#coloring this scene was the devil itself

[idwt-money]

I See Through You.

MDNI 18+

3.2k words

Satan!Noah sebastian x Lost soul!Y/n

Christian/Religious themes, Satanic themes, Corruption kink, Mentions of death, Wax play, Oral sex (male and fem rec), Unprotected sex, Squirting, Dirty talk, Mentions of breeding kink

“The Devil is real. And he's not a little red man with horns and a tail. He can be beautiful. Because he's a fallen angel, and he used to be God's favorite.”

—

Noah's pov.

Fuck. It should be ME. I'm the fucking king.

—

Third person's pov.

He had been banished from the holy scene. His mind had been corrupted. He was God's favorite. The closest thing to becoming a god he would have ever gotten. Until…

His mind would run amuck at night. After the sun had set on the sacred land, laying in bed with his brethren just rooms away.

Day after day he had gotten sick of bowing down for the divinity. Growing like a disease. Growing and rooting itself deep within his bones, the veins that allowed his suborn blood to flow. Spreading deepest in the soul his God had granted him eternal life with.

Submitting himself to his almighty had become a tiring, weakening agenda. His hunger for power burned deep within his mind.

His position as the anointed cherub no longer satisfied his starvation for authority.

His attempt at dethroning God led him to be thrown, tossed, banished from the pearly gates every mortal soul had prayed to enter.

—

One of his now ex-brethren, bestowed a script to him. Curled together like an ancient pirate's map. On the scroll before him was one final message to the unholy individual from the Lord.

“Oh, my poor Samael. Where had I gone wrong? Pride, greed, envy. For how could you let them engulf your intelligence? To cause such rebellion? You, a lost soul, can no longer hold a position in my holy land.”

As he finished the script, he felt his soul burn and shrivel into complete nothingness. Nothing but a black void leaving him falling out of the sacred heaven he yearned to be the king of.

Falling through each layer of the Earth, he could feel his skin burning and aching as he did so. He landed in an unbeknownst hole, passing out on impact with rubble and dust falling upon him. On that cursed day, the eternal fire was born.

—

If you are cast out, what's your next move going to be? Will you return cold? Or will you turn up the heat?

Last thing I sold them, had been my dignity. But, the truth is the devil sold his soul to me.

To me.

To ME.

—

Noah's pov.

I had awoken in a displaced land. A funnel shaped cavern. Aggression and insanity ran cold through my veins. An inferno I was placed in.

If I wouldn't have an opportunity to rule the heavenly kingdom, I shall make my own. For lost souls, for sinners and those of who act upon blasphemy. For those who will not succumb to God. I will be the king of the mountain of purgatory.

For I will create a kingdom, not as its jailer, but as its healer. I will heal every soul that is not worthy of being in heaven. I will create an army, one so powerful that it can take down God and his disciples.

—

Third person's pov.

Noah, as he had renamed himself, had spent years stacked upon years building and crafting his domain. A safe place to heal broken souls that were undeserving of heaven.

He had now accumulated centuries worth of individuals who lost their spot in the promised land. They were all dependent on him as their ruler, their king.

He had rediscovered himself. He no longer was a spirit of God, rather the opposite.

He no longer had soft, white, pure feathered wings. Instead his back was adorned with a set of deep black wings. They were covered with coarse fur, rough to the touch. His once dark honey colored eyes were now pitch black. He had grown fangs that looked perfect to sink into a soft, flawless neck.

He had all he could ever imagine…except a love to sit beside his throne, to rule his domain with him.

His heart desired and thirsted for a true love. Although he had millions of souls in his kingdom, he hadn't met a single one that could give him what he needed.

They were all too much like him. He wanted someone he had coax upon him. Someone he could play a game with.

He hadn't taken a leave of absence since the day he decided to create his own space. Maybe it was time to change that. A trip to the mortal world.

—

Y/n's pov.

I sat upon a bench in the midst of a forest, taking in a deep breath of the midnight cool air. I had no place to go.

Parts of my soul, broken and seemingly unfixable. I was cursed to spend my days roaming the Earth as nothing but lonesome in my own purgatory. I would spend my day and night praying, atoning for my sins. Seemingly little, insignificant sins to anyone else were the reason I was stuck in this temporary state.

My Lord had promised if I could atone for my sins, I would be allowed into the promised land. I wanted nothing more, but my Earthborn body had long turned to dust, my hope slowly diminishing.

—

If God came down from his kingdom, he came down from his throne and we asked him if he'd take us back, he would surely tell us no.

We live and die in vain like treasure on a sinking ship. All in the name of a God we'd just abandoned and forget.

—

Third person's pov.

He had his eyes set on her. A lost soul, set in purgatory. Oh, how easy it would be to convince her to bestow her gift upon him.

She seemed perfect. Her skin having a soft glow to it. He knew if an Earth bound body could see her, they too would fall in love with the sight. Her glow gave off as a blue-ish tone, telling him all he needed to know.

As he moved through the trees, he watched as her panic became prominent.

“No one knows I'm here…unless?”

A small glimmer of hope shone through her sadness at the idea that her Lord had finally decided she was able to step foot into the holy divinity.

Her blood ran cold as a jagged finger ran across her skin.

She was so soft, the panic in her eyes set his body on flames. Her pure mind was one he could imagine 100 different ways to ruin.

—

Noah's pov.

“What are you doing out here by yourself, angel?” My voice came out rough and coarse, while hers was much flowy, softer than mine could ever be.

I took a stand of her hair, taking in her delicious scent.

“Wh-wha-! Who are you!?” Her chest was rising and falling like a scared little bunny, her eyes darting back and forth across my features.

“I know you've heard of me. The Prince of Darkness, Beelzebub, Lord of Flies, The Antichrist. Baby, I'm you're one and only-” I was cut off, her screech throwing her into a fit of madness.

“THE DEVIL!?” Her cry must have been heard for miles, to any other lost soul or angel that was Earthbound at the moment.

I pulled her to my chest, covering her mouth.

“Shut the fuck up. I'm here to make a deal.”

A deal with the Devil.

“I see through you, angel. I know exactly what you are. A lost soul, hoping to atone for your sins. Am I close?” I spoke my words slowly and calmly, not needing a miscommunication.

Her head weakly nodded against my heaving chest.

“I'm going to take my hand away, and you're going to let me talk. Do you understand?”

Another nod was given.

Removing my hand oh so cautiously, I let her sit back down, holding my finger up to my mouth, indicating she needed to be quiet.

“He won't let you in there, baby.”

“You don't know that.” Her words flew out of her mouth, cold and harsh.

“Oh, but I do.” My index finger softly gliding down her cheek. She must have been previously crying.

“I was his favorite, you know? I had more power than any other angel. I was second below God himself.” My hands now placed behind my back as I paced back and forth. I didn't miss the way she watched me like a hawk.

“I wanted more. I needed more. He was far too greedy. He casted me out, sending me falling through Earth's layers, down into the deepest parts of the plane. His sacred, holy land was too much to bear. So, I created my own. My own kingdom.” I watched the starry night sky, all the stars twinkling as I explained my story.

Looking down at her, her face was painted with many emotions. Confusion, anger. I smirked to myself, knowing I had her questioning the almighty spirit.

“B-but God is…is good. He's purity and kindness.”

I scoffed.

“Come with me, my sweet angel. Rule with me. You will have power and you can be your own divinity. I can give you everything he could and more.” I whispered the last part into her ear, letting myself smile against her skin.

“Why…why are you beautiful? I thought-”

“Thought I was red? With horns and an outdated tail?” My eyebrows furrowed together as I spoke.

—

I see through you, I know what you are. I see the devil more than I see God.

—

Y/n's pov.

He was beautiful. Gorgeously put together, with a black suit, dress shoes and tattoos staining his skin. He was so enticing.

My head was dizzy and I could feel my core slowly weakening. This was absolute insanity.

I had no idea why I felt the need to say yes to his offer. His words were smooth like fresh honey floating through my ears.

Although tempting, I had to be strong. He could be lying. I had read the bible 5 times before passing to know this is what he does.

He's seducing, he tempts your faith, your religion. He gets in your head. He tempts you with bad decisions. He had powers beyond man. He was the reason Eve sunk her teeth into the forbidden fruit. He was the snake that left hissing in your ears after you had committed a sin.

“Come with me, I can make all your dreams come true, little one. I can make you belong.”

Belong? Your soul ached and yearned to belong somewhere.

“You can give in to your sins, free of guilt. Free of shame. No worries of fear of punishment.” He made a tempting debate.

Is this what you wanted for yourself?

“He'll leave you alone, you won't see him like you'll see me. Is that what you would like? He'll send messengers to talk through. You won't catch even a glimpse of him.”

I couldn't stand the thought. My mouth spoke before my brain could speak.

“Okay. I'll come with you.”

—

Third person's pov.

A sinister smile spread across his lips.

“This will hurt a little.” He muttered as he tilted her head to the side. He sunk his teeth into her neck, covering her mouth as to muffle her cries. His eyes rolled to the back of his head as he felt their minds morphing into one.

Giving her a mark. A mark to tell everyone how easily he had corrupted her mind. How she was now his.

Noah pulled away, licking away the blood that resided on his lips.

As for Y/n, she felt her body burn hot. Aching pain spread through her body, her soft blue glow now turning orange.

She watched as he cleaned up the mess, licking the blood away on her neck.

“Oh, my sweet angel. You've made the right decision.”

—

As the pair now made their way into the kingdom, innumerable souls congratulated their king on his new found love.

They soon after found themselves in the Devil's bedroom. She hadn't taken Satan for one to sleep much.

“It isn't for sleeping, I promise that, baby.” He chuckled at his own comment.

As soon as she took a spot on the bed, covered in soft, red sheets, he was attacking her lips.

—

Y/n's pov.

You weren't complaining. He had promised you an eternal life, free of guilt. What would be the point in worrying about it now.

You let his lips venture your body, his fangs gliding across your skin every once in a while.

He had started leaving purple marks across your neck, close to the freshly marked wound he had given you previously. A way to say you were his.

“Oh, fuck. Baby, I'm going to corrupt your precious little mind. Fill it full with sinful thoughts about me.”

He took your hand, moving it down his shirt, down to where his cock was painfully straining against his pants.

It caused you to ache beneath your own. Your mind went dizzy with the thought of him. He was gorgeous and was about to give you everything you could ever want.

You had taken some initiative and unzipped his pants while he took his tie off, throwing it somewhere unbeknownst to you. He undid the first couple of buttons on his shirt and you, quite frankly, gawked over his body.

He was toned. He had tattoos littering his skin everywhere. His dark eyes watched as you took a long once over of his body.

“Fuck, you're beautiful. Truly.” Your words were quiet, seemingly scared that God would somehow hear or see the activities the two of you were getting up to.

“As are you. You'll be perfect at my side. For the rest of forever.” His hand caressed your face. He did truly find you breathtaking.

Your big doe eyes were something he could find himself staring into forever.

You were now something the holy trinity could never take away from him.

You pulled his pants down, causing his cock to be set free. Something roared in you.

You licked your lips before devouring him.

You swallowed his cock, slowly taking more each time your head bobbed up and down. Soon, he was reaching the back of your throat, causing you to gag around him.

His hands were placed at either side of your hand, using it as leverage to fuck into your throat. You took it so well that he could lose himself in your touch. The way your arms were wrapped around his thighs, helping him go deeper into your throat made him weak and want to crumble.

You felt your cunt wetten for him. The sight of his hair falling out of place and his chest heaving through your teary eyes made you need him. You wanted him to enter your temple and destroy it.

His thrusts became sloppy, faltering here and there. You pulled away from his cock, muttering filthy sins as you stroked him.

“Let me taste you. Give it to me, baby.”

You were forced down onto him once more as he let his seed spray down your throat. Letting it coat your insides felt like bliss.

It was mere seconds before he led you to lay on your back. His hands were clawing and scraping against you, in such need and hurry to remove you of your clothes.

The second your panties hit the floor Noah was nose deep in your pussy, taking in your taste and smell.

Your eyes rolled back as your mouth was left gaped. A hand flew into his hair, pulling and tugging at it, causing his once perfect hair to now be disheveled.

“Oh- oh fuck-” You gasped as he licked and slurped along your clit. No man had ever pleased you as Noah was right now.

He wasn't a man. He was a fucking demon.

His middle and ring finger slid across your wetness before plunging into you.

Something in Noah felt like this is what he had been waiting for. This is what he was made for. He was made for you.

His fingers quickly found the right way to please you. The calloused pads of his fingers rubbing the right spot.

You bit your bottom lip and he somehow knew you were close to toppling over the edge.

“Do it. Let yourself go. Let yourself be mine.” His voice came out as a growl against your cunt as his fingers quickened.

“No- I can't I'm gonna-” You couldn't finish your sentence before your orgasm took over your mind.

Your orgasm left a mess everywhere. You hadn't known until you heard the wet sloshes against Noah's palm.

“Oh my- I've never done that before. How-how did you…?”

“Done what? Squirt? Fuck, angel. I'm Satan himself. Did you doubt me?” He had an shit eating grin plastered on his face.

“Shut the hell up and fuck me.” Something took over you, all you could think about was his cock ramming into you. Destroying every thought you'd ever had of God and those “precious” pearly white gates.

“Look at you, mere moments ago you were trembling with fear. Now you're begging for my fucking cock.” He chuckled and crawled up your body, kissing and licking at your skin.

It didn't take long for him to position your legs over his shoulders, feeling his cock stretch you out as he entered you.

“Your body is a temple. And I'm here to fucking destroy it. I'm here to get in your pretty little head. Corrupt those holy thoughts with distasteful, nasty, sinful thoughts.” His words were venom digging into your brain, making your mind their home.

His thrusts were becoming faster, now that your pussy had gotten used to his size.

He had grabbed a candle that was permanently lit by his bed and watched the wax drip onto your skin. You hissed as each droplet made its spot on your skin.

Slowly but surely, Noah had made an upside down cross upon your stomach. You couldn't care for the dull burn the wax drips had left as they dried.

You could feel Noah's cock pushing its way into your fucking stomach. He was so inhumanly big, you almost forgot where you were and who you were getting fucked by.

Once the wax had set, you pulled Noah into you, clawing your nails deep into his skin. He growled over the feeling of your nails making dents so deep into his immoral skin.

Before you knew it, Noah's shoulders were bleeding and you were both merging into one.

“Noah, please, please harder!” Your words were barely decipherable as your second orgasm was approaching.

“Now. Give it to me now.” His words were enough to send you into a spiral.

As you had your own orgasm, Noah shot hot strings of seed deep into your womb.

“Fuck, ‘m gonna put a baby here one day.” Noah said as he rubbed your stomach.

He took the blood from his bruised shoulder onto his thumb, placing it onto your tongue.

"Forever, we are one."

He finally had a respective queen to be by his side for the rest of eternity.

—

Woke up in the light convinced my life had made it to its end. Burning up beneath the sun, while my father drained of blood.

If he's there, I've got a message for the man that's up above.

Fuck. You.

Taglist: @vinyardmauro @missduffsblog @lma1986 @embracethereaper42 @skulliecadaver-blog @mrscevans @viofcrows @gipsonnikki @philomenie @bloody-delusion-expert @bloodymug @millyhelp @fuckyouimstillstanding @cookiesupplier @concreteangel92 @bruisedleftknee @sprokat @itsafullmoon @darling-millicent-aubrey @eclipseeetop

#noah sebastian #bad omens #bad omens cult #noahsebastian #bad omens band #badomens #badomenscult #nicholas ruffilo #jolly karlsson #nick folio #noah bad omens #noah sebastian fanfic #noah sebastian smut

[farfromstrange]

Carpe Noctem [Chapter One]

ONE: “All these spindly roots”

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Pairing: Vampire!Matt Murdock x F!Nun!Reader

Chapter Warnings: Religious imagery & symbolism, mentions of rehab, crisis of faith, mentions of blood, the typical "animal attacks" aka vampire attacks, mentions of childhood trauma, stalker vibes at the end, Dead Dove Do Not Eat (the entire series)

Chapter Summary: You return to Clinton Church for the first time since Father Lantom saved your life, but what you first believed as an opportunity to start over reveals itself as a mountain of secrecy you have yet to uncover. Needless to say, your first week as a sister at Saint Agnes leaves you with more questions than answers, and an impending sense of darkness coming to get you.

Word Count: 6.8k

A/n: I finally got this done! I started with 3k words and it doubled in size. But I suppose it is enough to set the scene a little. We will certainly be diving deeper in a short while...

Read Me On AO3!

Sunlight streams through the colorful mosaic of stained glass. Red fades into magenta and violet, and blue fades into yellow. Innocence is a fleeting concept in this modern-day garden of Eden, and salvation remains merely a whispered promise. 

Centuries rest on the shoulders of those hallowed walls; the knees of countless worshippers have left indentations on the wooden benches, too many to count, even, but a tragic beauty remains in the art of architecture that stands tall amidst worn-down brownstones in the heart of Hell’s Kitchen. 

