#i have so much more i could say about this but at my core it really just makes me sad

[vividly-vermillion]

Okay so you had me at plague doctor already because please don't judge me but they're so hot for NO reason at all. Add monster to it and my legs spread faster than I can even hit the reblog button.

Knowing this is from you Cort, I'm going into this with high expectations that I'll know you'll meet and surpass because no matter what you write it's just UGH YES TICKLE MY BRAIN!!!!

I hope you know that a shiver ran down my spine at the intro of this masterpiece and I shivered.

The entire ambient is just so good I have no words for it. But I don't want to stop reading. You set the scene so beautifully and paint a picture for my inner eye, making me a part of the story as if I'm witnessing this live and in color.

Oh lord. the description of the monster... whERE DID MY PANTIES GO???

The pain of loss - the willingness to do everything, to not run away from this it breaks my heart. Mr husband can be a very lucky man to be loved so deeply and sincerely.

THEY WERE BURNED ALIVE OH MY- i literally scrunched up in myself at the image. The downside of the way you paint pictures- the unpleasant ones also appear (which by no means is a bad thing but agsjsbsuidnw I wanna sob)

How does one even measure a soul? Is there ever enough money that would equal the love you have felt for one another? An eye for an eye? Do you need to give yourself away in order to get them back? It's such a cruel question but you portrayed it so beautifully

Great Death was terrible up close, freezing to the touch. Pale. Dead. Not of this realm. The air around him was dense, stagnant, like it had a breath to hold. It simply did not move in his presence. The feeling of his fingers wrapping yours then, pinning them to the countertop, suffusing you with his cold and his darkness made your neck hairs stand upright.

I loved this part so much for no reason at all I think. I just love great death it seems. The way he is so... otherworldly, scaring me down to my bones but also so soothing???

You bled on his cock that night as he savagely fucked you into the table. His nothingness had been moved away, parted in halves to reveal gray and blackened purple hardness. An emaciated belly of similar tones was eye-catching and harsh and familiar, but a view which became unimportant as he impaled you, yanked your head back by hair closest to your scalp, and forced your gaze to the ceiling.

This and the next 4 blocks of text... I can not tell you how they made me feel. There aren't any words for it. It's a strange mix of disgust, sadness, need and strangely enough want? To give yourself to something like great death for love... to get back the love is so... it's a price to pay but a price I'm willing to pay if that means I get my husband back? But it also feels so violating at the same time? Is this even full consent? No one will ever know and I don't care.

He serviced no others in town, but had expressed certain morbid appreciation to you, saying that because of your brazenness, more of the vendors were being skittishly approached by those deluged in grief and delusion....

He is so cruel and absolutely vile but he also seems so.... needy? He is craving this? You scratch an itch that he isn't able to reach and that somehow makes me feel appreciated help i need to tell my therapist about this ☠️

“Perhaps I see a little of what your husband saw in you. No. No, I see deeper than he ever could. I see through you into your core. I see your soul. Oh, how hideous it is.”

Now, sir, with all respect... no need to get mean okay 😭 but the way he yearns, mocks and just takes and takes why am I falling in love with him help

Now Cort... I AM SHAKING YOU BY THE SHOULDERS (gently) WHAT IS THIS ENDING I CRIED LIKE A BABY!! Fuck I did not expect this at all 😭 I feared that at the question above - whats the worth of a soul - that this would happen, that he wanted a soul in exchange but hell I did not expect he would just murder us like this :(( my silly pink glasses dropped because I was falling in love over here like the village fool I fear. The way he saw everything. The beauty, the ugly, he saw our most intimate - our soul.... but noooooooooooo

I dislike great death and hope he shatters the soul jar and eats bricks >:((

Anyways, personal feelings for the monster put aside - this was a truly beautiful piece and as said in the beginning I did not expect to be disappointed. I fear that I will come back to this a few more times because it will haunt my mind in the most beautiful way.

PESTIS

plague doctor monster x reader | 18+ | 3.7k

after the doctors in your town burn the bodies of plague victims, a mysterious cortège of black wagons begins visiting once a month. the one who leads them, great death, asks you what your deceased husband's soul is worth to you, and the result of it begins a convoluted spiral.

story warnings; dead dove do not eat, sexual content, major dubcon, kinda implied size kink?, size difference, his ejaculate is not sexily described lmao, extreme body horror + grotesque details, graphic depiction of gore (at the end), kinda-sorta cannibalism?, mc is pretty shitty in this, murder, disturbing details all around, bodies are burned, frightening imagery, prose + detail heavy, this is a bit of an exploration of greed + touches on some relevant events if you can figure out the parallels, plays with the idea of humans having actual souls, roughly proofread, don't look too much into inconsistencies lmao just have fun.

muted divider by @/anlian-aishang

a/n; originally, this was supposed to be >1k as part of a personal challenge where ppl could vote on a poll for what genre i'd write a piece for. horror won.

thanks to @shouyuus for shoving this prompt from @/deepwaterwritingprompts in my face. this piece followed the prompt very loosely, but still!!

pls share your thoughts + reblog this! it really means a lot to support writers, guys 💙

All anyone knew was that he was called Great Death, and he led a cortège of black wagons with black lace across the windows into town square for one night, once a month.

The procession’s arrival was announced by clopping hooves from skinless, skeletal steeds and enormous wheels jolting across the cobblestone terrain, of which the very foundation of the town had been built on top of. Even though they moved slowly, precisely, in a single line of synchrony, their sound was one of continuous rolling thunder; the roaring fireplaces where all of the bodies were incinerated.

Your husband had been reduced to human soot in one of them, but you weren't allowed to know which one.

No one was.

The doctors had argued it was to prevent grieving families and grave robbers from clawing through the ash in search of bones, scraps of clothing, or valuables discarded with the bodies of nobles. But, none of that made any difference as there was greed and loss, far too much of it to keep people out of the fireplaces and from digging and stealing and reclaiming.

You hadn't been so driven to search for your husband’s things because you still possessed more wealth than he had been burned with. He had been blistered with black and purple pustules of infection and plague before he died, so you feared that breathing him in (breathing anyone in) would fill your lungs with them (with him) and kill you, too.

But, that did not mean that you did not grieve, because you missed the beauty that he brought to your life. You missed his gentle wit and loving mind, how he always sent you exquisite clothing from wherever in the world he had gotten to now.

My love, this is your color!

- Samuel

Every color was your color, in his eyes. And, every piece he had delivered to you became a part of your collection of things. An opulent display of his devotion and good status to show to your friends, anyone sitting with you for quaint tea and distantly sourced food untouched by the town.

Meeting Great Death had come long after the burning of plague bodies, now hushedly called The Incineration, and months since the cortège had first appeared during each waning crescent.

The wagons had filed into town with their thunder, pulled by dead horses that made the ground shiver under your feet. Many townsfolk, including yourself, had been roused by the commotion and hurriedly made themselves decent to check outside. It became a spectacle of groaning complaints, white nightdresses, and bright orange lantern light floating midair in bloodless fists.

All light was to the wagons, which had formed a tight, silent ring around the poisoned fountain spouting brown plague water, and the disoriented chatter had ebbed into anticipatory shushing.

Then, the townsfolk jumped, as the windows with their blackout lace fell forward as though forced from the other side, landing flat like a countertop. The darkness beyond the windows was as dark and dense as it was infinite, smothering pulsing glows from the lanterns as some fearless men awkwardly inched closer to the wagons.

“O’ woe! Tragedy! Tragedy has befallen your home! It has taken your friends and family. It has crushed your souls and stolen theirs. But, have no fear, for we have come to return what once was yours!” said Great Death from somewhere within the throng of wagons and wet skeleton horses.

