#Tainted Souls explanation

[taintedsoulscomic]

What is a Mutant?

According to official papers, A mutant is a human being who’s DNA well, mutated to give them powers.

Physical Mutations such as Albinoism are not considered when somebody is labled as a ‘Mutated Human.’

These powers can go from Telepathy all the way to controlling the elements! (I can control the weather and Axel is essentially a demonic god.)

Due to this powers, mutants are feared. Many countries have negotaed with Muatnt leaders to live in peace and keep all citizents safe. The main issue remains in the United States of America! (Because of course it fucking does.)

The United States of America consists of a 10% Mutant population. It would be more if we were not brutally murdered in the streets like goddamned dogs. It’s the worst in conservative states like Texas, Alabama and my home state of Florida.

In the USA, Mutants are highly descriminated against to the point where most mutants have to have false documents made to earase thme from all government databases as a ‘mutant.’

Axel had to help me cover up my history... He looked really sad when he realized how much danger I was in.

Mutants are sorted by several catagories.

Type of Mutation: Elemental, Psycic, Spirital, mythological

Level of strength: 1-20

Risk Level: Safe, Cautious, Dangerous, Apocolyptic

Mutation Generation: Well, if you come from a family mutants this is where this comes in handy.

For Example I am an Elemental, Strength Level 14, Dangerous and Mutation Generation 2. Axel is a Spirital mutant, Strength Level 20, Dangerous.

His older sister is a non-mutant. (He says Hi Ari!)

Our friend Oculus is a Mythological, Cautious, Strenth Level 10 Mutant.

I think that covers all of it! 

- Nova L Thorne

Journalist Extrodeniar!

[nomazee]

EVENT TIME EVENT TIME

how about.. 4:44am & dr. ratio? 🫡

AUGHH THANK U GWEN i lvoed writing ths..... first time writing dr ratio be gentle on my fragile soul

my 1k event!

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When Doctor Veritas Ratio walks into his very-private, very-locked, very-secluded study, he’s greeted with the unfortunate sight of you—sitting on the floor, an easel with a wide canvas set up low to the ground, oil paints sprawled absolutely everywhere. 

“What the hell are you doing?”

A sheepish smile pulls at your face, as if a sweet expression will get you out of the mess you’ve made of Ratio’s personal space. It’s far too late— late? Too early? Regardless. The hour of the night-slash-morning that you’ve decided to paint in his room is not appropriate at all. 

“I can explain,” you say, followed by a complete lack of an explanation as the two of you stew in silence for another half a minute. 

“Why are you even awake at this hour?” Ratio scoffs, stepping around you and your hazardous art set-up as he places some irrelevant stack of books on his (thankfully untouched) desk. “You should’ve been in bed a long time ago. Soon you’ll experience delirium from lack of sleep.” 

“Oh, please,” you argue, swatting a hand in his general direction playfully as you turn back to your canvas. It’s full of nauseating color, clear shapes and lines that don’t blend together in the slightest, vague animal-like forms that overlap with each other. “You’re awake too, aren’t you? Unless I really did hit delirium, and you’re just some Veritas-ghost floating around in my subconscious.” 

Ratio does not get a kick out of your very funny joke. An annoyed huff escapes him, tainted with something like weariness and exhaustion. Your eyebrow twitches. 

“And to answer your first question,” you prattle on, mindlessly scrubbing dried paint from the side of your hand with a wet rag, before picking up a fan brush, “I’m painting. This room is really well-ventilated, which is nice, because it would be a shame if all the fumes got to my head and zapped away my few remaining brain cells.” 

That one gets a laugh out of him, probably because it’s at the expense of your own intelligence. 

“There are a hundred other rooms that are exactly the same as mine,” he argues, finally turning away from his pointless shuffling of materials on his desk and facing you, looking at you while he talks to you—you know, like a normal person would. “There was no reason to infiltrate my own private study for your… painting. The door was locked, too. How did you—” 

“Don’t ask silly questions, Veritas,” and you like the way each consonant of his name clicks against your lips and teeth and tongue, “I have my ways. Does it bother you that I’m defiling your good room with my frivolous fine arts endeavors?” 

“Ridiculous,” his face screws up in displeasure at your assumption that he’d be so elitist to deny you of your passion. He walks around your spread of supplies again, carefully, before kneeling by your side to watch you work. As much as he’s loath to admit, you’re one of his few soft spots, and it shows in the way he traces the lines of your paint with his gaze, and the fact that he has yet to kick you out of his room. “The humanities are just as important as any other field.” 

“Spoken like a true scholar,” you quip, trying to hold back the shakiness of your hands and the swaying of your body. It really is too late for this, but you’d slept through the day and felt much too awake by midnight. Setting up camp in Ratio’s room was a natural instinct. 

“Go to bed,” he says, commanding yet gentle as he tugs a paintbrush from your hand. He doesn’t touch your hands, never really does, but he’s gathering your scattered, wrung-out tubes of paint and the little containers of linseed oil hidden under the easel. “It does neither you nor your artwork any good to be exhausted.” 

“I’m not even tired!” you complain, dragging out your words in a whine as he nudges you with his foot in a wordless command to stand up. There’s something like a cot in the corner of his room (because he does sleep, sometimes, and often it’s between textbooks and files and loose leaf paper) and a cozy patterned blanket that’s definitely yours. 

“You will be tired the second your head hits the mattress.” 

“This is a really awful mattress, Ratio.” 

“Don’t complain,” and his tone is harsh but you know he doesn’t mean it, because he’s pushing you back onto the little sleeping corner and tucking you into the blanket, nothing short of kindness in his hands. “You still have to clean your mess in the morning.” 

Sure, you think, already drifting off. By the time you wake up, you know that your mess will be packed away in a neat pile, floor wiped clean and canvas propped safely against the wall.

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[dark-and-kawaii]

༺ 𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒟𝑒𝓋𝒾𝓁 𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝐿𝑜𝓋𝑒𝒹 ༻

Ascended Astarion - Raphael

You never expected a Devil to be your savior, never expected to be cherished by him.... You also never expected your heart to whisper its final lament, painting a portrait of what could have been.

- Heavy Angst - Character Death -

• PRT 1 (CLICK HERE)

Your eyes fluttered open, your senses jolted to alertness by the unsettling warmth against your skin. As your eyes finally adjust, a vision of horror unfolds, your world stained red. The warm touch of blood sets alarms off within you. Disoriented and dazed, your gaze falls upon a corpse laying beside you, Haarlep… Their body lifeless and their eyes devoid of the mischievous spark that once defined them.

Tears were beginning to well in your eyes as you reached out to Haarlep, your voice trembling with desperation. "Haarlep, please," you pleaded, your voice cracking. You nudged their stiff body, desperately hoping that this was some sick game. But there was nothing. Haarlep remained motionless, unresponsive to your pleas. A sob finally escapes you as you rest your head on their bloodied chest, your body trembling with anguish.

A sudden realization struck you, panic surging through you like a tidal wave, where was Raphael? Quickly you scrambled out of bed, your nightgown saturated in an ocean of blood. Confusion clouded your thoughts as you searched frantically for an explanation and for Raphael. "How could this happen?" You uttered, your voice trembling with fear and uncertainty.

The house of hope was shattered by a thunderous noise that echoed through the hallways and into the boudoir which drew your attention like a magnet. A knot of dread lodged itself in your throat as you rushed towards the source, your heart pounding with a potent mix of fear and desperation.

The scent of iron and decay lingered in the air, amplifying your uneasiness. You followed the trail of blood that painted a haunting path throughout the house. Each step felt heavier, as if every footfall carried the weight of impending doom. You had to find Raphael, no, you needed to find your devil- “Where are you!?”

Swinging open the doors to the dining hall, your eyes widened with horror at the sight that greeted you. There in the middle of the hall was Raphael, bloody and defeated, hanging in the air in the merciless grasp of Mephistopheles… One of Raphael’s wings was mutilated and twisted at an unnatural angle, both his legs broken, his face tainted with bruises as Mephistopheles, his own father, squeezed tightly, threatening to consume him in an act of twisted possession. Tears streamed down your face just as your voice pierced the air, "Raphael!" You cried out to him, the anguish in your voice a clear reflection of your shattered soul. You yearned to rush to his side, to fight for him against the Arch Devil of Cania.

However, your reckless attempt to save him was thwarted as cold, pale hands encircled your waist, cruelly restraining you as the same cuff that cut off your powers was locked around your wrist in one fluid motion. Astarion materialized from the shadows, a sinister reminder from your darkest nightmares and past.

Holding you tightly, he pressed you against his chest, his grip unyielding. The touch of Astarion’s lips on your neck sent shivers of disgust through you, a taunting reminder of your shackled existence. "My dear pet," he whispered, amusement lacing his words. "Oh, how I've missed you." The echoes of the sacrificial ritual still lingered, the man you once knew still dead after the lives forfeited for his own gain. "Who would have thought that sacrificing those innocent souls during the ritual we performed would pave my way to Mephistopheles' favor?" His voice filled with sadistic pleasure as he reveled in the perks gained from the sacrificial acts.

The weight of despair deepened as Astarion's hand crept across your stomach, his caress froze upon realizing the small swell of your womb beneath his touch. Pure anger ignited within him and radiated from him as realization set in from the unexpected twist. "So the devil has tainted my perfect pet," he sneered, his disdain hanging heavy in the air. Your breath faltered, your heart breaking under the weight of his words. "But fear not, it’s a complication I can easily rectify." You ceased to breathe in that moment, your heart plummeted into an abyss of hopelessness as his words echoed through you as you realized his sinister intentions.

Haarlep’s blood trickled down your forehead, mimicking a tear-like pattern down your already tear-stained cheek as you watched Mephistopheles relish in sadistic pleasure. With ruthless brutality, he tore Raphael's mangled wing from his battered back… You tried to look away, but Astarion gripped your chin and forced you to watch, “Doesn’t this bring back such fond memories, my love?” You could hear Raphael’s anguished groans, each agonizing sound from him tearing through your very existence. In the cruelest turn of fate, a tragic finale loomed on the horizon as the curtains began to fall… Looking at Raphael you began to realize that your beloved devil was slipping away, extinguishing like a dying ember.

Astarion's head nestled against yours, his voice packed with twisted delight. "You know, if all you desired was a child, my little love, you need only have asked," he taunted, his hold on you tightening due to him digging his nails into your stomach, "Once we rid you of this abomination, we will bear our own offspring. A child worthy of an ascended vampire." Astarion laughs, “What a glorious honor for you! So many would offer up their soul to have such an offer from me.” He nipped at your ear, “Yet I’ve chosen you, it’s always been you.”

Your body trembled with repulsion against Astarion’s hold as the weight of your circumstances pressed down on you. More tears streamed down your face, mixing with the blood staining your face and nightgown. Clutching your stomach, you mourned for the life of your unborn child, for the love and happiness that had been torn away from you.

You found yourself stripped of hope and robbed of a future. And yet you couldn’t help the sullen laugh that threatened to escape, all hope gone while living in the house of hope, the irony… Realization of your enslavement, the lives lost in the pursuit of power, and the innocent life growing within you- they all weaved a tapestry of unrelenting tragedy.