Catholics believe in the Devil. He preys on the innocent and makes them eat their souls like Eve bit the apple. He corrupts them, slowly, passionately, and intimately until they have nothing left. Then, and only then, does he take them by the hand, and he drags their lifeless bodies down to the fiery pits of hell. 

You once danced with him. You met him, and you were charmed by him. You shared a bed with him. You loved him. But then the snake whispered about the forbidden fruit, and you had to taste it. You were already broken when he found you. You were shattered glass on white marble floors, bleeding wine into the cracks. The serpent didn’t have to try—you fell hard and fast for his blatant corruption. A silver tongue whispering the sweet promise of salvation to a broken soul, but you never saw the end of it.

Three years you spent surrounded by brick walls and sycamore trees. It was ironic, really. You, the least catholic person to have ever breathed, confined to the walls of a nunnery. For three years, you prayed your knees bloody, yet three years later, it still feels like you learned nothing at all. 

You professed your first vows shortly after you returned to New York. It is a vivid memory. You thought you would never see the city again, not after everything the cold and dark streets put you through, but it was the only place willing to give you something to live for. To survive for.

The cold of the marble stairs before the altar will forever remain etched into your skin. Candlelight reflected in your eyes. When you lifted your gaze, you remember, you met the hollow eyes of Mary as she looked down on you. Like her inanimate features were suddenly overcome by a wave of shame for you. Her hands were clasped in prayer, as most of her statues are. A figure from thousands of retellings forever cast in stone. She was given no choice, but neither were you.

The church was alight with the wonders of early spring the day you took your first vows. Yet, when you met the dead eyes of the Virgin Mary, a shadow cast over her pale features like a widow’s dark veil. The sun disappeared behind a set of clouds with the promise of rain, and the kaleidoscope of colors from the stained glass faded into gray. The walls around you resembled more of an asylum, the priest before you reciting a Bible verse you still fail to remember even to this day. You weren’t listening. A voice was calling for you, and the darkness threatened to possess you with its magic.

The longer you stared at the statue, the more the stories set into the church’s window started to come to life. A window to the soul of Christianity: Mary and Jesus, and the apostles, and Judas betraying Jesus; God’s son dying on the cross for all of our sins before rising and ascending to heaven. Judas was greedy, or so they say. He gave up his friend for money, and in return, they both suffered. 

The serpent that tempted Eve crawled out of the glass and toward you, the original sinner. Every story played like a bad movie before your eyes, coming at you inhumanly fast. The voice in the back of your mind kept getting louder, and louder and louder as it called your name. 

Your sins hung above your head like a guillotine, the very fruits of your labor you had to bear far too young. A daughter, not a son. An inconvenience to those who bore you. You were forsaken from the start, you were told, and the day you took your first vows to become a child of God after being no one’s daughter for most of your life, the walls of the church seemed to know that even after hours of confessing all of your sins to the priest, no Hail Mary could ever take them away. They would always be there until the day you die. You could have done penance until your knees were bloody—you would always be a sinner in the eyes of the church. 

You had the Devil inside you, they said. Because you let him inside. And he did not hesitate to steal your virtue from the source, forever tainting the well of your innocence. 

“In the presence of God, the Blessed Virgin Mary, and all the saints, I humbly offer myself to His service,” you recited on those marble steps, but the shadow only continued to grow around you, wrapping its black wings around you. The fallen angel. Was it you or the Devil? 

The people around you disappeared. You weren’t taking your vows that day; you were standing trial in front of God and all his disciples who came before you. You were taking a stand, and only the jury could decide if you were worthy of your title. 

“I vow to embrace the holy virtues of chastity, poverty, and obedience, following in the footsteps of our Lord Jesus Christ and the teachings of the Holy Scriptures,” you said. “I promise to submit myself to the will of God and commit to live out these vows faithfully all the days of my life. Always.”

Amen.

You lay your broken soul bare, cuffing yourself to the congregation with unbreakable steel and throwing away the key. And there remained the voice, calling for you from the threshold to the darkness.

You thought you could ignore it. Until you returned to Hell’s Kitchen. 

Until him.

Your heels drag over the stone floors of the seemingly endless hallway stretching through Clinton Church. The walls look different when you’re not running. When you can breathe without yearning for means of self-destruction that set fire to your lungs. 

When you asked Father Lantom if you could come back to Clinton Church, he didn’t hesitate. You were unsure what it would be like. The last time you were here, the circumstances that led you into the arms of the empathetic priest were anything but conventional. The memories you have since tied to this place are a conflict between reaching your breaking point and begging for someone, anyone, to help you, and the overwhelming guilt that came with committing the worst of crimes, and a cardinal sin.

You were not a woman of God. You doubt you were a human being at all. If anything, you were a puppet. 

Father Lantom said three years ago, “When you feel ready to take your first vows, come back. I will always have a room waiting for you.” And come back, you did—for he was the one who held your hand when you were falling into an abyss headed for certain death. When you were covered in blood and feared you would burn in hell, the past came back to haunt you with pitchforks and execute you at the stake for the entire town to see. He was there, and in that moment you knew you could not disappoint him. It was then you first started believing in the idea of God.

You gaze down at your habit. The tunic, the cincture, and the veil. You have never been more dressed up, yet you have never felt more naked in the eyes of another man. The fear of judgment for choosing a path you once thought you would only pick over your dead body is rooted so deeply within you that it nails you to an invisible cross. 

“Three years,” the priest breaks the silence. You look over at him, walking beside you as he leads you around the hidden corners you’re not yet familiar with. 

You nod. “Three years,” you repeat. “Doesn’t feel like that long ago.”

Sensing your conflict and the underlying insecurity that renders you speechless a lot of the time, Father Lantom clears his throat. “You look…better,” he says.

“Thank you, Father. My time at St. Anne’s was very… self-reflective. I learned a lot.”

“Good. I’m proud of you.”

Your wide eyes snap back up at him. Oh. 

Pride is not the word you would have used. Proud of you, he said. He sent you away to cleanse your soul, and most days you are not sure if it even worked, but he is proud of you. The man who only knows the worst version of you looked at you and saw good instead of evil. It is a concept that had once been so foreign to you. 

“Thank you,” you whisper. 

“For what?” he asks.

“This. Everything.” You shrug. “I wasn’t sure if you still wanted me here, so hearing you say that…it means a lot to me.”

“I promised you would always have a room here if you chose to come back.”

There is so much sincerity in his voice. In his eyes. You swallow thickly, feeling the tears burn behind your eyes. You don’t want to cry in front of him, but the words die miserably on your tongue. Instead, you nod. You just hope your eyes manage to convey what you want to say.

The priest leads you to a door that connects the church with the grounds of the orphanage next door. “You will be living with the other sisters at Saint Agnes,” he tells you. The change of subject is welcome. “After we had to close our convent because Tony Stark could not be bothered to fund our restoration, all postulants who have since wanted to join our order were sent to study at St. Anne’s. Like you. But most of them stayed there,” his tone changes slightly into hurting. “They offer a lot more than we can. Donations can only get us so far, and we barely get those anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” you cut in. 

He sighs, waving your concern off with the flick of his wrist. “We make due, and now that you’re here… well, the sisters are going to appreciate the extra help.” Father Lantom puts on another smile like you would put on your veil. “We don’t have any separate living quarters, unfortunately,” he states, “so your room is a floor above the children’s dormitories. Sister Grace offered to show you around.”

“Sister Grace?”

“She’s the one in charge.”

Your eyes flick back to the walls you’re passing. Intricate details are carved into the stone even here, far away from the chapel. These hand-made masterpieces breathe a certain eeriness into the church. Not just life but a certain wave of mystique because even the stories from the bible are left open for interpretation, especially when they are turned into art. 

A sense of doom falls over you like a dark cloud. “Does she know?” you ask. 

Father Lantom raises his eyebrows. He studies your features. Your chin tipped toward the ceiling, observing. He notices the gentle shift in your breathing pattern as your heartbeat speeds up, and when you meet his eyes again after an agonizing bout of silence, he smiles at you once again. 

“Sister Grace?” he inquires. You nod. “Well,” he says, “She does know. She’s the abbess. I had to let her in when I told her you were coming here, but I assure you, she swore to the utmost discretion.”

You breathe out. The weight rests heavily on your chest. “And everyone else?” You turn back to him. 

The Father shakes his head. His eyes are so gentle. “It’s not my story to tell,” he says. “If there’s one thing I learned after years of talking to people—taking their confessions, listening to their fears, their anger, and their pain—it’s that we all suffer. We all have things we’d rather not talk about.”

The words penetrate your heart like a sharp dagger. 

“And as humans, we tend to often see our burdens as sins, even if those apparent sins hurt us, or we had to commit them to protect ourselves from getting hurt. And sometimes, hurt people do stupid things. Objectively stupid, that is. It doesn’t mean we are going to hell for doing what it takes to survive. People suffer, and most of the time, that suffering doesn’t stop. That’s the truth,” he says. “Now, a lot of these people come to confession because they think it will give them a clear conscience, which it does, momentarily. They believe that God will make the pain go away with the snap of his omniscient fingers. A few Hail Marys, a few extra hours at Sunday mass, and your burdens will be dealt with. That is not the truth. Confession is not therapy because penance does not heal decades of trauma. If that were how it works, we would collapse from overcrowding.”

Father Lantom breaks off with a chuckle, but you can’t find amusement in his wisest insight. It’s real, too real. You can’t even muster a pity smile. 

“Why do we do it then?” you ask. 

“Do you want the Catholic answer or my personal opinion?”

“If those don’t intersect, I’ll choose the latter. Please.”

He takes a moment. “Well, confession works as a tool,” he explains then. “God knows the difference between an actual sin and human nature. Sometimes, these two are the same, but a lot of the time, there is a big difference, and He knows that. Confession helps regain balance where you’re standing with your faith. That’s why we do it. Because faith… faith can be a strong motivator. That’s why a lot of us—sisters, priests, and… and monks—are here now. Because we found a passion and a purpose in devoting ourselves to God. It’s not for everyone, of course, but it is a clean slate if you want it to be. Whether you tell the other sisters about why you chose this path, is up to you. Not me. Because that trauma is yours, and yours alone.”

The silence stretches between you, long, longer, as the church holds its breath. You absorb every word and every breath of his like a sponge. You swallow them. A bitter pill, that’s what it is. It goes down like hard liquor. 

You walk a few more steps in that silence with his eyes on you and the world on fire within. “Father,” you whisper. The sound is not more than that. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he says. And this time, you smile at him.

Behind the door that leads to the orphanage, another hallway awaits. The walls smell faintly of moss—nature but a bit rotten. A woman in a similar habit makes her way toward the two of you from the end of the hall. She carries herself with a quiet air of authority. You can’t look through her. 

Father Lantom may have vouched for Sister Grace and her discretion, but her judgment is not his to determine. She is her own woman, with thoughts only she can determine. You’re not sure if you are ready for that, either. 

He greets her with a smile. “Sister Grace,” he says.

“Father. Good morning,” at him, she smiles. 

He nudges you forward. “I have someone I want you to meet.”

Her gaze shifts to you then. “The uniform is unmistakable.” She nods. “Welcome, Sister.”

It’s a start, a small step towards finding your place within these hallowed walls. 

“Thank you, Sister,” you reply. “It’s nice meeting you.”

“Likewise. Though it’s been a while since we had someone new here. So young, too.”

“I know. Father Lantom mentioned. I’ll try my hardest not to disappoint you.”

She nods. “Let’s get you settled into your room first before we worry about that. I believe Father Lantom has mass to prepare.”

Father Lantom gives you a reassuring nod. “I’ll leave you in Sister Grace’s capable hands. And remember, you are not alone. If you need help with anything, don’t hesitate to come and find me.” With that, he turns and makes his way back through the door you came from, leaving you with your fellow sister and a lump in your throat.

She leads you down the corridor. “This way,” she says. “Your room is above the children’s dormitories. Second floor. You’ll find it quiet enough for reflection but close enough to be of help when needed.”

Her tone suggests that you will be plenty busy, no matter where your room is in the building. More work means less time to think, and less time with your thoughts sounds like a blessing.

As you follow her, the faint sounds of children playing filter through the walls. It’s a comforting contrast to the silence you’ve grown accustomed to. 

Sister Grace opens a door to a narrow staircase, and you both begin to climb. “The other sisters will be eager to meet you,” she says over her shoulder.

You nod, even though she can’t see you. “I am, too,” you answer.

At the top of the stairs, she leads you down another hallway, then finally stops at a simple wooden door. “This one...will be your room.” She pushes it open to reveal the small space behind, connected to a window with a clear view of the adjacent cemetery. “I admit, it is a little scarce,” Sister Grace says, “but you are more than welcome to add a few personal touches; pictures, curtains, maybe even a plant or two. Don’t worry, Father Lantom encourages it.”

The wooden floorboards creak beneath your weight as you step inside. You look around. A single bed, neatly made with crisp white linens and a worse-for-wear mattress occupies one corner of the room, a crucifix nailed above the headrest, and casting a faint shadow on the aged plaster walls. On the other side, a desk and a wardrobe offer some storage space that leads to a second door—the bathroom. It is scarce, but you came here with nothing but a cardboard box filled with your hopes and dreams and books and diaries; people have built homes from less. 

“Our shared kitchen is downstairs. Feel free to store your food in the fridge, but don’t forget to label the containers if you don’t wish to share.” Sister Grace pauses, chuckling softly as her hazel eyes meet yours. “You wouldn’t believe it, but even nuns can be picky eaters, and very territorial about snacks.”

You smile, but your attempt at kindness falls into artificiality. “Thank you.”

“Nonsense. We look after each other around here.”

There has to be more to it, surely. Innocent may be a construct, but most of the sisters in the community were born into their faith. They started studying from a young age, always destined to dedicate themselves to the cause. You were far from religious before destiny found you dying in the flames of your old life. Whether destiny or a curse befell you that night remains open for interpretation. You have seen it both ways. An opportunity arose. You received a second chance from a very nice man, but the price to pay was your soul sacrificed to a God you once thought you would never believe in. 

Do you have faith or do you not? It is a loaded question. You think you do. You want to know you do too, but you are never fully certain. In the eyes of God, you are a loyal soldier who studied the scriptures and did her due diligence praying for penance, but when you look in the mirror, all you see is Judas. 

A heavy breath ripples through you. “You didn’t have to let me in,” you whisper. “Father Lantom didn’t have to offer me refuge, but he did. And you’re not judging me even though you have all right to… I just don’t understand.”

Her answer is a shrug. “When you were desperate,” says the sister, “God led you to us, and you found refuge at the church like so many before you. I don’t believe that was a coincidence.”

You were covered in blood when you came—your hands stained with the essence of another man’s life, clothes torn beyond recognition. You can still feel his hands on you, wandering, lurking… The crimson had seeped into the fine lines of your palms. It took you days to get rid of it, and weeks more to scrub the last remains from under your fingernails down the drain. 

You grapple with their decision. “I, uh… I wasn’t sure. At St. Anne’s, they treated me like an outsider. Because I didn’t grow up Catholic, and—”

“And you found your faith in rehab?” Sister Grace smiles knowingly. “Trust me, it happens so often that it no longer comes as a surprise.”

“But there is still judgment. There will always be judgment,” you insist.

She takes your words into account, nodding. They digest for a brief moment until she breaks into a soft chuckle—a mere breath from her full-moon lips. 

“A small piece of advice, if I may?” she asks. You hum. “If you spend all your time here questioning whether God has forgiven you for your sins, your lack of faith in the Lord, as tiny as it may be, will always stand between you and taking your final vow. And if you keep worrying about the judgment of anyone other than God, you won’t find happiness.”

You vowed to dedicate your life to religious service, and if you don’t close the last period of your study after taking temporary three vows with a solemn declaration to give up even the last of your possessions then the gap between you and God will be too big for you to ever be anything but a simple sister of the congregation. 

But is that what you want? To close that gap and give yourself fully to a higher power? It would be a live sacrifice, you knew that from the start.

You believe in God and the Devil, and you believe in eternal damnation. And you believe that you are damned, too. Doomed, forsaken, and cursed. A scratched record. God’s wrath is not a match for the fear you instill in yourself; your mere existence is maddening. 

You are drowning in a darkness you were born with, and possessed by demons you never learned how to exorcize. Not even studying a newfound faith in God to get on the right path could get rid of the monsters that are not lurking under your bed or in the shadows but in the dark corners of your mind.

The beast inside of you has gone to sleep, but God knows that he is a ticking time bomb, even in a comatose state. The Devil has planted his seed—all these spindly roots growing from your soul to the pit of your stomach, digging their claws into your fragile heart and tearing you to shreds. The protective poison ivy you grew over the years can only last so long without water before it starts to wither. 

You look over your shoulder when the door shuts gently behind Sister Grace as she leaves you be. 

