#evisceration plague

[hex-eye]

Me when Cannibal Corpse

boppin animation

(edit: forgot to color in the patter around the eyes and I just realized oops)

[bearfoottruck]

Since today is the Ides of March, I thought I'd celebrate with a new tradition...Cannibal Corpse!

[haverwood]

Cannibal Corpse: The Making of "Evisceration Plague" USA, 2009

[spicysourchimken]

Murder! Murder! Murder!

TRIGGER WARNING: discussions of death, murder, descriptions of corpses, gore and corpse desecration

(This Idea is loosely inspired by @/the-witchhunter's 'Ghost in the Morgue', please go check it out if you like this concept and have not yet read it)

[Other stuff in this AU: World Building]

Corpses au Danny, not just Corpse but Corpses. Every time Danny transforms he drops a new body, Danny honestly has lived with it long enough that it's funny at this point (and also. maybe made him a little weird about his own death and or deaths). This is not the same for Tim, who now has to deal with a potential serial killer.

Tim is looking into a string of strange and suspicious deaths that might point to the appearance of a new rogue, this results in him taking a visit to the morgue as Red Robin, only to meet a potential victim, Daniel Fenton the latest medical examiner for GCPD.

----

Tim was the one who had found the first body a week ago. He'd been on patrol when he'd spotted it propped up against a dumpster in an alley. It couldn't have been there longer than an hour, the blood was far too fresh.

Tim had planned to just check out the scene and call it in, but then he actually saw the body. It'd been eviscerated, torso ripped open organs spilling out and its hands had been frozen to the ground- hell the entire body seemed to be coated in a layer of frost.

Tim kept tabs on the investigation, if anything for simple curiosity. Then they'd found the second body. Body frozen to the ground, same victim profile- but the death had been completely different. Slashed throat, face mutilated.

Then there was another, and this time Tim wanted to see it in person. This was either a serial killer or the start of a new rogue, and for Tim to be able to tell he needed to see. He sent word to Gordon, if anything more of a warning. He was greeted by the medical examiner.

Greeted was a strong word.

The medical examiner was... strange. Tim had heard news of him starting work and as far as Tim was aware of he was clean, and an almost boring person. The medical examiner that Tim met was unnerving. Pale, staring almost through him and carried blase attitude to his work.

What was worse is that he reminded so much of a corpse, not just a corpse but the corpse.

Then it struck him.

Fenton could be a target. Fenton could be the focus of the killer's obsession.

He'd have to keep tabs on Fenton, too bad he might be the most reckless Gotham citizen in existence.

----

Gotham, admittedly hadn't been Danny's first pick after he finished medical school. Danny had always intended to become a medical examiner, dealing with your own corpses for years would do that do you. 'Finished' was the real problem, Danny had been doing well, great even but then he'd died. Twice. Real unfortunate really, hit and run and then poison, left him with a dry throat for weeks.

His own classmate apparently tried to kill him, which means it would be more than hard to actually finish medical school. That's fine, he had access to Tucker, an actual godsend who was able to make it look like he had all the proper qualifications... as long as you didn't look too hard.

Gotham was apparently pressed for a good medical examiner. All he needed to be was experienced.

Thankfully he had that in spades.

Things frankly only started going down hill last week. He'd made a habit of taking on requests between work, occultist avoided Gotham like the plague leaving him the only voice for the dead. Usually it was pretty easy gig, collect some momentos, help a few ghosts recognize they're dead. Until he'd had to deal with a Wraith.

It didn't go well. Danny was dead set on handling it as a human, appearing as Phantom could cause all matter of chaos. Danny had also not been informed that the claws of a wraith could pierce through human flesh so there's that. Danny was once again evicted from the mortal coil, dropping his own corpse and having to finish the fight off

Danny had planned to deal with his body after gaining his human form back and making sure that the thing could no longer return to the earthly plane. Turns out a bat got there first, turned the place into a crime scene. Just his luck he was beaten bloody enough to be unrecognizable.

His luck continued to go down hill when he was killed, not once, not twice but three times (this of course, wasn't accounting for the times he'd needed to go ghost). He'd gotten good at taking care of his bodies in Gotham at that point, or so he thought, until he was told he had not only a new body on his table and Red Robin waiting to be escorted to his morgue.

Now Danny has to juggle the growing chaos that it they spirits of Gotham while trying to make sure none of his bodies are identified, even if that means making a mess of Red Robin's investigations.

[biggest-geo-oogami-enjoyer]

Somnophilia smut with Sol? Reader doesn't wake up (Tʖ̯T)

No Rest for the Wicked (Sol x MC/Reader - Somnophilia Smut)

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, PRESENTING TO THE STAGE, YOUR FAVOURITE TKATB WRITER !!!

SKY FORTRESSES AND BURNING CITADELS, WITH A LONGTIME-AWAITED, PROMISED SOLIVAN BRUGMANSIA S.M.U.T.!

*bows*

Anyway, just a reminder this is rape, non-consented, probably slightly OOC, and I'm a (slightly more than) tad rusty in writing. I've also never written smut before, so do give feedback if you deem it necessary. Toodles, my sexy motherfuckers.

You could even say I came back with a bang. ;)

P.S. Also the M/C is written as a virgin in this, if your character isn't then congratulations! They hid their previous sexual escapades impeccably well, for Sol to not know.

- Signed by biggest-geo-oogami-enjoyer

Wicked: evil or morally wrong.

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The room was pitch black, so heavily ensnared in the gaping shade of the darkened night that even shadows disappeared under its tarlike veil. Any ordinary, random burglar would be blindly stumbling about like an idiot, if they happened upon your apartment with…impure intentions.

Sol wasn’t a burglar, and he was definitely not ordinary. He wasn’t a mindless passerby on the streets, with a forgettable face and unassuming nature. Sure, he acted the part well, played the weak-minded shy kid well. But that act, that mask? It’s for the faces that litter his vision, that plague his sight and try to distract him from his goal, his mission, his messiah.

Faces that exist as a way to try and deter him from his forever, from his life and his bride, from his venerant Annabel Lee.

You.

He’s saving his true, adaptable, self for you. He’s willing to morph into anyone for you, alter himself, hurt himself if you so merely asked!

You could ask him to kill for you and he wouldn’t even blink until said soul was eviscerated; and their body exsanguinated and dumped in an outskirt lake.

He was the only one for you, your only soulmate, your only lover, your only.

So why did you always neglect him? Ignore him; spend time with him as a last resort, all in favour of that insignificant bastard-born slug?!

What did he have that Sol didn’t? Hmm? 

The queries began to flood his mind, onslaught his body. He barked out a laugh, a cold, brisk sound that reverberated across the walls, before cruelly biting the skin of his knuckles.

Hush, can’t have you wake up now darling, not when you’re so serene and at ease.

He didn’t want to do anything bad to you, of course not, he loves you…! But even the best of lovers need to be taught a lesson…or seven.

Boots softly thud against your floor, their path marked by years of memory and intuition, and like normal, he makes his way to your bedside.

Sol might not be able to see you, but he doesn’t need to. He already knows how you sleep, he remembers the precise dosage of medication he needs to do this…he’s all set…

Yet the longer he stands there, the more time ticks by him, gently ageing you both second by second closer to a fated death, he was struck by an epiphany:

Why the fuck should he settle for this? He’s been in the darkness long enough.

The kid at the back.

The afterthought.

The forgotten face of the world.

If Jericho Ichabod gets to see you…then so shall fucking he.

In a bout of ornery, he ditched his boots and marched into the lightless expanse of your lounge. He knew you had a torch hidden somewhere, might as well finally make use of it. 

Like he will of you.

Most people would’ve already ditched or aimlessly clambered around; but Sol wasn’t most people. He knew your residence inside out, all of them.Each place, grandiose or minimalistic, apartment or house. No matter where you go, he’s always watching, tonight’s just a little more…intimate, a touch closer than his usual escapades.

His hand softly searched the drawers, each soft click sent a thrilling chill down his spine, his body shuddered as he tactfully manoeuvred his way about the room. His fingers casually map each surface, fondling for anything remotely cylindrical…until, after what felt like millenia, he finds it. How lucky.

A lava lamp. Bright enough to see you, dim enough to not awaken you; and look at that…it’s red, like his eyes, like his lips…like his cock.

Were you thinking of me, beloved?

With methodical steps, silent as the grave, he strode back to you, placed the lamp in the closet door…and by God’s holy grail was he once more rendered stunned.

The soft crimson rays paint your frame in a way he prayed to one day replicate, with his own blood, perhaps? Paint wouldn’t be enough to perfectly capture your divine essence. 

Your lips look so fucking good. 

He wanted to have you so damn badly it hurt.

And he would’ve…until something crossed his peripherals.

A small photo, about the size of his palm, lay tucked away on your bedside drawer.

To say Sol was intrigued by this was an understatement, and his bubbling wonder continued to froth as he took in the details of this quaint square and halted. 

All intrigue turned to rage, white and hot like his flesh and it pelted his mind like hail on an abandoned car; before an idea, comical as it was repulsive, crept into the depraved depths of his mind.

