#the curtains are the same ones I've had literally since i was born

[kerosene-saint]

my bedroom is such a fucking weird room

[justatalkingface]

So in light of the absolute fuckery that's been Chapter 407, I want to talk about All For One, because I don't think I've ever really talked about him.

I don't mind that he's evil for evil's sake, I don't mind that his ultimate goal is to take OFA so that he can take over the world and make everyone reliant on him or whatever. I don't mind that he nearly took over Japan back in the day. But like everything else Horikoshi touches, AFO had potential that was ultimately squandered away.

I hate how he was literally pure evil IN FUCKING UTERO, I hate how he was barely even utilized (outside of Kamino Ward, which that was fucking awesome) before he tries wrestling control of Shigaraki to be the main villain again. I hate how even though he allegedly has hundreds upon hundreds of Quirks, he spams the same 3-4 ones, and I hate how for supposedly smart and devious he is, we never see him utilizing UA's bad PR or his traitor to his advantage.

It's kind of weird to say this, but I both miss AFO, and feel sorry for him. I know he's been in the story a lot, but... it feels like AFO, the real one, fucking died at Kaminio, and his idiot corpse has just been running around since with Hori's hand up his ass.

Before Kamino, AFO was evil, yes, and and we didn't know about him, but he felt like a real person; an asshole, but he was something you could imagine a super-powered mob boss could end up being.

Since then, though? He's just been becoming more and more... shallow. It's like Hori was hinting at these dark, mysterious depths of ancient man, and then he pulled the curtain and showed us a fucking puddle. And now? All the mystery, all the backstory?

'BeCaUSe i'M EEEEEEEVVVILLLL'. Unironically, it seems to be his only motivation anymore. He does bad things because he's evil; he doesn't actually want to take over the world, that's just something he's doing because taking over the world is evil. Money? Power? Ultimately worthless, nothing more than tools for the purposes... of EVIL!

So... here's the question: why is he evil?

Because he was evil when he was an adult. Why was he evil as an adult? Because he was evil as a kid, apparently, instead of anything more interesting like him slowly being radicalized by Quirk Discrimination. Why was he evil as a kid? Because he was born evil, instead of anything more interesting like a terrible family, or because a police officer hurt him and traumatized him for life. Why was he evil when he was born?

??????

Because he was born of evil genetics, maybe; I wouldn't put it past Hori to make him unironically Quirk Satan or something. The thing is, that's not how human beings work; even an actual sociopath isn't going to be born this gibberingly, one-dimensionally evil. Worse yet, it's fucking boring to have a human being this basic; at this point why aren't they fighting a robot, or monster or something? It'd have the same level of motivation, and it'd feel more interesting than this.

Even ignoring how stupid he's become post-Kamino (which is a related but different point, best summed up by post-Kamino AFO is basiclly running around with his pants on his head, constantly getting one upped by the heroes, the kids, and basiclly random strangers by now), AFO was at his most interesting, not only when he was competent, but when he felt like a person; there's a reason DFO is so popular, and it's not just because it drags Izuku into it, but because it humanizes AFO, gives him real, human motivations to make us interested in his character.

The worst part of it? There's been so many chances to make him more than this caricature of a human being; by making him care for Shigaraki (or for Dr. Plot Device, or even Kurogiri, his loyal minion, before he was Eraserhead's seemingly somewhat retconned 'human interest' (which was barely a thing), or even just for Gigantomachia, who is basiclly a giant, super-violent dog, who he could have cared about like he was just a giant dog), or for him caring for his brother.

I mean, shit. In all honesty, I could make the 'biting baby' thing work, even. Ideally, it'd need some set up beforehand, but you know how Himiko is (the only one we've ever seen) with desires from her Quirk? Do something similar to how Yhwach in Bleach was on AFO, with that kind of logic, with him needing something, at this fundamental level, to be functional, that he's almost addicted to stealing Quirks, that AFO as a Quirk only works as a Quirk because somewhere in his magic DNA he's... unstable. That the very versatility that allows him to hold every Quirk is starving for the stability of a normal Quirk, so that even as a infant, he's instinctively trying feed himself something a normal human would never need.

There's this whole, interesting dynamic this would introduce, a real nature/nurture-y kind of thing, that would put a whole new spin on his character; he's this seemingly pointlessly evil person because his needs, combined with the only real role model he had for someone in his situation, the demon kings he's seen in manga, and a society that rejected him, both as someone with a Quirk by the normal humans, and as someone who could take away their Quirks by the Quirked, turning him into this because that's all he's ever known.

And here's the thing? This idea? Hori could still try to do that. He could try to turns table us with this sudden development, and try to make a real boy out of AFO. But I don't think he's going to; I really don't think he'll do that. Worse, even if he does try that, he'll just double down on AFO being 'born evil' instead of anything with any real depth to it. Do you know why I think that?

Because in all honesty, AFO isn't a real character anymore; he hasn't been for awhile now. All he is is a plot device, the duck tape Hori's been putting on everywhere to try and hold the story together against all the plot holes and logic failures that have been built up from years of bad, biased and rushed writing. More and more, he's become the reason for everything, the cause of every problem Hori can't be bothered to think through, every villain he didn't want to actually have to explain.

The Readers/The Characters: Why did X happen? What caused that? How does Y feel abou- Hori: AFO did it. I ain't gotta explain shit.

And that's the real reason he's so stupid, BTW, the reason he never uses any other Quirk, or applies any creativity in combat (or anywhere else), and why he keeps losing... it's for the plot. Because the thing is? AFO is fucking overpowered.

Let me tell you something I've never seen anyone else acknowledge: All Might never should have won. He overpowered AFO, sure, but we saw from their fight that he barely did that; didn't crush the puny caster AFO once he got past the lasers, his one super Quirk barely out-performed AFO's stacked Quirks in direct combat. Which, yeah, sure I can see that....

But. Why did AFO fight fair, just power against power, blow vs blow? Why didn't he, like, release poison gas as they fought? All Might is strong, but he still has flesh, blood, lungs; he's still very vulnerable to all kinds of softer Quirks. Where was the touch activated Quirk, like that kid from the License Exam, would have turned All Might into a meatball, or taffy, or whatever? Where was the voice activated Quirk that would have stunned All Might for a critical moment?

Hell. Why didn't AFO cheat? Why did he fight All Might, like an honorable person, when he realised the man was possibly a threat to him, instead of just... assassinating him, like a crime lord (or demon king)? Go to his home (or Might Tower, or wherever), drug his food, put something in his water, hell, just launch a surprise attack from point blank range? We know he tried for Eraserhead's Quirk once, before... apparently just giving up and never trying again; why didn't he try again, get it, and use that?

And beyond even all those problem, I don't see a reason for OFA to have survived long enough to get to All Might in the first place!

I mean, seriously: we know that every user fought AFO, viciously, to point where it caused their early deaths (except the one that basiclly started to Snap himself out of existence). We know OFA was only slowly building up in power, and the early versions especially didn't do much at all, and the Quirks all of them had where never top of the line because they were literally just a random person nearby when the Holder before them died.

So. Riddle me this: why, when a bunch of honestly mid-tier people tried, again and again, to kill AFO, who was overwhelmingly stronger than them, who had access to more tools, powers and money than they did; why, when all these factors were stacked against them, did they survive to the point where they could even pass OFA on? How did they survive blows strong enough to destroy buildings, laser blasts, all these powerful Quirks and techniques that AFO uses casually that most heroes would have been instantly killed by, if not flat out destroyed.

I mean... fuck, there's a decent chance AFO knew they had OFA in them, which he wanted (for whatever reason; sentimentality clearly isn't a emotion he's allowed to have, and early OFA wouldn't have been worth the effort for him to go through all of this to try and acquire it), which means instead of just killing them, he would have captured them, taken them back to his base, and then tortured them until they gave him OFA, just so they would finally be allowed to die and not hurt anymore? While I'm at this, why didn't he just kill any pedestrians around after he killed whatever OFA Holder he was fighting; it's not like morals are going to stop him, are they?

Fundamentally, MHA is built off the premise that AFO, terrifying criminal genius with countless Quirks, strong enough that he makes people by him hallucinate out of terror, is so pants shittingly stupid that he spent almost a hundred years basiclly punching himself in the face rather than just winning fights that were ludicrously stacked in his favor again and again and again; I mean, hell, he could still be an utter moron, and as long as he just got lucky once, just once, the giant, unending sequence of coincidences and logic breaking victories that allowed All Might to get his Quirk never would have happened.

None of this, of course, is even mentioning everything happening in the Final Arc, like AFO's obvious weakness to allow him to be finally beat forever appearing out of nowhere, in him having Remnants (even though AFO took eight users to to power it up enough to get to the point that AFO was apparently always at, and us having no reason to think this was a thing before now, much less all the absolute nightmare fuel questions that raises about the Nomu, and all the Quirks that AFO's doctor had stored away), and Eri's Quirk actively accelerating to heal him, thus limiting his life span (or the fact it's even working like that in the first place), even though it's a time Quirk, not a healing Quirk, and it doesn't fucking care about how wounded he is.

So, why did it happen? Why is it still happening?

Because he's a plot device. Because he exists, not as an active character with his own agenda, but as an adjustable target for the heroes to fight against, again and again and again, and if he won, the story would be over. Fundamentally, Hori made AFO too strong, too smart, too well connected, too perfect to every truly lose in this setting, and instead of trying to fix that, in any real way, impose some kind of realistic limitations or drawbacks in his wildly over-powered Quirk, or just kill him off so he wasn't a factor anymore, he just... made the man stupid.