“What are they worth to you? The souls of your dearly departed. What are they worth to you? To be reunited with those that you loved so dearly and so terribly lost. Wouldn't you do everything you could to have them back? Pay any price? Come! Come! Come all! Let us speak!”

And then, bone-white beaks and hollow eyes emerged from the darkness within the wagons. Each window filled with these spectre merchants; frightening monstrosities in black cloaks and wide-brimmed hats and long fingers pushed into leather gloves.

One townsfolk had communicated what you, what everyone else had thought seeing them, “What are the doctors doing? Haven't we suffered enough because of them? They've burned everyone we loved, and now they're trying to sell them back to us as souls? This is madness!”

“They are not our doctors! Look! Look!” wailed another; a paranoid man, “those are not masks. Those beaks are bone and skin. They are demons coming for the rest of us! Run! Run for your lives! Seal your doors! Hide!”

You were pulled along with the scattering crowd, the dispersing lantern light and slamming doors, but you did not flee inside as everyone else had. Instead, you were coaxed back towards the wagons by a leathery hand and nodding beak gesturing for you to come close.

The wagon was larger than the rest, as was the creature leaning out of the window. There was fleshiness to his long beak, waxen with green veins that throbbed in the swaying light.

Great Death looked at you with nothing eyes, and nearly bent his head sideways onto his shoulder as if his true stature were cramped inside of the wagon. When he spoke, he did so clearly, even without his beak splitting into halves like separate jaws.

“How joyous! You didn't run away. Your grief must be immeasurable. Please, come even closer to me. Come here. Yes, yes, what a lovely thing you are.” Great Death giggled in delight of your obedience, or your foolishness. “You do not wear rags. You are well groomed. You possess no healthy amount of suspicion, yet I suspect you are still mourning someone. Who might it be? You can tell me. Who? Who?”

You sensed he was mocking you with that jaunty voice of his. He asked you like someone who already knew a secret, but who'd wanted to hear the great revelation straight from the source.

“My husband.” You told him. “He was a wealthy merchant who owned many ships. He sailed for more months out of the year than he was home. He could've found someone else far more beautiful, more handsome than I, but he kept me. He always came home.”

Great Death stayed at his sickly angle with his head as he leaned out the window further, both hands grasping the edge of the window-countertop. “Ah, I see. And I assume that this wonderful, merchant husband of yours succumbed to the plague? Yes. Yes, he burned with the rest, didn't he?”

“He burned with the rest,” you said.

“A hideous shame! You do have my condolences. I must ask, have there been any other cases of plague since The Incineration?” His gloves scuffed as he fluttered his fingers outward, away from you and towards the lightless houses and barricaded doors. “I won't hear an answer from anyone else, as you know.”

You couldn't hold his empty gaze, those sockets of penetrating black and looked over his shoulder, hoping to see inside at something.

Somewhere far, somewhere deep, you noticed a faint glow. Tiny hums of light blinking in and out of existence like fireflies. Little sentient creatures with will and action of their own. But, these were colors: mostly bright white, some were yellow and orange, and a few were searing white-blue.

“No,” you said, at last, remembering the question, “there haven't been any more cases since the burnings. Since—”

“The ships stopped sailing.”

“Yes.” you said.

Great Death then withdrew into the darkness of the wagon with his crooked neck and leathery hands. You considered leaving for your home, padlocking the doors and pushing furniture up against them because it was clear that this creature—all of these creatures—harbored no good intentions.

They were not your doctors who had incinerated hundreds of bodies, claiming it as necessity; saying that there was no other way to protect the rest of the town. At the time, houses quarantining the sick had been forcibly broken into by the doctors and other men in masks and gowns. They offered no apologies, no desire for absolution, no mercy.

The plagued were dragged from their deathbeds, their salt baths, their favorite chairs and out onto the streets with no dignity, in whatever way they'd been found. They were taken to the fireplaces, thrown inside those great, lashing lion flames and died screaming as they became smoke and ash. Outrage only came after as it had all happened so quickly, no one had expected it.

The doctors had said nothing. Offered few sympathies, yet promised that this sacrifice, this purge, had saved the rest of the town. That there would be no more plague.

Sometimes, the fireplaces still wailed, but not how they'd had then.

“What is your husband's soul worth to you?” asked Great Death, now back in his window with his sideways head and hands clasped on the countertop.

He'd been there for a while, it seemed. And you were still standing in front of his wagon, instead of being tucked away behind the safety of locks and walls.

“You—do you have him in there with you?”

“Oh, possibly,” he said, calm and unrevealing. His hands lightly thudded on the window-countertop, rattling the glass that it was made from. “I have a little bit of everyone in here, I suppose you could say. What is your husband's soul worth to you?”

You said nothing because how could you measure the worth of a soul? Did a soul cost as much as your vast wardrobe? Did it cost as much as your house? Was it worth the same one of your legs, or a cluster of pubic hairs cut with a razor?

“Do you think his soul is worth your fortune?” Great Death saw your stricken expression just then and let out a breathy laugh. A satisfied laugh. “Is he worth you giving up your clothes? Your house? Your comfortability? Do you love your husband enough to live in rags for the rest of your life?”

You rushed up to his countertop and grabbed his hands with yours. For once, your heart was beating something awful, foul with hot-cold dread that felt wet under your skin. “I—what else is there? What else would you be willing to take? Anything else?”

Great Death was terrible up close, freezing to the touch. Pale. Dead. Not of this realm. The air around him was dense, stagnant, like it had a breath to hold. It simply did not move in his presence. The feeling of his fingers wrapping yours then, pinning them to the countertop, suffusing you with his cold and his darkness made your neck hairs stand upright.

He was enjoying this.

“I will consider it a fair exchange. Everything material that you hold precious in exchange for the man you love. Wouldn't you say that sacrificing your wealth would be worth it if it meant reuniting with him?”

“I've earned everything that I have after a lifetime of scraping around the slums. I will not return to that,” you said, low in your throat, borderline vicious. “Anything else?”

He let out a windy sound, perhaps a breath, or hum that meant he knew too much. His thumbs, much larger than your own, caressed the peaks of your knuckles, stroked the backs of your hands and pressed down on your veins while he contemplated.

“Come inside, then. Just around the corner.” Great Death moved his slanted head slightly right, indicating a black door at the rear of the wagon, which had been camouflaged by the inky dark. “I'll open it for you. Come along. Come. Come.”

The interior became familiar to you each month thereafter. But, you would always remember how disoriented you'd been first stepping inside of the commodious space filled with all manner of things vile, fascinating, and mystifying.

Great Death was able to fix his neck when he wasn't hunkered by the window that reached only waist-height on him. He and the rest of the soul vendors were like afterimages of each other, seemingly indistinct, grayer, when you stared at one long enough and then looked to another. Great Death, however, came with a heavier beak that curved more sharply; a carrion face capable of tearing through your viscera.

He was one with the semi-darkness, his shapeless silhouette a seamless mesh with air and shadows, of which the yellow tallow candlelight did not fully reach. When he moved, it was swift, inescapable; he glided rather than walked, and you could only follow his pallid features appearing to float midair.

“Forgive me for the mess, it is so rare that I have guests come inside to visit me. Transactions are better done outside, after all,” explained Great Death, already unfastening, untying, disrobing you, and laying you out on a wooden slab of a table. “My, you are lovely, aren't you? I wonder if what I see is what your husband saw in you as well? Ah, that is unlikely.”

