#having a fluid state of being and if anyone sees you in a form which makes present your godliness they are mentally

[selfidentifiednerdyprude]

We (the aro/ace, poly, and relationship anarchist communities) need to talk about backdooring

For all the dirty minded people reading this, no, that's not a buttsex joke. Please take this seriously.

Backdooring is a phenomenon I've observed where someone with more proximity to traditional relationship modalities gets into a nontraditional relationship (for instance, a nonsexual romantic relationship, a nonromantic sexual relationship, a committed relationship that is neither romantic nor sexual, or a polyamorous relationship) with someone who does not share that proximity, and attempts to move the relationship in a more traditional direction— stated simply, it's the use of a nontraditional relationship as a backdoor to a traditional one, specifically one with which the victim is not comfortable and does not consent to.

It often stems from an attitude of "Maybe this person will forget about being ace/aro/poly/RA now that they've met me."

As someone who has experienced backdooring in relationships where I thought I was safe (my ex-girlfriend successfully used our queerplatonic relationship as a backdoor into a romantic relationship that had me doubting my own orientation and personal boundaries for years after the fact, and more than one ex-friend of mine has tried to use the bonds I form with my friends as backdoors into a sexually predatory dynamic) I can say with 100% certainty that backdooring is a form of abuse, and that anyone with a preference for anything besides a monogamous, sexually involved romantic relationship is vulnerable to it.

What backdooring is and isn't

Backdooring isn't two people's feelings or attractions mutually changing after getting into a certain kind of relationship.

If you and your partner originally got into a sexless romance but began to feel a mutual sexual attraction to one another, that's fine. People's feelings about each other are fluid.

But if you're in a sexless romance and you have no interest in sex, but your partner keeps trying to pressure you to fuck them, please, just once, they haven't had any for so long and it would be really nice of you to just do this for them one time, they're probably trying to backdoor you and you need to do something about it because that's not a healthy situation.

If you're in a sexless relationship of any kind and you decide to mutually engage in a kink or fetish that doesn't require direct sexual contact, and you're both receiving an equal amount of enjoyment from participation in that kink/fetish, that isn't backdooring.

However, if someone you do not have a sexual relationship with engages in kink/fetish activities with you without telling you what they're doing or what they're getting out of it, that is backdooring and honestly, it's disgusting.

If you and your partner are in a polycule with some other people but you talk about it together and decide you want to go exclusive, that isn't backdooring.

But if your partner is trying to separate you from the rest of your polycule and get you to narrow your focus to only them, they're trying to backdoor you and you should let them know you won't stand for it.

If you're in a nonromantic relationship of any kind and you and your partner both enjoy playing with symbols and gestures associated with romance, but have no romantic intent behind the use of those symbols, that isn't backdooring.

But if you're in a nonromantic relationship and your partner uses those symbols and gestures with romantic intent, especially if they haven't cleared the use of those symbols or gestures with you ahead of time, that is backdooring and you should shut that door before it opens any further.

You can see clearly how backdooring intersects with and puts the victim at risk of other forms of intimate abuse, such as sexual/romantic coercion, social isolation, fetish mining, and, in extreme cases, corrective rape. It's honestly something that should be common sense not to do to another person, but for some reason, people with more traditional preferences like to see our relationships as less valuable and our boundaries as more freely transgressible.

If you've been a victim of this and want to share your story, I encourage you to add to this, or just reblog to spread awareness.

[39472034658449305249465224devils]

for those who forget who these 2 are...

yesepher

rising sun

winter and spring (and the ashen season)

morning from the night

the gathering of people

to suffer (mainly for a extensive period of time) and to be freed

to love and lose

to be unable to use ones plentiful skill

connection to godliness (complicated. god is not a 'person', it is a complicated culturally regarded as both unbeing, thinking individual, and unthinking material, for example, time, a person and water. a really old mountain harnesses godliness, godliness can pool into places on the earth, flows and cycles and fills a persons body, but godliness can also create things and make decisions, but is not necessarily conscious so it cant be bartered with. individual figures may be regarded as 'gods' as well, but are considered lesser to godliness and are simply beings with incredibility high concentrations of godliness. godliness is the absence of animal nature and person nature, it stands above both of them on the triad. as such it knows itself unlike animals, but can do no wrong as it cannot do, unlike people.)

cycles (generally regarding abuse, torment, insanity.)

to create one's own gain (usually from a poor situation / to suffer for nothing, so to create something. sunk cost god)

the animal nature (to know no evil, and thus commit no evil.)

violence and dominion (sexually) (culturally sexual violence is seen as physical violence, they are not divided in categories. furthermore, 'dominion' refers to hierarchy, and as social higher figures may strike someone lower than them as a punishment, sexual punishment may also be used, though generally does not involve penetration.)

iionei

setting sun

summer and autumn (and the rainy season)

evening into night

solitude

to face suffering after a long period of kindness

to never have known (and to mourn unknowing)

to need skills one does not have / be demanded of something one does not have

connection to the common person

doing something new / breaking cycles / rebirth

to resign to lack (rather, to not seek out gain.)

the person nature (to know evil, to persecute evil.)

violence and domination (nonsexual) (so like beating your servant for being a war traitor or whatever. or likewise partaking in a war at all.)

yesepher as a coiled serpent and iionei as a outstretched eagle with a triad sun

[mrsbuckybarnes1917]

2: UNWELCOME DISTANCE

Previous chapter < MASTERLIST > Next chapter

Dinner with Bucky didn't go as well as you planned and now you're suffering from the outcome of being ditched in an autumn thunderstorm.

Word count: 3.2k

Warning: feelings of betrayal, shitty communications skills, illness (upper respiratory tract infection) description, Coney Island and cotton candy, jealousy, Bucky... Barnes is a warning

The following morning, you woke up feeling a little worse for wear. You buried your face in your pillow willing the tickle in your throat and at the back of your nose to disappear. A small groan left your lips as your attempt to sleep in was thwarted by the aching throughout your body. Sitting up did little to make you feel better, other than shifting the balance of mucus in your sinuses, making you sneeze and worsening the scratchiness of your throat. You looked up at the clock, you’d missed the breakfast time that you were expected to attend, but there weren’t any messages on your phone expressing concern from your friends.

A throb of self pity and doubt flashed through your mind. Did any of them even care? You had lost Bucky to another woman, but clearly none of your other friends had noticed your absence. You weren’t special, you’d only been invited to join the Avengers Initiative because of your powers. The thoughts were just forming, your mind ready to spiral into a storm of insecurity, when there was a knock at your door. Each movement felt like wading through molasses, and even sitting up seemed like an insurmountable task.

"Cricket?" Steve’s voice permeated into the room.

"Coming!" At least that was what you tried to say, your voice coming out as a small croak. You padded over to the door barefoot and opened the door to find Steve’s kind face looking down at you.

His concern was etched across his features as he took in your disheveled appearance. Dark circles clung to your eyes, and your skin had lost its usual healthy hue.

"Hey there, sunshine," he greeted, his voice gentle. "How’re you feeling?"

There was only one word that would succinctly sum up your emotional and physical state in that moment. "Shit," you mumbled, sniffing at the fluid that was threatening to leak from your nose.

He reached out, his hand cool against your feverish skin. His touch was comforting, grounding you in the midst of your misery. "You definitely have a fever," he confirmed.

As if to affirm his observation, your body pitched forwards in a violent sneeze, which you barely had the time to catch with the inside of your elbow. You ended the outburst with a pained groan, as the back of your throat burned.

Steve’s concern deepened. "You need rest," he said firmly, steering you back into bed. "I’ll make you some tea."

You followed his instructions without protest, not having the energy to argue. It would be best for you to stay in bed, you’d get better quicker with rest, and it was a great excuse to avoid seeing your best friend and his girlfriend. The practical side of you would use the excuse that you didn’t want to expose anyone to your germs. At least Steve would be protected by the serum, so you didn’t need to worry about him hanging around. So with a clear conscience, you snuggled back under your covers to wait for Steve’s return.

As he disappeared towards the kitchen, you sank back into your pillows. Maybe losing Bucky wasn’t the end of the world. Maybe having a friend like Steve was enough—a warm presence in the midst of your feverish chaos. And as the wind whistled outside, you realized that sometimes, friendship was the best medicine of all.

Little did you know that on his way to the kitchen, Steve ran into Bucky as he was leaving your room.

"Steve?" Bucky called after his friend.

"Hey, Buck."

"What’re you doing?" The real question he wanted to ask was ‘why are you leaving Cricket’s room?’.

"Just grabbing some things for Cricket. She isn’t feeling very well."

"What?" Bucky’s eyebrows furrowed with concern. "She was fine yesterday!"

"Well if you hadn’t left her alone to get drenched in that storm, she probably wouldn’t be so miserable." Steve hadn’t meant to be so harsh with his words, but you had interrupted his beauty sleep the previous night and he was feeling rather disgruntled.

"What’re you trying to say, Steve?

"You shouldn’t have left it so long to tell her." Steve was referring to Priya and how long he'd kept his relationship with her private.

"That’s my decision, Steve." Bucky countered, defensively.

"I know. But maybe you should think about why you were so ready to tell me, but not Cricket."

Bucky clicked his tongue against the roof of mouth, dismissing Steve's comments. "I'm gonna go and see her."

Steve thought about objecting, but decided against it, opting to fetch the things he had promised you.

Bucky’s footsteps echoed down the narrow hallway, each one a heavy reminder of his own recklessness. The storm had raged outside, rain pelting against the window panes like a thousand tiny fists. But he hadn’t been there to shield you from it. Instead, he’d left you alone, vulnerable, and now guilt gnawed at him like a persistent rat.

Your room was dimly lit, the curtains drawn shut against the gray morning. Bucky hesitated at the threshold, his knuckles grazing the wooden doorframe. He’d never been good with words, especially when it came to matters of the heart. But he had to try.

"Cricket?" His voice was soft, almost tentative. He stepped inside, the floorboards creaking under his weight. There you were, cocooned in blankets, your face pale against the pillows. The storm had taken its toll on you, and he cursed himself for not being there.

You stirred, eyelashes fluttering open. "Bucky?" Your voice was a whisper, fragile like a spider’s silk. "What’re you doing here?"

He crossed the room in two strides, perching on the edge of your bed. "I… I heard you weren’t feeling well." His fingers brushed against your forehead, checking for fever. "Steve told me."

You managed a weak smile. "Steve’s a tattletale."

"He cares about you," Bucky said gruffly. "We both do."

"I feel bad for dragging him out of bed last night."

"Cricket, why didn't you tell me you didn't have any way to get back home. I would have brought a car instead of my bike."

You shrugged, “I didn’t think I had to.”

He had been so caught up in his plans to introduce you to Priya that he hadn’t even considered the possibility that you might need a ride home. He had assumed you would find your own way, and he was just starting to realize how selfish that had been. He should have been more attentive, more caring. He laid a hand on your arm, “I’m sorry, Cricket. I should have been more thoughtful. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Yeah, I got that.”

“Cricket, please, let me make it up to you. I was looking for you this morning. I made your favorite pancakes," Bucky continued. "Thought you could come and have breakfast with me and Priya, before I take her home."

"Sorry," you shrugged, hating this conversation more and more. Why was Steve taking so long to return?

"I was going to spend the day with her, but if you want, I can come back and we can watch some movies."

"Don't cancel your plans on my account." You rolled over, facing away from Bucky.

Your behavior stung, but he couldn't blame you for being angry. He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat threatening to choke him. "I’m sorry," he whispered. "For leaving you out there."

"See you later," you mumbled and Bucky knew he had been dismissed. 

Bucky couldn't shake the guilt that weighed heavily on his chest as he walked away. He had always been a good friend, someone who looked out for others and made sure they were taken care of. But in his excitement to introduce you to Priya, he had neglected to consider your needs.

As he walked away, Bucky couldn't stop replaying the conversation in his head. He had let you down, and he wanted to make things right.

Steve appeared a few moments after his departure, his arms laden with homely remedies and a bowl of soup which smelled incredible. Your stomach rumbled hungrily in response, making you blush.

"Here, take this first," Steve shoved a bottle of DayQuil under your nose.

Begrudgingly, you accepted the painkiller gratefully and then proceeded to slurp up the soup. "This is delicious," you hummed in approval.

"Hey, when you're feeling a bit better, I was thinking I could take you out somewhere… cheer you up a little." Steve stuttered towards the end as he saw surprise on your face. 

You swallowed your mouthful of soup before cracking a smile. “Steve, I'd like that.”

Steve smiled back at you. But suddenly, he reached out, grabbing the bowI in your hands, having noticed the slight hitch in your breath. A sneeze rocked your body forcefully and you groaned.

“Thanks,” you accepted the bowl back from Steve.

"No problem. Don't want to make a mess."

“No,” you sighed, finishing the soup in a sad silence.

“Want me to stay?”

“No, it's okay. I'm just going to go back to sleep.”

Steve took the empty dishes and kissed your forehead, glad that it didn't feel as warm as it had earlier. “Feel better, champ.”

