#unthinkable natural law

[touhou-memories]

Locked and unlocked Music Room from Hisoutensoku if you do not have the game linked to Scarlet Weather Rhapsody (top row) and when you have it linked (bottom row).

[eddiesxangel]

Be Quiet Darling | Eric x Reader

Cw: aqpdo, porn with an end of the world plot. Oral (m receiving), p in v, use of breeding, no use of pronouns for reader but reader has breasts and a vagina.

Wc: 2k

The city loomed in darkness; its once vibrant streets were now shrouded in an oppressive shade of gray. Following the invasion of New York City, layers of ash and soot blanketed every surface. Despite the efforts of millions to escape, a few thousand souls remained trapped within its confines.

You were among the few thousand who were not so lucky to be stranded in the city, hiding underground in the basements and parking garages.

The bunker was the only place you could call home. It was a sealed-off parking garage located on the lower levels of a towering skyscraper. Months had passed since you had seen the light of day, and the absence of natural light had become the new normal. Quietness enveloped the bunker, and you longed for the sounds of the outside world. Anything but the rumbles of the military battling those creatures. Those aliens who had ultrasonic hearing could still hear you even though you were deep in the ground.

Even if you couldn't speak, you bonded with the people around you, mainly the law student you met named Eric. He had made an impression on you. An ever-growing crush was forming, and you didn’t know how to deal with it. The world was ending, but Eric was in your mind twenty-four-seven. You wanted to be near him; you longed to hear his voice; you wanted him to hold you and tell you everything would work out, that you’d escape this place and live happily ever after with the white picket fence.

Only in your fantasy would that happen, but it was nice to hold onto that dream as you learned the military was on its way to the last remaining survivors. They radioed the bunker to say it wouldn’t be easy, and you may die as the death angels were waiting and hunting still. There were thousands of them in New York State; even up north near the Canadian border was invaded.

The plan was to move everyone at dawn; it was going smoothly, and you and Eric stuck together throughout the march. Holding hands as you silently made your way through the rubbled streets that once held so much life, then the worst happened. Someone sneezed, and they were on you in an instant. Eric pulled you, and you ran with him. Neither of you knew where you were going; the subway was your best bet. You found a staircase that wasn’t barricaded and stumbled your way down as quietly as possible.

It must have been hours. You and Eric were hiding in an isle of an abandoned shop, munching on a bag of cookies that hadn’t been broken. Half an hour ago, you heard the sirens warning you to stay put. It sounded awful in the streets above. The sounds of guns and bombs, the shrieks of the creatures, echoed through the underground tunnels.

You mouthed, “I’m scared,” tears breaching your lash lines.

Eric nods, and you can see his eyes are wet before he reaches over and cups your head into the crook of his neck. You both silently cry before you lift your head and do the unthinkable at a time like this. You kiss him.

Surprisingly, Eric kisses you back, but you’ll take anything from him that he will give.

The moment your lips touched, you felt his weight sink into you, like he wanted this just as badly as you did. You desperately wanted Eric to hold you, tell you everything would be okay, and protect you from the abovementioned monsters.

Your hands found his waistband and tugged on the belt loops to pull you in closer. You knew it would be so stupid to do anything else; you could die in an instant, but your primal need to procreate and survive was taking over.

His hands grabbed your waist as he pulled you closer to him as well, so close you could feel how hard his cock had gotten. You both have wanted this for so long, but you dare not utter a sound as the passion grew stronger.

Your hands bravely went lower, and Eric pulled away, looking at you with those eyes that make your heart race. He bobbed slowly to confirm this was okay, and you slowly pulled the zip to make as little noise as possible.

Eric’s chest fell up and down with each breath of anticipation as he watched you so close to where he wanted you to touch him the most. Through all of this madness, he had fallen deep and had for you and yearned for your affection. All he wanted was to hold you, for you to tell him that it would be okay, that you both would survive this and live happily ever after.

You fold down his dress pants and hold back a giggle when you see his cowboy boxers. He rolls his eyes in embarrassment; of course, these were the only other pair of underwear he could find this morning. However, that didn’t deter you from kissing him deeply. You kissed him passionately, letting your tongue slip past his plush pink lips as your hand ran the outline of his cock through his corny boxers. His endearing ways made you want him much more now that you’re alone, hiding from what was above.

Eric wanted to let out a moan so badly when your fingertip grazed the head of his cock through the thin cotton. He was already leaking so much precum there was a little wet patch that had formed. You circled it with your thumb before you slipped your hand under the waistband and pulled it out.

The lighting in the small store was dim, but your eyes had adjusted so you could see what you were working with. You smiled to yourself as you observed the thick shaft in your hands. Your pussy clenched around nothing as visions of him stretching you out flooded your thoughts.

“So big,” you mouthed, and Eric bashfully looked down, shaking his head. You hooked your index finger under his chin for him to look at you again, and you nodded yes while biting your lip.

You don’t break eye contact as you sink down to take him in your mouth.

The moment your hot, wet tongue touches his head with a kitten lick, he has his fist in his mouth to stifle the noise he was about to make. You would have begged him to hear those moans in any other situation, but you’ll now yearn in silence.

You want to praise him, tell him how good he was for being so quiet, and tell him how strong and handsome he is.

Eric ran his hand over the top of your head, gripping your hair l, surprising you a little. Your soft sweet teddy bear of a man taking a little bit of charge on how you sucked his cock was so hot. He only puts a little pressure on your head to take him further and releases the tension when you take him the furthest you can. The velvety walls of his shaft guided against your tongue so smoothly that you loved feeling him in your mouth. You couldn’t wait for him to split open your pussy.

A small gasp escaped his throat that sounded like a “fuck,” but you stopped and froze in place to make sure that nothing heard it.

You looked at him through your lashes, and he mouthed a “sorry.”

You pulled up off him, and he thought he had ruined it, thought you no bother trusted him to continue, but when he saw you were unbuttoning your jeans and lifting up your top, he relaxed his tense shoulders.

“Please,” you mouthed, as sores your legs wide for him to come between. You wanted to feel him inside of you, and you didn’t know how much longer you had.

Eric nodded his head percussively as he crawled towards you, and you lay down, resting your head on an unopened cardboard box.

You hold in a moan as Eric kisses your exposed body. He started at your lips and worked his way down your neck, to your shoulders, to your breasts, staying as he paid close attention to each nipple. He looked up at you with those big brown eyes as he sucked and flicked your sensitive buds. Your pussy grew wetter by the seconds as he kissed your tummy and stopped right above the tufts of hair that led to your needy pussy. You wanted nothing more than to have him go down on you, but your need to be filled was stronger.

You shake your head before he can move an inch closer, and he looks at you in confusion. Eric knows he gives amazing head. He wants to feel you cuming on his tongue for him, to taste him, but when he sees your plead for him to fuck you, he can’t say no.

You watch as Eric nods and aligns his cock yo to your entrance. You watch his face as he slowly sinks into you, your pussy aiming him in so tight that he lets his mouth fall open but doesn’t dare let out a sound as you kiss him. With an elbow propped up beside your head, he takes your face in the other as he ungulates his hips to thirst up into you with such precision.

The way he slowly rolled his hips so that he couldn’t make a sound made you want to cry out. It felt so good. You haven’t felt good in weeks. You slowly leaked a few tears as it was all so much to handle. You break as you hold back a sniffle, and Eric kisses your tears away; he coos you silently, whispering so lowly that he’s got you, that you’re doing so well for him, how you’re taking his cock so good.

You wanted to beg him to fill you with his cum, that you’ll be so good for him, that you love him, that he’s all you have left in this world. You want to be his so severely that it hurts. Even now, as his hips roll into yours, as his cock is hitting that spot deep up inside you, you want to scream that you want him to mark you, claim you, breed you.

But you can’t. All you can do is kiss him and pull him in closer; your feet wrap around him, making his thrusts sharper as your pussy clamps down on his thick hard cock that is making you see stars.