What better way to avenge himself than make the whore see? See how much better he is, both in appearance and in bed?

A lifeless grin moulded into his face, Sol positioned the photo to ensure it stared right at him; The slug isn’t worthy of seeing the pretty things you’ll do; he thought.

He bored his eyes into ones of disgusting cobalt, before turning down to the grandest feast of his life.

Slender fingers, corpse-like in colour, caressed your face, measuring once more the map that is your body, his eyes hungrily raking over your sleeping form.

Against his better judgement, he lowers his head and drags his tongue, languid and unhurried, across your neck, his teeth softly rubbing across your zen pulse. 

He swiftly rose up, his face burning and his breaths stuttering; all the while his cock —  like the night before, and the one before that — began to fucking ache, straining horribly against his pants, almost begging to be allowed freedom from its constant confines. 

The urge to tear off your clothes and piston himself so deep inside you that your body would refuse any other dick was so tempting. The mere thought made a small wet spot appear, yet Sol would take his time, after all, this was merely you making up for teasing him, right?

Fuck it.

In one swift motion, he’s at your side, his nose buried in the crook of your neck as his hand casually dived under your shirt, worming its way towards the mounds that lay atop your angelic heart; but you couldn’t possibly blame him, they’re so malleable and beautiful; just like you!

He inhaled sharply, before closing his eyes and stifling a pathetic whimper.

You smell so fucking good.

His whole body was like a bomb, ticking away until either his time runs out and he leaves to care for himself elsewhere, or until he allows himself to… indulge.

If Ichabod got to revel in your presence, then so shall he.

“Mhh??”

Shit.

He froze, his body arched over you, his hoodie half off, exposing his burnt abdomen, carmine circles and purple dots peppering him like seasoning. 

Ahh…you told me I was beautiful in your eyes once…but I won’t risk you rejecting me from these, darling.

Another reason why he loved you oh-so much. You’re so pristine, so pure, so perfect that it stung. He didn’t deserve you, he wasn’t remotely close to reaching the bar of whom someone like you should have; but he didn’t care anymore. You were here, beneath him.

And he was going to have you if it’s the last thing he ever does.

Soon enough, his mouth returned to your pulse, suckling on the throbbing flesh and his teeth cautiously caging the arteries, until a mark — angry red like the burns that paint his skin — started to blossom.

His hand inched up your breast, the pads of his chilled fingers encircled your areolas, the nips hardened and prodded at him, begging to be pleasurably satiated — and satiate he inevitably would.

He swiftly moved to straddling you, this time in entirety, careful to avoid putting too much pressure on your torso. When you’re lying so prettily before him it was almost too easy to forget how much bigger than you he was, how small and dainty and delicate you were compared to him.

Using his other hand to lift your nightshirt to your collarbones, Sol redirected himself fully to your breasts, his teeth grazing over the buds before rapidly digging them into the warm fat, his nails clawing at your sides like they were pencils upon a blank canvas and the artist had the eureka of a lifetime.

His face felt torrid, his whole body felt like it’d been set ablaze and he’d barely started.

Look at what you’ve turned me into, but I’m not complaining, how can I?

Sol suddenly wished he was a snake, so he could coil around your body forever, his fangs lodged in either your neck or tits, while his tip would remain buried so deeply within you that you’d forget what it meant to move normally.

But hey, he could still do one of those things. The drugs are significantly stronger this time.

As if to test the waters, he delicately shifted your blouse off of you, tossing it somewhere else on the bed whilst he — perverted as he knew he was — admired your figure, his hands mellowly brushing your arms and kneading your curves, wanting to ingrain this image of you for the rest of his life.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty. How are you so pretty?”

His cock was shrieking now, hell, he was struggling to contain himself. But he could hold off a little longer, right?

No. No I can’t.

His hands weren’t even his anymore, by the time he’d ceased gazing at you, his belt was being yanked out and he was aggressively tugging his pants down, a sharp slap! bouncing off the walls as his dick emerged from its confines, dribbles of translucent white steadily seeped out the shroomy head. 

He inched closer to you, deciding to fully ditch his clothes as he tenderly brought your hands into his. He covered them each in kisses, suckled on your fingertips, before guiding them towards his throbbing crotch, your fingers tightly clutched onto it; it’s like you’ve wanted this as much as him!

Shit. Fuck. Fuck you’re so pretty.

Blanketing your fingers with his longer ones, Sol slowly pumped himself into your palm, his whole body almost falling on top of you with how violently he shook at the sheer magnitude of carnal pleasure that coursed through his veins.

A pitiful whine emitted from his tongue as he commenced vigorously propelling himself into your hand, the drastic change in speed and temperament making the sensations nearly overwhelming. 

It forced him to hold his weight up over you; like his arm was a pillar to a divine shrine, one that he deems you more than worthy of. But he supposed this is the best way to be close to a god, to worship a god.

Shit, I love you. I love you so much, you don’t know how crazed I get when it comes to you.

Sol turned to the small picture of Ichabod, before looking respectlessly at the view under him, and smirked.

From his nigh-omniscience when it comes to you, Sol knows you’ve never had sex, and he’d be damned if your first would be Crowe.

He continued to piston himself into your palm, contemplating whether he should move on…elsewhere, while he could. 

Your hands weren’t gonna be enough, he wanted Ichabod to see him fucking you, making love to you; you didn’t have to be conscious, you’d still love him either way. 

Sol relished in the thought, as his thrusts grew erratic and variable, his abs clenching and his arms locking in as he prepared to release, to paint his magnum opus — to paint you white with his cum.

I love you, I love you so much, I want you so much, you’re everything to me IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou.

He moaned, gripped your hand and placed a messy kiss to your lips, using his other appendage to pump faster and faster, until his body physically stuttered into it —  until his whole being shattered, and a fountain of his sperm splattered onto your skin, leaving your body glistening under the vermillion light of the lamp.

But Sol wasn’t done this time, for how could he be? He had to make sure nobody got to you before he did.

He kissed you again, his tongue diving into your mouth, exploring the wet cavern, his hand — the one that formerly served as a buttress — coming down to the band of  your shorts, his fingers gently prying them down with your panties, and judging by its appearance, it was one of the few he hadn’t touched — how cute. It’s like you wanted him to gather every garment that’s pressed against your core, that felt your slick as you touched yourself.

Gah, the thought of your fingers buried inside you, toying with your clit, playing with your tits.

Anything you do arouses him, but the thought, oh fuck him, the thought of you using yourself whilst thinking of him — like he about you — makes him feral.

Without even thinking, he plunged two digits into your pussy, silently (s)creaming at how smoothly they entered. 

Your body knows it’s mine, hahah! Fuck…you’re hot.

Pressing a thumb to your clit and his other hand over your mouth, Sol feels himself going sexdrunk, watching in slick satisfaction the squelches and pretty little Os your hole made around him, trying to crush his bones and slurp them into its warmth, as if it wanted him there forever. Not that he mind, he’d curl up inside you and live as your sentient sex toy if he had his way.

He sighs, his cock turning a brutal shade of red as his eyes observe the beauty that lay within how well cocooned he is inside you, and that’s with his fingers!

Repositioning your wrists so that he could comfortably hold them in one of his own, he redirects his attention to your pussy, thrusting with vehement pleasure into your depths, feeling your wet rapture on his skin, and his pace only increases; like fire on drywood.

The flames of his lust for you, the burning pyre of his love for you, it wasn’t enough in his eyes to see you so shortly each night. It shouldn’t be normal for him, he wanted to take you, to have and hold and love and worship and admire and caress you each day and night, for all his life until both of your ephemeral existences fell by the threads and you both lie in a shared sepulchre next to the sea.

He goes faster, his thumb circling the fleshy nub with affection, a small whimper stirring from your lips.

“Mh…C-crowe?”

Sol ceases, ears alert, eyes widened as he realised whose name you uttered.

Hah. Hahahahah. That motherfucker.

He was gonna go nice and soft on you, gonna be loving to you; but clearly, clearly you needed a little…reminder, of whose thick, fat, juicy cock was inside you.

Removing his sticky fingers, Sol tore apart your thighs, his nails etched so callously in your flesh he barely registered the groan that slipped past your mouth.

Crowe huh? My gorgeous darling, you’re so beautiful but you should know you can’t say such vile things.

He moved his cock with a tenderness towards your gaping entrance, the head brushing against your labia, a waterfall of gasps tumbling out of his mouth as the contact — evasive yet so direct — sent rushes of cold adrenaline down his spine, making him arch himself into you, searching for the closeness he’d wanted for so long.

Cupping your hand in his, he forced himself deep inside you, an onslaught of euphoria surging past any potential despondencies he might’ve had and he slammed his lips onto yours, the slapping of skin and the popping of each entry and exit his cock made out of you left him dazed in the sensual chorus of a symphony built upon ecstasy.

Even in all the times Sol’s touched himself to you, fucked himself into your undergarments or clothes, he’s never thought how immaculately well you fit around him, as if you were the warm, tight nut to his aching, etched bolt.

