#they don't have real names yet

[egophiliac]

time for skeleman

with the lack of any other info yet, all I can focus on are those Charles Lloyd-looking sunglasses. they are absolutely sending me. I feel like we're gonna fall through a tree or whatever and this stitched-up boney gentleman is gonna pop out from behind a gravestone and start serenading us with some smooth jazz on the saxophone.

or should I say...the saxoBONE???????

[raiiny-bay]

summer '93

[art-is-kayos]

Sight of a Star - Blue-ish Star Ryōshū and Don Quixote

[nomazee]

enough to make me cry

blade is your only roommate, your only friend, and your only way home from this terrible party you found yourself in.

blade x gn reader — 3.3k — college & roommates au!, very americanized college experiences, frat parties, mentions of drinking & vomiting, could be read as platonic but there are definitely romantic undertones, feelings of inadequacy/being out of place, hurt/comfort, social anxiety, blade is probably ooc i'm gonna be so honest, mild kafka & reader friendship, erggg im probably missing something

notes: no i have to be so honest blade is probably completely out of character i have not played a single side quest with him in it but i just think he has reluctant roommate-to-best friend potential and i wanted to pour that into a fic,,, this is mostly unintelligible but i did proofread! love you all

—°+..｡*ﾟ｡*ﾟ+.*.｡.—

A warm hand rests on your shoulder, and the first thing that you think is Blade’s hands are supposed to be cold.

It’s really pathetic. You’re somewhere in a stupid frat house, the thrumming of music around you. There’s the flashing colors and sounds of Mario Kart on the TV, the smell of puke (probably yours) and corona lite, and a hand on your shoulders that you’ve discerned is not your roommate, Blade’s. 

Looking to the side, you follow the hand (painted, manicured nails, definitely still not Blade’s), and it leads up to an arm up to a shoulder up to a face, and—oh. 

“You’re—” you pause, getting your words in order before you puke them up, “you’re Blade’s pretty lady friend?” It’s supposed to come out as a statement, but leans more to a question. She looks down, a bit of a teasing grin on her face, but her eyes are a little soft so you trust her. 

“Is that what he calls me?” she jokes.

“No, I’m— I came up with that.” If you had any dignity left in you, you’d be embarrassed to admit that to her. Unfortunately, you’re pretty sure that Kafka (the pretty lady friend in question) just held your hair back and wiped your face as you puked into a frat-house toilet, flushing your dignity away with your dinner. Your eyes burn with tears and mortification, and you pray that only Kafka saw your embarrassing mishaps.

“I called him to pick you up,” she tells you, already looking away from you and scanning the room as if looking for something, or someone. “I would take you home myself, but I’ve got some things to take care of. And I’m assuming you didn't bring your keys with you?” 

A quick pat-down of your pockets confirms that, yes, you somehow managed to leave your keys at home, the one personal necessity that you were supposed to bring besides your phone. Which, thankfully, you do at least have.

“Umm, the…” you mutter, tongue tangling uselessly as you try to find a way out of here without facing the impending doom of Blade’s aggravated scolding and his I told you so’s. 

A week ago, you went to him with an invite to this frat party and begged him to come with you, saying something like You don’t go out much, this is your chance! He’d adamantly refused, calling it a bad idea and rolling his eyes whenever you brought it up. But you were stubborn, and you wanted to have a fun college experience, so you forced him to drive you to the party with the promise of paying for his next gas payment and getting your own ride back home at the end of the night. 

“I can go,” you finally tell Kafka, mind stringing along memories and thoughts and alarm bells of get your ass home before you have to sit in an awful car ride with Blade, “It’s, like, a fifteen minute walk, don’t call him.” 

“It’s a little too late for that, kid,” Kafka drawls, amusement in her words. She’s smiling down at you, and you’re reminded of how small you feel. “He’s already on the way.” 

“No!” you protest, a little too loudly, but not loud enough to be heard over the thumping of music and bodies and voices. “It’s— Kafka, please, just tell him to turn around, I really don’t want him to deal with me today.” 