You sure hoped you would.

*

A few days later, you were back in fighting form. But much to Bucky's chagrin, he could never seem to catch your attention for more than a passing nod or wave. He wanted to make things right with you. He missed you, he wasn’t used to being so close to you but not being able to talk to you properly. He had the sneaking suspicion that your distance might not just be ill-timed schedules. Were you avoiding him? He wondered if you were still angry at him for not giving you a ride back home after your dinner with Priya. A feeling of melancholy settled over him as he speculated on all the things he could have done that made you take a step away from him. Every reason under the sun spiraled through Bucky’s mind except the real reason for your withdrawal.

Bucky had hoped that meeting someone else, someone who was interested in him would help him push away the feelings he had for you. Closure. That’s what they called it in the movies these days. But this didn’t seem like it was going quite the way he had anticipated. In fact, rather than feeling happier, he felt more tortured than he had before. Maybe going out with Priya would take his mind off things, so he decided to give her a call and schedule a date, she had a way of soothing his turbulent thoughts. Not as well as you did, no one understood him quite like you did.

*

Steve was true to his word, and had whipped up a surprise plan for the two of you to spend the day together. He had chosen a Wednesday, explaining that it was a good time as the place would be less busy. He made sure you had dressed warmly, in spite of the sunny weather. 

"Don’t want you getting ill again," he smiled as you got into the car with him.

"Is that why we’re not taking the bike?"

Steve shook his head, knowing how much you loved riding motorcycles.

"So where are you taking me?" you asked. You’d been trying to get Steve to tell you for the last few days, but the tight lipped Captain had resisted all your wily techniques at information extraction.

"Coney Island."

"Ohh!" you exclaimed. "I haven’t been there for years!" You laughed before a thought popped into your head, a memory. "Are you sure you want to go there, Steve?"

"Why wouldn’t I want to go to Coney Island?"

"Well, I heard about�� the… Cyclone Incident."

Steve blushed. "Bucky telling everyone that story, huh?"

"Afraid so." Your smile was soured slightly by the shadow casted by Bucky’s name and you turned to stare out of the window, letting Steve drive in silence.

Steve shook his head. He wanted nothing more than for both his best friends to be happy, and for the two of you to be happy together was the ultimate goal. He hoped that one day both of you would come to your senses, but until then, he would do his best to support you both.

The weather turned out to be fine and you had shed your top layer before even leaving the car.

"Oh come on! Stop being such a dad! We can always come back to the car if it gets chilly!" you responded to Steve’s disapproval.

"Come on then!"

It was a beautiful day filled with laughter and joy between you and Steve. He was glued to your side, treating you to all the rides, indulging you when you wanted to ride the Cyclone repeatedly. Every time you got to the end of the ride, you’d turn to him and make sure he wouldn’t spill his guts. Steve rolled his eyes dramatically as you laughed hysterically.

"What next?" Steve asked. "And don’t tell me we’re doing that again."

"Come on, the girl letting people in definitely has a crush on you! Why do you think we got on for free the last two times?"

Steve grabbed your wrist, "Come on!" He led you away from the rides, over to a cotton candy kiosk, dropping a few notes into the vendor's hand and selecting two cones. You took the liberty of grabbing the blue one from his hand and tucking into it before he had the chance to object.

"Bet I can eat this faster than you can!" Steve suggested slyly.

"Oh, bring it, Rogers!" You tore the stick out of the candy cloud and scrunched it up into a tiny ball, sticking it in your mouth and letting the sugar dissolve on its own.

Steve, who had taken several large bites, looked up in confusion and awe. He eyed your empty hands, then put his finger on your bottom lip, pushing it down and peering into your mouth. 

You indulged his disbelief, opening your mouth and sticking out your tongue. "See, all gone! I win!" you smile with glee.

"Wow!"

"You forget, I was the youngest of five! I had to learn to eat fast or I’d lose out." 

Steve chortled quietly at your story. "Fine, what do you want as your prize?" He waved around at all the game stalls, letting you pick your prize.

You gazed around, contemplating your options when you spotted a giant stuffed wolf. "That one!"

Steve was true to his word and threw every bean bag with perfect aim and you pointed at a white plushie which looked a little different to the others. 

"Why don’t you take this one?" the vendor tried to shove a dark gray wolf into your arms, but you declined.

"No thank you, I’d like that one please." You selected one which had been stuffed on a high shelf, away from the others of its kind.

"Honey, this one’s going in the garbage, look at him, white body with one gray leg. It’s a defective product, they made a mistake in the factory. Happens from time to time."

But you were adamant, you wanted the white wolf with the transplanted leg.

"Whatever you want, miss." The vendor handed you the soft toy, which you hugged to your chest. There was something about him that you wanted to keep safe.

Unbeknownst to you, you had been spotted by someone unexpected. Bucky had had a similar thought to Steve, he had brought Priya to the ‘island’ on a quiet weekday for some harmless fun.

"Jamie, look!" Priya tugged at his sleeve. "Isn't that Cricket and Steve?"

Bucky's head whipped around so fast, he almost had empathy for whiplash sufferers. He frowned, eye searching the crowd in the direction of Priya’s outstretched hand. He couldn't believe that you would come here with Steve. He had often suggested a trip to Coney Island to you, but you'd never managed to make the time for it. So seeing you here with Steve made his insides burn with jealousy. Another part of him, his guilt-ridden conscience told him that he didn't deserve you. Naturally, you'd choose the classical hero, Steve. He was the golden boy, even when they'd been kids, Steve was the trouble maker, but somehow Bucky was the one his parents mistrusted. 

"Yeah," he grumbled.

"Let's go over and say hi!"

"I'm sure they don't want us to interrupt them." Bucky vetoed the suggestion with a sulky expression.

"Fair, I mean I wouldn't want anyone interrupting our date either." Priya smiled, taking Bucky's hand, leading him away. Bucky stole one last glance at his two best friends, a deep ache settling inside him as Priya dragged him away from you. 

*

Over the next week, you and Bucky drifted through the compound, both longing for the other but not quite able to find it within yourselves to seek the other out. For you, it was a simple matter of avoidance. You'd made the mistake of touching the flame and now you suffered the burn. But for Bucky it was different. He couldn't understand your absence and he knew nothing of your pain.

He could feel the frustration building up inside him, until one day he caught you returning to your room. And every one of his thoughts and accusations came pouring out.

"What is it? Why’re you upset with me?" Bucky demanded.

"I’m not upset… it’s not- I’m hurt. You hurt me. It’s not that you did something wrong. In fact you haven’t done anything wrong. It’s just that I thought you’d share something big, like dating, with me. But you kept it secret. For four months! I thought we told each other everything. I … I just expected-" you shrugged. "And that’s the problem here. My expectations were wrong, and I’m ashamed. But you didn’t do anything wrong. You have nothing to apologize for. But somehow I feel like I’m going to lose you."

"You’ll never lose me, Cricket."

"But Buck, I already have. Like she said… she’s your best friend now." Bucky opened his mouth to interrupt, but you put your hand out to stop him talking. "I just need some time to deal with that. Is that okay?"

"I didn’t mean to hurt you," he mumbled. The sincerity evident in his tone and face.

"I know, Buck," you sighed. "I know. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel guilty. Please, I want you to be happy. I’m happy for you."

"Please, let me make this up to you." Bucky grabbed your wrist, desperately.

"You can do that by making sure you take care of yourself. I’m always going to be with you, on missions and stuff, partner," you patted his upper arm. "I just think that our friendship’s going to change a little… and I just need some time to get used to that."

"Is this because of Steve?"

"Steve?" you repeated after him, feeling confused by the change in topic. "What does Steve have to do with this?"

"Are you together?"

"What? No! Bucky, why would you think that?"

"I just…" He shrugged, not quite able to bring up seeing you at Coney Island, or the moment of closeness you had had with Steve the night he had introduced you to Priya.

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[poisonf0rest]

𝐅𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐌𝐨𝐨𝐧

Plip, plop, plip, plop.

“The walls are crumbling.”

Plip, plop, plip, plop. 

“Can you feel it? The ocean is rumbling.” 

Today marks the beginning of a new era. 

After years of disproven theories and failed experiments, the Byrgenwerth Council has finally granted you approval to perform the surgery you’ve been perfecting since your days as a student: a procedure that will grant eyes to the inside of the brain.

A method to elevate the mind to the plane of the gods.

A way to see beyond.

You’ve been tinkering away in the laboratory for hours already, prepping for your opening surgery as you disinfect drills, scalpels, and needles all from muscle memory. Shoulders stiff from hunching over the tub, you set out the last set of equipment to sterilize and dry, lacing up your white coat before stepping into the main corridor. 

Strange, you don’t remember it being flooded before. 

Wading through the murky liquid, you feel it slosh at your ankles with every step, the once pristine tiled floors of the Research Hall’s grand entrance were now cracked and eroded under the layer of water stretched as far as the eye could see. 

No matter. Your surgery is scheduled for a quarter past, you have no time to waste on such trivial matters. You’ll simply ask one of those orphans to begin mopping up this mess. 

Continuing forward, the building seems to deteriorate with every step: grand columns and statues of Church scholars from decades past erode before your eyes, the mist eating away at the very soul of the Hall, leaving it deserted and ugly and starving. It beckons you further. Closer. 

You pause at the base of the stairs. The railings have all but rotted, and at your feet is a patient- which you do not know- scrambling for something in the water as she mutters incoherently. 

“Where is your caregiver?” You ask, beginning towards her until she lurches forward, tripping over her bound ankles as she slips down the last few steps, falling headfirst into the murky water with a dull crack.  

Rushing to her side, you help her up,  “Are you alright? Tell me how I–”  Dark liquid clings and oozes down her hair and skin. Like a rotten egg cracked open. 

Her face is gone. 

You feel her body twist and contort against your palms, elongating as the patient garbs rip and tear along all the new angles that should never exist on a human form. And over her head is a leather bag, strapped onto her shoulders and fastened around her neck with layers upon layers of buckles fastened so tight that dried blood sticks them to the bag itself. There is no face left. Under the leather there is nothing but a bloated, tumorous mass that bubbles with fluid, and when the patient tries to speak again it sounds like the roar of the ocean. 

You do not scream. 

You have seen this before. 

After all, you are the one doing this to them. 

“Oh,” The patient pulls away from your hold, gasping as she goes back to groping around in the water. “Has someone, anyone, seen my eyes? I'm afraid I've dropped them in a puddle.” 

Plip, plop, plip, plop. 

What is the suffering of one when it could mean the salvation of a thousand? 

What is justice in the face of true madness? 

You do not know. You simply listen to the science, to the teachings of the Great Ones, and pray that They are right. Pray that this was all worth it. 

Plip, plop, plip, plop. 

The further up you climb the more patients you run into, all in a state of transformation and decay due to the surgeries you and your fellow researchers conducted on them. Most simply stagger about, blind under their leather bags and bloated heads, others wriggle like worms in the puddles forming from the cracks on the floor, and some are nothing but heads, praying to gods who will not listen. 

You try and listen. Anything to ease their suffering. 

Suppose that’s a little hypocritical though, isn't it?

Or perhaps that makes you their god?

Some patients have undergone trephination three or four times. None have gotten better. But the true chances are noticeable. Sure, there is a base loss in appearance and more human-like qualities. However, that is in exchange for insight into something even greater, something beyond the average human’s comprehension. It is the key you’ve been searching for.

They are lucky, you reason, to be the chosen ones for this grand endeavor. After all, each and every patient here enlisted themselves for research, wholeheartedly believing in the holy crusade the Healing Church has undertaken to cleanse Yharnam. It is your honor, truly, to be working alongside such devotion.

After all, in a city without hope, there is only so much one as an individual can accomplish. Either you're a scholar, a killer, or fodder for the prior. Fodder to feed the stars, fodder to raise hell. It gets harder to tell which way is up with every passing day. 

Are we rising? 

Or sinking?

Plip, plop, plip, plop.

Finally, the staircase ends, falling apart behind you, and you pull on your surgery gloves. You smile to yourself as you prepare for the operation, remembering just how close you are to finding the knowledge of transcendence. The Council has entrusted you- Micolash himself has entrusted you- and this could very well be the next stage in humanity’s correspondence with the realms beyond. 

Up until now, all of your patients have stagnated. Despite their altered forms, they were still undoubtedly stuck on this plane of existence, only sometimes slipping to the higher planes of the Great Ones once you drilled more gray matter into their brains, recalling the dripping pattern of rain and the roar of the ocean. 

Water, you hypothesize, is the key. 

Bodies of water act as liminal spaces- gateways, if you will- from our own world to one of the Great Ones. Like looking down at one’s own reflection, that relationship mirrors the relationship between the world of the gods and that of our own: our realm is merely a moment’s imitation of true existence, one that is warped and fragile, disrupted with but a ripple. 

To be able to reach beyond the water’s surface, to break free from the role of a mere reflection and sit atop the true world alongside the Great Ones. That is your purpose. That is the goal of the Research Hall. 