He was in pain, a beloved pain that came only from first love and lust, his heart screaming as he kissed your lips again and again, squeezing the life out of your hands as he muttered an obsessive, possessive manta:

I love you. I love you. I love you. 

He spent so many years waiting in eager anticipation for you to be his — to feel this sick love that he felt for you — like he was yours, and now, now he had you, claimed you. He wished Crowe was here so he could spit down his stupid throat. The idea felt tempting, maybe Hyugo could help him one more time.

But that’s for later, he’s with you now, and nothing is more invaluable to Solivan Brugmansia than you.

He couldn’t cease his gratifying motions, his suppressed moans, or the blitzes of unfiltered joy that rained down his face as he cried; fell apart both bodily and soulfully. His lips fell to your neck again and he marked you, tainted your priceless flesh with his teeth, contaging you with the plague that long since infested his mind.

His thrusts grew sloppier, his body was boiling as he stuttered out a hushed whimper:

Shit, I love you, I’m cumming, I’m cumming, I love you so much-

And with a sharp bite to your shoulder, a callous bracelet of bruises to your wrists, and blood seeping from your swollen lips, Sol came deep within your heat — oceans of his desire-fueled suspension tumbling about inside you, painting you in white, his dove-white passion. For you.

Only you.

Yet as the waves of his lust left him spent and empty, he rose his sweating body above your form, tears running down his pallid face, and cupped your cheek.

He knew he should clean you up before he loses himself once more, but whilst he remained buried within you — his kingdom, filled with the seas of his undying adoration, he turned to the photo of Jericho Ichabod, yanked it off the wooden surface — and tore it to shreds.

[lunerabo]

bedbug

cw: sub!Mahito, dom!AFAB!Reader, can we even call this pegging, dark content, stabbing, gore, evisceration (kinda), fauxjob, throatfucking (a new definition of it), dawg why did I write this

If you’re a sorcerer, you’re either here against your will, or you’re insane, they’d said.

You’re the latter; something’s been knocked just slightly off course in your mind to make you say the things you do, act the way you do. You enjoy the job far more than anyone in your field should. While others long to escape, you dream of plunging further in.

And plunge you do, just how the creature beneath you begs, its need for torture insatiable.

Blue hair swings and bobs beneath you, the curse’s throat making way for you as you fuck his mouth like you hate him. You do, you think. He’s terrific fun, though. Perhaps that’s why you let him live long enough to have him visit you like this.

He looks up at you, and you don’t like it. You sneer at him, gripping his bangs and shoving his head back downward to keep him from meeting your gaze. A giggle escapes him, cheeky, composed, far too much for your liking. Those sloppy gagging noises please you far more.

He slides off of you with a wet puah sound, tongue still out as he does. He licks his lips.

“Want to see something cool?”

That’s never good, coming out of his mouth. You make a face at him, something between a disapproving sneer and an exasperated grimace, lips pulled taut and brow furrowed. But against your better judgement, you nod at him once, the kind of casual ‘what’s up’ motion you’d send his way if you walked past him on the street.

Slender fingers stretch into talons that rend his own flesh, tearing into the soft, yielding skin beneath his chin and ungracefully ripping down and outward, spraying blood with the force of his pull. Skin stretches and tears like a plastic bag, becoming thin and white before it begins to rip. He bleeds profusely down his chest, more so when he reaches in and causes even more aimless damage. No move he makes is calculated; he may as well have stuck a potato masher in there.

Yet you watch, transfixed, and most amazingly, not nauseated by the sight. Your gaze follows in amazement as he draws the cut a little ways down his chest, ripping out anything he can grab that the opening allows. Torn nerves and skin and muscle and part of what you think is his esophagus hang limply outside his body, and he bleeds all over his lap before you, grinning and smug and eager to put on a show.

His tongue lolls out when he opens his jaw, no longer attached to anything except the bottom of his mouth. He swipes it down across his chin, something that shouldn’t be possible, with him having severed its connection in his throat.

And fuck, he’s beautiful.

Mahito shows you what surely awaits you in hell. He’s a picture of the horrors that plagued the minds of the disturbed across centuries, depicted in paintings of demons and monsters and those meeting their due punishments. You’re not likely to be grinning that much, but perhaps he knows that, and finds his own pleasure in that knowledge.

He scrambles towards you, bloodied hands clawing up your thighs, and he begs wordlessly. A hand wraps around your toy, sets it against his face. He looks up at you.

“My, you are a pretty creature, aren’t you?”

Soft, tender hands brush hair from his face as though they love him, a finger sliding underneath to run up the length of the exposed flesh to feel what he feels like on the inside. It presses down on his tongue, cleaning itself of the blood it has collected.

You force your way in, not through his mouth, but now through the new hole he has so graciously made for you.

Warm blood gushes down your thighs and a downright pornographic groan rips from his ruined throat despite his severed vocal cords. For a moment, you actually wonder how it is his body works to make that possible.

He clings to you desperately, begging for more, more, more, holding your waist flush against his opened neck. The fleshy bulge bobbing at the back of his throat bursts with the pressure he forces on it, and the bulbous head of the strap pokes through. It disappears and reappears through a hole in the flesh that doesn’t even appear to be there when you aren’t poking through it, and Mahito seems to revel in having his throat fucked backwards far more than anything else you’ve done to him. His eyes roll back and the corners of his lips pull upward, his tongue hanging out and moving a little each time the strap presses against the back of it. Blood and drool pour from his mouth, and he fucks into his fist beneath you like he’s about to burst at the seams.

He looks up at you, slack-jawed and glassy-eyed, and a warmth that definitely doesn’t flow like more blood trickles down your leg.

You withdraw, and he looks down at himself for a second. He’s drenched the both of you in blood but the wound seals in an instant, and he licks his lips and swallows, as if to make sure he put everything back correctly.

You coo at him, tone sickly sweet, feeding him words of hatred and disgust that he eats right up with a grin.

“That was a lot of fun!” He exclaims, voice light and airy, “but I’ve done something bad, though, haven’t I?” That familiar cheekiness returns, a telltale sign that he knows he’s not done. But he doesn’t want to be.

“That you have, boy.”

The curse leans back, gesturing for you to look at the whole expanse of his body.

“So where do you want me to make the next hole?”

[vonderful-time]

looking at the series of events that the dark urge went through in their semi-odd forty ish years of life in baldur’s gate, it really is no wonder why they felt so utterly terrified at showing even a modicum of affection towards another person.

they were made to kill their foster family at such a young age, likely barely even a teenager, if even that. the only family they had ever known, having no memory of their birth, and the urge that plagued them — the urge which is likely a manifestation of bhaal himself — makes them eviscerate their closest support system.

they were rushed towards a temple, an underground sanctum filled with only envious slaughter-siblings and devout worshippers, both of which treated them as an outsider to varying degrees. slaughter-siblings who were rife with jealousy, eager to see them fail and to use them as a stepping stone to prove their worth to either the oldest living bhaalspawn or bhaal himself. worshippers who would kill and maim for even a feeling of the gods divine worship on their skin, likely tearing and violating the dark urge from the minute the god-child was put in front of them. an environment filled to the brim with hostility and oppression, and through this entire experience the dark urge’s only support and love they have access too comes from a loveless god.

a god that is so deeply revered and feared in equal measure in the halls they stalk. a god whose dominion demands reverent sacrifice, a constant debasing of the self, and sickening display of self-violation to fuel his dark rituals. a god whose domain of murder allows for no softness, no weakness, no compassion, no room for anything but the god himself.

and then the dark urge begins to admire enver gortash. a man who, like him, is subjected to the domineering hand of a god. a man who shares his intense worship and faith. a man who understands the burden and pressures of living up to a gods expectation. a man who lives with the same fear that the dark urge has constantly been trying to squash and squander. a man who understands.

it really is no wonder that the dark urge becomes terrified when the depth of feeling they are experiencing becomes known to them. to have your entire life’s purpose uprooted and destroyed. to have your entire life revolve around the fact that everything in this world that was not for bhaal does not have a place in it, and yet the feelings you are having are not for your object of worship. those feelings are for yourself, and isn’t that selfish?

the dark urge was not made to have personhood. they were not made for individualism. the luxury of choice was never theirs to have or make, a fact they have been intimately aware of since their knife-hand first took the lives of their mother and father — their real mother and father. the first people who loved them, unconditionally, with a wholehearted abandon. and the dark urge was made to kill them for it.

no wonder the dark urge is terrified.

i’d be terrified too, if i knew i’d be destined to have anything i claimed as my own taken from me. even if the thing i claimed wasn’t mine to claim in the first place.

[azen13]

The Lives and Losses of Lovers

Description: This is actually inspired by a post by @lum1nesc3nce, which you can find here! TLDR: Zhongli x God!Reader, where Zhongli kills his lover but they stay alive. This does have a bit more of a Yandere!Zhongli flavor, though, so be warned!