The cardboard box on your desk holds an abundance of scriptures, books, and leather-bound diaries. Your diaries. They told you that writing your feelings on paper would help you heal. If you crave something you know you should and cannot have, you should write it down; you have been for years now, but with every pen wasted and every diary hidden in compartments around your room so no one can find them, the words you write turn into firewood, and your tears are the gasoline. 

Outside, the wind brushes through the trees. It beckons you, its tendrils creeping into your consciousness like creatures of the night reaching for the last flickers of light.

With a heavy heart, you flip open the worn-down leather. Seconds turn into minutes turn into hours turn into days. Knees turn bloody from praying, and the joy of one child’s happiness dies at the hands of another’s trauma. 

Dear Diary, 

Yesterday, the groundskeeper dug another hole in the cemetery. Father Lantom will officiate the funeral on Sunday. Another addition to the bones and rotting corpses hiding under a shield of dirt, but does anyone know what happens after? 

I tried to ask the Father, but he didn’t give me a satisfying answer. He told me what he thought I wanted to hear, but I did not. I can’t help but wonder if he is protecting me or keeping secrets. The latter would be highly unethical, I suppose. 

Other than maintaining a religious belief in heaven or hell or rebirth while we are alive, what does happen to us after we die? Is it definite? Is it infinite or is there something else, something... more? 

Is it the Devil? Is it God? Or is it heaven and hell? 

And why do they keep digging holes in the cemetery? The children keep asking me every day, but I do not know how to answer them. 

Dear Diary, where do we go when it is all over?

The clinking of porcelain and cutlery emerges from the kitchen like a mushroom cloud. As you approach the dining room through a long hallway, the soft soles of your vinyl shoes barely make a sound. The voices inside overlap, but a few rise from the masses, demanding your attention. Like a moth to a flame, you fly toward it. 

“…and they found another one this morning. Washed up on the river banks after the storm last night,” one of the sisters whispers to another. 

“It’s been fifteen this month alone,” another one says.  

“What kind of animal does that?” a third cuts in.

“The kind that isn’t an animal,” says the nun you now recognize as Sister Marjorie, the oldest of the bunch. “It happens every two months for twenty years that bodies wash up on the shore, supposedly mauled by a bear or a baboon in the middle of Hell’s Kitchen, and then the city grows quiet again. I’ve been here for forty-five years, and it still happens like clockwork.”

The one next to her sighs. “Well, maybe it’s the changing climate. Lord knows it has humans and animals going crazy alike.”

“Can’t you see?” Marjorie raises her voice. “These aren’t the actions of an animal. It’s the Devil!” 

It seems as though the mere thought puts the fear of God in them—your fellow sisters, usually so strong and collected, reduced to whispers of the rumor mill as the color fades from their skin. 

Sister Grace clicks her tongue, interrupting them all at once. “That’s enough,” she says, trying to remain calm but there is still a sense of urgency in her voice. It’s not an exclamation but a well-concealed warning. Behind that façade hides a leader you would not want to cross twice. 

Only one of Sister Marjorie’s eyes finds you standing there, eavesdropping like a misbehaving child. The other remains unmoving, caged in by a white scar across her cheek and an iris made of glass. 

You swallow the lump in your throat. “Animal attacks?” you dare to ask. 

Heads snap toward you. The table falls speechless, compelled into a sudden silence by your presence. The world stops turning. 

“Oh, dear, don’t you worry about that,” Sister Grace, the first to find her voice again, reassures you. She ushers you from the doorway to the table, but the eyes of your fellow sisters suddenly feel like tiny needles all over your skin. “It’s just idle gossip,” she says, shooting the others a glare, “nothing for you to concern yourself with.”

But the silence starts to wrap around your neck like a noose regardless. Curiosity is only appreciated when they can answer it, you have learned. In the eyes of God, lying is a sin, and you spend each day teaching the children to believe the same, but is omitting not essentially the same as lying? 

They’re scared. They don’t want to admit it; no one does. Fear does not fit under the veil of ignorance, so they try concealing it as idle gossip. The rumor mill is always spinning, and it is an outstanding excuse, but you will never forget the look in Marjorie’s eyes when you dared to ask—dared to question. 

A thud from outside causes you to sit upright in your bed later that evening. The springs that are digging into your lower back creak when you move so suddenly. 

Through the window, you can see the cemetery hulled into a fog where cold and warm air meet for the night. You put the children to bed, got them dressed in their pajamas, brushed their teeth, and told the little ones a bedtime story. They like it when you do it. Something about the way you tell them fascinates their little minds, so it has become a ritual in the week you have been here. 

The more it strikes you as odd that there is noise outside. After bedtime, no one is supposed to be out and about, and if a sister has something to do out of schedule, they have to share it with the group. For safeguarding reasons, they told you. 

Against your better judgment, you roll out of bed and into your slippers, wrapping a cardigan around your body. Your nightgown is not the warmest thing to wear on these cold walls unless it is under a thick wool blanket. 

The door creaks when you open it. Father Lantom gave you a flashlight a few nights ago because he asked you to take care of something on the church grounds for him after the sun had set, so you kept it. You weren’t sure if you would still need it. Thankfully, you did.

You follow the noise to the back door one floor below. It leads out into the backyard, and a few more feet east, a fence and a gate separate the many acres of the cemetery from the rest of the church’s grounds. 

The flashlight illuminates the path before you. “If it’s another stupid raccoon, I swear…” you mutter to yourself. It wouldn’t be the first time one of those critters found their way into the trashcans and caused mayhem in the middle of the night. 

Somehow though, it always seems to be you who catches them. The night-owl. The one who is always on guard, always on edge, even when she knows she is safe.

You wander through the backyard, closer to the fence. You tilt your head. There is a small gap in the gate to the cemetery. The fog makes it harder to see. 

“Hello?” you call out into the darkness. Nothing. 

Through the rustling of leaves and the howling of an owl in the woods far beyond Saint Agnes, a small whimper breaks the silence like a hot knife. It is faint, but unmistakable nonetheless. 

You strain your ears. “Oh no,” once again, you curse to yourself. “No, no, no…” 

You follow the sound through the gate and into the cemetery. June Montgomery and her husband share a grave. They died over twenty years ago, but it is still well-maintained by their children and grandchildren. A few steps further though, the infestation of poison ivy begins. 

The graves under the gigantic cherry tree are the most hidden, and the best hiding spots. You had to tell the children many times that the cemetery is not a hiding place, especially not for games, and never alone, even when the gates are open. The general public has access to it during the day, and if they wander too far, they will land on a populated street. It’s dangerous. 

You were so careful. You did everything by the book, and someone still managed to sneak out. 

Your heart pounds in your chest, the wet grass soaking your thin slippers until you come upon a small figure huddled behind one of the bewildered gravestones. Sara Mayfield; she died in 1945. Your sigh resembles a cry of relief. 

“Timmy!” you exclaim. “Thank God!”

He’s curled up into a ball behind the headstone. Tears stream down his cheeks in bottomless rivers. Your flashlight blinds him, and his whimpers escalate to sobs. Your heart shatters at the sight. 

“Hey there, it's okay,” you try to soothe him, crouching beside his tiny figure. “It's just me. Hi. What are you doing out here all alone?” You shed your cardigan, wrapping it around his shoulders. “It’s the middle of the night, sweetheart.”

From what you’ve learned about Timmy, his parents died in a freakish car accident about a year ago. He was in the car when his father fell asleep at the wheel and drove the car into a tree. His mother died instantaneously, but his father bled out right in front of him. He has been receiving therapy ever since he came to Saint Agnes, but he is a troubled child. 

Timmy sniffles, accepting the makeshift blanket. He recognizes you, which is a good sign. “I had a nightmare,” he confesses. “I-I wanted to see the stars, but then I heard a crash, and I got scared.”

You wrap your arms around him. “It’s okay to be scared,” you say. “But you shouldn’t wander off by yourself, especially at night. You should have come to me, or Sister Grace.”

“I’m sorry, Sister.”

“No, it’s okay. I’m just glad nothing happened to you.”

His skin is clammy and cold. You don’t know how long he has been out here, but he is also in no state to be questioned. 

“Come on,” you say and lift him into your arms. “Let’s get you back inside.”

Together, you make your way back towards the orphanage. But as you approach the gate, there it is again, that voice. Whispers of nothing in the chilly breeze. The air crackles with a certain, sinister something. A chill runs down your spine, and the back of your skull starts to burn as though someone is watching you. Listening. Lurking. And it is not a raccoon this time.

You set Timmy down on his feet. He whimpers again. “Go to your room. I’ll be right there,” you tell him. 

He looks up at you with his innocent blue eyes. “Promise?” he asks. 

“Yes. Promise.”

The boy lets go of your hand, quickly sneaking back inside. He knows better than to make any more noise. Any other sister would have threatened consequences. But he’s just a traumatized little boy, and the night is dangerous. It’s creepy. Of course, it would only add to childish fear and trauma that has had time to manifest for an entire year.

You turn around when he is safely inside, pointing your flashlight in the direction where you came from. 

You scan the blanket of fog for any sign of movement. And that’s when you see it—a shadowy, obscured figure standing amidst the graves by the woods, behind the cherry tree.

Your breath catches in your throat, the whispers echoing in your mind once more. It could not be your name. It’s something else. Latin, perhaps. What terrifies you most though is that you're not scared; you feel strangely drawn to the figure. 

You hold your breath. The figure tilts its head, and you do the same. Your heartbeat remains eerily steady throughout. You should scream. You should alert everyone that there is something—someone—out there, but they would call you crazy, surely. And maybe you are. No sane person hears voices and sees the darkness as a comforting presence. Not a nun. Not someone who is not supposed to let the Devil win. And what other explanation is there but for the figure to be a phantom of the Devil's making? 

In the blink of an eye, the figure is gone. The hold on your lungs eases, and you gasp for air like a desperate woman.

Instinctively, you turn to the door and usher inside. Timmy is still standing there. “What’s wrong?” he asks. 

You shake your head, trying to clear your mind. “Nothing,” you say, but when you lock the door to make sure no one can get in or out, your hands shake. A single drop of sweat runs down your temple. “Come on.”

Inside, you’re freezing. Like a cold hand touched you and set you on fire, but it had claws that let the ice age into your heart, and now you’re poisoned. 

Taking Timmy back to his room, you can’t shake the feeling of unease that gnaws at your insides like a hungry beast. You tuck him in; you check under his bed for monsters, and you lock the windows. It takes a while for him to settle back into sleep, but when he finally does, you leave his room on your tiptoes and close it. 

The other children are all peacefully asleep, and your fellow sisters seem to not have noticed the commotion you caused on your way in. Every door is locked—you check twice. Still, when you get to your room, your hands tremble once again when you use the key for the fragile lock for the first time. 

Fear is not what compels you. Uneasiness, maybe, but not fear. The venom in your veins stems from something else entirely. You can’t explain it. The feeling is familiar somehow, but so foreign at the same time.

You clutch the rosary from the nightstand over your diary, facing the fog you yearn for so desperately. “Foolish, foolish idiot,” you mutter. 

Dear Diary, 

Did I force myself upon God out of… of guilt? Or was it a sign that He led me to Clinton Church that night? I thought penance would wash away my sins, that by dedicating myself to Him, I could erase the past. You know, like magic. But I was so wrong. Father Lantom… He told me that’s not how it works, and Sister Grace… She’s so sure that will stand in my way, and now I can’t help but wonder… Did I study scripture and Catholic rules for the past three years like a mad woman out of faith or because I was trying to make good for something I did by neutralizing myself?

I’m lost. I don’t know the path to righteousness, and I don’t know how to silence this… this darkness inside me. I can hear it calling my name. Every night… I’m scared that I’m not scared enough. I’m a flawed creature; I’m desperate and tired, but I don’t want to disappoint Him. But how can I? 

How do I serve a God I have been lying to from the start, and how the fuck do I fix this?

You squeeze your eyes shut, the pen cracking under the pressure, and the ink bleeds onto the page, over the letters and your broken heart. Your blue fingers wrap around the rosary again as what you have written disappears under the chemical ocean. 

In the heat of the moment, you tear the page out of its confines, but it has tainted all the ones to come. You ruined it like you ruined yourself. The page had been you once, being bled all over by an ink meant to stain for the rest of your miserable life, but you tried to glue it back in place. You tried not to fall apart like your diary just did at your very hands—as everything you touch rots or turns to ashes eventually.

You ball a fist around the paper, tossing it across the room. It hits the window. You catch your runny reflection in the glass. To think you were just looking to be loved, to be seen and forgiven ever since you were a little girl dreaming of being a princess, but instead, you are falling apart. 

But no, you will not let the Devil win. You pull the curtains closed, and you hide the cemetery where it belongs—with the dead, both in heaven and hell and everything in between. The Devil can’t have you because God already does. 

You have to seize the night before it seizes you. Anything else would be, for the lack of a better word, certain suicide. 

Tag List: @luvebugs @mxxny-lupin @1988-fiend @bluestuesday @ghostheartbeat @cheshirecat484 @faesspace (if you want to be tagged or I forgot to tag you, let me know!)

#matt murdock #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x fem!reader #vampire!au #vampire!matt murdock #matt murdock x you #nun!reader #matt murdock smut #matt murdock angst #dead dove do not eat #daredevil #daredevil au #charlie cox #carpe noctem

[anatomical-puppet]

THE DEVIL MADE ME DO IT (but i also kinda wanted to)

[id under the cut]

A digital illustration of Klavier Gavin from Ace Attorney. Klavier is in the center of the canvas and is colored in shades of pink, yellow, and dark magenta. His long hair is unkempt, spilling over his shoulders and only loosely forming its usual twist. He’s in the outfit he was wearing during the flashback segment of Turnabout Succession, including his sunglasses. His eyes are very wide, with small, vibrant blue pupils. He has no mouth. His left arm is tucked up so that the hand is close to his chest; the hand itself has much paler skin than the rest of Klavier, as well as blue-painter nails and both a skeletal visage and a scar on the back. The fingers take on an unnatural blue hue closer to their tips. Klavier appears to have stitched the left hand onto his own arm using glowing blue thread, which is attached to the needle he’s holding in his right hand. In the corners of the image are pieces of evidence, all colored entirely in blues; the gun found at the scene of Magnifi Gramarye’s death, the bottle of Ariadoney nail polish, and the commemorative Troupe Gramarye stamp, now torn into two pieces. The tear passes through Zak Gramarye, and both pieces of the stamp bear red stains around Zak’s head. The background is a very dark blue- almost black- except for a lighter section behind Klavier. Within the lighter section is a very faint image of the forged page of Magnifi’s diary. The lighter section is surrounded by a cyan chain. There are also two much larger cyan chains that form an X behind Klavier, but in front of the forged page.

#this fuckign drawing took me out back shot me like a lame horse and then stole my lunch money #but by god. it’s done #oh also caption is a lyric from 2econd 2ight 2eer by will wood 👍 #ace attorney #klavier gavin #aa4 #ajaa #apollo justice ace attorney #turnabout succession #puppet scribbles #sometimes tunglr hides my stuff from tags if there’s fishy words in the alt text so i put the id under a cut instead djdbjddn #hope that’s ok!! if not i can add it to the alt text as well and hopefully tumblr would allow it hdbdh

[nalyra-dreaming]

Let me use this opportunity of getting weird Loumand anons once more to say something that's been on my mind:

All the bad faith, passive aggressive anon asks (especially those wanting to make the "ships" about the fandom "shipping them" (or not) because of "color" and "racism") I see around piss me off sooooo much.

Lets look at the "ships" we have so far:

Loustat: difficult, at times toxic, later not so much, endgame

Loumand: difficult, at first infatuated, then dead, later healing

Lesmand: difficult, at times insane, obsessive in parts

Devil's Minion: difficult, intense, at times insane, obsessive in parts, endgame

What have all these "ships" in common?

They are canon relationships. And they are difficult.

Two of those are endgame.

Let's dive in (a bit).

Loustat:

At this point not much has to be said about why Loustat are toxic in parts, but that changes - their character journeys are inverted, and they are endgame. Two sides of the same coin. They are "petty and in love" as Jacob called it, and they are "it" for each other, for better or for worse.

Loumand:

Born from Lesmand actually, because Lestat goes to Armand to make him care for Louis (and for Armand's blood), which... works. But the initial infatuation phase, while honest on Louis' side, is based on Armand's fascination with him because of Lestat. He gaslights Louis into loving him. I bet they will be very much shown to be in love, and then the shit will hit the fan and then... Louis will be destroyed, for a long, long time. Qualifies as toxic for me, too, btw. The Loumand in later years, in Trinity Gate (or Dubai?) is a more healing one, one where Louis comes to terms with who he is and what he wants in safe, stable, loving surroundings. And I bet they are freaks in the sheets :P

Lesmand:

Obsessive, and while loving definitely more so from Armand's side than Lestat's. He "imprints" on Lestat when he sees him because Lestat reminds him of Marius, and a lot of Armand's actions are informed by his need for Lestat, and the fact that Lestat upends his world. That said, the fascination itself is mutual, and I bet the show will have them engage in a proper affair.