Now, as your tear-stained cheeks merged with rivers of sorrow, you realized the cruel nature of your existence. In a world where betrayal and suffering reigned supreme, you were fated to be forever entwined in the grip of oppressive darkness. With every passing moment, your fractured heart whispered its final lament, painting a portrait of what could have been.

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Between the Pages

Summary: grappling with his violent past, Ettore is unexpectedly challenged by the silence of his unassuming cellmate | Word Count: 3.4k~ | warnings: mentions of noncon as a crime, violence

A/N: I've been wanting to kind of do a character heavy fic for a while since I read the interview about Ettore coming of age aboard the ship, so enjoy my take on it 😘

The darkness nibbled at the edges of him. From his feet and fingers, to his ankles and wrists, up his arms and legs. 

It curled deep in his gut, sliding around like oil inside, slick with a morbid curiosity that had lingered there for years. It crept up, weaving through his arteries and veins like vines, choking what purity there used to be, an innocent ignorance, and tainting it, into a sort of murky, sunless void.

He thought that once, he was capable of feeling anything else. Perhaps once, he was capable of love. Of some kind of affection. Maybe even deserved it.

After all, the ones you loved unconditionally, were supposed to give that same love back.

Right?

The day that darkness reached his heart, sucking the soul out of it like the way tendons and fat stick to meat as it’s torn up into chunks, was the day that Ettore understood this truth. Nobody was entitled to love. Not even him. And those people who were supposed to care, supposed to protect him, had abandoned him. What use was there in hoping for it now? He thought so often to himself. 

His body felt so heavy, felt so fucking heavy. The hatred marinated inside. Festered. What was there to do, but simply let it stay and rot? To allow it to become you.

How foolish of him to think that those who participated in making him, who chose to bring him into existence, would be able to give him the nourishment and support he wanted. That he needed. It was a story so often heard. That caregivers cared not about the people they assisted in bringing into this world. Their own children. At first, he admitted, he brushed it off.

It’s just the way my family is. Every family has different dynamics.

Until he couldn’t remember the last time his father had ever spoken to him. And then he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen him. And then finally, his face. How he spoke. How he rolled up his cigarettes. He only remembered the smell of him. Fusty and deep. Like how old pubs smell. And the stench of whisky on his breath and yellowed teeth. 

He remembered being on the end of his fist most often. 

And when he was gone, though it was softer, he remembered then the palm of his mother’s. She didn’t have the strength of his father’s, but all the bite.

Trying to stay out of her way proved difficult most days. More often than not, he’d be out, even in the midst of winter as the wind nipped at his bones and the chill sank into his skin, he didn’t want to see the hysterical, screaming mess of a woman that was once his mother to be the first thing he came across when he got home. God forbid she ever spotted him.

He thought she must have thought he looked too similar to his father or something like that. Perhaps it was the eyes, the temperament or the expression. He hoped, somewhere deep, that it was perhaps the crime. Then there may have been some explanation for the way he was.

Whatever it was, he couldn’t figure it out for the life of him, so it was often easiest, to be out of her eyeline altogether. He wasn’t much better at staying out of trouble outside the confines of his home. Out there, in the big, wide world that he was so underprepared for, it was still difficult to be accepted. People had to want to be his friend, after all.

Eventually, he just didn’t even try. Though there was still a desire for acceptance, one he didn’t get by befriending men of a similar age and temperament to him. 

It felt only right, that he used the only things he felt he had, to his advantage. Looks. Talk. Confidence. Three things he was never short on.

And also the three things that fed easily into how he coped and how he eventually morphed into the person he was today. The looks got him into women’s beds, and in between their thighs too. The talk got them to stop fighting, to stay still and let him have his way. The confidence was the one thing in the end that worked to his disadvantage, thinking that the ones who he’d let get away wouldn’t say anything, and the ones he kept quiet by clamping his hands around her tiny, little necks, would inevitably fade away into non-existence. 

He still remembers the way their blood roared against his palms, how their breaths stuttered in his grip, and that addictive wide-eyed look, and the slow, blinking fade of life from their eyes. He thought there was nothing more powerful than holding someone’s very life-blood in his grip, and that was when he knew the rot had taken hold inside him. 

If he could, he would have wiped every judgemental glare off everyone in the courtroom that day. What use was there in pretending to be remorseful, as if he didn’t savour the memory of choking the hell out of those women with his dick so deep inside them still he could feel the way their bodies tried to reject him. Those are the memories he thinks of in those lonely nights in the Box. Those are the cold dark hands that drag him further and further. Until perhaps there is nowhere further to go.

Which is why she confuses him. His cellmate sleeps above him, a woman who he has strangely paid little attention to and can’t for the life of him figure out why. The narrow confines of their shared cell, with its cold, steel surfaces and harsh fluorescent lights, force a proximity that is usually unbearable for him. Yet, with her, there is an unspoken truce that puzzles him further.

There is a suffocating silence in the cell at night. Ettore’s usual trigger lay dormant for a while, an uneasy peace reigning in the small, padded space he shares with her. Unlike the other women aboard the ship, callous, loud and obnoxious, this woman keeps to herself, hovering just beyond the reach of his understanding.

Each day that goes by, he tries to solve the puzzle that she is. Why doesn’t she flinch at his gaze? Why doesn’t she cower? It’s as if she moves through a different realm, her demeanour calm, almost detached, unaffected by the chaos that typically surrounded him and the others alike, or the violence he is known for. 

She is a question without an answer, unsettling him more with each passing day. He sometimes imagines her figure from his bottom bunk, and how she would look while she sleeps, often with her eyes glued to the pages of a book. And he knows from the gentle thud of her tired hand and the half-opened novel on the mattress, that she has likely exhausted herself to sleep from reading and straining in the dark.

So he starts to look for signs, any clue that might explain her indifference, her silence. But she gives nothing away, her routine meticulous and quiet. When she reads, she never looks up. He supposes there is no reason for her to. Does anyone even know her name? Or do they do what he used to do, and just pretend she never existed in the first place? Perhaps that’s where she feels most comfortable.

It gnaws at him more than any confrontation could. His history with women was fraught with aggression, violence and brutality, but it provides no playbook for this experience. There is no anger in her silence, no fear. She merely exists in a state of complete neutrality, leaving him to wonder why she is even in prison in the first place. This indifference to life itself, it seems, is more disarming than any verbal or physical challenge. 

He hopes for a flicker of annoyance when he makes too much noise coming back to their shared cell some nights. But nothing. He hopes for the one day she glances up from her book, eyes clear and calm, as if nothing is wrong. 

She was like a candle unlit. A sheet of snow upon the ground without a fault or a footstep to taint it. Like a notebook you kept but didn't have the heart to write in for the first time, for the fear of ruining the very first page.

So it is that night, he lays with his hands behind his head, ever kept in a state of wide-eyed curiosity, when he hears the familiar thud of her tired hand dropping her novel. She never seems annoyed when she loses her place in her story, she simply gets up in the morning, and places something flat where she thinks she was, and is more than happy to start all over again. 

Despite the silence, his mind races, thoughts swirling and colliding in the shadows. He’s grown accustomed to the rhythms of their cohabitation, the sound of her breathing, the slight shifts of her body in the bunk above him, the soft rustle of pages turning. These sounds punctuate his nights, a constant reminder of her presence.

And yet, tonight, there’s a different kind of awareness, a curiosity that edges toward something he can’t quite name. It’s not desire, not the kind he’s known before, which was always tangled with aggression and control. This is something else, something quieter, more invasive. He wants to see her as she sleeps, to witness her in a moment of unguarded vulnerability, not to disturb or dominate, but to understand.

This thought, this need to see her face relaxed in sleep, strikes him with a pang of guilt. Even in the dim light of self-awareness, he recognises that this impulse feels like a violation, an intrusion into her silent world. He’s used to taking space, not just physically but emotionally, imposing his will on others as a way to affirm his existence. But with her, the dynamics are different. She offers nothing to conquer, only a silence to be filled, and in that silence, his own reflections become too loud, too clear.

Lying there, Ettore wrestles with the pull of his curiosity and the weight of his past. He knows too well the darkness that lives within him, the ease with which he could turn a moment of curiosity into something far more sinister. The battle within him is a quiet one, but intense. The thought of crossing the boundary, even just to see her in her sleep, stirs a deep-seated fear that he might revert to the man he was, the man he still is, underneath the surface of this uneasy peace.

His limbs move as if detached from his will. He places one hand on the cold metal of the ladder, then another, his movements slow, deliberate. Every rung of the ladder creaks softly under his weight, a grim soundtrack to his betrayal of self-promises. His heart pounds in his ears, not with excitement, but with a dread that feels both foreign and familiar.

As he ascends, each step feels heavier, burdened not by physical weight but by the gravity of his intentions. He pauses halfway, his body tensed, his mind screaming for him to retreat. But the pull is too strong, the need to see her, to understand why she affects him so profoundly, why she can exist so close to him yet remain a world apart.

Reaching the top, Ettore pauses, barely breathing. He is close enough now to hear her gentle breaths, the soft exhale of sleep that seems so at odds with the storm raging in his soul. She is a portrait of peace, her eyelids fluttering slightly with dreams he cannot begin to fathom. He yearns to understand her not because she is an enigma, but because in her quiet resilience, he sees a reflection of what he might have been, what he still could be. It's a longing not only to understand but also to be understood, to be seen not as the sum of his past actions but as the person he struggles to become.

He approaches her bunk with a reverence that surprises him. As he lays down gently beside her, he is acutely aware of the sanctity of the moment, of her trust not to be breached and of his own resolve not to revert to the man he knows he really is deep down. 

But there is a vulnerability that is roused in him when he watches her like this, and he doesn't recognise or like it one bit. It'd be so easy to just wrap his hands around her neck, like he had done before so instinctively, and be rid of her. Maybe then he wouldn't question this side of himself that has bubbled to the surface.

The mere idea of putting his fingers around her throat has adrenaline soaring in his veins.

But Ettore pulls back from the precipice of this dark impulse almost as quickly as it arises. The primal, instinctual urge to eliminate what confuses him, to destroy rather than confront, surges within him, his hands tensing at his sides. Yet, as he watches her, her chest gently rising and falling with each breath, he finds himself caught in a storm of conflicting emotions.

It's horrifying, the ease with which violence still beckons to him. The quiet, once a cloak she wrapped around herself, now envelops him too. The battle is not with her, not even with the world outside, but inside. But this realisation does not bring peace. Far from it.

Feeling as if his heart in his throat, his palm hovers above her body, starting from her legs. He is trembling, leaving an inch of space that feels like a chasm. And yet he can feel the heat of her form, as if radiating from her skin and pulsing into his.

He passes over her hips, his eyes zeroed in on a slither of skin that has become visible beneath her sleeping shirt. It beckons to him like a test of his will. If she were anyone else, one hand would hold her down, while the other would rip her sweatpants off and-

He clenches his fist tight, his eyes mirroring the struggle. Every moment he chooses restraint, he is redefining himself.

And yet as he descends the steps down from her bunk, she hadn't moved an inch and the prospect of her being a deep sleeper makes the intrusive desire to do this again ever more prevalent. It doesn’t reassure him at this point, rather it feeds into the dangerous allure of doing it again, and again, and again.

And each time in the days following, what he does becomes more bold, skirting around the edges of darkness he knows full well lurks beneath. He waits every night for the thud of her book on the bed, for her quiet breathing to let him know that it is safe to venture into what feels like dangerous territory.