You bled on his cock that night as he savagely fucked you into the table. His nothingness had been moved away, parted in halves to reveal gray and blackened purple hardness. An emaciated belly of similar tones was eye-catching and harsh and familiar, but a view which became unimportant as he impaled you, yanked your head back by hair closest to your scalp, and forced your gaze to the ceiling.

There, you watched the serpentine emptiness coil across the ceiling of the wagon, watched the formations in the wood grain come alive with writhing, yawning faces that never lasted long enough to know if they were speaking to you, because Great Death thrusted too hard, made you cry, bleed more, but you didn't tell him to stop.

This was the price you were willing to pay. So, you laid beneath him motionless, sore, regretting your own stubbornness for just a moment until he let out a shuddering breath of release, rutting you with his cock still twisted with your insides. He flooded your walls with cum that felt wrong, gluey, membranous. It oozed out slowly once he removed himself, the pain of him having been there was worse now that there was nothing left.

“Even I experience lust and crave a human’s touch, their soft flesh. Humans are an indulgence we are rarely afforded. Souls, well, as you can imagine, cannot do much,” said Great Death once cloaked in his darkness again. He redressed you, starting with the sleeves, and helped you off of the table with encouraging pats to your lower back. “I greatly enjoyed myself. Thank you for this exchange.”

“My husband's soul, I want it.” Now, as he ushered you towards the end of the wagon, towards the black door concealed in staticy shadows, you ached in countable pulses. “Give it to me.”

Great Death giggled, pressed his hands down onto your shoulders, and nuzzled his lethal beak against your neck.

“Come back to me next month.”

And, that's how it went on from there on out. Each month during the waning crescent, a persistent bright and sharp sickle in the sky, he led the cortège into town square and allowed you through the threshold into his sacred place. He serviced no others in town, but had expressed certain morbid appreciation to you, saying that because of your brazenness, more of the vendors were being skittishly approached by those deluged in grief and delusion.

“Oh, oh, oh, how joyous, my lovely.” He fucked you on the floor as he spoke, ramming you cruelly, until you whimpered and moaned. You wondered if he was trying to make you scream. “What a boon you've become to us all. They're all so happy. Your people. Mine. The souls. None are so happy as me, though.”

Before he'd penetrated you again, before he'd let you through the door, he met you at his window-countertop and asked, “What is your husband's soul worth to you? Have you considered letting go of your fortune? My lovely, you know that you cannot possibly take it with you once you perish and rot, yes?”

Always frightened by the thought and obstinate, you let him have you in whatever way he pleased. The pain eventually washed over with numbness. At times, his long strokes against your walls felt good, and occasionally you would come on his gray and purple cock. Focusing on how thick he felt inside of you, and the white streaks of lightning crackling behind your eyes.

Without fail, he flooded you and made it stay for a short while as if relishing your prolonged discomfort and disgust that he was still there. It would leak slowly, abnormally, as he redraped himself. Concealed his sallow body with protruding ribs, jagged angles, and dark slits spread throughout.

He was corpselike; he looked like rot. His rot inched out you for days after he was long gone, and then the sickness would set in. Red hot fevers and bone cold shivers kept you bedridden for weeks, tended to by cautious maids unsure what to make of your recurrent episodes.

Nothing showed, but you felt festering beneath your skin. Unexplainable in that you saw no such lesions, no lumps lurking in the layers of your anatomy. But, you soothed and scratched yourself like something was there. The maids were worried that your grief had made you spiral into hysterics, and they considered calling one of the doctors to your bedside.

“I will ruin all of you if you bring one of those—those murderers into my house!”

At these times, you could not be reasoned with. There was too much itch, too much sensation, too much boiling under flesh and bone, too much crawling, too much pain, too much hunger, too much vomiting, too much too much too much too much too much…

“What is your husband's soul worth to you?” Great Death had returned during the waning crescent, said you looked unwell. “Will we continue our exchange as we usually do? I am not opposed, you know that. I am very fond of you, my lovely. Come inside.”

You were fragile and fatigued from fighting illness, so it didn't much matter how hard he fucked you into the floor. Skin slapped and moistened with fluids and sweat, and Great Death’s moans broke the stillness in the air.

“Oh, my lovely, I look forward to coming to this town because I know that you're waiting for me.” He said it dreamily, like in reminiscence of a bleary, beautiful memory. A faded photograph lost between pages of a book of someone once loved. “Perhaps I see a little of what your husband saw in you. No. No, I see deeper than he ever could. I see through you into your core. I see your soul. Oh, how hideous it is.”

His body was revealed to you. The dark slits which covered him twitched and opened wide into tens of dozens of pupiless black eyes, and lipless mouths with needle teeth. Purple-red tongues lashed out of the mouths at you, making you scream and struggle beneath his weight.

“This wasn't part of the exchange! I just want my husband’s soul!” you pleaded, searing with panic through every ounce of your being. “I'll give you it. I'll give you everything. My clothes. My house. My fortune! It's all yours!”

His fucking had slowed, stopped entirely as a bullous, flickering light had drifted out from some hidden places in the depths of the wagon. It was gently orange at its center, emanating a pale aura outward, which pulsed like a heartbeat and buzzed with familiar warmth.

You thought to reach for the doomed little thing destined to be smothered by the dark. All light eventually was.

“He's waited for you all along, my lovely,” said Great Death softly. He followed the floating marvel with his nothing eyes as it circled your joined bodies. Eventually, it came close enough to snatch out of the air and snuff out in his leathery fist. “Yes, such a beautiful soul he was. I no longer want it.”

Your breath snatched in your throat, mouth agape. Shock had invited in a swell of watery cold that made you unable to truly acknowledge what had just happened. That you'd lost your husband for a second time; this time forever.

There was no telling smear of blood or glittering orange residue in his open palm when he showed it to you. It was as if it had been a brilliant trick of extinguishing candlelight without a trace.

“Your soul is most foul, but it will be my prize. My lovely, for as long as I find you beautiful and repulsive, you will live on. Yes. Yes, I'll keep you here with me so that I may always be able to admire you.”

Before you could've launched yet another scream into the immense void of the wagon, he thrust his carrion beak into your chest. He wedged it deep through your muscle and blood, piercing cartilage and bone to reach your heart.

Great Death used his hand to rip out the throbbing, glistening organ from the rest of you. He observed blood filling the cavernous well he'd left inside you, saying nothing as it backed up your throat and spilled profusely from your mouth. Once you died, the bright red that had stained your teeth darkened to exquisite purplish-red.

He tore your heart apart into consumable pieces and fed them to his mouths. The piranha teeth and long, licking tongues chewed eagerly; meanwhile, the eyelids on his body closed knowing that the mouths would soon be sated by the decadent meal.

Thereafter, he waited.

He waited for a long time, because souls were oftentimes more timid than their human husks. There was nothing left to protect them from vendors on the prowl, vendors who had built collections across millennia.

But, eventually, your soul did appear before him in stuttering pink light. He caught you easily, let you rest in his hand while he decided on which jar he owned could possibly be enough to house your beauty.

You would turn sinfully red as you matured, became strong, forgot who you used to be.

All you would know is the Great Death and the inside of his vast wagon littered with strange things. He would be kind to you by letting you out of your jar sometimes, but for now, he'd keep you on the middle shelf where he could best see you.

a/n: I have this habit of killing husbands or doing awful things to them and I am very unapologetic about it.

anyway. this wasn't executed quite as well as I'd hoped. but, I wasn't writing to perfection, it was just a little personal challenge for myself. overall, I'm not unhappy with it.