CW: Yandere Themes, Descriptions of Violence, Descriptions of Blood, Murder, Mild Gore,

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

The patio is warm, blessed with the touch of the sun’s earliest rays. Already you and Zhongli sit in two comfortable chairs; he sips on tea, you on coffee. It is a scene that has played out a thousand times, yet one Zhongli never tires of. He never tires of seeing your face aglow, of feeling your body leaning against his, of knowing you are here, miraculously breathing life through your bones and skin.

“My dear, I was wondering,” Zhongli starts, his soft contemplative voice shattering the flimsy silence blanketing the porch. “Would you like to accompany me to Liyue Harbor to purchase some groceries?” It is a reward–he thinks as he revels in your surprised reaction–for how understanding you have been in these turbulent times. With the whole mess regarding the Fatui cleared up and a mundane mortal life ahead of him, Zhongli can afford to spend more moments with you in sweet, blissful love.

Perhaps one day it will make up for that vile scene years ago, the moment his heart became stone: your body splayed stunningly on the ground, looking like the most gilded, horrific masterpiece he had ever seen. Painted in sunlit hues, his spearhead sticking from your chest splattered with blood made of molten gold. 

Even nearly dying you looked breathtaking. 

He is still suffering from regret for the decision. At the time, the situation was looking grim; Guizhong and Azhdaha were both gone, leaving you his only close friend. He spent many moonlit nights sharing tea and hushed conversation, as well as tears and heartfelt confessions with you. Zhongli is not the god of words, but just the sight of your iridescent eyes made him want to tell you every trouble and every worry had. You were his most valuable treasure, his lover through and through. Your contract with him, to always stand by side, loyal to one another, made him so weak, so soft, so human.

But that was the issue. Everyone knew of his love, his tender affection; unbecoming of a god who wielded earth and stone as weapons. His life was plagued by phantoms day and night. When he dreamed he envisioned you being kidnapped by some evil god like Osial and being tortured. Killed. Doomed to a fate worse than death, even. In the day, every action you did reminded him of a delicate tree weathering a deluge. Your branches swayed in the intense winds and even the earth couldn’t anchor you.

So he pleaded. He begged you to stay tucked away in his private domain where no great evil could stalk after you, promising to love you for an eternity of eternities. He would love you until every mountain had become a valley. But you refused, saying you wanted to live every facet of life, turning the world like a kaleidoscope in your hands.

The mirrors shifted and the skies turned red.

Those prophecies he had dreamt, uttered to him by ghosts haunting his mind, came true. You were taken away by some pesky, lowly god, and confessed all that you knew. That was fine. Zhongli was made of stone and Cor Lapis, and even if this insignificant insect of a god knew his weaknesses–few as they were–Zhongli eviscerated them.

But the contract.

When the god was sealed away beneath the sea, Zhongli fell to his knees, mouth opened but unable to utter any words.

Zhongli is not the god of words.

It is horribly tragic, he mourns as he stares at your hollow expression, that you must face the wrath of the rock because of a ridiculous choice of words. “To always stand by his side.” You have technically betrayed him.

The earth shakes for weeks afterwards. The sudden freak earthquake is talked about for weeks on end before people move on, as life does. Zhongli does not. His memory of you remains petrified, his new specter. He will never truly love again for thousands of years. Every time he is reminded of you, a piece of his heart chips away

But then you came back. 

That day is amber, crystallized in his mind. Seeing you in the bustling streets of Liyue Harbor, so lost after centuries away from home. At that moment, Zhongli decides he will not make the same mistake twice. He would have preferred more time to draw you in carefully, but he is afraid now. Afraid that some hideous twist of fate will rip you from him again. So he whisks you away to his private domain, and drafts up a new contract, binding you to him in matrimony forever. 

Please forgive him, he begs after you sign the contract in gold, tears dripping down your cheeks. He only wishes to protect you; he has always wished to protect you. But the world is cruel to lovers, and not even the strong can uphold such a delicate thing. 

In Zhongli’s private domain, wicked things like time and fate are nonexistent. Zhongli is the only god that rules these lands. He is a benevolent god, if a little possessive. After being deprived of you for so long, he craves your presence, he claims. Day and night, he tries to spend every living moment with you. When he cannot, you are ever-present in his mind–a living, breathing thing instead of the dead spirits that once terrorized it for all those years.

Some days you seem despondent, craving room to spread your branches far and wide. But Zhongli simply chuckles and kisses the top of your head; he smells the gentle scent of your shampoo, knowing this is what is best for you. He whispers it quietly, lacing sweet nothings and honeyed words into his voice as he pulls you into his arms. You haven’t tried to fight him on this in years, either. It’s part of the reason why he has proposed going on a  little trip to Liyue Harbor. Perhaps if all goes well, he’ll allow more trips out of the private domain. All supervised by his watchful eye, of course. After a few moments of stunned surprise, you finally have the courage to speak. “I-I’d love to. Thank you, Zhongli,” you say quietly. Zhongli smiles, leaning to press a delicate kiss to your lips.

“You are very welcome, my treasure,” he whispers, a hand reaching to cup your face; his thumb reaches to brush your lips tenderly.

He can tell that you are still afraid of him, fearful that he will hurt you again. No matter. One day, Zhongli hopes, you will shed your fear like a caterpillar in chrysalis, and emerge into a glittering world full of Zhongli’s love for you. 

[world0fmadness]

CHAOS HORRIFIC

george russell x death metal vocalist! fisher! reader

♡ general dating headcanons for george with a death metal vocalist partner!

୨୧ basically, you’re the first child of george fisher from cannibal corpse and have your own death metal band in which you’re the vocalist! i need to do more for my fellow metalhead fans <3

♡ view my formula 1 masterlist here

reading music recommendations: make them suffer by cannibal corpse - evisceration plague by cannibal corpse

♡ to say he was terrified to meet your father would be a huge understatement…

୨୧ since you’re his first child, your father is extremely protective of you and soft on you

♡ his hands were shaking on the drive over despite him cracking jokes and trying his best to appear totally calm and confident

୨୧ you try to assure him that your father is literally the sweetest person you know ( aside from george ) and is actually a huge teddy bear ( no but really, he is, look it up )

♡ george just has some trouble believing it because how is a man with the stage name “ corpsegrinder ” and in a band like cannibal corpse supposed to be a teddy bear?

୨୧ the dinner went… well, it went as good as it could! george cracking jokes every now and again to help relieve the tension

♡ as you and george are leaving, your father asks to have a quick word in private with george…

୨୧ he simply tells him to look after you and treat you well <3

♡ if he didn’t… well, let’s just say he told george a list of things he’d do to him and walked him out of the room, george whiter than a sheet of paper

୨୧ it took him spending a christmas with you guys to fully realise that yeah, actually your father is just a teddy bear underneath all of the brutal shit

“ did he like the lego set i got him? i couldn’t tell, love… ” ( your father loved it, obviously… )

♡ when word got out that you two were dating… oh boy, twitter went insane

୨୧ two completely different communities colliding to ask the same question “ what the fuck? ” whilst people who were in both communities were having the time of their lives

♡ your father and your boyfriend having the same name is something you all poke fun at very often <3

୨୧ george is almost always at your concerts!

♡ usually with headphones on because he still isn’t completely used to how loud they are but he’s getting there :,)

୨୧ when you come off stage, you usually have a sore throat and a head rush from head banging, both of which george helps to relive in any way he can whilst praising your performance

♡ when you were 15, your father brought you on stage at one of his concerts to do the vocals for one of the songs, it’s one of your favourite memories from your childhood and luckily there’s a lot of video evidence of it happening

୨୧ when you showed george the videos, he was in shock… you were such a cool teenager… you would’ve absolutely been able to beat his teenage self up so bad…

“ bloody hell, look at you go! you had a deeper voice than me… ” ( you did, you still kind of do and you both find it so funny )

♡ maybe death metal isn’t something in his day to day playlist but he’s so supportive! whenever you’re practicing vocals in the house, he’ll pop into your soundproofed room to check if you need a drink or any ice to soothe your throat

୨୧ or even just coming to admire your for a bit…

♡ you get approval on how brutal a lyric is by showing it to george!

୨୧ if he makes a face whilst reading it then it’s decided to be brutal enough for your song <3 he’s just happy to help, even if it means reading things that make him feel a little sick

♡ you guys very quickly become a fan favourite couple just due to how different you are… a lot of jokes are made but people seriously just love you

୨୧ because you basically ONLY wear combat boots, more often than not, your feet hurt like hell after a day at the paddock with george…

♡ he tries to convince you to wear a different pair of shoes but you don’t budge <3

୨୧ so usually, when you’re home or in his drivers room, he’ll give you the best foot massage known to man

♡ i can see you getting along best with lewis! both of you are musical souls, even if you’re in very different genres…

୨୧ he definitely has major respect for the metal scene and he just thinks you’re such a talented person and always likes listening to you talk about a new project

♡ something you like to do for george is make him custom CDs! you’ll burn songs that you think he’ll like onto it

୨୧ he’s never gotten over it, he thinks it’s literally the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for him and always has at least two of them in his car and drivers room

♡ you probably did some voice work for metalocalypse alongside your father and every year for your birthday, deathklok sends you one of their infamous birthday cakes and a card!