Hovered hands become soft brushes against her flesh. Initially, these contacts are mere brushes, fleeting and barely there, against her arms, perhaps unintentionally grazing her leg, or the slope of her shoulder. With each night, his touches grow slightly more deliberate, and when he has straddled that line too closely and she stirs or readjusts, he feels his heart quicken and chest tighten. Sometimes he almost wants her to wake up, just to see what he would instinctively do.

This dangerous game continues, each touch a test of his self-control. His fingers linger a moment too long on the soft skin of her cheek one night, the warmth of her breath against his hand, and the next day he struggles to even glance in her direction alongside the torrent of emotions within him. The fear that he is becoming the monster he dreads appears more real than ever. The very act of touching her in her sleep, though innocent, yet an invasion of her privacy and autonomy, is a stark reminder of the control he once wielded without thought.

He understands now that this cannot continue. The path he is on, though it started with a quest for understanding and connection, is veering dangerously close to old patterns that had once felt familiar. And yet with her of which he cannot even envision.

He knows the only way to break this cycle, to truly change, is to confront the situation directly and honestly. No more silent, uninvited intrusions in the dark; he needs to face her in the light, to speak to her and gauge her response, to decide his next steps based on a genuine interaction rather than his own conjectures and impulses.

All the scenarios run rampant in his mind, stealing every quiet moment in his day to day life seemingly without effort. 

He is desperate to hear her voice, just for him, a sound to anchor the whirlwind inside.

If he speaks and she glances up from between her precious pages, with a look of fear, judgement, anger…there just might still be violence screaming in his gut. He imagines, with a chilling clarity, how he might react. To watch those eyes that have never landed upon him, wide-eyed and panicked with fear, her hands that would usually hold those delicate covers as if they were sentient, thrashing and scratching at his skin for escape.

However, if her eyes meet his with calmness, a soft but unyielding clarity, it might signal a different path. Such a look could secure him, pull him back from the brink, offering a glimpse of a different kind of interaction, one rooted in mutual respect rather than fear.

Throughout the day, Ettore wrestles with the decision to approach her at an unusual time, a moment outside their routine interactions, which are typically defined by the unspoken boundaries and silent acknowledgements of shared space. The weight of this choice, loaded with the potential for a shift in their dynamic, presses on him.

Finally, as the day bleeds into evening, he steels himself and walks towards their cell, a path he has traversed countless times yet now feels distinctly different. His footsteps echo slightly in the empty corridor, a hollow sound that seems to beat in rhythm with his anxious heart. He pauses at the doorway, his hand resting against the cold metal frame for a moment. He had never been short on confidence, until right this moment.

She is there, as always, perched on her bed with a book cradled in her lap, her attention fully absorbed by the pages. The familiar sight of her, so engrossed in her literary world, momentarily steadies him. "Hey," he calls out softly, his voice slightly rough around the edges from the turmoil inside him.

At the sound of his voice, she looks up, her expression shifting from concentrated reading to mild surprise. Her eyes meet his, clear and calm, carrying none of the fear or judgement he had feared. "Hey," she responds simply, her voice a quiet echo to his own.

In that brief exchange, just a single word spoken by each, there's a palpable shift. It's not a definitive answer to all his internal questions, but it grants him a moment of reprieve from his fears of eliciting a negative reaction. So he stands there, momentarily rooted to the spot by the simplicity and normalcy of her response. And it is this moment where her eyes are piercing right into him that he is offered his first real glimpse into her as well. Features he had usually seen undisturbed by the quiet of sleep felt familiar and yet uncharted now, such as the flutter of her eyelashes and the decorating of freckles across her cheeks, and the small, curious pupils looking between his eyes as if for an answer.

Realising he's been standing silent for too long, Ettore scrambles mentally for something to say, to break the growing awkwardness that feels almost like a first encounter. His lips part, ready to forge some semblance of normal conversation.

No sooner are his lips parted that he is rendered into silence he once would have expected from her. She dog-eared the page, closed her book off her lap and brushed her hair from her face, and spoke with a soft tone laden with genuine concern. It feels like an invitation, a door opening to endless possibilities where she has seen past the facade of toughness to the raw, uncertain man beneath. She invites him into a space where he can be vulnerable, and yet he is still unsure if he even wants to be there. Can those raging, endless violent impulses ever be quieted by just a couple of words?

“You okay?”

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[lovecite]

Your choice series

Sanemi Shinazugawa x Y/N (Fem reader)

-slight spoilers- fluff--very quickly written--

(--This is sanemi after the fight with Muzan! I feel his character changed to a more kinder soul-- )

**** theme song behind this story****

"irony" (Vocaloid) English Cover by Lizz Robinett

Other songs I listened to while writing this that really made my writing juices flow:

Sugar - BrockHampton

One & Only - Oliver Tree

You Found me- The Fray

Somewhere Only we know- Kean

Just a little back story-

You were sold by your family for the hope of marrying a demon slayer but since Muzan has been defeated you have been set free. To make your own choices.

This story bounces off my other story with Kyojuro "Your choice" one shot just different scenario.

You were sold by your family. They were promised if no slayer claimed you they would still be paid monthly. If a slayer claimed you ,she would be welcomed into the family of what ever slayer and your family again would be taken care of. It was a win win but you were the only loser here. And here your story starts .

Your choice

----🌪️----

It was over.. The fight was over..Muzan had been killed

"Ladies," There was a brief pause before the madam of the house finished. "You are all free to go back to your families." There was silence after the finished sentence. No other explanation was needed to be told to the women before a frenzy ensued.

Women running around with their the trains of fabric from their kimonos dragging behind them as murmurs exploded. Sounds of their delicate feet slamming hard against the wooden floors as they rushed. Rushed to pack and leave. You stood up slowly from the floor as your eyes focused on all the woman's faces.

They had joyous expressions some were even crying and sobbing. This meant that the women no longer had to be forced into a marriage with the slayers. You however did not care. How could you? You had no family to head back to anyways. A letter weeks before this event of Muzan dying had been sent to you. In it an apology written from your home village stating with words

"Your choice if you wish to stay."

And so you decided to stay but now. Now there was nothing for you. You bring your arms into the sleeves of your kimono as you walk ever so slowly towards the entrance of this mansion you had been entrapped in for months. The rush of women still around you as the feeling of dread collected within your chest. Where would you go now? You had the money of course. As it had been told your family had been getting paid for you each month but now did it matter? You were alone with no family to lean on.

As you walk over the threshold of the mansions door way you feel your body still at the scene before you. A sea of slayers waiting in the court yard . You had never seen so many in one place before. They were always away on missions. Your eyes squinting slightly as you eyed them closely. Many of them were on their knees begging ,grasping on the kimonos, for some of the women to reconsider in taking their hand for marriage.

But some of the women held their head high as they passed through the crowd of slayers. They didn't have to follow the rules anymore. It was evident why these slayers had shown up. They must have known that this deal that been going for years would be disbanded today. They wanted to take one more stab at finding a wife.

And of course they had no other choices outside the demon slayer society no sane family ,that were not involved with deal, with daughters wanted them to be tainted. And as you took in more of the colorful haired slayers you also took in the messing limbs ,the ghostly looks that haunted their faces.

You take a deep breathe as you walk from the steps of the mansion making your way through the crowds. As soon as your foot is placed on the court yard they pounced on you falling to their knees.

"Please, wait I can provide I promise!"

"Ma'am please I have to bring a wife back for my family."

"W-Wait please!"

But You kept your gaze forward trying to drain out the out cries of these poor young men clinging onto your kimono. They seemed like lost children reaching for their mother for attention. You pulled the bottom of your kimono from their grasp as you kept walking with the crowd of women leaving the court yard. You take notice that some of the women did stop. You watched as the women who stopped took the hands of those men accepting their marriage proposal.

You followed the other women who where leaving the only thing on your mind. "Your choice" . Finally out the compound. Finally out of the court yard. The dirt road and the forest being the only thing in your sight. This was it. What life would you make for yourself now?

"Did you see that guy?"

"What guy?"

"The guy over there. He's been there on all morning bowed lowly to the ground."

You turn to the other women speaking . Two women together gossiping and pointing to a direction down the road. It peeked your interest and since you had nothing else to go for you. "Where? "You asked without thinking.

Both women jump at your question startled that you had been listening into their conversation. One of the women gave her a look of indifference. "I'd be careful ever since they disbanded this little deal with slayers they've been acting like hungry wolves." She spoke with a huff but then gave the directions of where this bowing man would be.

Then without another thought you walked down the dirt road towards the direction they had explained to you. Your hands stayed in your kimono sleeves. The thoughts of today still swirling in your mind as the images of those slayers begging for a wife flashed.

Your mind lost in thought as the welcoming breeze and birds singing distracted you. You felt a your balance go off as your legs bumped into a lone log below you. A gasp from below you surprised you! A log gasping!

You quickly catch yourself as you take a step back bringing your gaze down to the dirt floor and catch a glance. A glance at the bowing white haired man. He of course like the women described had his forehead to the floor. His knees touching the ground and his hands placed near his bowed head. There was silence between the two. You didn't know how to react. The feeling of wanting to touch his shoulder and ask if he was okay but he hadn't brought his eyes up either.

"E-Excuse me?" You softly spoke ending the deafening silence.

"May I gaze upon you." He requested his tone of voice making you jump slightly in place. His voice sounded so rough even if he had spoken with such a soft tone. "Y-Yes, that is fine." You answer confused slightly at the request. He quickly lifts his head still bowing lowly. You jump back an inch at his sudden movement . His movement reminded you of a bunny coming up after eating hay.

Those pale purple pupils focused on you. You were finally able to take a glance at this mans face. What had he been through for him to have so many scars. "I am Sanemi former hashira of the wind, and looking for a wife." He stated fast with his intentions.

You couldn't help but let a sigh escape your lips of course he was. "O-okay but why are you here and not at the court yard with the others?" You asked the former slayer. His wide gaze did a couple of blinks before looking away. "If it is meant to be then I will find one without begging." He responded with a nod of his head.

"And you women deserve all the respect of having a choice of who your husband should be." He finished bringing those pale purple pupils back to you. A choice. Your choice. You felt a sudden tremor cross your lips before you bend over grasping a hand over your lips to stifle your giggles.

The former hashira sat up slowly bringing his bottom upon his legs as he starred at you. "Did I say something funny, uh." He countered this statement his tone of voice clipped. You pause standing straight up a warm smile upon your lips.

"N-No I just believe my life has been nothing but fortunate. Being able to make a choices for myself is something new to me! " You respond as your eyes dragged away from Sanemi. Your thoughts going over the months of being in that mansion thinking about the times you had to meet and greet with a slayer. Wondering if they would choose you. Those days were very bleak .....

"Um" He hummed catching your attention. His purple gaze focused downward at the dirt floor he brought one of his scarred arms behind his head as his fingers glided through his white hair. Then he brought that pale purple pupils back to you. "So?" He ventured holding your gaze. "Oh" You responded.

A choice.

You lift your kimono slightly up as you kneel in front of him. You go to touch his right hand but he brings it back quickly hiding it under his thigh. "I" He pauses making you bring your attention to his face. His eyes flickered quickly to the left as he brought his other hand down from behind his head bringing it out to you.