And so this is all but a necessary sacrifice. 

Walking into the vast operating room, you feel the burn of the spotlights as you set the tray of tools down aside the patient, the rough click of metal on metal reverberating through the room. The rest of the researchers watch you, like spectators at the coliseum as they surround you from the observatory decks. You hope Micolash is among them. You hope Lady Maria is there too. 

Strapped to the table is a patient you’ve come to know well, a woman who was as dedicated to finding the key to ascension as you were. Your first success. 

“Saint Adeline,” you greet, bowing even though she cannot see you through the leather bag buckled around her head. 

Adeline giggles. “Ma’at, Themis, my beautiful Yama. Has the day of judgment arrived?”

She tries to reach for you, but the buckles strapping her to the operating table chain her in place. As if knowing she’s being watched, her voice drops into a drowsy whisper, “Is the ocean falling? Rumbling?” 

You hum in response, filling up a syringe with brain fluid- not your discovery, not your choice in name, you’re aware it’s rather silly- the grayish amoeba crawling and bouncing along the vial. However, you were the one to recognize its use, for once extracted from a patient whose transformation was complete, you hypothesized that re-injection into a brain could stimulate the formation of internal eyes.

And today, your hypothesis will be proven correct. 

It has to. 

“Yes, Adeline, today the surface will break.” You prepare to make the opening incision, a drill straight through the occipital bones, only to drop your hands when you realize there is nothing in them. 

Adeline smiles up at you, and you curse at yourself for never noticing how beautiful she was. Paler than moonlight both in skin and hair, blonde strands cascading over the operating table as she sits up, taking your face in her palms. Wrenching your body towards hers, her grip fractures your wrists, lips brushing by your ear as she gives you one last kiss. Breath as cold as ice, eyes as pale as the moon. 

"Only an honest death will cure you now."

Plip, plop, plip, plop. 

She is dead. 

Everyone is dead. 

A rogue Hunter broke into the Research Hall, slaughtering everyone in the observatory deck in the midst of your surgery, blood from the bodies pooling down over the railings and steps. Years of research- of true progress - destroyed by a man worth little more than a beast. 

You can hardly think. You just run. 

Church Hunters are killers by nature, beasts who oh so easily give in to the Scourge. Clearly, this one was already lost, driven mad by his own bloodlust. 

Dying screams and unanswered prayers echo down every hall like a haunted church during worship, and no matter how far you run their last words ring in your ears and rattle your skull. The air tastes like iron and you feel something warm trickle down your lips. Your nose is bleeding.

Running into a laboratory, you duck as bodies are thrown against priceless equipment, vials shattering and blood splattering onto countless records as the Research Hall runs red. The water runs red. The ocean rises. 

Surely someone has raised the alarm, more Church Hunters should be coming to the rescue, but by then you fear it may be too late for— 

“Stop running, you fucking scum.”

You freeze.

You swore you had outrun it. You swore it was behind you, lazy and greedy in the carnage it had already created. And yet here it stood, blood-soaked and snarling before you. 

Death itself.

Hunched in the corridor before you was the rogue Hunter, standing in the ocean of blood as he bites into a trapped scholar’s neck, the poor boy writhing with a violet scream until he goes limp in the Hunter’s arms, drained. 

Vampyre. Vileblood. Accursed beast. 

“Monster.” 

He smiles back, fangs bloody and bare. “Likewise.”

With a lunge, the Hunter is upon you, but it is not the harsh tile but rather a soft thud of soil that breaks your fall. The petals of crushed sunflowers shrivel under your body as they dim in their dying moments. 

No, not sunflowers, there is no sun, not anymore. Instead, these ghostly imitations of sunflowers seem to feed off of something else entirely, curling around your bleeding legs and stretching towards the Hunter as he too appears in the gateway to the garden. 

Unsheathing his claymore, the Hunter stalks forward, shadows warping his form with every arch he passes under, ticking closer and closer and closer still. But instead of swiftly delivering you the killing blow, the Hunter stalls, pausing at the last archway before the garden as he sees a patient writhing against the marble. 

Their bloated head was too large for their deformed shoulders to support, and instead of fleeing they were doomed to writhe on the dirt, chained limbs flailing with every gurgled cry. The Hunter barely wastes a moment, cutting free the patient’s bindings before a dull thud echoes down the garden walkway. 

You watch the patient’s head roll across the marble and scoff from your place on the ground. What a waste of a valuable test subject. 

Even in death’s face you can’t help but laugh at the self-proclaimed righteousness of this Beast. “Do you think yourself a savior?”

At first, he doesn’t grant you the dignity of a reply. “I hold no illusions. I'm just a different breed of monster from you, heretic.” Swinging his claymore, it glints the same violent red as his hair. It’s as beautiful as it is blinding. “But at least I’ll die knowing I haven't condemned hundreds to an early grave for the selfish illusions of gods and power.”

You laugh, “Illusions? Your kind will never comprehend the truth. Their lives were willingly offered for the sake of evolving mankind, so that no plague or war or sin could corrupt us again.”

The Hunter is above you now, kicking a boot onto your chest as he forces you to the floor with the tip of his claymore pressed to your throat. 

You simply greet the kiss of metal with open arms, saying a final prayer in hopes the Great Ones accept you in your next life. “Kill me, Beast. Kill me, but know that our pursuit of knowledge can never be quelled.”

“You call it knowledge, I see only carnage.”

“And the dog can stare at language so long as it desires, but it shall never speak.”

“Then howl.”

And with a single slash, the Hunter severs your head from your shoulders. 

Plip.

We fail to realize our own latent potential until the moment it is lost, and we sense its absence. Ironically, this is the very nature of insight, like the moment one licks one's own blood, only to be startled by its sweetness.

And your blood, mon cherí , was oh so sweet. 

Plop.

· · ─────── ·♰· ─────── · ·

Every night, without the sun ever coming up, the lunar cycle inches closer to the full moon. And with every cycle, the neverending hunt grows more violent and vicious. 

And when the full moon finally takes up Her place in the sky, She hangs low with a silver glow and the promise of blood. She is enchanting, haunting, and hungry in a way only the divine can be: utterly insatiable.  

The early spring snow has long since melted, slathering cobblestones in a bloody sludge, the cold air tainted with the rotten stench of iron and the screams of the Beasts, newly transformed and starving. Down the flickering streets, far in the distance, and even inside alleyway buildings, the howls of the damned are inescapable.

Everybody who has once called Yharnam their home is dead, dying, or transforming into something else entirely. 

You’re not sure which is worst. 

Where the Beasts go the Hunters follow, two sides of the same twisted fate, and the hunt quickly turns into a bloodbath. To quell public panic and unrest, the Healing Church has deployed wave after wave of Hunters, and soon both man and monster prowl the streets of Yharnam, nearly indistinguishable as they are doused in red and silver. 

The Church has eyes everywhere tonight, and yet, with so many injured you cannot help but keep your clinic doors open. You took an oath, and you shall keep it no matter how dark this night gets. 

Within hours, your clinic is overwhelmed. 

The main floor only has three rooms, several dozen cots crammed in between supplies and maze-like walkways, and the stench of gore and panic overwhelming the small space. Even with extra makeshift cots you and the orphans scrambled together, several dozen Hunters and injured civilians lay sprawled across boxes of medical equipment, bleeding out against tables or on each other. 

You tried to mandate Scourge infection screenings at the door, checking for darkening veins or fogging pupils, but with only the children and yourself left to run the clinic you’re quickly overrun and forgo the physical examinations. Perhaps that was the first mistake. By the second toll of the bell the clinic already reeks of blood and piss and sweat and death. Combined with the rising temperatures due to the growing crowd of bodies and the overlapping screams of your patients, it was nearly unbearable. 

For the sake of basic sanitation, you tried to delegate each patient to their own area and medical equipment, but cross-contamination is inevitable as panicked townsfolk and aggravated Hunters scramble and fight for the quickly dwindling supplies. It was a nightmare come to life.

“Doctor!”

Turning, you nearly barrel into an elderly woman, helping her out of the way before you rush to Alison, who is still calling your name as she and Edwin fight to keep a patient down. He’s a Hunter, you quickly realize, pinned onto the cot as he thrashes and screams, a black rot squirming and crawling like a parasite burrowing into the gash across his open stomach. 

“ Merde ,” you curse, watching the rot spread, “It’s the Scourge. Edwin! Strap his limbs down and ensure no other patients come near.” 

The boy nods, already shouting orders to the other children as they struggle together to tie down the screaming Hunter as you force panicked observers out of the way.

Running past, you shove past the door to your lab, scrambling up the stairs and between the numerous experiments until you find the mixed cultured samples of Diluc’s vampire blood.

There was no time to check which of the trials- if any- actually contained an antibody capable of fighting the Beastly Scourge, but you’d be damned to have collected this much information and not try when a patient was dying right below your feet. 

You pick one randomly. “Please,” praying into the syringe, you fill it with culture #9801. “Work.”

Downstairs, someone screams.

A few seconds later, you hear a loud crash, a body hitting the floor, then nothing but panicked shrieks, chasing you down the stairs as you burst through the clinic doors.

The infected Hunter was already in the midst of transforming, one furry arm freed from the restraints and thrashing widely at the air, snarling like a mad beast as Edwin and Alison fight to keep the other limbs locked.

Disregarding the flailing claws of the half-beast, you duck beneath the equipment, crawling until you lay under the mad Hunter’s cot. Snapping up, you lunge to avoid getting pierced, twisting around the bottom of the cot before thrusting the syringe into his side, pushing down as you watch the gray liquid inject. He howls and you tremble, fighting to keep the needle lodged in his rotting skin. 

Then the Hunter lies still.

A moment of silence.

And, before your very eyes, he begins to revert, fur receding and bones snapping back into place as he groans and gasps in human pain. It worked.

It worked. 

It really worked. 

Giddy with hope, you’re already running through countless possibilities of furthering testing on mice and the logistics for mass producing a vaccine, the reality of finally creating a cure for the Beastly Scourge so impossibly wondrous you’re physically shaking. Biting your cheek does little to hide your smile, and it's only another look around the packed clinic that reminds you of the task at hand. 

Rolling out from under the cot, you instruct the children to leave the man’s restraints on, just in case, you tell yourself, and move them on to treat new patients. 

Notes can wait. Plans can wait. Hope can wait. 

Your patients cannot.

You repeat the mantra over and over, yet it does little to ground you against the flurry of thoughts surrounding this potential cure. Which, in hindsight, is probably why you failed to notice a fallen medical tray, boot skidding across the metal surface as your ankle rolls out from under you. 

You couldn’t even process the fall in time to scream. Only a blink, and your vision swoops to the ceiling as you plummet backward. 

But you never hit the floor. 

An arm wraps around your waist, holding you tight the other hand re-balances you from the small of your back. Then you’re hoisted up, the walls shifting back in place. Even so, your savior’s touch lingers, the burn of his palm radiating even through your lab coat. He smells like smoke. 

“Careful.”

You breathe in deeply despite yourself, “Diluc.”

You didn’t even notice him enter. 

But then you falter. Why is he here? Your Hunter makes it a point only to arrive when the clinic is empty, or at least sneak by to avoid as many people as possible. There is no way he wouldn’t have heard- or frankly smelled- the blood and panic in your clinic from miles away with his enhanced senses.

Your brows furrow, and Diluc flinches ever so slightly as your fingers graze his jaw.  “Is something the matter? You look weary.”

Refusing to meet your gaze, Diluc notices Alison and Orton struggling to drag another cot through the crowd of patients, and vanishes from your side. He single-handedly lifts the bed and sets it down across the clinic hall, reappearing beside you within a fraction of a second. His palm immediately returns to rest against your back. 

“You seem busy.”

Avoiding the question. Typical. 

And yet it’s really quite hard to stay mad at Diluc when he subconsciously hugs you tighter, shielding you from the mass of patients pushing past, so clearly overwhelmed by the noise and the crowd and yet lingering by you. For you. Not only that but the heat of his touch and the looming reminder of how much his form towers over you makes you far more distracted than you’d like to admit. 

But before you could even think of teasing him for the habit, Diluc pulls you even closer still, making your tongue twist in your mouth as your jaw goes slack. His hand comes up, skimming past your collarbones as it pauses by your neck. 

Is he—? Here? Now? 

You’re still in the midst of processing the initiation of this very public display when Diluc frowns, his hand brushing past your jaw. 

“How…” Ever so gently his fingers tilt your head back, tracing across your neck with a touch so cold it almost feels like the tip of a blade. “When did you get this scar?”

“Scar?”

Startled, break from Diluc’s hold, picking up a medical tray for a makeshift mirror as you crane your chin backward. 

Sure enough, slashed across the near entirety of your neck was a needle-thin scar, silver and almost invisible in the low light. You would have thought it a trick of the fluorescent clinic lights or side effects of your fatigue if not for Diluc questioning it first. 

How had you received the scar? 

You can’t remember. 