୨୧ george thinks it’s the funniest thing ever and always demands to be the one to take a picture of you holding it up next to the card

“ oh! what card is it this time, love? is that hello kitty? bloody hell… right, let me take a picture ” ( it was my little pony the year before, that one was his favourite )

♡ literally no one can get over how george ended up with someone like you… he dresses so proper and you dress so boyish… his hair is always perfect and your hair is always messy… he’s so polite and you don’t hold back

୨୧ but it just works and you’re so happy with each other

♡ and you know you’ll be happy with each other for a long, long time…

[bri-the-nautilus]

The Potentate Complex

Lately, the wonderful @catcas22 and I have been discussing the Hornsent, the Omens, and the Living Jars. Cat has two excellent posts on the subject up, one on the nature of the Lamenters and another on a potential link between the Omen's nightmares and the crimes of their progenitors. I highly recommend you read those posts first and then come back to this one, as they'll make it much easier to understand some of the concepts I'll be bringing up.

Anyhow, there's something that fell by the wayside in all this: the word "potentate." It's curiously exclusive to the context of jars in Elden Ring.

In the base game, Jar-Bairn and the other residents of Jarburg are searching for a Potentate to serve as a leader/protector of their village. The criteria for which are... odd. Jar-Bairn first attempts to enlist the player as Potentate, only to reject us on the grounds that our callused warrior hands are unsuited to the position. He finds what he believes to be a better candidate in Diallos Hoslow, but can later be found remarking that while he rather likes Diallos's soft, supple hands, he finds the younger Hoslow uninspiring as far as protectors go, going so far as to wish that they could have a Potentate who's "big and strong, like you."

In SOTE, we learn that "Potentate" was also the title given to the Hornsent clerics who butchered human/Numen villages to fill the Living Jars.

Interesting.

Assuming Cat's theory about the throughline between the Hornsent Potentates, the Living Jars, and the Omensmirk nightmares is correct, I think I have an idea of what's happening here.

We've established that when a human consigned to a jar reincarnates as an Omen, they retain some subconscious mnemonic impression from their previous life, potentially establishing the terror and torture endured at the Hornsent's hands as the source for the shared nightmares about horned beings that plague all Omen. We also know that "rancorous spirits" cling to the flesh inside the jars.

I don't think it's unreasonable to suppose that if the Omen retain memories of their previous deaths, the jars created by the Hornsent do the same. However, I'd also suppose that the mindscape of a Living Jar is all kinds of confusing. Every jar we talk to seems to have one unified voice/personality, despite their innards being composed of an every-growing multitude of beings who each have discrete spirits. Add that the same souls clinging to scraps of jar meat are also the ones being reincarnated as Omen, and a picture starts to emerge.

I think that the process of being eviscerated and stuffed into a jar, along with whatever ritual allows for their reincarnation, seems to "split" the soul of the victim, and this may be by design. One fragment is allowed to return the Erdtree to be reincarnated, but the other is trapped, sealed in the jar to prevent it from escaping. The free half comes back as an Omen, while the sealed half remains locked away from the Erdtree and its other half, ensuring that pure reincarnation is impossible.

This also has a confounding effect on the memory impressions of the soul. The Omen have vague nightmares about horned beings torturing them. Meanwhile, the Jars also have the memories of their component people, perhaps clearer as a result of not having passed through the Erdtree but confused in other ways as a result of being part of this single-voiced mass of flesh and spirits.

Jar-Bairn and the others simultaneously associate the word "Potentate" with warrior strength and the gentle, ritualistic touch of a cleric. They vacillate between thinking a Potentate should be a strong protector (the Hornsent's sacking and butchering of villages) and a soft-handed, studious artificer (the same Hornsent going on to craft and fill the Living Jars in clandestine underground laboratories). The word is divorced from the terror its origin inflicted in the minds of the jars, who know only that their existence is inextricably linked to strong yet careful beings called Potentates.

There are two interesting addendums to our tale, one being the Potentate's Cookbook.

A record of crafting techniques of the greater potentate who roamed lands near and far. Haunted by the grotesque practice of his village of birth, he stuffed great pots with all manner of things.

Apparently, at least one Potentate was disgusted by the actions of his peers and left to travel the world, but continued to experiment with ritual pots in other ways that involved considerably less occult sacrifice.

The other afterthought I'd like to mention is the weapon of the Potentates, the Bonny Butchering Knife (which is actually a greataxe that looks like a curved greatsword, but that's besides the point):

Weapon of the greater potentates of Bonny Village. An outsize butcher's cleaver used to dismember human bodies in the making of the great jars stored in the gaols.

Restores a very small amount of HP when it squarely strikes an enemy.

I'll now direct your attention to the Butchering Knife found in the base game, used by the Tarnished-Eater Anastasia:

Huge carving knife made to cleanly butcher the human body. Signature weapon of the Ogress Anastasia, known to have eaten countless Tarnished while disguised as a Finger Maiden.

Restores a very small amount of HP when it squarely strikes an enemy.

Again, still not a knife, or a greataxe, but I digress.

These weapons are IDENTICAL in many respects. They use the same model, have the same heal-on-hit passive, and even their attack/guard ratings, weights, stat requirements, and FP costs are the same. The only difference is their names, descriptions, and default Ashes of War, and even the former two are only negligibly distinct. I feel quite comfortable in stating these to be the same weapon.

So here we have a massive cleaver expressly designed to butcher the human body, wielded historically by the Hornsent Potentates who terrorized the settlements of other races to build "saints" out of their corpses, and one instance having fallen into the hands of a psychotic serial killer in a far-off land.

Tying this back to the cookbook, I propose that after wandering for some time, the rueful Potentate left the Land of Shadow altogether, journeying to the Lands Between, where he beheld the fruits of his peers' labor in the form of the Omen and Living Jars dwelling there. At this point, he cast off the tool of his trade and settled somewhere to live out his days in morose solitude.

Some amount of time later, his former weapon fell into the hands of God's bloodthirstiest soldier, who immediately noticed that it was perfect for her preferred pastime of killing and eating people. So perfect, in fact, that it could only have been designed with such a purpose in mind.

And another thing: isn't it funny that the Omenkillers, whose attire draws inspiration from the Omen's nightmares, also use cleavers? Cleavers made from Omen horns, but cleavers nonetheless.

[stormikins]

Mass Effect: Failed Opportunities.

An informal rant/essay about my opinions and thoughts (and ideas/suggestions) about the choices made in Mass Effect Three. This is all because of this one post by mass-effect-anonymous, and my friend (@xoshepard) giving me a compliment about my Shepard came back wrong headcanons. So. I’m fueled by validation and rage. A summary of the mentioned post is anonymous regrets that BioWare didn't explore the implications of Shepard dying and coming back and the fact that Liara helped Cerberus in doing so.

Disclaimer: I am a hater in this. I am. No doubt about it. If you like the story and think it’s great and nothing is wrong with it— then I am so happy for you. Truly. I wish I was the same. So, this post might not be for you. Also, this is a rant, and I try to keep it sensible so apologies if it’s not.

Word Count: 3k

TLDR: BioWare flip flops between decisions and choices and never truly settles, disregards choices already made, and leaves players (AND THEIR MOTHERS!) wanting while eviscerating character personalities. Consistency is not in BioWare’s vocabulary. Or dictionary. Or thesaurus.

One of the things that I dislike the most about BioWare's choices regarding this matter is that Shepard starts having these crisis thoughts/questions about if their body is theirs or not, etc. not only in the third game, but at the end of it. The player is literally doing the mission that marks the point of no return in the end, the last of two until the game is finished, and now Shepard is voicing these thoughts. Roughly sixty-ish hours since the beginning of me2 if the player is a completionist. (that’s in game time, not to mention how much more time for real life but I digress). This isn’t a plot hole, it’s a speed bump the player trips over and then the game expects us to get back up and get going while asking why our nose is bleeding. Fuck you BioWare.

Now, one could construe this into being part of Shepard's character; squashing down all these conflicting and worrying thoughts to focus on their mission, bc they are a soldier. They literally don't have time for this. But now they're physically confronted with their reconstruction post-awakening haze and/or denial about it all bc Cerberus could be them lying to Shepard bc of manipulation. All right. If that is supposed to be the implication, Shepard putting their mental focus on their mission, why didn't Shepard have this crisis when they were in lock-up for six months, aka where they literally only have time to think?

James having a throwaway comment to Shepard, or another crew member (bc they talk to each other now between missions!), about how he's worried about them, about how Shepard had a freak out some point in lock down, the level of 'freak out' does not need to be expanded upon. Hell, James can just say maybe they passed the time asking each other philosophical questions, maybe about consent and choices (which would tie into James’ past!) and bodily autonomy. It could help lend more weight with Shepard posing these questions during the Cerberus HQ bc these thoughts are still plaguing Shepard. Shepard dies—again—without getting closure— again. This would fall into the cycle theme that the games have.

But, like always, Bioware fails to capitalize on opportunity.

