#that cup at the end lol

[kurayamineko]

[goldensunset]

i’ve been thinking about the pokémon memes where it’s like playing off of that one quote that’s like ‘truly strong trainers should try to win using their favorites’ and it’s like ‘ok well my favorite is [something blatantly overpowered]’ and it’s got me curious. how many people genuinely love pokémon that also happen to be really strong competitively?

so if you will. pick a favorite pokémon (for any reason! whether it’s cuteness or strength or nostalgia etc. no judgment) then go here https://www.smogon.com/dex/sv/pokemon/ and look it up

(you’ll see something that looks like this. see where it says tier and has some gibberish afterwards? don’t worry if you don’t know what that means but tell me what the letters/words are)

also if there are multiple forms and the distinction matters to you make sure you get the right one lol cuz the tiering can be different

edit: forgot to mention i mean specifically in SV! which is what comes up by default. rip every pokémon that either isn’t in SV (it’ll say ‘national dex’) or used to be better but has since fallen off relative to new pokémon

[weskie]

To Make Your Heart Sing (Albert Wesker x ftm!Reader)

3556 words, fluff, hurt/comfort, s.t.a.r.s. wesker, ftm!reader, top surgery mention, coming out, main character injury, soft wesker, established relationship | Fic Directory

some truths are simply hard to tell. still, they must be told

You tried your best to keep things under wraps.  

RCPD’s human resources department knew of your ‘condition,’ but the file that landed on Captain Wesker’s desk a year and a half ago mentioned nothing of it.  You were just, well, you.  And that’s all you needed to be.  You were hired and the rest was history.

Or it was supposed to be.  Instead, you found yourself getting into the best of trouble.  Make no mistake, Captain Wesker intimidated you to no end.  Suppose that’s why the first time you turned a corner and the both of you knocked into each other left you a stuttering mess while you tried desperately to help him pick up the stack of paper he’d been holding.  The other officers who had been in the adjacent break room had the luxury of watching with bated breath to see him chew you a new one for such a careless mistake.

But he didn’t. 

The next was when you’d overcooked your food in the microwave, leading to a loud, wet pop and spaghetti sauce all over the insides of the machine. To your embarrassment, your captain was beside the coffee pot, brow arched just above the rim of his sunglasses as you sputtered and chuckled your apologies for both the mess and the noise.

You could’ve sworn he smiled.

Then there was that day you’d been running late.  You called the precinct from your clunky Nokia, begging for forgiveness from your captain.  As a peace offering, you offered to bring him coffee from a local shop, stating that it was “so much better than the liquid tar in the break room.”  His silence had scared you half to death, but his acceptance carried the strangest hint of amusement.  Black with two sugars, he’d told you.  When you’d finally arrived and delivered it, he took it directly from you, fingers brushing yours and making your cheeks light up.

That was the first time you’d ever seen more than a miniscule smirk on his face.  

Not to mention that time you’d pulled overtime and, upon entering to deliver yet another report, you’d found Wesker with his head resting atop his folded arms on the desk.  To this very day, you still had no idea what came over you to retrieve your S.T.A.R.S. jacket from your desk and drape it over his back.  You’d returned the next day to find it neatly folded atop your desk with a sticky note that simply said ‘Thank you.’

When the day came that he cornered you in the break room, black coffee with two sugars in hand from another one of your late mornings, you felt like a deer caught in headlights.

“I want to take you on a date.” 

Your eyes practically fell out of your head and your cheeks went up in flames.  You were stunned.  Captain Wesker was into men?  Not only that, but he was into you? You didn’t know what to say, what to do– anything.  You must have sat there blinking with your mouth agape for minutes before he’d finally just hummed, snagged a napkin and wrote his number down for you.

“If you find it agreeable, call this number later.  We can… work out the details then.”  

