#cw: stylized brain

[vixymix101]

Plague puppies!~

[lazywriter-artist]

Bad dream again? [ </3 ]

[thecosmicsailor]

Something about trauma and how it just seems to stick.

(Or: sure would suck if your bone marrow got turned to ash with the rest of you, huh)

[patchwork-crow-writes]

88 - Help Yourself

(Inspired by the official Deltarune Halloween/6 year anniversary artwork by Temmie Chang. It's really cute, go and check it out if you haven't done so yet!)

(content warnings for stylised gore and suggestive language)

Trick-or-Treat! I made lots of delicious candy for you to eat, so please help yourself to as much as you want! That's what it's for, after all!

What do you think of my costume? I worked very hard on it, so I'd look as sweet and yummy as possible! Wouldn't you say I look good enough to eat? Haha, there's no need to be shy, I can already see you licking your lips...

...but how rude of me, after you've come all this way! Your costume is to die for - robes black as night, collar crimson like jelly... and what adorable little fangs you have there! All the better to take a bite out something delectable, wouldn't you say?

Oh, and isn't that... a knife? You should be very careful around me with that, because everyone knows that cakes are weak to knives, haha! ...b-but if you really wanted to, I wouldn't say no if you were to help yourself to a slice or two...

...don't think about it too hard, my light. It's okay, none of this is real anyhow... so go ahead and treat yourself!Run your greedy fingers through my immaculate frosting, sink your blade into my crumbling sponge and cut yourself a second, third, fourth helping. That's it, take as many mouthfuls as you please... doesn't it taste good? And oh, dare you lick the jam and crumbs from your knife, for just one last little taste of me? Don't fret about the mess, my dear - someone else will clean it up.

And when you've had your fill and I am nothing more than a memory, tell me... will your appetite have been satiated then? Will I have finally fulfilled my purpose and made you happy, even if only for that short, sweet while? Will the taste of my love linger on the tip of your tongue, or shall it fade away the moment you find another treat to devour?

...regardless, I hope that you enjoy me to the fullest. It's what I'm for, after all.

______________________________

The Dark Menagerie No. 88

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[dovenskin]

i luvv💕ur work

may u pls do a bill x reader with reader whos just as much as of an asshole as he is -- like they dont put up with his attitude, ignore him, block him whenever they feel like it, and force bill into pathetic actions for her forgiveness?? 💗💗

⋆

bill dickeyノ

cw : no warnings just bill being bill // bill x gn reader with feminine qualities

✦ Title: Let Him Suffer

an: yess!! omg i’ve prayed for a bill request and thank uu!! xoxo

© dovenskin

Bill was always mouthing off.

That was nothing new. You’d gotten used to the endless stream of smug corrections, petty gatekeeping, and the incel-core commentary that tumbled out of his mouth anytime he felt challenged—so, constantly. He was basically a walking online reporter with a superiority complex and the emotional regulation of a wet sock.

The two of you were in a thing, sure—one of those “off and on, don’t ask questions” relationships that was somehow real and a joke at the same time. Not that Bill would ever call it a relationship without choking on the word or throwing up sarcastic air quotes like they were part of his mutant power set.

“Yeah, my ‘partner’,” he’d grunt at Pete or Jerry. “Don’t get used to it. Casual arrangement.”

And yet the second you wore a tank top out without checking in? He got possessive like you were his limited-edition signed ‘The Joker’ poster

You’d shown up to Free Comic Book Day dressed as a vampire hunter —tight leather, stylized thigh straps, and detailed sigils you’d painted by hand. Weeks of work. And before you could even enjoy the look, Bill peered at you from behind a stack of longboxes and barked:

“That skirt is two inches too short for any functional loadout. You look like a slut. And I’m pretty sure those sigils are a bad rip-off of the Bloodlines expansion. Try harder next time.”

You blinked once. Then turned and walked away.

Bill Dickey had never met anyone who could silence him with a look. He hated it. Hated how you rolled your eyes during his continuity rants. Hated how you blocked his number every time he called you a “poser bitch” for having an opinion that didn’t match his. Hated how you always came back when you felt like it—like his tantrums meant less than nothing.

He called you sensitive when you called him out for saying “female-led media is inherently weaker.” You laughed in his face and walked off.

He told Pete and Josh that the only reason you kept winning at Magic was because he “let you win to keep the peace.” You threw your drink in the trash and left mid-game.

And when he told Jerry—fucking Jerry—that your art wasn’t real fanwork because your posts got “thirst likes from brain-dead coomers”? You were sitting right there.

He looked you dead in the eye and said it.

And you? You stood up without a word, grabbed your bag, and left.

He didn’t follow. Not then

But that night? The spiral began.

First, texts:

““You know I was kidding.”

“Fine. Act like a bitch.”

“C’mon, don’t be so emotional. You females are always so emotional over nothing. Pick a new struggle.”

Blocked.

A day passed.

Then two.

On the third morning, you opened your curtains to find Bill Dickey in your front yard with a busted Bluetooth speaker duct-taped to a messenger bag, fumbling with wires like he’d tried and failed to play something from your favorite album—pathetic and obvious.

You opened the door an inch.

“I’m sorry, alright?” he shouted. “I’m not good at this relationship shit! I said stuff I didn’t mean! C’mon… s—sweetheart…” He hesitated like the pet name burned his tongue. “I brought the speaker!”

You slammed the door without saying a word.

Over the next week, he sent more emails than an ILOVEYOU virus

Subject: “Just read this???”

Subject: “I messed up—okay??”

Subject: “Say something. Anything.”

Subject: “I’ll delete the forum post about your ‘Bloodlines’ sigils. Please.”

He lurked outside the comic shop during your usual visits,flannel flared up, pacing like he knew he wasn’t welcome but refused to leave. You walked past him without flinching.

One night, as you stepped over the curb, he trailed after you.

“Okay—okay, I get it. I was a dick! But I miss you. I like you, alright? I—fuck—I love you. Is that what you want to hear?”

You didn’t even turn around.

Behind you, Bill stood frozen on the sidewalk, red-faced and hunched over like he’d just been hit by a boss fight cutscene. His backpack slipped down his shoulder. His mouth hung open, useless.

“…Please,” he called out. “I don’t know what to do without you.”

But that wasn’t your problem.

Because it was never about whether he liked you. It was about whether he respected you. And Bill Dickey?

He didn’t deserve shit.

Let him suffer.

[yunaversalluv]

⋆.˚ ★— Focus Pull

ᴀ ɪɴᴅɪᴇ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄɪᴀɴ!ᴇʟʟɪᴇ x ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇʀɴᴛ ᴘʜᴏᴛᴏɢʀᴀᴘʜᴇʀ!ꜰᴇᴍ! ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

⋆.˚ ★— Focus Pull m.list

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ `౨ৎ~

In the hush of the morning after, lines begin to blur — between art and intimacy, documentation and devotion. A new opportunity surfaces, but the weight of what’s unspoken threatens to shift everything. Sometimes the most honest moments aren’t the ones captured, but the ones simply seen.

cw for this chapter// emotional vulnerability, mild sensuality/romantic tension, mentions of past fame-related anxiety, mild alcohol use, power dynamic concern.

taglist - @miajooz @talyaisvalslutsoldier @lesoulew @elliespotion @valeisaslut @mariesmagix @eriiwaii2 @liztreez @re1daway @wrappedinvines @eleanorsghost @fangirlinc

CHAPTER FOUR: CAPTURED MOMENTS

The apartment was quiet in the way only morning-after spaces could be — a silence that wasn’t awkward, but reverent. Light trickled through the blinds like honey, warm and slow, brushing over the lived-in mess of Ellie’s world: a guitar case yawning open, boots kicked off by the door, a glass ashtray holding the soft skeletons of half-smoked joints.

And in the middle of it, Ellie.

Tucked into her couch like it had grown around her. Hair rumpled, sleeves swallowed past her knuckles, one knee pressed up as she sipped from a chipped ceramic mug that read “Property of No One.”

You were beside her, body still humming from last night’s quiet spell — not a kiss, not even a touch that meant something, but something still happened. Something changed.

Neither of you had spoken much when the sun came up. You’d padded into her tiny kitchen to make coffee while she dozed in a half-sit, half-sprawl, blinking blearily at the morning. The silence had stretched like thread between you — delicate, tensile. Not ready to be broken yet.

She offered you her mug without looking. “Wanna switch? Mine’s better. Trust me.”

You took it, fingers brushing hers. Not the first time. But somehow it felt new this morning. Weightier.

“You always say that,” you murmured.

“‘Cause I’m always right.”

You snorted, and she smiled at the sound — a soft, almost private smile. One that didn’t belong on a stage.

The longer you sat there, the more you felt yourself shifting — slipping out of the photographer version of yourself, the one with fast instincts and faster detachment, and back into something softer. Slower.

Something that watched, not to capture, but to understand.

You could feel your lens brain wanting to kick in — the instinct to frame this moment, catch the way her lashes rested against her cheekbone, or how her bare wrist curled loosely against her knee. But you stopped yourself.

You weren’t here to document this. You were here. Present.

That’s new, you thought. That’s dangerous.

You looked around her space, trying to get your footing. There were band posters pinned crookedly to the wall, photos stuck to the fridge with mismatched magnets — Jesse mid-jump on stage, Dina flipping the camera off in some neon dive bar. And then one photo you didn’t recognize. A blurry, low-light shot of Ellie, face half-obscured by her hoodie, laughing.

Not posed. Not curated. Just… Ellie.

That one made your chest ache.

“Hey,” she said suddenly, pulling you back. “You okay?”

You nodded before you really felt it. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

You smirked. “Sometimes.”

She reached for a Sharpie without explaining and pressed it into your palm. “Draw something.”

You blinked. “Like what?”

“I dunno.” She shifted toward you, resting her arm across your knee — a quiet offering. “You see shit other people don’t. I wanna know what that looks like, without the camera in the way.”

You stared at her arm. At the freckles and fine veins under the skin, the faded tour bracelet still looped around her wrist.

This wasn’t flirtation. It was invitation.

