the trigger. The shot rings true, but not before another set of jaws crunch down onto his shoulder. A snap and blood sprays across his vision, throbbing pain blinding the Hunter as he rams his claymore behind him, throwing both the beast and himself to the ground from the momentum. And with the last burst of strength, he writhes free, shooting the monster through the skull as he kneels in a pool of blood.

"Fuck." The Hunter's left arm hangs, shredded and broken, rendered useless as he pushes himself to his feet using his sword as a brace.

Grimacing, he has no choice but to hobble into the nearest alleyway, clutching his arm as he sheathes his claymore onto his back. Staying out in the open any longer would mean certain death. He needs to find shelter, not to mention a doctor or at least some blood to help him recover. The Hunters were all products of blood transfusions, and yet this Hunter in particular must bear the sin of his lineage, the horrors behind that long-forgotten castle of ice and snow passed down to him. Without blood, his hunger worsens.

The itching at his gums and the prick of fangs against his lip remind him of that. His thirst grows stronger.

Limping further into the alley, a small courtyard emerges, a decaying tree in the center, what looks to be the remains of a forgotten well, and a ladder trailing up to the roof of the houses.

"Well," The Hunter grunts, hauling himself up the first wooden rung with his one functioning arm. "It can hardly be worse than lying out in the open."

Perhaps by luck or perhaps by yet another cruel temptation by the Saints, there waits a balcony door at the far end of the roof. Limping forward, the Hunter rams his foot against the handle, rotten wood splintering at the blow, announcing the Hunter's entrance with a groan. It was dim room, likely an attic or storeroom of the residence— if any humans still occupied it, that is.

Still scanning the area, the Hunter tucks himself into a far corner, leaning against what appeared to be crates of empty beakers and vials. At least, that's all he manages to make out as his sight blurs with each flash of heat and pain. No matter. He wouldn't stay long, only just enough to catch his breath.

Darkness dances across his vision, the left side of his body going completely numb as he only half-registers the trail of blood made from his raw wounds. A laugh, his eyes rolling to the back of his skull. Yes, just a quick breather, a nap, he thinks, losing the battle to consciousness. He shan't be here long.

And with that, his head rolls to the side, and he slips into the cold embrace of death.

· · ─────── ·♰· ─────── · ·

The Hunter awakens to two things: One, he is still frustratingly alive, his entire body burning like fucking hell.

Two, he is strapped down to a table with a rifle pointed at his face.

He doesn't get to so much as think of moving when the figure before him presses the muzzle of the gun closer. "I wouldn't recommend trying anything," the last word is little more than a growl as the figure leans in, your face illuminated by the overhead surgical light, highlighting your sneer of disgust. "Vileblood."

"I believe there has been some confusion. I was simply seeking refuge." Diluc doesn't bother struggling against his restraints, merely flexing his left hand as he realizes he can control his wounded arm again. He's healing. Slowly, but finally.

Seeing you have yet to relax your hold on the rifle, he clears his throat. "I am a Hunter. I understand you must be frightened, so if you would release me I'll leave your residence at once. I was only looking for an empty place to rest, but evidently, I chose wrong."

"A Vampyr who hunts monsters," You laugh. "Saints. What has the world come to?"

"Hell, by all manners of the word. Now if you'd release me I would leave your premise immediately and return—"

One more hysterical laugh forces its way from your lips, cutting the Hunter off as you shove the rifle forward, burying the barrel into his forehead. "Do you take me for a fool?"

His flesh burns. Diluc hisses through clenched teeth, the skin on his forehead bubbling and bleeding rapidly where it touches the rifle, the gruesome mixture dripping down his face. Silver. Just his damned luck.

Relenting, you prop the rifle up against the table he's chained to, pulling up your coat sleeve to reveal a clean row of puncture wounds along your forearm. The smell of blood and burnt flesh stains the air. "You were nearly sent back to the hell you crawled out of, blood-starved and bleeding out in my attic. I take it my blood saved you just in time."

"So why rescue me, Executioner?"

You grimace. "I am no Executioner, that whole damned Church and you Hunters can go up in flames for all I care. I am a doctor. My oath is to none but the sciences."

Diluc blinks, eyes darting from you, to the rifle, and back to you. "Of course," A scoff. "A doctor."

"Oui, believe it or no, it matters not to me. Truthfully, your appearance is something of a blessing, as I have need of something only you, dear mutant Vileblood, can give me."

Diluc is about to say something of particularly flavorful language when you begin shuffling items on an operating tray, pulling out a scalpel and syringe long enough to make the words dry in his throat. The restraints don't budge. Normally, breaking a set of chains- leather, metal, or otherwise- would hardly be considered a challenge, however Diluc is painfully aware that he hasn't fed in weeks prior to the fight, and the throbbing in his arm and across his body confirms that his body failed to heal itself completely.

