#what's up? u v u

[sstvar]

shaking hysterically thinking about how the only thing johnny can do if you look in the mirror in the temperance ending is sigh longingly and speak V’s name LIKE THAT ™️

[dog-teeth]

something to recognize that choosing recovery again and again is difficult work, and you are not weak for faltering

[kittysawat]

made a character chart of what we know so far, just because lol

[suntails]

🐙⚔️

[rayveneyed]

cw: sexually explicit content / blood / relatively light sadomasochism / age + experience gap (reader is older + more experienced) / sub!choso / vampires 🧛‍♀️ / sex and violence as two sides of the same coin /

choso kamo is 160 years old when he meets you.

in those years of walking the earth, undead, he believes he’s embraced his vampirism as much as he possibly can. the broiling self-hatred he had once found solace in has reduced to a simmer, strongest in those moments of blood and guts and weakening heartbeats; and although he often avoids crowds, and companionship, and light, he no longer believes himself to be a slave of his own nature.

to be true — in the grand scheme of immortality, of vampirism — he isn’t anywhere close to the level of control he’d wish to have. often, when indulging yuji’s desire to enjoy the world as he did before his death — boardwalks and arcades and cotton candy — he feels his canines aching in his gums, stretching until they dimple against his bottom lip.

it’s not comfortable. it’s not confident. but even despite the growing aches, he’s no longer cowering in alleyways; no longer drinking from poor stray cats and garbage-chewing rats to momentarily satiate that ever-growing, gnawing hunger. he has some sense of control—

“oh, you baby-bats. so adorable.”

control which he now flounders to grab.

a sharp, inky black nail scrapes up the column of his neck — he can’t help but arch into it, head tilting back until his wide, pupil-blown eyes find the ceiling, with its intricate coving and obsidian chandeliers. the music from the main hall is nothing but a buzzing in the back of his head; thoughts of his friends’ whereabouts, an afterthought. your fingernail crowds the underneath of his jaw and stops at where his pulse point would have thrummed, would he have been alive.

you’re a demon. a devil. a she-beast. a succubus. any horrid, terrible name he could call you, he will — dressed in blacks and burgundies and gold older than him, your lips painted an ox-blood red and your eyes as sharp and dark as any polished knife. in your hands he is small. weak. mortal.

“satoru usually keeps his strays away, after last time,” you say, pouting now, though it’s a crude approximation of sadness — even now, your eyes glint with devilment. “so mean, when he knows i have a weak spot for bats like you.”

that wretched finger stretches up; pokes at his bottom lip, scrapes against the fangs that had — embarrassingly — extended from his gums at the simple weight of you on top of him.

“look at that,” you coo, and your grin is something unsettling, something that curdles in the pit of his stomach and heats between his legs. “excited, pup?”

his answering breath comes ragged, and it’s always more embarrassing than it was when he was human. his heart doesn’t work, his lungs do not work, and he has no need to breathe — in fact, he lost the reflex to do so around 92 years ago — but his brain is scrambled, it seems, wilted neurons confusing signals from almost two centuries ago. “i’m — ahem — i’m okay, duchess.”

“how sweet. you don’t have to call me by my title, you know. my name will do just fine.” at his silence, you push yourself up from where you’d been laying low against his chest — looking far too excited when you say: “unless, of course, you like it.”

his hands tremble at his side. he can’t remember the last time he’s indulged in — in debauchery. the last time someone’s made him feel like they’re holding his heart in their hands. over the past hundred-odd years, he’s avoided it like the plague, and for good reason — most vampires aren’t known for their commitment, let’s just say. and now you’re on top of him looking like every sin he’s tried to avoid, and he’s straining so hard in his pants he fears he’ll cum before you even hint at removing a single article of clothing.

you press yourself flush again, nosing at his neck. he knows, for the first time in his long life, what it feels like to be prey. is this what his victims had felt when he ripped into their throats, young and inexperienced and bloodthirsty? did their vulnerability sit like a stone in their throats?

a groan comes from you, suddenly, and your tongue darts out to lave against his skin. choso’s answering moan is more of a whimper, broken and weak in his mouth, but you don’t seem to notice — or care. he flexes his glutes in an effort to stop himself from rutting up against you — not only would it be embarrassing, desperate, but it would be rude. this is your house, after all. your soirée. your gilded halls and bedazzled walls. your silk sheets against his back. your satin skirt bunched around your waist.

“tell me, pup,” you say, and he fights the instinctual reflex to shiver at the brush of your lips against his skin, “have you ever fed from our own?”