If you knew her even less, you’d misinterpret the twitch in her expression as concern—but you’re not too dumb, so you read it as amusement. “Trust me, he’s not going to have a problem with that. You’ll be fine.” 

Whatever that means. Kafka’s too cryptic for your liking, but you won’t complain. She wiped up your vomit from the dirty bathroom tiles and stayed with you to make sure you didn't get trampled, and she didn't complain about any of that. In a week, when you have enough strength to face her again, you’ll treat her to a good, expensive, flaky pastry. She seems like the kind of person who would love those. 

Her phone buzzes with a text notification, and she clicks her tongue, standing up and pulling you with her. Her hand is still warm, seeping through the sleeve of your shirt as she takes you by the forearm, gentle but guiding. Your stomach churns at the thought of seeing Blade, the thought of him seeing you like this. Freshly-puked-out with a nasty stomachache all because of a party that he told you not to go to. 

You hold back your protests as Kafka leads you through the still-crowded frat house. What time is it? Has nobody gotten bored yet, seriously? At least you didn't kill the mood by running to the bathroom and weeping into the toilet. It seems like nobody noticed, except for Kafka, and you don’t know if that should make you feel comforted or just more upset. 

The cool air of the night hits you as you step through the front door, eyes tracking your feet as you walk down the concrete steps. You see the silhouette of Blade’s ugly blue car in your peripheral vision, but you don’t want to look up in fear of seeing the disappointment on his face so soon. He’s going to rip you a new one, and then call you a slob and kick you out of the apartment and say I can’t have a party fiend living with me even though this was your first party ever, honest. 

You barely register that you’ve reached the passenger side of Blade’s car, only coming back to awareness when Kafka opens the door for you and starts nudging you into the seat. A really pathetic part of you wants to grab onto her arm and cry hard enough that she just relents and lets you walk home, but you’re already half into the passenger seat, looking everywhere but Blade. 

“Take care of them, won’t you, Bladie?” Kafka commands lightly, her hand leaving your arm as you get situated and buckled up in the car. Blade lets out a little huff in response and your stomach sinks. He’s already annoyed. 

The car ride to your apartment is only five minutes at this time of night. You just have to survive five minutes in silence and pray that he doesn’t tear into you and scold you like a disappointed parent. A glance at the clock on the car’s console confirms that it’s half past midnight. What the fuck. What were you even doing at the party for that long, besides vomiting and crying? 

The car rumbles, exhaust sputtering a little bit as Blade pulls out from the side of the street and drives slowly, carefully, as if not to rattle you, and you really just want him to speed up and throttle the car around so you feel more guilty about waking him up in the middle of the night to come pick you up. Blade goes to bed at eleven, the latest. You can’t imagine why Kafka thought it would be a good idea to call him, of all people, but then you remember that you kind of don’t have any other friends on campus. Your chest tightens at the thought. 

Blade makes some kind of sniffling noise, his way of trying to initiate some kind of conversation. There’s not even any music playing, because he always drives in dead silence because he’s abnormal, and on any other day you’d tease him about it like you always do. You see him turn his head to you in the corner of your eye, but you refuse to acknowledge him. You wish he’d just start scolding you, yelling at you or something. 

Tears prickle behind your eyes, painfully so, but your hands tighten around each other in your lap as you will yourself to not cry like a baby in front of your roommate. He lets out another sigh, but it doesn’t sound angry, just tired, and somehow that makes you feel worse. 

“What were you guys even drinking?” is his question of voice, and it’s the one question you didn't want him to ask, and you can’t help it when the tears spill over and you bring your hand up to wipe them away frantically, hiccuping a little bit as your gut churns. 

“What—” Blade stutters, and he never stutters, and you see him whip his head around to look at you, crying into your hands over a simple question, and you just want to leave the car and walk home like you told Kafka you would do. He pulls over to the side of some residential street. There’s a dog barking in a yard and wind chimes clinking together, and you think of your handmade bottle cap wind chime hung in the balcony of yours and Blade’s apartment, and it just makes you cry more. 