Your wet pussy threatens to echo throughout the tunnels of the subway, but Eric slows down and reaches down between you to circle your clit. You let in a sharp breath as he massages your swollen bud. You’re so close you can feel it. You stare at him, not daring to look away to break you into reality.

Right now, it was you and him. Nothing else mattered. You both needed this to feel something other than fright and loneliness.

As you unfold for him, you and Eric stare into one another’s eyes. A silent scream of pleasure doesn’t dare leave your throat, but you let your jaw fall open and arch up into your orgasm. Eric wants to tell you so badly that you did so good for him that your pussy feels so delicious as you cum on his cock. The way you clamp down on him has his head spinning as well, your hot spend coating his cock, making your wet walls all that much warmer, tighter and wetter for him. He can’t help but release himself deep inside of you.

With heavy breath, you both lay there in silence, unable to say anything, but you both know that it was good, great, fantastic sex. Eric kisses you again for confirmation, and you gladly roll your hips into his softening cock before he pulls out.

What could be between the two of you with words could be amazing, but for now, this is what you have to survive.

[blasphemousclaw]

ok jokes aside… I’ve said this before but like the whole design of Volcano Manor is soooo symbolic of who Rykard is as a character… when you enter the manor through the front door, it’s grand and lavishly decorated and well maintained:

but behind curtain it’s an absolute horror — sinister serpent-creatures, gruesome torture devices and cages, half-dead victims, piles of corpses.

During the Shattering Rykard built up this persona as a “worthy sovereign,” someone who dared to stand up to an unjust order and to do the unthinkable in order to fight for a new world, someone whose ideals inspired his followers to fight for him. Then, he seemingly threw all these ideals away when he fed himself to the serpent god, descending into “mere greed” for power… but I don’t think Rykard ever really changed, I think his true motivations were always for the sake of power. It’s why he enforced the law of the Erdtree so brutally and turned his cloak so readily; I think he enjoys the feeling of exercising his power over others and despises being treated like a servant. His transformation into a grotesque monstrosity that is greed personified is just the natural conclusion of his greatest flaws.

Though Rykard during the Shattering and Tanith during the present day present their goals as noble despite their blasphemous nature, in reality, they are violent and grotesque… it matches our view of Volcano Manor as an initially noble and impressive estate that grows more and more sinister as we explore beyond the walls of the main hall. The way the setting is designed perfectly matches the character that looms at the heart of it... and that’s why I think it makes perfect sense for Rykard to have himself crafted both the manor’s noble facade and the horrors “behind the curtain.”

[kitsuren]

DEMO // PLAYLIST

Flirting with Death is a 18+ Otome-like action dark romance in the form of an interactive fiction. The game focus will be mostly into character and relationships development, exploring how you interact with the world and the reactions to your decisions.​

Take charge of Eris, a newly (and forcibly) inducted operative of a shadowy organization, as she enters a world way more twisted from what she is already used to. 

The game will be released chapter by chapter and it will be entirely free after completion!

You died. For all your life, you have been making bad decisions after bad decisions and this time your luck ran out. During your years working with the wrong side of the law you had seen the good, the bad, and the ugly. What you never expected was that your choices would take you into a maze of lies and backstabbing capable to bring countries to their knee. Something big is happening and you are not in the small leagues anymore. To bring down titans you will have to ally yourself with the shady HADES Project, a group with dubious objectives and even more dubious reasons. In a race against time you will have to do the unthinkable before it is too late. There is no right or wrong in this game and the stake is your second chance in life. The clock is ticking. Grab your power suit. Gather your allies. And remember: Trust no one.

Play as a female gender locked protagonist;

Customize your Eris: decide on your past, specialization, appearance, and attributes, bringing your character to life;

Romance one of the 3 initial ROs, each of them having their own unique route that explore the story trough different perspectives;

Make  decisions that impact the people around you for the good or the bad;

Use state of the art never-seen-before technology, including your very own power suit so you will never die (again!) during a mission;

Choose between 5 classes that will assist you during the various dangers that will follow you and your team as you try to solve the mystery;

Be a a righteous vigilante or a complete menace to society;

Kick a billionaire in the face (or not)!

This game is rated +18. Not only it will touch on heavy subjects, but it will also contain: 

Graphic depctions of violence; Strong language; Unhealthy coping mechanisms; Guns and gun violence; Manipulation tactics; Explicit sex (if chosen); Taboo relationship; Toxic relationship; Mature content; (This list will be updated if and when necessary!)

Yes, the protagonist is gender locked: This is my first time coding an IF and I didn't want to bit off more than I could chew. Not only that, I wanted to mix the otome/josei genre with the interactive format. Maybe it will work, maybe not.

This game is a ROMANCE first and foremost: You will not be able to opt out of it. I am aware that some people are not fond of this type of content and yes, you as a player will have the choice to have (or not!) sexual content/pda, but you will not be able to get out of locking into a romantic route.

Cold, cynical, and incredibly sardonic, Phobos is all objective, giving up on any and all distractions and not being afraid to do whatever it is necessary for the greater good. His no-nonsense attitude and his constant tries to intimidate anyone into submission​ turned him infamous in the organization. His morality is almost black and he doesn’t care about the sacrifices that he needs to do to obtain the desired result. Killing for him is second nature, but most of times he will let Deimos talk him down from his murderous rampage. At least until he decides that the more approachable way is not being efficient anymore.

Friendly, good natured, and helpful. Everyone who knows Deimos has the impression that the man is not fit for this kind of work. He is well regarded by anyone across HADES and normally tries to resolve everything without violence, doing a really good work as a “face” in his Kerberos Unit. But don’t be mistaken, even preferring to not harm innocents, Deimos is a perfect killing machine, honed by his past to be the perfect assassin and torturer. He has an approachable personality, but when working he only focus on the job that needs to be done. Can be quiet work focused and hyper fixate on the mission, which feeds his insomnia.

With zero chills to give and almost always having and anxiety attack due to Phobos and Deimos shenanigans, his boyish appearance masks very well his personality and he constantly runs with the power of coffee and spite. As a handler he is extremely methodical and professional, being proficient with first aid, tech, engineering, and plan making, even if his ADHD tries as hell to hinder his plans. Being a genius, he mostly always lose patience with stupidity and prefer to work by himself. Chaos is the youngest handler in HADES history and by far one of the most respected, at least by name, since he is the only one capable to make Phobos and Deimos to actually shut up with just a glare.​ Can be a tad dramatic and fatalist, but he rarely is wrong. His favorite phrase is “I ain’t paid enough to deal with this shit” (Yes, he is.).

[magnificentmaleficent]

ʟᴏɴɢɪɴɢ | ᴄᴏʀɴᴇʟɪᴜꜱ x ʜ! ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

𝚃𝚒𝚝𝚕𝚎: Longing 𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐: Cornelius x H! Reader 𝚂𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: He shouldn't feel this way. He was an ape and you were human. It was unatural, it was forbidden and yet... Everytime you smirked, everytime you challenged him-- His heart raced... It wasn't just admiration anymore, it was need. So let the world judge him, he didn't care anymore— because Cornelius wasn't afraid of the truth, and the truth was that he was in love with you. 𝚁𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚗 𝚁𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝: Can you write something short for Cornelius please? Maybe confessing to Human! Reader. Thank you.

A/N: Roddy Mcdowall the icon that you were... This was supposed to be short... I got too excited oops...

★゜・。。・゜゜☆゜・。。・゜★

Cornelius had always been a careful thinker, a measured speaker, but you unraveled him in a way he couldn’t explain. When you had first arrived, he had been fascinated.

You were intelligent in ways no human should have been. You spoke, reasoned, challenged him.

At first, it had been purely intellectual—of course it had.

You made him question things.

And Cornelius loved questions.

But you keep refusing to be categorized. Refused to fit neatly into the laws of nature he’d known all his life.

But the problem was– You had become a question he could not answer. He had tried to reduce you to a puzzle, a mystery, something he could fit into the grand tapestry of history.

And slowly—horrifyingly—Cornelius realized it wasn’t just your mind that fascinated him, but you.

“Your history is wrong,” You had told him, arms crossed. “Humans were here before you.”