“hm?” it’s a sound of confusion brought half on by his simple lack of knowledge, and half on by his slow-processing brain. only seconds after does he fully register your question, and the eyes he hadn’t realised he had screwed shut flew open. “no. i — i didn’t know that was possible.”

all at once, you’re sitting up again — swinging your leg over his hips until you’re standing. it wouldn’t be right to call it clambering — you are impossibly graceful, even passed the agility and elegance that comes with the gift of the undead. his hands reach for you before he can stop them, a sound like a question on his tongue, and you send him the sweetest, most tooth-rotting, stomach-turning smile. he thinks he likes your biting, cruel grins more, though you’re lovely regardless.

you begin to reach for the ties of your corset at your spine — just another thing that makes his mouth water. people didn’t wear these sorts of clothes anymore, not in the human world. but he remembers the skirts and corsets from paintings of noblewomen hundreds of years ago, and how he’d admire the curve of their waists, the swell of their chests—

“of course, satoru wouldn’t tell you. why would he?”

his eyes snap up from your chest, caught with his hand in the cookie jar. but you don’t seem to mind. the corset is removed painfully slowly, for no other reason than to torture him; then, the outer dress, with its carmine satin and intricate embroidery. you throw it to the floor carelessly, as if the most knowledgeable museum curators wouldn’t prostrate themselves at your feet for the simple chance to display it for millions to see — a while his eyes drink up the sight of more skin, the whisper of form beneath your underdress and bloomers, you near him once more.

metal to a magnet, a moth to flame, he pulls himself to the edge of the bed. you find a place between his legs and grasp his chin, and choso can’t look away from you.

“i can take you apart and put you back together,” you say — promise — voice like crushed velvet, quiet and creeping like a choking vine. your thumb smooths over his cheek and ends at its apple, where you press the sharp tip of your nail into his flesh. “i can show you the pleasures of your eternal life, and its pains, and everything in between. i can bring you to every edge, and draw you back from them just as quick — and it will be painful, and you’ll enjoy it so much you won’t be able to go another day without it.”

he’s lost the ability to speak. his unmoving heart is in his throat — or in your hands, or between your sharp teeth. you tilt your head and regard him with knowing, twinkling eyes.

“all you have to say, pup, is yes.”

oh, it’s out of him so quick he can hardly keep up — a word so breathy you’d swear you’d already had your way with him. but embarrassment is a thing of the past when your smile stretches, and you murmur marvellous. you release him from your grasp, much to his chagrin, but when you begin pulling down your bloomers his attention shifts.

he can smell you. smell you. the musky, salty scent of between your legs — a smell that has his mouth watering and his fingers cramping from how hard he fists the sheets. your bloomers are damp when you discard them, sticky with your arousal, and pride glows in choso’s chest. he didn’t do much, but it seemed enough — if he had only let himself lose control, hump up against you harder, perhaps it would’ve stained his clothes; seeped through your layers and onto his lap. he’d go home and hold it over his nose until the scent faded, and perhaps after.

“new as you are,” you say, climbing onto your bed once more and reclining back against the numerous pillows — huffing a mean-sounding laugh when he crawls after you. “i’ll do you the mercy of taking it easy, just this once. oh, don’t make that face — you look like a kicked puppy. i promise you’ll enjoy what i have in store for you.”

and you hike up your underdress, and spread your legs. choso’s mouth waters — the thick smattering of hair on your mons, your flower-like labia, shiny with your arousal. and your clit, peeking out from its hood, pink and shiny and begging to have his mouth on it. but as if this wasn’t enough — as if he wasn’t already scrabbling to get between your legs — you take one of those long, sharp nails, and drag it against your inner thigh. the skin splits. blood trickles down from the wound like a river of gold, flowing into the crease between your thighs and your pussy, and it smells ambrosial. if his fangs were aching before, they’re screaming, now. this isn’t human blood; this is richer, sweeter, creamier. delectable. hedonistic. you’ll make a glutton of him.

“after all,” you say, grinning wickedly, “i’m treating you to a most delectable meal.”

[shakingparadigm]

what is the theory that ivan manipulated the event where till and mizi met the wagyein?

It's not a theory, actually! It's confirmed that Ivan orchestrated the whole event. The true reason as to why however is still unknown. The information provides more context to this scene, though:

During the earlier times of ALNST the most rational explanation for this scene was that Till ran after a flower crown (presumably Mizi's) and Ivan followed him in out of curiosity. Now we know that Ivan was conveniently just standing there because he was waiting.