So you drew. Careful lines. A single eye, wide open. Lashes like lashes, not stylized. Honest. A little soft. You didn’t say it, but you knew what it meant.

This is how I see you.

When you pulled the marker away, Ellie exhaled like she’d been holding her breath.

“Looks like me,” she said quietly.

You looked up at her. “I know.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t look away. Not right away.

And then she laughed under her breath, eyes flicking toward the kitchen. “You want eggs or something? I’m shit at toast, but I can scramble.”

You blinked, caught off-guard. “You cook?”

“I survive,” she said with a grin. “C’mon. You earned it.”

You followed her, smiling to yourself, surprised at how much lighter your body felt. Like something you hadn’t named had shifted.

Back home, you drifted in and out of that memory like a warm pool. Her kitchen smelled like scorched butter. She’d scraped the eggs off the pan like it was a war crime, and you’d eaten them anyway. She’d called you a masochist. You’d told her it’s the company.

And now here you were — hair still smelling faintly of her hoodie, camera bag slung lazily on the floor, inbox glowing with unread messages.

One caught your eye. Subject Line: Exclusive Editorial – URGENT.

Your stomach flipped.

You opened it.

We saw the photo. The one with her and the light and the stage haze. The shot no one else could’ve taken. We want a full feature. Ellie. The band. Studio sessions. Off-days. Vulnerability. The full texture. We want you. All of you. Your vision. Your lens. Think: intimacy, not exposure. Think: truth.

You blinked at the screen.

This was what you'd always wanted — access, trust, real work. And yet... the first person you thought of wasn’t your editor. It wasn’t even your agent.

It was her.

You picked up your phone.

You:

Hey. Just got something in. Big magazine wants a full profile. You and the band. Real stuff. Travel, downtime. You good with that?

Dots. Then a pause. Then more dots.

Ellie:

They want the real me, huh?

You:

Not more. Just honest. And only if you want it.

Ellie:

You’d shoot it?

You:

I’d see it. All of it.

You waited. You didn’t realize you were holding your breath.

Then:

Ellie:

Okay. But don’t make me soft.

You laughed aloud, thumb hovering.

You:

You’re already soft. You just hide it in leather and sarcasm.

Three dots. Then:

Ellie:

…shut up. I’ll text you studio times tomorrow.

You sat back, phone pressed to your chest, and let the moment settle in.

This wasn’t just a shoot.

It wasn’t just work.

Something was starting. Quiet and golden and real.

You set the phone down, but your hand stays on it. Like part of you doesn’t trust the conversation actually happened. Like Ellie might disappear if you stop looking.

You exhale. Harder than you meant to.

This is happening.

The shoot. The access. Her.

You roll back in your desk chair, eyes drifting to the far wall — the one you swore you'd keep blank, clean, impersonal. It isn’t. Not anymore.

There are contact sheets pinned to corkboard, curling test prints on the floor. A shot of the bar where you first saw her. That red haze around her body like the air was drunk on her sound. You told yourself it was just light. Just timing.

But you know better now.

You rub your face. Try to think like a professional. Like someone in control.

But the truth presses up behind your ribs like a bruise: You're not just capturing her. You're falling.

And you’re trying not to admit it, even to yourself.

It always started the same, didn’t it? The eye behind the viewfinder, searching for the real inside the constructed. You used to think photography gave you distance. A way to look without being seen. A shield.

But it wasn’t. Not really.

Every photo you’ve ever taken has been a confession.

You used to shoot portraits in college — subjects who gave you poses, faces, angles. You’d nod and click and smile, then go home and weep because none of it felt true.

Until one night, on a rooftop, your best friend at the time — a girl who never let you touch her — cried in the middle of a thunderstorm. And you caught it. Not the tears, not the drama — but the way her hand reached out blindly into the dark, searching for something. Maybe someone.

You didn’t publish that photo.

You kept it in a locked drawer for years.

Because some moments belong to you. Some moments are borrowed.

And some moments — the rarest kind — are offered.

That’s what terrifies you now.

Because Ellie’s starting to offer. Not in words. Not in scenes. But in those little in-between places. The ones you don’t know if you’re allowed to touch.

You know what it means when someone lets you see them. You know what it costs.

So now there’s Ellie. Soft in the mornings. Loud on stage. Quiet in text messages. Offered. Not stolen.

And you feel it again — the tug, the warning.

This thing you’re building with her — it’s not just attraction. It’s archive.

You’re collecting her without meaning to.

Every voice memo she sends. Every almost-smile. The way she looks at you like she’s trying not to.

You tell yourself it’s for the story. For the feature. For the art.

But deep down, you know: You’re already  hers.

And the camera? It’s not a tool anymore. It’s a promise.

I’ll remember you the way no one else can. I’ll see the parts you hide. I won’t look away.

You close the blinds, pull your knees to your chest, and stare at the blank memory card waiting on your desk.

You haven’t even started the shoot yet.

And already, it feels like the most important story you’ve ever told.

The apartment smells like you.

Not perfume or anything dramatic — just something faint, clean, and human. Like cotton and coffee and whatever body wash you use. Ellie stands in the doorway long after the latch clicks shut behind you, her hand still resting on the wood like she might call you back.

She doesn’t.

Instead, she moves to the center of the room and stops. Just stands there. Staring at the hollow space where you’d been.

You'd left your mug in the sink. She doesn’t rinse it.

Her phone buzzes. It’s already a text from you — a link to the mag, a note that it’s real, that they want the feature, that you’ll take it only if she wants it.

Ellie doesn't respond. She just lets the screen fade.

She drags her hand over her face, over the spots where your eyes had lingered that morning — temple, jaw, throat.

It hadn’t felt like being watched. It had felt like being kept.

“Be careful with people who love what you do, but don’t know who you are,” Joel used to say. Not accusatory. Just... weathered.

She could still hear him — not in some flowery, haunting, dead-father-figure way, but the real version. Practical. A little tired. Always looking like he was bracing for the next hit.

Joel had been her manager at first. Before the labels sniffed around. Before the blog features, the festivals, the merch deals she didn’t ask for.

He ran sound at a dive bar in Jackson when she was sixteen. She’d played a shitty cover of Nirvana and gotten heckled, and he’d kicked a guy out by the collar and bought her fries after.

He never called her kid. Never told her to smile more.

Just asked if she wanted another shot at the mic the next night.

And she’d said yes.

That was it. The start.

Now here she is — not sixteen anymore. Not in Jackson. Not unknown. And not just herself, either.

She’s Ellie Williams, whose name gets printed in sans serif font under buzzwords like raw and authentic and grunge’s new heir.

She hates that.

Because it was real once — the music, the hunger, the joy.

But now? Now she spends more time managing the narrative than writing songs.

So when you look at her the way you do — like there’s nothing to perform — she doesn’t know how to hold it.

It feels fragile. But also sharp. Like if she turns her head too fast, it might cut.

She walks to the keyboard and rests her hands on the keys, not playing. Just pressing down lightly enough to feel the tension hum back.

Her phone lights up again.

A follow-up text from you: “You don’t have to say yes. Just — think about it. I won’t take anything you don’t want to give.”

That part floors her. You don’t have to say yes.

Because no one says that. Not the labels. Not the fans. Not the old photographers who told her to “give more eye” or “look more like heartbreak.”

But you?

You asked.

Like she was still hers.

There was a time when she loved photos. Joel had a shitty film camera — the kind that took forever to wind, and had tape over the battery cover.

They’d take it on drives, before gigs. He’d make her pull over to shoot barns and wild dogs and empty roads that looked like album covers.

One time, he took a photo of her tuning her guitar at a gas station. Caught her mid-yawn, fingers curled around the neck.

He called it “Roadburn.”

He’d had it printed and framed.

It’s in a box now. With his boots, his last guitar strap, and the first flannel he gave her that she won’t wear anymore.

Ellie walks to her closet. Pulls the box out. Sits with it on her lap like it’s a sleeping animal.

She opens it, slowly.

There’s the photo.

She looks at it for a long time.

Then back at the phone.

She doesn’t type a reply.

But she opens your photo folder — the one from the show. The shot that went viral. The one that felt less like an image and more like a vow.

And she whispers it to the silence: “Yeah. Okay.”

Because if anyone’s gonna look at her — the real her — She wants it to be you.

The light in your apartment is the kind that makes you pause.

It cuts across the floorboards at a soft diagonal, warm gold slanting through old windows you still haven’t fixed the seals on. Dust hangs in the air like someone left behind a constellation. Your camera bag is open on the table — gear half-unpacked, lenses unsorted, memory cards scattered like tarot.

You sit on the floor, knees pulled to your chest, flipping through a small stack of test prints. Mostly band shots. Some street.

But none of Ellie.

She lives in a different folder. A different gravitational pull.

The viral shot is still on your hard drive. You haven’t printed it. You haven’t deleted it either.

You think about it too much — not just how it looks, but how it felt to take.

The buzzer rings. One long buzz, two short. Dina’s signal.

You barely manage to stand before she’s pushing inside, cold coffee in one hand, a bag of what smells like over-salted fries in the other.

“Jesse says hi,” she says, flopping onto your couch without asking.

“He still alive?”

“Barely. He helped move an amp stack this morning and said he saw God.”

You smile, absently. She notices the gear explosion around you and raises a brow.

“Jesus. Looks like a Nikon crime scene in here.”

You gesture vaguely to the table. “Got the magazine’s formal approval this morning.”

Dina whistles low. “Damn. They really giving you the whole profile?”

You nod.

“And Ellie agreed?”

Another nod. Slower.

Dina’s quiet for a beat. Then she asks, carefully: “And how’s that feeling?”

You hesitate. Words catch in your mouth like too-heavy film in a winding spool.

“I don’t know,” you say honestly. “Like a gift. Like a line I don’t know how not to cross.”

Dina watches you. “You care about her.”

You don’t reply.

She sets down her coffee. “I’ve seen the way you look when you edit her shots. You don’t even blink.”

Your silence stretches.

Then: “Do you ever feel like the lens is the only way you know how to get close to someone?”