Devil's Minion:

Wohooo, Daniel, a gift from Louis for Armand!!! Armand shifts full on obsessive and love on Daniel, Daniel, who will become his only fledgling. (And who goes mad for a while, too!) The show has obviously expanded the journey, but I don't think it will change too much - Daniel is the only one Armand could not let die. Talk about love beyond reason or endurance.

ALL OF THESE SHIPS ARE RELATIONSHIPS IN THE VC.

YOU CANNOT PUT A VALIDATION BASED ON SKIN COLOR ON THEM BECAUSE THEY ARE ALL VALID.

And they are canon.

Saying the fandom doesn't "ship" Loumand because of them being POC is just ludicrous.

If you think Louis in Dubai in season 1 is "happy" I don't know what to tell you. We haven't really seen "happy" Loumand yet, and, depending on how they spin it(!) we might not even see it in season 2, though I think they will make it seem as if it is happy and "pure" at first.

But they might throw in the horror of Claudia knowing (and she does, canonically, she tries to warn Louis!) and being ignored by Louis (failing her again) in - in fact, I take the little info of the scenes we have of Sam and Armand filming as precisely that, namely that they make it clear that there is a relationship there as well... and how that relationship enables Loumand.

And then Armand will kill Claudia. And Madeleine.

And Louis will stay with him.

Personally I found later Loumand always very healing, as said. (But, personally(!!!!!!), also a bit boring. I love them, but... writing them (i.e.) does not hold much appeal right now.

But that might change with the upcoming seasons!) But the Loumand in Paris?? Hell, that's not even real, Armand gaslights Louis into loving him, uses his spell gift and mind gift as influence, poor Louis. And it will hurt Louis, incredibly so.

Making it seem as if people, especially people with a background in the books, do not "ship" them because of the actors' skin color... is just...

There's many, many reasons to ship them.

There's many, many reasons not to.

I OBVIOUSLY cannot speak for everyone. But these simplified takes are becoming so tiresome, when there are so many other reasons that need to be considered.

And honestly, as said before, I fully expect parts of this fandom to turn on Armand when he is being himself, when his relationship to Lestat is becoming clear, when his meddling and role in Claudia's death are clear and... can you imagine the outcry when they actually kill off the black (likely) lesbian character and her lover. -.-

If they actually chop of Claudia's head on stage.

Mayhem.

Which brings me to the next part:

My predictions for season 2:

Louis hurting, seeing Lestat everywhere (outcry)

Loumand in love, oh so sweet, look at them

Claudia gets a girlfriend!! (Sweet!)

What is Lestat doing there? (outcry)

What, Armand is interested in Louis because of Lestat?? (outcry)

What, Louis is yearning for Lestat?? (outcry)

What, Armand is doing what to Claudia (and Madeleine)? "ThEy KiLl tHe gAys!!" ((outcry)

Armand throws Lestat off a tower (Meh, he deserved it, should have been much worse)

What, Louis stays with Armand?? (outcry)

Whatever will go on with Louis and Lestat (outcry)

At some point people will turn on Assad, I agree here with what has been said by others on this.

They could not separate Sam from Lestat, they will not do so for Assad, in fact THERE I can easily see it be much worse, because of the racial implications.

I can also see them turn on Jacob btw, because Louis stays with Armand. "How could he". -.-

So: Even if you are only a "show fan", if you have no idea of what the books might bring... the hiatus is still very long, and going and hating on people, accusing them of racism, because people who know the books go a bit bonkers when they see certain bts photos... is on you - not them.

These ships are all canon relationships.

And valid.

End of rant.

#amc iwtv #iwtv #amc interview with the vampire #interview with the vampire amc #iwtv amc #iwtv 2022 #interview with the vampire #lestat de lioncourt #louis de pointe du lac #loustat #armand #loumand #the devil's minion #daniel molloy #devil's minion #lesmand #rant

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I've been dreaming of the Unrivaled Beauty.

O’ Beautiful Queen, your loveliness is eternal and unchallenged.

Steal center stage, and the hearts of those who gaze upon you.

How does a moment last forever? How can a story never die?

War is as much of an art as it is a brazen display of brutality.

For Vil, every performance he gives is war. His weapons: skill, grace, beauty. All of it meant to charm the audience. No substitutions, it no stunt doubles.

Today is no different.

He kneels in the snow atop a corpse. Not a real dead man, but a dummy with an eerie amount of detail. It had been prepared by experts in the prop department, made to resemble his character's sworn enemy in the film.

Crimson blooms upon white robes marked with ancient runes. The collar and neckline are daring, plunging to reveal a generous amount of the bare skin of the chest to the elements. The hair, a tangled mess of glossy raven waves, sticking from the moisture to cold skin. The skin, pale blue with frost, the eyes cloudy orbs.

The mouth, stained red with the blood of countless innocents, no longer moves.

In this scene, the she-devil Snow White is dead, and he, heir to the Witch Queen, has slain her.

Without hesitation, he plunges his bare hand into the dummy’s chest, fishing out a model heart. It is covered in a mixture of corn syrup, food coloring, cocoa powder, and starch to simulate bodily fluids. The thickened liquid dribbles down his own pale hands, staining them.

Lifting his trophy into the air, a joyous, defiant sparkle in his eyes. A throaty cry erupts from him.

“With this, the Eternal Snow will be no more, and peace shall return to my realm!!”

Vil’s explosive laughter fills the mountain. The snow shakes, the land itself shudders in his presence.

He has won.

Finally, finally, finally.

A gruff man’s voice reaches him.

“CUT!!”

In an instant, the scene falls apart and reality sets in.

Cameramen tend to their equipment, prop managers and stylists exchange whispers. Special effects mages tamp down their snow spells. The illusion is stripped away, revealing a balmy day set against a backdrop of mountains.

Staff in scurry in, offering Vil towelettes and lotion to clean and moisturize his hands. He accepts them, then waves the staff off, one ferrying the fake heart.

“Bravo, Vil-kun, bravo!!” the director gushes. “I knew it was the right call to cast you as the hero for this film. There wasn’t a flaw in your acting, m’boy!!”

“Thank you, sir.” Vil bows to the older man, keeping his reply short and simple. “It is an honor to be a part of your masterfully written story."

It is the tale of a beautiful demon locked away in a glass coffin, freed from slumber and set upon the world to shroud it in never-ending winter… The tale of a selfless noble and her huntsmen that stands in opposition to her and her seven sniveling imp minions. A tale of two fates intertwining—the noble whose bloodline sealed the demon away, and the demon who vowed revenge on descendent of the Witch Queen.

Vil's eyes cannot stop themselves from sliding over to his co-star, who waits in the wings. His lifelong rival, Neige LeBlanche.

He is dressed similarly to the dummy that had been swapped in for his corpse. Red ruins his pristine white gown, and his hair is wild—but off-camera, Neige lacks the madness of the villain he plays. Neige smiles sweetly at the staff, giggles like an innocent schoolboy.

Vil fails to look away before Neige meets his eyes. He waves shyly, and, out of courtesy, Vil returns it.

“You've all been working very hard to bring my vision to life," the director happily booms. "Let's take a 30-minute break. Hydrate, grab some food, whatever. Actors, hair and makeup retouches before stepping back on set!"

There is a collective murmur of approval, feet shuffling for the refreshments table. A staff member offers Vil a spot in the donut line, but he politely declines.

"No thank you, I've prepared granola and a light fruit yogurt ahead of time. If you'll excuse me."

He peels away and heads for his trailer. Once Vil is shut away—a well-trained peacock stepping into his gilded cage—he produces his phone and reviews his jam-packed schedule: the film shoot, an interview with a popular variety show, modeling for a magazine cover, practicing for a stage play…

He, cast in the spotlight of hero in every single one.

You are the fairest of them all, Mira would robotically recite. All the social media websites and news outlets were talking nonstop about him, and he knows it.

It's the Age of Vil, his manager would joke. Isn't this great? You're demonstrating your range. This will definitely net you bigger and bigger opportunities in the future!

They’re finally recognizing you for your cuteness and goodness, his father would tell him. That’s my son! I knew everyone would come around eventually.

On any other day, he might have scoffed or dismissed their comments. Today, he simply smirks, silently pocketing his phone.

Vil passes a large vanity on his way to the mini-fridge. A glimpse of his reflection reveals the elaborate jewel-toned ensemble he is fitted for, the makeup that highlights the highest points of his face. Shining, commanding attention—just as any protagonist would.

He stands straighter, holds his chest higher. Proudly flaunting his feathers, his numerous accomplishments.

I've worked myself to the bone to reach this point. I've earned every little bit of this.

Retrieving his snacks, Vil makes to join the crew on their break. Even if Neige will be present as well, he grimaces.

A shadow invades his periphery.

Vil pauses at the doorway and looks back.

There, sitting on his vanity, was a bushel of roses the color of midnight. A black envelope embellished with gold accents is tucked among the petals.

His brows knit together. How odd--he is certain he hadn't seen that a second ago, nor had he heard anyone entering to drop it off while he was briefly at the fridge. How could he have missed such an obvious gift?

"Perhaps it's from the director or producer," he muses, plucking the envelope free and opening it.

Inside, there is, as suspected, a letter.

Same black paper, same gold embellishments.

To Schoenheit,

Please accept this humble offering from myself. It was a joy to watch you perform to your heart's content.

I was very moved by the experience. It is not often that I get to observe Man in all of its peaks and crests in such a short span of time.

I will continue to watch over you and support your dreams from the sidelines.

Sincerely,

M. D.

Initials in the place of a name? Vil turns the paper over, expecting more on the other side. It's unlike his fans to leave out their full identity. (Half of the time, they include a list of their social media handles and beg for a follow back.)

But alas, the back is blank and yields no answers.

He frowns, facing the words scrawled on the front of the square again. The cogs in his head turn, arriving at a single logical conclusion.

I only know of one possible M.D., but... Is he truly the type to send notes of this nature?

Vil toys with the idea in his head, just as he toys with the letter between his fingers. Ego rises and colors his lenses.

"Fufufu, it seems that even great mages such as he are not immune to my beauty and talent." Vil chuckles, exiting the trailer. His adoring fans await.

He's right about everything, and he doesn't realize how wrong he wants to be.

#twst #twisted wonderland #Vil Schoenheit #Neige LeBlanche #disney twisted wonderland #disney twst #twst countdown #twisted wonderland countdown #twst imagines #twisted wonderland imagines #twst scenarios #twisted wonderland scenarios #I've been dreaming... #book 5 spoilers #twst anni #twisted wonderland anni #twst anniversary #twisted wonderland anniversary

[graveboywalking]

can I request emo npts?

YES OF COURSE !! Guys I will take any requests, just as long as they are SFW Gonna make a scene one too for you scene peoplez :]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

★彡[ᴇᴍᴏ ɪᴅ ᴘᴀᴄᴋ]彡★

𝙽𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚜:

Luna ⛤ Celeste ⛤ Raven ⛤ Cyrus ⛤ Silvia ⛤ Alice ⛤ Blythe ⛤ Bellatrix ⛤ Ebony ⛤ Octavia ⛤ Zade ⛤ Willow ⛤ Zyair/Zaire ⛤ Marceline ⛤ Sash(a) ⛤ Ash ⛤ Lyxzen ⛤ Phoenix ⛤ Sonya ⛤ Iris ⛤ Raine ⛤ Sparrow ⛤ Jade ⛤ Ivy ⛤ Ivory ⛤ Jasper ⛤ Opal ⛤ Kat ⛤ Sapphire ⛤ Zircon ⛤ Gerard ⛤ Ronnie ⛤ Mika ⛤ Nina ⛤ Aisling ⛤ Lapis ⛤ Pixie ⛤ Erin ⛤ Maddox ⛤ Lexie ⛤ Madeline ⛤ Ayesha

𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚜:

It/Its/Itself Ey/Em/Emself Dead/Deads/Deadself Cata/Catatonic/Catatonics/Catatonicself Quiet/Quiets/Quietself Black/Black/Blackself Red/Reds/Redself Ev/Evs/Evself Ghost/Ghosts/Ghostself Cat/Cats/Catself 2000/2000s/2000self Rawr/Rawrs/Rawrself Nya/Nyan/Nyans/Nyanself XD/XDs/XDself Mew/Mews/Mewself Pixel/Pixels/Pixelself ?!/!?/?!self 6/666/666self Cry/Crys/Cries/Cryself Emo/Emos/Emoself .exe/.exes/.exeself .net/.nets/netself .txt/.txts/.txtself Bone/Bones/Boneself 3rr0r/3rr0rs/3rr0rself Si/Silent/Silents/Silentself 🖤/🖤s/🖤self 🐈‍⬛/🐈‍⬛s/🐈‍⬛self 🕸/🕸s/🕸self Video/Game/Videos/Games/Videoself/Gameself 3ds/3ds/3dself Stick/Stickers/Stickerself Spi/Spider/Spiders/Spiderself Vamp/Vamps/Vampself

𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜:

Emogender ⛤ Vampiregender ⛤ Emocatgender ⛤ XDgender ⛤ Neoncoric ⛤ Neongender ⛤ Nyanmemegender ⛤ Cringecoric ⛤ Weirdkidgender ⛤ Awkwardcoric/Funkygender ⛤ Edgycoric ⛤ Emocoric ⛤ Corpsegender ⛤ Blackcatgender ⛤ Blackgender ⛤ Redgender ⛤ 2000sgender ⛤ MCRgender

𝚃𝚒𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚜:

Me And The Devil ⛤ (Band) My Beloved ⛤ Dinosrawr XD ⛤ Cringe The Emo ⛤ (Un)Dead Being ⛤ (Name) The (Color) ⛤ The Blackest Cat ⛤ I'm Not Okay ⛤ (Name).exe / (Name).net / (Name).txt ⛤ (Name) Is A Vampire

#🦷 . . . #🪓 . . . #------------------------------------ #errr i tried my hardest #feel free to add onto this #npgt #nptg #npt #gender suggestions #mogai blog #pro mogai #name inspiration #name ideas #name inspo #name suggestions #title suggestions #id pack #id packs #npts #npt suggestions #pronoun suggestions #mogai gender #mogai safe #pronoun ideas #title ideas #2000s emo #emo girl #emocore #emo #emo boy

[chumpovodir]

i don't have it in me at the moment to make a long, detailed rant about this but r/castlevania's insistence that games!Isaac is a lesser character for being a "self-harm obsessed, shallow BDSM playboy that only serves as an inciting incident" compared to N!Isaac?

first of all, i think y'all are letting anime stereotypes from the early 2000s massively color your opinion and it's really obvious you didn't bother looking at his character any deeper than that. edit: i'm putting this under a cut because it was actually, in hindsight, a pretty long post lmao

"BDSM playboy"? my man was sitting in the ruins of his home for 3 goddamn years letting the clothes rot off his back, in no condition to care about his appearance and with precious little materials to forge something new. you could also argue that his skimpy look is a mark of his arrogance (already well-established by his fight with Hector previously, and feeling so cocksure he sends his Devil away and even arms Hector with a sword, confident he could easily take him in a fair fight), going into battle barely clothed as a show of faith in his own skill after playing Hector like a fiddle. or even as a radical show of his devotion, the Devil Forgemasters crest embedded in his skin for the world to see; the fact that the physical marks of his position may fade away, but it goes so much deeper than that - it's seared into his very flesh, and will only die when he and his corporeal form finally leave this earth. also, it just speaks to a really shallow understanding of BDSM in general to associate "skimpy strappy outfit = kinky"

"self-harm obsessed"? first of all, where is ANYONE getting this notion from the game itself?? (considering there's a very low chance these people even know about the mangas) there is literally no scene in-game where he self-harms - further proof people are grafting a grab bag of stereotyped character traits onto him when the canon doesn't support it. if this is about his tattoos, i consider this a bit of a reach, but then i don't regularly associate tattoos with masochism.

there is of course this one, singular panel from Prelude to Revenge where we see him slitting his wrists:

but the context here makes it clear: 1) he's doing this as a morbid way to mark the passage of time and 2) most likely in response to the sheer contrast between him and Hector's respective situations - how would you feel seeing the guy who was at least partially responsible for your predicament living a happy life, while you're forced to live in the abandoned ruins of your home, constantly surrounded by all that you've lost? this is an act being shown when he's at his very lowest.

and this is the only instance we actually see - there is no other official material that implies this is something he does on the regular, although it's a popular headcanon considering the general fandom consensus that he most likely had a very rough start to life.

shitting on him for being "merely an inciting incident"? i don't even know what to say to this - do you understand how characters and stories work...? the narrative lives and dies on the push and pull of characters taking actions and other characters responding!

but it sure is curious (read: hypocritical) that this is a negative in these people's eyes when you point out the similarities between Lisa's and Rosaly's deaths.

sure, there is a bigger story about the cruelty of humanity as a whole that Lisa was executed, unprompted while Rosaly's execution was deliberately manipulated by Isaac - but that also adds to Isaac's character, the fact that both he and his younger sister were persecuted for being bonafide magic practitioners, and the sheer hypocrisy of and underhandedness of knowing that pain firsthand, and choosing to inflict it on an innocent woman anyway. it really shows how much his morals, if he ever had any, has truly eroded to the point he only cares about causing maximum damage.

i don't even want to waste my words on the ways N!Isaac is a worse character, comparatively, if you actually take into account the themes of the Devil Forgemasters' respective stories as presented in the games. but it does chap my asshole that, from this angle, both N!Isaac and N!Hector end up for the worse since now their stories are completely decoupled and it ruins the symbolism and duality that their game counterparts had.