Side note, I find it heartbreaking (and maybe a little funny, sorry) that Till most likely didn't notice Ivan in this scene. That's just like him, isn't it. Always too busy running after Mizi while Ivan trails behind, an ever-present shadow.

I'm not sure how Ivan manipulated the circumstances for both of them to end up there, but it is confirmed that everything was intentional. What strikes me most is how they describe this particular scene:

I can't copy down what they said word-for-word (Patreon info), but they described Ivan watching "creepily" as Till and Mizi are faced with danger. We know that Ivan was familiar with the Cerberus wagyein beforehand, enough to touch its teeth and even to rest himself inside its maw. To Ivan, the wagyein is not dangerous, but to Till and Mizi, it could be. Ivan prepared the wagyein, led them there, and watched "creepily" from afar as Till fell on his knees, seemingly injured.

The closest I can get to making sense of Ivan's "scheme" is that he wanted to see how other children would react in a dangerous situation. Ivan's always been an observer, after all, and he's learned to survive by copying the more "normal" behaviors of his peers. This situation occured when Ivan was still young and had not yet developed his more charming mask, so perhaps he staged this encounter to study a situational response, to learn and mimic the emotion of fear. And what better subjects for the experiment than two of the most expressive and reactive humans of their batch? It helps that he was already fixated on Till beforehand, too. I think Ivan became irreversibly obssessed after this incident, especially since it's framed as a turning point in Ivan's life, comparing Till to the stars.

This is just my attempt at an interpretation, though. It could very well be for another reason. He most likely chose Till and Mizi specifically for personal reasons, not just for reaction. I'm still not sure on the purpose behind the whole thing.

The team wanted to capture Ivan's "dark emotions" through the shot of his stalking, which could relate to his more sinister intentions. His gaze can be read in a few different ways, though. Curiosity, interest, fear, etc. Maybe that's why they decided to redraw the shot in ROUND 6.

I think this better sells the feeling they were trying to convey.

[veryaren]

he may in fact be white and nerdy!

al under the cut

[valhallavalgrace]

How have your interactions with your floormates been? Do any of them seem particularly friendly?

I think this might be your guy to talk to, Leo, just a hunch...

prev ask

[conartisthaiji]

i think my favorite part of the lion's head fights was that everyone was like "i am here to shame you into being a better person" EXCEPT for hiragi vs sako. that fight was just sako going "i am going to beat your ass for telling me to stop following you >:(" and hiragi going "i'm sorry i left you behind and also i'm going to beat YOUR ass :(". that was some real gay shit right there.

[cyberpunkaddict]

2077. Fight fire with fire.

Later...

"You flatter me."

ship: ice on fire

[theunconcernedembalmer]

gestures vaguely yet wildly

[gertstarlight]

I'm sorry, but some'in bout the way that Jordan Li hand touches the wall to brace the impact so that Marie not just slammed against it when they kiss. It's lil' shit like that that be turning me into the person that just cannot!

oh u mean this ?? YEAH

and the way they pin her hands against the wall as they're kissing her ohhh this is real television babes

[bmpmp3]

in which genbu attempts to give the new guy a warm welcome

[milkbreadtoast]

looking back at the yjh webtoon screencaps i have saved and giggling... hes so cute... moe... my pookie ^___^ 🥰🥰 poor little meow meow woof woo- *eliminated where i stand*

also these poses are sooooo... 꺄아악🖤🫣🫣🫣🫣

[eldritch-nightmare]

possible tw: blood, murder, ritual sacrifice, alcohol, many mentions of drunk people, brief mention of vomit though there isn't actually any in the story

idk man i'm just thinking about how the spot where jack got sacrificed is probably considered a 'party spot' by both high schoolers and college students so every party that matters always takes place there because people love to be cool and edgy and don't care about the fact that it was a spot of ritual sacrifice and that the cult members performing the sacrifice were all brutally murdered by some unknown killer.

and i'm thinking of you being dragged to a raging party there by your friends. you didn't want to go, you had like multiple papers to write and your professor was giving you absolute shit for not meeting the deadline like everyone else but your friends don't care.