Looking back on it, he seemed just as nervous in that moment as you felt.  Not that you could blame him.  You figured he must have observed you for a long time to gauge if you’d be receptive to advances from another man, but the risk was still high– rejection, risk of harassment accusations… all sorts of bad outcomes must have been weighing on his mind.  But, that night, you called him.  Awkward as it had been, you both settled on a restaurant an hour outside of the city to reduce the chances of you two being seen by the others from the station, and the rest?  Well, it had progressed slow and steady, but your secret relationship with Captain Wesker, now simply Albert to you when appropriate, had entered its third month.

Which is why you’d grown nervous.

You didn’t know how to tell him.  At some point, things would progress beyond warm kisses and tender touches.  At some point your… anatomy was going to matter.  You wish you would’ve told him before all of this began and saved yourself the potential heartache of losing what had been the sweetest, gentlest relationship you’d ever had.  You worried yourself sick about it, always careful never to wear tank tops or shirts bright or thin enough that the tone of your chest scars could show through.  Your testosterone shots were easy enough to hide, thankfully.

Albert had been nothing less than a pure gentleman throughout it all, never once pushing your boundaries or showing impatience when you’d shy away from things.  Even the night you’d both fallen asleep on your bed consisted of little more than a hand resting atop the small of your back and your face nuzzled against the comforting rise and fall of his chest.

But, try as you might to hide it, Wesker had picked up on your anxieties.

“Have I made you uncomfortable?”  

Your heart fell through the floor the night he’d asked that.  You swore up and down over and over again that it was nothing he’d done and that you were just dealing with something that you didn’t know how to put into words.  He accepted your answer without question, pressed a kiss to your knuckles, and continued reading the file he'd brought home from work.

Your mind always turned to thoughts of how you were going to tell him, distracting you at the worst times.  Which, of course, put you in a situation where you had no choice in how the truth would come out.

The bulletproof vest had saved your life– for the most part, that is.  Gunmen in a hostage situation had released a young girl, sending her out to run toward the blockade.  She was to be a message, clearly, because they fired at her as soon as she got close.

You bolted out to cover her, mind devoid of sense the very moment you saw one of the men emerge from the building.

You took two to the chest with the first simply lodging into the center of your vest.  The other managed to pierce, embedding in your right pectoral.  You’d laid between squad cars and the steps to the bank for god knows how long, shaking fingers applying as much pressure to your wound as you could muster while the sun beat down on you without mercy.  The next thing you knew, you were being thrown into an ambulance and given the good stuff, and you woke up after who knows how long in a hospital bed.

Your first visitors were Rebecca and Jill.  You’d grown closer with them than most of the others– save for Wesker, of course.

“How are you feeling?”

You simply answer Jill with a lopsided smile and a hum, tipping your head back against the pillow.  “Mm, yup.”

“I don’t think the pain meds have worn off yet,” Rebecca giggles from across the room where she inspects the whiteboard covered with hastily scribbled patient information.

“Lucky him.  Should let Captain Wesker know he’s at least feeling good when we go back.  He’s…”  Jill turns to you with a sweet smile, clearly pondering her words.  “Distraught is a… is a word for how he is right now..”

That, of course, breaks your heart.  He was there when it happened.  Albert saw you go down.  Silly you, covering the girl they’d released…

Your eyelids grow heavier as time goes by, eventually slipping shut while you bask in their company.  When they open again, you’ve got two nurses at your bedside.  Even in your dazed state, you can put two and two together.  Just a change of bandages…

“Hi, sweetheart!” Chirps the woman closest to you while she peels away tape and gauze.  “You bled through so we’re just cleaning you up, okay?”

You simply nod and stare up at the ceiling.  It doesn’t hurt, thankfully, and the only thing you feel is cold air on your chest.  Part of you shudders.  Medical settings could be… complicated with your unique condition.  But you try not to anticipate the worst.

Oh how wrong you are.

“You can come in,” says the other nurse.  “Just replacing his bandages.  We’ll be out in a few.”

The hum in response yanks you from whatever blissful stupor the pain meds had lulled you into and you shoot up in the bed, shocking the nurse tending your wound.

“Careful, baby! You’ll tear your stitches–”

You barely hear her, nor do you feel her hands attempting to coax you back to the bed.  You go down, but not before locking eyes with your one and only.