Without blood, not only will his strength continue to wither, but so will his control. That means the once mighty Hunter really is entirely at the mercy of some psychopathic, self-proclaimed doctor currently unbuttoning his vest and spreading her hands across his chest, positioning the scalpel just above his heart.

You are just about to make the first incision through the Hunter's pale skin when the door creaks open, twin heads popping out. Two pairs of identical grey eyes stare into the clinic, mops of blonde hair bouncing as they peek out from the doorframe.

"Is breakfast ready yet?"

"I'm hungry and Eileen won't quit hitting me!"

"Liar! Liar! Timmy hits me first, it's true, I swear it."

"It's hit not hits, stupid!"

"Is not, Idiot!"

"Is too, dunce!"

"Lubberwort!"

"Smellfungus!"

"Gollumpus!"

A high-pitched scream. "Take that back! Take it back!"

Diluc watches, stunned, as the children bicker, the heavy atmosphere of the room all but dissipates as they continue to screech and squabble. Then, you stand, sucking in a deep breath— "Silence!"

The echo of the command befalls the room.

"Yes, Miss Doctor."

You pinch your brows, careful not to cut yourself with the scalpel, swearing this alone has eaten away at your already regrettably short lifespan. "Where is Alison? She was on cooking duty today. And do believe I already told the both of you not to interrupt while I am with patients." The twins flinch, looking between each other before their gaze falls on Diluc.

"Do you always tie them up before cutting them?"

"This one is dirty, scary looking. Like an ugly dog!"

Diluc feels a punch in the gut at that one. Children. Blunt as a hammer.

"Yes, he is indeed very ugly." Bitch. "But he is my patient and we are in the middle of a very, very important step in making him feel better. So please, mes petits choux, go find Alison or Edwin at tell them to get started on the food, lest they become it."

"Okay!"

Rattling footsteps echo down the hall, and you finally exhale as the twins scamper off, turning to face a still-bewildered Hunter. You slam the door shut, locking the rusted hinge. "Out with it."

Diluc clears his throat. "Not yours, I presume?"

A snort. "Saints, no. I already told you, I run a clinic... alongside an orphanage, research center, and theater depending on if it's Friday or not."

He fights a smile, something tugging at a memory long forgotten. "Ah. I see."

But there is no longer any lingering hostility, Diluc's arms all but slack against the restraints as the realization dawns on him. "I've placed you all in danger just by being here. Untie me and I'll leave at once, I have already exposed you to my blood for far too long. I refuse to endanger you and the children any further."

And, damn it all, your conscience finally catches up with you.

Cursing under your breath, you slam the scalpel and syringe back down onto the tray, unshackling the Hunter. Diluc is still weary as he sits up, immediately redoing the buttons on his shirt to preserve some modesty, about to make a run for his weapons when he feels a light touch against his shoulder. Contrary to your every action thus far, there you are, hand on his arm, asking silently for him to wait.

You clear your throat. "I already told you, you bloody stupid Hunter, I am a doctor. That means by oath no patient of mine is allowed to leave unless they are fully healed, Vileblood or no. We can skip the... extra procedures for now."

You lift up a box, vials clicking as Diluc picks one up. Blood vials. "I wasn't quite sure how a mutant such as yourself would have preferred it administered— through an injection like the rest of you Hunters or as a drink."

"Either." Diluc feels a prickle against his top gums as he pops off the cork, but swallows the desire down. "Either is effective."

"Very well, then drink."

By the Saints, he doesn't need to be told twice. Mouthful after mouthful, he empties the glass before instinctually reaching for another, feeling the strength return to his limbs, skin and muscle stitching back together on their own, blood coagulating and scabbing over, subduing the beast that dwells inside him once again. He's already thrown aside half a dozen vials by the time he bothers to take a breath. Panting, he wipes his bloodied mouth with his equally bloody sleeve, and you frown at the less-than-sanitary repercussions.

But alas, you suppose when you're wearing the dried blood of beasts akin to a second coat, the cleanliness of it all fails to bother you.

You were so lost in thought you failed to realize the Hunter had disappeared from the operating table, now standing behind you, fully donned in his black coat and hat, already having retrieved his claymore and gun before you could even blink. His voice jostles you, and you unconsciously shift back, reminded once again this man is far from human. "You are far kinder than I deserve." A deep bow, "I am in your forever in your debt."

"That you are, my dear Hunter."

Diluc freezes halfway, snapping his head up as he rises to full height.