I'd like to bring great death back again in another piece sometime, if y'all are interested.

this was also the first time where I think I've actually, deadass killed my reader-character and it felt so good lmao. I've implied in several of my stories without making it explicitly so.

anyway!!! I'd still love to hear your feedback and would absolutely adore you if you reblogged!!

[777rare]

Few thoughts of a couple

with 8TH HOUSE SYNASTRY

>> NAMELY SUN, MOON, VENUS, JUPITER AND MERCURY. MARS TOO IF THEY BOTH ARE NOT HARD CORE ENEMIES.

Also especially when there's 8th house overlays on both sides. Otherwise the house person feels it more than the planet person does.

.

• My thoughts cannot move an inch without bumping into some piece of you.

• but nothing makes a room feel emptier than wanting someone in it.

• I think I've loved you since I met you. I just mistook it for curiousity.

• You touch me like I'm everything you asked for. Underneath your hands I become poetry. This is the alchemy that you do.

• You touch me and suddenly I feel a little less war torn. I'm not sure what peace is supposed to feel like but I think it may feel alot like you.

• How could I not love eyes that see me in all of my forms as beautiful?

• Bro, she's a piece of art, pin her against the wall.

• And I want to pinned between him and the mattress. Like a flower pressed in a book. And I want to say his name, over and over, like it's the only word written on the pages.

.

.

• Who would give a law to lovers? Love is unto itself a higher law.

• How shall I hold back my soul from touching yours?

• But you...please don't go..

• I simply want to tell you that somehow I can't imagine life without you. I love you, I want you, I need you unbearably.

• I have fingerprints of your love all over my heart. You touch me without touching me, and I feel it in my bones.

• My life used to be full of everything. Now if you aren't with me, I haven't a thing in the world.

• I want you to know, but I don't want to tell you.

• I am still here, despite everything. What does that say of my love I have for you, if it's not true?

• Today, I can't write about anything except my longing for you.

• The enormity of my desire disgusts me.

.

.

• Missing you comes in waves. Tonight I'm drowning.

• Text me. Please, just find a reason and talk to me.

• You're so far away and yet closer to my heart than anyone else.

• In case you foolishly forget: I am never not thinking of you.

• We are not lovers. We are love.

• I want to be craved by you. I want you to think about kissing me as much as I think about kissing you.

• Everyone else isn't you. It turns out that's a huge problem for me.

• I don't want to share you.

• But I must admit I miss you terribly. The world is too quiet without you nearby.

• How odd it is to be haunted by someone who is still alive.

• They tried to bury us,they didn't know we were seeds.

.

A SONG FOR THIS COUPLE:

That's it for today! I know it's pretty small but I was a bit too busy today😮‍💨 Also, none of the writings above are my own, all the credits go to the original creators.

I did notice few asks in my inbox, I will answer those questions soon☺️❤️

Thankyou for reading through this! Have a wonderful day ahead!✨❤️‍🔥

[pheracy]

Can you do headcanons for kuroo from haikyuu?

Kuroo Tetsurou ☁️ headcanons

He does the Wordle of the day when he's bored or when he's waiting for the subway.

He'd be open to letting his partner paint his nails, preferably black.

In case of having a pet, he'll take care of a Dobermann dog.

He's the type of guy to be in a long-term relationship; once he's with someone, he doesn't care about other suitors.

He never skips breakfast.

His favorite k-pop boy group is Monsta X, and he adores DPR IAN's music.

He actually cares about his outfits and loves wearing the most fashionable swimsuits to the beach.

He'd planned a food tour visiting the most famous chiringuitos in Andalucía (Southern Spain) and eating espetos (skewered and grilled fish, typically sardines, on a stick over an open fire on the beach).

He'd take all his Nekoma teammates to play beach volleyball every summer.

He would convince Kenma to go together to have a pair of glasses made for them since Kenma gets too much screen time, and Kuroo usually reads at night on his phone before going to sleep.

He was truly nervous when he had to say his now traditional peptalk about Nekoma's being the blood and oxygen. He rehearsed the speech several days before in his head non-stop and when it worked when he said it with the team, he was super happy.

When he's with friends and they say to take a group pic, they always ask Kuroo to hold the phone.

His back is gigantic and really strong.

He always sleeps with his bedroom door closed.

He'd ask Kai and Kenma for advice when he's overthinking and then Yaku for a second opinion.

He has a scar in his shoulder that didn't heal properly.

He admires Jungkook from BTS and gets inpired by his outfits to make his own.

He's one of the most loyal people you could find.

He definitely talks to animals he encounters on the street "hey little birdie".

He loves his grandparents more than anything in the world.

He had social anxiety as a child and got super excited whenever he made a friend.

Doesn't comb his hair but has a skin care routine.

He puts ketchup to fish dishes.

Kenma introduced him to ASMR and he's obsessed now.

His love language is quality time and words of affirmation.

It's very hard for him to talk about how things were at home when he was growing up.

Note: Thank you so much for this request! Kuroo's my fav hq boy and I love him to the core. I hope you find these headcanons kinda accurate and entertaining. I've loved making them and getting to know him a bit better through my mind. Thanks again for asking for it <3

📬∿ Requests are open and much appreciated! You can read the fandoms I'm in to ask for a poem, headcanons, lil fics and more in English or Spanish.

Credits: divider by @saradika-graphics ♡ banner template by @tinytowns

[bloobydabloob]

Do you think being aware of the different elements in art or just ordinary objects can make the process of actually making art difficult? I get that it's about balance and unity of it all, but being introduced to so many concepts early on feels like too much. Almost feels like learning to make art digitally for the first time -> introduced to all these neat gadgets but no idea how to use them or where

This is a crazy good point anon & very important. YES I think it makes it exponentially harder

It’s just like everything else though where learning to pick your battles is pertinent - knowledge is a foundational aspect of your beliefs and your art is based on your beliefs regardless of how you frame it. Accruing relevant (and irrelevant tbh) info is always going to help you navigate more complex & unique themes. Obviously not everyone is going to get anywhere with it but I think the whole thing is pretty rewarding it motivates everything I do in my entire life so I think it’s worth it. Definitely doesn’t even just apply in theme as well it sounds like you’re talking here about practical technique too which you’re 100% right about again. I think things that I find helpful to remember are

1 - Identifying a comprehensive goal in my action helps me to slow my roll & stop trying to pull from too many sources at once

2 - On the contrary it’s also good to remember that difficult, arduous & thought provoking task is important to art. It doesn’t have to be important to you but don’t be afraid of it

But the good thing about knowing things is knowing things helps you to know more things and knowing more things helps you to make better decisions. These kinds of worries about art are just smaller picture effigies of bigger problems about growing up, it is hard & it’s exceedingly normal to feel lost especially if you’re young. If art is at its core a representation of the life behind the creator then it’s just that. All things are present even incidentally through every single thing you create, which is also why being informed is important ! If you have something to say about something then then your art will. Your art exclusively exists through the people who view it & their tastes. “What kind of people would you want to discuss your work? Whose admiration would flatter you? What figures do you admire? What occupies most of your thoughts?” Are what I’d consider pretty big standard starting points they might give you on a sheet if you were to ask someone about beginning a series of focused work.