Fuck…

They’ve got the top of your gown off and there’s no way–

You swallow thickly as your throat closes with a wave of shame.  You shut your eyes to hide the tears gathering within them, listening intently as Wesker’s nearly silent footsteps come to a halt on the other side of your bed.  He sees you.  There’s no way he doesn’t.  He’ll have questions.  Fuck, maybe he’ll just know outright.  Wesker’s a smart man…

You should’ve told him.

You keep your eyes screwed shut for what feels like eternity, even after the door clicks and the nurses leave you to each other’s company.  Neither of you says a word and it’s nearly pure silence until you hear the drag of a chair.  You just about jump out of your skin when his fingertips graze your knuckles, but they don’t retreat.  Instead, he takes your hand in his, lifts it, and presses kiss after kiss to it.

Your eyes crack open, vision bleary from tears and clearing as they spill.  You find him looking at you with furrowed brows and some painful combination of worry and relief written across his face.  His glasses are hooked on his shirt, showing you icy blues with a touch of red in the surrounding scleras. 

“How do you feel?”  His voice is as calm as ever, but, for once, his expression betrays him.

“Like I got shot,” you rasp.  You crack the tiniest smile despite the swirling dread and anxiety filling you to the brim.  You observe him for a minute, looking for something, anything to confirm your fears.

You find nothing.

“Indeed,” he hums, lips twitching at the corners.  “I’m glad you’re in good spirits despite the tears.”

You give a weepy chuckle that turns to tight sobs.  You feel so helpless and pathetic.  You’d almost died and now your little secret had been put on wide display for him.  Part of you figures this is just the universe’s way of telling you to get on with it.  Just finally rip the bandaid off.

You suddenly start to rise from your flat position.  Wesker watches you for signs of discomfort, taking his finger off the bed controls only once you were upright and–

Oh fuck– no, no, no!

They hadn’t buttoned your gown earlier.  The front section falls forward and you scramble to push it back up, holding it in place as you clench your eyes shut and bite your tongue.  His hand leaves yours and your stomach drops, ice shooting through your veins. For a minute, you think he’s leaving, but then–

Snap.  Snap.  Snap.

Your eyes widen, gaze falling to the hands working to pinch together the little buttons that run along the seam at your shoulder.  Wesker leans across you just slightly to repeat the process on the other side.  His scent fills your lungs and you can’t help but take a deep, greedy breath, chin quivering all the while. 

“Would you like to stay with me while you recover?”  He asks softly, taking his seat once more.  “Or would you prefer if I stayed with you instead?”

It’s so earnest that you could scream.  Part of you wonders if he’s just avoiding the elephant in the room.

“I imagine the comfort of your own home would lend itself better to your recovery,” he continues, taking your hand in his once more. “But I am not averse to either choice.”

“Al, you don’t have to–”

“You’ll need the help.”  He says, giving your hand a gentle squeeze.  “I assume you’ve had restrictions like this before.”

That cold feeling runs through your body again. He’s not avoiding it.   

“Yeah…”  

And he’s completely right.  You will need help.  You doubt your restrictions will be as tight as those you had after top surgery, but you did take a bullet to the chest.  Two, technically…

“I want you to think about it.”  Wesker checks his watch as he speaks, rising from his chair with a small huffed breath.  “My break is nearly over, but I’ll try to come by again before visitation hours end.  You should rest some more.”

You let your head fall back against the pillow once again, eyes fixed on him as he pushes the chair back to its original spot.  Wesker approaches your bedside again, hand raising to rest against the side panel controls.

“Up or down?”  He asks, voice soft.

“Mm, somewhere in between please.”  

Your eyes lock with his as you descend.  That same tenderness still dances in his gaze– the kind he saves for you and you alone.  Despite the tendrils of anxiety tugging at your mind, you find such an act soothes you to the core.  Wesker breaks eye contact for a split second to glance behind himself, ever the private man he is, and he leans over you.  His lips press to your forehead first, warm and soft, and his right hand rises to your cheek to thumb at the curve.  He holds that position for a moment, breaking it only to press another to your lips.