"Sanemi, remember i get to make the choices here." You addressed with an almost whisper. His purple wide eyed gaze fell back on you before nodding. A hint of pink crossing his pale scarred face. He dropped his arm down his left hand resting on his thigh as he ever slowly brought out his right hand.

You bring your gaze down to his right hand and soon realized why he had hide it so quickly. His right hand was bandaged but that wasn't what caught you off guard. Your fingers carefully slide across his hand as you flipped his palm upward. Sanemi was messing two fingers. "The last girl that walked by screamed." He revealed. You turned his palm downward intaking the image before you.

"Well her loss then." You uttered as you brought your gaze to his. Your head tilted slightly as a warm smile came upon your face. Sanemi retracted his hand from your grasp leaving an empty space between you two.

A single brow raised in question as a question lingered on your lips. But you were silenced as a firm hold snaked its way around your waist pulling you close. And before you could respond further you felt the warmth of his chest on your front as you were pulled upward from the floor with him.

"W-What are you doing?!" You asked your heart beating so harshly against your chest with excitement. Your eyes landed on his purple gaze his expression was so warm. "My brother died. " He responds pausing as he still kept you in that close hug. His grip around you tightening slightly. "And I want to make sure the dream, I wished so hard for him, will come to light." Sanemi whispered . You feet were dangling as they lightly kicked his legs.

"S-Sanemi what was that dream?" You asked softly as your gaze couldn't leave his face. The way he was smiling down at you made your heart skip a beat... If that were possible. He leaned closer almost as if you were going to kiss but his cheek brushed along side yours. His hot breathe tickling your earlobe. "I want to find a wife and make children. As many as she will allow," Sanemi whispers with a hint of a chuckle in his voice. Your hands find your way to his clothed chest gripping it slightly as you melt in his arms.

"I-I" You started but you were so tongue tied.

"I wanted my brother to live this dream but I suppose since I'm the only one here still. I guess I will take that dream and make it my own." He interrupts you. He places you back on your feet before him his warm gaze never wavering. You look up at him your heart beating so fast.

"So, what do ya think?" He asked his purple gaze focused on you. His right hand brushed along your cheek along your jaw line.

"The choice is yours."

---------------------------------------------------------

Well I hoped you guys liked this!! Thank you for reading!

[nose-nippin-fun]

Hazbin Hotel Episode 4 Discussion:

I’ve seen a lot of nasty posts floating around today criticizing Vivzie and the show. I’m not here to discredit your feelings, but I think that the darker tone of episode 4 merits some constructive discussion beyond a knee-jerk, pearl-clutching reaction.

From what I’ve seen, the biggest complaint from viewers, myself included, is that this emotional episode with some fairly intense depictions of SA/r*pe was not prefaced with a content warning aside from the usual small text in the top left corner. I truly do believe Amazon should correct this going forward so that viewers can feel better prepared for tone shifts between episodes. That being said, here are my defenses of the show.

Hazbin Hotel has had a huge fan following since the pilot release back in 2019, which set the tone of the show. Between the pilot and Addict music video, people had a pretty clear indication of the adult themes that would be present in the project moving forward. The show is set in Hell, the place where the world’s worst sinners are trapped in the afterlife. This is not an excuse, this is an explanation. There are going to be several characters with tainted morality, some of whom are irredeemable. That’s why they’re in Hell. This show is not meant to glorify sins, but to shine a light on flawed, relatable characters who will grapple with ethics and other struggles and come out changed in the end.

“I can’t believe Angel doesn’t leave his situation and stays stagnant.” Have you ever lived through/witnessed abuse? It is never this easy to sever ties with an abuser. They position themselves in power to control and manipulate, and many times, it’s not physically safe to get away from them. Also, this has been ONE EPISODE, you cannot expect a character with deep trauma to be totally different after a 20-30 minute episode. Angel’s character arc will take time, but his interaction with Husk at the end is an important first step in that direction.

“So Angel is supposed to just get over his trauma because he and Husk sang a song about it?” No. If that was your takeaway, I’m truly sorry you missed the point. Husk is the only person who’s been raw and blunt with Angel (on screen) about dropping the Angel Dust persona and being Anthony. Angel is used to having to put on a flawless, sexy act at all times, so much so that that’s how people really believe he is at all times. Husk sees through this mask Angel developed to protect himself and tell him through their song that imperfect and broken as he feels, Angel isn’t alone in struggling with feelings of powerlessness and addiction. He’s not comparing his loss of overlord status to Angel’s horrible SA, he’s finding common ground and empathizing (the best way a Hellbound soul can). This song wasn’t a solution, it was a gateway to vulnerability and the beginning of change for both characters.

“We’re expected to just ship Huskerdust after Angel has done nothing but sexually harass and push Husk’s boundaries?” No. That’s absolutely the wrong reason to ship anything. While it’s true that in the first three episodes, Angel sees Husk as eye candy who might be able to distract him from his suffering, episode 4 brings a necessary shift in their dynamic. Angel is used to everyone around him wanting Angel Dust, the pornstar. But for the first time, someone doesn’t want that coveted persona, and he can’t comprehend this. Angel has no control over anything except the act he keeps up, so he clings to it as a false sense of power. It’s only after Husk tells him that he likes Angel for everything he is off camera that Angel starts to treat Husk with respect, which will pave the way for any future Huskerdust shipping.

You don’t have to agree with what I’ve written, and I absolutely don’t blame you if you’ve realized this show is not content you can comfortably consume, but please understand that depicting difficult material is not the same as glorifying or excusing it. This episode was hard for me too, because I care about Angel Dust, and I am so eager to watch his growth as the show continues. My heart goes out to anyone struggling from triggering this episode caused. I hope you’re able to safely navigate away from this show while respecting the viewers who continue to watch.

[llondonfog]

For a painful soulamte au, what if the Dawn Knight was Lilias soulmate? And to make it more painful what if Dawn knew that Lilia was his soulmate somehow and still went to war with the fae because he couldn't stand to go against the family who raised him

Not a soul knew, except for Leia.

Leia knew because she knew everything about him— the leash of loyalty around his neck, the weight of despair upon his shoulders, the mark of his soulmate tattooed like a harbinger on the inside of his wrist.

Leia knew, and loved him for it all the same.

You are a knight, she would remind him on those moonless nights, delicate features as solemn as a saint as she laid her hands against the haunted hollows of his face, as merciful and sweet as her namesake. You are the only one out of them all who has the right to call himself so. What greater sacrifice have you given to my father, to our family, than the cost of love?

He loved her, too.

Her effortless charm and wit were always happy to fill his awkward and stoic silences, and she never shamed him for his reserved nature. She was a princess, born and raised to be a queen, and it sat right inside his heart that she should realize such a vision. Her kindness to their people, her kindness to her traitor of a knight— too kind, to allow him even into her arms and bed when his nerves fail him and the shadows creep in.

It's what he feels, when he places his hand on the swell of her gown, the gentle life growing inside of her: their child, steeped in kindness.

A tragic beginning that can only lead to a tragic end.

Leia is the only kindness that he's ever known, and the irony is not lost on him that she is not his soulmate, nor is he her own. She does not speak of the mark blurred and faded on her skin, and she does not press him for explanation when he disrobes for her and only her, and the bat in flight unfurls its wings upon his wrist.

She does not need to, for they both know whose standard he bears, whose symbol lays a claim that would spell betrayal and doom for his fate.

He lies there within the shelter of her embrace, her slim fingers weaving through his golden hair, and he wonders what manner of mark lies on the fae general's wrist. He wonders if it is of a gleaming sword raised to strike, or a loathsome owl, talons curled, both prepared to rid the fae of his heart and gift it to the enemy's feet. It must not be obvious, because the fae has never reacted to his presence beyond the expected vitriol to their immoral crusade. And each time that they meet, the gratitude of a coward lances through his veins for the sake of the helmet obscuring his expression— it is your eyes that give you away, Leia had murmured to him, her own dark and forgiving as they glitter in the candlelight. Your truest emotions lie within them, crystal clear and as unclouded as the brightest dawn.

He does not deserve her unshakeable belief, for he feels like the muddiest of waters, choked with debris and tainted by waste.

He does not deserve her, and as he clutches at his wrist in the night, nails all but digging into the taut flesh as if to pull the bat from his skin—

He knows that he does not deserve the general either.

[oraclekleo]

[Tarot Article] Reading Tarot for Yourself

Hello my dear followers and random visitors of this blog!

Let’s discuss the topic of reading tarot and other types of divination cards for oneself today. I have heard multiple times that even experienced readers face difficulties when trying to read cards for themselves and so it’s surely worth it to cast some light on this.

Personal Journey

When I started with tarot I was reading cards only for myself. That was 17 years ago. I wouldn’t dare to read for anybody else, unless I could see there was some relevance in what the cards say to me. Once I felt slightly more confident, I read cards for close family members and friends. About 3-4 years ago I started reading cards for online friends and strangers online. This was my personal journey. As you see, I always read tarot for myself, right from the very start and I do so up to this day.

And yes, sometimes the messages can be a bit confusing but that happens when I read for others, too. I have no real problem reading tarot for myself and I can share some tips on how you can enjoy this part of tarot practice, too, if you are currently struggling.

How to read cards for yourself

Tarot for yourself is the same as doing the reading for your querents. Only your querent is you. In theory, it should be easier because you already know everything about yourself, your signs, your life situation, your relationships, etc., right? So why does it seem more difficult for many readers?

The possible explanation is that you can’t be unbiased about yourself. You always approach a reading with a subconscious wish on how it should look, what’s the answer you want to see in the cards. This might taint your vision, your intuition might get foggy, suddenly the cards make no sense and you are left more bewildered than before, enlightenment and insight didn’t happen for you. How to fix this? How to become unbiased about yourself?

Start with questions where you don’t care what the result is and you are open to any answer!

When doing reading for yourself, try to first do readings where you genuinely don’t care about the result. Ask about things where you are open to any outcome. Meaning - don’t ask about your future spouse because you do have preferences there. 😀 Ask about something neutral or even about things you feel zero interest in. That way, it’s more likely for you to be unbiased and see a clear answer in the cards. You can browse pinterest for tarot spreads inspirations and just try some of them out, preferably the ones where you don’t care what the result is going to be. If you want to try a relationship couple reading, do it with a person you don’t love nor dislike, someone you feel neutral about. Just to be clear here, this is not the final stage, this is only the beginning. You will be able to do readings about things that matter to you in time. 🙂

Many people turn to self reading at times of stress or turmoil going on in their life and that might also cause troubles. When your own mind is a mess, it’s very likely to affect your cards, too. You might experience more confusion from the reading.

Calm your mind and soul down before reading for yourself!

Whatever technique works for you, use it. Meditation, hot bath, listening to music, gardening, yoga, jogging, a walk outside, breath work, exercise, dancing, reading a book, staring at a wall… Try to calm yourself down before the tarot reading so you don’t approach your cards agitated and on the verge of blowing out. With your mind becoming more peaceful, you are more likely to see clear messages in your cards.

It often happens that people are unsatisfied with the answer and keep asking again and again the same question. Stop that. Life ain’t a rose garden, you won’t always get the kind of answer you want.

Learn to accept uncomfortable, negative, even hurtful information without them ruining your day!