Now. The Citadel DLC. sighs Shepard's repeated variations of "don't want to talk about it" it being the clone and everything else that's happening in the DLC, lends more to the theory of Shepard's supposed to be repressing this all. But the counter point about Shepard having their crisis in lock-up still stands.

What could have been interesting is if Shepard had these identity issues in 2 and potentially in three. Given that the Citadel DLC ends with the clone always dying canonically, it can be a pivotal moment for Shepard to realize that they are who they are, different than their me1 counterpart or not (it also would be cool if characters mentioned if the player was choosing choices that an imported me1 Shepard normally would not have) and to have a clarity moment that they are Shepard. The clone and these logs could have provided a clean tying of loose ends of Shepard having identity issues instead of the teammates saying two lines about how they know that Shepard is Shepard and Shepard simply... moving on because you do all this in the middle of a base attack. The player's mind is already set on defeating Cerberus (finally) and getting revenge, on being so close to the end of the game! It's also OPTIONAL. Yes, the player is automatically entered into the terminal, but the choice to leave without seeing what's on the logs is immediately available.

Another thing the previous post went into was Liara's involvement. Her part in Shepard's reconstruction is not explored in the game. The player never learns about how Liara helped, just that she did and that she lost Feron because of it all to the Shadow Broker. I will not go into the comics, because 1. I have not read them and 2. If developers must depend on supplemental media to explain key plot points, they are in fact doing it wrong (this is a conversation for another time).

I would not be as bitter about Liara's involvement if the game treated it better. The player has to complete two quests to unlock the dialogue of Liara telling Shepard that she gave their body to Cerberus. Which, I will give them, it’s normally to not want to tell the person who you gave their dead body over to terrorists. Shepard’s renegade dialogue to Liara apologizing about giving their body over is as follows, “all this time, it wasn’t your sources. You knowingly gave me over to Cerberus. You did this to me!” SHEPARD DOESN’T SAY ANYTHING ELSE. JUST SITS BACK DOWN AND THE RENEGADE RESPONSE TO HER SECOND APOLOGY IS TO SAY, “Let me know if you need any more help,” AND YOU LEAVE. WHY IS THIS THE ONLY TIME SHEPARD ACKNOWLEDGES THIS. wow. AND WHY IS IT LIKE THIS? ITS OPTIONAL. I— Again, this could tie into Shepard bottling up feelings and acknowledging them in Me3, could show Shepard as an actual person if the game lets us choose to be mean or turn her off but alas, the player cannot because the game likes ruining Shepard’s character (which I’ll save that for later) and doesn’t treat the games like RPGs.  

One could say that Liara would go to any lengths for those she loves, whether the player romanced her or not, but in the first game, we have no indication that she is willing to go this far. I have a belief that nothing is 'out of character' if the circumstances are right. Now, these circumstances are right: two important figures in Liara's life die (Shepard and her mother), Liara's only connection to her theories on the extinction of the reapers dies as well, the threat of the Reapers, and all the traumatic experiences she had during me1 and then the destruction of the Normandy all collide together to make it realistic that Liara wouldn't be able to let Shepard go. There is one thing, though, is that this is all boiled down into “I couldn't let you go” and the game doesn't show it. Doesn’t show Liara's descent down into this rabbit hole, doesn't show the switch getting flipped of her turning much more ruthless compared to her me1 characterization.

She does show ruthlessness in some regards in me1, willing to kill her mother no matter their relationship. But out of all the SR1 cast, she is one of the most paragon characters. The game does not show the shift into Liara's characterization. No commentary from Me1 companions about how Liara suddenly shut them out, or from Feron talking about the things Liara was willing to do to get Shepard. No comments from Miranda and Jacob who I do know were part of the retrieval mission about how Liara acted. Liara is just immediately introduced with quoting her mother’s threats. WHICH IS SO INTERESTING! Again—AGAIN—the game goes nowhere with this. We get optional dialogue from Aethyta about the Matriarch’s being concerned about her but that is optional, and only if the player talked to her in Me2 does she show up in Me3 and deliver said dialogue. Liara herself never confronts this. Even when SHE TALKS ABOUT HER MOTHER. LISTEN— LIARA COULD HAVE TURNED INTO A SCIENTIST THAT WOULD DO ANYTHING FOR HER RESEARCH. TO PROVE HERSELF RIGHT BECAUSE SHE IS, SHE KNOWS IT AND SHE’LL DO ANYTHING LIKE BRINGING SOMEONE’S DEAD BODY TO A TERRORIST ORGANIZATION TO RESSURECT AND YET—

Garrus, on the other hand, gets his new characterization explained. In me1 he already tends to be reckless, ruthless, and selfish. It is no surprise that when Shepard died and the Council buried the truth, he went vigilante. The game shows his new bleak outlook on life bc we find him fighting for his life in a base full of dead bodies and then he explains he got betrayed. We deal with his character arc. We do not deal with Liara’s.

One could argue that could go and show how Shepard wakes up two years in the future and everything is different and confusing. Which I will agree with. If it was purposeful. And I don’t think it is, personally.

She doesn’t stay this new ruthless way. I am not saying she can’t be more than one-dimensional; I like that she can be soft with Shepard and the other companions. But all of a sudden, she, the character whose introduction in Me3 is her popping a singularity and gunning down two Cerberus goons with a cold look on her face, “can’t be that callous” about not focusing on the death numbers in the middle of a war zone because “that’s my home down there”. A home she rarely talks about, and she’s also been in numerous war zones just as bad as this. Liara, who spent more time in digs or collecting intel than with people, feels a sudden connection with Thessia.

I would like Liara a lot more if they didn’t eviscerate her character, thank you. Don’t take this the wrong way, I love her, I think she’s great. She just has the potential to be so much more.

Like—

Mass Effect for some reason, tries not to be an RPG. They don't give the players a proper choice/dialogue to allow Shepard to be mad at Liara about what she did. Or to stay mad. (I am not going to get into the debate of whether being mad at Liara should be a renegade option or paragon). It would make sense for someone to get pissed at the person who gave their dead body over to scientists to reanimate, but also terrorist scientists. The same terrorists that Shepard potentially fought in Me1 and also potentially discovered were behind the whole sale slaughter of their entire platoon and the torture of the only other survivor of the incident.

(I can’t remember if Shepard ever mentions Akuze to Cerberus. Funny, isn’t it. How the games like to take away Shepard’s agency but not in any compelling way.) 

Besides, simply not choosing paragon options, it’s never mentioned again what Liara did to Shepard, which makes sense if Shepard accepted Liara’s apology. But what if Shepard, and the player, doesn’t? Liara’s forced on the player in Me3 as Shepard potential confidant, showing up repeatedly to Shepard’s cabin to move the plot forward, give Shepard missions/updates. Yes, the player can refuse to get personal with her which I do appreciate it. Like I said, Liara’s actions never get brought up in any meaningful way to help Shepard on a character journey. If they don’t want to let characters make decisions about who Shepard is, they should give them a personality. But they don’t.

Another failed opportunity about Shepard’s character is when the games don’t get into what Shepard is like post-resurrection. The game seems to be in the middle ground of making Shepard different but not still human, but in actuality, they can, in the words of Hannah Montana, have “the best of both worlds”.

Me2 shows how Shepard is different now. “I’ve noticed a few upgrades,” Shepard states when talking to the Illusive Man on Minute Man station. Shepard can have multiple hard-hitting drinks in a row along with Ryncol in Dark Star, Zakera Ward. A poison tailored for humans served by a batarian bartender in the lower segment of Afterlife only knocks Shepard out, not killing them like it does to every human before.

That is how far the game will go in showing how different Shepard is, not counting renegade scarring. Which is a waste.

Shepard is The Protagonist. The main character. They have done the actual impossible. They are the Sole Survivor, the Hero of Elysium, the Butcher of Torfan, Savior of the Citadel, repeller of Geth, Collector, and Reaper armies and a host of other incredible achievements. They are a prophet, the damned, a modern-day Cassandra. The tip of the Spear, the Diplomat, the Soldier. Coats in the FOB on Earth says that it means something to the soldiers to see Shepard with them. They are “a tool, an agent with a singular purpose,” TIM calls them. (And a Karen ‘accuse her of classism’).

And yet, when Shepard gets revived—the most impossible of all things (and yes, it’s not like they had anything to do with it, it was Miranda and her team, but the Lazarus project only had one subject)—they are not made further into something larger than life. Something Other. Something that sets them out from the others. Because they’re Commander Fucking Shepard.

They literally have a vision of a dying race in their head that propels them to stop the Reapers. Me1 does a great job of playing with it. The player sees it once in Me2 and Me3, a side mission (Blue Suns: Archaeological Site) and after retrieving Javik, respectively.

Mass effect is all about cycles. The Reaper’s, Saren/Tim parallels, etc. What could have been interesting was instead of the reoccurring dream we have about a child that gets his emotional impact tarnished because of said dream and the star-child, the game does a mesh of the vision, prothean civilization in ruin, and the ruins we see of current civilizations from the missions Shepard goes on. Keep the oily shadows that whisper quotes from our dead teammates, but also have their voices coming from long dead Protheans pleading with Shepard to stop the Reapers, to save them.