“Hm,” he hums, breaking away to glance at the monitor.  He chuckles softly.  “Your heart rate just jumped.”

Oh god, you think it yourself.  You can practically feel your cheeks go up in flames, but you giggle nonetheless at his cheeky little observation.  “Well, you know… handsome blonde guys named Albert do that to me.”

He leaves with a light shade of pink dusting his cheeks, much to your satisfaction.

They keep you at the hospital for another full day just to be safe.  Wesker spent his lunch break with you again, during which he reminded you that he would absolutely be aiding you while you’re under physical restrictions– you need only pick the place.  He’d been positive your own home would be better, so that’s what you opted for.  

Much to your joy, you weren’t excessively limited.  No heavy lifting, no strenuous activity– all the usuals.  You were to have two full weeks off before returning to simple desk duty.  Wesker picked you up, duffel bag of his necessities already packed in the back seat of his car, and brought you home.  Things were stellar until you realized he wanted to do just about every little thing for you, convinced you would cause yourself further harm.  Cooking was out of the question, so he made you meals that you could’ve sworn belonged in a gourmet restaurant rather than your little apartment. And laundry?  Forget about it.  You practically had to wrestle a handful of socks and towels from him so that you could feel less like a deadbeat.  Wound care, though… that was where things got tricky.  Wesker insisted that he be the one to change your bandages, and he did so twice a day, which was more often than was even recommended.

“I said I would take care of you.  What kind of partner would I be if I let you walk around in old bandages, hm?” 

It had been hard to let him do it.  Despite knowing full well he had a clear view of your chest in the hospital, you were still apprehensive to let him see it again.  No questions had been raised in regard to the origin of your scars, but that was somehow worse.  For a time, you figured he chalked it up to some sort of wound obtained in the field, but the day came where his hands wandered and a fingertip trailed the line running beneath your left pectoral.

“I…” You try, swallowing thickly to quell your nerves.

“Tell me about them.” Wesker breathes, finger still running along the ridge, pausing over the parts that weren’t quite perfect.

The worst part of everything?  You know full well you could just walk away and he’d leave it.  Al never pries; he always respects your boundaries.  'No' has always been a complete sentence to him, something you’ve appreciated endlessly in your time together with him.  But, all the same, wasn’t it time you gave an inch?  The man so endlessly patient and sweet to you, despite how he presents himself to the rest of the world, deserved the truth.

So you spill.

“I’m transgender…”  You murmur, words tight in your throat as you stare down to your socked feet.  From there, the rest falls free.  Every little detail.  Childhood woes, adulthood struggles– how happy you were the day you got your very first shot of testosterone and how you felt like you had a new lease on life itself when you woke up from your chest surgery all those years ago.  A tear or two escapes you as you tell your tale, but they’re not the bad kind.  No… they come from something else entirely.  A joy you could never put to words, a cresting wave of pride that you’ve come so far and lived so well despite every bump in the road, a sense of self that felt like wings upon your back…  With every story, you find yourself meeting his gaze more often until you’re looking right into those icy blues.

If Albert is dissatisfied with your revelation, he doesn’t show it.  Instead, he stands before you and listens intently to every word.  Without his glasses, you can see his eyes soften at certain parts, but it's the way his hand doesn’t quite leave from where he’d touched your scar before that keeps you hopeful throughout the entire ordeal.

“And I– I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before, I just…” You exhale hard, eyes dropping with the weaning of that miracle burst of confidence.  “Telling people is… difficult.”

“Did you think I would react badly?”

You didn’t expect such a question, let alone for it to be asked so gently.  “I… yes and no.”  You chew the inside of your cheek as you ponder the way to best explain it to him.  “Not everyone is kind about it.  I didn’t think– it wasn’t that I thought you’d be mean about it, I just… I didn’t want you to feel like I was lying to you…”

Wesker’s eyes flit to the side for a brief second.  “I understand.  Though I fail to see how you would’ve lied.”