Nothing in life is permanent. Hard times pass, life hurricanes blow over. If you see something you don’t like in the cards, don’t waste time asking repeatedly. What tarot shows is something based on the current situation. Stop trying to change the cards and better change something about your life and reality. Some things are inevitable, even the more hurtful ones. When my mom had cancer, my cards never said she’s not going to make it. They kept saying I’m going to become responsible for the entire household and make my own decisions. It was clear what cards meant by it. And I did everything to help mom but at the same time I prepared for the worst case scenario, I overtook every single responsibility mom was still trying to keep for herself. When she truly passed away, it was devastating but it didn’t break me down and it didn’t throw my life into chaos because I already had everything in my hands. I didn’t want to see those messages in the cards but I had to accept them so I could cope and adapt. This is an extreme example but it will work with less dramatic unfavourable life situations, too.

Even if you follow the above suggestions, you might still feel confused sometimes about your cards.

Don’t be afraid to ask!

Brainstorm with other tarot readers about the cards and possible meanings. Sometimes other people notice tiny details about the cards you overlooked. Other people have different perspectives on the meanings than you do and can come up with a possible explanation you would never think of. My friend, who also has a tarot blog @starwell-tarot would confirm that I sometimes send her my cards so I can discuss what they could possibly mean. And her different point of view and insight truly help a great deal. So don’t be afraid to discuss and ask and learn.

Never stop trying and practising!

Nobody is born an expert. With continued practice, knowledge and skill improvement come to you. Just keep trying. Don’t give up. Read for yourself. Do daily pulls for yourself. Try the variety of spreads available. Be creative and come up with your own types of readings. Participate in tarot challenges! (Very subtle self-promotion, right? 😂) Start a tarot journal. Do patchwork readings (just randomly laying down cards without a question on your mind and see what the cards tell you, you can combine with other divination tools like runes, oracle cards, Lenormand, etc., creating a patchwork collage). Simply do whatever brings joy to your tarot practice.

The basic rules for reading cards for yourself:

Try to be unbiased

Calm your mind

Accept and adapt to unwanted messages

Brainstorm with others

Keep trying and practising!

Thank you for reading this far!

I'm always grateful for any feedback.

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[spacexseven]

Tuna! cursed thought time, you can ignore this if this makes you uncomfortable! but i’m currently over thinking nun/priest darling and yan bsd charas (dazai, nikolai, rat man fyodor, chuuya, etc) i’m bordelining between purely platonic infatuation or its slips from platonic protection towards a more darker aspect of romantic obsession.

to spare myself the embarrassment (since i'm not very knowledgeable about how churches work) i didnt really delve into like the details of darlings job and focused more on the yandere Part cos i think this is a fun idea regardless huhu

the following can be read as platonic or romantic yanderes, and they're all different in 'style' since i wrote each of them on a different day lol

cw: yandere characters (dazai, fyodor, nikolai), obsessive behavior, stalking, jealousy, manipulation, sabotage, blasphemous thoughts, murder, implied kidnapping, maybe ooc? maybe?? (unedited)

fyodor didn't feel alone here, even if he knew he was vastly different from everyone else in the room, because he had you. all the way at the front, way out of reach for him from his position, but he had you all the same.

maybe you didn't ever notice his presence, despite how often he came to the church. if you ever gave sermons, he'd be listening intently, even if he didn't completely agree. if you were volunteering at a food pantry or something of the sort, he'd be there, even if he didn't need it. in a way, he supposed he could be considered a fan. at least, nikolai would say so.

he's always had a strange relationship with god, even if he believed himself to be carrying out a divine will, so the fact that you caught his attention was...unexpected. he didn't make it a habit to go to church, either, but since he met you, things had...changed.

the way you commanded the room, the way you carried yourself, it all spoke to him. he was fine with the possibility that you didn't know him, and he didn't mind being a single unimportant face among the crowd. some part of him was afraid that by getting to know you, the illusion of perfection would be shattered. he was afraid that you wouldn't be as interesting or alluring as you were now. so perhaps this distance was for the best. if he were to be disappointed by what he saw in you if he ever got to talk to you, your inevitable death would be disheartening. especially after all the hope he had for you.

but he'd be lying if he said he didn't want to talk to you. he wanted to figure you out—you had to be hiding something too, behind the honest gleam of your eyes and the warm tones of your voice. despite the possibility that he might hate what he found, he wanted to know everything you were hiding, all of it. and more than that, he wanted to see you unravel and break.

apart from him, not a single soul was perfect, he knew that. normally, he'd be abhorred by the souls of the sinners, but he had a strange urge to uncover the darkness in yours. it had to be something extremely vile for you to hide it so carefully, right? (or maybe, a smaller part of him thinks, you might be perfect. but fyodor did not like to delude himself with impossible scenarios)

i'd like to propose a little scenario here: fyodor who comes to learn the church you work in is run by ability users, and he's ready to set things right. you walk in on the wrong time, unfortunately witnessing him reveling in his massacre. he notices you, of course he does—even when you didn't notice him, he's always kept an eye out for you.

"how could i let a house of god be tainted by the blood of sinners?" is all he offers as an explanation, relishing in the shock and fear that seized you.

when you scramble backwards, frightened by the terrifying scene, he chuckles, still smiling at you.

"why do you run? aren't you supposed to welcome the sinners, guide them?" he gloats

and maybe a small part of him was hoping you'd welcome him, hoping you'd see why he had to set things straight, understand his intentions. how could he let there be vermin constantly by your side? the only one he was fascinated by was you, and they were ruining it. corrupting what he should be manipulating.

still, it didn't matter what you'd do now. you had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide amongst the bloodstained walls. he'd always find you, anyway. and you shouldn't be afraid, he was merely someone who appreciated you. all he wanted to do was help.

at first glance, the hall looked empty. only nikolai knew he was there, and you were obviously none the wiser, too busy doing...whatever it was you did here, kneeling in front of the stained glass. he never did concern himself much with the workings of religion. regardless, he was well hidden among the empty pews, cloaked by the dark of the night. even if you turned around, you wouldn't notice him.

sometimes even he wondered how it came to this; him hiding in a church in the middle of the night just to catch a glimpse of you. what would you think? honestly, he didn't understand anything you did or why you were so devoted to all this. though he had to admit it was somewhat fascinating seeing you run around all day preaching the words that meant nothing to him but, by the look on your face, everything to you.

he was intrigued by you from the start, which, admittedly, was a feat in itself. he wasn't expecting to be sent undercover in a church of all places, but he suddenly found himself not so bothered about it when he met you. you were the unlucky person who had come to greet him, promising to show him the ropes and thanking him for volunteering. the two of you had done a lot of the usual community service work he'd expected you to be involved in, with you guiding him as calmly as ever.

he couldn't exactly place a finger on what it was about you that enraptured him so much. he didn't care much for god or morals, but you seemed...happy, despite the rigid rules you lived by. he had never seen anyone so content even though they were so...controlled. wasn't it strange, how he craved freedom so much when you were happy being scrutinized for every movement you made? maybe that same contrast was what made him so curious about you.

beyond all that, he supposed there was actually no reason for him to be hiding. you knew him—well, you knew the character he was playing right now, and you wouldn't be surprised by his presence. but...he liked watching over you like this. when it was just the two of you in the empty hall, surrounded by stained glass and silence, he could even pretend it was him you were praying to.

nikolai didn't ever want to play god, but the thought was certainly something he'd like.

sometimes, when he really wanted to talk to you, and if the church had a confessional in which you were seated, he'd don a new disguise and come to say anything that was on his mind. he just wanted a reaction out of you, something more genuine than the calm expression you always had on. even a slip of the mask, a second of shock or disgust would be enough for him to feel like you weren't as different from anyone else. or maybe he just wanted to see you squirm in unease for his own delight...?

other times he'll approach you (once again, disguised) and ask your opinion on things, throwing questions that he hopes will leave you dumbfounded. you'd look adorable with an expression of confusion on your face, he could tell.

each time, without fail, you were as collected as ever.

but he liked you best when you were friendly to him. nikolai didn't often care about what people thought of him, but he liked the way you treated him when he was the volunteer you were in charge of. the kindness, the patience, it was all so wonderful to experience.

so much so, that he knew it was too good to be true. this had to be an act you were putting on. he couldn't comprehend why you'd care for him so genuinely, why you'd actually enjoy the life you lived. that was why, maybe, he was so obsessed with you these days.

that brought him back to here. suddenly, it was quite obvious why he staked out here at night waiting for you to come. he was hoping, anticipating, that you'd come in here and fall on your knees, finally letting the mask fall. he wanted to hear you talk about your most troubling thoughts and your powerless feelings. he wanted to know that you were far from perfect and that you were human, that you, even for a single moment, hated the rules you constantly followed. he was convinced deep down you were unhappy.

he only needed to hear you admit it, so that he could justify his following actions.

the last place dazai thought he'd find himself at was a place of worship. and willingly, at that.

but from the first encounter, he was consumed by the thoughts of you. that day, he had stumbled upon the place in a tired haze, unsure of whether he was even in still in yokohama. but you greeted him warmly all the same, and surprisingly you didn't seem against his presence. when he looked down at his soaked coat and shoes, he knew he looked a lot different from anyone else who might have come seeking shelter. despite that, there was no questioning look on your face, no judgment. just...something resembling sympathy, which didn't bother him nearly as much as it perhaps should have.

that night, he spent the entire night just talking to you. he hadn't felt plagued by the usual thoughts that kept him up, and it was wonderful to be somewhat relaxed after how tense he felt the entire day. it was even more soothing when you told him he was always welcome back if he ever had nowhere else to go.

naturally, he took the offer.

while he began his consequent visits claiming he just happened to be around the area, his visits became more and more frequent. how many times were too many for it to be a coincidence? however, you weren't bothered. each and every time, you welcomed him with open arms into a familiar warmth. he told you about everything else on his mind and you listen, and dazai...he found that he likes having a friend that didn't know him as osamu dazai. he likes having a friend although he knew that he didn't deserve it.

it didn't occur to him that you have your own responsibilities. after all, dazai rarely followed a work schedule of any kind. as long as he got the job done, he was fine. but it wasn't the same for you and he learned that through an awkward rejection. your smile faltered when he insisted you hang out with him, but he kept pushing your patience until you had to firmly reject him and inform him that there are people waiting for you, leaving him outside like a wounded puppy. although he knew it was impossible, he wanted to monopolize your time and company. dazai, despite how hurt he was at your refusal, only started dropping by more and more.

which is why he was here today, sticking out like a sore thumb from the way he was behaving. you were completely ignoring him by now, but he still desperately vied for your attention and company. maybe you'd finally talk to him, if he was louder. if someone forced you to deal with him.

finally, someone does come to talk to him. something about interrupting the peace, disrupting the service. instead of apologizing, dazai took this as the perfect opportunity to complain, not caring if he came off as rude when he whined about your lack of care for someone seeking guidance. he goes on about your callousness and disregard for his wounded soul, and kicks up a storm so ridiculous nobody actually believes him—but they comply to his demands all the same.

it was not a good look to have this madman come in and cause a ruckus, as you would later be told, and the responsibility to deal with him once again fell on your shoulders. dazai's more than pleased with the change. you're obviously still upset that he's putting your reputation on the line, but he doesn't let your displeasure stop him. at least now, not nearly as many people came to ask for your help, as dazai's fussing caused them to be wary of you. now, he had more time with you, since your excuses disappeared.

he liked this outcome, for the most part. he still wasn't as close to you as he'd like, but it was definitely a start. even if you refused to meet his gaze or started sounding curter and curter; he'll take anything he can get for now. and eventually, things would change. he'd do anything to make sure you wouldn't be taken away from him.