"Surely you didn't think I'd give up vials of my own blood for free?"

Your blood. Diluc grimaces, suddenly hyperaware of the taste as it coats his tongue and throat. Heavy. Rich. Fucking addictive. "You're a Hunter so you've got no coin on you, that I'm sure. However, you can help me gather materials. As I mentioned prior I am conducting research," You clear your throat. "On what I cannot allow myself to disclose, but I would appreciate specimens only a gifted killer such as yourself can obtain. And, of course, free-range to test the walking specimen that is yourself."

He pretends not to be bothered by the way you eye him up and down as you say that last part. "Research, huh..." An unamused grunt. "Word of advice, little healer. I wouldn't mess with the Church."

"Doctor."

"Makes little difference to me. The warning still stands."

You scoff. "I know full well that the Healing Church is a far cry from holy, Hunter. After all, they created you." And you don't know what compelled you, but you continued. "That besides, my work is not directly dealing with the Church. I wish to find the truth behind, well, all of this: Ashen Blood, the Beastly Scourge, Vilebloods, the truth of—"

"Quiet." Diluc slams his hand over your mouth, muffling your words as you gasp. Surprise turns to anger as you yell, attempting to claw him off, to no avail. "Do not speak of such blasphemy aloud."

Completely ignoring him, you keep fighting his grasp, almost considering biting his palm before you remember how much filth his gloves must be carrying on them. "Just listen to me for a moment, would you? Quiet." The last word is a hissed whisper, but the ferocity in his glare silence you.

Then, you hear it too.

A rhythmic tapping, a movement of someone or something hopping along the weathered shingles of the clinic's roof. Diluc merely puts a finger to his lips, motioning you to stay put as he unsheathes his claymore in a smooth arch. Silently, he makes his way to a window, leaping out as he disappears into the endless night.

And then he's standing before you. But this time, a dead crow is dangling in his grasp.

The startled shriek from you makes Diluc flinch, and he's about to apologize for the gore when you cut in. "Your ridiculous bird is dripping blood all over my clinic!"

Oh.

"Well my apologies, Doctor. I thought blood would be somewhat commonplace here."

A huff and you inch closer. "Well?" You bend, investigating the crow. Or at least, what you thought was a crow, only it was well-past half your height, monstrously contorted and reeking of decaying flesh. "Why did you feel the need to bring this to me?"

"Carrion Crows. Appear to be rotting, unintelligible creatures, but I've seen far too many come in and out of the Church to believe they are simply wasted pairs of eyes." He meets your gaze and flicks the silver band forged onto the creature's foot. "Your roof just happened to be littered with them."

"Saints."

Diluc grunts, throwing the crow out the window, shaking excess blood from his palms. "As a man of my word I intend to honor our deal, despite your less-than-honorable method of trapping me in it."

"Wait just a moment, I'm not the one who broke into someone else's house half-dead and bleeding while—"

"But call for me, and I will bring you the specimens you require." You scowl as he cuts you off- again- stepping back from pure instinct as he walks towards you. Lifting his hand, Diluc hesitates, arm falling back to his side. He steps away.

You're scared. The smell of fear radiates off you despite your determination to look him in the eye, likely denying that visceral reaction to yourself even now. He can't blame you: if it has fangs and claws and a lust for blood, then surely it must be a beast. He accepted that fact long ago.

"I'll say it once more, stay away from the Church. If not for your own sake, then for the children you care for."

The Hunter had already made his way back to the window, clearly not intending to use the door like a civilized person, when you speak up again, quieter this time.

"It is for them I must continue. There is no future, not for the children nor for Yharnam, unless I find the truth."

Diluc doesn't move. He simply stares at you, finding a conviction, a light in your eyes that he swears he hasn't seen in the decades since this world fell into eternal night. And it terrifies him.

Hope.

"Until then, Doctor."

[whiskeyswifty]

in defense of 1989:

the breathless, wailing anguish with which she howls "take me HOOOOOoooooome" as she finally gives in to her vices, her weaknesses, knowingly but willingly. because she's so tired of doing the right thing, the smart thing, so lonely, so hopeful, and soooo horny she's helpless against self destruction. A song so unflinching in its awareness of that while also unapologetic in her choice to fully throw herself into temptation.

and even still the continued breathless, endless questioning in out of the woods. is this it? is it finally over? when it be over? when will someone just love her, and when will she stop doubting that they don't? when will this cycle of searching and heartbreak end? the way the song ends, so desperate is she for guidance that her voices harmonize together in a nearly religious choir, calling to the heavens for an answer. utterly lost, screaming into the forest doubting everything she remembers, was it real? can she even remember herself?