[evilfloralfoolery]

ok but I'd really love hearing more about that French fuck omg! "Oh I'm so very cold" sfdsljk freaking priceless, it's been a good long while since I've read something so entirely up my alley!

Why, thank you!!! I'm absolutely delighted that you enjoy this as much as I do! I actually thought of you when I was "listening" to Lucian tell me about himself lol. I've always had a penchant for snarky snobbery as well, as you know. ;)

SO! This is what Lucian has "told me" about himself so far.

Lucian d'Alarie was born on May 10 in the year 1700 in the city of  Marseille. His parents were extremely wealthy "old money" aristocrats that relocated to Paris when he was about 17. Lucian's father was murdered under "suspicious circumstances" after his mother took up with an even wealthier man and left the family. At 19, Lucian became the sole heir to his father's fortune and business (he hasn't told me what this "business" is yet). It wasn't really what he wanted to, but rather, what was "expected." Lucian had great skill in the art of music, playing piano, violin, and singing in rather lovely bass-baritone. He even dabbled in composition and has, over time, composed several pieces. Bach and Monteverdi (and later, Mozart) were some of his favorites. In the year 1731, he fell ill with some manner of influenza, which would have been fatal, had he not been "rescued" by one of the undead. The one who made him told Lucian that he was "too beautiful to suffer such a horrid death" and gave him the choice to become immortal or to perish. Of course, he chose the path of darkness and power. Why wouldn't he? His surname literally means "all powerful" lol. Despite his inherent aristocratic snobbery, Lucian is a quite the romantic, writing poetry, curating roses, composing songs for those he loves, etc. He's extremely proper, a big believer in etiquette and formal speech, and prefers rich blood when he feeds. Fucking snob.

As far as appearance goes, he's about 189 cm tall with pale skin (duh), wavy, dark golden blond hair that's just a bit longer than shoulder length, light green eyes, and a rather "classically" chiseled physique and jawline. He prefers waistcoats and high collared shirts to modern clothing and usually wears his hair pulled back.

But what you really want to know is this:

When he was alive, he had terrible "hay fever." Lilies and gardenias are particular horrors along with certain trees. While these things no longer bother him in the same way as they did when he was mortal, he is EXTRA sensitive to scents and is legit allergic to garlic. What a fucking cliche. He is able to walk in the sunlight for short periods of time. It will not burn him to ash or destroy him, but it does drain him. After about a few hours, he needs to find some serious shade or suffer the consequences. Said consequences are human-like cold symptoms. He calls it "being sun sick." It's somewhat of a recent discovery for him, considering daylight was too much for him before. It basically blinded him. He spent decades gradually exposing himself to it until he could walk among the living as mortals do without being in absolute agony due to the burning of his eyes. He does still have to wear sunglasses, which is amusing to me.

He has the capacity to eat and enjoy human food, but it doesn't do anything to actually satiate him. Only blood can do that. He does require complete darkness in order to rest and rejuvenate, but he doesn't sleep in a coffin (because why would he ever lol). He sleeps in a canopy bed with "black out" curtains around it in a room with more of the same hiding the windows.

While he is technically immortal, I suppose one could "kill" him by burning him to ash, dismembering him, or something similar. Too much sunlight over a long period of time might do it, too. I'm not sure. He hasn't told me all of his "secrets" yet.

[wonhaz]

astronomy - y.jw

pairing : jungwon x fem!reader genre : angst, childhood friends to lovers to strangers, a little fluff, inspired by conan gray's song - astronomy wc : 1.5k warnings : break up, skinship (cuddling), a lot of time skips, that's all i think? (lmk if there are more!) synopsis : jungwon is your childhood friend and you end up falling in love with him, you were both like two stars shining together in the sky, or so you thought. what happens when he chooses to part ways and forgets about you? maybe you're just two worlds apart. a/n : the middle picture of jungwon laying on the red flowers was literally giving superache album cover

"we drive through the woods, rich neighborhoods to watch" jungwon was your childhood friend.

you've known him since you were born because your mothers were friends and had given birth months apart. you practically grew up together, you spent your days walking to school, watching movies or playing with him. when both of you were 7 you made a pinky promise, "promise to never leave each other?" "promise."

"we joked as we looked that they were too good for us"

pinky promise forgotten, with both of you now 16, he asks you a question that catches you off guard. "(name), do you have a crush?" "no, I don't, why do you ask?" you replied tilting your head in confusion. "nothing, all my friends have crushes so I was wondering if you had one. the rich kids around here are too good for us anyway." he states and you both burst out in laughter. you have shared laughs with jungwon before, but this time you feel giddy and strange, something you've never felt before. maybe you did have a crush after all.

~

maybe its only a one time thing you thought, but your feelings remained, it was clear. Your feelings for jungwon weren't going anywhere.

you sit at your desk one night, looking through your window at the dimly lit room across from you.

jungwon's room.

there he was, laying on his bed on his phone with the window slightly open to let the night breeze in, you don't know what came over you but you felt bold. grabbing a piece of pink paper on your table, you pour your heart out. thinking long and hard about what to write, you hurriedly fold the pink paper into an airplane and open your window. aiming it carefully, you throw it towards his window, watching it float down onto the floor beside him, you see him look up from his phone, and look at you. flashing him an awkward and embarrassed smile, he reaches for the paper plane carefully unfolds it. you watch as jungwon's eyes scan the paper and hold your breathe.

dear jungwon, when i'm with you, it feels different now, i value our friendship, but lately i've been wanting more. we have done so many things together, we've traveled the seas, we've ridden the stars, we've seen everything, from saturn to mars. your eyes are like black holes, i fear of getting lost in them. you're my universe, and i think i like you. -(name)

what will he say? will it ruin your friendship? will this change things? You hadn't thought about it that far.

after what seems like hours, he looks up from the paper with flushed cheeks, you watch as he slowly walks to his own desk and scribbles something on a piece of paper. he holds it up to the window and you can't believe what you're seeing.

"i like you too, be my universe?"

you flash him a soft smile which he returns and you nod, his smile widens and he mouths you a "see you tomorrow" to which you flash a thumbs up, smiling as you close the curtains as he does the same.

~

mornings were now spent walking hand in hand to school, jungwon offering to carry your bag for you, hanging out in the others house, sleeping over, and cuddling in bed.

it was perfect.

you both were happy together and you thought nothing could change what you both had now.

"now i know, now i know. it's time to go, it's time to go"

college. you decided to stay and chose a college near you, the same couldn't be said for jungwon. he had a dream. the dream to be an idol, to perform on a stage. you knew he auditioned, a part of you wished he didn't pass, but it felt selfish of you. when he got the news that he had passed, he told you first, you gave him a smile but he didn't seem to notice the sadness behind it. now here you are, standing outside his house about to say goodbye.

"(name), can i talk to you really quick?"

you nod and jungwon leads you to the side of the garden, and you prepare yourself. "lets break up." he says. you're taken aback never did you think he would do this. "jungwon w-what are you saying?" "i'm being serious (name), i want. to break up" he says with no expression. "what did i do wrong? we can work it out just tell me what's wrong" you say your voice shaking, "i don't feel the spark anymore (name), it's getting boring, you're getting boring and i want to end this." he makes his way back to the car before you can say anything.

"stop trying to keep us alive, you can't force the stars to align when they've already died."

you were going to reassure him that you could work around the distance between you. but what's done is done, his dream was his main goal and nothing was going to stop him from achieving it. you watch as he hugs his parents and gets in the car, making eye contact with you, his eyes expressionless proof that he truly did have no more interest in you. heart breaking, he drives off and his parents make their way back inside their house, but you can't move. you're stuck standing there, jungwon, your love, was gone.

"from far away, i wish i'd stayed with you"

you tried to move on you really did, it took a long time for you to get over him. you forced yourself to forget, forget all the memories you made together, the pink promise you made, everything. you saw him rise to success, you were happy for him. but it still pained you to think about what you could've been if he still had that spark, if he didn't leave, if he still loved you. you were not fond of loud concerts and people continuously screaming and jumping but here you were, in front of a concert stadium. your friend had bought 2 tickets for her and another friend but her friend ended up cancelling last minute taking you instead. you would rather be at home and asleep than here, surrounded by thousands of other people your age, and bound to stand up for the next 2 hours because your friend had gotten floor seats. the lights starts to dim and the audience erupts into cheers, the stage lights come on highlighting 7 boys standing. the camera focuses on the one in the middle and your heart drops.

jungwon. it was jungwon.