[chloe-caulfield94]

The demonic bargain of the Storm

I think that the most accurate interpretation of Max's nightmare in general and the character of Other Max in particular is that it symbolizes an internal struggle of Max against her fear, self-doubt and self-loathing. I think that interpretation most likely corresponds to what the writers intended and is most firmly rooted in the game.

Having said that, I think there's also a different interpretation that fits the events of the game quite well. Not a psychological, but a metaphysical interpretation of Max's nightmare and the final choice. In which Other Max is not just a figment of Max's mind and the Storm is not just a meteorological phenomenon. Rather, they are both facets of an independent, conscious and malicious entity. An entity of the kind that we usually call demons.

Now, one might say that a demon would be out of place in Life is Strange. Would it really be, though? In Season 1 and BtS there's plenty of metaphysical events already.

Max's reality bending power that despite the best efforts of Max, Chloe and Warren cannot be explained away using "chaos theory". Chaos theory could only be used to explain the reverberating effects of rewinding time. But it most certainly doesn't explain how Max is manipulating time with a flick of her wrist.

Rachel's fire and/or wind based power, which was only teased and never thoroughly explored, but definitely seemed to escape any rational explanation.

Numerous sightings of various "spirit animals".

Rachel's ghost, in the form a doe, guiding Max to Rachel's grave.

Chloe's visions of William, which may have been just nightmares, but may also have been her communing with the dead.

The blue butterfly, which may have been a guardian angel, or another spirit animal, or something else entirely, but most certainly wasn't just an insect.

Life is Strange has always had a strong undercurrent of spiritualism and mysticism. Just listen to one of Samuel's talks.

So with all that already present in the game, is a demon really that far out?

Let's imagine that just like Samuel said, there's a powerful spirit lingering in Arcadia Bay. However, that being is anything but benevolent. You could call it a demon, you could call it a vengeful local deity. Maybe it has always been always hostile. Or maybe it is just a reflection of the hearts and souls of Arcadia Bay's dwellers. And as the dwellers became more and more hateful, cruel and greedy, they tainted the town's spirit too, making it malevolent.

Whatever it was and however it came to be the way it was in October of 2013, the spirit had acquired a taste for evil.

And the dwellers of Arcadia Bay provided a steady supply of it. Sadists kidnapping and tormenting others for their sick "art". Bullies driving others to the brink with their hatred. Drug dealers preying on minors.

But evil acts done by evil people quickly become predictable. Boring.

And that's when Max came back to town. Someone unique. Someone with a beautiful heart. Full of love, strength and courage, even if Max herself didn't realize it yet.

Just like Jefferson wanted to turn the "innocence" of his victims into "corruption", to taint, despoil, contaminate, brand them, the spirit wanted to do the same to Max. It wanted to empty her heart of love. To break her strength. To replace her courage with doubt. And that would be achieved by tempting Max, the genuinely good, kind and well-meaning person, into commiting the worst sin of all.

In the interpretation I'm proposing, the final choice represents Max being tempted to sin. The sin she is being tempted to commit is the rejection of love. Just like love (both romantic and platonic) is the root of everything good in the world, the rejection of love is the ultimate sin, in which all other sins are contained - hatred, greed, cruelty, disdain. Max is tempted to reject Chloe's love, to take back her own love, to erase it, to make it so that it never even happened.

One could say it's unfair to maintain that sacrificing Chloe would be a sin on Max's part, because she would do it to save the town. But that's the whole point! Temptation is not about presenting someone with a choice that is obviously evil, both at its core and at the surface. Temptation is about presenting someone with a choice that is evil in its essence, but is dressed up as something else. Usually it's dressed up as something alluring, something pleasurable.

But the best kind of temptation (and by "best" I mean the most insidious and most effective) way of tempting is to present something evil as something that would lead to "a greater good". To present something evil as a "necessary evil". To make someone consciously commit an act of evil by inducing in them a mistaken belief that there's no other way forward but to commit this act of evil.

That's precisely what Max is being tempted with. She is told to become an "everyday hero". To save her hometown. But to do that, she must commit the ultimate sin - reject love. This is truly a demonic bargain.

In my mind, by tearing up the photograph, Max defeats her tempation. She sees through the rotten, sadistic deal she has been offered. She chooses not to commit an act of evil. Rejecting love and friendship, taking back the hope you've given someone, leaving them to die alone, abandoned and afraid - it's always an act of evil. Always a sin. No matter what it would accomplish on the physical plane.

There is no such thing as a necessary evil. EVIL IS NEVER NECESSARY. And a lesser evil is evil still. You are only responsible for the things you choose. So if you choose evil, you are responsible for it. Even if it's a lesser evil, even if you've deluded yourself into thinking that it's a necessary one.

If you're presented with a choice to stop a greater evil at the cost of commiting a lesser evil and you refuse to do so, that doesn't make you responsible for the greater evil. On the contrary, it shows you chose no evil at all.

[nocturnowlette]

I have been recently diagnosed with a mental health issue and I have been trying to deal with it on my own .I think that it is not the best choice for me and I am curious about how you are dealing with this situation that you are so confident in posting and that is a good thing for you then you be you.

Content Warning for Mental Health Discussion

First, I’m very happy that you’ve decided to reach out to someone about this topic, as it can feel very alienating to do so, and to actively declare that you’re struggling with this. Even further, I’m honored that the person you chose to ask about this is me. I’ll do my best to help.

I suspect that I might be in a similar situation to you. I was diagnosed with ADHD and Autism long after my childhood unlike some others, and so I grew up with the idea drilled into my head that I was “normal”, while just being a little different from the other kids.��

I would constantly have kids and adults alike get angry at and yell at me for reasons I didn’t understand, would be called rude or condescending or feel stupid for not understanding things that others seemed to easily. I would find it magical how other people would be able to just do things without issue, and have the only advice given to me to “just do it”. I’d be called lazy and scatterbrained and weird. Because I was supposed to be “normal”, it gave me the impression over time that something about me was just fundamentally wrong. Like I was broken.

The realization of me not being normal, that there might be something defined that actually explains all of these struggles was both enlightening and somewhat soul-crushing at first. It was nice to have an explanation after all of this time, but it felt at first like it reinforced the idea of me being “broken”. I was supposed to be “normal”, and now I’m not. Thinking back to my childhood (which was largely hard to remember for reasons I didn’t question at the time), every small wisp of a memory I would see now through this new lens. Every nice interaction was treated with paranoia, wondering what the person thought of me. Feeling vindictive towards how I was treated, feeling angry at my parents for insisting that I was normal, feeling everything tainted by this realization. I was angry at the world for “making” me this way.

I already had a strong sense of shame and self-hatred, and this only fed the flame of it. However, as time passed and I was able to reflect on it more, me learning about this has only served to help me. The first thing that is important to note is that neurodivergence is not an inherent good or an inherent bad. There are some things that concretely affect your every day life negatively, there are aspects of it that are occasionally useful, and the are things that feel wrong, but only under a societal context.

One of the things I’ve thankful about is having this realization lead me learning about the Social Model of Disability. It’s one of a few, but the simple concept is this: imagine there is a world identical to ours, except that the majority of people had the common grouping of symptoms one would associate with autism. If someone considered normal in our world was placed into that one, they would then be the one that is considered to have a “mental illness”, and there would be no name for autism because it would simply be normal. Architecture and lighting and social traditions and interactions would all accommodate those with what we call autism, and so it would be far easier to navigate the world because it was made for you.

While there are absolutely concrete struggles with autism, with ADHD, with bipolar, with BPD, with schizophrenia, they are made harder by the fact that the world isn’t built for us. There are symptoms and aspects of all of those that are only struggles because “normal” people don’t have them and don’t need to think about or accommodate them. That’s to say, you are not “fundamentally broken”. You are just different, and that can cause friction with a world that functions largely off of fitting in. You are okay, and you are not broken.

Specific to ADHD and other ones with Executive Dysfunction, it’s important to note that “productivity” is not some inherent human good. Capitalism values productivity highly, and that has bled into our culture, but humans are not robots and we were not built to simply produce. Take days where you force yourself to do nothing. If you constantly just think about needing to do something, then you won’t be able to get that relaxation you need to have the energy to do it. You’re kinda stalling yourself out. I still get like this sometimes, but it’s easier to recgonize when you’re doing it the more you’re aware. 

Again, though, while many of these problems are due to just the society we live in, there are concrete issues you need to deal with, ones that would still be problems in that fictional world where everyone has what you do. Sensory issues and depressive mood swings and executive dysfunction are not something you can just will away, and they are things that you need to deal with. However, you still had to deal with those before. Now, you have a name for it. It’s a target, and something defined that you can work on now that it’s no longer some abstract struggle and has a name and known information around it.

And, to reiterate, you are not some fundamentally different person now that you have learned this information. You simply have a name for it now. That is exclusively helpful for you, so long as you don’t fall into the pitfall that I did for a while, which is “learned helplessness”. For a good while, this realization made it feel like I was destined to fail, to never succeed, and to always be different and alienated from others. The truth is that there will always, always be people that will understand and support you. 

In my humble opinion, it’s best to avoid online semi-closed off communities that center exclusively around these neurodivergent struggles. While they’re well intentioned, what I’ve found is that it slowly becomes a place that functions like a crab in a bucket, everyone sort of convincing themselves that they will never grow beyond their struggles, and that any progress they make is in spite of them and not alongside them. In a more open, diluted website like Tumblr it might be better, but I haven’t participated much so I can’t tell you for sure.

It’s best to find communities that have people that struggle with the same things, but function as a general community of people rather than focusing just around that topic. Not only do friendships grow stronger that way, learning more about the person and being able to relate your struggles as well as count the small differences, but it enforces the idea that while this is a significant part of yourself, that it is only a part. It does not define you entirely, it is a texture to your mind. Important, but not everything.

The most important parts of growing as a person alongside your neurodivergence is both to accept it and to try your best to love yourself. Shame is a strong social motivator and it gets instilled into you early. My bullied and the uncompassionate angry adults that harshly corrected me started to form their own sort of critic in my mind, one that would always comment on what I’m doing without anyone else even needing to anymore. This is somewhat present in everyone, but it can turn nasty if it’s too strong and turns into self-hatred like it did with me.

The solution, for me, is to form a new voice in your head, one of rationality and self-forgiveness. I envision is as an owl, but most people simply feel it as an abstract voice. It talks over your negative feelings, over your self critic, reminding you that you are not worthless or broken. Reminding you of the simple facts, things you should keep in mind, even if you don’t feel them right now. As you grow and slowly change, that voice becomes more solidified. It doesn’t override or discount your feelings, but accepts them and tries to remind yourself of what’s true and what’s important.

It’s okay to feel bad, and you keep stay rational at the same time. You can forgive yourself even while you are doing something you perceive as wrong. Failure is the most important part of self-improvement, it could not happen without it. Real, helpful change happens slowly and systematically. You choose every day to do small things that help you, and sometimes fall off the horse entirely before getting back on. Change is not linear, it is not easy, and it is not fast, but it is very, very possible. The key is failure, acceptance, and forgiving yourself for failing and finding it hard to accept yourself.