Also the thing about purposeful art compared to direct description (e.g. in this context art discussion) is that visual art exceeds writing in a lot of areas including ease of ambiguity. It really is hard to talk about the place obscurity has in art especially factoring in where people might differ on it. But it’s easy to let its importance bypass you, especially as a figurative artist. It’s also easy to make ambiguity sound like an area of study, when really it is like the antilabel of artistic components, ambiguity is black ! It defines itself as a lack of presence & not as its own entity, which in my opinion makes it a lot easier to approach lol. It finds itself comfortably where you apply nothing else

There are one million things that could be / have been said on this subject. I’m sure you would probably get more solid ideas on how to approach an issue like this from someone who has taken a different approach to art themselves, I’ve never read any book approaching art performing from a seminary perspective just as I’ve never been taught or schooled. I’m still going through the throes of asking myself these same things & I think I will be for my entire life. It’s easy to believe that consensus is a trophy gained for putting enough time into something when the truth is that there is no guaranteed finality to art. Be afraid of stagnancy, not ephemerality. There is a lot to be said even for oblivion in character & impulse, so really just make art regardless. Even if it never gets good at least you were doing something

I think you’re already on the right track if this is something you’re thinking about though if you ask me or at least you’re doing something similar to me lol. The amount of “things there are” is genuinely intimidating & especially as such an uninformed, sheltered person as I am making any real decisions for something as longterm as an artistic identity without any real connections to a qualified community seems impossible. Keep thinking like this & hunting yourself down I like to do everything I can that makes something happen about this. It’s not easy ! I don’t think it needs to be

[patchworkcuddlebug]

Warmth

This one rests its shoulder against the brick wall. It couldn't bring itself to check why the wall was there or what it connected to. It instead uses its strength to brush off the snow that's collected on it as it's been walking.

It's only resting for a second. Please, please, only a second. It has to keep moving.

Miss trusted this one to go shopping. All she needed was a book she didn't have in her library yet. It clutches the paperback as close to its chest as it can. It can't pull it away for even a second, not even to assess the damages. It's much too risky, not in this weather.

This one is sealed tight. There's no way that snow could get inside of it and start to ruin its clockwork. This is just normal fatigue. It has felt this before and it has conquered it before.

It's all this one's fault. If only it didn't take the wrong bus. If only it brought more money than it needed for the book. If only it had tea. So many ways it could've been a good doll. Now it's lost, and Miss is without her book.

Porcelain can withstand extreme temperatures. Clockwork... can't, but it doesn't need to. It just needs to find Miss again. Then she can fix it.

It's getting harder. To move, to think. It feels heavy. It doesn't feel much else.

It looks down. It dropped the book.

It looks back. There's so much snow. It's already buried.

Get back. Please. She'll help. She's Miss.

It hurts. Keep walking.

No. No, please. Please. Keep going. Has to.

Get up. Get up. Sorry Miss. Hurts. Sorry.

. . . . .

It's blurry. Warm.

"Oh, thank God it's okay." Miss! Miss. Miss.

Touch.

"The tea was just finished, Miss." Doll. "Should this one get more blankets?"

"It should be fine. We just need to wait."

"This one will watch the fire."

It's warmer. Easier to think. Core feels better. Not as weak. Moving, just a bit. Looking at her.

"...M'ss?"

Her hands feel nice. Warm and soft. "Yes dear, I'm here."

"Sorry. L'st..." Please, talk. It needs to.

Face on chest. So warm. Close to her. "Please, don't say that, not now. It's my fault, I shouldn't have let you go out without checking the weather, I should've, I should've told you more about the busses... God, I'm so sorry..."

Can't look. Shame. "Got lost."

Hug tighter. She's crying. Trying to speak.

Arm out of blanket, around Miss. "Please. Miss. Don't cry."

She holds this one tighter. "I'm just... so, so happy you're okay. Please never go out into the cold again, I was so scared."

She's still crying, but she's smiling. This one is so happy it made it back.

[niniane17]

OP, let me preface this by saying that I know your reading is absolutely the one Bronte wanted the reader to have, and it's not my intention to attack you for accepting the narrative as it is.

But here's the thing: on a structural level, there's a huge gap between what the text says and what it actually shows, and that's why Rochester comes off as very different than intended to many readers.

In my opinion, the choice of having Rochester relating the truth to Jane regarding his previous marriage -and only him- is kind of a weak one. I understand why it was made, and I know the novel's emotional core wouldn't be the same without it, but at the same time, he's not the right character to do it when the goal is discovering the truth about his past. Bronte at first brings other characters that could act as the voice of the objective truth, with the appearance of both the laywer and Bertha's brother Richard, but then they're conspicuously absent during Rochester's retelling, probably because they wouldn't have made Rochester look so good if they did.

From an in-universe perspective, Rochester simply doesn't have a lot of credibility at that very moment. If he was able to lie once, on such a big issue, who's to say he wouldn't lie again? Especially if his aim is to make himself look good in front of Jane? Of course he would paint Bertha in such a way and would say that Richard is also slowly losing his sanity, even though he was sane enough to stop an unlwaful marriage from happening -thus saving Jane, by the way. Add to this the grim reality of being a married woman at the time (in fact, I think this is how I learned what a downry was) and, well, it's not a pretty picture.

The fact that he's kind to Adèle (and I'm not super satisfied on this front either) and Mrs Fairfax is also irrelevant to his romantic history: they aren't romantic conquests, there's no need to manipulate them in order to get them to give him what he wants -though he did lie to them both, too. Besides, it's not uncommon to treat someone well and others badly.

You also bring up Rochester's mistresses, and again we have no one's words on them but Rochester's. Would they see their story this way? Perhaps, perhaps not. Surely even Jane's story could be re-interpreted unfavorably, and she had been thought as a hearless, savage girl who was ungrateful in the past too. Indeed, after her engagement, she goes to great lenghts to appear as respectable as possible. Even so, there's the implication that some people will just think her as a ruthless social climber. The text assures us there's a difference between Jane and Rochester's previous girls and wife, and but what this difference truly is, beside "the author says so" is not very clear.

It all feels very protagonist-centered morality -something I'm sure wasn't the author's intention- and I can't really blame people for not buying it, especially people who have been in a relationship with a much older and much more powerful man when they were very young. Jean Rhys, Wide Sargasso Sea's author, was one of such people, for example, which is one of the reasons that pushed her into writing her novel.

(That doesn't mean her novel is flawless and everyone should take it as canon. I'm just bringing her up because she inevitably comes up a lot in these conversations. Also if you ask me the real villains in that novel are 1. Richard Mason and 2. An original character that owes more to Dickens than Bronte, but whatever)

Bronte herself felt that, as long as Rochester was in a position of power, he and Jane couldn't get together properly, so she makes sure he can't do any of his old shenanigans ever again.

Again, I know your reading is the correct one and there's nothing wrong with just accepting Bronte's text as it is. I'm not here to push a "this is the secret code of the text all along!!" agenda. At the end of the day, I simply disagree with the author and that's ok. I just wanted to illustrate that there is, in fact, a grey area, and the reading that Rochester drove Bertha mad and will do so with Jane one day can be a valid, if uncharitable, reading of the text to someone who is not in love with Rochester as Jane was.

I wonder if Rochester drove Bertha crazy ....

For all we know in the story, she was already ill before she married him, which was kept a secret by her family. This is implied by the fact that all their pre marriage interactions were heavily controlled, the marriage arranged, etc.

Furthermore it is important to keep in mind that Bertha not having been diagnosed before marriage is an important plot point in order for the story to exist at all; a person who is not in possession of all their faculties cannot consent to marriage, and that makes the marriage invalid, meaning Rochester could have asked for a declaration of nullity and gotten it if that were the case. The tight control Bertha's family had surrounding her was designed to avoid having witnesses that would help Rochester's cause.

Besides that, the text is framing Rochester's confession about his past as an honest depiction of it. He's never shown to be delusional when it comes to his own sins; he does try very hard to excuse them, but never to outright deny them.