The car comes to a full stop. Blade puts it in park and turns completely to you. You spare a quick glance at him through the gaps between your fingers, and there’s something like worry on his face, which you’ve never seen before. His face is pinched, lips parted as if wanting to say something, but he can’t. He’s waiting for you. 

“I didn't drink anything, Blade,” you sob, feeling miserable at the state of yourself, at how you went to a frat party with nobody you knew and just walked around like a lost child, too scared to drink or talk to anyone, too anxious to say a word. “Not even a shot, or a sip, nothing from the fridge. It was so stupid, you were right, okay? It was a stupid idea, and I shouldn’t have gone.” Your breath catches in your throat, and the car is dead quiet as Blade lets your words sink in. 

You try not to make so much noise when you cry, but you’re sniveling and wiping your face and wishing that he would just stop looking at you like that. You can still see the ruby-red of his eyes even when you can’t bear to look up at him, and it makes you so viscerally upset. 

Blade is beautiful, really, and it makes you so upset that he looks better than you right now despite him being dragged right out of bed by Kafka’s phone call with a request to pick you up just minutes ago. You, who spent hours selecting an outfit, just to feel inadequate and wholly ugly the minute you walked through the door. It felt like you were back in middle school, spending hours with your parents picking out an outfit to a school dance, looking through ties and pants and shoes, just to show up and feel both overdressed and underdressed, feel like a fool, feel like you just can’t look the way everyone else does. Like something is always a little wrong. 

“Kafka said that you got sick. You didn't drink anything? You’re sure?” 

“No,”  you confirm pitifully, wanting him to just drop the topic and drive the rest of the way home and never talk about this again. “I was just anxious, and I puked like an idiot. Kafka helped me, she was the only one that I knew at the party. I don’t know. I don’t remember anymore. I was just anxious.” 

He says your name, not unkindly, but with a prying tone that just makes a fresh wave of tears stream down your face in rivulets. “Why would you go if you didn't know anyone?” 

“I don't know!” you shout, heated with embarrassment. You’re acting like a child, throwing a tantrum and crying and shouting in Blade’s car. The seatbelt is too tight on you. You fiddle with it, pulling it from the juncture of your neck and shoulder and loosening it, scratching your bitten nails against the scratchy cloth and looking out of the car window so that you can avoid Blade’s awful, terrible, intrusive gaze. 

“I just wanted to be normal, or something. I don’t know anybody from any of my classes. I don’t talk to anyone from my major. And then I got the invite for the party somehow and I just thought it would be fun. I don’t know, Blade, I know I should’ve listened to you, I’m sorry.” 

“Stop,” he says firmly, fully turned to you now, as if he wants you to look back at him, to listen to whatever he’s going to say, and that’s the one thing you don’t want to do. You hate that he’s being kind. You wish he’d be sarcastic and mean and cruel, bite into you and feed off your self-pity. But he’s being nice, nice in the same way that he’s nice when he buys the right brand of milk for you (because the others make you sick, and the taste is different), or when he drives you places in his car when it’s raining so that you don’t have to take the buses everywhere, or when he comes home with your ridiculous coffee order that costs a hellacious amount of money with all of your substitutions and additions and flavorings. 

“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” he says resolutely, leaving no room for argument, “Just— I didn't know you were feeling like that. I would’ve gone with you if you told me you needed someone. I assumed you were going with a friend.” 

You don’t respond with I don’t have any friends, because you’re pretty sure that’s clear enough by now, and you don’t want to confirm what’s already been confirmed a million times over just from the way you act. The way you cling to yours and Blade’s apartment, the way you never spend a second longer than you need to in any of your classes, the way that sometimes, when Blade goes out for class or work, you sit on the couch in silence with your laptop out, doing your work for the week and checking the clock and taking naps so that you don’t have to feel so alone for so long. 

“You didn't want to go,” you say instead, “I wasn’t going to make you just because I’m— I don’t know.” 

“I would’ve gone for you,” he tells you, really tells you, with a force in his words, like he wants to drive the point into you with a stake, driven right through your heart. “I would do a lot of things if you asked. You just need to ask.” 