Finding people that love you for you is extremely helpful, so while communities can have problems, I do highly suggest it. Even a few close friends or even just allies that understand you can make such a big difference. Even something private like a diary or journal or a private blog helps. Turning your feelings into words has some sort of effect. If people could see some of the things I’ve written down in my journal, they’d be extremely concerned for me. It’s a place that lets you get out your worst thoughts.

Lastly, understand that while some mental illnesses are concrete in their existence, others are simply names we give to a common grouping of symptoms. Both Autism and ADHD are just that, and they can potentially have multiple different sources or a combination of them, and also have many different individual nuances. Keep your ears perked to new ideas and always be willing to try them, it might take 100 before you find 1 that works, but every single one makes it a little bit easier.

And remember, you are so, so deserving of love. You are wonderful and complex and unique, while still close enough to others to resonate with them. You deserve happiness and contentment and joy and self-acceptance. You need to remember this, as hard as it is to feel it. You deserve so much love. 

Those are all of my thoughts for now. My PC crashed after typing about 15 paragraphs of this and it didn’t save because it’s a response to an ask, so I dunno how good this rewritten version is or if I covered everything the first did. So, apologies if I missed anything.

[mitsvriii]

hello dear !! congrats on 300, 3 million next 🤞

now then, can i please have a handpicked bouquet from a nursery with roses + cosmos for either zhongli, freminet or neuvillette (i don’t mind!!)

thank you and congratulations once more ٩(^‿^)۶♡

if i could slow time

bell's notes: you cannot just drop those prompts with those characters and leave sir /gn erm 😐 /nm. breaking my heart ☹️💔😔 /lyr, also yes 3 mil for bell 🙏, dumbi 2 tril next 🫵, ty tho 💓, the 'right person wrong time' is not even noticeable im, this is so short i cannot, first time writing anything besides gn!reader so if it's inaccurate im so so sorry, not proofread

contents: zhongli x male!reader, mention of death, angst and fluff, 567 word count

summary: in which your soulmate hardly interacts with you, and the reason why is just as bad as the hurt of his ignorance

It was stupid. A crush you happened to work for has gone wild in the sense that you may or may not have noticed that his wrist was tainted with your name. This not only caused you to have an entire mental breakdown that you couldn’t let show physically, but you rushed out of the funeral parlor, nearly knocking down Hu Tao with your theatrics. 

Not to mention, you thought Zhongli was either clueless, didn’t care, or was just naturally calm about things this extreme because he saw the man who was now his soulmate every day without a stutter, shake, or a cracked-up voice; unlike yourself. Who were you to complain, though? If he acted normal and made no big deal of it, it was most likely not a big deal, right?

You only groaned out annoyingly as you pushed the thoughts away, focusing on the smell of coffins as you helped a woman pick out one for her new-found lover who turned dead because of some freak mitachurl accident. To which you could only nod solemnly in response too, praying to the archons above that something like that wouldn’t happen to you before Zhongli decided to pay attention to you being his soulmate.

It was only a matter of time before the woman left that you quite literally had enough, and rushed to knock on Zhongli’s office door, tapping your foot impatiently as you waited for him to open it. He couldn’t have let you inside at a better time before you brushed past him, albeit harshly, before turning around to face him.

“You’ve been ignoring me.” Four words and you almost swore Zhongli blinked back a cry at them, a solemn smile playing at his lips before he sighed, motioning for you to sit in the chair in front of his desk.

The conversation was nothing like you had imagined in your head. No ‘I’m not into men’, no ‘There’s someone else, no ‘I’m not interested in having a soulmate, but an “I’m an archon” in its place. After letting the statement settle in, Zhongli continued with his explanation in a manner so calming that it almost made you regret your previous snap towards him just a few minutes ago.

He failed to converse with you about your souls being intertwined because he felt as if he would be burdening you with the truth that when you two got completely attached you would pass on before him, centuries before him if he was going to be honest; although it seems as if he was burdening you with the truth now.

You would grow and he would not, you would maybe adopt a child and they too would grow old and he would not, you would fear over time where you would leave him and he would not. He was afraid, afraid that you would worry so much about him and his sake of being with his soulmate, that you wouldn’t enjoy the time you spent together.

But in the end, you both agreed. The two of you would spend the rest of your time together in this world until it came for you to part, and no matter what had happened you wouldn’t feel the need to worry about what would happen to him after you eased to live.

“Because as long as I still can recall memories of you, I shall be fine.”

[heraldofcrow]

Sky Burial and Blasphemy Theory

I believe I may finally have answers for Eileen and Bloody Crow’s implied rivalry.

(I was stumped for a while, but thankfully, I have very smart friends. You know who you are).

Note: I will be using screenshots of retranslated Japanese descriptions and dialogue from the LastProtagonist document. This is to ensure a more accurate reading of Bloodborne’s lore. The document can be found here.

—

Sky Burial

(Painting by Ronan Boyle)

Eileen the Crow is, as her name suggests, a crow-hunter, or as the Japanese translation puts it, a “hunter-hunter.”

She and her predecessors dressed as crows to represent the art of sky burial.

~~

What is sky burial?

It’s been discussed many times before in this fandom, but for the sake of context, here is a definition from a Tibetan website:

“Sky burial is simply the disposal of a corpse to be devoured by vultures. In Tibetan Buddhism, sky burial is believed to represent their wishes to go to heaven. It is the most widespread way for commoners to deal with the dead in Tibet.”

~~

This what led us to believe that the first hunter-hunters, those that were said to come from the hinterlands/a remote foreign land, were Tibetan. We do not know if this is the case for Eileen, but either way, she upholds the tradition as a crow, and likely reveres it as a solemn duty.

The choice of crows to represent this practice instead of vultures, though an altered form of symbolism, fits quite naturally as well. Crows and the Carrion Crows in Bloodborne feast on the dead, on blood, and take the bounty with them in their beaks.

Even the common folktale of crows foretelling death and decay as dark heralds is something that could easily be tied to sky burial.

Furthermore, the symbolism deepens when we realize that Carrion Crows have a clear association with blood consumption in-game.

Had they not consistently devoured the tainted blood of the many corpses throughout Yharnam, they likely would not have become mutated. This is a sure sign that these creatures thoroughly eat through carrion, blood and all—much like vultures.

Crows suit the more respectable method of burial, and as such, crow-hunters cloak themselves in black-feathered garb, take down mad hunters, and leave them to be consumed by these birds of carrion.

Another key detail to this tradition is the association that blood may have with the soul. Throughout FromSoftware games, there is a theme that adheres to ancient cultural beliefs about the human/animal life force.

Just as Dark Souls 3 confirmed that Gael sought for the “blood of the dark soul,” or in other words, the “blood of humanity” for his lady’s painting, so does Bloodborne ensure to clarify that human souls are found within their own blood. This very notion is suggested through the explanation for sky burial.

If the soul is in the blood, then a crow consuming the ichorous remains of any body and returning to the skies with this carrion in its beak would mark the “salvation of a soul.”

The human was not damned to the under earth or cremated to ash, but was “lifted to heaven” in the hope of rest, peace, and sanctification.

This is what crow-hunters wish for their befouled and wayward comrades, who sin in their final moments under the influence of blood-drunken impulses. Any warrior lost to such madness would be likely to fear for their post-mortem fate if they were able to think clearly for even a moment.

Crow-hunters understand this, and offer mercy by way of cutting their ruined lives short before giving their souls to the birds of heaven. Perhaps those hunters would find their way to the Dream instead of the Nightmare.

This would have been a sacred ritual, preserved and taught among crow-hunters as something never to be fumbled, twisted, or forgotten. It is their native tradition—something even linked to their religion.

Anything less was considered blasphemy, particularly the savage burial methods of Yharnam.

—

Blasphemy

Now, when observing the visual and contextual aspects of the “Bloody Crow of Cainhurst,” it becomes apparent that there is a darker implication to his character—one that is eerily dualistic.

You are required to have a firm grasp on what it is that crow-hunters do, and what the Vileblood royal guards were in service to Annalise for. Yet once the pieces are put into place, we can see the Bloody Crow for what he truly is, and why his methods violate those perpetuated by the crow-hunters.

He is a heretical warrior with a blasphemous personification and purpose. He is the embodiment of sacrilege in regards to the hallowed art of sky burial and the respectful guardianship of ambivalent souls. Every hint given to us in-game contributes to this image of heresy that the Bloody Crow presents.

What are these hints?

They are left among the descriptions for Vileblood assets, particularly the Guard’s armor set and the Corruption + Blood Rapture runes.

I will share a link to this reblog that my friend and I discussed this particular element of the lore on, but to sum up what it is that Annalise’s guards do, we must first understand blood echoes.

As the Japanese states it, they are “the dying wills” of the slain. The “last wishes” of those that have passed on. In this way, we further discern the association with blood and soul in Bloodborne.

Now hunters themselves rely on blood echoes to gain strength, and as we have seen, some of these hunters become addicted to this odd relationship. These are the blood-drunks, or “echo fiends,” and thus are the very hunters stated to be targeted by Annalise’s guards.

To simplify it as acutely as possible, the Vileblood queen’s hunters kill blood-drunks in the same manner as crow-hunters, but with an altered purpose and enterprise. They seek for the writhing “dregs” within the frenzied hunter blood, only to deliver it all to Annalise, who will then consume that unnatural life force.

She does this for the sake of bearing her promised Child of Blood, the heir of Cainhurst and of the Vileblood line.

Now we can put two and two together when studying Bloody Crow.

From his appearance alone, we can deduce that he owes some allegiance to Cainhurst, and to the modus operandi of Annalise’s guards.

He dons their ornate armor, he wields their famed sword, the chikage, and he drops the Blood Rapture rune upon death. This rune is not to be taken lightly. It is a secret resonating with direct servants of the queen.

Blood Rapture itself is a supplement for those guards of Annalise that crave her blood, but cannot yet receive it. They instead find ecstasy in the warmth of blood itself. A brief solution for an unbearable longing.

All of this, in theory, is in direct conflict with the values of a crow-hunter.

The souls of drunken hunters being ripped from their mutilated bodies and brought to a queen for consumption must have been a dark heresy. It violates every principle of sky burial, and twists the nature of a fallen warrior’s salvation.

The Vilebloods could have argued that all of these stolen souls were being used for the better, given to a being that would birth a new and divine form of life, thereby resurrecting the amalgamation of lost lives.

In a sense, it could have the potential to be a form of reincarnation for those warriors.

Yet it does not matter, because a violation of tradition and belief is just that, and if anyone ever blatantly spat in the face of sky burial, it was the Bloody Crow.

And so, in the game itself, we see the culmination of this strife come into full fruition.

—

The Conflict

Eileen, soaked in blood, lies before the Grand Cathedral when we come to the end of her questline. We discover that she has been wounded in the process of hunting down her new “prey.”

Whoever or whatever takes the shape of this “prey” has proven to be too much for Eileen, and though she is older, she is undeniably formidable. This enemy hunter stands apart as an unusual threat.