Dina’s expression softens. “No. But I think maybe you do.”

You’re holed up at a table by the window, laptop open, organizing the project folder.

Shoot schedule. Lighting ideas. Sample interview prompts. A shared doc for Ellie, if she wants to shape it too.

You try to stay clinical. Professional. Focused.

But your eyes keep drifting to a Polaroid tucked inside your planner.

It’s not of her. It’s of her guitar strap — faded leather, frayed edge, a thumbprint smudge near the buckle.

You’d taken it backstage without her noticing. A nothing image. But it quiets something in you. Makes her real again.

A thought drifts in:

What if this is the last time she lets you close?

The question knots in your gut.

You Text Jesse – Something Dumb, Something Human

You: you think she hates me yet?

Jesse: nah. she’s just allergic to being perceived. Jesse: but if she did hate you, she'd write a diss track. you'd know.

You smile. Barely. But it helps.

You line up your lenses like they matter. You clean your sensor twice. You label batteries. Back up backups. Touch the canvas strap she noticed once.

The camera becomes less a tool, more a tether.

And still — through it all — your fingers hover over the folder titled Ellie // Raw.

You don’t open it.

Not yet.

In another apartment, not far away, Ellie’s scrolling through old lyrics she never showed anyone. Her guitar is unstrung. A voice memo blinks at her. One she recorded last night.

She doesn’t delete it.

Not yet.

[tomhockstetter7-111]

Highest Form of Empathy - Chapter 2

2k+ words

Logan X Empath!Reader

It's a blessing and a curse, feeling other's pain. More so when you can take it away, albeit at the expense of your own peace. One-night stands were a usual for you. That's all this was supposed to be. But, seeing someone in so much pain, you couldn't leave him like that. You just couldn't. Besides, it's not like you'd ever see him again.....

CW: N/A

Masterlist

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

Late December, 2005

Calgary, Alberta

Waking to the sound of your alarm, you shut it down and stare at the ceiling. Your brain feels…empty. No noise, no anxieties, no urgencies? Just an ominous, heavy quiet.

'Deal with it later,' you told yourself. Well, now is later, and you don’t even know where to start.

You lay in bed, arm slung over your eyes when your second alarm breaks the deafening silence.

It’s not until you drag yourself out from under the covers and swing your legs over the edge of the bed, placing your feet on the icy floor, that you realize the weight of your body. You want to cry. But, why? Screwing your eyes shut, you spend the better part of ten minutes staring at the wood floor as you try to pull yourself together. You still see his eyes, no longer pools to get lost in, but two voids threatening to swallow you whole. All that pain wrapped in one person…you thought you could handle it.

Walking into work, you’re approached by blonde hair pulled into a stylized ponytail waving cheerfully at you. Amber. You met during lunch break on her first day of work two years ago. She seemed so excited to be here, introducing herself despite the prickly exterior you surrounded yourself in. Try as you did to push her away, her clinginess paired with her cheerful disposition making you recoil, you couldn’t find it in yourself to push her away. Soon enough, the two of you settled into a weekly routine of Friday night drinks. She often jokes that she adopted you that first day, but she was more a lost puppy following you home in the rain. And, what monster kicks the puppy? You never let her too close, though. You learned long ago about the safety of arm’s length.

She wraps you in a friendly side hug and you try not to tense under her touch. “You look like hell.”

"Thanks?" You give an awkward smile.

"Just calling it like it is." 

You shrug her off as you approach the break room.

"So, what was his name?" She asks the question in a high sing-song tone.

"Pardon?" 

She throws a smirk your way. "I'm not dumb. I know that look."

You knit your eyebrows together. What look? Your "look" was a practiced, neutral meant to keep nosy people at bay. Still, you decide to entertain her. "Actually, I don't know." You watch in amusement as her expression turns into one of frustration.

"You need to stop doing that. It's not healthy, you know."

"Why?" You grab your water from the fridge and shut the door a little too firmly. “I’m still young. Let me have fun.”

"You know that's not what I meant. Drinking and sleeping your sorrows away after every hard day. It's gonna affect your work. Not to mention put you in an early grave." 

You brushed off her comments with an eye roll. What did she know? What did anyone know, really? They didn't have to work so hard to block out others' emotions and they certainly didn't know what it was like needing to hide what you are all the time.

"Amber, I've told you time and time again." You put a hand on her shoulder in reassurance. "I'll be fine."

She shoots you an incredulous look. “I’m allowed to worry.”

“I’m not a patient, Amber,” you say as you head towards the door. “Besides, I’ve lasted this long.”

“Not sustainable. If I let my child die, it ruins my track record.”

“Your child’s a grown ass adult. She’ll be fine.” You make your way down the hall leaving no more room for argument. 

~~

Sitting in your office you drum a pen on your desk and stare at the wall. A patient canceled, so, now, you have an hour and fifteen to kill. Unfortunately, you've already lost half of it staring at the wall. 

Your power had a cool down rate, kind of like a video game power up. Depending on emotional intensity and the amount you absorb, it could take between two to twenty-four hours for your brain to return to baseline. Still, you would feel the severeness lessen over time. But, for whatever reason, this round is taking its sweet damn time. It didn’t help that you spent so much of your time wondering what would have caused those feelings. Was he a veteran? Abused, maybe? Shit, maybe his mom or spouse had just fucking died or something.

"The fuck did I get myself into?" You mumble to the air. 

Emotional trade-offs are something you avoid for this exact reason. It’s self destructive, ego stroking, and, frankly, not your fucking job. Therapists are meant to help work through emotions and find avenues for healing, not give a quick fix that disappears after a few days. As tempting as it was to just take away a client's despair during a spiral, it would do more harm than good in the long run. 

On top of that, it just wouldn’t do well to expose yourself like that. You could see the headlines now. "Mutant Therapist Uses Mind Control Powers to Gain Access to Classified Government Files" or “Rogue Mutant Turns Canadian Leader to Human Puppet - Wants Full Control” or some shit. 

Then again, who knows? Maybe they would raise your pay grade if they knew just how valuable an asset you were. You'd always been told you were so easy to talk to, always sitting there quietly as people spilled their woes. Maybe it was a passive effect of your power? You never bothered to look further. It certainly made it easier to empathize with others, though. You could think of a few clients that could benefit looking through someone else’s eyes.

The ring of your office's landline snaps you away from your thoughts. You rush to pick it up. You greet the voice on the other line with your best customer service voice stating both the company's name and that they’ve reached your office.

"Brilliant! I’ve been looking to reach you. How are you today?" He asks.

You blink slowly. "Doing fine. How about yourself?" Isn't it your job to ask how others are?

"Lovely, my dear, thank you. My name is Charles Xavier. I run a school in New York state for gifted children. We're looking to hire a general health teacher and counselor for the students."

"Oh, um...my apologies, sir. But, I'm not trained to work with minors." And, you aren’t. You specifically work with adults because the emotional regulation is so much better than with teenagers. Usually, anyway. Not to mention you know how abysmal teacher pay was.

"I assure you, that won't be a problem. Those attending the school are very well behaved. Furthermore, they really could use someone to talk to that understands their struggle."

"Sorry. I'm not sure I understand. Why is that me specifically?" There was a short silence on the other line. "Hello?"

"I know what you are."

Your heart dropped, hands running cold. "Sorry, I don’t know what you mean.”

"No, I think you do. Trust, everyone here is much like you, myself included. I’m merely calling to make an offer. You work with us, help the students, and I can help you to refine your abilities. You have more than you're using." It’s an appealing offer. But, you’re skeptical. The last thing you need is to move back home, or worse, run and avoid any sort of danger. Just because the world seems to be opening up to mutants doesn't mean it is. Plenty of the public are still very much afraid. You know that much by proxy of your job.

You sigh. "How do I know I can trust you? I've built a life for myself here, and I've worked very hard to keep myself safe. I won't leave it behind just to walk into a fire."

"I assure you, you won't.” His voice is calm from the other end and seems genuinely sincere. “I don't expect an answer now. But, if you change your mind, I’m happy to give you my number."

There’s a long pause as you digest his words. "When you say 'gifted children’, do you mean..." you trail off, not trusting your voice.

"I run a school where children and staff with mutations can thrive in a place they feel accepted. We teach the students valid skills like science and literature along with scenario simulations to refine their powers. But…” He hesitates, “these children are still human. Thus, they have the minds of such and require proper guidance."

"How do you even know who I am?" You snap.

"I have several connections around the world. I’ve used them many times to reach out to those who could benefit from our space. That said, I can assure you I mean you no harm. You may reject the offer if you like, and you shan't hear from me again. I only wish to offer an opportunity."

You stare out the window as he talks. Maybe this could be good for you. Having cut off contact with your mother, and with no one to leave behind, except Amber, — you can’t decide if that’s good or bad — what do you have to lose?  "You said there was a number I could call back?"

~~

Friday came and went. You and Amber hit up the bar, the same one from Wednesday, but you spent it mostly in a daze, listening to Amber drone on about clients and work drama while you stirred your drink. A part of you couldn't help but wish the stranger would come back and find you again. Something about him kept you in a chokehold, and it was starting to piss you off. It made everything else seem dull by comparison. You counted two men, both decent enough, who approached you, trying to flirt and offer a good time. But, you could still feel his glare burn into your back, still feel his muscles under your nails, still feel his distress. You just couldn't be bothered. They didn't interest you. Nothing interested you. Not with this pit in your stomach.

"Ok, what happened?" Amber demands the following Monday, having had enough of dull hums every conversation. "You've been off since last week. Don’t tell me it’s that guy."

"Just got a lot on my mind." You deadpan. You sit in the breakroom picking at your salad, cold coffee next to you. You look up at her and can tell she’s not convinced. “I’m fine.”

"I think I liked you better when you were fucking everything that moved." She mutters as she disappears out the door.