#raaaaaaaggghhhhhhh CHUMPO SMASH!!!! #castlevania #anti netflixvania #isaac laforeze #isaac castlevania #castlevaniaposting #<- N!Isaac dickriders you WILL read my posts and quit acting smug #akumajou dracula

[clairewriteshaikyuuxreader]

His kid asks him to stay away (Oikawa, Atsumu)

Inspired by two scenes from Gilmore Girls. 

Oikawa is surprised but beaming when he finds his daughter standing outside his hotel suite. "Hey, princess!" He envelopes Yuma (悠真) in a tight hug, which she reluctantly returns.

"I'm sorry I didn't call–" 

Tooru shakes his head, squeezing her shoulders. "Nonsense. You're always welcome here. Hey, I made that corned beef that you like. The one with potatoes? I can heat them up right now. Come inside."

"No, that's okay. Listen, dad..." She takes a step back, pulling herself away from his arms. "Mom has a boyfriend."

Tooru blinks. "Oh."

"It's Uncle Iwa."

He inhales sharply. "Yeah, I...I heard."

Japan's team had a plethora of colorful characters, and the more noisy members liked to talk online and post photos of their unknowing teammates, coaches, and trainers. One particular trainer had many candid photos of him and Oikawa's ex wife in the background. You were never active in social media, so Tooru shamefully relied on his daughter's posts to see how you were doing. Her posts were always the same: friends, school, you and her together. You two were like the happier, healthier version of the Gilmore Girls. And there was no other man in your life as far as he can tell.

Everything was fine until last month.

Last month was your first birthday after the divorce. Tooru was in Argentina and could only send a polite greeting and of course, you only sent a simple 'thank you.' 

The same time, his daughter uploaded two photos: one was of you two, and the other was of you and his best friend, sitting awfully close to each other. 

He remembered that day like it was yesterday. After seeing Iwaizumi so close to you with the faintest red in his face, he had to know, he had to ask.

Three rings before the trainer picked up.

"What the hell, Trashykawa–"

"Are you seeing my wife?"

"..."

Tooru didn't even need an answer. The silence spoke for itself. But he wanted to hear what his friend had to say.

"Oikawa..."

"Please, Iwa-chan. Tell me the truth," he whispers. Iwaizumi had to have known how much Tooru still loves you, how much he wants to turn back time and fix everything. He had to know, because Tooru cried to him the night he signed the papers.

On the other side of the line, Iwaizumi inhales. Then he says, "She's not your wife anymore."

Tooru hung up. He was glad that Japan was an ocean away, because he would've driven straight to Iwaizumi's house and beat him up.

"Dad?" his daughter calls out to him.

"Sorry, sweetie, daddy spaced out for a bit."

His daughter examines his face, her own expression hesitant but determined. She sticks her hands into her coat pocket and speaks up again: "I want you to stay away from them."

Time stills and Tooru feels sick. "You...what?"

"Dad, I love you but...but you hurt mom."

"Honey, I– "

"And it doesn't matter if you mean to or not, you just do. You just do. And before you start, you should know that mom never speaks bad about you, well, not in front of me anyway--"

Tooru should be proud. Even at this moment his sweet Yuma retains his and your snarkiness. But right now he just wants to throw up. 

"My point," she continues, "is that I'm not here because mom says you're the devil."

"I know. Your mom isn't like that."

"So then you know that she doesn't deserve getting clobbered."

"... I do."

"She deserves to be happy, dad, and Uncle Iwa makes her happy. I know that you must be mad and hurt but I'm begging you to please let them be."

Tooru can't bring himself to open his mouth as his daughter brushes back her hair, trying to hold back her tears. "I'm still gonna visit you and you can visit me. You can get angry at them and me but don't do anything because... because you should see how mom smiles now."

He understands. Looking back at it now, he couldn't recall the last time you smile so genuinely when you were with him.

His little girl, acting not so little anymore, rubs her face. "Anyway, that's all I got to say. It was nice seeing you."

"Wait–"

"I still have to meet up with my friends."

"At least let me drive–"

"This isn't Argentina, dad," she points out. 

He doesn't have a car here. "Right." 

She gives him a pitying look but only mutters out a "bye" before leaving.

Tooru silently opens the door to his hotel room. 

He heats up the leftover corned beef from last night and sets down his plate on the table, settling in front of the TV.

But he doesn't eat or even listen to the news.

He cradles his head between his hands.

His only daughter, his sweet, little princess who should be free of troubles, came here just to tell him to stay away.

"Dammit." He swallows the lump in his throat as he fiddles with the ring he refuses to take off. "I'm pathetic."

You didn’t ask much. You always supported Atsumu, always defended him from your family when your parents accused him of abandoning you, always made excuses and did everything–everything to keep your relationship happy. 

You loved your job and if someone were to go back in time and ask you if you would sacrifice your career for a guy, you’d throw your head back and guffaw, because the idea was insane. But then you met Atsumu, and he wasn’t just some guy. He was the guy. He was sweet and funny and supportive. He adored his mother, he had a good relationship with his brother. He was passionate and he shone brighter than anyone. 

And you loved how much he loved volleyball.

So you didn’t ask for much. 

You didn’t complain when he had to leave you alone when he was off to Argentina or China for weeks and months.

You didn’t whine when he couldn’t accompany you to family reunions and weddings of close friends.

It was your idea to quit your job the moment the test came out positive. 

Sure, you loved your job–love your job–but Atsumu was your whole world. You never thought you’d have someone like him in your life and you were determined to be happy with him and the bundle of joy you two made.

Your son was born healthy. Hiroyuki (ヒロユキ), you decided to name him. Atsumu was there and he showed off the little runt to the doctor who delivered, to the nurses who helped, and your family members waiting outside.

You didn’t expect yourself to end up the way you did, but everything was fine.

Your boys were healthy.

Your husband was doing great. Every week there was always a shower of praise for your genius setter.

Your son grew up nothing like his dad though: while Atsumu was brash and loud-mouthed, his son was a quiet and polite boy who hated conflict; while Atsumu lived for volleyball, his son hated getting dirty and sweaty and preferred academics.  

You and Atsumu still wanted him to be healthy though, so you encouraged him to exercise and pursue other hobbies.

Your son only begrudgingly agreed to get you both to shut up.

Everything was great.

You were great. You were content. 

But then you saw it, a single message from an unknown number on your husband’s phone.

“I had an amazing night. Call me when you’re in the city.”

Your shining world crumbled in an instant.

You couldn’t remember what you did next. You vaguely recall smashing the device into a mirror and locking yourself in the guest bedroom. 

The next six months were a blur, too.

You froze out your husband though you didn’t tell your son the truth, only telling him that mommy and daddy just couldn’t be with each other anymore. Some people were appalled that you wanted to get a divorce. “Because so what if he cheated?” They had asked. “Think of your son.”

You did think of your son. Ever since you discovered you were pregnant with him, you always thought of your son. 

The divorce was for his sake as much as yours, because you had no guarantee that you wouldn’t end up murdering his father if you stayed next to him.

So you bought a different house in the next city, got your old job back, and got divorced. Shared custody. 

The whole ordeal felt unreal. Every day, you felt like you would float out to space, but you had Hiroyuki, who liked to tug on your pants and remind you: “I’m here, mama.”

You would laugh and give him the tightest hug every time. You wished you didn’t cry so much every time though. You wanted to be stronger for both of you.

And you were strong enough.

With your baby and your job back, you became too busy to even think about your cheating ex. 

Fast forward years later and it’s now your baby’s middle school graduation.

“You’re now a man!”

“Stop it, mom.”

“Whatever happened to ‘mama’?”

“Mom.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” You kissed his cheek. “Your dad should be here soon.”

“It’s okay, I’m not a kid anymore, you don’t have to lie.”

You gently flicked his forehead. “I made sure to tell him.”

He blinked. “You did?”

“I did.”

“When…when did you tell him?”

“Last week–”

“You didn’t have to tell him.” 

“He’s still your dad.”

“Yeah, my dad,” he bitterly repeats. Although the lawyers agreed on shared custody, the man was rarely around. When it was Atsumu’s turn to take care of Hiroyuki, he was almost never at home and the people who took care of the kid were either his mom or his brother. Truth be told, Hiroyuki didn’t care. How could he possibly forget the many days he caught his mom trying desperately to hide her sadness and the many nights she sobbed in her bedroom when she thought her son was asleep? Children weren’t idiots. And Hiroyuki never bought into the idea that kids needed a mother and a father either. Why would he? He grew up with only his mother being there for him, so why would he need his father now?

“I would’ve called him myself if you really wanted him here,” he says.

“It’s not about me wanting him here, it’s about him having to want to be here, and he should be here. It’s his only son’s graduation.”

“Middle school graduation. It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.”

“It’s a celebration in mediocrity.” 

“That’s a lot coming from the valedictorian and…” You fall quiet.

“What’s wrong?” He turns to follow your line of sight. 

He exhales when he sees his sperm-donor walking into the auditorium, dressed in a clean polo shirt and some woman hanging off his elbow.

His Uncle Samu’s right: the man’s an idiot.

“Hey, mom, could you get me a soda?”

“Huh?” You snap out of your trance. 

“I’m kinda thirsty.”

You try to protest but quickly quiet down before giving your son a sad smile and walking towards the cafeteria.

Hiroyuki inherited his father’s height so it only took a few strides before he caught up to the man and his plus one.

“Hi dad.”

Atsumu grins at his son. “There he is, the man of the hour. Happy graduation, kid!”

Hiroyuki bites his lip. He hates how oblivious this guy is. He hates how he could smile like this and bring this woman with him like nothing’s wrong and that everything is okay. 

He doesn’t say anything else and an awkwardness falls between the three of them.

Atsumu clears his throat and gestures towards his date. “Have you met–”

“–no.” Hiroyuki shuts him down. “Dad, can we talk? Alone.”

The woman looks peeved and makes a face, like she’s expecting Atsumu to get mad on her behalf, but the volleyball player only shrugs and pulls his arm away from her. “Sure thing.”

The two guys walk to a corner in the room, away from prying eyes.

“Hey, I got you some cash but it kinda feels like it’s not enough, so do you have anything you want for today?”

Without hesitation, Hiroyuki speaks up: “Stay away from mom.”

Atsumu’s head swerves and he is forced to look straight into the clear, unyielding eyes of his only son. 

There is a pause.

Atsumu lets out a nervous chuckle. “I’m sorry, I thought I just heard you say that you want me to stay away from your mom.”

“You heard right.” Hiroyuki crosses his arms. “Dad, I know what you’re trying to do.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Bringing that woman here? I know you’re trying to make mom jealous.”

“That’s ridiculous! First of all, that woman is named Ochaco.”

“What’s her last name?”

“...”

“Dad, just stop. That’s the best thing you can give me.”

“Son–”

“I know you still love her.” Hiroyuki knows how the man looks at you, because it’s the same look you had whenever you heard his name or saw him on the news. He hates that you’re still in love with your ex, because those feelings blinded you from realizing how his Uncle Samu looks at you; Samu who helped you move, Samu who packed your things into boxes because you couldn’t bear a second longer in Atsumu’s house, Samu who made sure you and Hiro were always fed, Samu who could comfort you in ways Hiro couldn’t because you didn’t want to look weak in front of your boy. “But you can’t be together, not anymore, so please just stop these stupid games and go back.”

“What?”

“I have mom, I have Uncle Samu, they’re all I need.” 

“Hiro–”

The speakers blared with feedback before the emcee called for all graduates to find their seats. 

“I have to go. Bye, dad.”

Atsumu wants to pull back his son, to talk with him, but seeing his little boy walking confidently away from him broke his heart.

He bites his lip.

He really did f*** up. 

#hq!! #haikyuu!! #haikyuu #hq x reader #atsumu #atsumu miya #atsumu x y/n #atsumu miya x y/n #oikawa #oikawa tooru #oikawa x y/n #love triangle #unrequited love #angst #hurt #comfort #iwaizumi x reader #iwaizumi hajime #iwaizumi x y/n #married life #divorced #osamu #osamu miya #osamu x y/n #osamu x reader #son #daughter #fem reader #fem y/n #i'm tired

[sasster]

Getaway

Don’t know how we got here, but! Here we are. If you see typos, no you didn’t. [Doc]

—

Dreams, for those who have them, are an unappreciated gift. Because the prophet does not possess the ability to conjure his own, ironic as that might be all things considered, he must stick to rooting in the minds of others so that he may steal theirs. This way he can, for a moment, drift off into a sweet fantasy and leave the headache of the waking world behind him. Heaven knows he has had no shortage of headaches recently; Mettling Roatuses, handsy fathers, and whiny bratty godlings included.

The process is a simple one, Cylion need only enter a sort of meditation, push away his own thoughts, and allow the constant vibrations of the unconscious minds that surround him to cross the threshold of his own consciousness. The ones he has made a visit to in the past buzz at a higher frequency in an attempt to lull him into the security of a familiar mind, when he chooses to reach beyond them, he finds the tentative hum of dreamers that have not had the pleasure of hosting him. In times of boredom, he would follow that thread as far as it went and test the outer limits of his dream hopping and mending.

Neither business nor boredom brought him here, though, so he lays in his bed and chews on the decision of where to go while his mind begins to flood with the hopes, aspirations, dread, and regret of the people around him. Mostly followers, he thinks, and the last thing he wants to waste his freetime on is Nymira’s following fawning over her.

He has had quite enough of fawning over Nymira these days. Ugh, the thought is nearly enough to throw his focus off altogether. Thankfully, he doesn’t get to dwell on that idea for too long before something interesting draws his attention. A mind that he visited in the past but has not seen in some time reveals itself to him.

In practicing to be the perfect prophet for the mutant dreamer, Cylion had become very good at picking out whose thoughts he would find himself swimming in. Magical to an observer, but to him it is as much a science as picking up color coded folders and knowing which one is math and which one is history. Only a moron could mistake the psyche of someone like Somnia for, say, Nymira.

Motivations change the flavor, experience influences the color.

The mind that reaches out to him vibrates at a frequency not dissimilar to his own fathers. A vile mind, steeped in the sort of cruelty that is somehow mindless let calculated at the same time. Such a mind that a more timid man might want to keep it miles away, but Cylion’s curiosity is only piqued; Minds do not just drop off of the grid once he has mingled with them, barring death, and they certainly do not crop back up out of nowhere either.

Something tells him he knows exactly who it belongs to even before he starts to dig into it.

“I wonder what the devil dreams of.” He muses to himself, which is the same as speaking out loud when in this state.

The rest of the vibrating bubbles of consciousness melt away in sync with the bed as he negotiates communication with the mind of his new subject, he has no intention of fabricating so he allows the scene to wash over him. The ceiling is replaced by the thick canopy of a forest, it brings along with it the smell of wet earth. Towering trees crowd his vision, save for a path that leads down to a clearing meant for a large building. Nearby running water completes the scene and it is all draped in a thick curtain of melancholy.

One man’s longing is another man’s relaxation, it seems.

Cylion finds his legs and sets off down the path towards the clearing, the satisfying crunch of leaves under his feet is more clear to him than anything he’d stumbled in on a whim before.

At the clearing he finds the purple blood, unmoving and staring wordlessly out in front of him. When the dreamer is certain that his visitor is within earshot, he speaks.

“He dreams of home.” Persep answers his question, turning to face him on the approach. “Or what is left of it.”

Not entirely surprised to see the man, but somehow put off by the sight of him without his face paint and stitches, as though he’d expected the man to dream himself in that state, Cylion raises both of his eyebrows. Then his lips quirk into a smile.

“Are you trying to get sympathy from me?” He comes to stand directly beside him. “That’s rich.”

“I am only answering your question. You’re visiting me, after all. What are you running from, Holy One?”

Cylion makes a face that causes Persep to flash him with a quick grin.

“Not so holy then? It’s rare that you imagine yourself without the flower these days. Isn’t it part of the holy look?”

The yellow blood sucks his teeth and rolls his eyes while Persep, ever the lucid dreamer, materializes a replica sunflower in his hand. Cylion digs the tip of his toes into the earth mindlessly.