Your vision swims for a moment, distorting as if a veil has been thrown over your eyes, focusing and unfocusing as if the cloth of reality danced and fluttered just outside your perception. Seeing through omission. Noticing only that which is not there. Remembering that which has not happened yet and what is to come. 

It rushes against your ears, a sound strong enough to be a feeling, like getting tossed under the waves until your very sense of being is distorted, not knowing which way is up. 

A blink and it’s gone; you’ve resurfaced, and your head throbs in its absence.

“Saints.” Groaning, you cradle your temples, muttering that you’re fine over and over again as you manage to hear Diluc’s voice through the roar of the surf. 

He says your name again, louder this time, and the sound of the ocean cuts off with the scream of a child. What the fuck. You look wildly around the clinic, and yet there are no children in sight, only a young maiden and a few young Hunters getting treated for their wounds. 

“If there something you’re keeping from me—”

You force a smile. “I’m fine, Diluc. Just a little tired from all of this,” you motion, arms sweeping across the clinic and towards him before running your hands up your face and into your hair. Even so, you keep the grin, eyeing the infected Hunter still sleeping peacefully in his cot. “Enough about me, did you see it? The cure?”

He still looks abnormally tense, eyeing you with something you can’t quite place, something between reverence and regret that makes your chest pang. You step forward, about to ask again when another voice cuts across the chaos of the clinic. 

“Pardon me, are you the lead physician of this establishment?” 

You jolt away from Diluc, whipping around as you find a young man— A patient? A Hunter?-- grinning in an almost overly-friendly manner as he approaches the both of you with clasped hands. Correction: as he approaches Diluc , clearly mistaking him for the physician.

Clearing your throat, you step before the stranger, offering him a gloved hand that he takes half in reflex and half in confusion. “Correct. However, if this is a request for quicker treatment, allow me to remind you that we treat every patient here equally and you or your friend will simply have to wait your turn.”

The man's face lights up in surprise, and he immediately shouts out an apology. “I beg your pardon, I only assumed that–” the man stops himself, nearly doubling over in laughter as curls of thick blonde hair flop with every hearty chuckle. “I suppose that was the problem to begin with, no? No more assumptions. A pleasure to meet you, m’lady.”

“Doctor will work just fine.”

"Oh, well beg your pardon, Doctor. You may call me Alfred!" He says, offering a deep bow and salute, his elbow pulled across his waist as he bends down, almost parallel with the ground. 

You shift in place. Despite Alfred’s unfaltering smile you cannot help but feel on guard around the boyish man: a type of unnerving fight or flight instinct one gets when cornered by a being that resembles something almost human.

A wolf in sheep's clothing. A monster in human skin. 

A mirror. 

Scanning his heavily embroidered cloak, you note its uncanny familiarity, a solid gray from top to bottom and covered in tight lapels and buttons. It was adorned with the rune stitched right into the center of his chest, revealed only when the heavy cloak hanging from his shoulders swung out to the side. 

That’s why you recognize them. They resemble Choir garbs. Not exactly, and he’s definitely too young to also be an orphan, but the similarity is undeniable. 

And that rune, you now remember what it stands for: God’s Executioner. 

You instinctually go for the dagger kept sheathed away in your lab coat. One strike. The clinic begins to warp with silence and static, and somewhere through the haze you watch Alfred lean closer, your vision narrowing into the hollow dip of his throat. One strike to the carotid artery, and the monster will bleed to death almost instantly. 

Trembling, your arm raises, snaking under your coat almost in slow motion, clasping around the handle just as someone’s hand stops yours in an iron grip. 

“M’lady?”

Their touch snaps you back to the present. Breath is punched back into your gut, and your senses are rushed with the smell of gore and rubbing alcohol, remembering the chaos of the clinic and the conversation you were in the midst of having. 

Alfred’s smile is twisted with concern, but you’re hardly coherent enough to stop him from coming closer as he continues talking about something or other you can’t quite hear above the roar of your own heartbeat. 

“The Doctor is rather overworked right now.” Your hand is nudged away from the concealed blade, and your back hits something firm, grounding you. ”Excuse us.” 

Diluc. It was Diluc’s hand that stopped yours just moments before you brandished your knife in the middle of the clinic. It was Diluc’s chest you’re pressed up against, an almost casual position if one failed to notice his hands lingering around your hip and wrist.

Saints, what is wrong with you?

Alfred opens his mouth to speak again, but your Hunter cuts him off with a curt nod, turning the both of you away before pushing towards the clinic's back door. You squirm against his hold, constantly twisting around as you watch Alfred’s gaze obsessively follow you. 

“Diluc, that man was wearing a Holy Shawl.”

“I am aware.”

“You- you don’t understand, he’s a hunter.”

“I know.” Diluc keeps pushing you forward, turning your neck back around when you fight to look behind you.

“No, no, you do not. He is a hunter . An Executioner, a hunter of Vilebloods, and he saw you-” This time when you turn back, Alfred is gone. You scan the clinic wildly, fighting against Diluc’s grasp. 

Diluc calls your name. “I know.” His hands slowly cup your cheeks, forcing you to quit looking erratically over his shoulders and finally meet his gaze. “I knew.”

The overwhelming smells and sounds of the clinic fade away as the sudden rush of the cold night air nips at your skin, the clinic’s back door clicking shut as Diluc leads you into the dim alley. You don’t realize how much you’re shaking until you try and pull his hands from your face, your fingers trembling against his own. 

How could you have been so fucking careless? You’re not a registered physician, not as far as the Healing Church is concerned, and that alone could be grounds for punishment, anywhere from mutilation to public execution. Not to mention, as a woman there’s no guarantee accusations of witchcraft or colluding with the devil wouldn't be charged against you as well. Now not only have you put your practice and patients at risk, but also Diluc and the children, not to mention jeopardize the cure you’ve only just managed to— 

You need to get the Church off your trail. 

It’s only the lingering heat of Diluc’s palms against your face that keeps you anchored from the voices rattling your skull with promises of violence. Breathe. 

You step back. Diluc lets you. Inhale. Your eyes are still locked with his, and your breathing syncs with his own, and you watch the worry fade from his crimson gaze before you curse at the ground. Exhale. 

“Don’t.”

“What?” You flinch at your own tone.

Diluc crosses his arms, blocking your path back into the clinic as you are forced backward. “I’m not a fool. You almost brandished a knife at a church executioner, you’re not thinking clearly.” 

You scoff. “Very well, so I panicked. But if you had let me lure him outside alone I could have taken care of—”

“What, and you believe the Healing Church would simply fail to notice when the Executioner they assigned to investigate this clinic doesn’t return?” A snarl, and you swear his eyes glow red in the dim light. He steps forward and instinctively you shrink back. ”I knew you were reckless, but I never took you as plain stupid. Do you want a larger target on your back? You like throwing yourself in danger?” 

Before you could even think to respond Diluc lets out a curt, mocking laugh, humorless as he motions between the two of you before snapping back to you. “Of course you do.”

Now it’s your turn to see red. 

How dare he. 

How dare that impulsive, violent, martyr of a Hunter accuse you of being the reckless one. 

And then— “You will stop seeing patients.”

The sheer absurdity of the request is enough to give you physical whiplash. “Excuse me?” 

Not a request. A demand. 

You gape up at him, insults and plain curses boiling up against your throat as you stare at Diluc’s apathetic, unchanging face, scowling down at you as though disciplining a bratty child or spoiled dog. 

“I certainly will not .” You step towards the clinic, the screams and prayers of patients resounding even through the door frame. “Tonight's Hunt has no end in sight, and already there are dozens who need my help. Not to mention I finally might have a cure for the Scourge.”

“That is precisely why you must lie low! You saw the Executioner prying, what makes you think the Church won’t send more dogs?”  

"This is my duty, Hunter. Just as you have yours."

Diluc snarls, "I'm fully aware of what being a doctor entails. But you are not—" He catches your gaze, tired and frustrated, and goes silent. Fuck. How is it that everything he says around you comes out wrong? He thinks it might be the curse of being undead. Oh, how easy if he could blame it on his lack of a heart, to blame it on Vampirism to blame it on the Church. But he feels it, he feels it skip when you look at him like this, he feels it tremble as he fails again and again to hold on without leaving claw marks and open wounds instead.

His anger has a way of always attacking the people he wants to protect. 

“You’re right,” You whisper. “We have only failed before, but that is precisely why we cannot fail again. If I can somehow manage to get the Church to distribute this cure, everyone in Yharnam could be immune in only a week's time. We could stop the Scourge in a matter of days- is that not worth every risk?”

"It was foolish. There was no guarantee that cure would have worked."

You stare at him, and by the gods are you tired. You’re tired of reaching, tired of convincing yourself that there must always be a catch, a drawback, a trap, that every effort is just an illusion of hope waiting to shatter. You simply want the conviction to truly believe that for once the world will get better.

 You think you have to hope. 

After all, that is why you saved him, is it not? It’s why you couldn't pull the trigger all those months ago. It’s why, after knowing all these reasons not to, you’re falling in love with him.

A sigh, and you're overwhelmed with the need to hold him. So you do, resting your head against his chest. He’s warm. "There are never guarantees, Diluc. Every treatment is subject to trial and chance, but at the end of the day I still treat my patients, and you still hunt your monsters."

And Diluc wants to fight back. He wants to stop you, to stop you before you truly cross the point of no return. To tear himself open and display the horrors of what the Hunter’s contract has forced upon him, anything to make you realize how much of a privilege the option of ignorance and the ability to just look away is. 

But all that you hear next are the screams coming from inside the clinic. 

You tear yourself away from the Hunter, jerking towards the backdoor before Diluc stops you, one hand pulling you backward as the other lands on the hilt of his greatsword. He unsheathes his claymore with practiced ease, kicking the door wide as you both push into the clinic. 

The stench of blood and gore nearly knocks you over. 

Bile crawls up your throat, and you drop to your knees in time to dodge an operating table hurled at the door. Diluc cleaves it in half, the pieces clattering to the floor. A Beast, writhing in pain as its ribs crack open, fur and limbs emerge from its writhing body in bloody spurts, still half restrained to a cot as it screeches and drags behind him.

You lunge for your rifle, aiming for the Beast’s head when you recognize that torn uniform, the Hunter garbs. He’s the patient, the patient you cured. 

The rifle trembles and your finger loosens on the trigger. “I can’t...” The cure had worked. 

You can’t kill a man.

But your Hunter knows no such hesitation. Diluc moves with an eerie grace, his sword flashing in the dim light of the clinic as he meets the Beast before it lunges at the mob. Blade strikes claw and the monster roars. Diluc ducks a swing, twisting his grip before punching the claymore upwards, slicing through the Beast’s ribcage as blood sprays in an arch across the clinic walls. 

"Stop! Don't kill him!" You cured him. You saw it, the cure worked. It had to have worked.

Diluc pauses unnaturally, stopping mid-swing as if his heart and instinct were fighting for control. "Are you mad?” It snarls and he drives the blade in again. ”It’s the Scourge, it's beyond saving!"

You shake your head, your eyes locked onto the Beasts. You can see it, the pain flickering in his cloudy, poisoned gaze, the slight twitch of his furry limbs as they resist the transformation. Only a human would fight that hard to stay alive. 

 But Diluc doesn't listen. The Hunter sees only a Beast.

Panicked, you’re about to drop your aim when your head rushes with an eerie ringing, a muted toll of bells throbbing through your ears as your balance gives. You barely register the pain of your knees ramming into the tile as your vision spins, throbbing in time to the ringing. Then, with a suddenness that makes you jump, it speaks. 

The Beast’s snarls part to form words, his voice now broken and guttural, as though attempting to make human speech from an animal tongue. "You believe you can save me?" it howls in laughter. "You believe you can break the curse that’s been wrought upon us?" 

Fool.

Foolish greedy human, always wanting knowledge that should never have been yours. 

Diluc steps back as though stunned, his sword lowering slightly. The Beast takes advantage of the momentary distraction and charges towards him. Your body moves on instinct. With a bang, your rifle goes off, the Beast howling as it convulses over its bleeding stomach, its flesh bubbling around the silver bullet with the stench of rotten flesh.

Diluc takes the opening, claymore following a clean arch over his shoulder. The metal sings, hitting the clinic’s floor at the same moment the Beast’s head does so too, its massive body following suit in a bloody heap. 

The screams of the other patients fade into the background as you stare at the lifeless body of the beast. Diluc turns to look at you, and you ground yourself in the inferno burning in his eyes. Such a violent, violent red. 

“Did you…” Diluc kneels before you, and you cling to him, gaping. “Did you hear him?”

The Hunter's brows furrow, and he lifts you slowly, as though scared of startling you. “Hear what?”

You don’t remember. 

Your gaze flickers back to the corpse of the Hunter. You lock eyes with his decapitated head, skull morphed into something half-wolf half-man, eyes still blown open as he stares back, frozen in horror.

He’s dead. The Hunter is dead.

Your cure failed. 

And yet, before it failed it worked, did it not? There was a moment of time where it worked, where it truly worked, and in that moment alone you imagined a Yharnam cleared of the Scourge and of the rot. And it was beautiful. 