At that, you let out a breathy little laugh, eyes closing as you shake your head.  “So you’re okay with it?”  You ask finally, hand rising to rest over his that still lingered at your chest.  The anxiety returns and you worry the side of your lower lip between your canines.

“I am,” Wesker hums, offering you perhaps the softest, sweetest smile you’ve ever seen grace his face.  His free hand reaches for the one that hangs loose by your side, holding it tenderly as he leans forward.  At first you think he’s going for a kiss, which you happily prepare for, but he presses his forehead to yours.  You allow your eyes to flutter shut, same as him.  “I’m afraid you’ve stolen my heart, my dear.” He pauses for a moment, brushing his nose against yours. “You are who you are.  I wouldn’t want you any other way.”

At that, there’s simply no helping the way you throw yourself at him, arms wrapping around him as tight as you can without agitating your wound.  He returns your embrace immediately, palms stroking up and down the length of your back, perfectly warm against your skin.  

There’s one last thing to tell him.  Something that’s been in your heart for a while now.  He deserves every truth from you, and you’re all too happy to give it to the man who assigns you heaps of reports at work and makes your heart sing at home.

“I love you.”  You murmur against his collar, smiling big and wide at how his arms tighten around you.  “I really, really love you.”

“Good,” he hums.  Wesker rests his chin atop your head, swaying slightly as if to music that wasn’t there.  ���Because I really, really love you, too.”

You giggle at his mimicry, but, in truth, you’re overflowing with joy.  It’s as if the sun itself has risen in your chest to hear those words, but that is simply the effect Wesker has on you.

What bliss to know you warm his heart the same.

[keeps-ache]

sittin' kitten :3

[jellysmudge]

Conversations at like 4 am

[repurposedmeatlocker]

On one hand, I agree that there should be a more diverse field of subject matter utilized in "adult animation". Not all "adult animation" should be used as an excuse to revolve around shock content and gratuitous potty humor. At this point in time, stuff like this being seen on prime-time television is no longer out of the ordinary. And, from my observation, is done well even less frequently. There should be more films that treat themselves seriously and explore an array of topics rather than just comedy with a middle-school idea of mature subject matter.

ON THE OTHER HAND. I don't think there is ANYTHING wrong with animated movies and shows with lots of drugs and boobies and sex and gross jokes. I think cartoon characters having freaky sex is funny af. Both have the right to exist together. Art should not be pigeon-holed through a lens of "respectability" in order to be taken seriously. Demanding adult animation be "palatable" for an "adult" audience ultimately strips it completely of what makes it a unique medium for expression in the first place.

[scrawlingskribbles]

not me blearily waking up at 5:30am almost in tears bc I had a dream that Ian had apparently been making more little OK KO shorts on the side and the utter joy I was feeling as dream!me was scrambling to find & watch them only to wake up before I could........ :((((

[batfossil-fr]

Which of your dragons would you say is your most favorite, and why?

this is a very tough decision...

I think most favorite has to be Cup, he's just my silly guy. I adore his colors and his eye matching and even though I really don't have much planned for him, I feel like he's just my FR icon at this point (literally and figuratively). my FR-sona. my guy

but I have so many honorable mentions after him, putting together a strict top 5 list of favs would kill me. so consider these guys all tied for #2

Cozan/Chaxu, Molossus, Aixide, Dyhemo, Rodinia, Pajiha... etc etc etc

[lover-of-mine]

Not really Wip Wednesday!

I was tagged by @wikiangela @disasterbuckdiaz @eddiebabygirldiaz @eowon @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove thank you 🩷🩷

Okay so, I posted a fic yesterday so I didn't look at anything other than that all week, so I'm gonna post a bit of a finished fic that I reread while editing the nightmare fic. This fic was a very random idea I had after the cemetery scene, and the idea started out as something that could be a crack fic and ended up being a very bittersweet no dialogue thing, so like, it took a turn kspskaoa. The fic is Eddie pining because Buck is on a date but then Buck shows up to his house and, well, in his pining he imagines, like, random kinder universes that allow him be with Buck, and the last few paragraphs of the nightmare fic reminded me of one of those kinder universes and I decided to make it similar on purpose for no reason really, I just thought it would be cool to give one of my version of Eddie's that (it kinda made me want to revisit this fic and expand it so it has a happy ending because I legit sat here contemplating life because I have a fic that doesn't have a happy ending but I also really like that the fic is bittersweet so I'm conflicted). This one is called this surprise ending i’m depending on (could be the story of another us) and you can read it on ao3 if your interested in something more on the angsty. Anyway, have this little bit I really like.