“This divinity shit is so frustrating.”

“Imagine the real thing. It’s a bitch.”

“Hard pass.”

Persep lets out a bark of a laugh, turning the flower over in his hands. “Cowardice earns you nothing.”

“Courage burns your hive down?”

“Something like that. You didn’t answer my question.”

 “Hm?”

“What are you running from that you’ve found your solace with the devil?” He asks again, humored.

Cylion heaves out a sigh and drops to sit with his legs crossed, staring at the space where the puppet master’s home used to live and admiring the detail of the fire singed grass.

“I don’t know. Everything?”

#coko writes sometimes #cylion #persep #long post

[thesixthplaneteer]

Here is my entry for the Masquerade Breach zine!! I have been hitting that word limit like a brick wall for the past month, and I am too excited to keep it to myself! My piece is titled Hell-O-Ween! A Masquerade Breach Story because we like cheesy horror in this house. Thank you for reading!

It’s the late 1980s in Las Vegas, Nythanel, and Noa are attending a Halloween party being put on by Don Jacob Rothstein. Held in a mansion in the desert far away from the city, so the more illicit activities don't fall under unwanted scrutiny, and only those in the know are supposed to be there. One person slipped past security, an ancient enemy of the Giovanni whose true motives are unknown, but their eyes are set on Noa tonight. What can a neonate necromancer and waterblooded sorcerer do when things really start to go bump in the night?

The green makeup of his Audrey Two costume hid the redness but Nythanel still felt the warmth of embarrassment and anger on his face. Fighting back tears he side stepped between costumed guests, tray toting servers, and did his best to fight the urge to bull them over as he went back to the ballroom. Don Jacob Rothstein's Halloween party was in full swing. The dance floor was lively, the bar was packed, and the live band seemed like they could go all night long.

He wanted to make his problem everyone else’s problem but held onto his senses, making a scene at the head of Clan Giovanni’s party wouldn’t make his night better. Noa’s bright red hooded dress and silver devil mask were easy to spot, but seeing her didn’t bring the ease to his mind he wanted. A tall figure in an elaborate red Venetian masquerade costume with a matching laughing mask loomed over her, holding her wrist.

The party-goers near them shuffled away and gawked. No doubt they thought some crass couple brought their backroom fun to the front. A wall of bodies formed to watch, but over their shoulders Nyth could see another masked person grab Noa from behind. Nythanel shoved over a woman in a peacock dress and jammed his elbows into the sides of two clowns to get through.

Noa struggled to get out of their grasp, but Red Mask jerked her arm the other direction. The snap was audible over the music, a pained scream erupted from Noa, a jagged peak shot up from under the sleeve of her dress. The crowd around them gasped, some retched, some clapped for what they thought was some Halloween entertainment, some quickly fled, others watched on unsure what to make of the display.

Nythanel burst free of the crowd and charged them, seeing that the second assailant's costume was also Venetian - though far less elaborate and the color beige. Red Mask noticed his approach and abandoned Noa with a leap backward as Nythanel slammed into the tussle, bringing them all down to the floor hard. Noa’s silver mask clattered to the ground while Beige’s mask was knocked askew but stayed on their face. The thin fabric of their costume tore as Nythanel gathered a fistful of it and pulled, the other fist delivering a hard blow to the back of their head, forcing them to surrender Noa in order to defend themselves.

The surrounding crowd was now comprised mostly of individuals thinking this was simply a show for the party. Some clapped, some cheered for who they picked as their favorite, while a few pulled their partners away.

Moving with trained agility, Nythanel threw his leg over Beige, pushing them onto their back, gaining control of the situation. Flesh exposed itself, the torn collar of the costume revealing their throat. Nythanel gazed at the sight for a moment. He had no Beast. There was no voice demanding he feed, no inner monster begging to kill. This desire was all his. He opened wide and lurched forward, his fangs breaking skin. Any scream to come was cut short by the crushing of their windpipe beneath teeth. Fresh warm blood cascaded into his mouth. Mortal, musky, the sting of alcohol, and a wine-like sweet finish. Sanguine he thought to himself as it empowered his own weak vitae.

Nythanel didn’t see where the sawed-off shotgun came from, nor notice how Beige was able to pull the concealed weapon, he only heard the deafening bang that brought him back to reality. A shower of blood and bone poured from a bystander’s face. Screams of terror erupted from the crowd, they slammed into each other in their mad scramble, going toward the back of the manor to get away from the no longer entertaining brawl. The band abruptly stopped, the gunshot ending the revelry. Not wanting to risk Noa or himself being the target of the next round he twisted and wrenched, flesh and inner tissue tore until he ripped free the section of throat seized by his vicious teeth.

More yells of fearful confusion came from the guests, the handful of them brave or drunk enough to think they could stop a gunman turned and ran as Nythanel spit the chunk of meat onto the floor. Suddenly, he felt pressure build in his ear drums, his heart became heavy with dread despite the flood of passion from the blood. He'd felt this before, when Noa had shown off her necromantic powers in their rare moments of being able to be alone together since arriving in Las Vegas. Nythanel had thought he’d become accustomed to it, or at least shouldn’t be caught off guard by it. Still it numbed the hot anger and hatred he felt. A curtain of wispy, incorporeal figures began to fall from the ceiling. They manifested into the material world like shadows cast into the air itself as they drank in the light, only allowing a dim glow to illuminate the room. Recognizably human, yet completely otherworldly. One such shadow fell over the victim of the beige thug’s gunshot. The body began to twitch and jerk, a sickening gurgle came out of its throat as the air pushed out of its lungs. Nythanel reeled back from the corpse shambling back to its feet, and turned to see Red Mask holding a black stone.

Noa moved to stand, and for a moment she was awestruck at the blatant display of Oblivion's power. Her already dark eyes turned black like a starless night. She wiped her palm across Nythanel’s chin, wetting her hand with the blood of his victim. Willing forth her vitae through the protruding wound in her arm, she let it drip down and mix with the cooling blood before taking hold of the locket around her neck. The air around her became humid and cold. A shiver went through Nythanel as he felt an icy touch trace his spine. The rose on his lapel wilted, and the few mortals that tried running past them collapsed, their eyes went dull, skin turned pale. Sapped of life. She waved her hand out in front of her and took measured steps forward, like a priest performing a sanctifying prayer, and the wispy shadows began to retreat.

The sound of wet choking reminded Nyth of the reanimated corpse, and as his head turned back, he saw it rush past him. His body at first couldn't move as a deep and primal terror seized him. It was walking death, but not his kind of death. True death, the kind even the undead feared. He didn't want to go near that thing, but as it closed the distance between itself and Noa, he knew he had to act or he would lose her. Grabbing hold of his dying lapel rose, he squeezed hard along its thorny stem to draw blood, calling upon the sanguine power within him. He mumbled the incantation and the rose revived in his hand, more vibrant than ever.

Nythanel willed the rejuvenated plant to grow, attempting to whip it towards the corpse to stop it in its tracks. With perhaps more luck than skill, the branch wrapped around the creature's throat, barbs digging into dead flesh. Nyth pulled hard, managing to stop it mere inches from Noa, yet the body remained upright as it struggled to fulfill its goal of reaching her.

Noa didn’t waver at all, either completely confident Nythanel would help her, or far too focused on taking control of the descending wraiths.The room was a thunderous cacophony of horrified cries and screams of dismay, the shattering of glass on the ground, the panicked stampeding of a mob with no direction to go in. Those who had witnessed Nythanel's attack and the arisen corpse tried to run away, but those who hadn't seen pushed back to try and reach the front exit. Spirits accosted various bystanders, forcing themselves into unwilling bodies to inflict more fear onto those surrounding them. Poltergeists scattered plates and knocked over chairs, some managing to even drop a large chandelier on top of the crowd. In the confusion, they didn't care who was trampled. The guests desperately lashed out at anything impeding their own escapes. Jewelry, costume accessories, blood, and bodies all dropped to the floor and were stomped on without a second thought. The wraiths were erratic, but Noa fought, countering the incantations of Red Mask as the shadows ebbed and flowed around them like a turbulent ocean. To an unknowing observer, the two appeared to be simply standing in place and muttering strangely, but Nythanel knew they both were manipulating the thin fabric separating the land of death from the land of the living.

The rose Nythanel turned into a weapon was also being sapped of its life and desperately it drank from him to stay alive. He shifted his weight and pulled as hard as he could to try and bring the corpse to the ground. There was little hope in killing something that was already dead. He forced his will onto the rose once more, allowing it to drink even more of his vitae. It expanded rapidly in response, sprouting more branches that ensnared the body and sawed into its skin with mutated spikes. Despite it being controlled by a spirit, it was still limited to the strength of the muscles it still possessed, or so Noa had previously explained. The writhing and wriggling vines continued to tear, severing the veins and nerves and rendering the wretched thing immobile for good.

His vision started to blur, his head swimming as his vitae was near exhausted. The rose had taken root in his arm and now it threatened to drink him dry. With nearly all he had left, he willed the passing of seasons on the flower, advancing its life cycle to the point it began to wither and decay until it too became immobile and dead.

The two necromancers were still locked in their strange duel, fighting for control of the spirit current that flooded the manor. Nythanel knew he had to help Noa, something better than running headfirst into a death dealer but his options were limited. His eyes went to the floor for answers, and sure enough there was: shotgun. Hurriedly he picked it up and aimed, hoping it had the promised second shot, though the room spun in his hungry near-delirium. With a squeeze of the trigger the weapon thundered, sending its payload into the shoulder of the Red Mask. Crimson exploded from their wound as they stumbled back, their concentration breaking enough for Noa to gain the upper hand. Her good arm raised higher, and the undulating ceiling seemed to calm as the wraiths obeyed her. The shadow over the ballroom lifted slowly as she brought them to heel.

The Red Mask despite all of the trouble and their fresh injury seemed to have accepted their defeat. With only a glance to Noa and a dramatic throw of their cape, a cold silence surrounded them as they simply walked away. Despite the chaos of the still frightened crowd, they were swallowed within the mob as if they had not even been there. Nythanel at first made a move to follow, but stopped himself as Noa began to buckle. Good riddance, he thought sheepishly as he turned to her, relieved the death dealer decided to just leave. She was more important to him, anyway.

As the full brightness of the lights returned and the pressure lifted from his ears, the distinct sound of Italian leather stomped across the floor towards them from behind. A ham-handed man took hold of his collar and jerked him into the air, the shotgun crashing loudly onto the marble.

"You're gonna wish you were fuckin' dead when I'm through with you, Warlock." Growled Adolfo Puttanesca, right hand of the Don.

#vtm #vampire the maquerade #my writing #world of darkness #nyth #nythanel #noa #noa hidalgo #thinblood #clan giovanni #clan hecata #masquerade breach #vtm oc #harbinger of skulls #wilted roses

[nockergeek]

For the past two years, my partner and I have spent October watching horror movies. Some are films we know, others are new to us. Each year, we try to theme the movies; 2021 had Undead October (all vampires, zombies, and ghosts), and 2022 had Otherworldly October (all threats from space or other planes of reality).

2023’s theme? Kingtober - all movies based on stories by Stephen King.

We try to watch a movie everyday, but sometimes life gets in the way. The last two years, we’ve ended up with around 21 movies watched. We’re just shy of three weeks in, and up to 14 movies.

Our reviews so far:

(Note: these reviews are our opinions. As always, your mileage and tastes may vary.)

Movie 1: Carrie (1976). Stephen King’s first published novel, the first film adaptation of his work, and one of the best. The direction and cinematography is fantastic, and while maybe not scary, it tells a tragic tale of a girl victimized on all sides. Highly recommended. A.

Movie 2: The Shining (1980). I’m a fan of the book, and… I have notes. I’m with King on this one - Kubrick did not make a good adaptation. He has a great sense of framing shots, but no sense of humanity. Jack’s slide into madness feels more like a facade cracking. C at best.

(Yeah, that one’s going to be controversial. I know it’s a very famous film, and Kubrick is a director with vision, but I don’t feel like he gets people well. Also knowing what he did to Shelley Duvall makes it hard to watch her scenes.)

Movie 3: Doctor Sleep (2019). An intriguing sequel to The Shining, and you definitely need to have seen that film to appreciate the visuals in this one. Better characters, but a far more complex plot that doesn’t quite fire on all cylinders. Decent use of Chekov’s boxes, though. A high B-.

Movie 4: Silver Bullet (1985). A passable popcorn werewolf movie. Good story (Cycle of the Werewolf is a good novella) marred by some rough acting, uneven pacing, and some really bad effects. I’m guessing they didn’t have Rick Baker werewolf money. A solid C+, and very watchable.

Movie 5: Cat’s Eye (1985). A perfectly serviceable anthology with two thrillers based on short stories, and one new kid’s fantasy/horror story. Really only marred by horrible synth music. It would get a B, but Drew Barrymore gets flipped off by a troll, so it gets an automatic A+.

Movie 6: The Dead Zone (1983). One of the best King adaptations so far, easily up there with Carrie. David Cronenberg is a fantastic director, and he and Christopher Walken tell Johnny Smith’s tragic story of unwanted psychic visions with craft and grace. This one gets a solid A.

Movie 7: Creepshow (1982). George Romero and Stephen King’s homage to old EC horror comics. It’s intentionally campy and wonderfully stylish, with vivid colors and dark comedy throughout. Good use of animated interludes, which really drives home the comic book feel. A fun B+.

Movie 8: Christine (1983). The tale of a boy and his evil, possessed, regenerating murder car. John Carpenter does a great job adapting the book to film, and has some fantastic shots, the best of which is Christine in flames chasing a bully down like the devil itself. Another solid A.

Movie 9: Children of the Corn (1984). Wow, this movie was bad. Poor pacing, terrible effects, high-school-level acting, multiple characters making dumb decisions, and odd exposition kids ruin what is otherwise a neat concept. Such a letdown after the last two films. D-.

Movie 10: It (2017). This one was solid, a very good adaptation. It did a good job of ratcheting up the terror, making you want to see how It was going to mess with the members of the Losers Club, and had good character arcs too. Let’s hope Part 2 holds up as well. This one gets an A.

Movie 11: It Part 2 (2019). So, yeah, the follow-up was just about as good as the first one. Excellent pacing with moments to breathe and laugh between the horrors, and a surprising amount to say about trauma and healing. Maybe a bit overlong, but still good. B+.

Movie 12: Graveyard Shift (1990). A movie about an old textile mill with one hell of a rat problem. This one is both over- and under-acted at the same time, and the lead has zero presence or charisma. Mildly entertaining, though, in a campy way. Still better than Children of the Corn. C-.

Movie 13: 1408 (2007). One skeptical writer vs. the most evil room ever. Purely psychological/paranormal horror, and excellently written and acted. Lots of fake outs and mean-spirited twists in this smallest of haunted houses. Among the best we’ve watched so far, and an easy A.

#horror movies #stephen king #movie marathon #Kingtober

[surprisingmarch]

~-~Desperate~-~

M!Grey Alien x F!Human Reader (NSFW) Rating: 18+

Story Type: Thriller/ Romance/ Smut / Fluff

3,985 Words

-Y/N = Your name- -L/N = Last name-

Music I listened to as I wrote: -"Charlie's Inferno - That Handsome Devil" -"• 911 - Elise (sped up) •"

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Dark and muggy, the wind rustled the damp dewy leaves high above. The sky was a dark grey with nary a glimmer of star shine, the clouds seemed to swirl and twirl around the surrounding woods in which you were wandering. The subtle scent of rain filled the air along with the smell of dampened soil. Loud cracks and unknown noises can be heard in all directions around you, it certainly doesn't help that the wind is blowing so hard that the branches are contorting and screeching with terror. You can't help but feel watched in this oddly dreadful setting.

The hairs raise on the back of your neck as you tune into a singular suspicious noise coming from behind you. A rhythmic sound of crunching sticks and soft moistened footsteps echoes through out the wooded scene in unison with yours. You pause and survey your surroundings, a tall dark shadow looms just behind a tree. Your stomach drops through your ass and any saliva left in your parched mouth immediately evaporates. "Who's there?" You ask in the most stable and confident voice you can muster in this sort of circumstance. The looming figure steps out from behind the tree just enough to be seen. A tall, lanky, light grey skinned being with big black eyes glares down at you. It's expression is deadpan, it's eyes sparkled from the millions of stars peering in from above. It's astronomically tall, at least 10 feet. It's skinny, yet muscular. More so lean than lanky. Out of all the physical differences this being has from humans, what bothers you most is the fact it looks so young. It has no wrinkles, almost like it's beyond time itself. Yet.. it feels so old, very, very, old. You look it dead in the boundless black voids it calls eyes. It tilts it's head at you, it's eyes seem to soften ever so slightly and a faint purple coloration appears on it's cheeks. "Is it.. blushing..?" You think to yourself, still dazed and terrified of the being in front of you. You feel a warmth come over your face and soon after, your core. Something about it made you feel a certain way and you aren't exactly proud of it. You feel your sex tingle wildly, you can't tell if your aroused by the being's physical physique or just by the fact it isn't human. Either way, you're very ashamed of your body's... and mind's reaction.

it's eyes widen and soften even more, almost as if it can sense your arousal. It takes a slow step forward and purposely drops something from it's left hand. You start to back up and desperately try to see what on earth it just dropped. Your eyes frantically dart from the item on the ground to the being. It looks to be some sort of gun.. it's a silvery blue color, smooth and minimalistic. There's a trigger and what almost looks like a small knife on the end. It takes another step, you focus your gaze back on the being and swiftly take a few more steps back and end up you tripping over your own feet. You feel an unknown force grab your body just before you hit the ground, the invisible influence gently lays you onto the damp ground.