You don’t— you really don’t want to think about what that means. What he means. You rip your eyes away from the car window and turn to face him. He’s not too close. You almost wish he could be closer, but you would suffocate under the pressure in your stomach and behind your eyes. 

He shouldn’t say things like that, things like You just need to ask, because you’d ask for a lot if given the chance. You’d ask for him to come to parties with you, stay by your side, let you put a hand on his shoulder and guide him around another disgusting frat house as if you know what you’re doing. You’d ask him to sleep in the same bed as you some nights, just a foot away from each other, backs turned to each other but still close enough that you can feel the unnatural coldness that radiates off of Blade. 

You’d ask him to introduce you to Kafka and that other girl they hang out with, to say something stupid and funny like This is my abhorrent roommate, be nice to them, and that way you’d have more contacts in your phone that aren't just Blade and your parents and two old high school friends who you haven’t spoken to in a year. You’d ask him to be a lot more than just a plus-one to a party full of people you’ve never met. 

“I just want to go home,” you breathe out, a guilty confession burning your gums and leaving a sour taste in your mouth. “I’m sorry.” 

“Stop saying sorry,” he asserts for the second time tonight, making your lungs squeeze as you puff out a tired exhale. Blade turns back in his seat, taking the car out of park and heading back onto the road—driving slowly, yet again, avoiding cracks and potholes in the road. “You need to eat something. You’ll wake up with a hellish headache if you go to bed dehydrated.” 

“I don’t think that’s true.” 

“I said it, so it’s true,” he says petulantly, turning the car down into a road that’s definitely not in the direction of your apartment building. To your hidden delight, the glowing sign of a twenty-four-seven ice cream store comes into view, and you sit up just a little bit. Blade slows the car as he turns into the drive-thru, glancing at you with an eyebrow half-raised. 

“What do you want? I’ll order for you.” 

“I don’t have my wallet,” you admit, just a little bit embarrassed. “I didn't even bring my keys with me. Do you think they take Apple Pay?” 

A breathy laugh escapes him, and you catch sight of a dimple pressed into his cheek, and you want to press your thumb into it and look at his smile, just for a little longer. “Don’t be dumb. I’m paying,” he tells you, the same way he has every time he pays for your cafe drink, or when he comes home from work with your favorite, and says You’re broke enough without having to pay for these drinks, don’t pay me back in that snippy way he shows his care. 

You ask for a medium vanilla milkshake, with sprinkles, and he gets you a large instead, which you’re more than grateful for. He refuses to let you look at the receipt for the total cost, and hands you the milkshake with a comical severity that you often see in him. The sweet drink washes away any bitter taste left in your mouth, and you feel a little better, a little nicer in your haphazard party outfit and under Blade’s fleeting gaze. 

A deep sigh escapes you, one of relief, when the car finally parks at your apartment building. Blade puts a cold hand between your shoulder blades, unobtrusive and leading, and it’s a comforting contrast from the heat lingering on your skin from the party and the closed car. It feels right, more in-place than Kafka’s warm hands were when she wiped your face and kept you steady, though she was just as gentle. 

Blade all but tosses you onto the couch, claiming that it’s much too late for a shower and he’d rather not deal with you collapsing from exhaustion in the tub. You relent easily, the exhaustion of the night hitting you and soaking into your limbs. 

“I’ll let you sleep on the couch,” he says, and it’s a good and kind thing, because he knows that sometimes you hate your bedroom because it’s just too empty, and the constant sound filtering into the living room puts you at ease. He never lets you sleep on the couch, because it’s bad for your back, and he jokes about you developing adult onset scoliosis with the awful way you sleep. Letting you do it, just this once, is another one of his small mercies. 

The TV is on, humming at a low volume, and your legs are thrown across Blade’s lap. You’re shocked that he’s willing to fall asleep with you like this, but he’s kind, sarcastic and biting but kind all the same, as much as he loathes to admit it. It’s not too lonely, you decide, hearing the bottle cap wind chimes on your balcony clink together in dissonant harmonies. 