“That’s a bold claim.” Cornelius swallowed, his heart racing at the implication. “It’s simply impossible.”

You glanced up, eyes glinting as you flipped through the pages of one of his books. “You already suspect it.”

He swallowed hard, eyes downcast. “That doesn’t mean—”

You shut the book with a soft thud. “You know I’m right.” 

Cornelius’ eyes looked at you for a brief moment, and for the first time, he admitted something he had been fighting for weeks.

“I don’t want you to be right,” he said quietly and if it wasn’t for the fact he was seated before you, you’d probably wouldn’t have heard him.

Your expression softened. “Why?”

“Because if you are, then everything I’ve ever believed is a lie.”

You leaned forward, voice softer now. “And that scares you?” He hated how you could see right through him. Cornelius was afraid. Because if you were right—if human civilization had come before the apes—then his entire belief system was a lie.

He hesitated, the silence engulfing his office. Then, barely above a whisper he answered without meeting your gaze.

“Yes.”

Cornelius didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

You reached out, fingers softly brushing over his knuckles, his hands tightly intertwined together and with a quiet but sweet voice you asked.

“I scare you too, don’t I?”

Because yes. Yes, you did.

But not for the reasons you thought. Not because you were a threat to ape history but because you were a threat to him, as fear wasn’t the only thing stirring in him.

Wanting you.

You were brilliant, sweet and the more time he spent beside you, the more he found himself wanting your trust.

He was an ape and you were a human. It was unthinkable and yet, when you leaned forward, eyes full of fire, he thought…

It meant that everything he had built—his beliefs, his understanding of the world—was wrong.

No.

Cornelius wasn’t a fool. He knew what this meant.

It meant that he wasn’t just a scholar studying history.

He was part of history now, and history always had a cruel way of punishing those who challenged it.

You sat back in the chair, relaxedly watching him with quiet amusement. For such a quiet man, his thoughts were so loud.

“You’re different from the others,” you mused.

Cornelius cleared his throat as he adjusted the neck of his shirt “H-How so?”

“You don’t just want to control me. You want to understand me.” He could feel your gaze piercing through him, a small but beautiful smirk on your lips that made his heart piston.

Cornelius felt heat rise to his face. “That’s… not entirely true.”

You arched a brow, teasingly. “Oh?”

Cornelius hesitated. His heart was pounding hard—as an unfamiliar, dangerous feeling rose inside him, like a damp close to overflowing everything close by. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be talking to you like this.

And he definitely shouldn’t be wondering what it would feel like if you touched him again.

You tilted your head in curiosity, your eyes never wavering in its inspection as you watched him closely. “You don’t hate me.”

Cornelius exhaled slowly, trying to keep his voice steady. “No,” he admitted.

You propped yourself from your seat, getting closer to him, reaching over the table between the two of you, voice barely above a whisper.

“Then what do you feel?”

Cornelius hated himself for it.

He shouldn't have felt this way. He was an ape. You were a human. It was unnatural, it was forbidden.

And yet—

Every time your sharp gaze was on him, every time you smirked, every time you challenged him—

His heart raced.

It wasn’t just admiration anymore. It wasn’t just respect. 

It was need.

And that terrified him more than anything.

Because Cornelius had always been a creature of control and you had taken that from him and as he stood there, looking at you, knowing that one day you might slip through his fingers forever—

Cornelius made his choice.

Let the world judge him.

Let history condemn him.

He didn’t care anymore.

Because for the first time in his life, Cornelius wasn’t afraid of the truth. And the truth was—

He loved you.

He remembered a night similar to this one, one where you had leaned in close—too close— as you two were going over an ancient map he had recently found. Your shoulder brushed against his, your scent was warm, earthy, alive, yours.

He had always sought knowledge, not feelings. But knowledge was dangerous, because once you knew something, you could never un-know it. He knew now, maybe had always known but refused to accept it, that he wanted you.

Cornelius had frozen and you noticed. Of course you had noticed. You always noticed.

“You’re tense,” you murmured, glancing up at him, your voice low. Teasing.

Cornelius had swallowed. “You—” His throat had gone dry. “You’re very close.”

You had arched an eyebrow, but neither of you moved away.Instead you had lifted a hand—slowly, deliberately—and traced the corner of the map with your fingertips.

“Go on,” you murmured, looking at him from under your lashes. “Teach me, Cornelius.”

Cornelius had tried.

He really had.

He had tried to focus on the map, on the history, on anything but the way your fingers brushed against his own.

On anything but the way his heart was pounding. On anything but the way, you looked so incredibly sensual as you asked him to teach you.

And for a single, reckless second—

He had almost reached for your lips.

And that terrified him.

And he fled.

So he had pushed back from the table, clearing his throat. Found an excuse to leave, and as he walked away, he knew that if you had touched him even a second longer— if he had stayed…He would have let you do to him as you pleased.

He had felt your warmth, the brush of your fingers against his own, the unbearable closeness.

And every night since then he could only wonder what if—

What if he hadn’t?

What if he had let his hand linger on yours?

What if, instead of pulling away, he had traced the delicate line of your wrist, up your forearm, memorizing the way your skin felt beneath his fingertips?

Would you have stopped him?

Or would you have leaned in—just a little, just enough for him to feel your breath against his cheek?

Would he have dared to tip your chin up, to search your gaze, to see the fire in your eyes and finally understand what it meant?

Would he have let himself taste it?

Would it have been a slow, unraveling kind of kiss—tentative, full of hesitation, of wonder? Or would it have been clumsy, heated... His mind lost to the way you felt, the way you tasted?

Would you have smiled afterward?

Would you have whispered,” took you long enough” ?

And would Cornelius—logical, cautious, careful Cornelius— Would he have been able to let you go afterwards?

“Something wrong, Cornelius?”

He had prided himself on his self-control, but none of that mattered now that you were standing so close. Not when your fingers had brushed against his once again. Not when his dreams were plagued with the images of  what if’s, not when he was still feeling the heat of your touch— touch that sent shocks through his body, making him tremble with something he could no longer ignore—

It was mocking. Playful.

You knew what you were doing to him. And Cornelius—Cornelius could not handle it.

Standing before him were you: his human and his mind was a storm of logic warring against the deep ache in his chest.

He was not a reckless fool who would throw himself into the unknown without first calculating the risks. But this—this moment—was beyond reason.

He shouldn’t do this.

He should turn back, pretend the feelings were never there, bury them beneath research and propriety.

But the thought of walking away—of never telling you—was worse than any rejection he might face.

So he did the most terrifying thing he had ever done in his life, and with a whisper of your name, he spoke.

"I…"

Your eyes found his, expectant, and his courage wavered instantly.

Could he really do this? Risk everything?

He could lose everything.

But you were his.

His intellectual equal. His companion. His obsession.

" I need to tell you something. I—" He exhaled sharply, rubbing his hands together to stop them from shaking. " No, that’s not right. What I mean is—what I’ve been trying to say for… quite some time now, actually, is—" 

As you always did.

He winced at the sound of his own voice, You sound like a babbling fool. But you didn’t say anything, you simply… listened patiently, waiting for him with a soft smile.

"I know this may seem improper, perhaps unwise, even absurd, but I cannot seem to—no, I mean, I do not wish to—"

His heart pounded. He felt trapped between the words he wanted to say and the fear of what might happen if he said them.

The possibility of losing you gripped him like a vice.

But then—you smiled. Soft, Knowing.

As if you had been waiting, and before he could spiral further, before he could ruin his own confession with endless overthinking—

You kissed him.

For the first breath, he didn’t even react then something in him cracked.

Your lips were warm, soft, tender—a sensation so foreign, so utterly impossible, that his mind refused to comprehend it at first.

The weight of his uncertainty, the fear of rejection—all of it shattered in a million pieces.

A sharp, involuntary tremor ran through him as his hands, that had been frozen, moved on their own. One settled on your waist, hesitant, disbelieving as the other lifted, shaking, to cup your cheek as if you were made of something too delicate, too precious to hold. 

A soft mumble against your lips, a whisper of your name, his breath uneven.