You have to try again. You must find the cure. No matter the cost.

You don’t even realize you’re muttering it to yourself, over and over again until Diluc’s hand clasps onto your shoulder, ripping your gaze off the Hunter’s mutilated body and back to his own. 

Diluc’s words are quiet, recited more to himself than you. "You cannot save everyone."

You know, and yet.

“If I don’t, then who will?”

[fallenhunnyapple]

*aims gun* you better share those Adam body dysmorphia headcannons right now

(please 🥺)

Oh no a gun is pointed at me whatever shall I do 😩

I guess I'll just have to give in to your demands 😏

Okay these are HCs I share with @fallenguitarhero

So basically, Adam is Just A Guy. He has always been Just A Guy. When his helmet is broken, you can see just how much A Guy he is, his proportions are Completely human.

Meanwhile when he has his helmet, he's a lot more fluid, his size and shape changes at will basically. He can eat and drink through his helmet. When he's in the safety of Heaven, even when Lute is maskless, he's still wearing his Helmet. Clearly he feel More Comfortable with that than with his actual face.

He's the first Human Soul in Heaven, but he's not Just a Winner, he has Angelic Powers, he can create portals, he can look into Hell at will, he has Holy Light powers. He's an Angel but he's still Human. And he Looks Human. Especially at the beginning, he was the only thing that Looks like him. All the other Angels are ethereal in their appearance, they can have multiple forms. He's just... A human with Wings. Sure his wings are Unique, but that's the only thing that's special about him. It's not Him that's special.

The Helmet gives him the ability to change his form in little ways, it separates him from being Just A Guy, his face is something Different, something he can control. There's no way his Helmet wasn't specially made with all the abilities it has. No LED masks allows you to eat and drink through it. It was made specifically to allow him to keep it on at all times.

Without the Mask, his face is More Expressive, as cartoony and silly his Mask can be, his natural face's expressions are pushed even further.* And when his Helmet is Destroyed and he's just Him, he's Smaller than he was with the Helmet on. So if that's not his Natural state, then that means he's done it On Purpose consciously or not. He feels Smaller with his Helmet gone.

And then we kinda lean into it more in our AUs, especially our Sinner AU. Adam feels so insecure without his Mask, which had been destroyed during Extermination Day, so he hates people staring or even just looking at his face. His face is the thing he's most sensitive about but he can't hide it anymore and it weighs on him. The only person he allowed to see him without his mask Voluntarily was Lute because he trusted her more than anyone. (qpr guardrock is so important to me). But piercings and tattoos etc help because it allows him to take control of his appearance

In AUs other than Sinner AU, it takes a while for Adam to be comfortable taking his helmet off around Lucifer, Lucifer hadn't seen his face since Eden. And it takes Adam quite a while before he's willing to accept that Lucifer - especially Lucifer, the one once considered to be The Most Beautiful Angel - could find him attractive.

* Edit: Forgot to add that Because of how Expressive he is naturally, the mask also helps him control how he's being perceived. He can show As Much of his true feelings as he wants, or as Little. Its literally Masking his emotions

[hurtmyfavsthanks]

PREV ASK ANON HERE

I absolutely adore the idea of them being so completely unaware and dazed that they’re just happy to be there dearly. the only discomfort they’d be aware of is how cold they are in comparison to their temperature controlled tank. whumpee’s emaciated body would not be able to control their own temperature, and also factoring in the minimal clothes they’re wearing, leaves a whumpee with chattering teeth and no sense of what’s wrong.

also the act of caring for a god as a sense of devotion?? I’m kicking my feet and giggling I love it sm. I’d imagine as well in any scenario when whumpee is being manhandled they’re responsive to any stimulus, being that they’ve been deprived of anything but water for months, so any brush of the skin that whumper allowed would be responded to by a startle, groan, twitch, etc which in diff situation w diff whumper’s can yield different reactions. disgust, adoration, a sick sense of satisfaction, etc.

oooooohhgh and the aftermath. chefs kiss.

you’re right so so right ohmygod. whumpee would almost rather have been tortured or physically hurt to be able to say they “survived something” rather than just been completely and totally dehumanized to the point of complete and utter unawareness and shut down of higher cognitive functions. IM EATING IT UPPP.

Anyways,,whumper probably talked to them through the tank like someone would talk to a pet goldfish.

-🪣 anon (cause i dump all my ideas on ppl)

Oh my lord, the imagery. I just can’t help but imagine when Caretaker first finds Whumpee. They expect a cell, chains and bars. Instead, they find Whumpee suspended in a glass tube, body submerged in fluid. Their body limp, hair flowing like a halo around their head. They look like a sleeping god. They look like a trophy. It makes Caretaker sick.

Just… Whumpee is worshiped like a god, but contained like a monster. Contained so totally and then displayed like a prized possession. I know you see the vision.

And you’re so right! Sticking with the ‘worshiper’ Whumper cause we’re both vibing with it, I just imagine Whumper finding deep satisfaction in getting such an unguarded, vulnerable response from their ‘god’ with a simple touch. They’re the only one allowed to touch them. It only helps to strengthen Whumper’s posessiveness, their confidence that they’re the one worthy of protecting Whumpee and harnessing their power.

Also! Also! I really like your point of Whumpee only being aware enough to feel their discomfort. Their awareness has been successfully restricted to their immediate senses, because Whumper has taken control of all their other needs. I love the fact that in that state, Whumpee would seek that simple comfort from anyone, body instinctually leaning into any source of warmth. Is it Caretaker, gripping them with shaking hands, horrified of what was done to them? Is it Whumper, smiling down at Whumpee, gliding a hand through their dripping hair?

Plus, you’re totally onto something with the ‘talking to Whumpee like a goldfish’ thing! Cooing unwanted comforts as Whumpee is dragged under the drug’s effects for the first time. Smiling as Whumpee’s limp body twitches underneath their gentle touch. Giving updates on their work to Whumpee’s peaceful, sleeping form.

Whumpee never responds. They can’t. For as much as Whumper worships Whumpee, they’re not particularly interested in Whumpee’s opinions.

And the recovery!! I feel like it’d be so, so horrible for Whumpee, because it shares one key element with their captivity: helplessness. Even now they’re trapped, confined to a hospital bed with a body too weak for even the most simple of activities. They’re being dotted on again, bombarded by countless pitying looks.

Whumpee wants to brush them away, insist on standing on their own feet, and walk out of the hospital. But their hands shake when they try to bring a glass to their lips, their legs crumble beneath them when they try to stand unaided. Their complaints and frustrations have nothing behind them, and it only earns them more pity.

[sirenixspook]

The Service Axis: Pisces + Virgo

****** ᖭི༏ᖫྀ***** ᖭི༏ᖫྀ***** ᖭི༏ᖫྀ***** ᖭི༏ᖫྀ***** ᖭི༏ᖫྀ******

“The fluid, sensitive, temperament in Pisces – mediumistic and psychically polarized – must be stabilized in Virgo, in which sign mental introspection and critical analysis become possible and serve to arrest the fluidity of Pisces. These two signs balance each other.”  – Alice Bailey

I find the Pisces + Virgo axis in the circle as the most sensitive axis. There is something airy and detached about the energy these two possess, they come together when their gifts are of need. Pisces represents the mystification of the ego into an all-encompassing, whole, dissolved state. The flow of Pisces is infinite and all at once like a ripple effect caused by a single drop of water. Virgo, the opposite end of Pisces is aware of the what, the when, as it's presented in the now. If Pisces is a bubbly ocean Virgo is the sailor above the water, the eagle's eye view, the sharpened point that guides the mist.

Virgo - service and health oriented, they are extremely sensitive to physical changes in their environment. They stay ordered within the bare truth, sticking to simplicity. Virgin-like and self sacrificial, they have this purity about the world that allows them to tap into quite high vibes.

Low vibrational Virgo is over critical, too cold, foolishly over relying on objectivity rather than seeing higher ground. The perfectionist that gets lost in the practical details instead of taking a breath to allow their creativity to flow.

High vibrational Virgo finds order in helping others and being a reliable pillar. Their put together demeanor calms anyone around them- their polar twin Pisces helps them to think outside of the box.

Pisces - dreamy, intuitive and detached, their scales soak in a pool of zen. The most spiritual sign, they can appear aloof sometimes but it is because they are always acting in a state of general compassion and collective awareness of everything around them.

Low-vibrational Pisces is people pleasing, acting like a martyr, lost in a fantasy, and almost every Piscean/12th houser can tell you about escapism- they feel too much the vastness of the world's interconnectivity and numb their pain through drinking, shopping, etc.

High vibrational Pisces is called by a higher purpose and knows where humanity needs their spirit. Their idealistic vision guides others to a spiritual path- their polar twin Virgo can help organize themselves.

It is truly magical looking at how the pairs of signs interact with each other to form a full picture of a spectrum of energy. It’s like looking at an enemies to lovers trope lmao

-Ari 🔱

****** ᖭི༏ᖫྀ***** ᖭི༏ᖫྀ***** ᖭི༏ᖫྀ***** ᖭི༏ᖫྀ***** ᖭི༏ᖫྀ******

[cardiagf]

Makoto is Makoto

I don't really like engaging into cis or trans character debates especially when it's characters who are gnc/androgynous bc a lot of people especially in twt gets worked up ab these said characters are read as trans, which is completely harmless btw, it just rubs me the wrong way when some people are too insistent about a character being cis

and so I want to talk about makoto and how he is not cis, but is nb/transfem in more ways than just him being a femboy/crossdresser.

Disclaimer: I will be using he/she/they pronouns for makoto in this post just bc i think makoto will be cool with that

and for the record, i finished reading the main series but i have not read the middle school specials, yet.

im also someone who really likes otokonoko and onee characters so yes i am aware of the cultural nuances but this would be just me speaking a queer nb person who loves this series and how i perceive makoto as one

also spoiler warning!

first and foremost, I want to say that gender identity, gender expression and sexuality are all wholly fluid, it's a big spectrum that only you, yourself can figure out. And i think as queer people we're allowed to relate, reflect and see ourselves into the experience and struggles of a fictional character.

while i also don't mind it too much if we think ab how makoto dresses is just her gender expression and that even a cis guy should be able to be feminine and like feminine stuffs with without them being trans / or yk anyone can be gnc but i think as someone who went from being gnc to trans/nb pipeline, it is incredibly hard to not draw a line within queerness or being lgbt with makoto's OWN identity and queerness.

I mean makoto literally uses the "Atashi" 'I' pronoun for themself in which is, by the way, a jp 'I' prn most commonly used by girls when they're dressed as girl while she uses "Boku" when she's not crossdressing

(not to mention both saki and ryuji usually refers to makoto with gender neutral pronouns/referral, with saki always calling him "senpai" and ryuji just having the default gender neutral "Aitsu" pronoun for everyone)

and yeah i know it's also because he's an "otokonoko" but in retrospect, when we read further into the manga we learned that by high school, makoto had transferred to a school that lets them dress however she wants and had been living in said school for ALMOST A YEAR (until he was outed) and he clearly doesn't mind being perceived as a girl.

in fact, as shown in early chapters makoto was so happy when someone made a pass at her because that stranger thought they were a girl and he was so happy when he passed AS a girl.

him being an otokonoko or crossdressing only becomes a problem for them when other people are involved, i.e. when someone confesses to him or when she gets close enough with others, as I believe he sees it as a form of deception/don't want to disappoint them.

either way makoto is makoto, yes this is also a form of expression but i think it's also more of an identity, she doesn't have be locked down by the gender binary

not to mention how makoto hides his true identity to his mom is just something a lot of queer, and especially trans people can really relate to. she literally has to lock a huge part of herself inside a locker when they have to go home bc they cannot be themself in said home, it can clearly be read as someone who is closeted

now onto the spoilers regarding this, makoto coming out properly to his family and most specifically his mom really encapsulated the nb feeling really well

and yes i know she states that "he's a guy who happens to like girly things" (just give him a few years /j) but the point still stands: makoto is makoto. they don't want to live neither as a boy or just a girl. it didn't have to be "one or the other," they chose to be themself and this scene really spoke to me as someone who is nonbinary and how i didn't want to perceive as just my agab...i just want to be myself and i want to be true to myself and that was makoto's answer as well.

i honestly don't want to engage in the debate regarding makoto's gender/gender expression and yes it's canon that he's cis but his own experience and the queer experience especially at her age are just very much parallel to each other.

i know a lot of other trans people will be able to see themselves in makoto and I just don't like how people fight ab androgynous/otokonoko characters being cis only when queer readings regarding these character are completely valid and came from a place that reflects on their own experiences, we can't just lock the fluidity of gender identity of someone in one place, much less for a fictional character. they're queer, they're trans in some way and that is completely okay.