In I wish you would, how she turns a quiet, fleeting moment of laying in bed, watching headlights crawl across her bedroom wall though the gap in her curtains into a bombastic tour through all the regrets and dashed hopes that fly through her head. how you can mentally run through the span of fifty emotions over the course of ten seconds.

wildest dreams where the song is paced using her own heartbeat i mean what a clever way to quite literally let you into her heart

also in wildest dreams, giving into the idea that maybe this is what she deserves maybe, all she deserves. it's all she'll ever be, just a memory to someone and so in that fatalist acceptance, she's determined to at least make sure she's a phenomenal memory. and she asks them to lie to her, just this once. she doesn't ask for anything else, just to be told one time that she's worth remembering. an incredibly vulnerable thing to admit about how you see yourself and how dark of a place to be mentally.

the murky, wobbly synth and wistful whispery voices on this love. the whole song sounding like a fog or like wading in the tide as it ebbs and flows. so tactile in how it renders the feeling of wading through the fog a breakup or dissolution. not sure what the right thing to do is, to turn around and fight for them, to let them go, to move on. a song where she's so lost, she surrenders her fate completely and accepts whatever happens will happen and completely succumbs to the current, wherever it takes her and whatever it brings. she has to believe they'll come back on their own because there's nothing else to do now. she's done everything she could and it's just up to the tides of fate.

i mean clean?? hello??? one of the most apt metaphors for breaking up with someone when the relationship was intense and maybe codependent or manipulative. how addiction can be a person, and all the same trappings apply. how the whole album was her struggling through that. revisiting it over and over, how hard it is to try to live without them, as if it feels like drowning. but ultimately finding a baptism of self in the drowning, being the one to save herself for the first time, realizing she could save herself. revolutionary idea for the person who wrote all 4 prior albums, a monumental moment of growth. while still acknowledging that the itch to return to them will always linger, but recognizing that that's not love or fate or destiny like she once thought it was. it's just her insecurities trying to drag her back into bad habits, ultimately pulling the monster out from under the bed and in the harsh light of day, seeing it for what it is and rendering it unable to fool her anymore. one of the most pivotal moments in her mental and emotional growth as a person that she's ever discussed in her art. Where she completely abandons the fairytale idea of fate and destiny and begins to embrace her autonomy.

bonus of YAIL being one of the quietest, most intimate and mundane stories of love she’s ever written. how poignant for it to come after the bombastic pop and clashing synths of the sweeping and tragic romances regaled on the entire album. as if to say nah, real love, true love is in the quiet, unremarkable moments. the synths and echoes used again here but in a more dreamy, ethereal way, as if it's not happening quite yet but it's a wish for something totally different than she had before, something she should have wished for all along. a beautiful contrast!!

also just i'm sorry but blank space was so clever, maybe you had to be there but for her to come out with this song after the Red era and just.... absolutely destroy the pervading narrative about her with a sledgehammer but in the most tongue and cheek way, the most above it all way. like look how stupid you sound? this is the person you think i am? do you hear how ridiculous this shit is? get a grip! she not only made them into the fool and came off smarter and savvier than anyone else, she made BANK off of their stupidity. slay of the century!!!

basically 1989 is the rawest and most honest depiction of a woman in her 20s at some of the lowest points your 20s can bring. how through that time, as you figure out who you're supposed to be as an adult, you completely lose sight of who you are, and because of that you feel the lowest about yourself you may ever feel in your life. You let yourself get treated horribly and you begin to wonder if this is all there is. and it's awful and it feels endless and so lonely because you feel like the only person going through it, that everyone else knows something you don't, and that you're pathetic and worthless for falling so behind everyone else. but at the same time your 20s are soooooo fun and exciting and liberating because of your first foray into independent adulthood, so to lay unapologetically pop instrumentals over these crushing feelings is genius. it's the whiplash of that time in your life, the oscillation making each feeling of euphoria and devastation that much more potent. And how she emotes on this album is unlike anything else! She’s theatrical with her syllables and delivery as if she might never get the chance to say any of this again!

but also, the perhaps unconscious metaphor she presented that so many people, fans included, seem to fall victim to. the idea that oh, it's just pop music, it's not that deep, it's soulless and vapid. only serious music can actually be emotional, when the words she's saying and the hard truths about herself she's conveying are raw and bleeding open wounds. repetition isn't laziness, but a manifestation of anxiety and building tension. heavy synths and electro-pop stylings aren't soulless compared to guitars, but a way to unground you from reality and give you that atmosphere of disorientation and so as she grapples with losing her bearings, so do you. it's a musical allegory for how in your twenties someone can outwardly be having the time of their life, but inwardly be the lowest they've ever been. it's the eternal duality of your 20s, rendered so beautifully and harnessing musical stylings so masterfully to convey this experience. i'll defend it forever for that reason and implore people to reexamine their view of pop music and pop instrumental compositions as less artistic achievements and less emotional than acoustic ballads. sadness isn't the only vulnerable emotion. confusion, anger, anxiety, frustration are all profound and loud emotions that deserve an electric guitar because sometimes words aren't enough for how much you're feeling, and it's up to a cacophonous soundscape of electric guitars and moog synthesizers and your own cathartic screams to fill in the rest.