You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, and oh, how you looked at him.

Not with pity. Not with confusion. But with love.

"Cornelius," you said, voice soft but firm.

The way you said his name—his name—as if it was something worthy, something cherished—

His vision blurred with unshed tears.

"I thought you would never say it," you whispered against his lips.

"Say… what?" he rasped, his brain lagged from the sheer intensity of the kiss, his mind still struggling to believe this was real. You laughed softly, tilting your head with sparkling eyes. 

"That you love me."

Cornelius sucked in a breath.

The words he had feared to say aloud, the words that had tormented him for so long—

Cornelius' chest tightened painfully, a desperate, overwhelming emotion rising so fast that he could do nothing to stop it. He could only pull you closer this time, over the table and onto his lap as his lips crashed against yours—not in fear, not in hesitation—

You knew…

And still, you were here.

But in relief.

In longing.

In the sheer, breathtaking joy of knowing that for once the universe had been kind to him and he could barely breathe.

The moment his lips had left yours, the moment he pulled back, the moment he saw the way you stared at him—

He had never wanted something like this before.

Never ached.

Never needed.

But when you whispered his name like a secret, when you made him feel like he would die if he didn’t touch you again.

From now on, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself. His hands shot out, grabbing your waist—too fast, too rough—his breath coming quicker than it should as he pressed you closer to his body. Your lips parted in a quiet moan, your eyes darkening with something he couldn’t name… Something that made his entire body burn.

He had never done anything like this before.

Never acted without thinking.

Never let himself want.

But right now—he wanted so badly.

 He whispered your name like a plea, pulling you in another kiss. Messy, desperate—nothing like the careful, structured man he had always been. As you melted into him, your hands fisting the fur on the back of his neck, pulling him closer, closer, closer.

The second you lips parted and he could taste you again, the soft, breathless noise you made against his mouth—

Cornelius was lost.

He gripped you harder, hands trembling, composure shattered as he chased your lips like a man starved. The feel of your body against his, the way you gave in to him.

You were fire.

And he wanted to burn.

When you finally broke apart, he was breathing too hard, vision blurred, his body shaking as you looked up at him with swollen lips, cheeks flushed red and eyes filled with something dangerous.

“Took you long enough,” you whispered heatedly, pulling him back into a sweet kiss. Cornelius could only laugh softly against your lips, gladly kissing you back.

Let me know your thoughts!

[deerlybelov3d]

How would Lucifer react to the kidified hazbins calling him 'Dad?' Like, it starts when one of them slips and blurts out the word without thinking. And then down the line all of them are just referring to him as their dad like it's the most natural thing in the world? What if one or all of them said something to the effect of, 'I wish you were my real dad?' (I know they still have their adult memories, so maybe this is an unthinking, sleepy mumble when their filters are down.)

First off I love you for asking about my silly little AU and being interested, thank you sososo much!! 🫶💖 I absolutely adore this question too I think it would be such a jolt for Lucifer to hear “Dad” from anyone but Charlie, like he would probably actually dramatically clutch his heart and shed tears—once he’s turned around and it won’t be as obvious to the kiddo! He doesn’t want them to become self-conscious and not say it again! The baby fever would be HORRENDOUS lol! I feel like the first kiddo to start that off would be Vaggie, since when they were adults she’d already started to view him as a father-in-law and as a kid that memory would get more hazy and kidified and would translate to blurting out “Dad” 🥹 then I feel like I could see Angel would be trying to get Lucifer’s attention, but when it doesn’t work and he’s becoming more frantic, a “Dad!” would slip out and the response would be immediate! He would then vow to himself to use this trick only when he feels it’s necessary, but it could start to become more and more habitual! Alastor is admittedly a very tricky one because we can all agree he didn’t have a good relationship with his father and would never have called him “Dad,” and also even as a kiddo has some contention with Lucifer and thinks he’s a bossy annoying meanie lol! But for that reason I think it would be one of the cutest moments if it ever did happen and it would be such a cute possibility if he was the one that sleepily mumbled out “I wish you were my real dad” without thinking about it! Angel would be another really good candidate because we know his dad was not good either! Husk is practically nonverbal as a kiddo besides cat sounds but I love the idea that adult Husk knows a lot of languages, so I feel like little bitty Husk signing “Dad” and Lucifer eventually finally catching on that that’s what he’s doing would be so cute oh my gosh! And baby Niffty making little baby babble like “dadadadada!” oh my goodness… I and such a sucker for Dad Lucifer he makes me so soft and fuzzy inside and I would love love for the kiddos to call him Dad wahhh! Thank you sososo much again for the ask! I am just so very delighted and ecstatic that people care enough about this AU to want to ask questions and engage! I appreciate it with my whole heart!!! 💖💖💖

[sweet-evie]

Pure Love

Rewatched JJK 0 recently, and caught the feels...

Content: JJK0 timeline... Post-Suguru... Established relationship, AFAB!OC, nameless OC, she/her/hers pronouns, Fluff, Angst & Comfort, Cheesy thoughts about love (like it's actually disgustingly cheesy), Lovesick!Gojo, Soft!Gojo, Sad!Gojo

✨ masterlist ✨

The blade slipped from his fingers and clattered loudly against the ground — the final punctuation to what should have been an unforgivable deed according to the laws of mortal men. He couldn’t bear to hold on to the blade, not when the deed was done, and not when he had already accomplished what was once unthinkable. 

He stared at his own hands and the specks of red that stained the pale flesh, stared at the man he’d called his best friend, his one and only, even after a decade had come and gone. He was horribly disfigured, the sight made uglier by the clean cut across his throat — just an empty shell of what he had always known.

His friend really had gone. The familiar traces of Suguru’s cursed energy, snuffed out — as it should be, and none other than at the hands of the strongest sorcerer alive — none other than at the hands of his best friend.

The tears wouldn’t come and the shortness of his breath didn’t abate. He couldn’t bring himself to stand again either, just numbly content to kneel on one knee before Suguru’s corpse — the murder weapon several inches away from his trembling fingers. Closing his hands into tight fists, Satoru refused to look away. He had priorities. He still had to check on his students despite the fact that he knew they were actually okay. But all the same, his own legs betrayed him and refused to get up — refused to leave. Suguru deserved better than this, and Satoru only had himself to blame for failing to see his friend’s struggles all those years ago — so absorbed in his own tumultuous thoughts, he’d unintentionally left his friend in the dust at a time when Suguru needed him most.

“Satoru…”

His ears barely registered the sound of his own name and the familiar set of footprints behind him. He now knew it was her, but he couldn’t bring himself to move still. He wanted to say something, he knew he needed to say something, but the words couldn’t quite leave his tongue. His own voice refused to cooperate. And for this, he would choose silence over the utterance of something careless and brash.

No number of words could properly express how he felt at this moment. Devastation, loss, guilt, anger at himself, exhaustion.

She was quiet and respectfully distant, offering him respite yet reminding him that he wasn’t alone — that he didn’t have to be alone. Not when he had her.

There were no words of reassurance, no expressions of verbal sympathy. Once again, she just knew that it wasn’t what he needed right now. Perhaps for later, but right now, he needed the silence, and not for the first time, he was eternally grateful for her unfailing understanding of his nature. She let him stew in his thoughts, let him feel whatever it was he needed to feel — just as she gladly shouldered the brunt of the turmoil he felt. She was steadfast and simply carried the burden of his loss alongside him.

A burden shared was a burden halved, was it not?

He vaguely registered her movement, noting that she’d left her naked katana on the ground in favor of kneeling beside him. A pair of familiar arms wrapped around his shoulders from behind as she buried her face into the crook of his neck and just held him. Her fingers threaded through his hair gently, drawing small soothing circles all over his scalp. His body responded to her touch and her ministrations, leaning into her compassion and her understanding.

And he was grateful for it all… Grateful to her even as grief swallowed him whole and left an empty space in his soul where Suguru used to be.

=OoOoO=

His sullen mood lasted all through the night. Even when they eventually returned to the home they shared, her Love stayed quiet and so very subdued.