[brookebeebe-blog]

July 21st - Independent Excursion, Tai Chi and Meditation

This morning I woke up still sick. I mostly have a sore throat, so it’s not the worst but it’s still a bit annoying. Still, I am an academic weapon, so an illness could not stop me. I got up at 5 am because when we got here I remembered seeing people doing Tai Chi super early in the morning. I knew this was what I wanted to talk about for my independent excursion blog post, so I woke up extremely early in order to make it to a park and get to witness it. I walked to the first park next to the hotel, but unfortunately, no one was there. I ended up walking about half a mile to a bigger park when I found people doing Tai Chi and meditating. I will expand more on this in the academic reflection portion of the blog, but I sat here for about 2 hours and just enjoyed the nature and the scenery and observed the Tai Chi and meditation taking place. I also ended up talking to my friends in the park because it was about 8 pm for them. I hadn’t talked to them in a while, so it was really nice to catch up. Then, I walked back, but it was some poor planning on my part. I wore sweatpants because I figured it wouldn’t be too hot super early in the morning. I underestimated how long I would be staying in the park, so by the time I was walking back, I was sweating like crazy. I stopped at a 7/11 for some food and Super Supau (which is my new favorite drink and I am going to crave it when I go back to the States). When I finally got back to the hotel, I ate my food and then fell back asleep. I hadn’t gotten the best sleep because I’ve been sick and I want to get as much rest as I can on this free day so I am ready for the activities tomorrow (I am so excited for the zoo). For the rest of the day I plan on getting some food, finishing a bunch of assignments, and resting so I can get better as quickly as possible. 

Academic Reflection

Tai Chi is a Chinese form of martial art. It is a low-impact, slow-motion exercise. Not only does it focus on movement, but it also centers breathing as well. Because of this, it is popular among older people because it is an exercise that is extremely good for you and will not lead to injury or take your breath away. It is also extremely good for physical well-being, but since I am majoring in psychology, I will be focusing on the mental benefits that can arise from the practice of Tai Chi. I found an interesting scientific study on how Tai Chi affects mental well-being. According to the study, Tai Chi interventions show reductions in depression and anxiety (Sani, Yusoff, Norhayati, Zainudin, 2023). Not only do they reduce these mental ailments, but they improve general mental and physical well-being. Tai Chi could be utilized as a treatment for depression, along with therapy and health education. Tai Chi is extremely popular in Taiwan, especially early in the morning. It is hard to miss it. The fluid movements and centered activity could catch anyone’s attention. The earliest reference to Tai Chi is from the T’ang Dynasty (618-960 AD). When reflecting on how this is similar to my culture, Americans also partake in exercise to stimulate mental well-being. In fact, most therapists and psychologists strongly recommend it. Most Americans go to the gym, run, or play sports in order to feel mentally and physically healthy. It is definitely also different in a way though too. Unlike the American exercises, Tai Chi is low impact, which means it can be carried on to old age. Also, Tai Chi focuses on centering breathing and focusing on bodily sensations, which is not something incredibly common in most American practices. We do have yoga, which is probably the most similar exercise we share with Tai Chi, but one last major difference is the popularity. It is easy to find someone doing Tai Chi in Taiwan, especially in parks and areas where reconnecting with nature is no problem. It is much more rare to find Americans practicing yoga in a normal park. We have an obesity problem in the United States, in fact, we have more than double the obesity rate compared to Taiwan, and it has a good amount to do with the different cultures. They put an emphasis on working out and meditation, while Americans put it on the back burner. I chose this for my independent excursion because mental and physical health is important to me. As a psychology major, I care about my own mental health and the mental health of others. I firmly believe physical exercise is extremely beneficial for humans, which is constantly backed up by scientific studies. I not only admire Tai Chi, but I also admire Taiwanese culture for putting an emphasis on it. I will attach pictures of the Tai Chi I saw, but the faces of the people partaking in it will not be included to protect their privacy. 

Citations

Sani, N. A., Yusoff, S. S. M., Norhayati, M. N., & Zainudin, A. M. (2023). Tai Chi Exercise for Mental and Physical Well-Being in Patients with Depressive Symptoms: A Systematic Review and Meta-Analysis. International Journal of Environmental Research and Public Health, 20(4), 2828. https://doi.org/10.3390/ijerph20042828

https://www.health.harvard.edu/staying-healthy/the-health-benefits-of-tai-chi

[sli-writes]

Essay: Picture vs Painting

Johannes Vermeer. Girl Reading a Letter at an Open Window.  c. 1657–1659. 

For Francis Bacon, painting was “mysterious because the very substance of the paint, when used in this way (of idea and technique being inseparable), can make such a direct assault upon the nervous system; continuous because the medium is so fluid and subtle that every change that is made loses what is already there in the hope of making a fresh gain.”

Material is everything, the energy and emotions associated with the material all the more important. One of my teachers, Lorna Ferguson was so pleased with me getting paint on any and everything (much to my personal dislike at times as I valued some of the objects I had ruined to create something); for a while I could not understand the marvel, as I thought; ‘well, what other way is there to work with said substance.’ It never occurred to me, at least in the way of the artists mind, that painterly was being concerned with making the idea and technique of painting inseparable. I won’t speaking on being (an artist) - hard as it may be, but I’ve covered that in my previous article - but focus on the idea and the substance.

Michelangelo. David. c. 1501 – 1504.

Another one of my teachers, Ricky Burnett spoke of the ‘history of a painting’; which I interpreted as the realm of the invisible. I believe the object has to take up space in a way that it too exudes an energy, an idea that is made more complex when there are sentients in the space, it ultimately speaks to its power, of which is the result of its creator, involuntary or not. I have an issue when the objects is of nothingness, static and unimaginative. Minimalism is a great example of this, namely in the art of architecture, photography to painting itself. How can it be said that an object carries any sort of character if it is pristine, wherein it’s function has no interest in the material as forming part of its function and results in its being fixed and changeless. It is a result of such functionality, or rather, lack thereof that the object carries no sense of presence in that it becomes just another object in space disconnected from its surroundings, thus ultimately alienating itself from humanity.

Ricky Burnett. Troubled with Goya 3. 

Ricky Burnett. High Windows 2. 

The makings and process of the objects should in themselves be studied, understood and appreciated in their materiality, most importantly in a way that they take into account the service to humanity and its relationship with time, history and ultimately the heritage of mankind’s culture. I believe that with this approach, humanity serves the object too resulting in a relationship that is ultimately symbiotic. The concept of symbiosis is one some artists and a larger group of designers have let go of, it makes the work easier, quicker and at no real cost to produce as it cares not of what it is in service of or to whom and as a result of its innate purpose.

The realm of invisible is learning to make these connections, meaningful ones with all that is around us and we’ll begin to feel, most importantly, interpret in the way of our individual being. Because you see I believe that the process is reflected in life of the painting/object - take for instance a Vermeer who layered multiple layers on thin glazes of paint each carrying their unique emotional state of the artists or Michelangelo labouring for just over 3 years on his David sculpture). The lack of such connected process results in an art that does not appear to show signs of time or even care for it; objects lose identity as they disconnect themselves from their creator and, most importantly, the generations they are a result of, leading to a worthlessness to the object. Such worthlessness is dangerous because objects lose any sense of importance, as having nothing to say to anyone or reflect on anything, a disconnect that dismisses their desire to be preserved;  this is how a people are erased from history.  Minimalism is now a job for artificial intelligence, the insentient.

King Koi Konboro. Great Mosque of Djenné. Thirteenth century

 Donald Judd, 15 Untitled Works in Concrete, 1980-1984.

Sir Giles Gilbert Scott. K6 (Kiosk No. 6). 1935.

[hislittleraincloud]

"rpf is honestly no different than just thinking about someone in a scenario. me thinking about going on dates with a friend and being close with them is no different than writing about those same things. the only difference is that one is in visible words"

It's a HUGE and ESSENTIAL fucking difference.

It is one thing to think about a celebrity, or even write your fantasies in your own private blog (like we all did back in the day when we had paper diaries). It's a whole different story when we live in an age of social media and connectivity where said celebrity, their friends, and their family can see/read/access it.

But people like you, @buni-gutz , don't care about that because you're simply and purely objectifying the celebrity. They don't exist as a human with agency or their own desires and actions in the world to you. They exist as an ideal — your ideal, patched together by their artistic works and media presence — that you wanna fuck ten times through Sunday AND you have this weird exhibitionist desire that compels you to take the massive chance that said celebrity will see/read your fantasies about them. What you would hope to accomplish by that is something beyond anyone's comprehension, but that is the absolute risk you take when you publish RPF or self-insert/Mary Sue RPF, etc. The y/n-ers are guilty of the same, perpetuating a genre that spoonfeeds storyline instead of stimulating the imagination of the reader to be able to empathize with characters better, but that's another post altogether.

So, I agree with 🍒☕556. RPF is probably the only thing you can consider me ✨anti✨, but I'm not going to say that you can't write it. I just don't think it should be shared where it's accessible to these peoples' friends/siblings/parents/etc. That's a problem in our age of connectivity. I really cannot imagine the kind of horrible razzing/teasing that Jenna Ortega could be getting from anyone in her life about the Pacific Ocean's worth of fluids spilt on her fics alone.

And yes, not supporting RPF being published could be construed as a form of censorship, and me being anti-censorship could be construed as hypocritical (though as also stated, I do support political RPF, since politicians are there for us to create wicked and wild satire about...it's been done for centuries). Howeverrrrrrr...even under our great liberties here in the U.S. with our First Amendment right to free speech, we're not entirely free to say just anything, especially about a person or entity. You can't make shit up about them. You can't present a photo of them and say it's something it's not (the photo manipulated candid shots of Ortega 'holding hands' with Emma Myers at Chappell Roan is an example of this; the Photoshopped "that is a homosexual" Instagram exchange between 'Jenna' and 'Emma' is another). You can be sued for defamation, because defamatory speech isn't protected by 1A; neither is presenting someone in a false light. If she had the will to do so, Ortega could pick out one or a handful of writers to send Cease & Desist letters to (under the threat of lawsuit); we know she more than likely won't, but it is an option for her OR any other celebrity to do so, here in the U.S.

And because it is an option clearly tells you which side of the law you're treading on.

It's not the same with fiction about the fictional characters. Fictional characters can't sue you. Their family members can't tease or judge them because they too are fictional characters. They don't exist. Everything they do doesn't exist. They're impressions (fan fic/art) of impressions (actors'/writers' works). They are true stories of the imagination, and sometimes they're just stories, some meant to elicit thought, shock, or visceral reaction, not meant to hold a standard or moral lesson. That's the difference that the current fresh-facers in fandom need to understand.

That includes the people like Smokey above who have the gall to even write the phrase "stories that are harmful across the board". The only stories that are potentially harmful and disruptive to real people are RPFs for the reasons I just stated, but generally we should not be striving to dictate to authors that their fictional pairings (and what they do with each other) are morally objectionable. In most cases, the authors already know that. "Harm" is entirely subjective when it comes to fiction.

The only ones who have complained about this in the past have been conservatives...but newbs to fandom culture are proving horseshoe theory correct.

no but how much audacity and sheer entitlement do you have to have to tell people they need to stop posting their darkfic and porn fic and any other fic you don’t like to ao3 so you can have a safe space when ao3 was literally created as a safe space for writers to post their content without fear of it being randomly wiped out by pro-censorship assholes with an agenda like what has happened to plenty of other fic archives before?

“but a lot of us see ao3 as a safe space to get away from that kind of nasty content” - lol you can see the middle of a busy interstate as a safe space all you want too but that doesn’t mean that you get to walk into the road and scream at all the cars going by that they’re the ones infringing on your safe space either

ao3 is not, has never been, and will never be a site meant for nothing but children’s stories. you can “see it” like that as much as you want but there’s a difference between fiction and reality and that view of what ao3 is like is as fictional as the stories posted on it.

[datauthorress]

The Monster in Her Eyes [Chapter 11]

pairing: alucard / original female character / alexander anderson

summary: years after the death of integra hellsing, a young woman moves into the hellsing estate to start a new life after events happened in her home country. a new butler has been appointed to take care of the estate, which includes the monsters that have been dormant since integra’s death. but her will states that the new owner of the hellsing estate also owns everything belonging to hellsing, including the vampires that lay within.

A/N: Softer chapter with some fluff.

He was on the hunt.

His master had given him an order. Search and destroy. Search for anything left and destroy it without any mercy.

His master was strong. Not many humans could survive what she had survived, being kidnapped, and tortured without screaming and crying like a sniveling fool. Shelby reminded him of Integra in many ways and while Shelby never treated Alucard like a simple tool, she was firm in her commands. Though gentler than Integra.

Truth be told, Alucard had been glad that Anderson was with her, able to give her the push that had to be needed to get rid of the threat that threatened to consume Shelby’s life.

And she killed her very first human.

Granted, it was self-defense, but she still killed a human.

Alucard chuckled to himself.

“She’s proved herself worthy from the very start.” He hummed.

Alucard soon reached the mansion where Shelby had been taken and while he didn’t find anyone else inside, he did, however, follow the scent of humans that had seemingly escaped into the woods surrounding the mansion. He inhaled deeply, following the scent until he heard the sound of voices talking.