"but here face to face, a stranger that i once knew."

you didn't expect to see him ever again, not like this at least, at his groups concert. dumbstruck, you try to ignore the fact that your at your ex's concert and try to enjoy the music. after a few songs, they end their dance and stop to talk to the fans. the group does their introduction and each member introduces themself. the 6 other members finish and jungwon goes last. his face is focused on the screen and the crowd starts chanting, "hello everyone, i'm jungwon and thank you for coming tonight!" he says with a big smile. he may have changed but his smile was just like you remember it. you watch as he walks around the edge of the stage approaching your section, you can see him better now and it all starts coming back to you, all the memories together.

he waves at the fans and you make eye contact, his smile slightly fades and he looks just as surprised as you did when you first saw him on stage. he slowly raises his hand and waves at you not breaking eye contact and flashes you an embarrassed smile and turns around to walk to the other sections, but not without turning around to look at you again. you let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding and your friend notices, "are you okay? you haven't said anything since they came on stage." giving you a concerned look. "i'm okay, just the adrenaline rush i guess." you lie reassuring her that you were fine, your heart was beating fast at the sight of jungwon again.

as the concert comes to an end, the members say their final greetings, each one thanks the fans in their speeches. "tonight was a special one for me, and i'd like to thank each and every one of you for coming, i hope we all see each other again!" he says with a smile, he looks at you in the eye again "i love you." and maybe, just maybe, that was directed to you. but no one could know that and they never should know, the crowd starts cheering again as they bow and the lights come to a dim. you were now strangers to each other, the past didn't matter.

you're just a normal girl, jungwon is an idol.

it's like astronomy, you're two worlds apart.

[servin-up-surveys]

survey #168

What was the last liquid that you choked on? Water; I took too big of a sip and it didn't go down well, scared Girt a bit lol.

Did you or have you had sex with the last person you slept with in bed? Not literal genital sex yet, no. We want guaranteed privacy for that and living with parents doesn't offer that much.

When you sign your name do you use your middle name? Not unless it's requested.

Do you dry off in the shower or out of the shower? I start immediately outside of it, on a towel, but for more space to dry my body I eventually move into the carpeted sink area; the bathroom itself is VERY small, just a shower, tub, and toilet, very claustrophobic, then there's a long sink area with lots of cabinets and even a random closet behind you if facing the sink. It's much more comfortable to finish drying there.

Was your last kiss initiated by you or the other person? I don't remember, we were in bed and a lotta it happened, I dunno who exactly prompted the last one.

Whan getting dressed do you put your pants or shirt on first? Almost always pants first.

Who was the last person you saw totally naked? My boyfriend, I'm sure.

Is your toilet paper on the right or left side of the toilet? Left, for both bathrooms in our house.

Name all the cards that you carry in your wallet. An incredibly expired driver's permit, Covid vaccination card, social security card, insurance card, American Red Cross blood type card, a yellow ribbon suicide prevention card that has a sweet message and then relevant hotlines, and two tattoo artists' personal cards; I've kept them because I kinda wanna collect those by all who tattoo me. Maybe. I'm already missing multiple, so idk.

Do you use a handrail on stairs if there is one? Yes, once upon a time they were basically mandatory for me to stay balanced and I still do feel safer when I'm holding onto it.

What is your favorite drinking game? I've never played one.

Do you have any tattoos that you don't like anymore? Yup. It's a big reason I've gotten MUCH pickier with what I'll allow myself to get tattooed.

Who was the last person to sleep in your bed? Girt, with me.

Do you have a shower curtain or door? Mom's bathroom shower has a door, but the hall shower is curtained.

Who was the last person from your high school graduating class you saw? In person, uhhhhhhhh... I did a quick Facebook friends list scroll and that would be my old friend Tommy, he works at the guitar place where I took my old guitar for pricing advice on selling it. Cool dude and the husband of another friend Rachel.

Favorite farm animal? Either pigs or cows. I kinda think I like cows more nowadays.

Have you ever been sedated or put under anesthesia? Yes. It's still insane to remember JUST how quickly it hits.

Have any of your friends ever cheated on somebody? I know at least one friend who has.

How many instruments do you own/have you owned? I've owned three: a recorder, flute, and electric guitar. Well, I suppose actually four; me and my sisters had one of those electric keyboards, the kind whose keys would light up red to teach you how to play lots of songs, however we ultimately could've made up our own stuff, though we never did.

Do you own or rent your home? Rent.

If you have a significant other, how old were you when you first met them? 14 or 15?

Have you ever felt like you were someone’s rebound? No.

Who is the first person who broke your heart? My dad.

Who would you want to be the flower girl at your wedding? Odds are it will probably be Emerson, my youngest niece.

Do you know anyone with a service dog? I don't believe so.

Who is the most important person in your life (besides yourself)? Girt.

If you have pets, are any of them rescues from shelters? No.

When was the last time you talked to your most recent ex? Over a year ago.

When was the last time you kissed someone who was younger than you? Not since Sara and I were dating.

Would you have sex with someone of the same gender as you? Yeah.

Were you born with hair on your head? Pretty sure yes.

Would you rather have a home birth or hospital birth? I'm going to the fucking hospital and getting an epidural, this is not debatable for me.

Who were your best friends in high school? Summer, Hannia, Alon, Girt, Megan, and Maria. Maybe others, but those are who I remember very well.

Have you ever dated a twin? No.

What was the last food or drink you made for someone else? Last Friday I made my mom a peanut butter sandwich; we were watching my sister's kids and her blood sugar dropped severely and very quickly. This isn't unusual sadly, but it was definitely scarier than what it normally is because she was fighting fainting in front of three little kids that don't at all understand diabetes.

Have you ever auditioned for something? What was it, and how did it go? Yeah, elementary school chorus. I got in. I remember how insanely nervous I was, I've never been the type to sing in front of others.

Have you ever seen your ex’s new partner? If so, what do you think of them? I have no idea who anyone is dating and don't care.

What was the last piece of candy you ate? Uhhhh just a few M&Ms that were left over from something my mom made.

When was the last time you did something “meant” for children? Do you think it’s okay for adults to do these things (ie. watch cartoons, have stuffed animals, dress in cute clothing, etc), or do you think there’s an age beyond which it becomes unacceptable - and if so, why? A couple weeks ago Girt and I played more of Spyro 2 from the "Reignited" trilogy. I VERY firmly believe that if you're not hurting anyone, adults engaging in "childish" passtimes isn't even remotely wrong, and the fact that people are shamed for that sorta stuff is just foul. Let people have fun.

Do you believe there used to be dragons? No, I'm quiiiite certain we'd have found fossils by now...

Who was the last friend you saw, and what did you do together? Girt and I played some of Elden Ring and also watched the first episode of a Netflix show called The Rain.

Who tends to show up in your dreams? Do you ever wonder if you appear in anyone else’s dreams? My mom and boyfriend, and sometimes still Jason. Honestly most of my dreams feature people I don't know whatsoever or am merely acquaintances with, at least that I remember. I don't often do so anymore when it comes to the people in my dreams.

What is something you do to feel better when you’re scared? Talk to Girt or Mom or try to find something to distract myself with on YouTube.

Do you have someone who is protective of you (father, brother, etc.)? Definitely my mom, as well as Girt.

Where was the last place you went, that you hadn’t been to before? The house of I think at least one of Girt's uncles, maybe more though; it was a double-purpose party with a big tent between two houses, and jesus FUCKING christ about ten trillion people were there it felt like, and I know people went into both houses.

When was the last time someone surprised you with their reaction or behaviors? Nice timing, I think it'd actually be when I was with Girt's paternal family. The way he, his sister, and mother have described them, I expected to be much more intimidated by them than I was; they were just some redneck as ALL hell type of guys that were super hospitable, friendly, and goofy. I've been told they're VERY unafraid to hurt your feelings and be just painfully honest and know how to hold grudges that they shouldn't have to begin with, but they seemed nice enough.

Have you ever reached out to a crisis center for mental health support? If so, how was the experience? [TW: DRUG OD/SUICIDE] I tried once, via a suicide hotline's one-on-one chatroom because I was too afraid to physically call on my phone. They were of course busy, and after waiting a pretty long time (I'm talking no less than 30 minutes, pretty sure more) without connecting to anyone, I gave up and overdosed.

Describe the last thing you reblogged? How many posts do you tend to reblog during a day? It was some super cute fanart of Richard and Paul, and this varies quite a lot. I don't aim for a certain number, sometimes your dash is gonna be spammed by me and some days I don't share anything.

Whose house did you visit last? Girt's.

Have you ever played Geoguessr? I personally haven't, but I've seen people play it. It's not a kind of game I would be even remotely good at.

What is your favorite way to eat chicken? As tenders/strips/whatever with whatever dipping sauce I'm feeling at the time.

What style of pizza do you prefer (thin crust, stuffed crust, deep dish, Detroit style, etc)? Pan pizza. Stuffed crust is also good.

Can you see your favorite animal from where you are sitting? (on an article of clothing, a figurine, a stuffed animal, etc...maybe even alive?) Yes indeed, I have a weighted meerkat plush on my desk.

What was the last celebrity gossip you got sucked into? Obviously as a very invested fan of Rammstein I know the dumpster fire that's going on regarding allegations against their singer, and I've kept up with what's going on in concern for all of them since they're all affected by this. I'm just glad it seems to be dying down, there's an investigation going on but they've already said Shelby's "case" is basically non-existent given the lack of immediate evidence, and apparently she doesn't have a great reputation.

Do you own any merch from concerts/comedy shows/broadway shows, etc? I did get a shirt from the Alice Cooper concert, but I'll never fit that again. I of course kept it as a souvenir type thing.

What was the last bug you killed? An ant.

Who is your favorite Star Wars character? I don't care about this franchise whatsoever.

What kind of cheese do you put on your sandwiches? American.

Who was the last person to give you a gift? Girt got me flowers when I "graduated" from physical therapy.

If there was a real Jurassic Park, would you visit it? I'ma be full real... I KNOW I would lmao.