[fumifooms]

Howl’s moving castle dunmeshi AU

I’ve cracked the code I know why I love Marcille x Chilchuck so much. They’re literally just like Howl’s Moving Castle Howl and Sophie. Okok indulge me for a sec I’m about to dump so many pics and ramble for a bit. I want you to see my marchil vision. It’s fabulous extra cringefail hopeless romantic drama queen x grumpy old sad angry caring hardworking person cursed to be here & cursing fate and giving tough love to everything in a miles radius. No one is safe. From either of them. Calcifer or Micheal is Izutsumi. Wait wait no Calcifer is Senshi and Michael is Izutsumi. Senshi as Calcifer works bc Calcifer is just chained to Howl and is there reminding Howl to not die and take care of himself, giving hints about how to break the curse to Sophie, also the fire demon cooks the eggs and bacon checkmate. And then LAIOS IS TURNIP HEAD OH MY GOD THAT WORKS OUT PERFECTLY. Chilchuck & Marcille, screaming terrified of the weird scarecrow chasing after them, meanwhile the weird scarecrow that’s harmless: :(. Wizard Suliman is Falin and the second fire demon is Winged Lion, so bam everything comes full circle.

I’m assuming most people who’ll see this post maybe saw the movie but not the book, and what you need to know is that the movie makes Howl so much dreamier and collected and cool, whereas in the book he’s just a drama queen 24/7 that’s it. He’s a wet cat dressed in expensive sparkly glittery gowns that needs to be yelled at to do anything he needs to do. He complains. He bemoans. Meanwhile Sophie is, honestly pretty like in the movie? Less contrarian and anger issues but will grumble and yells while cleaning nonetheless. Hardworking but will pathetically sit down on a chair in a dark corner to cry about her aching bones and OHH this is ALL because she’s the eldest child and she was doomed for unhappiness and no one can ever love her… So she’ll whack everyone into order and purge her feelings through aggressive cleaning and using weed killer. IS THIS NOT GIVING MARCILLE & CHIL TO YOU?!

There’s this funny widespread take from the fandom:

And it couldn’t be more true in a marchil context either. Like come on. For all of this post just swap the names of Howl for Marcille and Sophie for Chilchuck.

(Last one with the art by Cookiekappa on Tumblr)

Tell me this isn’t so Marcille. Tell me Chil wouldn’t run away from home thinking he’s failed life and is no longer in shape to work and now has to waddle in self-pity, seeking out wizards which he hates and finds shady bc it’s his last option, and then end up a maid & cleans everything out of spite and also worry for the person living there. Tell me Marcille wouldn’t throw a depressed slime tantrum so bad that it causes a partial town evacuation because her wails summon unknown horrors, over her HAIR. Forget slime she’d blow up the house instantly. She would breakdance as refusal to go see the king. Chilchuck would call her a slitherer-outer and she would gasp in offense and they’d have a fight.

Marcille having full on poems laying around and then Chil & Izu seeing them and being like "Ah yes, this must be a spell, it makes no sense and is so extra, just like how silly our resident witch and her magic is". Izutsumi going "Okay peepaw I’ll teach you how to use a magical bucket just take one step forward-" and they immediately fuck it up and they’re left stranded in far unknown lands. Chilchuck complaining that HIS BACK HURTS. And at every turn or something mildly inconveniencing him "NOTHING GOOD EVER HAPPENS TO THE MIDDLE CHILD".

And can we talk about the aging motif, the curse… Marcille never letting herself grow close to someone even though she does all these grand gestures for them at first. Meanwhile her fear of loss stares at her straight in the eye whenever she looks at 90 years old Chilchuck, and her deciding to not run away from their relationship is what ends up healing both of them. She gets over her fear of intimacy and he grows over feeling like a terribly dull unlovable failure. Me sobbing when I remember how Sophie’s curse of being old is a self-inflicted manifestation of herself thinking she’s romantically unlovable and weak…….

This is it for now but rest assured that I want to make art of this, have these memes for now