But the more pressing matter is he needs to get out of his truck because Buck is starting to lose the amused glint of his eyes and Eddie very much doesn't want to dissect why he was in his truck. It's not like he can say "oh, yeah, I'm totally in love with you and you were on a date so I had to go stuff my face with processed sugar," at least not without some consequences Eddie is definitely not ready to deal with. And he's been thinking about it. Consequences. Possibilities if he's feeling particularly hopeful. Not that he's been hopeful for a while. But to be fair, how hopeful can someone be when they are reminded of exactly how in love with someone they are by having to watch them die and having to save them? For 3 minutes and 17 seconds, Eddie lived in a world where Buck was dead. Then he spent days not knowing if he was going to wake up. He has nightmares where the CPR doesn't work and he can't get his heart beating again and he's trapped in a world without Buck. He knows he is not. Buck is within his reach, standing outside his truck watching as Eddie closes the box of donuts and collects his phone and wallet from the console. Buck just doesn't know exactly how much Eddie loves him. So it's hard to hope. There are moments when Eddie wants to tell him. Even before the lightning, there were moments. When he would wake up to the smell of pancakes and Buck would be handing him a cup of coffee with a sleepy smile before Eddie fully registered he was in the kitchen, or when Chris would fall asleep on Buck, even though Chris is not so slowly reaching that phase where he's too old for cuddles, and Buck would shrug off Eddie's attempt to move him to his bed and just settle in, he would need to bite his tongue to stop the words from tumbling down out of him. But now, after the lightning, the moments keep getting more frequent. He sometimes feels like he is one thankful smile or one rambling fact or one teasing remark from just blurting it out.

No pressure tagging 🩷: @bucks118 @try-set-me-on-fire @steadfastsaturnsrings @honestlydarkprincess @watchyourbuck @vampbuckley @housewifebuck @daffi-990 @giddyupbuck @honestlyeddie

[elkkiel]

also HASHTAG OILERS NATION BABY WOOOOOOOOOO WE'RE GOING TO GAME 7 FUCK YOU FLORIDA BARK BARK BARK BARK WOOF GRRRROOOF RAAAAHHHH

[abbey-abdominal]

I don’t know when the rooble brain rot will be over please help me this is not me shitposting anymore

[fellowfights]

I want to watch Carol and the End of the World so bad, but as someone who is chronically ill and could literally die any day, I think the show would sent me into a depressive episode.

[randomnameless]

The whole 'nabatean's blood is green in dragon form' is very silly and I generally ignore it but it's very cool to imagine someone cornering a injury, bleeding nabatean and the last thing they see is their victim's blood turning green before they're crushed to death by a giant lizard.

"What's that green goo?"

I supposed it could be explained in a roundabout way like the color being altered because hocus-pocus-magic stuff, like in their bestial form Nabateans channel/summon more magic so their blood change color...

But I guess it was to keep the game with a rather low PG and still be able to get a Supreme Ending in Tru Piss, because if Rhea bled "red blood" hugging each other on her corps might have looked, uh, not very "uwu tier" :

Fun fact I just noticed, the closes up on Rhea's white eye here, just at it closes up Billy's black pupils -

I'm sure there's some symbolism here, with Billy "waking up" without his enlightened status, having dropped the SoC and without his crest stone - and Rhea's graphic death, but who knows?

it means billy is finally a human thanks to the evil lizard lady's death ! yay! It's just a coincidence the game ends on a shot that is most likely reserved for people who realise what the fuck they've done!