[antihero-writings]

If These Walls Could Talk (Ch7)

(^^ Art commissioned from Junki Sakuraba on instagram and deviantart!!)

Fandom: Castlevania Netflix

Summary: Vampires do not have reflections, and castles do not have hearts. But Dracula is no ordinary vampire, and Castlevania is no ordinary castle. If castles can fight, maybe they can think too. The series, and Adrian’s childhood, told from the perspective of the castle.

Notes: Hey all! I am SO sorry this chapter took so long to come out. My perfectionism really got the best of me with this chapter. But I saw that S4 was on its way and that really lit a fire under my butt because I really do want to post my season 3 chapter before s4 comes out. I’m highly doubt I’ll accomplish it as it almost always takes me longer than I have to get a chapter out, let alone two, but I'll try, at least.

I really really hope you enjoy it!! If you enjoy this chapter, please please consider commenting. I assure you it’ll be more likely I’ll post the next chapter faster the more people comment on this showing you still enjoy this fic. Each comment is a little shot of energy and motivation for me.

Important! This chapter is meant to have aesthetic indentation in some places. So if you want to read it as-intended, please look it at on Archiveofourown at I_prefer_the_term_antihero on your computer or tablet!!

If you get here and are thinking “Wait, what was this fic about? What were the main themes?” then this would be a good time to reread/skim back through the earlier chapters. This is the climax of the fic and will (hopefully) be more impactful the more you remember about the rest of the fic and its many themes.

Chapter Summary:

"Go back whence you came! Trouble the soul of my Mother no more!" "How? How—How is it that I've been so defeated?" "You have been doomed ever since you lost the ability to love." "Ha—Ah... Sarcasm. 'For what profit is it to a man if he gains the world, and loses his own soul?' Matthew 16:26, I believe. "Tell me. What—What were Lisa's last words?" "She said 'Do not hate humans. If you cannot live with them, then at least do them no harm. For theirs is already a hard lot'. She also said to tell you that she would love you for all of eternity." "Lisa, forgive me. Farewell my son."

Chapter 7: “Heart”

Hey there, Sunshine, the Room adds with a smile.

The Room forgot the sweet tang of breath. How gentle, how vicious. Like honey, like relief, like a cozy blanket and a fireplace. It came in great, gulping gasps, and living was painful after such long breathlessness, but hurt far less than being half dead.

The Room rushes to Castlevania, shaking it, saying, Open your eyes! Open your eyes! It’s Adrian. It’s our boy. My master. My sunlight. And Castlevania limply flickers open its eyes, for it cannot help but obey.

Obey to see the golden man standing in its doorway.

And it feels a jolt of warmth in its broken chest.

Alucard has returned home. He arrives at the doorstep with resolve in his closed fists and a sword on his tongue. The threat to the war they all knew he would be, and the Room promised it would rear him to be.

But he isn’t alone this time.

There are two humans by his side. One with fire in her fists—quite literally—the other with a barbed tongue at his hip.

Castlevania recognizes a crest on the clothing of one of them, gold and proud: The Belmonts. The ones who came with whips and scourges to defeat its master long ago. The ones whom Dracula and his Castle were bound together against in their undead war. The ones whom Dracula trusted his Castle to protect him from. The owner of the hold now beneath Castlevania. He has come to defeat its master like the rest…but this time the boy is by his side, and for that reason, the Castlevania is unsure how this will end.

“I terrify them,” the Belmont explains the plan, “Sypha disorients them, Alucard goes over the top and we support him.”

“Yes.” The Speaker confirms.

Alucard holds his sword out horizontally in front of him, unsheathes it, and speaks:

“Begin.”

Alucard is with the Belmont.

And Castlevania knows when it sees them, the fire in their eyes, that they are the intent that brought it here. That they have indeed come to kill its master once and for all. It had wished when the boy returned, it would be with the promise of hope. But there is no promise of life and the sparing of it this time.

They bring death inside with them; the war room is filled with war, blood and burns on its floors, but it is different this time, because this is not an ambiance, a continuation, a fact of life, it is a swift and fatal kiss—the end they said he would bring, once. The blood is rotten on the floors, but it doesn’t itch or burn. And the boy uses those techniques his father taught him on brighter nights about turning into things with teeth, and the ones his mother once taught him on sunnier days about how to make metal listen.

They did not bring life inside this time, not life of the same kind at least. The war, the death, has followed and swallowed them too, but not in the same way it has its master. They are not bloodthirsty. The cold the dark and the death are merely clothes they wear, they have not reached the deepest parts of them; there are still light-starved Rooms in their hearts waiting to breathe.

There is a song at their heels as they dance in rings of fire, with the wind and the moon, upon the blood and water Castlevania isn’t sure will come out of the carpet. It is a song that is all too familiar. It has been played here before, when other, more, less, holy Belmonts barged in long ago. A song of blood and tears.

Bloody tears its master cried once, for his wife when he realized they had taken something that could not be borrowed, bartered, or souled.

They’re bringing an end to the strife, and all the undead lives that facilitated it, and vice versa. They are cutting the puppet strings, and not all puppets can live without them.

Isaac fights the nameless soldiers on the staircase for its master…until he sees someone who is far from nameless.

Isaac’s reddened eyes meet Alucard’s golden ones. Alucard’s sword aims at him, but it hits the deadened flesh of the nameless instead.

Isaac runs to tell its master—Dracula, busy ripping out the heart of a nameless—who’s here; that his sun has returned, and at his side is magic and might.

Dracula knows the prophecy.

He’s willing to die—Issac. He stands before Dracula, his form barely able to shield three-quarters of Dracula’s, willing to give his feeble human life for Dracula’s indefinite undead one. He believes knowledge and will are more important than the blood of a good man. He believes in love, and loyalty is love of a sort. And it is Castlevania’s understanding that when someone is willing to live for something, they are also willing to die for it. This is the noblest of causes.

“You are the greatest of your people, Isaac. You have a soul, I think.” As Dracula says the words, he raises his hand, and the mirror shards behind them begin to rise. “Perhaps that is more valuable to the world to come than a dusty collection of books and apparatus.”

Lisa looks on from the portrait, and Castlevania thinks it is a look of pride. She always did stand for saving human lives rather than destroying them. Isn’t it funny that in what will perhaps be the deciding battle of this war, the one where his goals should possess him stronger than ever, it is the human who he values more than himself?

“Or perhaps you simply deserve a better fate than to die instead of me.”

“I choose my death, as I chose my life.” The words are stronger than iron.

“Then I regret only that I have taken a choice for you.” A hand at his shoulder.

Dracula throws him halfway across the world, to the kind of place Isaac was born in, and the kind of place Isaac least wants to die in.

Isaac believes in love. And it is for this reason, this belief, that Vlad saves his life, Castlevania knows. Saves his life, by denying the choice he so desperately wanted to make—perhaps his whole life—and had no regrets or apprehensions about making, rather a lot more in being kept alive.

And when the mirror shatters and falls, his son is standing there, like he did a year ago, though this time he is not backed by sunlight. The only light in the room is the fire glinting in his eyes.

A pause. To remember the dead.

“Father.”

A word. To remember the living.

“Son.”

This should be a reunion, perhaps. Better people would think they should happily hug each other, and say they missed each other, and that they love each other all the same. Better people would say that the sunlight should plead with the dark to come back into its embrace. All the sinners know there was no chance of that the moment Dracula scrawled fate on his son’s skin with his own claws.

Instead, there is nothing but bitter, fighting words:

“Your war is over.”

Dracula tilts his head to the side. “Because you say so?”

“It ends.” Alucard looks at his sword, the one she taught him how to use. “In the name of my mother.”

Dracula looks at his son, the one she gave him. “It endures in the name of your mother.”

“I told you before I won’t let you do it.” Alucard’s voice is so soft, yet solid and unwavering. There is no anger, but he will not step aside. Not this time. Even when the claws come. “I grieve with you…but I won’t let you commit genocide.”

“You couldn’t stop me before.” Dark assurance in soft words.

Footsteps. A cue to the magic and the hunt behind the curtain, who step out on either side of him.

“I was alone before.”

And Castlevania understands. Understands that they are not here to talk things out. Understands that they are not here to save Dracula, to appeal to the good in him, as Lisa once had, and the Room once thought. Castlevania itself even hoped, when the boy returned, the song would be a bit more inspirational. But, beaten and broken and bloody, Castlevania understands now, if Alucard stands with the intent, if Alucard brought a Belmont—

Then they do not believe there is a chance. They are not here then, to talk him out of it. They are here to halt this war in its tracks, make it rear up, lose its balance, and fall.

—(And Castlevania knows, deep down, that to do this… they must end something else)—

Alucard is bringing back the sunlight. But there is only one way he can do that, and goodnight is not quiet.

And make no mistake he does intend to bring the full, the warm, the life, and the light back, just like Castlevania and the Room wanted. But there is too much cold, dark, death, and emptiness here to do this quietly. They are here to kill Dracula—the master now puppeteered by Death’s strings rather than his own soul.

The Speaker raises her fingers to her lips as if to say a prayer, or perhaps take a heavenly name in vain for the sake of a little silence. The Belmont’s whip clinks in his hand. Alucard’s sword sings as he raises it.

Alucard drives it towards his father: a bolt of golden lightning through the room, pinning him against the fireplace as books fall to the floor. Castlevania, wincing at the pain, knows that will bruise in the morning.