You look back up at the being and you can't help but notice a certain energy coming off of it, it feels... awkward. It feels like it's desperately trying to be friendly but is failing miserably. Behind the painful awkwardness you swear you can feel a mutual sexual longing coming from it, and based off the flush across it's cheeks and nose, you assume you're correct. You feel an unholy amount of discharge leak out of you, which just embarrasses you even further. If this.. alien.. was in fact a more advanced species that came to earth seeking knowledge, then you bet you look like a damn fool for feeling this way. What's even worse is that you're not even scared anymore, just aroused.

It's body language seems, unsure to be certain. Almost like it's never tried to approach a human before. It squats in front of your feet and looks you up and down almost as if it's checking to see if you're hurt before it looks you dead in your eyes with that familiar soft gaze. The faint sexual longing coming off the alien amplifies 10 fold as it tilts it's head at you again. It never breaks eye contact with you and it's expression almost makes you think it just asked you a question. Then you realize, it's talking to you through it's energy some how. It's not like anything you could've ever imagined, you always assumed an alien would use actual words instead of energies.. but then again, it may not know how to speak english. "Can… you understand.. me?" You ask, you're a bit unsure of how you should be feeling right now, but you know arousal is definitely not the correct emotion for this kind of encounter. Your mind races as it slowly nods in response. "..Can you speak english?" You ask slowly. "Yes." A faint deep voice rumbles from within your mind, your flush deepens.

You've always had a thing for deep voices, quite frankly, it embarrasses you that a voice of all things can turn you on. Physical touch is understandable, natural even, but a deep voice? It's never something you would ever share with anyone, to be sure. You're really starting to question your sexuality. It's face also flushes deeper, it's eyes are still locked onto yours, still awaiting an answer. Suddenly calm and steadily, it speaks within your mind once more. "I can feel your sexual longing, I have mutual feelings, I propose we engage in sexual intercourse to satisfy each other's desires." You blink a few times, amazed that your suspicions were correct. "I, uhm.. hehe.." You giggle nervously before you attempt to speak again. "First of all, are you male or female or does your species have a lack of gender or a third or forth gender or-" It puts a finger over your lips, you look up into it's eyes once more, it smirks and retracts it's finger and carefully lays it's hand back with the other on it's knees. "Male." This time the voice felt louder and more authoritative. You feel like it's getting a bit frustrated, possibly from being aroused. Who knows what kind of symptoms his species has when it comes to arousal. "Do… you.." You pause. "Do I?" He carefully asks, he puts his left elbow on his knee and his hand on his cheek. "Do you have protection or.. and will the sex kill me..?" You ask gingerly. "Excuse me?" He responds rather flabbergasted. "Why on earth would you need protection during sex? Do you assume I'm going to slice your throat or blow your brains out while engaging in such a sacred act? Why would it kill you? Do you not understand how intercourse works?" He interrogated, obviously offended by your queries.

"No no- nothing like that.. I meant-" Your cut off but a rather frustrated groan. "You're referring to that awful "Alien" movie aren't you?" You're surprised that he used air quotations, you're even more surprised that he knows that movie. "Yes how did you..?-" Your cut off once again. "It's irrelevant how I know that information. The way we engage in sexual intercourse is similar to humans. You won't need protection.." He rubs his brow, you quickly correct him before he blows a blood vessel. "With the protection part I meant a condom. It prevents women from getting pregnant. It's like a rubber sock for your penis.." He stops and slowly gazes back up at you. He slowly lowers his hand back to his knee. After a moment silent staring he hums. He straightens his posture and returns his other hand back onto his knee as well. "You won't get pregnant, you have my word." He promises, his voice soft and kind, yet impatient. "Then okay.. bu-" You are cut off for the forth time by him picking you up bridal style and speed walking deeper into the woods. "What on earth-" Once more, you are interrupted by the rather irritated alien. "I am taking you to my ship. I assume you do not want to soil your body with mud and bugs." You stare up at him silently. He's definitely not wrong. "I.. apologize for my rude behavior. It seems my arousal is causing quite a few hormonal disturbances." He apologizes softly. "So you're sexually frustrated?" He glances down at you then back up. "I suppose." He responds blatantly. You run a hand across his chest, His skin is so soft, like a butterfly's wing. He groans softly. A deep rumble of a groan, enough to make a weak woman cum on the spot. "It's okay.. I know how it feels." You say gently, you feel him relax slightly. He takes a slow deep breath in, then out. Suddenly, you feel him walk up an incline. You were so distracted by him you completely missed that you're now in a meadow and going up a long ramp into a giant circular UFO. "Damn, seems like something I would notice." You think to yourself, slightly pissed off by the fact you didn't get a close up of the UFO. Once in a life time opportunity and you missed it. "I guess I can see it when I leave.." You think about how absurd this entire situation is. "Is this really happening.. did I get whacked by a wolf and die? Is this some kind of weird limbo?" You wonder to yourself. You hear the ramp close behind the both of you. "SHIT! I wasn't paying attention again!" You quickly survey your surroundings. Metal, lots of matte metal, fascinating. Built in ceiling lights, seems very normal. Many objects are hung on the walls. They all seem to be weapons of some kind. You enter a new room, the lights in here were dimmer, it seemed to be a bedroom of some kind. You missed almost the entirety of the interior of the UFO. The alien walks in very big strides and considering he's 10 foot, he's a very quick walker.

He swiftly and softly lays you onto what you can only assume is his bed. It's a giant metal table attached to the side of a wall with some random blankets and pillows. Within an instant, he's on top of you, looking deep into your eyes. A soft growl like rumble escapes him. "Ready?" He asks impatiently. He pushes his pelvis against yours in anticipation. "Yes." You respond, you reach up and grip around his neck. Suddenly something yanks your shorts and underwear off and throws them onto the floor. This jostles a yelp out of you, that, scared the ever living shit out of him. You felt him freeze on the spot and look at you with the most concerned expression you've ever seen. "I'm okay, it just startled me." You reassure him, you reach down and rub his right cheek, he leans into it and starts to growl once more. He shoves his face between the crook of your neck and a long wet appendage wraps around your throat. You moan like a little bitch, he finally loses himself in the arousal. You feel something hot and moist suddenly slide onto your leg before it slithers it's way up your thigh and with one quick thrust, he enters you. You gasp and desperately grab at the blankets below you as a whoreish moan slips past your lips. He lets out a deep guttural moan, unlike any you've ever heard before. It's like something from a monster fuckers wet dream. He lifts his head until he's facing you head on, he ruts his hips into you hitting every little weak spot you have. Whatever he's packing down there is huge and is the perfect shape for your tight little pussy. He appears to be examining your reactions to different thrusts. You start to pant and realize you may be in for one hell of a ride. He switches it up and slowly pulls out then plummets swiftly back inside you, you moan loudly as tears start to swell in your eyes, but apparently your moan wasn't loud enough for him. He tries grinding the soft spot you have towards your belly button. He experiments on you like you're his little lab rat until he finds the perfect combination that makes you scream with ecstasy. You look down to try to take a peek at what he's packing, he notices and slips out for a few moments so you can examine him. You blink a few times to clear your blurry vision. A thick white liquid drips from the tip of what looks relatively like a human penis. It was grey at the base but towards the tip it turned into a deep purple ombre. You remember his blush being purple so you assume his blood is purple, unless it turns a different color because of his veins or when it leaves his body. The base seems thicker than the tip. It's huge and girthy, you're surprised you were even able to take it. You reach down to squeeze it, it's surprisingly squishy, that must be why it was so easy for you to take him. He groans loudly, you hear him grip the blankets, as he starts to heave. He seems like he's barely keeping himself under control. You let go and wrap your arms back around his neck and look up at him. He looks down at you, his eyes are half lidded and he's flushed a deep purple just like his member. He starts to thrust wildly yet methodically. He has such a loving way about his movements, he makes sure he hits your every spot yet simultaneously taking care of his own needs as well.

You dig your nails into his back and start to moan louder and louder. He groans then you feel a warm liquid spill out of his appendage as he speeds up slightly. "Aha! A weakness!" You think to yourself as you try to think of any way to pull a reaction like that out of him again. "What? is my tight little hole too much for a big gruff man like yourself? Are you too weak for me? Is there anyone else on the ship, maybe they can fill me better." You tease. A deep guttural growl rumbles from deep within him before he stops thrusting an pushes himself as deep as he can within you, making you squeal in delight. He grabs your chin with one of his big hands. "I assure you darling, I can handle your "little hole" and your smart mouth." Suddenly, you feel a hand slap your ass. Your yelp loudly, he smiles widely before placing his hand back on the other side of your head and thrusting way harder and deeper than before. He was already hitting your cervix, but now your not even sure how deep he is but it feels like heaven. With each thrust his bulge becomes very visible in your stomach. He looks down and observes it before running a hand sternly across it. Your groan and grip him harder, running your nails down his shoulders and arms before reaching back up and attempting to claw his back more. He moans, he holds his hand down firmly on the bulge within you, applying pressure to all the right places.

You feel dazed with pleasure, his girth feels barely possibly to fit within you, it stretches you out perfectly, and you're pretty sure he knows that. He nips at your neck then trails kisses down your throat to your chest. Suddenly, your shirt is ripped off, you yelp once more and he chuckles loudly at you. He sucks and "nips" your nipples. You raise your chest up close to him in response. He starts to tilt his pelvis up, making his girth scrap against your upper inner wall even more. You arch your back and tighten around it. You feel a warmth rising from within your core and every thrust beckons it closer and closer to releasing. You don't know how long you can handle this torture. You wanted to tease him more, to piss him off, but he has you wrapped around his long fingers like a little bitch. "S-slow down! I'm nyGh~ gon-na c-cum!" You barely manage to shout between your moans and gasps, he chuckles sinisterly in response. "I don't remember telling you you could release yet." He says blatantly, he sounds like he's close to release himself, his voice cracked like an open flame, sexual pleasure dripped from every vibration of his tired hungry voice. He speeds up, you feel something grab something inside you. "You are not to cum until I am ready for you to." He says with a pestilent tone.. yet a desperate longing snuck past his big tough facade. You manage to get him to raise up from kissing your cleavage and kiss him passionately, you both open your mouths in unison and lock tongues. You swirl around each other's mouth, his long, thick tongue worked as if it had a mind of his own. He proceeded to rub his hands across your breasts, playing with your nipples. Each touch sent shivers down your spine. One of his glorious moans is muffled by your kiss.

The growls that left him consistently grew louder and deeper, like it was threatening you. As if he was begging you never to leave his side, and if you did, he would find you. Finally he stopped grabbing at your weak body and gripped the blankets tightly, You break the kiss and he looks at you quite sourly, but swiftly gets over it and starts to lap at your neck once more. You gasp for air, it's hard to breath as it is, but with a long alien tongue in your mouth? It's nearly impossible. He heaved and moaned deeply and shamelessly. You feel sweat starts to roll off his form as you try desperately to catch a grip around his neck. You look at his giant form through very teary eyes, your face is just under his pecks. You look down at his surprisingly chiseled form, you never imagined an alien to be so fit. A six pack and legs that would make human men weep. You look up at his face, he looks like he's so close he can taste it, he closes his eyes and groans deeply as he slows the thrusts down and changes the pattern.

Now he's thrusting slowly and deeply, he heaves deeply and shakes violently. You would make a snarky remark about him shaking like this, but you're also shaking like a leaf. You feel like you're going to burst any second, but it never comes. Whatever he did is preventing you from releasing and is edging you relentlessly. You're not sure what kind of torture you would get on "strike two". Never once has he stopped growling, even when he speaks. You assume it's something he can't control. The constant noise lulls you even deeper into pleasure. Your throat is raw from how loudly you're moaning. You move your hands from behind his neck to his sides. Slowly, you run your hands down his slick sides, in retaliation you feel tons of invisible hands grab all over your body, squeezing, rubbing, coaxing. They're feeling every little inch you have to offer. "Shit! Strike two! I didn't even mean to tease him that time!" You think to yourself. You squirm and groan, he relishes every noise and every movement you make, he watches you closely as if studying a new specimen.

The lanky alien lowers his form to meet yours, he holds himself close to you as he starts to lose that control he desperately fought to keep. You rub his back and lull him. "C-come on baby, you're so close, I can tell. You're shaking like- uGh~ a- leaf, l-let it out, it's okay." You say sweetly as you begin to buck and claw at his back. He thrusts extra hard and suddenly you feel your orgasm take over. Pleasure starts to surge through your body, you moan so loudly you swear you're going to make his "ears" bleed. He starts to thrust shallowly and some how even deeper. Finally, he ejaculates, his body stiffens as he groans at the top of his lungs. His voice shakes and is just as raw sounding as yours. He bends down and licks your neck again, then he starts to nip and bite. You wrap your legs around him, you're barely keeping consciousness.

As you come down from your high he's just now hitting his peak, despite you both cumming at almost the same time. It seems his orgasms last much longer than humans. He desperately grinds against you. You pull him close to you and kiss on the side of his head. "Shhh… g..ood boy." He kisses you on the lips, then all over your face. You feel his load drip from your pussy, he thrusts a few more times before finally stopping then he relaxes his body on top of yours.

Surprisingly, he wasn't that heavy, maybe he used telekinesis to hold himself up some as to not crush you. You both heave in unison, his growling finally faded away, only his deep breathes can be heard. His body is still softly shaking from his finish, just as yours is. After a few minutes of loud silence, he pipes up. "Good girl.." He pulls out of you and rolls onto the right side of you, he pulls you into him and throws a leg over you. You turn to face him and snuggle your face into his chest. His smell intoxicates you, maybe it's because you long for him, or maybe it's just part of his species musk. Either way, you don't care. You laid there for what felt like hours before you feel something cold bump your cheek, you turn over and look up. You sit up to look at the strange object, he raises up as well and rubs his neck. "Water." For once, he said this using his voice.

You turn around to face him, mystified by the echo of his voice in the giant metallic building. "Oh my god, you spoke!!" You yell, absolutely ecstatic. He sighs and chuckles at you before the invisible force grabs your hands and make you grab the metal cup filled with water. You chug the water down, it's been many hours since you last had anything to eat or drink, you're absolutely famished. The alien scoots out of bed and starts walking to another room. "Wait, where are you going?" You ask, slightly upset that cuddle time is over. He stops and turns to look at you. "You're hungry are you not? Not to mention I need to clean you up." He motions to your oozing pussy. You look down and see the massive pool of semen right underneath you, then you poke the bulge of semen that filled your pelvis. "Oh… That… would probably be a good idea." The magically force picks you up and brings you to him. "By the way.." You begin, he hums. "Do you have a name?" You ask. "Zeno" He responds. "That's the english translation of my name. And yours is?" He asks, intrigued. "What a pretty name.. mine's Y/N. Y/N L/N." He chuckles, and responds. "What a beautiful name. You know..." You look up at him. "I might just have to keep you." He says calmly. You smile wide and giggle. He looks down at you and smiles back.

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#alien x reader #grey alien x reader #alien x human #grey alien x human #smut #my stories #Desperate #reader #y/n #female reader #female reader x grey alien #female reader x alien #self insert #reader insert #y/n x alien #yn x alien #y/n x grey alien

[orojuice]

POV: You’re Nayuta in the “Kobeni fell for Denji’s Rizz AU” and you slashed the tires of the Korean Ambassador’s Limo. 

 Or 

 “La Chancla Devil”

Commentary:

Another comic by me and Zey.

This was a fun comic to work on. The third panel was inspired by a scene with Kento Nanami from JJK.

I had this idea of Kobeni being the “mean” parent if she and Denji had to raise Nayuta. I thought the pairing itself was cute in of itself, but it’s given an extra tragic dimension with having to take care of a kid: two young people from neglectful homes who are haunted by the specter of outright parental abuse as they try to mete out the right amount of discipline necessary so their surrogate child can know right from wrong.

Kobeni’s outfit is inspired by the colors of the flag of Brazil, which has a strong Chainsaw Man fanbase.

I have a couple other Denji/Kobeni as Nayuta’s parent comic ideas in mind. So watch out for those!