Shepard can’t get any escape from the war, from the Reapers in their sleeping nor waking hours.

The game not making Shepard Other and going in the opposite direction—that despite all these upgrades Shepard is still human—would be fine if it was done better. A good stereotype of “I’m only human” is when a character fails. Shepard fails in Me3 most prominently on Thessia. I’m all for having characters fail but only when it’s done not so obnoxiously.

It’s a terrible fight. It is. Kai Leng hides behind a gunship that Shepard took down at least three separate times in Me2. Two of these instances are non-optional: Garrus and Samara’s recruitment and Kasumi’s loyalty mission is optional. So, Shepard—Commander Shepard who literally destroyed a proto-Reaper—can’t destroy a gunship. It’s insulting how they ruin Shepard’s character in three.

In the end cutscene, Shepard clearly hears and registers that Kai Leng orders the gunship to fire on the supports of the structure and… runs further into the building. One could argue Shepard was trying to get the Prothean VI for the catalyst, but Liara is shown scanning it with her omni-tool. What did she do, if not copy it? Why would she not? Why wouldn’t Shepard? They’re in the middle of a war zone, with enemies that were just right outside the door. Why stop for a chat here and now? (I know why, the plot demands it and lore dumping— lore that contradicts the lore dump by Vigil in Me1 so I’m even more inclined to not like these proceedings).

Kai Leng is Shepard’s nemesis in Me3 (and I’m forever mad that he is) and he’s supposed to be badass and edgy and able to go toe-to-toe with Shepard. Yet the game shows he can’t. He can’t reach his target because a terminally ill drell stopped him, or he didn’t notice Bau being cloaked in front of the Salarian councilor. (I can also go into how stupid this scene is with BOTH Thane and Bau).

He gets one over Shepard with the C-Sec sky car chase but that doubles back to BioWare ruining Shepard’s character by making them an idiot. Why not hit the brakes? Why not do a couple barrel rolls? Why fire through what should be bullet proof glass because it’s a C-Sec sky car?

Kai Leng can’t go toe-to-toe with Shepard unless Shepard gets dumbed down into an idiot and isn’t someone who reached not only Commander rank but also became the first human Spectre. HELLO!?

So, Shepard failing and still being human and fallible doesn’t hit because they execute it poorly via Kai Leng and his stupid plot armor.

Who would be Shepard’s nemesis if not Kai Leng? HARBINGER. YOU KNOW THE REAPER THAT TAUNTED SHEPARD IN ME2? THE VERY FIRST REAPER MADE? THE REAPER THAT WE ONLY SEE—NOT TALK TO—SEE IN THE LAST HOUR OF THE GAME? THAT GUY. (matter of fact, throw in some of Harby’s arrogant lines about Shepard not being able to stop the Reapers in the alternative dream.) Harbinger should have possessed troops like he did in Me2 in the major Reaper battles. Earth. Menae. Thessia. He should have showed up somewhere, boasting about how they’re darkening the sky of every world. YES THAT’S A SOVEREIGN CALL BACK CYCLES! SHEPARD’S VISION IS COMING TRUE RIGHT BEFORE THEIR EYES AND HE’S NOT BRAGGING!? I THINK THE FUCK NOT! If you’re gonna make the Reapers so obsessed with Shepard as shown in Me2 with Harbinger’s comments and making a human looking Reaper, KEEP THE OBSESSION FOR THE LOVE OF GOD! I hate that the Reapers are obsessed with Shepard, Reapers who are above organics, have no weaknesses etc. and the entirety of Sovereign’s brilliant Virmire speech, because it’s not CARRIED OVER!

The enemies should have primarily been the Reapers from the start, and Cerberus the splinter group trying to sabotage the player. Make them smaller. Keep them kidnapping people for troops and biotic tests and lying about Sanctuary being a sanctuary and not run by Cerberus. Continuously have them send assassins—plural! Phantoms and nemesis—after Shepard with Kai Leng at the head of them. Even better if a strike group of baddies show up randomly during missions and watch out! Now Shepard has to deal with them as they fight the Reapers—in the same mission— because Cerberus wants to stop Shepard from killing the Reapers so they could control them and secure human dominance. Kai Leng is kept away from his target because they’re also fighting Shepard where Reapers are. Have them locked into stalemates until the environment getting destroyed literally forces them apart. Have them actually be equal adversaries.

Cerberus is introduced to be a mere group Shepard took out in Me1. They’re not all gone in Me2 surprise! Okay that’s fine and yet they not only sunk so many resources into Shepard and had so many cells gone rogue but they’re able to stage a coup on the Citadel! Pardon?? “But our resources are not unlimited, rebuilding you was a significant investment. And a significant risk,” Miranda tells Shepard in Me2. Cerberus kidnapping people on Benning would make sense if they’re scrambling for troops other than the relying on Sanctuary. (EVEN IN ME3 THERE ARE ‘ROGUE FACTIONS’— still a common occurrence for them. It’s never explained if Cerberus is lying about Benning or not). If they have these many rogue cells, again, how can they manage all they do in Me3? Especially if scientists are leaving Cerberus as well, aka the Ex-Cerberus Scientist mission Traynor gives you where you meet up with Jacob.

Yet, the player talks more to the Illusive Man than Harbinger in Me3, the leader of the Reapers, and we confront TIM at the end of the game, the most pivotal moment. The moment which people have sunk countless hours into, and we get a power hungry and indoctrinated TIM to… talk into shooting himself or firing a single bullet at him. There is no physical fight between the two. The conversation is similar to Saren’s and again, cycles are a theme, so why can’t we get a Reaper!TIM fight? The player, and Shepard, deserve the choice to fuck him up. This is a military game after all, they’re supposed to be encouraging our aggressive nature.

They ruin TIM but also Shepard.

Shepard never grows and changes like the characters around them, and their resurrection could have—should have—played a part in that. If they’re supposed to remain the same, be a tool for the narrative, make them it. Lean into that. The player chooses options. What would be an interesting mechanic is to make it a struggle for a certain background to get a certain morality. Have Shepard be stating doubts about who they are and if the player is contradicting a stereotypical background (Butcher trying to be paragon, a Hero trying to be renegade), they meet the camera—the players eyes—as they explain their inner turmoil. Make Shepard feel like the tool they are, like they’re not in control of their actions. A renegade overcoming it all and being a paragon hero, or a fall from grace paragon that brings the galaxy down with them. A renegade trapped in a cycle of violence (CYCLE) who can only see the world down the barrel of a gun, or a paragon who continuously chooses kindness. MAKE IT MEAN SOMETHING!

I think I’m done. So.

In conclusion, my love and passion for this game transitions into rage because of seeing possibilities squashed like a bug under a boot. To borrow Star War’s phrase: Mass Effect could be so good if it was good. 

[shitzu-recs]

Dear Reader

by @heavilycaffeinatedsblog

mature

16/16 chapters

word count: 80,982

SUMMARY:

"I find myself wondering, sweet reader, when exactly someone will take a shovel to the back of this racist statue's metal head and begin dismantling our university’s scandalous love affair with the most problematic donors they could possibly find. I’m looking at you, President Zarkon, kindly remove your hand from the Republican Party’s dick. This is a liberal arts college for God’s sake."

When Galra University's Tumblr page, meant for football game updates and pleads for attendees for club meetings, is plagued by a mysterious writer determined to eviscerate every toxic part of the college, Lance is intrigued. When he becomes a leading character in the anonymous letters, well, he gets a little more curious. Lance becomes determined to unveil the writer and find out a) what is his problem exactly and b) does he really think Lance's eyes are that blue?

A tale in which Lance is oblivious and pining for the hot nerd in the back of his Greek mythology class, Keith can wield a pen with deadly cruelty, and you, dear readers, suffer from the pains of dramatic irony.