The picture of his mother cracks and falls, as if she has to close her eyes for this.

Alucard, growling with fierce resolve, pushing the sword into him with all his might. But Dracula has the sword in his hand, rather than his heart. He steps calmly forward, barely having to use any of his strength to combat so much of his son’s, as if he’s about to tell him to put the toy away.

A glint of golden eyes. Alucard pulls back the sword. A slash. Two. Three.

Dracula raises his arm as if to knock the sword from his shoulder.

Instead he bashes his son’s head into the fireplace—and Castlevania cries out at the feeling, feeling its stomach burn.

The Speaker and the Belmont ready for a fight. The floor splinters—(Castlevania grimaces, tasting blood)—as Dracula flashes through the room, and pins the Belmont into the hall, against the wall, sending his sword out of his hand. He keels over onto his hands to cough up blood, the puddle crawling on Castlevania’s skin.

Castlevania never had any qualms with the blood of Belmonts on its floors before, so this hurts less, but this is different, and Castlevania still wonders if Dracula could be a little gentler with his Castle.

A flash of light at his side. He raises his cloak as the Speaker sends tongues and teeth of fire at him.

“Speaker magician!” Its master realizes.

He rushes at her, knocking her hand out of position. She creates an ice shard before her with the other.

He scratches up with a claw, sending her flying with the broken pieces towards the ceiling, and angry gashes appear on her arm as she rolls along the floor.

“Sypha!” The Belmont calls.

He must love her in some way, because in a fit of some sort of emotion—instead of picking up his sword—the Belmont uses his fists. They probably haven’t failed him before. But this is Dracula, and his punches don’t cause the king to so much as flinch.

“You must be the Belmont.”

Castlevania laughs a little at the words; it too thought the method was rather common of his line.

It’s Dracula’s turn, and his punch doesn’t just cause the Belmont to flinch, the sound is as if he hit rock, sending him into the air with the force. He doesn’t give him a second to breathe, rather reaches his claw is around the human’s neck, holding him there.

He raises his other claw level—a blade, more trustworthy than any.

“The end of your line.”

Before he can make these words true, another blade stops him: his son’s, driving itself through both his arms.

While he is pinned the Speaker, knowing this is an opportunity she will not get again, rushes forward—still bleeding, mind—a bead of fire between her fingers. Dracula cannot move to protect himself, and the magician, knowing this, lets the fire loose to lick his face raw.

Dracula drops the Belmont, attempting to get away, deciding his own life takes precedence, but it is hard to get away when your hands are tied together with metal.

The Speaker, seeing that her fire is about to hit Alucard, falters. And in that moment Dracula wrenches his arm off of the blade and uses it to knock her down, before sending his other fist into his son, who goes flying along with his sword hitting the wall. This one may not be so hard as to bruise, but, with everything aching and breaking, the smallest tap hurts Castlevania.

The Belmont pulls a blade of bone from his back-belt, and as Dracula turns he drives it into his chest.

It’s not close enough to his heart, but red distaste fills Dracula’s eyes. He thought this was a game, but they have some amount of ability, and he may have underestimated them. As Alucard and the magician get up he attempts to grab at the Belmont in quick motions, but he has some skill in dodging.

The Speaker rips off her shirt and cauterizes her wound as the Belmont and Dracula dance in the hallway, neither weapon hitting flesh.

Dracula sees the Speaker’s intent over his shoulder, and as the Belmont lunges at him grabs his arm and throws him into her, stopping both their attacks. An effective move, if Castlevania does say so itself.

Alucard sees his opening and rushes forward, pinning his father to the wall, which shatters behind them with a painful lurch.

Dracula puts his hands together and brings them down over his son’s head with such force the floor cracks.

And Castlevania coughs blood.

Alucard pushes his arms away and slaps both sides of his face, getting a grunt this time. Dracula sends him back with such force it almost seems like a shockwave, creating wind and smoke curling around them all.

The Speaker roots him in place by sending ice spears into his leg. The Belmont clears the smoke by spinning his whip, before creating more by sending that whip—the one he fed the vampires that didn’t agree with their compositions—sizzling into Dracula’s chest. There’s an explosion to be sure—a rather big one—but after the smoke dissipates, and a wait with bated breath, Dracula is still standing just as he was before—as Castlevania knew he would—like all he threw at him were words.

…At least at first, to show he isn’t taken down so easily. He does fall to his hands thereafter.

“The Morningstar whip.” The words are scratches in the carpet. “Well played, Belmont. But I am no ordinary vampire to be killed by your human magics.” The words sizzle on his tongue. “I am Vlad Dracula Tepes,” he crosses his arms with purpose. “and I have had ENOUGH!”

His voice is a shockwave of its own across the sea of stone and bone. He sweeps his hands to the sides, his cloak rising like wings as he floats into the air, and creates a ball of magma: the cheat that will end the game. He was going easy on them until now.

It rumbles towards them, eating the carpet as it goes—and Castlevania can feel the burning in its chest. The Belmont’s eyes widen with fear at last. The Speaker rises to the occasion without hesitation, and holds out her hands to stop it with the force of her magic. It’s a force to be reckoned with, for sure: at first she succeeds, but, though it may be slowing, it isn’t stopping, and her feet are slipping. The Belmont puts his back to hers, as any good friend and comrade would. Alucard phases in front of them, the burning wind rushing against his face. He calls his sword, which sings as it reaches his hand, poises it, and drives the point into the magma ball.

They each fight with all their might, the Belmont and the speaker begins to grunt with the weight of it. The ball gives a falter their way, and Castlevania is sure even three cannot match Dracula’s strength, but the Speaker gives a final push, which gives Alucard just the right amount of momentum to drive it back toward his father, who is as caught off guard by the display as Castlevania is. He needs no sword or magic to stop it, however, and puts his hands out to hold it. Gold and red push against each other, until Alucard gives a deciding motion, then another, another, each chipping away at the ball until the sword goes flying and it’s just Alucard’s arm against Dracula’s throat, and their momentum creates a sizzling tunnel in the wall.

Castlevania may not know what guns are, but it knows what it feels like to be shot.

The two burst into the library, shattering the already shattered mirror.

It was so quiet in here. Must they sully the silence with the sound of strife? They read here, once. Sometimes alone, sometimes to each other. Whispered to each other of history and mystery.

Dracula lands on the floor and Alucard floats above him in the room in which he once stood on his level and told his father calmly he wouldn’t stand for genocide.

There’s anger in his eyes now.

Dracula hisses, then gives a war cry, and the two allow their hungry fists to attempt to devour each other as best they can in the air, red and gold flashing.

The Belmont picks up a sword in the other room and, deciding it’d be best not to follow them through the tunnel—(Castlevania is glad for that decision. The wound is still raw and would more than likely sting tremendously if they walked on it)—he and the Speaker run up the stairs to follow them.

They’re on the floor now and their punches fly like starlings—their duel reflected in the shards of mirror fluttering, jittering about, ever awaiting their command, as if attempting to tap their shoulders and ask what they should do, and why they are hurting each other—until they are hitting the bookshelves they once were gentle with—lest the pages rip and the silence tear—the ones they once smiled and discussed philosophy beside.

Castlevania’s head aches, nausea in the back of its throat.

A smiling boy and his father handing him another book, saying if he liked the first he’d like the second too, are all but gone now.

Dracula throws Alucard into the ceiling, and enters the room above with an unearthly sound, in an unearthly way: only his cloak is visible, moving like slime. As his hungry footsteps lick the floor behind him, Alucard is heaving on his side that same floor, his hair falling across his face. He turns around, fear coating the sound he makes as he, without his sword, grabs the nearest block of wood that happens to have a point on the end.

Dracula laughs, like they’re playing a game—(they did once, do they remember? Humans and monsters. Sometimes there were princes, and knights, or pirates. Even a princess or two. And the wolves and the bats were free in the night wind)—and stops.

“You mean to stake me?”

“You want me to.” Alucard murmurs, turning around with some difficulty.

“What?” Dracula chuckles, still with that put-the-toys-away intonation.

“You didn’t kill me before.” Alucard breathes. “You’re not going to kill me now. You want this to end as much as I do.” The look in his eyes is almost crazed.

“DO I?!” The tone is almost crazed in response, the nonchalant edge gone, the words resounding with power and grief.

Alucard scrambles away like an animal, causing Dracula to punch the floor instead of his head—Castlevania’s body lurches. It feels a gentle touch at its chin, someone trying to wipe the blood off perhaps.

“You died when my mother died. You know you did.” He reasons as Dracula’s breathing gains weight. “This entire catastrophe has been nothing but history’s longest suicide note.”

Castlevania jerks its head up, eyes wide at these words.

And Castlevania understands.

The cold, the dark, the empty, the death. They all make sense now.

Alucard rushes at him, Dracula knocks the stake out of Alucard’s hand with ease, but, in a moment of extreme dexterity, Alucard manages to grab it from the air and drive it into his chest still. The look in his eyes is almost pleading, like he’s going to ask “Daddy did I do a good job? Did I do it right? I’ve gotten better at fighting haven’t I?”

“Not quite close enough.” There is a gurgling quality to Dracula’s enunciation.

No more playing.

He shoves Alucard so hard its into the next room.

Castlevania keels over onto the floor, it’s stomach aching and prickling.

Dracula pulls the stake out and heaves before rushing after.

Floors below the magician and the Belmont can hear them, and are trying their best to catch up, to have a say in this fight.