“What the hell are we gonna do now?” a male human’s voice asked. “Grimm is dead. We’re not getting our money now.”

“Fuck that, dude. We’re lucky we were able to get out of there before that freak vampire caught us.” Another said. “He gunned down the rest of the others.”

“I knew we shouldn’t have agreed to kidnapping that girl.”

“We should probably head out.”

“And where exactly do you think you are going?”

The men, a group of six, gasped and raised their gun’s as bright red eyes gleamed in the darkness of the woods around them. Alucard chuckled darkly as he came out of the shadows, unnerving gaze observing the men before him.

“I-it’s him!” one of the men yelped.

“It will never cease to amaze me how far some humans will go to retrieve paper.” Alucard mused. “Kidnapping another human and subjecting them to torture….”

“W-we were being paid!”

“Yeah, we didn’t have a choice!”

“Oh, you had a choice, men.” Alucard sneered as he reached into his coat, pulling out his two intimidating guns. “And you chose the wrong one.”

“P-please, we….” They whimpered, slowly moving backwards.

“You kidnapped my master. And now, you’ll suffer the consequences for it.”

Alucard lunged, fingers on the trigger.

And the screams of the men were heard in the air as they were slaughtered by the very vampire they feared.

~

He phased through the wall that led into his master’s hospital room; his entrance silent as he arrived. His red irises locked onto his master, and he was amused to see Anderson resting in the large, comfortable recliner, Shelby resting against him with his coat over her smaller form. The rolling pole that had her hooked up to fluids was next to the chair.

How adorable.

Anderson certainly had taken a liking to her.

The priest could deny it all he wanted, but actions spoke louder than words.

Alucard approached them, a hand reaching out to gently brush away some of his master’s short locks away from her eyes. She stirred slightly, but remained asleep and buried her face further into the priest’s chest.

Anderson stirred, green eyes popping open. They landed on Alucard, and he relaxed somewhat, reaching up to rub the grogginess from his eyes.

“Alucard,” he said softly.

“If I knew how to use a phone, this would be picture-worthy.” Alucard grinned.

Anderson groaned, glaring at him slightly. “Well, vampire?”

“It’s finished. Some soldiers managed to escape through the woods, but I found them.” he replied.

“You slaughtered them, didn’t you?”

“They kidnapped our master. That’s enough reason for them to be slaughtered like the worthless dogs they are.” Alucard said.

Anderson sighed softly, shaking his head.

“She had nightmares,” Anderson said quietly, so he wouldn’t disturb Shelby. “Couldn’t fall back asleep, so…. figured this was the only option.”

“You just wanted an excuse to have her on top of you,” Alucard laughed.

Anderson’s cheeks flushed brightly. “Shut up, vampire.”

“Oh, spare me the lies, Judas Priest.” Alucard said, leaning down slightly. “You’re falling for our master and don’t deny it.”

“You’re such an ass,” Anderson grumbled.

“You’re not disagreeing with me,” the vampire rumbled.

Anderson sighed softly and glanced down at Shelby, reaching up to adjust the collar of his coat around her neck. She mumbled softly, mostly nonsensically. “I make a fair effort of keeping myself in control, Alucard. Unlike yourself.”

“We haven’t had sex, yet.” Alucard said, emphasizing on the ‘yet’ part. “All on our master’s terms.”

“She’s far too young for me, Alucard.”

“I’m five times older than you, priest.” Alucard pointed out.

“Ugh, you have a point.” he muttered. “Now’s not the time. She needs time to rest and recover.”

Alucard glanced down at his master for a moment before his form grew smaller and smaller, shapeshifting into that of a black cat with red irises. Anderson blinked as the now cat-form of Alucard jumped onto his lap, kneading his powerful thighs before finally circling a few times and then laying down on Anderson’s thighs.

“You’re lucky you’re cute in this form.” Anderson grumbled.

~

Two days later, Shelby was discharged from the hospital with strict instructions from the doctors to rest for at least two weeks before doing anything strenuous. As soon as she got home, she took a bath with Alucard’s help and dressed in comfortable shorts and a long tunic tank sleep shirt. She spent the next week mostly sleeping and resting until the next Monday came along, to which she met with the Round Table in order to verify everything.

“Sir Hellsing,” Sir Irons spoke, standing up as she walked into the conference room, leaning heavily on her cane.

Anderson pulled the tall chair back from the table and held out a gloved hand, to which Shelby placed her smaller hand in his and took his support as she sat down in the chair slowly, to which he pushed it in for her before standing beside and just slightly back from the chair.

Shelby still looked quite rough, as her bruises were still healing along with the lacerations. Her left hand was bandaged to keep the stub of her finger clean. Sir Irons’ gaze softened slightly.

“We are so incredibly sorry that we did not do further investigation on Grimm,” he began, his voice sincere. “We did not expect for him to abduct you and Father Anderson.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Shelby said, shaking her head. She sounded absolutely exhausted. “Although I had been suspicious that he would try something, but not to that of great lengths.”

“Were you able to gather any intel on what he desired?” Sir Angus, an older man with graying hair and tired green eyes asked.

“Alucard was able to get information from one of the men Grimm had hired,” Shelby began. “Grimm’s plan had been to murder me and gain Anderson on his side, thus he would also be able to take over as head of the Hellsing Organization and therefore, control Alucard to do his dirty work.”

Some of the men exchanged glances with each other before Sir Angus spoke again. “And has everything been taken care of?”

“Yes. Alucard made sure nothing was left.” She replied.

“How are your injuries?” Sir Irons asked.

“My left hand was already damaged from being broken before, but with a finger being cut off, I now have nerve damage. I can feel my hand somewhat, but not much. I start physical therapy this week to try and get some strength in my hand back, but the doctors are certain the damage is permanent.” Shelby explained.

“If there’s anything we can do to correct this situation-,”

“There’s nothing you can do, Sir Irons.” Shelby interrupted, shaking her head. “The damage is already done. However, I would like you and the rest of the Round Table to be more cautious when inviting others into the Round Table. I’d like to prevent this from happening again.”

“Of course, Sir Hellsing. That will be our top priority.” He nodded.

“There’s another issue at hand we have to discuss,” she said.

“What is it?”

“I want Anderson to be pardoned of all crimes against Hellsing and the British Government, as well as for him to be freed from Maxwell’s crimes.” Shelby replied.

There were some murmurs among the men of the Round Table and even Anderson glanced down at her with surprise.

“I trust Anderson with my life,” Shelby spoke. “He has proven time and time again that despite his differences with Alucard and the Hellsing Organization before, he has proved himself to be an excellent man.”

Sir Irons couldn’t help but smile softly and he chuckled. “Very well. Alexander Anderson, I hereby pardon you for all crimes against Hellsing and the British government, as well as the freedom from Maxwell’s crimes as well. You are free to do as you wish.”

“I….thank you, sir.” Anderson said, surprise in his voice. “I would like to stay under Sir Hellsing’s jurisdiction. I have found my place here.”

“So it shall be.” Sir Irons nodded.

The meeting concluded and Shelby stood up with a soft grunt as the men made their way back up to the helipad.

“Sir..” Shelby heard Anderson speak and she turned to him. “I….I don’t know what to say…”

“You don’t have to say anything,” she said softly, reaching out with her bandaged hand and gently taking his larger one in hers. “You’ve proven yourself time and time again. You belong here, with us.”

“I agree,” Alucard rumbled from behind Shelby.

“No matter what you decide to do, you’ll always have a home here.” Shelby said softly, giving Anderson’s hand a gentle squeeze.

Anderson was quiet for a moment, as if the wheels in his head were turning a thousand times a second. He seemed very taken aback by her words. Shelby was miles different from Integra, but she held a very strong will that even surprised Anderson, given everything she had been through. “I want to stay here,”

“Then you shall,” Shelby smiled tenderly. “Welcome home, Alexander.”

~

Later that night, Shelby invited both Alucard and Anderson up to her bedroom. She was tired and honestly ready for bed, but she wanted to spend some time with them. She had changed into a pair of comfortable sleep shorts and a long tunic tank, scrolling through her emails until she heard the door open, and she glanced up with a soft smile as Alucard and Anderson entered.

“Master,” Alucard purred, immediately going over to her side. He kneeled in front of her, gloved hands resting on her knees.

Shelby gently stroked his pale cheek with her thumb, and she glanced up at the other man, before patting the bed next to her. “Come sit,”

Anderson approached the bed and sat down next to her. Green eyes observed her frame, noting that while she looked tired, she looked relaxed.

“Alucard has told me that you two have come to an….understanding, of sorts.” she spoke.

“Yes. Alucard is still my rival, but…. we’ve agreed on not fighting unless we’re both feeling the need for some sparring.” Anderson nodded.

“I see,” she said. “He also said that you two have been intimate.”

The priest’s cheeks flushed slightly in embarrassment, and he rubbed the back of his neck, a new side of him appearing. “I….”

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” Shelby said, a soft smile on her pale features. “And I’m all for it. However, if you’re willing….”

Alucard grinned, his red irises glowing softly as he locked his gaze on Anderson.

“I would like to be apart of that as well,” Shelby said, a slight tint of red on her own cheeks. Anderson’s cheeks darkened further, and he stammered, taken aback. “I’m not normally a forward person, or brave in terms of admitting attraction, but I am attracted to you. I think you’re incredibly handsome and you’ve done so much for me, more than I could ask for. And don’t think you’re ‘too old’ for me. I’m almost 30 and Alucard is far older than the both of us.”

Anderson blinked once, twice, almost as if he was confused before that confusion turned into…something that Shelby couldn’t really describe. Relief? Adoration…?

“I’ve been trying to keep myself away from those emotions.” he said, after a moment.

“Well, you don’t need to pretend anymore.” she said with a soft smile.

“And neither do you, master.” Alucard hummed.

“True,” Shelby said with a soft chuckle, before turning her attention back to the larger man. “If it’s okay with you, I’d like to kiss you.”

The priest bit down on his bottom lip for a second before he took a deep breath and nodded. Shelby smiled softly and scooted closer to him, before she reached up with her good hand and cupped his scruffy cheek, to which he shuddered, but didn’t pull away from her. She leaned up towards his face, to which he had to lean down towards hers, so she didn’t have to crane her neck so much.

Shelby smiled softly up at him and met him the rest of the way, gently pressing her lips against his. The large man seemed to be tense, but when she gently stroked her thumb across the rough surface of his scar, he seemed to relax a bit. She hummed softly and tilted her head a bit, better fitting their lips together. It felt different kissing Anderson than Alucard. Alucard’s lips were cold and silky soft, Anderson’s were warm and a bit rougher, but still in very good shape. It seemed to be such a simple kiss, but even the simplest of kisses meant everything to Shelby.

And she was sure they met more to Anderson than he let on.

After a brief moment, Shelby pulled back with a soft smile. “How did that feel?”

His cheeks flushed slightly, and he cleared his throat. “Your lips taste like strawberry..”

“My chapstick,” She answered with a soft chuckle. “I don’t like wearing lipstick or lip gloss, so I stick with chapstick.”

“It’s nice,” he mumbled.

Shelby had a hunch it was going to take him a while to get used to being with two people. And that was alright. She was going to have to get used to it too. She had never expected to be in a serious relationship, let alone one with multiple people.

“Will you both stay with me tonight?” she asked.

“Yes, master.” Alucard grinned softly.

“Well come on then, time for bed.”

[dreamsandroots]

Oh No – Xiu Xiu (2021)

The word ‘iconoclasm’ relates roughly to the crashing of an icon into its presumed reality.

There’s a certain breathless cadence to the whisper of childhood secrets. Something you’re hesitant to have emerge from your lips, because there’s inevitably some form of lingering shame or doubt in the way your world fell into itself and came together.

World views puddle over from the secretions of ideation in such a happenstance way: it was never possible for you to have a hold of anything, let alone everything. The piles of dust that gather as we speak them. There are often eyes watching you even though you can’t see them in the black. A strange insinuation: Oh no! Your skin is a rigid barrier. What you feel inside is so fluid, what you imagine they see so caricature.

But then there’s also, often, a drastic release, a freefall when you dissolve into the other, the one who doesn’t mind so much. There are still secrets that remain but they seem less of an issue and more like a source of fascination: these contrasting patterns in which mindsets grow and flourish. You can float like clouds together, avoiding the clash in favour of a merger. You can forget about the worry and the fear for a while and just exist in proximity, worshipping eye to eye.

Oh No is packed full of these tiny voices that emerge on the precipice of hysterical despair and resigned bonhomie.

I found myself reminded of a tight cycle of self deprecation and release. Anyone who has ever smoked cigarettes to excess would know the feeling. Or maybe the confines of some recurring dream in which you’re restricted in a tight space and the claustrophobic emptiness of nihilistic boredom builds and slowly trickles through. Chemical waves lapping gently until they crash with a bang

I am simultaneously a child and a grandpa. I creep around an abandoned family home, the walls full of holes, plaster littering linoleum floors that are peeling, and look with curiosity (or nostalgia?) at yesterday’s futures and tomorrow’s lost trousers. The way they keep on falling down, being forgotten, blending into the other. I am given to soliloquies about the lives not yet lived and the lives that have eluded my grasp for generations.