"Rude!" You call down the hall before your gaze drifts to the TV, sound lowered. It's tuned to a news channel that seems to be covering a story titled "Cure for Mutation in the Works". Your face contorts in confusion. Yes, you had figured there were people out there who might not want their powers. All those trips to doctors as a child haunted you, constantly sent to be someone else’s problem and treated like you were paranoid or troubled, regardless of the fact you were completely right. They never believed you when you tried telling them about your abilities. They certainly never understood you. No one did. And, how could they? You always wished you could see someone just like you. It’s what led you to pursue psych work in the first place because wouldn't someone with a window into the person's mind be the perfect doctor? It became a blessing. But, the way they talked on the segment sounded as if a cure was a necessity to life. What if someone threw away their talents before they knew how special they really were?

Your mind drifts off to those kids at the school. What had they been through? Do they see their powers as curses, too? Could that change? Moreover, what of the mutants from back in 2000? You vaguely remembered hearing your classmates talk about it back in university. Some guy called Magnetism or something. What had he been through? You couldn’t remember exactly what he had done, or tried to do, all of it a distant memory. But, your roommate told you it would’ve killed a lot of people. It made you shudder. What could motivate something like that? Maybe it could’ve been stopped, nipped in the bud as a child.

With a sigh, you stand from the table and head to your office, abandoning your salad in the trash.

Upon entering, you glance down at the paper left on your desk from last week. It occurs to you. Even therapists have therapists, and you weren’t without your own traumas. Maybe this Charles Xavier, or perhaps one of his connections, could help you with that. At the very least, maybe he could understand.

You grab your personal phone from your pocket and dial the number.

~~

"I must extend my humblest apologies, but you'll be arriving during trying times. I neglected to tell you we recently lost a valued member of our staff in an accident. Tensions are still high." Charles explains.

"Oh my God. I'm so sorry," you give condolences, hoping it translates over the phone. You could understand him neglecting to tell you the first time, not knowing if you’d accept and all. But, it still sounded so heavy.

"It's quite alright, dear. We're managing as best we can. May I ask, what changed your mind?"

"Well…” You stand to look out the window, arms crossed, “After some thinking, I figured the assistance I could provide might be…important. Growing up wasn’t easy for me. I never had anyone I could talk to. Besides, I see other people’s powers and I have to wonder what their lives would be like if things were a little different. If there's any way I can help, I’d really love to."

"Oh, rest assured. There's plenty to be done here, and plenty more coming, I'm sure. If you’d feel comfortable getting to remain with your age bracket, we do have some graduates staying at the mansion that are open to therapy as well.”

“Anything I can do to help. I’ve never worked with openly mutant adults, but I’ll do my best.”

“I’m sure the understanding will be appreciated. It’s long overdue for some. But, I do have one more request for you. But, feel free to tell me if it's too daunting."

"More daunting than working with teenagers?" you joke.

"Yes. Well, the staff here is also part of a defense task force. Think of it as a last resort military extension. Again, it's no obligation. But, I would like to extend the offer to participate. I think you could be a valuable asset."

You chew your bottom lip and tap your shoe against the floor. "What does it involve?"

"You would be practicing teamwork in disaster simulations with members of the force in addition to sparring and combat training with coworkers. Based on your CV, and given your abilities and range of movement, you would be going against our top fighter, Logan."

“Do I get a briefing before I get in the ring?” You half joke.

“Of course. I’m not interested in killing you.” Charles chuckles from the other side of the line. “We only want everyone in top shape should the need arise, and stamina is a priority.” You stare out the window, weighing your options when the voice chimes back in. "Again, it's no obligation. Having you here to look after the children would be far more than I could ask for."

You consider what this could mean. Again, it didn’t sound like there was much to lose. Besides regular trips to the gym, it had been a while since you’ve let off some proper steam. Your last martial arts class feels like ages ago. Maybe a few months, but still. Close combat could be a good refresher. Although, should a real emergency arise...but, you can't think of a single emergency that could come from working in a school, mutant exclusive or not.

"Actually, I think I'd be happy to join. I just hope you know I may not be there until-"

"I can take care of your visa. I know several great lawyers. You're more than welcome to come now and we can have the paperwork done by the end of the month." 

"Oh wow. You don’t have to do that.” You smile awkwardly to yourself.

“Please. It’s the least I could do.”

You sigh. “Ok. Well, I guess I'll get organized. I appreciate the offer. Really, I do."

"Of course. I'm sure the children will appreciate you just as much."

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

A/N: Chapter 2 and already an author's note? What is the world coming to? Sorry for putting this up so late. God struck me with diet AO3 curse. I'm fine though.

I'll try not to keep you guys waiting for the next one

[the-s1lly-corner]

*blows up your wall* the horror writer reader gave me an idea! what about jeff the killer x horror writer!reader? :3

Jeff the killer x horror writer!reader

OOOHOHOHO this ones gonna be fun! Please fix my wall :(

Notes: Reader is GN

CWs: canon typical violence

Books arent really his thing but you might be able to win him over with the content you create!

He takes his work very... seriously.. so if he spots any inconsistencies or stuff that simply isnt possible hes going to point it out, you might not even have to ask

Now dont get him wrong he loves stylized and exaggerated stuff, but if you're aiming for something more realistic he can give you some pointers

Hes not very.. verbally praising.. but he does let you know he thinks you did good!

Open to letting you ask him questions, and it's likely that if you ask him something he doesnt have an answer for he might.. go experiment.. and see what happens

Quick warning he WILL go into deep detail about how a human body reacts and how long it'll remain alive after getting stabbed twenty seven times- same with most other.. hypothetical injuries

Slow reader so if you ask him to proof read or if he reads the finished product for fun it's going to take some time- generally struggles with reading as well as generally not having much time to sit down and read a novel

^not because hes dumb but because his brain struggles <\3

Flattered if you make a character based off of him

He has to refrain from making said character OP...

[neevblanc]

„spiders and scarves” ♡

a/n — hi hi! miguel is such a complex character and my feelings for him are similarly complex lol. i hope i did him justice!!

૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡

-ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Miguel O'Hara x GN! reader

Tags— fluff, pre-relationship, christmas time cuz yay!! (ur spider name is azure bite cuz i imagined ur suit to be blue)

CW/TW— implied boss x worker...thats it

“Oh, please!” Spiderbyte whines, clasping her hands together. Her eyes presumably widened under her mask as the stylized eyes widened comically in a version of puppy eyes you’d seen many times before. You gave her a look and shook your head.

“No, dude. It’s not my fault you didn’t finish that report. I did all of my work and won’t do yours.” You replied, leaning back into your office chair. Spiderbyte, or Margo, whined and deflated. The younger girl hid her face in her arms, crossed on the desk before her. The girl was smart as a whip, but might as well have been allergic to formal paperwork. 

“Not even as my Christmas gift?” Margo pleaded, her voice muffled. You smiled, biting back laughter.

“Nope. Already got you one.” You said, leaning forward to turn off your hologram desk and log out of the Spider Network. Margo perked up at the mention, her mask disintegrating into little pixels and exposing her face entirely.

“Really? What is it?” She asked, grinning widely. You gave her a baffled look as you hung your bag on your shoulder, putting on your scarf and gloves.

“Why would I tell you that, Margo? You’ll see on Christmas, like everyone else does with Christmas presents.” You laughed, disregarding the dismayed whine that left the girl.

“I’ll see you next week, bye.” You said, sending Margo a little wave as you left the area. Pressing your palm to the reader next to the door, the door slid open easily. 

You grimaced at the amount of light leaking from the windows in the main area. Spiders bustled around, some running and some lounging around the chairs and tables laid out. The door closes behind you, leaving you in the hall surrounded by other spider people (and a hilarious number of Peter Parkers!)

You settled your headphones in their place and started walking, thumbing at your phone screen to find the playlist you were feeling most for the bus ride home. Well- home. You’d be making a trip to your apartment in this world to get some things in order before going back to your earth. 

It’s just your luck that only two minutes into the search, your spider-sense goes wild, and you’re turning on your heel faster than you could even think of. 

You stumble backward, face contorting in surprise when you come face to face with a…horse.

31913- or Cowboy Spiderman- stared back at you, sheepishly trying to get his horse to back up from where it was whinnying two centimeters from your nose. Begrudgingly, you shove your headphones down to rest by your neck. 

“Sorry, Azure Bite. Got a little too close there,” he drawled, patting his horse’s shoulder as it finally took a few steps back and allowed you to crane your neck upward to look at him properly.

“You’re good. Is there…anything you need?” You asked, starting to feel the awkwardness settle in the interaction. Your brain had just started preparing for no conversation, and the interruption left you reeling slightly.

“Uh...have you happened to see Miguel around?” He asked, voice growing small and nervous.

“Nope. Not for a few hours; he should’ve gone home at 3. Why?” You frowned, shaking your head. Cowboy nodded, tongue clicking in dissatisfaction.

” Ah, I had a question for him. Pav and Jess said they hadn’t seen him leave. Sorry for botherin’ ya. Happy holidays!” He said, nodding his goodbye and taking off at a moderate trot. You stood still, mouth pursed.

‘Miguel isn’t the nicest boss,’ you reasoned. ‘He’s a grown man. It really is none of my business. He likes to be mysterious, and who am I to interrupt?’

…

You turned around, shoving your headphones back on, and quickly approached the center elevator in the middle of the floor. Other spiders send you waves and quick acknowledgments, and you do your best to answer them slightly despite being on a mission.

You rush into the elevator, closing the doors before anyone else can enter. Pressing your palm to the reader on the console and waiting for the extra buttons to show up, you hoped no one needed to get on this specific elevator.

The panel lights up, and five extra buttons quickly emerge from the metal, sliding into place seamlessly. You quickly pressed the second one and waited for the elevator to jolt to a start before tilting your head toward the ceiling.

“LYLA, you there?” You called, squinting at the bright light of LYLA’s projection despite having anticipated it. LYLA hovers near the button panel, on a special little square section just for her. She grins, crossing her legs as she files her nails.

“Yessum, Bite?” She crooned, fluttering her eyes from behind pink-tinted glasses. You waved lightly, leaning on the back wall of the elevator.

” Is Miguel in his hiding hole again?” You asked, to check. LYLA paused her filing and pursed her lips, tilting her head.