Also, Bertha is said to have been violent not only against Rochester himself, but against their servants, so much so that nobody wanted to work for her anymore. This goes fully against the idea that Rochester made it all up.

Sometimes I feel like people want to have it both ways, but either Bertha was completely sane when she married him and her adultery, drunkenness, verbal and physical abuse are just rational forms of rebellion, which means she committed all those things with full consent --and that's not what a good or decent person does. I don't see people justifying a man for being adulterous, drunk and abusive just because his wife happens to be a bitch-- or she was very mentally ill all along and her moral responsibility for her actions was heavily diminished.

Bottom line: no, I don't think Rochester made Bertha mad. Nothing in his behavior towards his mistresses, Adele, Mrs Fairfax or Jane indicates that he's a cruel, violent, wicked or abusive man. His characterization heavily points towards immaturity, hedonism and weakness of character as the source of his faults. He's shown as having as his saving qualities generosity and compassion, which are rather antithetical to the sort of behavior that would drive someone to madness.

[hiddenglovebox]

I think one of the most annoying things about some of the people in this fandom, is the mischaracterization of Will and Hannibal.

Obviously everything is subjective, people have opinions, but from these characters very core, their personalities don’t match what some of these ppl are saying. (Especially when it comes from the cis straight dudes saying “Oh i’m so Hannibal Lecter” “I’m so Will Graham.”)

Will Graham is someone whose true personality has been suppressed for his entire life. He’s a loner. He didn’t have a lot of friends. He’s autistic. He struggles to form healthy bonds/relationships with people both due to his social awkwardness and autism, as well as his empathy disorder. He saw too much as a kid, his heightened empathy being the cause of this. He grew up too fast. He grew up poor, just having enough to have a little food on his table and a roof over his head. He’s a NERD! He wrote a whole paper on how insects can predict time of death. He got wealthy, but kept his life modest, instead of lavish things, he focused his money on taking in strays. He was lonely, yearning for some form of connection. Alana had been one of his attempts for human bonds, but she was more of a distraction from his mental deterioration than actual attraction. Hannibal had listened to him; listened to his crazy rants where his moral ambiguity shined through, and he didn’t care. He didn’t even blink an eye. He got attached to Hannibal, not even purely out of physical attraction, but rather out of them being one and the same.

Hannibal Lecter is ridden with childhood trauma. The death of his parents, closely followed by the death and forced cannibalism of his sister. He was cold, hungry, and alone for a good bit of his life. He grew up in an orphanage before living with his aunt after finding out his uncle died. His hatred had blossomed from the death of his sister, his little sister who he had cherished and cared for her entire life. He wanted to gain the power that had been brutally torn from his hands as a child. He was vulnerable, and he never wanted to feel that way ever again. Cue the cannibalism. As a result of this, no one ever truly understood him. His aunt had a fleeting idea of what he was, but she would never be able to understand. He didn’t just manipulate Will because he saw the darkness in him…He manipulated him because he wanted a friend, someone who could understand, someone who he could be equals with. Hannibal very obviously has some kind of God complex, but that gets lonely. Even someone as powerful as him needs a friend.

These characters are in no way surface level.

I could go on and on about their relationship and how it’s formed in this beautiful toxicity of love and resentment. They’re both such powerful characters and it’s really annoying when people just dumb them down to “hahahah hannibal the cannibal hahahah”

Thanks for listening to my rant.

[tenebraevesper]

Sonic the Hedgehog's 900th Adventure (Part 1)

We are finally here! The 900th Adventure one-shot!

I will have to split this story up into two parts, mainly because of the sheer number of pages and Tumblr refusing to allow more than 30 images. Could I just skip some pages? Sure, but where's the fun in that?

In any case, as stated above, this special issue is a way of celebrating Sonic's long history in the comics, involving all the stuff from Archie Sonic, Sonic the Comic (Fleetway) and IDW Sonic. To note, this story has been worked on my many writers and artists, all of which were trying to deliver a fun and colourful tale of Sonic going an adventure to save the world once more and, personally, I believe they delivered in that aspect. Is it anything groundbreaking? Not really, but this is a one-shot story written purely for our enjoyment, so let's dive in!

We kick off with Sonic and Tails reminiscing about their past adventures, with this first part of the story being written by Ian Flynn. I will mention which writer wrote which part, simply to showcase whether there were any differences between their writing.

In Ian's case, he has Tails talk about their battle against Neo Metal Sonic on Angel Island, which happened back in Issue #9-#12. Sonic responds how that was a group effort, with Tails snarking since when he was so modest. Sonic just responds that he was giving credit where it's due.

The two keep on getting close to breaking the 4th Wall by talking about how many adventures they have experienced, with Tails even doing the research and the result being 889, although by the time I'm writing this, it's over 900 (insert DBZ Vegeta joke here).

Sonic then references the whole Metal Virus fiasco, noting how his friends gathered the Chaos Emeralds and how Silver did a lot of heavy lifting, although Sonic did supercharge the Warp Topaz and... speak of the Devil, it's back!

Okay, I will take a moment to explain the deal with the Warp Topaz. Correct me on that, but I have read somewhere that Ian Flynn wanted to get rid off it back during the Metal Virus Saga, but the higher-ups said to keep it for any future stories. I believe that this is why it was brought back now.

Tails runs a diagnostic on it and finds out that it's highly unstable. Going by Sonic's scale, they are somewhere at ''panicked screaming'' when it comes to how dangerous the situation is, with Tails just giving him an annoyed look to take this situation seriously.

Tails gives him a more detailed explanation, saying how the Warp Topaz had the potential destabilize the planet's core or wipe out an entire city. In other words, we might as well have another Sonic Prime-style Paradox Prism situation at our hands.

Tails adds how, in order to neutralize it, they have to find where Dr. Starline had found it. Sonic figures this shouldn't be too difficult, but Tails is worried that if he takes on too much energy as his normal self, he might not come back...

I was joking about this being Sonic Prime!

Of course, Sonic remains calm and relaxed, noting how he'll run, while Tails watches his back. It would be the same as always, with Tails agreeing.

Tails checks to make sure he still has the wrist-comm on, and after confirming it, Sonic rubs his hands and grabs the Warp Topaz, getting immediately warped away. He is fine tho, much to Tails' relief.

He finds himself in Green Hill, agreeing with Tails that they'll try to see if anyone's around so they can help him from being overexposed to the energy, with Sonic adding how there is no more infections, corruptions, warpings or any other nonsense:

''We're going for win NINE HUNDRED!''

This part of the story is written by Evan Stanley, and we see Sonic as he dashes through Green Hill, checking on Tails, or Minty Fresh as he calls him (I can feel Tails rolling his eyes at this).

Tails responds how he expects some erratic spatial distortion, maybe localized importation of physical matter from concentrated areas... with Sonic having no clue what he's talking about. So Tails responds with: ''Portals. Lots of 'em.''

Cue Sonic almost jumping into one, only for the Warp Topaz to berserk.

He ends up avoiding a bunch of stuff emerging from more Warp Topaz portals, until he runs into that orca from Sonic Adventure.

Seriously, what do orcas have against Sonic? X3

Fortunately, he gets saved by Amy, and in turn, Amy gets saved by Sonic just as the orca crashes down into the water.

The two hold onto the orca, trying to figure out what to do next. Amy has been called by Tails, with Sonic showing her the unstable Warp Topaz and explains his plan to her. Amy agrees with it, but she is worried about the orca, since this place isn't its natural habitat. Nevertheless, she has a plan, with Sonic not looking to happy when he gets forced to run across water as the orca chases him.