The heaviness of loss combined with the weight of what he’d done for his best friend’s sake kept chipping away at him until she was left with a grieving husk — a man removed from his vibrant and cheery personality. She didn’t expect him to be okay at all. He could take as long as he wanted, and she would stay beside him all the same — to be there for him whenever he needed her (not that he would ever tell her that out loud). He never shed a single tear, never so much as sobbed or caved under the oppression of his own emotions. But he didn’t need to cry to show just how broken and defeated he felt.

He laid on his side all night, staring off into space — grieving in silence, perhaps even blaming himself. It honestly wouldn’t be the first time. It meant a lot that he was comfortable enough to let her be in his space while he wallowed in undeserved self-loathing. As they stayed longer in front of Suguru’s lifeless body that afternoon, she could feel his trust and gratitude in the way he buried himself in her arms.

And so as the night wore on, she didn’t hesitate to spoon him. They lay together with her arms around him and her lips leaving affectionate kisses on the crown of his head, his temple, or his cheek.

She drifted off to sleep with him in her arms and when she woke again in the middle of the night, the space he occupied beside her was empty. He was still in the apartment. In fact, she knew exactly where he would be. Padding out of the bedroom in her sleeping shorts and one of his T-shirts, she found him standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling glass windows.

Her heart breaking for him all over again, she stopped and stood beside him. She pretended not to notice the way his heavy gaze landed on her. Neither dark sunglasses nor pesky blindfolds obstructed her view of those gorgeous blues.

He embraced her this time, took her into his arms and held her tightly as they stared at the distant yet flickering night lights that dotted the rest of the Tokyo metropolis. Sheltered in his grasp with her ear resting on the place where she could feel and hear his steady heartbeat, his fingers found their way into her hair as his other hand moved up a little to caress her face and trace her features like he’d done hundreds of times before.

“Thank you.” He whispered quietly into her hair. “To be honest, I don’t know what to say right now. But perhaps it’s for the best. Just… thanks for not leaving me alone. I— I won’t be okay for a while, but it’ll get better.”

“I understand.” She smiled and squeezed him a little, more affectionately than she would like to admit. “I love you and I’ll be here. I’ll always be here.”

“Always there.” He echoed quietly. “You’ve always been there.”

“Do you need anything?” She pulled back a little to peer up at him through her lashes.

“You. I just need you.”

His lips pressed to her forehead, she basked in his love and the gentle yet potent thrum of his power simmering just underneath his skin. Inhaling deeply, she burrowed further into his arms, stepping ever closer into his space until she couldn’t tell where she began and he ended. Pressed so close to him, one of his hands drifted to cradle her cheek, tilting her head up ever so slightly so that when he leaned down to eliminate the space between them, brush his thumb across her lower lip, and initiate a tender kiss, she melted into it. They’d kissed plenty of times before and yet this one felt so different — filled to the brim with assurance, absolution, and comfort. A kiss so full of love, it made her head spin and her toes curl.

She was so in love with him and if he wasn’t holding on to her or too busy kissing her senseless right now, the force of the renewed realization would have knocked her off her feet. She sighed onto his lips when they parted long enough to catch their breaths, and when he leaned in again to kiss her, she let him — let him take as much of her as he wanted just as she basked and indulged in the love he poured into her.

It was… beautiful, exhilarating, blissful, consuming, and so unconditional.

It was so raw and wanting, so encompassing. So much love, her own heart could barely take it. He loved her so deeply and completely, all of the longings he’d had pent up, rushing out all at once to overwhelm her and ground her so firmly into his presence — fueled by a desperate need to communicate the depths of his love lest cruel fate intervened one day and he would never have the chance.

For as much as he grieved and agonized over the loss of someone who was tied and bound to his soul, he also reveled in the beauty and consuming nature of the love he found and shared with her — a love nurtured and cherished for nine long and precious years.

They parted quietly, softly gasping for air that couldn’t enter their lungs fast enough, staying close enough for their breaths to mingle.

A fond smile graced those lips as he regarded her with tenderness through half-lidded eyes that held infinite blue skies.

How he loved her so…

He kissed each cheek, the bridge of her nose, each eyelid, her forehead, and her lips again.

When she reached up to touch his cheek, eyes misty with gratitude and adoration for the man who always chose her from the moment they met, he held her hand against his face, turning to the side to kiss her fingers and her palm with the reverence he reserved just for her — his partner, his equal.

For her… For the love of his life.

==========================================

[Dumped in AO3]

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Tom Sherry

Published: Mar 4, 2025

“What is the sound of one hand clapping?” “If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?” College students around the world have pondered these questions for generations. These fun intellectual exercises help challenge our assumptions and force us to examine ideas we often take for granted.

They’re also the kind of thing people roll their eyes at—fun, sure, but hardly serious. Koans like these are often treated as philosophical party tricks, not pressing matters.

Take a step up in complexity, and you get questions like, “Does free will exist?” Every philosophy major—including me, back in the day—has burned midnight oil debating this one. Today, a number of influential scientists, including neuroscientists Robert Sapolsky and Sam Harris, argue free will is an illusion.

Great. I love science. I love opinions. I value academia. Ideas are a blast. But is the question of free will just a souped-up koan—an abstract puzzle to noodle over—or a question with teeth, one with real-world implications?

This isn’t just navel-gazing about navel-gazing. When we lump every intellectual pursuit together—treating a dorm-room debate about free will with the same gravity as, say, identifying a bird flu strain capable of human-to-human transmission—we risk diluting the value of countless lab researchers working hard to identify future risks to real people’s lives. This is hard science—the same science that probed corona viruses in a lab in Wuhan China and puzzled over retroviruses in the 1980s. These kinds of intellectual pursuits are very valuable. Back then, retrovirus research felt like a niche academic sideline—until it cracked open the HIV crisis and gave us tools to fight it. From microwaves to MRI machines to once-unthinkable treatments, science routinely delivers.

Here’s the catch: all intellectual pursuits, abstract or concrete, carry potential—and peril. A koan may be nothing more than a mental exercise, but what about free will? If Sapolsky and Harris are right, its implications could upend law, morality, even our very sense of self. And then there’s the lab work. Was COVID-19 the result of a viral contagion study that slipped its leash? Maybe. What’s undeniable is that—from the CDC’s test tubes to philosophy’s thought experiments—the stakes are real. A virus can escape containment and kill millions. An idea can break free from the ivory tower and remake—or break—society. In both cases, the fallout can be devastating.

Consider the simple question: What is the distinction between biological sex and gender? It’s a fun, thought-provoking query that has enlightened generations of aspiring intellectuals. Exploring the interplay of biology, familial upbringing, and cultural influences on self-expression is valuable. Feminists have long championed the idea that biology is not destiny, freeing women to succeed in roles traditionally reserved for men and creating space for men to pursue careers as teachers, nurses, and stay-at-home parents. Decades of activism by lesbian, gay, and bisexual individuals reshaped cultural attitudes toward sexual orientation. When the Supreme Court ruled in Obergefell v. Hodges to recognize same-sex marriage, it didn’t fundamentally change ideas about marriage, it merely reflected a hard-fought cultural shift about sexual orientation and civil rights that had already taken place.

Yet, until very recently, no one questioned the reality of biological sex itself as a defining aspect of the human experience. Biological sex is not a product of culture—it is a product of biology.

The nature-versus-nurture debate has fascinated philosophers for ages. Are humans a “blank slate” shaped entirely by culture? Or do innate traits, rooted in our genetic history, define us? In the 1960s, John Money of Johns Hopkins University mutated this perennial question into something new. For the first time, the concepts of what we are and who we are became fully disentangled. He argued that sex and gender were wholly separate, pioneering the idea of “gender identity” as distinct from biological sex.

Three decades later, Judith Butler of UC Berkeley pushed this concept to its extreme. In Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity, a dense, jargon-laden academic treatise, she suggested that biological sex itself is a social construct. The book was not written for the general public—let alone as a guide to living a fulfilling life.

But what happens when this once-obscure academic idea—that sex and gender are entirely separate—escapes the confines of academia and takes root in an image-obsessed, polarized, and social media-driven world?