“Not sure I can tell you that! The boss said no one should bother him.” LYLA hummed. You gave her a look, vaguely amused.

“Since when have you listened to Miguel?” You laughed. LYLA grinned sharply and nodded, her holographic form standing up as soon as the elevator doors opened with a ping.

“You’re right! He’s up here, ‘been moping for hours. Have fun.” She waved cheekily, the hologram quickly shutting off as you stepped onto the floor.

The five extra floors you had clearance to were Miguel’s personal floors. Few other people had access to them (including Margo and Jess, to name some), which made them prime real estate for when Miguel needed to run from people.

“Miguel?” You called, cautious of how dark the living space seemed to be. You almost thought LYLA had lied when a gruff voice startled you out of your head.

“What are you doing here.” He answered, voice low and angry the way it usually was. Your ears quickly clock the direction it came from, leading you toward the balcony part that wasn’t visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The door was left open, cold air billowing into the room. The chill immediately nips at your nose and cheeks when you step out.

“Sorry. People were looking for you, apparently. I thought you left hours ago.” You shrugged, shoving your hands in your coat pockets. Miguel glared at you from where he sat, slumped into an oversized patio chair. He’s nursing a glass of whiskey, the knuckles on his hands turning a prominent pinkish tone due to the freezing air.

“Who?” He asked, bringing the glass to his lips. His cheeks and nose are flushed from the cold, too. Despite his black knit sweater, Miguel had foregone any essential layering that would have saved him from the cold.

” 31913. Didn’t tell me why, though. He seemed a little nervous.” You said, clenching and unclenching your fists in your pockets. ‘Shit, it’s so damn cold out here.’

“You didn’t ask?” He said accusingly, face sour. Your face screwed up.

” I’m off the clock. Whatever he’s got going on has to wait until I come back in next week.” You defended, disregarding the scoff Miguel let out. Your brow furrows, making a point to let your eyes rove over his form. 

” You should head inside, you know. You’ll get a killer cold out here with no layers.” You said, not unfamiliar with his unhealthy habits. Miguel ignored you and brought his cup back to his mouth, lowering his head.

You sighed heavily and stepped closer to him, ignoring how Miguel stiffened and shifted to face you like you were a threat. With one quick motion, you unloop the scarf around your neck and weave it around his, leaving it folded neatly and covering his mouth.

“I really don’t want to deal with you sick. Merry Christmas, Miguel. I’ll see you next week.” You say, leaving the stunned-still man on the balcony and making your way back to the elevator.

You hear the chair screech backward just as the elevator doors click shut, and LYLA’s back on her little perch without prompting.

“Thanks, he’s been brooding outside for hours. He’s the worst when he’s sick.” She whines, pulling at her short hair. You laugh, nodding. 

“Of course. I hate him sick too; it’s like he’s four years old when he’s got a runny nose.” You say, grimacing. LYLA beams.

“Yeah, yeah! Exactly. I’ll remind him to give that scarf back, by the way. Have a Merry Christmas!” LYLA yells, waving bye enthusiastically as you arrive on the ground floor and start your trek back to the bus station as initially planned.

You walk to the station with the wind biting at your face, and when you return to the HQ a week later, you adamantly refuse to tell anyone about the snotty nose you had the entire week prior.

ago.

note — there's not much miguel in this, ironically. i had a ton of fun just writing the spider world so, sorry!! i think it fits, though. Miguel is a very guarded man and this little fic is sort of a view into how you manage to worm through his walls (without even trying to, really.) p.s i love lyla

©neevblanc 2023 // do not plagiarize or repost

[owlgalart]

Quickstep, a.k.a. Jesse Quick

So, at the beginning of the CW´s The Flash Post Crisis era, I came up with a concept and story for Jesse Wells, as it always felt wrong that she and Harry just kind of die off-screen. I´ve had this idea and drawing in process for so long, Im happy to finally putting it out there; hope you like it!! This is my first drawing in Procreate

THE STORY

Long story short; During crisis, unable to help her friends and family from the antimatter wave, Jesse attempts to flee into the Speed Force, but instead she enters into the Negative Speed Force due to her grief, guilt and anger affecting her powers. Unable to escape (due to there being no Earths to come back to) she has to become a negative speedster in order to survive; after the events of Crisis, she is finally able to travel to another Earth, where he meets a Jay Garrick with no memories of her but who eventually agrees to help her create her a new suit.

She then travels to the remaining new Earths in hopes of finding her family and friends, or at least someone who remembers her, but finds no one; not until she travels to Earth Prime where she finds Barry Allen, the only person left in the multiverse who knows who she is. With his powers fading due to the death of the Speed Force, Barry decides to help Jesse control her new powers, so she can help with the villains of Central City; and also with inner hopes that if Jesse is able to master the Negative Speed Force, then maybe she can help his daugher Nora in the future.

As for Jesse herself, she is no trying to find her space in a multiverse that has left her behind

———————————————————-

THE DESIGN

The logo is an stylized “Q” with the shape of a lightning, it has less “zigzags” than Barry´s to keep it similar to Wally´s smaller logoas the both of them have history together; t is also in the oppositive direction of Barry´s logo as the Reverse Flash to simbolize her connection to the Negative Speed Force. In a similar fashion, her primary color becomes orange, as it is the combination of the colors of the red of the Flash ad the yellow of the Reverse Flash. Her secondary color is black, similar to Barry´s negative suit from the comics.

Her mask becomes more like a scientist´s gogles to represent Jesse being a prodigy in science like her father.

Her lightning turns pink and black, as black is the color that the Flash´s litning becomes when he temporarily becomes a egative speedster in te comics; and pink because it contrasts better with her suit.

————————————————————

THE POWERS

In my version of the show the Negative Speedsters would be more like when Barry became one in the comics; Jesse´s powers become more erratic, the lightning that she creates actually affects her enviroment, which makes her more dangerous and destructive to her surroundings, to allies and civillians. The lightning is also more “dense” which gives her the ability to create fading constructs as she runs (similar to Tron)

She now also has the ability to run in and out of the Negative Speedforce with ease, allowing her to travel in a mor convenient and safe way and also to charge herself

Finally, the Negative SpeedForce wouldnt just “corrupt” its users; the way that it would work its that both the SpeedForce and its Negative counterpart trigger different parts of the brains of their users. The “positive” speedsters become more powerful with positive emotions like love and joy because the SpeedForce stimulates the sinapsis in the brain that affect those emotions; on the other hand, the negative speedsters become more powerful with emotions like anger, fear and guilt becase it stimulates the parts of the brain that work with those emotions.

Essentially the emotions work as a trigger for the SpeedForces; this way the emotions become more “neutral”, because negative emoitons arent inherently bad. This way, the story of Jesse would be one of learning to control and channeling her emotions

[jayisroleplaying]

Frankenstein AU Headcanons

CW/TW for main character death, possible allusions to body horror, mental health struggles

Little collection of headcanons I have for my Frankenstein AU:

Inspired by the original Frankenstein, Doc also experiences nightmares, anxiety, and depression from what he's done. He didn't truly think it through, so blindsided by the thought he was helping a friend out, that he doesn't take in the severity of what he's done until after the event.

Doc helping Marty find adequate fashion to cover up the scars left over from being reanimated. At first, Doc's very basic in just using bandages, but along with Marty's help, he begins to stylize the attire to Marty's liking.

After being reanimated, Doc noticed subtle differences in Marty's behavior and unexplained memories. He attributes this to the use of other brain matter to bring his friend back.

When Marty's brought back, he strongly disapproves of Doc's decision. He immediately considers the consequences, unlike Doc, particularly as a result of his experiences with time travel.

Doc lacks the ability to think of these consequences in the process of reanimating his friend due to his own grief and self-blame, feeling as if he had a responsibility to his friend to bring him back.

Doc goes the route of reanimation out of fear of being unable to recreate the time machine with parts from 1885. He doesn't even attempt to build the time train until Marty's brought back, assuming it's a problem to be dealt with later.

Doc doesn't get with Clara in this AU. Doc becomes so hyperfocused on bringing Marty back that he neglects the relationship he built with Clara, and Clara decides to keep her distance.

Clara also strongly disapproved of Doc's decision to reanimate Marty when she found out what he was doing. Of course, Clara had read Mary Shelley's Frankenstein as a young girl, which formed her disgust and disapproval with Doc's actions. This main difference in opinion caused her to go separate ways with Doc.

When Doc finally comes up with the time train, Marty had decided that he wasn't going home. His fear of what would happen when his family and Jennifer saw his appearance made him feel better remaining in the 1800s.

Marty likely found himself getting involved often in outlaw activity behind Doc's back. After his change in appearance, he found himself more comfortable in that position, surrounded by outlaws, rather than among townsfolk.

I think that's all the headcanons I have right now. Maybe I'll add more later.

[fledgedragonfox]

Token*

You were summoned to a fantasy world. As you are eager to begin your new life as the hero, the summoner explains: "Actually, our party already has one. In fact, you're only here because we need a human member in order for us to be officially recognized as a hero's party."

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

Pre-slash CW: Depressive thoughts, Panic attacks.

Masterpost

"Actually, our party already has one. In fact, you're only here because we need a human member in order for us to be officially recognized as a hero's party." The startlingly tall bird-thing said in an embarrassed tone, his hands(?) wringing the fringes of his robes. Max, standing in his oversized pajamas in the center of a gigantic summoning circle, surrounded by fantastical beings in armor and robes, felt his heart sink. 

All his life he'd felt utterly useless. He’d lost more jobs than he could count, all because of his health. He’d never had a decent relationship, never achieved anything great. Then he felt warmth and light envelop him. He felt himself falling and flying through the space between the worlds. Like being gently led through a waterfall. Then there was the circle, glowing in every color he could imagine. Standing around the circle were a group of fantastical beings. 

There was the bird creature with feathers like a peacock’s. He wore shimmering iridescent robes and held an open book in one hand (Yeah we’re gonna go with hand) glowing the same colors as the circle. To his left was a slender man with a stylized fox mask and nine flaming tails cascading out behind him. On a second glance, Max couldn’t quite tell if what he was seeing really was a mask or not. Then there was a very large man, standing taller than anyone Max had ever seen. His skin was grey and covered in runic scars and tattoos. His eyes glowed a faint blue as he studied Max. 