[undefeatablesin]

So I want to talk about the Bloodborne Comics today, more specifically I want to talk about the hunter from Death of Sleep, mainly because they served as my gateway to the franchise and I think about them a lot even to this day-but nobody else ever seems to mention them or the comics for that matter? But I don’t control my brainrots, they control me, so here we are. This is long as hell, so buckle up lmao.

In any case, I’m going to preface this by saying I definitely understand why the comics aren’t talked about a great deal in the fandom as far as I can tell, since we only get one issue that actually centres around the more familiar and expected story of the hunt, and even then the story’s trajectory veers off in a wildly different direction than you might anticipate-and then the rest of the issues by and large all revolve around characters that are only canon to the comics except for Eileen. I appreciate them for what they are, even though I think a lot of opportunity to explore more pertinent characters was definitely missed, but I’m not here to talk about that in particular today when The Death of Sleep has only become of increasing interest to me since I finally played the game for myself. There will be spoilers for this issue mentioned throughout, so if you haven’t read it and still want to, please keep that in mind.

For those who haven’t read it or just as a refresher for those that have, Death of Sleep follows a nameless hunter on their journey to uncover the meaning of paleblood in order to transcend the hunt they are trapped in the cycle of. This story presumably takes place a little earlier than our hunter’s story in the game, something we can safely assume based on two key details in particular:

Djura is present with all of his powder kegs in Old Yharnam as opposed to being by himself with only one accomplice, and furthermore does not yet seem to be driving other hunters out of the city. He even refers to the nameless hunter as his “friend” and the powder kegs are all taking refuge in the cathedral which, by the time of the game, has obviously been overrun with beast patients praying to the strung up corpse of a blood-starved beast. There are also dogs and huntsmen present in Old Yharnam in the comic, which there definitively is not during the events of the game. Could just be an oversight, but I like to believe this is just a relatively earlier point in time.

Iosefka has not been turned into a celestial emissary and replaced by her imposter yet in the comic; the real Iosefka is still very much alive and present, as we can define by her strict dedication to keeping contaminants out of her clinic and away from her patients while the hunt is in process. As we know, the fake Iosefka is not interested in protecting the patients so much as she is in acquiring even more of them to experiment on.

The hunter of this story is delivered to us as a blank slate in many ways; they have no name, no memory of their past, their family or why they came to Yharnam (if they indeed came from the outside at all), nor how long they have even been a paleblood hunter, asking Gehrman at one point how long they have been bound to the dream (which Gehrman does not actually answer.) The only fragments of their past we are privy to is that a) they have some blurry memories of a child they can’t fully remember, whether that is a child of their own, a different family member or someone else entirely that they have forgotten throughout the hunt. And b) they have some sort of history with Iosefka, which I will expound on further later.

The basic story in DoS revolves around The hunter being entrusted with a strange child by Djura, the both of them believing that the child is the fabled Paleblood that the hunter seeks, due to the fact that, as one might guess, the child quite literally bleeds pale blood. The hunter takes the child with them out of Old Yharnam (after dying once attempting to do so in a confrontation with the Blood Starved Beast), intending for the both of them to escape the hunt with the child’s help.

They journey through some familiar locations like the Forbidden Woods and Iosefka’s clinic and then further out to the Old Fishing Hamlet in search of a boat; though where the hunter thinks they are going to go with that boat or what they are going to do with the child is never disclosed. However, predictably and yet unfortunately for the hunter, the child is heavily implied to be an escaped experiment of the Healing Church as opposed to the answer to the hunter’s plight. The child bleeds the same murky colour as the kin enemies (and the children in the upper cathedral ward orphanage are supposedly the source of celestial emissaries created by the choir’s experiments). The child remarks that they have always “felt sick”, not unlike how imposter Iosefka describes nausea after the blood moon descends. The child likewise does not remember their name or their past and exhibits supernatural abilities, is able to see the amygdalas in the world, and all of this eventually culminates in them turning into a grotesque monster at the very end of the story-making it grimly apparent that they are not what the hunter was looking for at all. The two leave together regardless on a boat out of the fishing hamlet, going to who knows where.