Consider what might unfold if a group of influential academics persuaded major institutions and much of the public that “free will” does not exist. (After all, many already believe this and claim to have data supporting their position.) Imagine the upheaval in the court system, schools, and every other institution if people began to assert, “I had no choice—there is no free will.”

These benign intellectual exercises can be valuable—as intellectual exercises. But virulent pathogens are not the only dangerous thing that can leak from the halls of academic exploration. The concept of a “gender identity” as wholly separate from biological sex has, in a remarkably short time, infected much of the Western world.

“Gender identity” is an academic “lab leak.” It was never meant to take hold in the general public. It was a theoretical playground where scholars competed to outdo one another in journals few people read. But this useful “thought experiment” escaped its rightful domain and contaminated our schools, government institutions, and mainstream culture. Sex and gender are no longer considered synonyms; in fact, gender has supplanted sex as the primary marker. The now-ubiquitous phrase “Sex Assigned at Birth” on medical intake forms indicates how deeply this transformation and infiltrated our everyday life. The slogan "Trans women are women" is another example of this ideological capture.

Throughout history, males and females have chosen to present as the opposite sex. That is not new. What is new is the claim that an internal sense of gender overrides biological sex—an assertion that who we believe we are determines what we are. These postmodern ideas might remain harmless word games if they were not taken seriously. But treating subjective identity as more real than objective biology has serious consequences.

We now see males in female prisons, locker rooms, and sports. The medicalization of sex-nonconforming children is promoted as common sense among the intelligentsia. And those who reject these esoteric ideas—concepts as abstract as the sound of one hand clapping—are dismissed as uneducated, unenlightened, or bigoted.

It was fun exploring abstract ideas as a 20-something college student. But how do these intellectual exercises play out in the real world? How would our social order and institutions function if everyone accepted Robert Sapolsky’s contention that free will does not exist?

Well, here we are. Biological sex does exist. Denying that truth fosters chaos and confusion, particularly among adolescents. I remain ambivalent about whether “gender identity” is real—some people seem to have a strong sense of it, while others do not. And surely there is a minuscule population of adults whose subjective sense of self and objective biology are so incongruent that seeking medical interventions may alleviate some distress. But biological sex is an objective fact, one that cannot be erased by progressive ideology or the mere existence of a rare mental condition. Gender, as a concept, is best confined to the halls of academia—much like the study of coronaviruses would have been best contained within the labs of Wuhan.

For now, we must wade through a sea of distracted children waving one hand in the air listening for a sound or asking, “Am I really a girl?”

-

About the Author

Tom Sherry is a child and family therapist who has focused on adolescents and parents for the past 25 years. He lives with his wife and son in Asheville, North Carolina. When inspired, he posts to his Substack Chill the F Out

==

I've said before that I dislike "philosophy for the sake of philosophy." And "gender identity," like a human soul, is nothing but a thought experiment until anyone bothers to actually prove it exists.

And like a human soul, it has not been. Anytime someone tries to, it becomes clear that gender is clothes and hair.

[touhou-memories]

Giant Catfish - Hisoutensoku.

I did not draw the pictures, I only made the collages.

[librivore42]

hello! "i'll never give up on you" from the platonic prompts for any member of hawke family 🫶 (~ goldennug)

Give me emotional damage why don't youuuu (I kid, I love this prompt, thank you so much!) Okay @dadrunkwriting here's my last for tonight, CATCH