To the bird’s right was a creature that looked almost human. If not for his long black fingers and too wide smile. He sported an ample belly and stark white hair. Finally the fifth member of their group wore blinding golden armor and stood only a little shorter than the grey man. His skin, what little showed, was covered in deep purple scales. A long reptilian tail swayed back and forth behind him. It only barely disturbed the crimson cape that hung mostly from his left pauldron. He wore no helmet, so his draconic face and ocher eyes were on full display. As was his beaming smile of dangerously sharp fangs. 

“This is really happening…” Max muttered as his bare feet touched the cold stone beneath him. “I’m gonna be a hero!” That’s when the smiles faded and the awkward glances and whistling had started. Then the bird broke the news. They stood in their semi circle around the spot Max had been summoned, and Max stood in his summoning spot, swaying ever so slightly. “What…?” Max whimpered. He hadn’t realized how broken he would sound. But the way they winced told him everything. The bird tried to perform damage control. 

“Well, you see.” He began, fiddling with his book as he spoke, “On this continent every adventuring party has to have at least one human. Usually it’s pretty easy to do that, but our hero is a draconian, and no human from this world would even entertain the idea.” He took a breath, his rambling cut sort by the clawed man. 

“It ain’t too big a deal, an we asked bird brain to find someone who would have a halfway decent ability.” He shrugged with a smile that Max thought was supposed to be comforting. Max was dumbstruck. He felt himself plop onto the ground as his knees gave out, too numb to care. They were arguing with each other, he could hear it. He didn’t look up from the runes to see. There wasn’t really a point. He could faintly feel his body protesting at his treatment of it, which wasn't that just another joy. So caught up in jubilation, he’d forgotten for a moment why he’d been in bed in the first place. Even being summoned to another world wouldn't help that it seemed. 

What would this party do when they realized he was useless? Would they just toss him aside and find some new human to fulfil whatever asinine rule this was? How was he going to survive here on his own? He’d watched enough anime to know how this works. There was no going back for him, he was stuck here. How long would it take these bonafide adventurers to realize that he was just going to slow them down? One of them was even an actual hero, which apparently was just a thing you could be here. Would they just kill him? What about… and what if.. And when the.. And.. but… 

“Breathe.” A rumbling voice broke through the static. It reverberated through his mind and loosened the chokehold his panic had gained on his lungs. “In” the voice commanded, and Max complied, letting freezing cold air into his lungs. It smelled stale, but the scent of spices hung in the air around him too. He held it, waiting. “Out.” The figure beside him said. He let a shaky breath out. Feeling settled back into his limbs slowly. There was an arm at his back, a hand on his shoulder and another on his chest. “In” the figure said, and Max breathed in. “out” and he complied. 

He wasn’t sure how long that went on. They’d stopped arguing. Max beaked through his tangled mess of hair to see four out of five of the group looking at him anxiously. He turned his head slightly only to find the dragon man ( the draconian… the hero) carefully supporting him. His cape was getting dirty. 

“There we go,” his voice reverberated through Max’s body “you’re alright.” He reached into a small pouch on his hip and produced a piece of jerky, offering it to Max. He took it with shaky hands and tried to nibble on one corner. “Let’s go somewhere a little more cheery, then we can try this again.” He said, shooting the last part to the rest of his party who flinched as a group. 

Max barely paid attention as he was helped to his feet and let somewhere brighter. It took him far too long to realize that they were outside. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and there were two suns in the sky. He was sat on a long, with a blanket thrown over it. The fox-man drew a sigil in the air and created a bonfire from nothing. The grey skinned man was sharpening an impossibly large blade while the clawed man prepared some sort of stew. The rest of the party settled themselves as what seemed to be lunch cooked. The hero sat down on the ground right in front of the log he’d sat Max down on.

“Alright, now how about we introduce ourselves without sending anyone into a panic attack.” He said pointedly. He turned to Max, looking up at the human with a kind smile. “My name is Ardent, I’m a draconian and my class is Hero.” He turned to fox-mask and motioned for him to speak. 

“My common name is Shi.” He said, his mask moving like it was part of his face. “I am from the elf kingdom, and I have trained in the art of pyromancy.” 

“Yo!” the man still carefully preparing stew called out. His grin was filled with oversized sharp teeth. “Name’s Marrow. Ah’m a shade assassin!” He loudly slurped from a small bowl before tossing a handful of herbs into the pot. The grey man grunted as he continued to sharpen his blade. Glancing to Marrow expectantly. The shade happily slurped from his bowl again, sighing contentedly before responding. “That’s Rodus, he’s still learnin’ common. He’s a giant barbarian.” He said, passing a large wooden bowl over to Max. Max sipped it tentatively, before gulping half of it down. The flavors were intense and wonderful, like nothing he’d ever tasted before. After he’d collected himself, he looked to the last member of the group. The peacock was studying his leather-bound tome with laser focus. 

“Hey, your highness!” Ardent called, tossing a bread roll at him. The bird squealed in surprise, flailing all six of his limbs as he tried and failed to catch it. Max couldn’t help snorting in surprise as the peacock’s feathers puffed up in indignation. 

“Would you stop that!” He cried, brandishing the book, “I’m trying to figure out how we can test the cu.. I mean, the human’s, skills!” His feathers puffed up again as he spoke, clearly frazzled. Ardent snickered as the bread roll bounced off his shoulder where the bird had thrown it. He turned to look at Max, still stifling his laughter. 

“That’s our resident magician, Rahdur…”

“Prince…” Rahdur interrupted in a distracted tone as he read.

“Right, right, Prince Rahdur of the Eastern Aarakocra.” Ardent amended, “don’t worry too much about that part, he only makes me use his proper title because I dyed his feathers yellow during a ball a few years ago.” The draconian whispered conspiratorially. 

“I still think you should have gone with red.” Shi said as he sipped his stew,  “We could have matched.” The elf caught the bread roll that Rahdur hurled at him with grace and dipped it into his bowl of stew. Seeing them all interacting like this, Max felt himself becoming calmer and calmer. Ardent glanced at him and gave him the same beaming smile he’d had at the summoning. 

“I’m glad you’re feeling better. Those thoughts you were having were dangerously dark.” He said. Max’s eyes widened in surprise, but before he could speak Ardent held up a clawed hand. “Don’t worry, I can’t read your mind. My skill is called Empath, it lets me sense the type of thoughts someone is having, and their emotions when I focus.” 

“So this really is like an anime,” Max said, mostly to himself, “everyone has a skill of some kind?” 

“Indeed,” Shi said, “Usually it is reliant on species or class in some cases, but summons are always a bit of a wild card.” 

“But don worry little guy, Rahdur made sure to do some specific summoning to bring you here. Whatever your skill is, it’ll be perfect for us.” Marrow chortled. Max looked down at his still bare feet, now stained and muddied by the ground. Ardent’s clawed hand moved to his shoulder again, his ochre eyes shining in the sunlight, but looking unbelievably sad. 

“Hey,” he soothed, “no more bad thoughts. We summoned you, you’re part of the party now. You can talk to us.” For some reason, despite his thoughts and history of self perceived failure, Max believed him. He looked to Rahdur hesitantly, taking in the arakocra’s concerned expression. 

“I think… your spell went wrong.” Max said haltingly. “I know you just need a human, but you probably couldn’t have picked a worse one.” Max rubbed his aching arms, glancing down at his scrawny form hidden under baggy clothes. “I’m… not well. I’d understand if you just wanted to try the summoning spell again.” He finished with a smile that refused to reach his eyes. They exchanged distraught glances with each other before Rodus rose suddenly. He buried his gargantuan blade into the soil and strode over in two wide steps. The giant knelt and took Max’s face in two of his fingers to look into the human’s eyes. 

“We know.” He rumbled in a voice that Max could have sworn shook the ground. Max was… more than confused. There really wasn’t a word for it. Confusion was simply the closest thing he could think of. Ardent, like the hero he was, came to his rescue. Sitting beside Max and upping an arm around his shoulders. Wordlessly, Rodus moved away and back to his spot, glancing back as he did. 

“We don’t want to overwhelm you, but we knew who we were summoning.” Ardent said. “Getting you here was really killing two… no maybe closer to five birds with one stone. “ Another indignant squawk from Rahdur was ignored as Ardent continued. “Some of it isn’t really our place to say, but just know that we summoned you knowing that you aren’t fully abled. We have a spot ready for you in the caravan, and we aren’t going to abandon you.” Max was crying, he knew he was. But he couldn’t stop. 

“I’m… You wanted… me?” He hiccupped. He looked around the campsite only to be met with genuine smiles and nods of approval. Maybe. Just maybe, this could be home.

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

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You were summoned to a fantasy world. As you are eager to begin your new life as the hero, the summoner explains: "Actually, our party already has one. In fact, you're only here because we need a human member in order for us to be officially recognized as a hero's party."

[myhandisforced]

MULTIPLE DIRECTORIES I GUESS. MOOD SHIT AND AESTHETICS AND VAGUELY DEFINED SHIT

Image/Ideas:

---------------------------- Visual Indicators ------------------------------

Architecture : Amusement Parks Castles Swimming Pools etcetcetcetcetc

Build a Blog Workshop (replacing my old icons tag, this contains anything that looks like it was made for sticking in a tumblr theme) Matching Icons

Clothing | Accessories | Alt Fashion (darkly dramatic dressed to distress frilling rebellious future-hopeful fashion machinewear) | Jewelry | Hair | Makeup Nail Art Phone Cases Shoes Fantasy Crowns Formal Jackets & Coats (and Capes) so last-last-century something something 20th century | Patterned Fabric I Want That On A Shirt (I could fold acc. and jewel. together but then I can't think of something that covers both that also implies the jewelry goes there.) (Renfaire Faire)

Crow or Dragon Behavior

Decor (as in, like, a house.) : Cozy Fairy Lights Skulking Crevices (add one for lighting?)