It’s a rather short and simple story, and not one that cares to explain much or expand much on the context we already have, but yet it really fascinates me regardless simply because of how much it emphasizes the presumed hopelessness of Bloodborne’s world and the aching that the hunter feels for an escape from it. For such a relatively mysterious character, we gather a great deal about them purely through the implications of their internal dialogue and the actions they take throughout the pages. If you have no other knowledge of the comic whatsoever, you probably have at least seen this meme-

Which is the hunter’s reply to the doll asking what the hunter desires once they return to the dream after dying to BSB, and the first real instance we see of this particular hunter’s weariness with the hunt that is only compounded by the struggles they have to face throughout their journey. They want out, and they want it terribly, even if they don’t remember what, if anything, they have to return to. They often ideate about death, what it means to die, their inability to truly die, and yet how it is enough for them to die showing the prey that they are unafraid. They feel stranded and hopeless, yet cling to a single foolish hope of finding their way out. They are sick and tired of the hunt, but the hunt now is all they know and all that they are-its their centre, their core, their person. I don’t often see depictions of a paleblood hunter so downtrodden and world-weary that they want to just lay down and give up but simply cannot, or one that goes so far out of their way to avoid the path that the Dream (and thereby the Moon Presence) demands of them. The path which, ironically, is the actual path they need to take to ever truly escape the hunt, whether they know that or not-or whether they are just purely too tired to tread it.

They are a walking, tragic paradox, which in a lot of ways is well-suited to the tragic and bleak world of Bloodborne, and when you think about it, a perfect contrast to the role we end up taking in the game however long after. Our hunter is a relentless force that sees their duty through to the bitter end, whatever end that winds up being, a single shining beacon of hope in this hopeless world-the definition of creating your own destiny, while the nameless hunter in many a way sadly succumbs to the one thrust upon them-seen abandoning their saw cleaver on the shores of the hamlet before they sail away to an unknown fate, though one we know will grant them no peace. They are bound to the dream still, even if they now refuse to fight any longer (not so unlike Djura denouncing his status as a hunter in the face of his own grievances, a very interesting parallel to the nameless hunter and likely an intentional one, since he of all people was chosen to be featured in the comic alongside the nameless hunter.) Frankly, I find them wonderfully, tragically interesting as our own hunter’s predecessor in a narrative sense, and one that is just buried away in these comics and never really spoken of.

I’m also surprised that at the very least nobody talks about the fact the nameless hunter is canonically non-binary! Though the comic summary and Djura both refer to the hunter as “he”, the hunter themself does not apply any particular gender to their person when questioned about it by Iosefka.

And last of all, speaking of Iosefka once more, I am also surprised nobody talks about the implied relationship between the hunter and Iosefka. For as brief as their time in the comic together might be, there are some interesting implications in the dialogues between them. Iosefka claims that “not even her dear hunter” could change her mind about letting people enter the clinic during a hunt-but yet took the hunter in along with the child regardless when the hunter turned up wounded from their jaunt in the forbidden woods and collapsed outside her clinic, as well as treating them with the best blood in her possession (presumably even her own?) The hunter in particular though has some dialogue that just reeks with yearning after they depart from Iosefka’s clinic, having the following things to say:

“Iosefka, I remember the smell of your skin. Soft, subtle markings. Then overwhelm. Honey and bitter medicines. In another world, we could have seen each other again. In another world...not this cursed dream.”

A remarkably intimate statement, by all accounts, especially given this hunter’s rather impersonal comments about the other characters in the story, none of which the hunter has terribly much to say about-whether or not this dialogue was supposed to denote a romantic connection of some kind, I am not going to say definitively. I am going to say the implication definitely keeps me up at night though.

All this said and done: pls read Death of Sleep, you might find it surprisingly interesting lmao.

[tardis--dreams]

Some of those doctors make hating oat milk their entire personality. I hate them. Cannot pretend to find them funny or like i give a shit. Fucking pretentious assholes

[arolesbianism]

Blue and not fully human gang rise up