Perhaps what was suppressed crashes through sometimes and it doesn’t matter so much if it dissipates or blends into the whole: for a while everyone can just breathe.  Let the chemicals build back up. 

Vibrating despair peaks in a gurgling sound, reverberations of anxiety dribbling, dripping underwater, as if waiting for the final death blow, the definitive fall into a solid state: a ‘true self’, defined finally.

The smothering frustration of a phone notification, stirring you from meditation.

Too many medications, you could get lost in this pharmacopoeia. 

Consciousness like a butterfly flapping in a still room.

Aphorisms spoken softly to a closed door, your bedding and bed clothes strewn across the floor, the dust settling after the big crash.

[transqueeneli]

A Bottle of Wishes.

Item type: Magical

Level of power: Range falls between extremely minor to full local rewrite of reality. See information below for detail.

Appearance: A sixteen case of twenty-eight fluid oz. sport drinks. The label reads "Wish" and the bottles are all different colors, save for the logo in which the word "Wish" is written in a stylized cursive. The bottles themselves are plastic, clear with a shining liquid with a golden appearance. The case has been opened, with three bottles removed, with thirteen remaining.

Incident report: Our detection wards sensed minimal to massive alterations to the fabric of reality. When I arrived to the town nothing seemed off. When visiting a nearby gas station it was busy and apparently where high school students hung out. I noticed in one of the girl's hand was a bottle of the "Wish", one of the three missing from the case in custody. I noticed its glow right away, but before anything could be done she had taken a drink of the liquid. It shined through her into her belly before without warning my breasts, and every other woman's breasts shrank to A and B cups, with the drinker being an exception with all that breast was added to her own, her clothes magically adjusting to the new fit. You could visible see muscles form and develop so she could support them.

My charm protected me from the obliviousness of the changes. Immediately I pushed to the register, ordering for any of the "Wish" to be turn over to me due to a recall, acting as representative for the producer. The girl, likely because she is the one who drank the liquid, was aware of her changes and hearing me ran away. Out of sight it is assumed she used another wish to escape, as she was never found, though more reality was distorted for a week after till it stopped assuming she had finished the bottle. Its my hope she is alright, and that there are no victims harmed in the wake of inappropriate wishing.

On my demand for the remaining case, the store manager looked over their delivery log. I stated the drinks would have arrived two weeks before. Finding no records of it, they chose to allow me to take it. Fourteen bottles were there at time of recovery. Returned to the vault, utilizing a body transforming item to return my own breasts to their original proportions. End Report.

Uses: Drinking from the bottle after verbally declaring a wish will have said wish granted to a varying scale. The decider is the total amount of the liquid drunk from the bottle. Only the wisher, and anyone like myself with a charm to protect from memory alterations from Reality distortions will notice any changes, no matter how major. For now they will be placed in a sealed container, and hidden in the deeper parts of the vault.

Testing: One bottle was removed from the case for some personal testing. I decided on a single wish to test in three different ways. Three plushies, Each based on Edelgard, Dorothea, and Bernadetta were used. The wish would be for them to increase in size.

Test one, Edelgard. I wished for the plushy to be bigger, taking a sip. It tasted highly of lime, and though from a fridge, went down warm. The plushy doubled in size, keeping its overall appearance.

Test two, Dorothea. Once more a wish for increased size, this time with three gulps. The plushy not only grew, it changed form, becoming a proportional, though stuffed version. A life size version of the Dorothea.

Test three, Bernadetta. The final wish, with a little over two-thirds of the bottle remaining I chugged it down. Empty, I felt it pulse in me, before the plushy vanished. Then a a minor Earthquake shaking the building. Outside I couldn't believe it. While physically proportional, the plus had grown to be bigger than three houses.

Since most of my witchy neighbors and helpers have memory protection charms, they noticed the giant stuffed version of my favorite gal. It appeared the wishes power doesn't prevent other magics to work, and as such we were able to get the plushy, or at this point, stuff doll down to a proper size. She lays in my bed, with Dorothea to be found a place later. The now foot tall Edelgard plush returns to her place , now a size larger than her friends.

Magical Girl and Archivist Elizabeth signing off.

Side note: After all the women in the town has their breasts reduced, the town became famous for its women being known to having the smallest breasts in the world. Due to the nature of how things happened, and considering the proportional reaction "Wish" has there is no way to possibly reverse the effects safely at this time. Should an item be found that can, it will be used to undo the reality warping damage.

[allyrunshermouth]

struggling with identities.

hello! for my fourth blog post, i will be discussing another somewhat personal topic. as a queer black woman living in our current society, i often feel the need to conform to a certain standard. i use they/she pronouns and would love to proudly say i am non-binary, but the fact that i will not be perceived as such outside of queer spaces is invalidating. not only because i want to be perceived for who i know i am, but also because i feel as if i am betraying my black womanhood and my sense of self as a whole. having lived the majority of my life as a cis black woman, there have been experiences that i can not distance myself from or just erase. there is no undoing sitting in between my mom’s legs for hours on end getting my hair braided or being dragged to church on sundays with my entire family. this feeling is polarizing, but while doing some research, i realized that i am not the only one dealing with this feeling. it’s actually quite common amongst people like me. i found two articles that helped me feel better about this internal battle i’ve been having, and i am excited to discuss it further in today’s post.

one of the reasons why i feel as if i would be abandoning my experience as a black woman if i did come out as non-binary is due to how different it is from being a woman within any other race. now, i have not lived my life as any other race, it's simply not possible, nor am i diminishing anyone’s experience (they are entirely valid). but, me, along with other black women, have had to live our lives conforming to societal standards in order to survive, and even then that doesn’t always work. black women are hypersexualized and masculinized on a daily basis, making some of us have to be hyperfeminine or dim ourselves down to prove our worthiness and not cause problems. we have to look, talk, and behave in a certain way in an attempt to avoid these things and be accepted in society. but then, we look at social media and see things that have been deemed “ghetto” for us be seen as “cool and trendy” on women of other races. is our way of womanhood not acceptable enough for the current belief of what it is? or is it only acceptable when exhibited by other women? writers zee monteiro and mare leon answered this question in their works: the current idea of womanhood is not something that is granted to black women, which is why we had to create our own experience.

another reason for all of this is the fact that the gender binary is rooted in racism. the ideas behind what is considered feminine and masculine are all centered around whiteness, making it so those who fall outside of that lens are treated differently if they do not adhere to those standards. there is a different standard placed on black women, and it is a standard that is rooted in racist stereotypes. this is the reason why you will often see groups of us together. we created our own form of womanhood because we are all aware of this standard, which leads us to flock together in an effort to feel that sense of belongingness that we are denied. however, this just feels like more reason to leave the gender binary. yes, things like misogynoir bring black women together, but leaving this gendered idea will not remove those experiences no matter what we do. mare leon touches on this in their work and stated, “i can value and share the love and adoration of black womanhood within the limitations and celebrations of black womanhood and still not be within the binary. my ability to be fluid is simply being human.”

overall, i do not think that this will ever stop being an internal conflict within myself, but it does bring me peace to know that i am not the only one who feels the same way. but, one thing i will remind myself of when i am feeling doubtful is a quote from monteiro’s article in which they stated, “i cannot let the western societal norms, which have also been taken over by many black individuals, tell me how to move within my own body.” i deserve to live a life of happiness no matter how i identify, all that matters is that i stay true to myself.

[farnese0]

@lovetosstuff I find your comment pretty useless to the discourse as a whole, because all you do is shift the focus on other matters that have nothing to do with what we're talking about here.

- You can still have Guts feel rage and pain while conveying Casca's own feelings of pain and rage. Like what happens in Kaze to ki no Uta. Again, not making it ENTIRELY about Guts. He is a SA victim too, so his pain is completely understandable and realistic, but Casca is a victim as well and she doesn't get to say or feel a single thing about it. The focus is always Guts, thus she's used as a narrative tool to inflict pain, not a character.

- Graphic doesn't equate great storytelling. Being too graphic can cheapen a story sometimes, making it too much or even making you laugh by how edgy it is. You need balance to convey something, especially with gore and such. Take the anime "Another" and "Corpse Party" as an example (you can see a death compilation on YouTube for both) the death scenes try to be so realistic, grusome and detailed that they fail on doing what they're supposed to do, that is, make you scared and uneasy. Instead, you laugh at the overly realistic characters' expressions and over the top deaths. What's the difference between a non-con hentai and a rape scene drawn in a normal manga ? It's in how it's framed and drawn.

These are a rape scene from Shamo and one from Baki :

This is Casca's : (removed it because it got flagged)

My question is, why does it need to be this graphic ? (And these are not even the worst panels) Not to have a great impact. Guts rape fade to black too, we don't see his blushy, moaning, panting face and a realistic depiction of his body being raped, we don't have a close up of his ass, his sex or Donovan entering, yet it has an impact on the reader. Why does this specific one require "more graphic representation" ? Because, in the narrative, Casca is an object. The focus is on the sexual act, her body and there's an emphasis on the bodily fluids. It looks more like an hentai than a heart wrecking scene, like it is supposed to be. I'm sick of the "it needs to be realistic" bullshit, because you can be realistic in a respectful way, something that this scene, unlike the many others in Berserk, lack. Miura himself stated in an interview that he regretted even writing it.

- "The same thing happens with Guts in the entire series" When. Literally, when does Guts get depicted like this during a rape. Point it out to me and I will shut up.

- The point about women wanting to be Casca make no sense whatsoever. Some women say those things. SO ? How is this my concern ? How does this make my point invalid ? How am I blowing things out of proportion when the scene is there and visible for everyone ? I'm not making things up. The scene is drawn that way. I'm not horny nor I want to condemn Miura. I'm making a normal criticism about a manga I love, because nothing is perfect and everything can always be improved. I'm not attacking anyone, and I don't understand why you're being so defensive.

- No, the same thing doesn't happen to Guts in any way, shape or form. Again, point to me a rape scene in which Guts body and reactions are portrayed like that and I will shut up. Also, why divert the discourse onto sexualization when I was talking specifically about depiction of rape ? As long as they're flashed out, I don't really care about characters being sexualized sometimes. But you need to draw a line between "appropriate" and "inappropriate" for the context. Guts nor Griffith where ever sexualized and objectified like that during a rape scene, Casca was. I would have the same criticism if Guts was depicted the same way as Casca during something like that, but he's not. He never was.

- I never said or implied objectifying a man to that degree is fine.

- I never said the author is a rapist

- I never said there are pages upon pages of just rape

- I don't lack context because Berserk is one of my favorite manga. I own the volumes, I've reread it multiple times both in English and Italian. Again, I'm criticizing something I love. Berserk isn't a Bible, Miura wasn't a prophet and his work isn't the flawless work of a God.

- I don't know why you're so fixated on male fanservice and fanservice in general/normal occasions when I never talked about it, but ok.

At this point you're making up an argument in your mind to project your anger for these random people onto me, when I never said more than half the things you responded to.

I cannot emphasize enough how much I hate the treatment Casca gets as a character after The Golden Age (I have some problems even with her characterization after she fell for Guts during that same arc, but those are minor complaints compared to the state of current Casca).

The first complaint would absolutely be the treatment of her situation as an SA survivor. I don't think her trauma is ever explored on a deeper note, nor her actual pain for the whole situation she got trapped in. The focus of her rape isn't on her, it's always on Guts' pain and Guts' feelings about it, backed up by actual interviews in which Miura stated he made the rape scene just for the eclipse to be more painful for Guts. The rape itself is drawn in a way that makes it extremely uncomfortable to witness, not for its brutality nor because you feel the pain she's feeling, but because it's drawn as if it was a non-con hentai, something that always disturbed me. How come the same person who put so much heart and genuine care into realistically depict Guts' trauma as a survivor could do something so distasteful ?

That event would curse her character into becoming a complete tool for the story and its male characters to use. During the eclipse her body serves as a mere object for Griffith to project his pain onto Guts, the same Guts that thinks about raping her as a way to get closer to Griffith. The same Guts that on a lot of occasions thinks about abandoning her to chase after Griffith, and that a lot of times treat her as an inconvenience. Even after getting her sanity back, she can do nothing but become a narrative tool to give Guts' a reason to chase after Griffith again.

During the Golden Age she was interesting, but she's always been "a girl in love", always pining for some guys. Griffith didn't want her so she got with Guts instead, to cure their mutual obsession with the man. I hope the manga doesn't end with Casca staying romantically involved with Guts, because to me their relationship never felt genuine. Casca in the narrative is something Guts use to delude himself into thinking he would ever be able to just let go of Griffith and forget all that happened.

In the current arc, after being kidnapped, she's getting dressed in fancy clothes, dreaming and sleeping, while Guts is more concerned about his sword than he is for her. I don't think she would ever recover from this character assassination, but I do hope she gets a bit of autonomy in the end.