Hey, at least Amy promised that she'll bake him a batch of cookies once they're done.

They lure the orca towards a portal, getting it to jump back home, while Amy hits the Warp Topaz as far away from Sonic as possible to stabilize it.

Both nail the landing, with Sonic drying himself and Amy hugging and wishing Sonic good luck as he continues dealing with the Warp Topaz. Amy waves as he leaves, only to realize that she has no clue how to get home.

Eh, I'm sure you'll figure it out, Amy.

The next part of the story is written by Nigel Kitching, and oh, boy, if you're British, this should sound familiar. If not, then let me explain - Nigel Kitching is most famous for his work on Sonic the Comic, aka the UK equivalent of Archie Sonic, albeit written to be more in line with the games, unlike Archie Sonic, which was based on Adventures of Sonic the Hedgehog and Sonic SatAM. It's really great they got him to write part of this one shot.

In this part, we see Sonic running through a desert towards Knuckles, who left Angel Island to help with this crisis. Unfortunately, before they could even get close to each other to hand over the Warp Topaz, it activates and Sonic vanishes, leaving a stunned Knuckles behind.

Sonic suddenly ends up in a laboratory managed by Metal Sonic, having been weakened by the Warp Topaz' energy. You know, thinking back to how Dr. Starline described the dangers of the Warp Topaz, now we see why it is a bad idea to overcharge it.

Not that Metal Sonic cares, as he reaches for it.

Sonic pleads for Metal Sonic to give it back so he can dispose of it safely, with Metal Sonic glancing at the Warp Topaz, then back at Sonic.

Before I continue, may I add that the art is just gorgeous here? *checks artists* Okay, so this was the work of Mauro Fonesca, Rik Mack and Reggie Graham. You guys did a great job! I really love what you did with Metal Sonic.

Metal Sonic refuses to listen to Sonic, bitch-slapping him in the face and knocking him back while Tails is screaming in the background, not knowing what's going on. Sonic and Metal Sonic fight, with Sonic refusing to give up no matter how badly he gets beaten.

Despite feeling weakness moments ago, Sonic manages to recover, explaining to Tails that, since he couldn't hand the Warp Topaz over to Knuckles, Metal Sonic was the next best thing. He's back in the game, running circles around Metal Sonic as he explains to Tails how he couldn't just hand the Warp Topaz over to Metal Sonic since he'd suspect something's up.

Cue the Warp Topaz creating another portal, with both vanishing in it.

Sonic manages to grab the Warp Topaz, while Metal Sonic's arm went kaput from the sheer energy the gem released, and the two end up back in the desert in front of Knuckles. Tails notes how Sonic has found a way to control the Warp Topaz, with Sonic then telling Metal Sonic to better go back to Eggman, because, let's be real, he is in no fighting condition.

Knuckles then happily asks Sonic to hand over the Warp Topaz so he can take part in saving the world, but Sonic refuses, leaving Knuckles pissed off for being called over for no reason.

Tails scolds Sonic, telling him to explain to Knuckles what happened and Sonic promises he'll do it... eventually.

...

He's never going to do it.

In any case, I'll stop Part 1 of the story here. We still got more to see, but again, Tumblr's image count works against me.

See ya in Part 2!

#Previous Issue

#Next Issue

#Sonic the Hedgehog Analyzer (Masterlist)

[loumandaniel]

Yeah. Armand looks sooooo annoyed 😭😭😭 every time Daniel opens his mouth. I have to confess something. Even if I do kind of like the concept of dm and the eternal sunshine theory- I do love the question of what happens if you don't have time and your loved ones will never run out of time and also won't ever grow into anything else either- I don't think past dm happened. And uh. Idk how can dm happen then if there has been no past dm and a considerable part of dm was Armand terrorizing Daniel and Daniel trying to push through it before they eventually take a liking to each other.

i agree that past devil’s minion is essential, so without it, present dm going forward could feel odd. it’s easy to forget in fandom that devil’s minion is a blank slate right now. everything about them is essentially just theory. if you avoid outside interviews and books, the only thing you really know is that armand turned daniel out of spite. that’s it. if you don’t actively search for them, you won’t know they’re drifting toward something romantic until it actually happens.

i just can't come up with a reason to remove the chapter at all though. it plays a major role in armand grappling with his trauma surrounding marius, so i see no reason for it to be cut (hello anne rice's opinion on the cycle of abuse). it also ties into daniel’s character - his pursuit of truth, even to disastrous and unethical ends. the core elements of their relationship can exist in any form, but if there were to be something more between armand and daniel, it fits perfectly within themes of the show and who they are, even with your mention of "time running out." if dm broke up as poorly as they did in the book and there is no queen of the damned event to bring them back together, then of course armand being annoyed fits very well. imagine your annoying ex who left you because you two got too codependent is in your home untying your web you built for your current companion lol. i wouldn't want the king of destroying relationships in MY house.

the issue i've found with fandom and devil's minion (and honestly, a lot of other characters & ships get this treatment too) is that they're quite sanitized. when held up against their antagonism in the show, this tends to lead towards conflicting opinions. i hate to say it, but reading the books does a lot more heavy-lifting than one would expect. armand and daniel don't speak any differently in the show than they do in the books lol. they clash in both materials. they both want what the other has and they bleed together, which results in love.

i know this is mean to say, but the iwtv fandom as a whole really sands down the idea of love, or sticks to one singular interpretation. love doesn't immediately equate to a positive. the entire show revolves around how vampirism, whether as a curse or as a gift, confronts your emotions, your memory, against an unending corridor of time. if time heals all wounds, how many times can you rip the scar open again? like, yes, sure, louis and lestat love each other, but should louis love the man who dropped him thousands of feet to punish him for his denial of love? no lol. except, love here is measured against a passage of time beyond human comprehension. much of the love in this show can be horrific and dark, and yet there it is.

anyway, an unnecessarily long post to essentially say that, yea, devil's minion fits the show's theme too well for it to be abandoned in any form. armand enjoys living in lies at his own comfort, while daniel will pursue truth at the cost of his own. throw in the theory that a part of daniel's life is gone, potentially because of something armand has done? now, they’re clashing, but each with a long stretch of time to deal with that. they can be the warped mirror image of loustat, which is delicious to think about.

[ersetu-gazette]

Brainstorming the Mother of Learning TTRPG

So every once in awhile there are forum posts or questions asked about what tabletop roleplaying system would be best for playing in the Ersetu universe. Usually I say that something like Pathfinder or D&D 3.5e would be best because they are the most popular rpgs that MoL at the very least alludes to, with a crunchy gameplay style that the narrative references. There's obvious deep complexity and lots of magic spells. At one point Zorian wonders out loud why some first circle spells aren't 0 circle spells because they don't seem to be more complex and the other character says "marketing" (read: a joke about spell balance). And any missing components could easily fixed with homebrew and hacks (my opinion at the time).

But as I explore more indie ttrpgs and otherwise step further outside of D&D hegemony I realize that it might be that there is a more appropriate ttrpg out there for Mother of Learning. So let's go over the wishlist of what I think might be needed for the system to emulate the world of Ersetu correctly:

Core Mechanics:

Spell points instead of spell slots, no vancian magic.

Partial spell point regeneration in about an hour, mages have options other than needing a full 8 hours to recharge.

Class and character options are mostly magic user focused. No fighters with normal swords. The only martial users of note is a sword user using an obviously magical sword (and also did magic themselves iirc?), and the gun users that individually can't do much: they're only a threat in numbers.

Crunchy and extremely deep range of spells.

Magic item crafting that allows for simple things like spellcasting aides up to complex stuff like automatons.