(There’s a missing text from a new contact on your phone when you wake up, coming from pretty lady friend, extending an invite to brunch in two days, and you kick your legs on the couch in giddy excitement, thinking about how you’ll rope Blade into coming with you, too.)

—°+..｡*ﾟ｡*ﾟ+.*.｡.—

taglist: @tragedy-of-commons

(pssst!!! send me a msg or fill out the form in my navi to be added to the taglist!!!)

[starving-mimi]

Draw more terrorbeak wilson 🔫

idk what you're talking about, I still am drawing him I think

[carmineskiesandspidereyes]

A Softer Trigun, part 22/?

pt. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23

and an Alt, bc I just can’t decide these days :’)

[galactaknightyaoi]

I need to know, who's Wicked Knight. Their name sounds so cool and I want to see who the name is attached to ^^

Wicked Knight's one of my OCs! He's kind of new to this whole Knight thing, and is trying way too hard to be cool and edgy, hence the name. He's not nearly as cool as his name or appearence imply, though.

I've actually been procrastinating making a proper digital drawing of him, so all I have for you is a kind of crappy sketch to show his colors.

And here he is completely stripped of his coolness.

Those are unfortunately all the digital Wick drawings I have. But here's a few extra, traditional ones!!

Bonus baby.

[writeouswriter]

Girl, help, the book authors are trying too hard to be "hip" with the fleeting "teen lingo" and trends again, immediately dating their works before they're even released

[serpentface]

Oh, birthing & midwiferyposting, please

Ok I will Elaborate

(Content warning because this contains discussion of infanticide)

This is speaking about midwifery and childbirth in the Imperial Wardi context (this also should not be taken as ubiquitous for every facet of the Imperial Wardi cultural sphere, but this is a broadly accurate rundown).

Infant mortality rates are high, and pregnancies and births can be very dangerous for the pregnant parent. Midwives serve a vital societal function and the best form of reproductive care available.

Midwives come in many forms. In poor families, the duties are usually performed by a family member and the skillset may be passed from parent to child. Some communities have resident midwives who perform their services for free or at low cost. Professional midwives exist for hire, and are very common in the cities. An upper echelon of midwives are a kind of physician-priestess, who will have received extensive medical training and are considered sanctified and uniquely equipped to fulfill the spiritual needs of childbirth. A few will perform services for free, but they are generally hired and their services are very expensive.

Wealthy families may have their own personal midwives, and VERY wealthy families/royalty have personal physician-priestesses.

Midwives are mostly women, though whether this is an expectation or merely an average tendency is dependent on the specific context. Cases where this is an Expectation tend to be in cultural contexts where the Gaze of a man is believed to have a sexual element that is uniquely powerful and harmful to the nude bodies of women (all Imperial Wardi cultural beliefs include a concept of the spiritually empowered Gaze and disempowered vulnerability in nudity, but exact nuances vary). Physician-priestesshood is, in theory, reserved only for people designated female, though a few throughout history have been known or suspected to be eunuchs.

Physician-Priestesses serve Anmir-Ganmache (an epithet of God as the domestic sphere, close in meaning to Ox-Face of the Hearth). This is not a priesthood specifically devoted to this face of God in the same sense that Odonii are the cult of the Lion-Face and Galenii are the cult of the Lunar-Face, they are merely seen as serving Anmir-Ganmache by performing their duties and being uniquely empowered by this Face's blessing. Most begin their training and education at puberty (though it's possible to join later in life) and are expected to serve for 25 years before retirement. Their primary function is to behave as midwives, but they receive a wide spectrum of medical training and are considered uniquely equipped to tend to the overall health of women.

A midwife is usually expected to not perform their tasks while menstruating (this may not be practical for poorer families who have to take what they can get), during which time a person is considered ritually unclean. Specially dedicated physician-priestesses are usually expected to be virgins and to remain so for the duration of their service (a method to ensure an entirely ritually pure existence). This is not expected of common midwives.