"you need to relax! have some fun! live a little!"

that's their reasoning, and it's not like you can just ditch now. you were the designated driver, and you're far too nice to just abandon your friends at a party while they're all getting shitfaced.

anyways, the party is filled with other students from your college. most of them are drunk, and the place is honestly starting to feel like a scene out of a shitty slasher. you're half expecting jason voorhees to walk out of the forest and murder everyone here.

that doesn't happen, thankfully.

no, instead, over the blaring music blasting through the bluetooth speakers, the host/DJ of the party announces that in memory of the many that were sacrificed at the altar everyone was partying around, an offering should be made.

an offering of blood, that is.

which... that's a fucked up thing to suggest, you think. people died. people were killed here. it's fucked up enough that there was a party going on here in the first place, but to make light of something so tragic in such a way just feels disrespectful to the people that died.

and maybe it's because of the alcohol almost everyone here was drinking, or maybe it's some form of peer pressure but everyone, including your friends, seemed to dig the idea.

maybe this is a low-budget cult classic slasher...

you honestly weren't even paying attention to what was being said anymore, instead going over to one of your friends to tell them you were just gonna wait in the car until they were ready to leave.

but when you were stepping away from them to do just that, they were suddenly grabbing your hand and holding it up while excitedly pointing at you.

"they'll do it!"

"excuse me?"

because you're not even sure what the hell your friend just signed you up for, and you didn't even have a chance to do anything before you were being pushed forward and then dragged towards the altar.

you resisted, of course, because you did not want to take part in whatever it was they had planned. you're quite content with your blood staying inside of your body. where it belongs.

it's harder to fight against multiple drunk people than you thought it would be.

"guys, this isn't fucking funny, stop it-"

a blindfold is being forced on you, robbing you of your sight as you're forced down onto the altar. then your hands were bound together, which was only putting you further on edge because it honestly felt like they were actually going to 'sacrifice' you.

your demands for this to stop were ignored as the host of the party went on and on about the tragic murders that took place here and how your blood would appease the angry spirits of the 'poor lambs' that were slaughtered. the guy was starting to sound like a member of a cult, honestly.

which... considering the location, coupled with the sudden demand for sacrifice... well. you're really hoping this was a joke, honestly.

this was starting to go on for far too long to feel like a joke anymore, so your annoyance began to bleed away to genuine fear, "guys, seriously. this isn't funny."

and when you felt the sharpness of an actual blade press up against your neck, you began to realize that this situation was actually dangerous.

"let the sacrifice commence!"

and the blade against your neck pressed down hard enough to draw blood, but before any real damage could be done, the screaming started.

you're... not sure if this was part of the sudden impromptu ritual you found yourself in.

it sounded genuine. one person started screaming, and then another. until everyone at the party was seemingly screaming. the blindfold over your eyes prevented you from seeing what was happening around you, but the blade pressed against your throat was suddenly gone and you could hear it clanging as it was dropped on the altar.

"run!"

"oh my god, what is that?!"

"h-hey man! it was just a joke!"

"don't hurt me! please don't hurt me!"

and then everything went silent. too silent. even the air was still. you were far too afraid to move, even more scared to speak.

but that's when footsteps filled the silence, and you could hear as they approached you.

you couldn't help but flinch when you felt a hand grab your bound wrists. you tensed up, waiting for the worst. instead, you felt the rope binding your hands together come undone.

another hand pulled your blindfold down, and your blood ran cold at the scene surrounding you. there were bodies everywhere. some were still twitching. all of them were gruesomely murdered, their throats ripped out.

you had to force yourself not to vomit, especially when you recognized a few of the bodies to be your friends.

but the carnage around you seemed to pale in comparison to the man that stood in front of you. he was... very much not human. he wore a mask, so the only feature of his face that you could see was his eyes. or... lack thereof.

he didn't say a word, and for a moment, you didn't either. but the silence was too loud.

"are you going to kill me?"

and he tilts his head slightly at the question. the mask he wore hid away his expression, so you weren't sure if your question confused him or amused him.

he doesn't speak, but he does step away from you. that was enough to tell you that no, he did not plan on killing you. you don't say anything else after that, and you don't take your eyes off of him until he leaves you alone on the altar, surrounded by numerous bodies.

the drive back to your dingy little apartment was deathly silent. you were alone, but you didn't feel alone. and when the morning came, news broke about the massacre. every body there had its organs missing, and the police had no leads on who the killer was.

the blade that had your blood on it was gone, so there was no evidence that you were ever even at that party.

and after that night, every night to follow it was... different. even when inside the safety of your own home, you felt as if you weren't alone. something was watching you. you knew who it was, you just chose not to acknowledge it.

the glimpses of blue that you caught outside your window every other night was enough to confirm your suspicions.

you aren't sure why he was watching you. maybe it was to make sure you didn't go to the police, though you sincerely doubt they'd believe a word you said if you tried. or maybe it was something else.

you don't know. but you caught his attention.

you can only hope that nothing bad comes from that.

[insufferablemod]