--

i know this is a legendary fic that quite literally everyone has read. but like. i feel the Need. anyway if you haven't read it go read it! its a great fic i swear

[lostinthesasuke]

I just saw your Sasuke as Joan of Arc art and first of all I LOVE IT second of all I think it gave me a new kind of brain worms. Begging you to elaborate on what you mean by Sasuke would understand how Joan of arc felt, please I feel insane.

first of all thank you so much, that means a lot to me. <3

second of all, not sure if you know the can of (brain)worms u just opened. this is long so buckle up.

joan of arc was born into a century long war between france and england, and saw her home destroyed.

sasuke was born into a military state where children are primed to be perfect soldiers the moment they are old enough to hold a kunai. the state groomed his brother into a murderer, stripped his home and family from him.

throughout her life, joan of arc saw visions of saint michael, telling her she would be the one to lead france to salvation. joan vowed to avenge her country, and petitioned the king. at seventeen, joan was sent to war. at seventeen, she was victorious. when france was triumphant, she was beloved. when the tide of battle turned, she was blamed. she was burned at the stake.

sasuke was plagued by visions too, images of his family eviscerated at the hands of the most important person in his world. burned into his eyes like a brand, forced to watch on repeat.

with that, he resolved to wage his own war.

joan, who was once revered as a pure maiden and was made a symbol rather than a girl, became despised; villainized, and accused of demonic possession.

sasuke was made a symbol, too. the last of his clan, a powerful asset. an uchiha, a holder of a desired kekkei genkai, not a boy. he fled. like joan, he sought a powerful entity to gain strength, to forge his path in battle.

at seventeen, he learned the truth about his clan's state-sanctioned genocide. at seventeen, they called for his execution, too. discarded once he no longer served konoha's purpose, had abandoned the so-called 'will of fire'. the illustrious uchiha name tainted by blood, by a farcical "curse".

his opponent used the very power stolen from his kin, their doujutsu embedded in his arms. joan's detractors still benefited from her name long after her demise, too.

joan's emergence was prophesied, a legend of a virgin who would bring peace to france and end the war.

a virgin, pure. 

sasuke's ideological purity is a topic that has been debated at length by both his supporters and critics, both in the text and real life (and kishimoto himself.)

sasuke's "purity" and the morality of his actions are always under scrutiny. which follows since his clan name has been "dirtied". 

joan was also forced to defend her purity. a maiden and a virgin, she was put on trial for her supposed lack of virtue with her life hanging on the verdict. they labeled her a heretic crossdresser perverted by satan because she kept her hair cropped short and wore only men's clothing. they killed her for it.

sasuke and joan both blur the lines of gender. sasuke is portrayed as a heroine and a femme fatale, and objectified for his looks and his body (whether for power or other nefarious reasons). he is more scantily clad than any of the women characters, and cast in a lascivious light.

joan rebuffed suitors and refused marriage all her life. similarly, sasuke rejected all advances from women throughout the manga (post 700 doesn't exist to me) despite the intensity with which he was pursued.

joan's righteous fury at the british, at the wars that claimed her childhood, are all reflected in sasuke's motivations. in his quest for justice, in his resolution to bring peace to a war torn world, to make those in power pay for the suffering that they are complicit in and dismantle the very framework that allows it.

at seventeen, sasuke decided to become a martyr for the world's hatred. he decided he would be the one to shoulder it all, to purify the world of conflict by taking all of the animosity onto himself. like joan who believed she was sent by g-d to end war, sasuke resolved to become a savior.

a martyr like joan (like itachi), whose guilty verdict was only overturned long after her death. who was canonized as a saint long after mobs raged against her. who became a symbol of freedom and revolution enduring hundreds of years, her name a rallying cry despite the vitriol that claimed her life. 

sometimes when you're seventeen, the voices in your head tell you to start a revolution. sometimes, they're right. sometimes the institutions upheld by those in power need to be cleansed by holy fire, and maybe sometimes something better can rise from the ashes.

[planetserenity]

wednesday addams does not know how to handle how painstakingly beautiful you are.

she thinks it’s suspicious, really, how one person could possess such an insurmountable amount of appeal and magnetism.

suspicion, is the reason she lingers around you, she tells herself. it’s only because she finds how captivating you are positively nauseating.

not a soul will ever know how her dark gaze always finds you in a room, obsidian eyes slowly tracing over the line of your nose, the curve of your jaw, the lashes that frame your enrapturing eyes.

she suspects you’ve poisoned her.

it’s the only feasible explanation as to why her mind has suddenly began to revolve around you like a vulture to a rotting corpse.

she thinks you’re infuriating.

she thinks about it all the while she lays in bed, arms crossed over her chest, her psyche plagued with thoughts of the way your lips turn up to smile, the infectious melody of your voice, the way the light glints off of your hair.

insufferable.

no force in heaven or hell could ever prompt her to acknowledge the fact that her black heart clenches with something unfamiliar every time you look in her direction.

she’d rather eviscerate herself before admitting that she takes the long routes to her classes, to catch a glimpse of you in nevermore’s halls.

coincidence, is what it is when she finds a new seat at lunch, one that just so happens to be prime seating to behold you in all your grace.

wednesday thinks death would be less torturous than how you torment her from afar.

you intrigue her, capture her attentions in ways extremely few things can.

your beauty is painful to behold, as stunning as the serene power of the moon and holding a certain air of mystery.

and who is wednesday, if not smitten by the mysterious?

send requests <3

[asylumdwellermoved]

(m!degrees of brutality!harper, gn!reader, needles, dub/noncon, yandere, straight up evisceration and organ fucking im so sorry)

That day, for sure, he would do it. It had all just been too much.

There you were again, walking up to the front desk, asking to donate more blood. Probably taking the best care of yourself you could in your limited circumstances to not be too weak to get home after the amount of blood you'd need to give. Relying on him.

You were all he could think of since you last came in. His little fixation on you had definitely been growing. Afterimages of you would plague his mind while he works. Of you fidgeting in the chair a bit, the anticipation never failing to make you anxious. Of your face tightening a little as the needle nears your skin. Of the slight changes he'd notice when your body started to weaken. The desperation in your voice when you'd agree to giving more. There being enough of your blood slowly flowing in to almost fill up the bag...

He of course, smiles and obliges your request, subtly gulping down the saliva that had started to pool on his tongue. He starts to walk down the dingy halls. It's almost as if his legs are moving on their own when he passes all the functional offices. He imagines the growing confusion on your face the longer you walk.

"The usual rooms are under renovation right now... We have to use the older ones a little further back."

He doesn't look back as he muses on about how they haven't been maintained the best since they were last used, eyes focused on the doors towards the end of the hall. Your eyes widen at the sight of old blood still on the operating table right when he lets you in. He watches the disorientation and panic setting into your face as he pulls out the syringe. Why is that what you're focusing on when he's telling you that he loves you? How close he wants to be with you? How badly he wants to see every part of you? How silly of you.

What happens next after you drift off is a blur up until he's strapping you to the table and dosing you with muscle relaxant. When your eyes flutter open, he smiles, softly kissing you and savoring the taste of your lips before pulling away. The scalpel shakes slightly in his hands as he takes it from cart. He's trying to stay steady, he swears, but his excitement is getting the better of him. All you can do is weakly dart your eyes around as he idly talks to you to fill up the cold silence in the air, but it's okay. He doesn't need a response. Although it's a shame he can't see your unfiltered reaction when he slides the scalpel through your beautiful bare chest. He almost has to hold back a noise at the sight when he pulls the incision open. His trembling, gloved hands reach out and he pushes his fingers around the glistening red in the cavity of your chest. A few spots twitch at the intrusion and there's already a needy twitching between his legs as he tells you how good you're doing and how well you're taking it despite how the mind-numbing pain is starting to make you black out. How can you blame him when he gets carried away and your adorable intestines are messily halfway pulled out of your abdomen? His breath starts to pick up in a slow, heavy pant and he drags his fingers over the warm, wet entrails. His brain is in a haze now as he unbuttons his pants, fumbling a bit as his hands slip a few times from the blood coating his fingertips. The next thing he knows his bare erection is wrapped tight by his hand at the base and drooling onto the red mass below him. His lips are parted and he slowly rubs his length up and down, lewd noises sounding from his blood-slicked gloves against his skin. His tip gently prods at your soft innards as his hips unconsciously drew closer and a whine leaves his throat. That was all it took for him to clamber on top of the table, straddling your exposed viscera and enveloping his cock in it, sighing in desperation. He shakily grips your shoulders, pulling himself close to you and breathing hot against your neck as he humps against you, broken moans punctuating each thrust. The slick noises continue for a few minutes before quickly coming to a stop as he holds you tightly, hips jerking raggedly against your torso and coating your innards in a milky white. He shudders against you, breathing heavily and looking down at your ruined body. He notes that he'd need to get the semen cleaned out if he didn't want you getting infected. He sits there for a moment pondering before realizing that he hasn't gotten any softer.

He had a lot of work to do either way. A little longer shouldn't hurt too much.

[the-restless-man]

I am John Amherst, ever faithful servant of all that plagues humanity, all the infections and diseases that wrack the body and leave it beautifully and lovingly eviscerated. All are welcomed by my God, for the sickness knows not the bounds which superficially divide mankind. She only longs to share her all-consuming Love with anyone she may reach. I am but her missionary, a shepard to guide you to where you truly belong. I am the buzzing in your gut and the crawling on your skin that makes you itch to follow her. Hear her song. Be lulled by the her voice. Let yourself be wholly Loved.

Hello. I have joined the fray. Although I'm mainly here to mess with my partner's @dr-jonathan-fanshawe , I am more than willing to entertain any asks that interest me and interact with anyone.

Boundaries: While suggestive content is allowed and encouraged due to the nature of the corruption, I ask that everything is kept mostly sfw.

Content Warnings: Obvious corruption themes, insects, sickness and disease, death, violence, and gross detail in most descriptions. Things like insects or death will be tagged ('#cw ____'), however, if you aren't fond of the corruption, it would be wise to avoid my content.

Owner of @the-peoples-church

You can reach me at my tma sideblog @catelogue-of-fear or my main @corrupted-coffin