Most of any midwife’s job is typical physical assistance with the pregnancy and birthing process. Births are typically done in a sitting or squatting position, often wearing a special skirt or blanket to shield both parent and child from full view (a spiritual element to reduce unwanted metaphysical vulnerability during the birthing process). Under the best conditions, a midwife has several assistants of their own (in the case of physician priestesses, these are usually priestesses in training) who will physically support the person giving birth and attend to their needs.

The infant is shielded from direct view during its emergence, and is immediately cleaned and wrapped in cloth upon the cutting of the umbilical cord.

Part of the toolset for a physician-priestess is a pair of horns from a pregnant cow sanctified via sacrifice to Anmir-Ganmache. The cow had taken God's role in its sacrifice and its remains are holy relics, and used to put the mother and child under God's full protection. One horn will have been carved into a cup and holds a sanctified oil (usually olive), which is gently daubed over the eyes, mouth, heart, and near the genitals of the child, forming a protective barrier.

The other horn is intact (usually carved with protective imagery, notably a motif of a lioness-headed woman that has protective qualities for children, and an abstract, twisting serpent that represents and encourages the incarnation of the child's soul) and is waved over the child’s body in the form of a blessing. The same is done for the mother, with the addition of anointing the breasts to encourage healthy and clean lactation. Common midwives are unlikely to have easy access to sacred sacrificial relics, but this blessing rite is considered vital and can be accomplished (to a less ideal extent) with any cow's horns, so long as they have been properly purified.

Protecting the helpless, naked infant from the gaze and immediately exposing it to purifying agents is believed to help expel any inborn dagia or other polluting agents. This is believed to support the child's spiritual and physical health and hopes to prevent congenital or otherwise lifelong health conditions.

The midwife performs a thorough inspection of the infant, and will give a recommendation upon whether the child is healthy and fit to rear. Infants deemed at high risk of premature death may be killed, as the cost of care and emotional attachment for a child deemed unlikely to survive will often be seen as too great to warrant the risk. This act (presumably with the parent’s permission) is usually performed by the midwife themself, and is ideally accomplished with a fatal sedative dose (this death is seen as peaceful and painless, while a traumatic death would risk the infant’s soul failing to reincarnate and instead becoming a vengeful wandering ghost).

This obviously may be a difficult and traumatic choice on an emotional level, but infants are not believed to have fully incarnated souls until they begin to speak (it is believed that the soul begins to enter the body upon conception, but takes significant time to fully inhabit it), and will be reincarnated if they die before this occurs. So infanticide in this context is not usually perceived as the murder of a full person or a denial of life, as the infant’s soul will have as many other chances as it takes to become fully incarnated. (There's a variant of 'old soul' beliefs, where an especially precocious child or one that learns to speak early is believed to have had many previous reincarnations)

Intentional abortion of a fetus carries no stigma whatsoever for much the same reasons (though the MOTIVATIONS for this act on the parent’s part may carry stigma, such as to hide an illegitimate pregnancy). Natural abortifiacients are available and widely used in cases of unwanted pregnancy (though these are not by any means as safe or reliable as contemporary abortion procedures).

In all cases (whether an aborted fetus, a miscarriage, a stillbirth, infanticide, or another death before full incarnation), the infant or fetus’ remains are given the standard funeral rite of cremation to ensure their soul is freed from the body and can be properly reincarnated. Basic rites are all that is expected in this situation, but some parents will undergo extensive funerals with lavish offerings to encourage a prosperous and healthy rebirth.

There's also certain rites to encourage the same soul to return to the same parents (as it would otherwise be reincarnated into a human at random), the physical element of which is anointing the body (ideally the lips) with both parent's mingled blood before the cremation, as blood physically contains a person's spirit and the sharing of it can establish a powerful metaphysical bond. This is believed to assist in leading the child's stray soul back to the same source, and may lend a tremendous sense of comfort to parents in the face of a wanted, dead infant.