Counterspelling and dispelling is a core thing most mages are expected to do.

The more the better wishlist:

(These mechanics aren't all necessary but at least some are needed)

Bloodlines and unique abilities reducing spell point cap (how it's done, whether that's through the "vanilla" classes just being assigned more or that taking bloodline feats outright reduces, doesn't exactly matter. As long as it's balanced somehow)

Magic defenses being divided into body, mind, and soul.

The expectation for players is that they're all humans. Shifters and Morlocks seem to be types of humans, cultures and races (shifter might be a class), as opposed to a fully different species like an elf.

Capped base ability scores and spell point growth. No Hercules with a magic pool that continues to grow after hitting the cap. Instead progression past early levels is using what you have more efficiently.

Epic/Mythic optional system to represent the divine abilities/items. (ex. Zach's special mana reserves, the divine crown, high level angels with access to divinity, etc.)

And a skills system that can be invested in.

So, is there a "perfect" ttrpg system we can use for Ersetu? Or are there systems that work better than others that we might need to homebrew?

[timelessbian]

actually that ao3 post about calculating kudos-to-hits ratios to decide if a fic is worth reading has me so pissed off. someone put real time and energy into something they are SHARING WITH YOU FOR FREE on a site where you can quite literally filter and search by anything you want and you're STILL trying to find a foolproof method to find stuff that's "good enough to read"???

YOU ARE NOT THE TARGET AUDIENCE FOR EVERYTHING

you don't have to like or read everything in a given fandom or tag, but you also don't have to be a cunt about it and imply that it's not worth reading. this is the kind of shit that moves people to stop creating altogether, and to see people agreeing in the tags is so disheartening. absolutely unserious behavior.

[crossbackpoke-check]

Looks like that video is about a month & a half after The Trade and trevors broken ankle 😣

re: this video… anon 😭 i had suspicions but it is so much worse to have them confirmed that really was like. trevor’s first Public Appearance without jamie AND post-broken ankle which is traumatic in and of itself no wonder every beat reporter was like ‘oh yeah trevor’s just devastated’

wouldn’t you be miserable too if your best friend just got traded and your body betrayed you and what if it was maybe all your fault!!!

[britneyshakespeare]

i am at the looking-at-dolls-as-self-soothing part of the night. i definitely wanna beef up my bratz collection since unboxing my alwayz bratz yasmin was just like... oh... oh man... and... and i didn't think it'd be like that for me man i didn't think i had as much nostalgia for bratz as i actually do not just buy owning some but by touching them and playing w their clothes and their hair.

and one of my issues of course is that i'm a redhead and as a redhead my Default Lookalike Doll is meygan (not that having a doll that looks like you is the most important part of bratz, but it is so much of the fun right? the fact that there's a character out there for just about everyone?). and i like meygan as a character well enough, that's not the issue. but of the meygan dolls that have been reproduced, there's none of them that are like, hardcore needs for me except for sweetheart meygan. and i did not buy sweetheart meygan in time. i was not really collecting at that point. that was like 2022. i had a few... na na na surprise dolls at that time. which is funny bc i have four of those that i got all either on clearance or w giftcards and i do really like them even though a lot of doll collectors thought they were kinda dumb, and they were. i just liked the gimmick of the fabric bodies and there were just enough dolls i thought were really cute that i kinda caved at one point. i also knew it was a brand i wouldn't go overboard with. anyway. we were talking about meygan...

sorry meygan back to you girl. i know original 2000s bratz that have not yet been reproduced at crazy expensive on the secondhand market and it's genuinely out of control. but sweet heart meygan, both the repro and the original, are selling for triple digits on mercari, ebay, what have you. that's just ridiculous. frankly. i'm not buying her at that. i don't even like her enough to hunt for her regularly, if that's how it's gonna be. there are plenty of more readily-available bratz dolls that are either regular retail price or clearancing online andin stores. did you guys know alwayz bratz jade is going for 15 bucks on amazon right now? that's crazy. the other always bratz dolls aren't going for that low if they're even marked down yet. that release wasn't even that long ago. anyway i'm thinking of getting jade from that line bc i know some ppl thought that alwayz jade was a let-down, but i thought she was cute. yasmin was my favorite from that line and that's why i got her but jade was my second fave there easily.

i also wanna get the kumi they reproduced sometime and maybe girls nite out cloe since i see she's still available. it's funny there aren't that many core girls i've wanted from the repros but if i go for any of the cloes, new or old, it's gotta be girls nite out. cloe isn't even usually my favorite character no offense blondes she's just kinda. she's just kinda cloe to me. idk i love her but i'm not gagged over her most of the time. these are still bratz standardz we're talking about here so obviously i love her.

there's nothing going on in the world right now other than my bratz dolls. and if someone we won't mention wins the election, i'm definitely going doll crazy. i'm gonna be buying dolls after this anyway, but i'm gonna justify spending an unusual, nearly-irresponsible amount of money. you know. bc i'm an adult and i can.

hey also and of all the lines they could've reproduced why is their most recent slumber party? why? why? when the poll posted by mga had tokyo a go go WINNING? bc tokyo a go go is the correct option? i mean the slumber party line is cute and i like the base dolls and the accessories especially the stuffed animals are cute. but. everyone knows the bratz audience these days is adult collectors. which adult collectors are losing their minds over dolls in pajamas and bathrobes? again they're CUTE. but why. also why did they reproduce bratz babyz when those things were nightmare fuel

[lambjock]

i think that viewing the little hope relationships as just ‘family’ ( specifically : blood family, ones with traditional roles and relationships, one bred from a nuclear familial structure ) has a habit of dismissing them entirely. it is not blood that binds them together, nor is it family structures, and throughout every iteration of their lives things change. sometimes they’re merely neighbors with a slim portion of blood relation, sometimes they’re bound by flimsy paper or war, and sometimes they’re students at a college following their professor around. the nature of their relationships change, as do their circumstances and surroundings, but they ( as a mismatched unit ) are eternally bound and divided by a child and an inherent, unescapable tragedy. the important aspect of their relationships is that they are agonized individuals who are stuck together and wouldn’t like to be. the important theme between them is that despite their determined suffering, all the bad ways they clash, and in spite of a bubbling self loathing so awful that it literally kills them, they have found love and comfort in each other anyway, or perhaps have realized a love that has always been there. there’s no ‘i love you as a daughter’ between angela and taylor, just as much as there isn’t any ‘i love you as a sibling’ between dennis and tanya. they just love each other. even the clarke family, arguably the most familial bond they have, still isn’t traditional. none of them are blood and all of them are strangers inside their own home. they don’t look alike and they don’t share dna and they typically don’t care for the facade of a family either, more content to treat each other like roommates at best, and that’s fascinating because why would they care? why would standard labels matter to souls as ancient as theirs? it’s just another flesh they adorn, it’s just another pain they’ll carry and shape and hate. idk! i just think forcing titles on it all is rather boring in nature, and actively hinders the genuine relationships there, in an attempt to have a rulebook of sorts to follow. i also just loathe how the found family trope is constantly turned into a literal family, when it was made to spit in the face of a nuclear family structure. but that’s just me <3

[themyscirah]

Thinking abt Jessica Cruz and the ability to overcome great fear again

[roseofcards90]

I just woke up from a nap and lowkey recovered from an ocd flare up but I truly do hate when fandoms downplay the relationships characters have with each other and water them down to fandom tropes/jokes it just fucking annoys me especially when said relationship has a lot of complexity and it ends up affecting the characterization of the characters involved too that they become misinterpreted/watered down/ flanderized in the process 😭