Featuring: The Hawke Family

Word Count: 416

Warnings: Angst and family death

~~~~~

It's not in the nature of the Hawkes to give up. Neither in the Amells. There's a double stubbornness holding up their spines, an inner fire that would sooner burn itself alive than be snuffed out.

It was Hawke blood that slipped through the stones of the circle, silent but determined. But it was Amell blood that crashed through legacy and mansion, loud defiance to the sky.

The Hawke-Amells, the Amell-Hawkes, no matter how you order it, are doubly blessed, doubly cursed. Bloody determination in every heart-beat, powering them like some infernal engine that never runs out. To give up is unthinkable. To give up is to simply give up living.

'I'll never give up on you' is the family motto, a clasped hand the family crest. The loyalty of knights, the grace of kings, left behind and yet alive, present.

One may take the woman from nobility, one may treat the man less than human, but they may never take their humanity, their nobility, the love they have fought and won and torn the sky apart for.

One may take the mage child from the family. That is the way things are done.

But not here. Not here, where law and tradition were beaten and broken and trodden into the dust. No child will be given up.

It is better to run. It is better to have children that have always known running, always known to fly, than to ever know a cage.

Stone walls and armoured knights, a cage of your blood, more important than who you are. Pray and be penitent for what's been born in your blood. Train the blood, grieve the blood, grieve your living until you die.

Golden chains and pretty walls, a cage of a Name, that nobody can see beyond. The Name shapes all, is all. Marry the Name, raise the Name, bury the Name. As above, so below, and so on forever.

She has buried the Name for the final time.

He has burned the Blood forever.

And from that ritual sacrifice, three hearts beating strong, too strong, too bright, too quick.

Fly, little hawkes. Clutching claws together, the landscape rushing underfoot.

You are my everything. My name, my blood, my life. I will never give up on you. Father, mother, sister, brother.

Mother, sister, brother.

I will never—

Mother, sister.

I—

Sister.

Never.

Not even in death will I ever give up on you. None of you. You are all of me. Loved and loving forever.

[the-garbanzo-annex-jr]

by Elchanan Poupko

For centuries, rabbis around the world get up on Shabbat Zachor and speak about memory, never about violence. Not once in the past 2000 years of Jewish history – and that is a vast record to draw on – was the Biblical account of Amalek used to evoke revenge. It was always used to evoke memory. The imperative to remember the unprovoked atrocities committed against our own innocent communities.

The name of Amalek was invoked to remind us of the ubiquitous nature of antisemitism, the only hate in the world directed against people who are unknown to those seething with hate for us. People like the Houthis in Yemen who never saw a Jew in their life, yet are determined to destroy the Jewish state; Nazis in Germany who traveled hundreds of miles away from home to kill Jews in Belarus, Lithuania, Hungary, and Morocco even though they had never seen or known much about those Jews, that is the kind of evil we speak about when invoking the memory of Amalek.

In our generation, when speaking about that kind of senseless hate, we speak about the Hamas terrorists who woke up on the morning of October 7th and were willing to gable away their lives and futures to murder and burn alive people like Canadian peace activist Vivian Silver, someone who spent her life driving Palestinians from Gaza to medical appointments in Israel’s best hospitals. We invoke the memory of Amalek when we encounter something so evil it defies any logical explanation.

It is appalling to see how many people rushed to the Bible to judge Israel’s use of the memory of Amalek before looking at its use for the past 2000 years, most notably during the Holocaust.

While Germany starved to death and killed hundreds of thousands of Jews in the Warsaw Ghetto, Jews secretly published a newsletter called Kol Hamidbar in which the emaciated Jews wrote: “Many nations waged war against the Jews and did bad unto them, but Amalek, that is something absolutely different. Amalek put the destruction of Jews as a goal, a program, a method; premeditated, in cold blood, sadistically, according to a plan, organized, and with laws… Amalek and their grandson Haman are not satisfied with the killing of individual Jews…they would like to destroy the entire nation and eliminate Judaism.”

These words ring powerfully to any Jew who has seen what Hamas terrorists did on October 7th. The senseless hate that defies any logic or pattern of human conflict is simply unexplainable. The kidnapping of grandmothers from their homes and burning of babies and little girls alive with no reason whatsoever has no other language.

Jews invoke this language of Amalek when we encounter the world’s oldest hate, acted on with cruelty no human can explain. Jews have done so countless times while remembering the Holocaust and also did so while seeing the evils of Hamas on October 7th.

Like Jews after the Holocaust, the memory of Amalek’s unforgivable horrors reminds us of the need to take action. How does that action look? Years ago, speaking to congregants in synagogue, here is what I said as I spoke of the story of Amalek, and I was not the only one:

“The greatest heed to the call ‘Yidden, Nekama – Jews, Revenge’ inscribed in blood in Slabodka, Lithuania, is not going back to that town and place or to those perpetrators; it is that there are today thousands of students in Israel learning in Yeshivas named Slabodka. It is that we are undeterred in leading proud Jewish lives, laser-focused on the future while refusing to forget the past.”

Jewish revenge never looks like the acts of our enemies. We never follow in the inhumane footsteps of those who committed the unthinkable against us. This is true also concerning the horrors of October 7th.

[evolutionsvoid]

The dawn of the Age of Ichor was a glorious one for mankind, and the Church of Divine Wealth is a monument to this golden age. All that we know and love in this world was born from this era, and before the war broke out, many saw this time as a blessing to all. However, this new divinity and power did not come from thin air. The shifting of this world brought blessings to many, but also doom to many others. Before the golden fluid rained down onto this world, it was an Age of Eitr, a time of beasts and dragons. The giant creatures ruled this primordial land, and they too believed their beloved era would never end. When Ichor took over, many perished to the march of time and the expansion of its children. The great beasts of old fell as Eitr faded, and soon their bodies joined the many that make up this world. And beneath these endless graves lies a group of survivors from this era. Those who knew this slaughter was coming, that Eitr would fail and Ichor would drown them all. They had feared this outcome and had tried to stop it, but they were betrayed by their own kind.

When the dragons witnessed Ichor fall to their ancient world, there was a small faction of them that saw it as an omen. They looked to the creatures that crawled from this golden fluid and saw a rival to their own power. The elders and other dragons dismissed this liquid as another addition to their world, one that would simply add more life under their rule. But they were not convinced, as they saw a great power in Ichor and greater potential within its children. In their eyes, the influence of gold would grow and spread, and would reach the strength to challenge Eitr. This group went before the elders and demanded action be taken, that the dragons use their might to destroy the fluid once and for all. However, their voices were discarded in disgust, as such efforts were a clear violation of ancient dragon tradition. To interfere with nature in such a way, to wield their power in such a manner, it was unthinkable. Dragonkind had ruled this world for centuries with their unyielding beliefs, and they would continue to do so. These dissenters mocked such dusty ideals, claiming that these ancient laws were powerless against this new threat. Dragonkind needed to break from these rigid traditions and adapt to this alien foe, or else it would be destroyed. Their blasphemous insults towards the dragons' eternal beliefs stoked their ire, and soon both sides were at each other's throats.

The two factions fought, with the dissenters looking to overthrow the elders and take control. If they could cast aside these stagnant minds, then perhaps dragonkind could band together and take on this new enemy before it was too late. Sadly for them, they did not have the strength or numbers to win that day. Far more dragons sided with the elders, who also wielded the greatest amount of power. The dissenters were defeated, and their kind was to be punished for their heretical rebellion. They were stripped of their Eitr and banished to the bowels of the world, but not before their brethren struck them with a curse. To these foolish rebels and their wavering faith, they would be afflicted with the very sin they had championed: Chaos. If they were to reject tradition and demand blind change, then their very flesh shall do the same. Let them feel a life without structure, let them witness an existence stripped of order. These dragons were cursed, ruined and forced to slither upon their bellies into the shadowy crevices of the world. There, the curse would truly take hold, and these rebellious dragons would become the abominations known as the Lindwyrms.

While the dragons remained upon the surface to watch their age fall to ruin, the Lindwyrms were forced to hide deep below, seething in anger as their prophecy came true. It was as they feared, Ichor overtook Eitr and the primordial time of beasts was coming to an end. Even though they were right, such victory was a bitter one. Even their cursing of the remaining dragons brought little comfort. They had to rot down below, knowing that the lords in power were sitting by idly, remaining neutral until it was too late. The Eitr and dragons fell, but this collapse did not grant the Lindwyrms any blessings. For the curse that afflicted them wracked their bodies, and made any attempts to reclaim their throne impossible. What befell the flesh of the Lindwyrms was chaos, ceaseless and violent. Their bodies would constantly be altered and reformed over and over again, never resting on a single form for too long. Skin, limbs and flesh were constantly sloughing off layers and parts, while growing into new forms without ending. What they became were these serpents buried in countless layers of ancient, crumbling skin, of bodies that shed and fell away as their flesh altered once more. They cannot keep limbs intact for long, those too falling away into pieces of dusty skin. Gone were the brilliant scales, mighty horns and grand wings, now they are endless snakes tangled and choked by the shrouds of ceaseless birth and decay.

While the disgraced remnants of dragonkind was able to form an alliance with the Church of Divine Wealth, the Lindwyrms saw no such partnership. The toll of the curse forced them to use any strength they had to maintain themselves, and their horrid appearance would never be accepted. The dragons above still kept an eye on the Lindwyrms, and ensured that their return was impossible. To the darkness below they were banished and to the darkness they remain. Of the two factions, they are the most mysterious, hidden deep below but also guarded by their own curse.

Not only are their bodies steeped in it and forced to constantly shed and grow, but traces of it remain in the scaly skin they leave behind. In small quantities, it isn't any problem, but when enough of this skin is in an area or on a person, it can start to warp the flesh around it. Organic matter starts to forget what it was when exposed to it, becoming something unshaped and fluid. Due to the nature of the Lindwyrms, their bodies are constantly sloughing this skin off, which results in their lairs and tunnels to be coated in shed skin. With this much cursed husk in such an enclosed space, it becomes difficult for unprepared mortals to resist the curse. Those who foolishly delve into these dark tunnels will find their entire beings start to change and warp within the darkness, as they start to forget what they are and what they looked like. The curse attacks the mind as well, causing it to doubt and churn, forcing thoughts that wind up shaping the flesh in horrid ways. Those who go into these tunnels without light and proper protection are doomed to be reduced to misshapen abominations, forgetting their own flesh and becoming something only a nightmare-gripped mind could dream up within the unknown darkness.