A pregnant parent who dies in childbirth is given special status and are believed to enter an esteemed afterlife (located within the Lapis Moon, a paradise where they will reside among saints and other esteemed dead). Childbirth is regarded as one of many analogues to God's self-sacrifice to bring forth creation, with the mother symbolically crossing the threshold of death and spilling her blood to bring forth life from nonexistence. To die in such a state is regarded as one of the noblest deaths typically available to women. (This sentiment is also entirely reflective of the typical place ascribed to those designated women in this society, where their chiefmost value is in bearing children). It's still (obviously) ideal for most to survive the birthing process, but this belief may contribute to some choosing to undergo an (almost always fatal) caesarean procedure in a difficult birth if the infant is assumed to be otherwise healthy.

In the case of a healthy birth in which all parties survive, the child will then be presented to its father (who in some contexts is prohibited from attending the birth), who will formally accept it as his own and bestow it with the family name (the child is not given a personal name until a month from birth, and undergoes a formalized naming ceremony at either their first birthday or when they begin to speak, tradition depending). A child born out of wedlock or to an absent father does not receive a family name, though may be formally adopted if the mother marries later on, or be given the family name of the mother's father if he chooses to accept it.

The mother should ideally undergo a full blessing to recover from the metaphysical vulnerability of the birthing state (the physician-priestess can provide this, but otherwise this is done at a temple or family/village shrine).

It's also generally expected to offer sacrifice to Anmir-Ganmache in thanks and to ensure continued protection for parent and child (the best offering is a cow, but offerings of milk or at the very least some grain is acceptable). Most who can afford a physician-priestess can also afford to offer a cow, and it's also expected that the best meat (usually the liver and flank) and the horns should be removed before the rest of the sacrifice is burnt, and gifted to the priestess as a personal thanks.

[celtrist]

Why does Vassago already have merch, we haven't even met him yet

[beldaroot]

seeing is believing: a resolution to yakumo's grief

one: yakumo states he's cursed and expresses his desire of wanting to see sanada, even as a ghost.

two: yatora's aoj piece is called "beyond the line of sight" and it is a triad painting of yakumo, hacchan, and momo's backs with an empty space left for sanada.

three: momo ends the chapter with the idea that children are the only ones able to see god.

at first i thought these were all separate moments, but they actually are all connected and provide the perfect conclusion to this arc. we can now understand why momo called yakumo a "brat" several chapters ago; yakumo acts like a child over sanada's death because he thought of her like a god and wanted to keep seeing her. he's been "seeing" her as a figment of his imagination, but even that version of sanada has become warped and untrue to the real, previously living sanada. and because he's cursed - either by not being in god's favor or simply because he's growing up (aka moving on) - he's lost the ability to see sanada anymore. she is now, like yatora states in his piece, beyond the line of sight.

by maturing and accepting the death of sanada and her human status, he can no longer see her. but like yotasuke told him last chapter, he can keep the grief he has over sanada with him forever. the next time yakumo and sanada see each other, it will be in death. it is only then that they can finally fulfill their past dream of having a joint exhibition of their art. and while their art is being displayed to be seen by others and can "leave a lasting impression on [their] hearts, for better or worse," they themselves will not be seen and therefore, are free from any worldly burdens :')

[necrotic-nephilim]

Please infodump about the JayTimSteph Grotesquerie AU WIP if possible.

OF COURSE i've been thinking about it since i saw the trailer and now it's a little brainworm. (disclaimer i've not watched the first two episodes yet, this is like. solely on the vibes of the trailer. some details might change once i. watch the show depending on if i follow it or just go with the vibes the trailer gave me. which also means there will be no spoilers for the show if you care about that.)

the current idea involves Detective!Tim, Nun!Steph, and Priest!Jason. the vague idea for the plot so far is that a serial killer leaves a *very* artful display of a crime scene inside of the church that Jason and Steph operate out of. Tim is assigned as the leading detective on the case and ends up in a relationship with the both of them as he spirals in madness trying to catch the killer.