But Castlevania isn’t sure they have much chance of that, as they are flashing through the halls now, Alucard, a foot off the ground, zig-zagging between the walls in the narrow hall as Dracula keeps punching bloodless stone—

—(The stone may be bloodless, but god this hurts)—

Until Alucard punches him back, sending them into a room, a bedroom—(but not that one)—and the room is a pile of rubble with just that. And Castlevania can feel the splinters. That furniture was nice.

Dracula grabs Alucard’s face and shoves him into the dining room, pinning him to the table like he’ll eat him too if they’re not careful, and those chairs were perfectly nice too—

And Castlevania sees a little boy waiting at the table for his birthday surprise, and his father pulling out a burned cake, and his mother laughing. There was no fear then. Though its master was a creature of blood it never thirsted for theirs, and they knew this full well. Can they see it too? Why would they destroy this room if they did? Why would they destroy each other if they did? Are they even the same creatures as those in the memory?

At this point Castlevania is pretty sure they broke a few of its ribs.

Alucard kicks his face and gets on the table on all fours, rushing him into the next room still.

Castlevania’s bleeding, broken heart skips a beat. Surely they must have broken a few ribs, for how else could they get into Castlevania’s heart? The control room, where its gears still lie dripping, glowing as orange as a brand, once beating organs now blazing stalactites.

They punch each other along the platform, Dracula’s cloak whipping about, like a cat’s fur trying to make him look bigger and scarier.

They are framed in the paneless window—those bones have been all but broken too now. The frame where the picture—that is to say, the die—no longer sits. For Castlevania’s heart didn’t just break, it was destroyed when they brought it to this place, the place where its enemies once lived, and still stand today.

—(So why can Castlevania still feel it beat?)—

In the frame now is moon drunk on blood, a night soaked in tears—and the wind whispers to their cloaks, bidding them to whip around them.

Dracula draws in a hissing breath.

Alucard stands tall, his eyes aglow, gold melting into something new in this forge, his hair whipping about him as he raises his fist yet again.

They are getting tired. Their snarls have a weakened quality to them now.

—Can they see the father and son in this room, the father teaching his son that his Castle is special?—

But instead of just punching him, Alucard teleports beside his father, hitting his shoulder, sending a gust of wind to his face, then teleports around the room to send his fist into him over and over, from every possible angle, and some of his kick-offs create cracks in the already breaking bindings of the room.

It feels like pins and needles, but it’s okay. It’s okay.

Why?

Dracula’s grits his teeth, sharp as ever, his eyes alight with bloody determination, his hair playing about this gaze. To end it, on the next hit he grabs his face, shoving him by it onto the stone platform. He shoves him once, twice, a third, the metal cracking, the metal creaking—

Castlevania’s gut lurches, and it can taste bile and iron at the back of its throat, and it’s hard to breathe.

Then its master raises Alucard back up, holds him by the face in the air a moment, and punches him with such force he is blown across the length of the platform and through the thick stone wall into the next room—

And Castlevania vomits blood.

Dracula bolts after him, the dust creating patterns in his wake—and Castlevania could gaze in the clouds if it weren’t for whoever’s trying to slap it awake.

Alucard coughs, and it sounded deep.

Its master is nothing human now. There’s a growl in his throat as he marches towards him, and another cough in Alucard’s as he struggles to stand.

Another punch, but this one is not fast like the rest, nor is it blocked. Alucard tries to stand up, to rush towards him, but he is getting tired, and Dracula hits him again. Another growl. Alucard takes a single step back, soft against the floors. An exhale. Another of both, and as Dracula raises his fist the murmur—plea?—on his son’s lips sounds a lot like “Father,” as if he’s reached his limit, and has to stop the game.

It’s too late to hit quit now.

The vampire king doesn’t grant the plea—or perhaps even hear it; with a belabored punch he sends him into the next Room, rolling this time, instead of flying, the contents of the Room staying in tact…all except the bed, which catches the boy.

The next Room. But this one is not like the rest. It is not just a room.

This one breathes.

A gasp, another growl, a scratch against the wall, and—

Castlevania burned today in this bloody fight, on this bloody night. Its skin, its legs. Even its heart broke.

Castlevania. The thing that Vlad Tepes brought to life with a little bit of lightning, several gears, and a few words. No magic words, just words: the ones he spoke on lonely nights to the walls about how he’d like to be something more than ruthless.

Castlevania did everything it could. It lies burned and broken and unable to fight now because of it.

But none of that burned half as much as those scratches on its walls.

There have been many stories told about Dracula, and there will one day be more stories told about Dracula, books written, enough that one could fill libraries with just the retellings of his story. And Castlevania has no doubt that one day these scratches will be on their covers. This growl, these scratches are the signet of a vampire, of a monster: the disfigurement of his Castle, bloody intent directed at his son. The dark, the death, and the emptiness have overtaken completely. That is all a monster is, really. That is all he is now.

He marches into the Room, his cloak flowing, dipping and twirling in the broken wind. The sound of Alucard’s breathing fills the Room as he heaves against the bed.

Or maybe the breath is the Room’s own.

The Room has seen all that happened, it has been watching Castlevania beaten bloody till it could barely breathe, or see through the blood dripping down its face, let alone move. Castlevania could barely feel the comforting hands on it, the attempts to bandage the wounds, or at least stop the bleeding that it knew could only belong to the Room. Castlevania could barely hear the Room’s frantic, desperate calls to action, to get up, or just ask if it was okay. And now the Room stands, fists clenched at its sides. The Room wants to fight back. It will fight back.

The Room is not violent. From the very beginning it stood against all the violence, the dark, the empty, and the death. That was what it was made for, after all. As much as it would like to, it does not wrap its hand around Dracula’s throat, claws digging until it draws blood, and demand “How does it feel?! How does it feel to be on the receiving end?!”

The Room’s footsteps are soft as it comes up beside Dracula. It puts its hands over the king’s eyes and whispers in his ear, gently as it can:

“Remember me?”

Then, quietly as it came, it removes them, as if playing peekaboo, revealing that it was there the whole time, his eyes were just covered for a while.

It may as well have been removing scales, because Dracula freezes, his eyes wide, as if he’s seeing, not just the Room, but the whole world for the first in a long time—And he is. The first time with living eyes. And one sees things very differently with living eyes. And Castlevania was his world and it hopes he sees the world differently, for Castlevania is not a thing for him to beat and break. Just when Castlevania thought there was nothing left…there is something more than anger in his eyes now.

Dracula’s angry cloak quiets, falling docile at his feet: a sign of reverence towards the Room, and all it stands for.

Alucard, after allowing his breath to regain itself, looks up, his eyes widening too at his father. His father. No anger, no fear, not even determination now. Not in this Room. This Room is different. He remembers now: in the hush that has fallen across the world like freshly fallen snow, this is his father.

The Room kneels at it’s boy’s side, putting a hand on his shoulder feeling nothing but life and love, so much so it extends to the creature that created the scars on its throat, and on its boy’s chest.

“It’s okay. You can go to him now.” The Room says.

And it knows what that means.

It knows that sometimes peace comes at the price of war.

Dracula curls his hand, the one with the claw that just made marks on the walls that are written in stone, and will never be undone. Within the glow of the window, his reddened eyes too are no longer angry. For so long those eyes sat dormant, empty, and glazed in his skull and at last they contain something. The Room’s words have gotten through the glaze, shattered the glass.

“It’s your Room.”

It’s more than just a statement. He made a promise when he made this Room. This Room was to be his son’s Room. There would be no violence, not in this Room. Not ever. Not today in as much as not ten years ago. He will not hurt this Room. He will not dare touch it, for fear those claws will mark more than just the walls; that all the memories will come crashing down.

The words are not angry. They are not dark. They are not empty. They are not dead. They may seem dry, and stated, but they are dripping with such longing and loss it might fill the whole Castle.

The desk where Vlad taught Adrian of letters, and of numbers, and of the borders of the world. The wardrobe where Lisa dressed him up in fine clothes, and casual ones depending on the occasion—Dracula had so few special occasions to celebrate alone, they were a lovely thing. The bookshelf full of all the knowledge of immortals, and the stories of mortals. The carpet where the boy sat and played with his toys. The nightstand, still with a potion bottle upon it, and the cards of a game they’ve no doubt forgotten how to play, right where they left it long ago. The shelf above it with another bottle, and a tiny satchel of even tinier precious things, and a little toy lamb. The bed upon which Vlad and Lisa once sat and told stories, and sang lullabies, or else lay curled up next to him when the nightmares got too vicious to bear alone.

—(How many did he have to face alone?)—

And Castlevania can see them all. The father teaching his son to count, and to write. The mother running after her naked toddler, trying to convince him clothes really aren’t so bad. The careful pouring of the potions so they change color, or explode just right, the father smiling proudly when he gets the questions correct. The pride of the mother when her son won the game, and the way her husband said “again” like if they just played another round he would win this time. The boy playing with the lamb and the wolf; they they got along in his stories.

The control room never was Castlevania’s heart…was it?

Alucard stands—the motion fluid now—blue light caressing his face as he raises his eyes. Vlad too looks up. But they’re not looking at each other, or the Room, rather into the stars. Not the ones outside, the ones they painted—brushing paint upon each other’s noses, so long ago, and Castlevania can see that too—as if those stars hold all the bottled wishes of childhood. It always was crowning jewel of this Room.