When we fight him, aiding Eileen, we discover that he shows no signs of normal blood-drunk behavior. He is calm, focused, he stands his ground, refusing to leave the cathedral. He does not rave about and wail in anger, nor does he declare his mad intentions the way an unstable Eileen does in the alternate quest-line.

He has a purpose.

He is the crow that feeds on the blood of hunters, but he does not return to the sky as he was meant to. Instead, he carries his prizes back to Cainhurst and presents them to his queen, blaspheming against Eileen’s covenant and defiling his own honor.

Does he do it purely out of loyalty to Annalise? Does he do it merely to defy Eileen or to torment hunters? Is it vengeance for Cainhurst? For his own life? Is he simply insane in a different way than most blood-drunks?

We could even wonder if he knows that the aspect of sky burial that involves allowing lost hunters to find the Dream is something to be dreaded. Could it hearken to the story of Gideon Ofnir in Elden Ring?

After all, the truth of how gods puppeteer warriors and use them to carry out their schemes can be a devastating thing, sometimes sending the most insightful into a frenzied, desperate state, and Crow does seem to be placed in front of one of the central lanterns. Could this be a possibility?

We may never know for certain, but regardless of his own wishes, he has rebelled against Eileen’s. He is the shame of every crow-hunter before him, so we must put him down after a long and bitter duel.

When we finally overcome this devil, we earn Eileen’s full trust, and her own mantle as a Hunter of Hunters. It becomes our sworn duty to preserve the ancient tradition of sky burial, and to refrain from falling into blasphemy as the Bloody Crow of Cainhurst did.

And that my friends, is my theory on our infamous crow-feud.

—

Thanks to my mutuals (Lore Council gang 🫡) for all the help with this!

[eldritch-spouse]

Who asked for angst huh??? no one??? I'm still serving tho-

Vinnel and his Poppet.

His cute, adorable Poppet. The one that smiles and giggles at his jokes, the one that dresses up like a pretty dolly for him, the one that cries from every single strong emotion- Oh and how emotional she is. As if she was born yesterday, embracing everything world can offer with open soul.

And her world is Vinnel. And she's ready to accept everything from him. Sometimes even a bit too much.

So, at one pretty usual day...

At first, he thinks she's just playing. Or having an attitude. Tsk-tsk-tsk- What she even thinks she's doing, hiding in the room, blanket tossed on the floor? He was generous enough to leave her in the bed for a bit longer, and now she's abusing his kindness, having a nerve to hide in the smallest gap possible – where his claws has a bit of problem to reach.

It's fine. He never had a problem with a little bit of blood in the process.

But atta-

"Your jokes are lame."

"Your style is ugly."

"You look like an oversized stupid balloon."

... Is she trying to make him mad? With this? Honestly, it's so lame it's almost hilarious- he's actually getting pissy over that fact that she's still hiding. Game is not funny, mouse is getting out of her house–

Wow. His Poppet never looked like a bigger mess – she could be a decent competition to some unfortunate souls on the death floor, uhuhu! He's kinda jealous he wasn't here to see– Oh, wait. Is it blood? Not from him... How about to grant him explanation?

... It's probably the only time he's not so happy with her voice trembling and ugly tears running– running down her unusually emotionless, yet desperate face. Her voice is dry as she quietly explains that it's "recurrence", how she woke up with this familiar pain and how she's probably missed the "signals" before.

He's not sure what is the worst part of this cruel joke. He's can't even guess, honestly. Her quiet whispers about how she doesn't want to go back to the hospital and how tired she is are kind of understandable.

Repeated "I know how it goes, I don't mind- I will be a good show material at the last- I know what now I'm not needed as anything else-" and other trembly begging as she starts crying again, grabbing his bigger palm into her's and immediately letting him go with pained, scared, unsure expression, is breaking his remaining pieces of heart.

It has been almost year after all.

And he almost finished his perfect pearl.

[I'm sorry, the language barrier is making it hard for me to understand what you're implying in certain sections. So I got a little confused.]

Vinnel is usually a funny character to make angst with, because chances are that while you're there bawling your little eyes out, this fucker is standing around with a throbbing boner, courtesy of his dacryphilia and sadism.

Even if the jester is conflicted about things, arousal is always there to taint the moment.

[worldseekerdragon]

What is Seven Cities?

Seven Cities is a tabletop roleplaying game about survival and discovery. It's also a game about an eldritch time snake telling you to overthrow the government.

Player characters are each ordinary denizens of one of seven different cities, who are one day infused with a power that they will struggle to control. Each city is a world unto itself, with its own quirks, potential allies, and threats to explore. From the meticulously curated, topologically twisted municipal labyrinth of Ordinus where the laws of physics are literal laws, and can be subverted with the proper permit, to the sublime, unceasing light of Seraphis where beauty is all, but is anything but truth. Seven cities, occupying the same metaphysical "space" but not the same time. Each effectively nonexistent to the others, save for the few beings that can move between them. And as of character creation, that includes the party.

This is not deliberate travel. Each dawn, they'll find themselves someplace new, until a full week has passed and they're right back where they started. Facing the same trouble as when they left. Just six days more exhausted, and six days more wise. Having this power makes you a target. But it also means you can fight back. Change things.

If you want to read a little backstory, including an explanation(?) of the time snake thing, that's below.

Once upon a time. . .

Seven souls hatched a plan to kill time. Itself. Or at least its avatar. The God of Time, if you don't mind a label that's equally helpful and unhelpful to your understanding. The Oroboros.

Who the Seven were before their triumph and how they accomplished it are not known. Furthermore, it's not a meaningful question. Taking the power of the Oroboros within themselves, they became more and less than what they were. And as of that one dreadful act, they have always been so.

What is known is that each believed that with this power they could create the perfect world. That each worked with the others only out of necessity, and that their visions were mutually exclusive, and could not be allowed to overlap lest they taint one another's purity. And so when it was done they cut reality into seven neat sections and willed their worlds into being.

It went as well as you might expect.

Like wishing on a monkey's paw, the flaws in the Seven's visions of perfection were amplified by the power that flowed through them. This power was not theirs to direct, and it fought them. The Seven Cities were born of a cosmic atrocity. They will always bear the scars of it.

Even so, the Seven now rule over their domains with near-absolute control. Cities can never fully be bent to their will, but there is nothing in them strong enough to meaningfully oppose them.

Except.

The Oroboros does not know death as those who experience a mere 3 dimensions understand it. In order to stop the slain god from waking once more, the Seven divided it and sealed it within the realms they had freshly carved with its might. Though the Seven watch them vigilantly, the seals on those prisons have nonetheless begun to slip. Power seeps through. And power demands a vessel.

That, players, is where you come in.

[etho-slabbers]

I've done it for lifesteal so I think I should do it for hermitcraft... sooo,, what I think every hermit would choose in infinite realms and (maybe) why.

warning, infinite realms spoilers lie ahead.

(any names or terms I use will be explained under cut/in a reply to this post)

Bdubs- classer 100% he would choose either a gardener based class, along the lines of Ender Ornn's one or he's a builder,,, (actually he could also be a formations master, which is cultivation but he might be that too.) His secondary is definitely skills though, no doubt, he probably advances them like Zenker does.

Cub- He would be a cultivator with a secondary focus as classer 'cause he wants the perks from it. Probably on a path based around speed and empowering himself.

Doc- he's a mainly a skill user with a secondary of cultivation. He's on a destructive path, like Ryun or Tali's main paths, his second path is formations, like Eratemus.

Etho- pure skills user, like zenker. Actually, quite like zenker, but he probably did it abit faster. He spent ages building his skills up and locking in parts of himself. He is most likely an explorer.

False- classer, with a sword based class. (I don't watch false sorry </3)

Gem- cultivator, like Anrosh but kinda better, she got her own inspiration. Uses class as secondary, finds it more useful. Main weapon is a sword. Uses a formation based secondary path.

gonna make this a multi-part thing, I wanna keep rereading the book >:3.

EXPLANATIONS. (some haven't come up yet it's just so I can just link this post to all of these & add any extras here too.)

classers get perks every 5(?) levels and get 6 stat points each time, 3 are allocated to their primary and secondary attributes and the other 3 are free. They get a class evolution every 60 levels (I think) and get a class defining perk 30 levels after that. Classes are based on achievements and influence from inside.

Cultivators advance through realms, starting at early mortal and finishing at peak eternal. Each realm has three stages, early, mid and peak. They require inspiration to advance through realms, inspiration can be shared but doing so cripples the cultivator to never be able to change techniques or gain their own inspiration again. Paths influence from outside.

Skills require understanding to advance, to advance a skill you must understand how it works and you must understand yourself. To make a tier 6 skill, you must lock in part of yourself, that part can't change.

Formations- essence arranged by a cultivator to do something, such as working as a TV or to send signals from place to place. They can do basically anything.

Focus madness- having focuses too close in tiers of power, pushing and pulling. Makes the holder insane, driven to do only what the core concepts of their, class/path and twists the wording of locked skills.

Essence- what everything in the infinite realm is made of literally, from the ground to the concept of space itself. It is also used as currency. Cultivators can pull it into their core, they can also pull only certain ones in based on their qi aspect.

Aspect- what taints a cultivator's qi.

Qi- power source of a cultivator.

Ranker- someone who comes from an iteration, their wasn't always part of the framework.

Framework- what gives the ability for classes, paths and skills to even exist.

Sect- a primarily cultivator faction.

Sect head- leader/owner of a sect.

Sect leader- helps the sect head run the sect.

Runes- like really simple formations, requires a part of your soul to be infused to work.

Twin aspects of true death- Formerly the aspect of true death itself. Also formerly held by Ryun and Melody. Currently held by Ryun and Selia.

Ender Ornn- Ender Ornn Dagada. Classer. Olriginally found by Kayra Ornn, with his garden. I think he was a ranker. Originally focus mad. Died to Ra' azel.

Zenker- Zenker Brokentail, a full skill user. Reached the peak of skills. Died to Hastur.

Ryun- Ryun Nacht Wol. Cultivator. 7th iteration ranker. Killed everyone on a planet besides Zacharia Gardener. One half of the twin aspects of true death (Reaper). Sect head of the Twilight Melody Sect. Alive.

Tali- Antalien Far Sola Wol. Cultivator. Ruler of the empty skys. Formerly crippled cultivator and slave, for about 500 years. Freed by Ryun. Alive??, captured by Ra'azel.

Anrosh- Anrosh Kesh Wol. Cultivator. Sect leader of the Twilight Melody Sect. Second in command. Raised by Ryun, after she asked, to protect the sect better. Alive.

Melody- Classer. Former Scythe of true death. Ryun's former partner. Killed by governor on earth. (unsure of last name)

Selia- Selia Ha Jhan-Ekoa. Cultivator. Current Scythe of true death. Alive.

Kayra Ornn- Kayra Ornn Dagada. Classer. 3rd iteration ranker. Formerly of House Ornn in the 3rd empire. currently of the Dagada family in the Twilight Melody Sect. Alive.

Ra' azel- Yeti of a old framework attempt. Otherwise known as the Runesmith. Freed by Zacharia Gardener. Absolute menace (/hj)

Hastur- 11th dome leader. Based on lovecraftian horror.

Zacharia Gardener- Classer. 7th iteration ranker. Formerly the No.1 Ryun Nacht hater. Oldest chosen in the infinite realm. Got stuck in a mind-palace for 5000 years and can't remember most before it. Alive.