for Steph, i want to explore the idea of her father, Cluemaster, being a *very* prolific and artful serial killer who's whole gimmick was sending clues to the police until he was caught when Steph was still a child, and her and her mother were forced to go into witness protection for their own safety, which led her down the path of becoming a nun. it was a defining childhood moment for her to walk in on one of her father's crimes, so when she's the one who finds the crime scene in the church, it *immediately* sends her back to her childhood and she's caught between PTSD-fueled horror and a sick, enticing fascination. she wanted to become a journalist before going into WITSEC but that career was basically all but ruined for her. now she runs the small newspaper for the church and is desperate to write on the first "real" story she's ever had, dragging her into an intense obsession over the crime and trying to prove she can solve it.

for Jason, i want to deal with his history as Bruce. the current idea is that Bruce is Tim's police chief who adopted Jason and Dick from a young-ish age and raised them to be detectives, taking them to crime scenes as teenagers and teaching them the ins and outs of how criminals think. it leads to Dick becoming a detective, but when taking them to crime scenes led to Jason being kidnapped and brutally tortured by "Jack Napier", almost dying. Dick kills Napier to save Jason and it fractures their little family so badly that Dick switches departments to another city and Jason runs away at 17, eventually happening upon joining the clergy. he's the new, young priest in the church who's known for being very pretty but very emotionally distant even if he's nice enough. and he's *pissed* that Bruce is in his church investigating a murder and that no matter where Jason goes, he can't seem to get away from the horrors.

and for Tim, he's the young new detective in his department who is *entirely* unaware that he's been taken under Bruce's wing bc Bruce is treating him as a surrogate replacement for Dick and Jason. haven't fully decided his backstory yet, but it'll likely be similar to canon with losing his mother and father. i kind of want him to be lost and lacking a sense of direction. very gifted in noticing patterns and detective work, but it's clear he doesn't *really* want this job. and when he's assigned as the lead on a case that feels *way* too big for his experience bc Bruce is showing clear favoritism, he's forced to go to Steph for help, which leads to Jason ending up wrapped up with them too.

despite how heavy the plot *sounds*, i honestly want this fic to be like. 40% porn. like the show i want to explore a lot of fucked up sexual interests in Jason who's punishing himself for it, Steph being too interested in things for her own good and desperate for a taste of what "real life" feels like, and Tim just being incredibly repressed. like i want the line between horror and erotic to feel like a jumprope. lots of fucked up sex balanced with like. them actually trying to catch the killer. and then of course the emotional aspect of how Jason's baggage with Bruce works into all of it. also want Tim to have a mild hero worship for "the great Detective Dick Grayson" while being clueless that he's Bruce's son and Jason's brother. i sort of want it to be Steph-centric, but still have POVs from Tim and Jason just to round out their emotional arcs. i haven't fully decided everyone else who'll be in the fic but i know i want Cass to be a fellow nun and friend of Steph's, Babs to also work at the church, Helena to be Tim's favorite coworker, and possibly for Damian to be around somehow. those roles will probably get more fleshed out when i. watch the damn show tho.

anyway TLDR: religious imagery, body horror, kinky sex, and a mystery that might break everyone psychologically once they get to the bottom of it. i have some very specific scenes and dialogue planned out. probably cannibalism as a metaphor for love thrown in there too. idk i just want these three to be as fucked up as possible and unhinged about each other but fighting their repressed side with their unhinged feral side. and since it doesn't exist by god I'll create it.

[tiffanybluesclues]

Every week someone makes a post about how annoying it is that Dick Grayson fans don't acknowledge his flaws, and every week someone replies with an explanation that the flaws OP listed are entirely fanon and inconsistent with canon as it actually happened and at this point I have to assume that none of those explanations are ever going to stick because clearly some people just want the fanon to be true.

Anyway, I'm just putting this here for me to edit and add relevant-to-the-topic links later so I'll have them nicely at hand to read and sooth my frustrations when it gets real bad out there. (Echo chambers are good when we use them to drown out character mischaracterizing fanon.)

[creatively-cosmic]

old fucks!!!!!

[cait-sith]

Day 17: Moon

[raiiny-bay]

newest lil guy