Yet, there are those who have found their way into these warped tunnels and found ways to stave off the curse's influence. Despite their affliction and secrecy, the Lindwyrms have developed a small following. Those who drape the cursed husks upon their own bodies, and have learned how to wield its chaotic ways. By draping their bodies with this shed skin, they can slowly add uncertainty to their form with each new layer. As more and more of your flesh and body is covered in these multiple layers, the concept of your own appendages becomes fluid and uncertain, allowing one to shape them with their mind. So followers have fashioned robes and armor from this shed skin, and using it to contort or warp their bodies to suit their needs. They follow the Lindwyrms and listen to their words, believing that tradition and order must be abandoned. For even in their horrid prisons, the Lindwyrms know what is coming...

The civil war that torments this land, the Pwdre Ser that falls from the heavens, it is just like before. An age is coming to a violent end, and a new fluid will undoubtedly take its place. There is no saying what or who, as many are now fighting to claim the throne for themselves. Ichor, Eitr, Pwdre Ser and others, all clawing for the same power. Yet, the Lindwyrms believe in none of them. After all, what would these fluids achieve? They bore witness to Eitr dying out, and are now seeing Ichor begin to weaken. What is to say that Pwdre Ser won't end the same way, or any other liquid? No, the Lindwyrms will not allow it, no more fluids to steer our fates. No more elements to decide our lives. To the people who find their way to them, the Lindwyrms offer this: abandon them all. Divest thyself of Ichor, Eitr and all Godly Fluids. Do not let tradition and allegiances doom your kind to stagnation, like their own brethren did. Cast it aside and forge your own path. Seize your fate and flesh, and create the age that you see fit. It will not be easy, it will not be certain, but it will be yours...

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"Lindwyrms"

The frustrating thing with taking so long with making the dragons was that I had these guys waiting in the wings and it was tearing me up that I couldn't talk about them til the dragons were done! God I love these wretched guys! Skin upon skin upon skin!

[msgameandcake]

A very strange quote about Sanae from Symposium of Post-mysticism is "Unfortunately, she lacks in knowledge about the outside world. No one has been able to learn about any newer technology or gain any new information about the outside world from her." with the additional note of "According to her, 'I'm telling you, everyone's like this.'"

Her story in Unthinkable Natural Law is founded on her being familiar with the tropes of Mecha Anime, which would imply she at least knows about TV. She was stated to be good at math and science in school. She goes on to talk about some elements of irl space travel in Touhou 15. She was the one who suggested to perform the nuclear fusion experiment in Gensokyo because the fantastical nature of the realm could potentially allow it to succeed where the conventional reality of the Outside World resulted in those experiments failing, and she was right about its success! Kanako intends on becoming a goddess of technology specifically because it was replacing her function as a god.

By all accounts, Sanae knows a decent bit about technology. The SoPM quote is framed as though the implication is Sanae is clueless about modern technological progress and was functionally already living in ancient Japan while in the Outside World. Like, I guess she'd be Japanese Amish or something? However, given the knowledge she has displayed throughout the series, the implication becomes reversed. Even though they functionally live in ancient Japan, the people of Gensokyo apparently know enough about the modern technology of the Outside World that Sanae, who has displayed knowledge of telecommunications, nuclear power, and space travel, didn't have anything new to teach them.

Maybe this was an early idea for the character, but ZUN decided to take her characterization in a different direction as time went on. Maybe she really didn't know about outside world technological progress, but in working towards becoming a goddess of technology Kanako began teaching Sanae about such innovations over time. Maybe there is something major I'm missing here and every interpretation I've brought up is fundamentally off somehow. Its all just a bit odd to me.

[racefortheironthrone]

Are there any notable examples of anti-mutant prejudice towards the X-Men coming from within the superhero community?

This is a great question!

This gets to the complicated nature of how mutants fit into the Marvel Universe. I've always been a vocal proponent of the idea that, far from the mutant metaphor only making sense if it's in its own little bubble where mutants are the only people with superpowers, the mutant metaphor actually functions better in the context of the Marvel Universe, because it allows you to explore more complicated and more subtle ways that prejudice functions.

While there are plenty of super-villains who have quite blatant anti-mutant prejudice, you don't tend to get that same kind of overt bigotry towards mutants among super-heroes. Partly, this is because bigotry is a very unheroic character trait, but it also has to do with the way that the way that Marvel historically portrayed the spillover effects of anti-mutant prejudice.

Following in a kind of Niemöllerian logic, it's almost always the case that groups that hate and fear mutants also end up hating and fearing non-mutant superheroes. Thus, Days of Future Past starts with the Sentinels being turned on mutants, but it ends with the Sentinels wiping out the Avengers and the Fantastic Four too - because the same atavistic fear of "the great replacement" applies to both mutants and mutates. Likewise, the same forces that line up to push through the Mutant Registration Act inevitably end up proposing a Superhuman Registration Act, because once you've violated the precepts of equality under the law for one minority group, you establish a precedent to do it to another.

Instead, I would argue what you see in the case of anti-mutant prejudice among superheroes is explorations of liberal prejudice. This takes many different forms: in Civil War, you see Tony Stark insensitively try to wave the bloody shirt of Stamford in the face of a survivor of the Genoshan genocide or Carol playing the good liberal ally but ultimately trying to get mutants to set aside their own struggle in favor of her own political project. (For someone who's spent a good deal of time working, and living with, the X-Men, occasionally against the interests of the state, Carol does have a tendency to stick her foot in her mouth. Hence in Civil War II, you see Carol essentially goysplaining the dangers of creeping authoritarianism to Magneto.)

In Avengers vs X-Men, you see the Avengers acting like they know the Phoenix Force better than mutants and ultimately prioritizing the safety of mankind over the efforts of mutantkind to reverse their own extinction. This is where the "Avengers are cops" meme in the fandom comes from. (I would argue that Captain America is badly mischaracterized in the latter event - we know which side he's on when the interests of mutants and the interests of the state come into conflict.)

The common thread here is that anti-mutant prejudice among superheroes emerges as a kind of unthinking, unreflective callousness brought on by a worldview that thinks of humans as the universal default of lived experience - while thinking of mutants as a somewhat annoying special interest group that fixates on their particularist grievances rather than working for what the heroes consider to be the common good.

For a more intimate version of how this plays out, I think the Fantastic Four are a great exploration of how "well-meaning" liberals can massively fuck up when they don't do the work of examining their own biases. We've seen this since the very beginning: in Fantastic Four #21, Kirby goes out of his way to depict uber-WASP Reed Richards blithely assuming that the "free market of ideas" will take care of the Hatemonger, while the subtextually Jewish Ben Grimm knows that the way to deal with a mind-controlling Hitler clone wearing purple Klan robes is deplatforming-by-way-of-clobberin'.

Then later on, we see Reed Richards debate Congress out of passing a Superhuman Registration Act, while saying nothing about the Mutant Registration Act - even though he has a mutant son who is directly threatened by it. (See that adorable blond moppet with the slur scrawled across his face in the fictional advertisement above? That's Franklin Richards.) This is why I have a crack theory that Franklin's biological father is actually Namor rather than Reed, which is why Reed so consistently shows a passive-aggressive hostility to his son's mutancy.

At the same time, Sue also has her blindspots when it comes to mutant rights. In the underrated FF/X miniseries, Susan Storm acts like an understanding and supportive parent to Franklin - right up until someone suggests that Franklin might want to come to Krakoa and explore his mutant identity, at which point she goes full Karen and starts lashing out with her powers. Chip Zdarsky, the writer, explicitly compared Reed and Sue to liberal parents who support gay rights in the abstract until their kid comes out as trans and wants to spend time in LGBT+ spaces.

[inventors-fair]

Sublime Scares: Fear Contest Winners!

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Our winners this week are @izzet-always-r-versus-u, @nine-effing-hells, and @reaperfromtheabyss!

@izzet-always-r-versus-u — Don't Make a Sound

Not to be confused with Don't Blink, Don't Move, or Don't Try This at Home. This is a brutal punisher card, though, levying a harsh tax at anyone who tries to extend to far on their own turn. Of course, it still leaves players with the ability to do so if they're confident they can bear the cost, unlike more stringent effects like Rule of Law. I love the use of flavor here too: as with a lot of punisher effects, both the gameplay and flavor stress that you don't want to make a wrong move. I do worry that this might be just a bit too effective at two mana, because the restriction to only a player's own turn means you could simply build your deck to play on your opponent's turn and handily break the symmetry. But that's also a fairly big commitment to go all the way, so...I dunno.

@nine-effing-hells — Bedside Shadow

Oh, well, hello there! What bring you here at such a late hour, friend? This thing's got more than a little DNA from the original Lazav, but I appreciate all the little touches to set it apart. First, requiring specifically discarding and milling to trigger goes a long way towards sharpening the focus, though it does make it less broadly applicable. Lazav will pick up more faces just in the natural course of the game; this one asks you to go out of your way. That said, the ability to field multiple of these is very attractive, and needless to say I find the flavor brilliant. At a first glance this effect seems slightly dubious in mono-black, but in practice it's not all that different from black's propensity for stealing creatures from others' graveyards, so I'll give it a pass. Oh, and, one minor wording tweak: the typical phrasing is that it "has this ability," because you don't need to gain an ability you already have.

@reaperfromtheabyss — Nagging Anxieties

From sleep paralysis demons to the terror of the waking world, but no less a Nightmare! This is a neat little thing that—just like its namesake—compounds on itself very quickly. There's a bit of luck involved, and your mileage will vary heavily depending on what kind of deck your opponents are playing, but you should be able to hit something and a land reasonably often in any situation. I'm a big fan of how this explores how mill is often represented as a sort of mental attack, and it's also a lot more subtle and insidious than the blunt force of something like Traumatize or Glimpse the Unthinkable. The flavor text is great as well, evoking the spirit literally whispering doubts into your ear. I do have a small, potentially insignificant critique, though: I've been erroneously referring to this card all week in my head as "Nagging Worries," which I just feel flows much better than the chunky word that is "Anxieties." That's very much up to you though, of course.

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Don't go anywhere, runners up are right on your heels! —@spooky-bard