Adrian’s eyes oscillate like perturbed waters, because he knows, he knows he’s about to lose it all. And yes, there’s a sort of childlike yearning in Adrian’s eyes, as if he’s wishing upon those stars that he didn’t have to do this, because he’d really rather find another way to spend this night.

The stars wipe the bloodstains off of Dracula’s eyes. The blood drains off the moon too, as if he is so powerful he can bid the sky to bleed.

His lips shake with long-forgotten words—(or maybe they were just buried, and not everything buried in a grave stays there)—and he holds his hands to his chest, if nothing else to stop them from hurting innocent boys and castles, and shuts his eyes.

“My boy.” The words are said like everything in him is breaking

And it is.

—(The control room never was Castlevania’s heart. Does that mean it never broke?)—

“I’m—I…” The word falls to the floor, so soft, like it’s the only apology he has to shed. “I’m… I’m killing my boy.” And the truth is so gentle and broken its almost more painful than all those punches to the walls.

He steps across the Room, and this time his footsteps are not foreboding, not marching nor stalking. They are soft. He is only walking. This boy is not his prey. Not in this Room.

He walks to the picture on the wall, the one called “Happy.”

Castlevania remembers the day they took it home. The painter really did do a good job, Lisa had said, and Castlevania agreed. Castlevania soon learned that even when they were not here, even when the boy was not small, even when they were not happy, that moment would still be captured upon the wall to return to any time they missed it. Long ago Dracula had no need of pictures and paintings. But those pictures have been everything to him, and everything left him, now that Lisa is gone. They are all the traces left of what they once were in this Castle. That picture—the one Dracula buried and tried to forget existed—that picture bottled happiness, and it gives Vlad back his happiness now. And it makes him so very sad.

“Lisa. I’m killing our boy.” Vlad says to the memory. “We painted this Room. We…made these toys.”

His eyes as they dart around the Room—to the books, to the basket with the wolf and the blocks—are glazed, but not in the same way as before, this time it is with memory, and that makes them more alive than ever, as are his words. And in that moment she is alive too, and he is Vlad, Lisa’s husband, and Adrian’s father.

“It’s our boy, Lisa.”

And then as he looks down his eyes are not glazed at all, rather they hold understanding. He understands what must be done.

Alucard’s foot pushes off the ground, bends the knee, stands, and, no, he is not Adrian, for there is a cracking, a cracking like lightning, a cracking like the world breaking.

And it is the most horrible sound either the Room or Castlevania have ever heard. More horrible than the squelching any heart Dracula ever ripped out. More horrible than the desperate pleas of his victims. More horrible than the cackles of his friends. More horrible than the crying of the child that Castlevania can still hear echoing through the Room.

—(The sound Castlevania hated so so long ago, and now longs for far more than anything else in the world, longs for that painting to swallow the universe and bring it to life again)—

Castlevania and the Room can both feel that sound like a thousand splinters and spider bites, like both of them shattering as if they were made of glass after all. Even the furniture here bleeds.

Vlad backs up, putting his hands over his face—Don’t hurt them, they don’t know what they’re doing—

—(Yet…he hurt them all. So much so he didn’t just disgrace her words, he tried to kill her gift, their son, her blood)—

“Your greatest gift to me. And I’m killing him.”

He lifts his hands from his face and looks into his son’s eyes, his own so alive, despite their glass, tilting his head to the side. Everything slow and gentle now. He is Vlad. He is Adrian’s father. Not the vampire king who put innocents on stakes. But they all know something happened to Vlad on the night Lisa died.

“I must already be dead.”

And Castlevania, burned and bleeding, understands. The final piece of the puzzle has been put into place. It has been dead too. It’s life, bound in red to its master, will break to the call of a stake. Because a reflection cannot exist without the thing it reflects.

Because…they are mortal.

That was the trade, all those years ago: immortality for mortality. Lisa would gain an immortal mind, and Dracula a mortal soul. He would teach Lisa the knowledge of immortals, the methods of healing that must be kept secret to live with a vampire like time held no grip on them. And she would teach him how to live as a man, how to travel as a man, how to care for his son, as a man, as a father. And in that moment his soul was bound to hers.

She brought the undeath in him to life, and Castlevania understands; only things that are alive can die.

It learned through Lisa, through Adrian, what it was to be alive. And it knew that undeath, while not death, is not life. Dracula was undead and his body could not die. But now that she brought him to life, he could die. His soul already died with her. He’s been rotting in an empty shell—no wonder Death could tie those puppet strings to him. That’s why the emptiness in him was so active; cold and dark and empty were only adjectives before, now they are nouns; he was emptiness, death, walking around. And that, too, is what Castlevania has become. It too is mortal. It didn’t die with her, but something in it ceased to tick when Dracula came back without a soul in his chest, and it knows, bruised and burned, broken, and bleeding that that stake in his son’s hand is calling them both.

You knew all along, didn’t you? Castlevania asks the Room, and there is no malice, no blame, there.

The Room jerks its head up to look at Castlevania, then its eyes soften and it grimaces. I hoped I was wrong. The Room replies softly. I…I hoped there was another way.

Alucard’s eyes hold some sympathy, some semblance of the boy they once knew, in fact rather too much, for both threaten to pour out of those eyes and stop all this. He doesn’t want to. But it’s too late for anything else.

Vlad eyes hold some semblance of the man they once knew, so much so they threaten to make him something more than ruthless, something that doesn’t deserve to die. He closes them tilting his head. He knows what must be done.

There is no anger in either of their eyes, no determination, not even resolve. Not anymore. Adrian wants to free his father in the only way he can.

A step forward, and this step has purpose, that stake is silently growling, drooling at his side as he stalks his prey. Another. Another. Like the beating of all their hearts, and the atmosphere is so silent that everything can only break.

And Dracula will not stop him, will not fight back. Not this time. Like all those times he let his son win, because even though he was more skilled at at the game, it was more satisfying to see Adrian smile.

He is not here to talk things out.

Alucard barely raises that stake—

A second horrible cracking, this one in flesh.

This time he aimed higher.

Dracula’s mouth fills with blood, it seeps through the cracks in his teeth. The blood from his chest drains down the stake—the broken piece of childhood—down his son’s arm, collecting on his elbow, and when it hits the carpet a burn begins to appear on the Room’s chest.

A grunt as Vlad leans forward, the blood dripping from his mouth to the floor—another angry gash upon the Room’s skin, and the Room is trying to pretend it’s okay, but it can’t hide the hurt in its eyes.

It knew what had to be done…but the violence goes against its nature.

His eyes fill with blood, but not from undead purpose. The moon is still clean. These are those bloody tears, the ones from the song earlier today. He is free, relieved…and he will never see his son again.

“Son.”

To remember the living, and those who will live on without him.

And the word is spoken very differently than it was earlier today. Then it was solid and hollow. Now it is ghostly, and so full it could hold all the world. Their world, at least.

This Room, this Castle, that word. They are their whole world.

And it is an honor to have been a world to such terrible, wonderful creatures.

“Father.”

To honor the dying, and what they once were while alive.

The word on Adrian’s tongue is the same, though more solid, more alive, and thus able to hold more pain. A faltering breath, a cracking forgiveness.

The word means something now, at the end, where before they were nothing more than titles. They are pleading with each other. They are bleeding with each other.

They don’t want to do this. They shouldn’t have to. It is far too cruel.

Mothers shouldn’t have to bury their daughters, and sons shouldn’t have to kill their fathers. It’s an unspoken rule of life.

But Alucard can’t stop there. He must finish this. The fire, the resolve regurgitates in his eyes, and he pushes harder, like with the magma ball, and, no, this cracking is worse, because Castlevania can feel it in its own chest now.

Castlevania can hear its master’s heartbeat, can feel it with the drops of blood dripping and sizzling on the floor, and it thinks it might just be its own heartbeat.

Alucard does not hate his father: there is pain on his face. But he cannot stop there.

He must end this war. And unlike those given with kisses to his forehead once, this goodnight is not gentle. Not this time.

He inhales,

closes his eyes,

and breaks his father’s chest.

That stake goes right through Castlevania, and something in it involuntary breaks.

The control room never was Castlevania’s heart. The destruction of the die was merely the amputation of both its legs, still bleeding out. This is a breaking, not of skin or bone, but of something deeper. It thinks this might just be what it feels like to cry.

And something happens in the breaking. A change of some sort. Castlevania isn’t quite sure what—pain and disorientation are the best of friends—all it knows is that the world is smaller now, and hurts less.

And as Castlevania’s heart breaks, the reflection in the painting shatters, the reflection of the bond between father and son severing with a stake.

The world is so much smaller now.

Dracula’s head jerks back and, eyes now seeing something other than this world.

Dracula is no ordinary vampire, so he does not die like an ordinary vampire. Rather than catching on fire, there’s just smoke and ash; his face drains, turning from ghostly pale to a charcoal, black without flame, before it really is ash, sliding off his face, his cloak like sludge.

There’s no orange, just the red stain, and the grey his life was marred of. Ash and smoke. The true undeath.

Alucard turns his face away, still holding the stake in place.

Dracula lifts up a hand, a skeleton hand, and Alucard turns to see the skin sloughing off around his ring. Though his spirit may have left, it seems his body won’t quite let go of this world; with mere bones Dracula reaches out, takes a step forward, as if to touch his face, to hold his son one last time, to catch the last embrace he was not afforded.