Miniatures | Action Figures | Anime Figures | Gunpla | Miniature Photography

Nostalgia (vibes based) : *50s* 60s 70s 80s 90s 00s 10s | retro-stylization / anachronisms

Places (my photography tag) ->

Fantastic Locations (fantasy scenes and pictures that I think are/might be edited)

Wedding Bullshit | Wedding Bullshit I'd Consider Pulling

--------------------------- Concepts & Things ----------------------------

Arms & Armor | High-Caliber Art

Blood | Blood cw | Keeping things organ-ized | Murder we Post starring Slashicca Lecher (eyes/brains may need to be folded into organ-ized)

Balloons | Books (a distinct flavor from literature, for reasons) Bookmarks | Candles | Clocks | Feathers | Fireworks | Flowers | Fungi | Giftwrap | Maps | Marimo | playing card jackoffery | Plushies | Puzzles | Fucking Rocks | Stickers

Brain Dickery | Camera Dickery

Decay

Fire | Mavlagma (because picking either would invite pedantry and picking both would be a pain in the ass)

Mathematics | *pi*

Seasonal: Spring | Summer | Autumn | Winter | ETC. ->

Science ->

Absolutely Nothing (war/military. I think I'm funny.)

Okay I have some tentative categories down let's see how long it takes me to forget my logic as to what goes where.

*(I have a billion of these because I worry people will be insulted if I use the wrong one.)

[vampyan]

Hello! Do you have any ideas for Yandere!reader x Shinjuro? Thank you so much.

𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐉𝐔𝐑𝐎 𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐎𝐊𝐔 𝐗 𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄! 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐂𝐒

✮ an ⨟ i do >:) this got long my bad. i'm not used to writing for yandere!reader, but i hope i did ok! it's also relatively tame? def more soft yandere coded.

✮ cw ⨟ shinjuro rengoku . yandere!fem!reader . stalking . possessiveness . obsessive behavior . manipulation . gaslighting . suggestive . dubcon in places . stylized lowercase .

✮ you met by chance, stumbling into one another in the market a few years after his wife's passing. shinjuro scarcely remembers the interaction, but you can recall it in vivid detail.

✮ what he was wearing. his drunken wobble. his warm body knocking into yours. his prickly stubble grazing your cheeks as you nearly topple over. his bulging biceps in your hands as you rush to steady the man. his molten golden-red gaze searing into yours, making your heart stutter and your brain give pause.

✮ he was quick to pull himself away from you, warning you to "watch where you're going." something in you changed that day, or maybe this is who you always were, but kept it buried. you hadn't spoken a word to him, only stared in amazement after him as he stumbled off, and yet his gravelly voice rung in your ears days after your encounter.

✮ you make sure to bump into him several more times after that, actively seeking out his flame-colored hair in crowds. you always played it off as a coincidence, but it was far from it.

✮ you follow him home, shadow him wherever he goes. just observing from a distance and memorizing his schedule. you have a few awkward run-ins with his sons whilst snooping around the premises of the rengoku estate, but both were too young at the time to suspect anything malicious of your uninvited visits.

✮ you gradually weaseled yourself into his life, insisting on walking him home, initiating conversation whenever possible, and listening to all his gripes and troubles he'd let slip in his drunken stupors.

✮ eventually, he grew less irritated by your presence, allowing himself to look forward to your company.

✮ soon you're staying for dinner a few nights out of the week, showing up with gifts for shinjuro and his sons, and shinjuro can't help but be surprised every time. it's been years since he's had a woman around, especially one so outwardly kind and caring towards him and his family.

✮ he's naturally suspicious of your intentions and more than a little skeptical of the flirtatious comments you throw his way.

✮ but when you don't disappear or grow bored of his attitude, he softens, becomes more compliant, and starts thanking you. the ecstatic glimmer in your eyes when he so much as acknowledges you makes his stomach flutter.

✮ his sons have taken to you like ducks to water, overeager to have a motherly presence in the home after so long. shinjuro gets this warm feeling in his chest when he finds you caring for them as if they were your own, looking all too domestic.

✮ shinjuro isn't dumb, he sees those longing looks you send his way. he notices all the little things you do for him, all the effort you put into maintaining your relationship. he admits he's made it hard for you intentionally, pushing you away whenever you got too close.

✮ but your persistence makes it all the more clear that you're interested in him, and he can't deny that your feelings are far from one-sided.

✮ you're kind- too kind, suspiciously kind. he realizes that, but he's a weak man, and you are a beautiful woman consistently making the first move. it was only a matter of time before he gave in, seeking you out for comfort instead of looking for it at the bottom of a bottle.

✮ your friendship quickly escalates into a clumsy romance. shinjuro is rusty, but you balance out his awkwardness with your burning passion. it's as if all your inhibitions disappeared the moment he indicated your feelings were reciprocated.

✮ you praise him for every little thing he does, and he's absolutely unequipped to handle all the attention.

✮ he's got a few years on you, but you don't seem perturbed in the slightest- in fact, he gets the feeling you like it. you can't go five minutes without complimenting him, in that poetic (and midly disturbing) way you always did. his looks, his voice, his taste in literature. you found it all so captivating, and shinjuro can't help but get flustered by how outspoken you are about it.

✮ you court for a while, move in together shortly after, settling further into domesticity within the span of a few months. a year passes by, and shinjuro is still left reeling from how truly happy he feels. he lashes out less, and when he does, you're always patient with him, never screaming back at him no matter how nasty he gets.

✮ it's a little unsettling how content you always look, even when he's being awful to you. it's as if you're simply happy to receive his attention. it only deepens his guilt when he sobers up again, pulling you aside to hold you and murmur his reluctant apologies. you shouldn't forgive him so quickly, he often tells you after you make up.

"i know you didn't mean it, dearest. please, don't worry yourself a moment more over it," you croon, stroking your fingers through his flaxen hair. "i'm not going anywhere."

✮ you're too good at putting his concerns to rest. he isn't proud to admit how easily he folds underneath your tenderness. he's all too aware of how reliant he's become on your affection, and he fears what would happen to him if you were to ever leave.

✮ you're not like his ruka, he realizes. you don't hold him accountable for anything, not for acting out, or being defiant, or rude. he's always 'just tired', or 'must be hungry', or 'having a bad day.' at first, he's grateful for your understanding nature until he puts two and two together that you don't take him seriously.

✮ not his emotions, his protestations, or his input. even as you begin to overstep more and more boundaries. insisting that you dress him, feed him, and even brush his teeth for him. you're insistent on not letting him raise a finger. any opposition on his end is veiwed as a tantrum and not to be concerned with.

✮ you pout and tsk when you catch him brushing his own hair or bathing himself, quickly taking over any tasks he attempts.

"i thought i told you i can do that for you, darling," you hum from the doorframe, startling him as he fumbles with his obi. you waltz into the room, sliding the shoji door shut with your foot and replacing his shaky hands with your own. his joints don't quite work the same after long years of wielding a sword and beheading demons, but he can surely dress himself. his pride demands he be self-sufficient, but you're always so convincing. your acts of service are appreiciated but... embarassing. he can't help but feel infantilized by your smothering behavior, but can never quite tell you no when you give him 'the eyes.' "i'm not a child, love," he grouches, rouge blooming across his cheeks as you tie his obi and straighten his kimono, smoothing over any wrinkles like a doting mother would. "i could've done that myself." "i don't want you to," you snap, your facade slipping for but a moment and his thick brows raise in surprise. your smile is quick to reappear, and you snake your arms around his waist- noting his increasing plumpness with delight. he was a bit scraggly when you first met, having cared more about drinking his sorrows than eating regular meals. but look at him now! healthy... and soft. "maybe i just want an excuse to touch you." you flutter your lashes at him and just like that he folds, lips parting as you pull him closer by the obi until your hips are flush. "j-just ask then. don't gotta baby me s'much. i'm a grown man," shinjuro stutters, his gold gaze falling to where your bodies meet. "do i have to ask to touch my husband? your body's mine to do with as i please, isn't it?" you asked with a smirk, your voice intentionally seductive as you knead his hips in your hands. your head tilts, entertained by the way he shivers. "well, i suppose not..." shinjuro rasps, his adam's apple bobbing as your lips find his throat. but you aren't satisfied yet, you want to hear him validate your claim over him. that ugly piece of you that you keep buried paces like a beast in a cage, gnawing at the bars, trying to claw its way out. your fingers tighten on his hips and you grip becomes bruising. "say you're mine," you demand in a near growl against his neck and his breath hitches, thick brows furrowing. he's helplessly aroused and slightly unsettled by the way you're handling him. "i... i'm yours. yours to use and to touch." he gulps, and you nearly moan in response, suckling a dark mark just below his ear. "hnn, yes. all mine."

✮ you're good at that too. making him forget why he was uncertain about your behavior. and when he asks you about it after the fact, you raise a brow, claiming you didn't remember the conversation.

"you must be sleepy, darling. perhaps you dreamed it?" you dismissed, continuing to chop vegetables and busy about the kitchen. and with shinjuro's tendency to get pass-out drunk, he can't help but doubt his convictions every time. you wouldn't steer him wrong, no... he must've dreamed it like you said. "yes... yes, perhaps you're right about that." you only smile at him over your shoulder, humming a cheerful tune as you make dinner for your perfect family.

✮ you know you're taking things too far. setting curfews, not letting him go out without you, smothering him like an overprotective parent would... but you just can't stop- can't control yourself. you ache for him so profoundly that being away from him is like torture. if anything ever happened to him, you'd never forgive yourself.

✮ you want him to need you like you need him. desire you half as much as you desire him. maybe what you feel for him is too messy and twisted to be love, and maybe your love is more like a festering sickness, but you can't let him go.

2024 © vampyan ; do not modify, translate, or repost my work onto any platform. reblogs & comments are greatly appreciated!

[iloveyoutotype-moonandback]

CW: gore, abuse and rape mentions.

So I recently played the original Tsukihime visual novel (it’s being remade so I might as well check out the original right?) and I wanted to talk about some of my general impressions and thoughts on it. 

TL;DR for people who don’t wanna read any spoilers (or if you just don’t wanna read through my long-ass post): I thought it was good and there were lot of aspects and themes that I found interesting. I did have problems with certain aspects of it however, and I wouldn’t recommend it to everyone since it’s really violent and...well just see the CW for yourself. But if none of that deters you, then I think it’s worth checking out!

So, like I said above the cut, I enjoyed it overall. The story was interesting, with the focus being on vampires and some more information on the church for example (fate tends to focus more on the grail war, so other aspects of the Nasuverse are inevitably glossed over or not mentioned at all). This also had a psychological horror aspect, with Shiki having dreams where he kills people just to give one example. But then there are certain indications that what he’s seeing is real, leading him to believe that he could be unconsciously killing people. And he doesn’t WANT to see these dreams, he actually hates them to the point that there are a few scenes where he straight up avoids going to sleep altogether. The problem is that he has no idea how to stop seeing them, or even what’s happening to him. Also other characters often hide stuff from him or lie for his “protection”, so that really only adds to the uncertainty (this dude kinda gets gaslit a lot, come to think of it). 

I remember seeing some people say that the artwork for this vn isn’t as good as what you get in fsn, which makes sense given that it’s older and thus earlier in Takeuchi’s art career. And I can see what they mean, but there’s legit some good CG’s in this one. Also it does this interesting thing where instead of drawn backgrounds, it has real life pictures that have been edited/stylized. I can’t quite articulate it, but it gives the vn a different vibe that really works for it imo. I like it.

In terms of characters, I gotta say that Hisui was one of my favorites. I guess I just kinda relate to her in a weird way. She’s quiet, isn’t super expressive (or at least it seems that way initially), and doesn’t like being touched. I used to be like that (I’m still like that sometimes but I’ve gotten a lot better), though obviously she has....very different reasons for being that way. But at that point my brain had already gone “that one” with her.

Speaking of Hisui, I really like Kohaku too. If we’re comparing Nasu’s works here, I feel like she’s kind of comparable to Sakura. Mostly in a thematic sense, seeing as how she’s someone who appears normal enough but there’s a lot brewing beneath the surface that we don’t fully see until her route (and by that I mean she suffered sexual abuse from Shiki and Akiha’s father when she was a child). I don’t want to compare them too much tho, since they are different characters at the end of the day. It’s just something of a common thread I noticed. Though with Kohaku, you do actually get a glimpse into what her deal is in Hisui’s route (mainly in the epilogue), which then leads right into Kohaku’s route. 

Outside of the two maids, Arcueid was another favorite of mine (if Hisui is my favorite, I’d say Arc is a close second) because she looks elegant at first but then you realize she’s a fuckin dork the moment she opens her mouth (and I love her for it). Ciel was cool too, and it was interesting to have a member of the church who’s more sympathetic than Kirei Ketamine over there (though as her route reveals, the church is still kinda fucked). I liked Akiha as well. It was really interesting seeing her develop across the 3 “far side of the moon” routes. At first you think she’s normal then op, turns out she’s part vampire and is actually pretty fucking powerful! That said, I did have a few problems with her route...

...which leads me into one of my criticisms of this vn. Akiha’s route was my least favorite out of the 5. Again, and I cannot stress this enough, it is not because of Akiha herself. Akiha good and cool. The issue here is Akiha and Shiki...basically fall in love and also fuck at one point. Did I mention that Akiha is Shiki’s little sister? Because she is. “Well Shiki was adopted so it’s not technically incest” don’t make me tap the sign:

Like yeah, I know “romance happens between Shiki and the main heroin of the route” is a common thread here but I’d like it if they made just one exception. Sibling relationships are good too, you don’t need to resort to romance. 

And, well, now that it’s been brought up already: this vn has sex scenes! And they were just as bad as I expected! I did read through one or two, but after that I just started either skimming through them or skipping entirely. A lot of them don’t really effect the story much (except for like, one which is actually kinda important) so most of them aren’t really worth it unless you just want to laugh at the weird lines. Not a big deal but I felt like it was worth mentioning at least.

Moving on, Tsukihime did have some problematic elements outside of the whole incest thing. Fate/Stay Night had its own issues and obviously Tsukihime will have them too. Tbf to Nasu, he did say he later regretted some of the stuff he wrote in this early period. It’s good that he’s grown as a person and a writer, because looking back there are definitely a few lines here that are really fucking bad. One that stuck out to me was this line from Arcueid’s route where Shiki is arguing with Ciel and then he just suddenly says something along the lines of, “if you try to stop me from going, I’ll rape you right here”. It’s right the fuck out of nowhere too. And like, the reasoning was that he could barely walk at that point so he just came up with some super threatening thing to say, but it was just really unnecessary. 

Actually, I think the same could be said about some of the sexual violence depicted. Like, there’s a whole recurring thing where Shiki will just suddenly get possessed to murder someone (because his vampire step-brother basically lives in his mind rent-free) and he mentions the arousal he gets from doing so. At several points he even acts on these impulses, and winds up getting hard and cumming as he cuts someone up into pieces. It’s...really fucking weird and I’m not sure what it adds by being there. It adds a creep factor for sure, but ig it’s a question of how necessary it actually is. Some of it is integral to the story, as is the case with...certain aspects of the Arcueid and Kohaku routes for example. So don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying remove it entirely, I’m just questioning some of the extra stuff that doesn’t seem totally necessary to me.

So all in all, while I did have some problems with it, Tsukihime isn’t bad by any means. Like I said before, I think it was good overall and I enjoyed it.  You can acknowledge the problematic elements of something, but still otherwise like it. But yeah, certainly not for everyone, but still worth playing in 2021 I think.

[exmo-freakshow]

a rant (CW: mentions suicide, religious trauma, and queerphobia)

I love the church I grew up in but I also hate it. I grew up feeling accepted by a wonderful community. Now I can't tell how deep their kindness goes. I feel like I have to hide my identity in order to be accepted, because I am unsure if my church leaders would ostracize me - strip me of privileges, or tell me I lack faith or that I've been deceived - if I lived truthfully. Church leaders speak words that are 99% beautiful and uplifting and 1% scary or offensive. The church spends millions on humanitarian aid while spending billions on stocks, real estate, and lobbying. It shaped my life for the better. It's now arguably making my life worse.

I love the BYU/Provo community but I also hate it. People are incredibly friendly and invite you to parties and bring you food and also whisper the word “queer” like it's a dirty word. They'll talk so much about loving everyone - and they really try! - but see any act of acceptance as "condoning sin". They are quick to serve but they also speak of people who have left the church or identify as LGBTQ+ or struggle with addictions with a strong "hate-the-sin-love-the-sinner" tone. They are very wholesome and will defend their values to their dying days yet many will bristle at being told to wear a mask. Many of them have never met a Black person before, or a queer person, or a person who is not a member of the church. They are essentially the only friends I have. I love them. I hate it.

I love BYU itself but I also hate it. It’s given me an amazing education, and its tuition is very affordable for anyone - and through scholarships, it’s technically paid me to attend. But its standards are in many ways absurd. Modesty I can understand, to a point, but a ban on beards? no colored hair? and don't even get me started on the ban on "homosexual behavior" or the outright transphobia/enbyphobia. It offers free counseling and formed an official committee for diversity and inclusion yet condemns groups for shining rainbow lights on Y mountain, refuses to issue a statement after a church leader told students to resist LGBT inclusion with proverbial "musket fire", refuses to change a problematic honor code even after sustained protests, and boasts a student body of which a whopping 0.4% are Black. In a year and a half or so I will get my degree from BYU. My time here will shape my life forever. It already has - in good ways and bad.

I love Mormon doctrine but I also hate it. There are so, so many wonderful elements to it - eternal families, personal revelation - but also enough about its shaky history - polygamy, child marriage, racism, queerphobia - that it can be hard to balance. It talks about how God’s love is unconditional but then sets conditions on how to feel that love. Much as it repeats "you don't need to be perfect," it's easy to feel like you can never measure up. And its only answer to not feeling the way you're supposed to - having doubts, not feeling like your prayers are being answered - is to just keep going. Don’t trust outside sources, they could lead you astray. Throughout my life, through my mission, it gave me hope and comfort. But when questions came, it had few answers, and when the depression and mental health struggles came, there were fewer answers still. And then, when at the ripe old age of almost 23, I finally realized I was queer, it seemed like the nail in the coffin given the Church's history and vague doctrine surrounding queerness.

I love God but I also hate Him. I still fundamentally think He exists, and that He had a hand in my life once upon a time. When I was a child, and occasionally as a missionary, I truly felt He loved me and guided my life. I loved Him back and did the things that Mormons do not because I felt I had to, but because I loved God. But it seemed like His love and closeness expired when I hit 16. Although I did not doubt God’s existence, everything was suddenly harder, and answers to prayers seemed few and far between. And then shortly after returning from missionary service, everything stopped. I was struggling with my identity and with burnout - if there was one time I needed God's love and help, it was then, but He was gone. I nearly ended my life because I felt so abandoned. It’s been a year. There’s been no indication that He cared, or was there at all. I love God for what I truly believe He's done for me in the past. I resent Him a little now.

It's General Conference time, when Mormons everywhere tune in to watch church leaders give sermons for 10 hours or so over the course of two days. It's a big deal, especially around here where you'd be hard-pressed to find a non-Mormon within a mile radius. Everyone's excited. It's wonderful. It's also conflicting, and terrifying, for some of us. I've listened to 1.5 hours or so of the 6 hours that broadcasted today. Some of it resonated with me. Some of it made me feel sick. The same thing that used to make me feel so loved is now the thing that often makes me feel unloved.

That's the end of my rant. I want to use this blog for fun rather than an outlet for religious trauma and identity crises, but with my roommates blasting Conference on the living room TV, my social media full of #ldsconf and stylized quotes, and virtually no non-Mormons in sight, it's what's inevitably on my mind. Hopefully in a few days my brain will be off its bullshit and back onto its desired path of shitposting and memes.