Adrian has shed that resolve, now he can do nothing but take slow and careful steps back away from the monster he has no sword or shield to fight. He the child again, the one who belonged in this Room, shying away. He is Adrian, the one who didn’t like the stories that were bloody. And in all the years the boy spent in this Room, the sheer fear in Adrian’s eyes as he looks up to see his father’s rotted face, with mouth agape, leaning bloodlessly towards him—an image that Castlevania fears will haunt him the rest of his days—is matchless.

Hurried footsteps at the door. The Speaker and the Belmont, at last, have made it to the show, though it seems they paid for only the final song. They step upon the threshold to see the rotting corpse of the king stepping towards his fearful, tearful price.

The Belmont draws his sword, and Dracula’s deflated head—the one that seemed so alive moments earlier—lies in a bloody pool on the floor. And as the neck bleeds and the Belmont watches the body fall to the floor, he isn’t sure if that was enough.

And Castlevania can’t feel its heartbeat anymore.

“Alucard. Step back.” Sypha’s voice is tempered. “Let me finish this.”

He does, the steps cautious and small, sorrow in his gaze. He holds the unbroken bedpost till his hand shakes.

Castlevania never liked children, the crying, the leaving, the guests, or being controlled.

But it did like Lisa. It did like Adrian. And—be it a sting—it did like the sunlight. And always and forever, it loved its master. A reflection cannot help but adore the thing it reflects. A creation cannot help but be a worshipper of its creator. A dream cannot help but revere its dreamer.

“You want me to.”

Smiling a little at how true the words were, in the end, Castlevania found it quite liked the relief.

Castlevania puts a hand on the Room’s cheek, smiling, and its mouth tastes less like blood now. It looks at the moon—bleeding no longer—and blue calm fills every part of it.

“What a wonderful night to have a curse.”

The Room stares at the castle, a little horrified by the sentiment.

“What…What should I do?” The Room stutters, fear and realization coating its words, for it knows what’s happening.

Castlevania smiles wider than ever, and its voice sounds softer; “The children.”

“What?”

“You should let them in. Any child who needs refuge. Along with as many guests as your master wants to welcome. And you should cry. Cry when you need to—and let your master cry too. Stay, but let him leave, if he must, knowing he will always come back. Let yourself be controlled at times, because sometimes that which feels the least right is the most right.”

“I—I don’t understand.”

“Be warm. Let the light in every window. Be full, and most of all, live. Can you do that for me?”

The Room holds onto the Castle to keep it from falling, tears already descending its cheeks.

“I—I will try.”

The Speaker lets the flame loose to eat the pieces, to engulf its master’s body in the fire he stared at all along, as if yearning for its embrace, creating a spiral of flame upon the circle in the carpet.

They were right to assume it wasn’t over, at least, because there are shapes in the flames; from the smoke and ashes rises a tower of skulls, a legion of spirits, more than a one king’s soul should hold. They’re all crying havoc, war, blood and pain from a yesterday long forgotten. Their smoke snuffs out the flame, blight covering the Room, blocking out the stars that so enraptured them earlier. Sypha and the Belmont cover their faces, but Alucard is unsurprised and undaunted by the darkness lurking in his father’s chest, and faces it without looking away. This darkness bursts out the window like a flower bloom, flows like a river out into the hall—the one cracked and bruising—flying over the war Room where the war resides no longer, and escapes into the night, fluttering, spiraling around Castlevania’s parapets like butterflies.

On the charred floor, the only thing left of the king is his wedding ring.

Castlevania sees the vampire king as he once was; young and restless. The skeletons eating stakes. Castlevania remembers what it once was: lightning, books, gears, and a few lonely words. It sees the woman with the knife at the door. It watches them build the Room. It watches the boy grow up into this beautiful thing.

Castlevania always wondered if it could breathe. It was never quite sure. The Room always seemed to possess a kind of life it never had; a life that hid in the breath.

“Take good care of him for me,” Castlevania murmurs to the Room.

“Have I ever failed you before?” The Room tries to smile, wiping its eyes.

As the sun rises over the hills, a single ray filters in through Castlevania’s window, touching it, filling every part of it, and for once it doesn’t sting.

And with the last sigh of the last ghost circling the parapets, Castlevania exhales its last breath.

[lolingllama]

1) Junior year was probably my favorite year in high school because of all the people in my advanced acting family. We did The Great Gatsby our second semester, and on our last night during the bit after warms ups, but before curtain, I was watching our senior actors hug, and cry, and do the things seniors do when you dedicated the best 4 years of your adolescence to one beautiful thing, and all I kept thinking was "this is the purest form of love I've seen." (Outside of my family, of course.) But I literally just sat in the back corner and sobbed while smiling. All those people were going to be so different in a year's time, but they were there, in that precious moment, and it made me so happy that they knew they were loved.

2) So, I have a little brother, who, since before he was born, has been one of the core reasons why I'm still alive. I was 9 when he was born. I started showing signs of depression and anxiety at around 8, so, having something as exciting as a baby in the family made things easier. There was one point, after a really rough fight with my dad, I was under my bed, shaking, crying, and not wanting to live in general, and all I kept thinking was "I have to wait until I meet him." So, on July 25th, 2007, I met him. He was so tiny, and beautiful, and perfect. I silently promised him from the moment he griped my finger with his tiny fist that I would always be there to protect and love him unconditionally. Fast forward 9 years, and he is showing signs of autism, depression and anxiety. He ended up going to the hospital for self harm thoughts and asked me to go with him, so of course I did. My mom, him, and I all walked in to the ER holding each other's hands. After he got assigned to a room, the doctor wanted to have a word with my mother, so I stayed with him. I told him that I knew how he felt, and how scared he was. He asked me how I knew, and I told him. Then, I told him that he is the reason I'm still alive. He's the reason why I was holding his hand in that hospital bed. He's the reason why I've avoided (almost) every bad decision in my life. He looked at me like he didn't know someone loved him that much. We've been damn near inseparable since.

3) This last April, my family and I decided that it was time for me to find my own apartment. I knew that if I was going to be without my little brother, I needed something else to baby, and adore, and prevent me from making any stupid decisions. So, I went on Craigslist to look for puppies. I saw an ad for terrier/Chihuahua mix puppies, and my heart melted the same way I held my brother for the first time. I knew I had to go. So, my sister, grandfather and I all went to the owner's house, where introduced us to the mom, and then to the puppies. I sat down, and all of them were being wild, like typical puppies, but one would refuse to leave my lap. My sister kept saying "look at all of them to make sure you want that one," but I knew that he had picked me already, so I was happy to pick him. 8 months later, including heartbreak, complete fear, and loneliness, we just settled into our own apartment that we are anxious to call our home for many, many years.

4) When I was 14, my older brother introduced me to the band Imagine Dragons. Since that very moment, I've memorized every song, give or take a couple. On my 15th birthday, as a surprise, my mom, older brother, and younger sister took me to their show (taking place on my actual birthday) AS A SURPRISE at one of the most beautiful places in my city.

5) Like Imagine Dragons, How I Met Your Mother has been like a security blanket for me for years now. I've watched it after every big moment of my life. My 18th birthday, the night I graduated, the night I moved out to Job corps, the night I moved out to my first apartment, and again last night, after moving into my first apartment that doesn't have a roommate. But not just any random episode. No. Season 8, episode 20; The Time Travelers. The monologue that Ted makes at 18:30 without fail brings me to tears, every single time. Everyone deserves a Ted in their life...

SEND 👏 ME 👏 THOSE 👏 ASKS 👏 YOU 👏 CUTIE 👏 PATOOTIES 👏

Tagging: @punklosr @rosaelizabeth-games aaaaand that's it because not many people follow me, or like my stuff 🙃

Pass the happy along! When you get this, reply with 5 things that make you happy and then send it to the last 10 people in your activity! ♥♥

So I’ve thought about these and more than happy, I thought about the moments when I’m perfectly at peace and content, because those are rare as hecken. So 5 things that make me perfectly content and calm:1) Early summer mornings on the back patio, when the sun is just beginning to cut through the fog of Caldwell, when I can sit and listen to the quiet, watching the steam from my coffee, the smoke from my cigarette and the lines from the planes cut across the sky. 2) When I’ve worked for hours cleaning, dusting, vacuuming, sweeping, mopping, moving things about, making my space clean and aethestic, without interruption, and can finally sit and feel the relief in my feet and back and look around, thoroughly enjoying the space that is mine. 3) When my paycheck is more than I thought it would be and I can relax and know that I can pay my bills and also put gas in the car and maybe get coffee one day and a pack of smokes. 4) The calm evenings when the lights are soft and my children snuggle close to me and they smell good and sweet and like they did when they were born and there’s no rush or anxiety or fear while I sit and read to them. This is something I need to do more often. We need to read more often. 5) Being clean, in clean pjs, in a clean bed, incense smoke hovering around my head as I feel myself slip easily to sleep and knowing, somehow, even for just a moment, that everything will be alright and that I’m doing just fine.

Tagging: @lolingllamasss @lgbtchee @retro-pills @nniftymango @gingeralehux @riven-glass @rebellkiing @awkwardphases @trans-masc-thinspo @diary-of-a-transboy

Also, I seriously love asks of any kind, this or random things, or asking for advice or venting, like keep sending me stuff????? 💖🌹✨