#chainsaw man #csm #denji #kobeni higashiyama #nayuta #la chancla #kobeni #brazil

[cageyworld]

A nuanced recommendation for "Unchained Love" (浮图缘 – fútúyuán)

“Nuanced” meaning a lot of disclaimers, probably. First one being: I’m a U.S. American viewer. I’ve been studying Mandarin at my university since 2021 and I watch a lot of Chinese shows, but I am not of the culture of the source material. Inevitably, my perspective of the show is colored by my own Western upbringing. I can’t pick up on the finer details of language, clothing, history, etc. that may rankle other viewers, nor will I be fully conscious of all the ways my cultural viewpoint impacts my perception of the show.

With that said: I’ve been so charmed by “Unchained Love” that I thought others—perhaps especially my fellow Western watchers of these lovely Chinese-made shows—might enjoy it, too. There’s a lot to love.

I will keep spoilers to a minimum.

Some highlights of why I love this show:

Women voicing their rage and grief about patriarchal systems

A romance of respect and clear communication

Badass Dylan Wang (looking incredible in his costumes)

Found family

Cute dog

Angst with a happy ending

Read on to allow me to persuade you even more…

CRITIQUES—A.K.A. “THE JANK.”

THE TONE

I’ve read the criticism that the tone can be uneven, especially if you come to this (like I did) right after watching 苍兰决 “Love Between Fairy and Devil”. I agree. The tone is super uneven throughout the series.

The storyline contains some truly horrific and dramatic elements (see the list of content warnings at the end of this post), and yet tries to maintain an overall soft, romantic dramedy feel. It’s not successful in this and does create some dissonance. This dissonance is only amplified by…

THE MUSIC

The opening theme is a banger, but the scoring choices throughout the show itself are distracting. Sometimes we get plinky, Mickey Mouse comedy music when the dialogue and acting convey drama and high stakes—and occasionally, vice versa. From my experience, this isn’t unique to “Unchained Love,” but oh boy, is it striking in this series. The music seems to work against the narrative at times. I found myself saying, “I don’t feel like laughing right now!” at the screen. There can be emotional whiplash, from the very serious to scenes suddenly meant to be effortlessly light-hearted. It is not effortless.

WHAT GOT CENSORED

This show got chopped for sure. From what I can tell, it was largely the scenes of more overt sexual content between Xiao Duo and Bu Yinlou. This couple becomes respectfully, mutually horny for each other and it’s a bummer that so much of that got trimmed. That said, what remains is still lovely (and quite sexy at times).

The ending is also rushed in a way that feels like aggressive editing. It ends happily for the characters I loved most, and leaves lots of room for fanfiction expansion or extension, but it’s still a little unsatisfying as a viewer.

WHY THESE DIDN’T PUT ME OFF, PERSONALLY

I was able to make peace with the uneven tone mostly because of where the unevenness struck. The most serious elements of the show nearly all revolve around some aspect of violence against women. While this violence was not always treated with the gravity it warrants, it also wasn’t played for laughs. The choice to include each of these incidents is questionable, but I never felt the show was downplaying the seriousness of that violence itself.

Also, I appreciated that the women were in the forefront of those moments. We were expected to empathize with their situation.

For example, the opening episode’s plot of the deceased emperor’s brides being hanged as tribute to him wasn’t shown entirely as the horrific nightmare that is—but it also didn’t make all the women nameless, weeping beauties who existed only as tragic figures. Our heroine comes from within that group, and we see each of the women find their own way to deal. Some (understandably) weep, others negotiate their way out or flaunt their privilege to do so, others accept their fate. And then you have our Yinlou who is always eyeing an escape or a new foothold to a better situation.

We’re invited, tacitly or actively, to identify with the women being murdered. The violence against them isn’t set dressing. It’s very much an implied motivator for everything Yinlou does—she is a woman who fears the “cages” in which society can trap women, so she’s repeatedly calling attention to all those various cages.

There’s a later scene that’s not of much consequence overall where Yinlou comes upon a concubines’ graveyard. There are no markers with their names. She comments upon this and identifies with them, as a woman in their same situation. I deeply valued moments like this in “Unchained Love”—a character acknowledging how men in power are so often surrounded by “nameless” women whose own hopes and lives are forgotten.

One of the show’s major themes is: It is dangerous when powerless women catch the eye of powerful men.

THE GOOD – A.K.A. WHAT MAKES EVERYTHING ELSE WORTH IT

DYLAN WANG as Xiao Duo

I mean, he’s why I’m here, so we gotta start with him. I adored his performance as Dongfang Qingcang in 苍兰决 and he’s even more impressive as Xiao Duo, the head eunuch of the feared Zhaoding Bureau (FYI: in episode 2, we learn he’s not actually a eunuch—he’s pretending). This is an Earth-bound tale, so don’t expect the wild range of body-swapping or high drama of Hellfire power. Instead, he gives a far subtler performance where the harshness of the character blends smoothly with his softer moments.

He makes excellent use of his ability to look cold and cruel, and even the fact that he’s very handsome is relevant to the plot (because he, too, catches the eye of someone dangerous and powerful). For me, he disappeared into Xiao Duo in this performance. His mannerisms, body language, and tightly controlled expressions all felt so consistent with this man’s lived experience. He felt thoroughly three-dimensional and authentic.

Xiao Duo judges him. You. Xiao Duo judges everyone. CHEN YUQI as Bu Yinlou

I left “Ashes of Love” having most enjoyed Chen YuQi’s performance, so I was thrilled to see her in this. I like her energy on screen, and her goofy little smiles. She’s an uncouth mess as Bu Yinlou, and yet can believably play the perfect imperial concubine when she needs to. My fellow Eowyn “I fear a cage” and Beatrice “if I were man, I’d eat his heart in the marketplace” girlies will love Yinlou. Her fear of that patriarchal cage is one of her primary motivations throughout the series, and Xiao Duo is often the Benedick to her Beatrice in a “name the heart and the marketplace, baby” kind of way. Yinlou’s go-to problem-solving strategies are: gamble, lie, or set it on fire (literally).

Yinlou shares her secret fourth method of problem solving. SUPPORTING CHARACTERS

Not a dud in the bunch as far as I’m concerned. Everyone’s acting is strong and all the major characters are given the opportunity to be three-dimensional, to have their own perspectives and hopes. I found one of the side love stories a bit silly and cringey, but even that couple won me over by the end. Yinlou’s closest companion is her servant (played by Nan He – Duo Er La from “Sleuth of the Ming Dynasty.” I was thrilled to see her!). Xiao Duo has his own devoted right-hand man, and even a himbo of a general. There’s manly devotion everywhere, women being friends, bonding with sex workers, and hierarchies dissolving to become “family.”

The four pillars of the found family.

A braincells trio.

XIAO DUO and BU YINLOU TOGETHER

This is very much a “the man falls first” story and it seems likely that some of the early scenes got chopped, which is unfortunate, but I will say, it didn’t bother me. Perhaps it’s my years of writing and reading fanfiction, but I could find the threads easily.

Bu Yinlou catches Xiao Duo’s eye first by being clever. He’s initially wrong about what she’s scheming—but he’s right that she’s a schemer who is smarter than she pretends to be. For her own survival, she tries to stay on his good side and he's used to people praising him (or paying him) to get his favor by flattering his power, his strength, his ambition. Bu Yinlou starts praising his kindness, his mercy, his intelligence. For his own reasons (no spoilers!), he’s deliberately made himself a terror. Bu Yinlou starts talking to the real person he is inside.

Xiao Duo gets the thumbs up from Yinlou.

We do get the delightful Chinese drama tropes like slow-motion gazing with the love theme playing, but I didn’t see it as a normal “oh, she’s so beautiful” sort of moment. She’s being ridiculous, and Xiao Duo is struck that this woman is being ridiculous for him. He’s the scariest man in the Imperial Palace! People literally drop to the ground or run when they see him! And here’s this woman trying to make him smile, or grabbing his sleeves, or heckling him. What a strange creature she is…and you know, she’s rather pretty, too…

Pretty (and drunk at the mo')

After only a few meetings, Xiao Duo and Bu Yinlou instinctively understand one another, even if they don’t fully realize it. They’ve met the other person who plays 4-D chess and who never wanted to be here in the first place. I find it truly a joy to watch them—two people who barely trust anyone—maneuver around one another and learn to believe each other.

The actors seemed very comfortable with one another, so there’s lots of casual intimacy and affection in their body language together. With Xiao Duo, Yinlou feels safe enough to experience attraction and express her own desires for the first time. Her giddiness and girlishness about him are so heartwarming to watch.

Something has been awakened in her...

We also get the fantastic subversion of some classic romantic tropes. I admit: I’m a viewer who is frustrated by major conflicts erupting from simple misunderstandings, characters deliberately withholding information from each other—or worse—not having the five-minute conversation necessary to clear the air. Xiao Duo and Bu Yinlou COMMUNICATE. They truly treat each other as equals.

Avoiding spoilers, there’s one moment where a bad guy captures Bu Yinlou to bait Xiao Duo into a trap. A man in love, Xiao Duo storms out to go rescue her—and then pauses. “This is a trap,” he realizes, and he goes back home. He trusts that Bu Yinlou can get herself out of the scrape—and she does. Bu Yinlou does the same for him a few times. They profoundly trust one another and it shows on screen through their actions, not just their words. I found that unbelievably refreshing, even if it means we don’t get the HIGH DRAMA of so many other romantic dramas.

It made for a subtler experience that is perhaps just for me (but I write this in the hopes that it’s not). All the pain of the later episodes comes from truly understanding that Xiao Duo and Bu Yinlou would be happy together. Not in a soft-focus, dreamy-eyed, picture-perfect way, but in a real and tangible way. They could live together with their friends and their dog, raise some goats, and have wonderful life with one another. But there are powerful, dangerous, unpredictable forces in the way, and that hurts beautifully to watch.

THE PLOT

“Nirvana in Fire” this ain’t. The imperial palace intrigues are broad and only rarely more than 2-dimensional, but I still found myself delighted by some of the unexpected twists. There are characters I loathed in episode 1, and then grieved in episode 36. That’s the good stuff.

Bu Yinlou is the emotional center of the series. She wants to be free. The primary conflict of the show, then, is built around two suitors: One who will help her fulfill her dreams, even if it hurts him, and the other who will make her dreams match his, even if it hurts her.

This is all happening within larger maneuvers of outside forces trying to take down the empire. To them, Yinlou is a pawn in a larger game to control the emperor and Xiao Duo. (And Yinlou does not appreciate being treated like a pawn.)

THE VILLAIN

I have complex feelings about the primary antagonist for the show. I think that’s a good thing. He feels, in many ways, like an Incel given imperial power—he is both a sad, awkward, lonely man, and an entitled, spiteful monster. He’s played so deftly by Peter Ho, it took several episodes for me to realize he was the antagonist. On rewatch, it can be heartbreaking to follow his story, too, because there were moments of intervention where it could have gone differently. That, to me, makes for a richly imagined antagonist—who goes full “scenery chewing” villain toward the end. That, too, is compelling to watch. Peter Ho was clearly having a good time.

A PERSONAL CONCLUSION (and maybe a plea for fanworks)

“Unchained Love” is not perfect, but there’s such clear heart in the performances that it more than makes up for the show’s weaknesses. They explore storylines and themes and especially gives Yinlou some moments that I’ve longed for in a show maybe all my life. I like that Eowyn in the Lord of the Rings movies talked about fearing “a cage.” I wish she’d gotten to talk more. Yinlou gave voice to so much of what I wanted to hear her say.

“Unchained Love” quickly joined the tops of my favorite Chinese media, alongside “The Untamed” and “Yin Yang Master: Dream of Eternity.” I will probably end up writing some fanfiction for it, and I hope others will too. The gifsets on Tumblr have been so excellent that I can only hope for more. More fanworks, I guess that’s what I’m saying. There’s such great fanworks potential in this series. It’s in that sweet spot of having compelling characters, beautiful costumes and settings, and juuuuussst enough left on the cutting-room floor that we fans have all the room in the world to play.

HOW TO WATCH

The first two episodes are up for free on YouTube with English subtitles. It’s also streaming on both Viki and iQiyi. I liked it so much, I bought it on DVD from AustinDVDStore on ebay. The subtitles move too fast sometimes, but hey, I’m practicing my Mandarin anyway…

CONTENT WARNINGS

For the show overall:

The entire show deals with the idea of women as objects—which means there are often people treating women like objects. This is depicted as a bad thing, but it’s still hard to watch.

Some gender essentialist nonsense is spewed in relation to eunuchs and what it means to be “a man.” Later in the series, the villain becomes particularly fixated on this concept.

For specific storylines:

Opening episodes revolve around concubines of the deceased emperor being killed in tribute to him.

Accidental death of a child in episode 4.

A man in charge of the Imperial Mausoleum targets and sexually threatens, harasses, and assaults a woman forced to live there.

Yinlou’s father is verbally abusive to the women in his family.

Yinlou’s sister is forced to marry an enemy prince; this enemy prince is violent and threatening to her. The emperor is also violent and cruel to this character. (Yinlou’s sister is essentially a “what if Yinlou did what she was told” character, so her storyline highlights that going along with these powerful men won’t save you… It’s rough.)

The emperor’s dissent into tyrannical behavior is paired with a physical disability he develops. He also becomes fixated on his inability to bear children.

#unchained love #chinese drama #cdrama #recommendation #wang hedi #dylan wang #please watch with me #I love this show so much

[aurrymaycry]

Hi-Fi Rush: a rebellious, punk, major piss at the current Game Industry.

It's a simple promise, really. One we've all wanted at some point during our childhood or teenagehood: We'd imagine a scene in our head. A fight, a conversation, going from point A to point B, anything, to the beat of the music we'd be listening to. Don't lie, I know you've done this, and all of us wished for that to happen in real-life in some way, shape or form. Hi-Fi Rush tell you from the get go it will deliver on that front and realize your dream, as almost every single aspect of the game is tied to the rhythm of the OST.

We'd imagine a scene in our head [...] to the beat of the music we'd be listening to.

You have an rhythm indicator at all points, but it's not just the music that guides you: The ennemies talk and move to the beat, the environment moves to the beat, your character's idle stance is dancing to the beat, all of that to condition you to what the game wants from you. And that suffices to immediately bring satisfaction to the player. Press button to the beat, game rewards you for it. You have a weak and fast attack, a slow and powerful attack, a parry, a dodge and that is all that you need to play the game. No need for gear with stats that you don't understand that will give a false sense of progression like in more recent productions. You will feel yourself getting better by just playing along.

No need for gear with stats that you don't understand

And even so, you don't have to play along. Even if you choose to disregard the main gimmick, the game will still be beatable like a regular beat 'em all as the game comes with a wide array of accessibility features and easier difficulties that let everyone enjoy the show. Now, this is formula unapologetically taken from the Devil May Cry series (understandably so when the game's lead designer is the same as the original DMC & Bayonetta, games that defined this specific genre of beat 'em all gameplay): It will encourage you to play along however, and the further you'll advance, the more the game with ask of you, without ever being out of your reach as a player and the more it will reward you for succeeding, not through materials or loot, but with the feeling of having done something really fucking cool. Inspiration from it's big brothers doesn't stop there, however. Tango Gameworks' secret baby pays hommage ludically, but also aesthetically to the games that came way, way before.

Tango Gameworks' secret baby pays hommage ludically, but also aesthetically to the games that came way, way before.

From the moment you turn it on, you can see the bright colors, the bubbly character design and vibrant personality the game exhudes, the one you'd get from entering the room of a 16 year old teenager during the 2000's. The pop-punk aesthetic, mixed with a refined cel-shaded artstyle won't fait to remind you of Dreamcast games of old, like Jet Set Radio or Space Channel 5, games where the music also were focal points of interest. We've gone through the Devil May Cry influence already, but we can feel it in the gameplay loop of linear levels that are still large enough for exploration, (with all the little secrets and challenges and enemy rooms along the way) and the control scheme itself as well, hell the even has game has a Style Gauge, the signature mechanic of the DMC series. The cast of characters feel like they've come out of an Edgar Wright movie, and that Chai, the main protagonist would fit right along the likes of Shaun from Shaun of the Dead and Scott Pilgrim. And lastly, the whole rhythm schtick can definitely string that Guitar Hero chord somewhere. All the game's I've cited were games of the 2000's and 2010's generation of games. All of these games were experimental products of their time that carry all the youth, innocence and simplicity of bygone times, for both the player and the industry. Hi-Fi Rush does its best to recapture that feeling and pay its respects to it.

The main protagonist would fit right along the likes of Shaun and Scott Pilgrim

A trend that carries over to the music as well. Though mostly original works by Reo Uratani (Monster Hunter Series, Ultra Street Fighter II) and Shuichi Kobori (Metal Gear Solid Series, The Evil Within), Hi-Fi Rush continues to borrow from millenials' teenagehood by featuring groups like Nine-Inch-Nails, the Black Keys, Number Girl, or even The Prodigy. Number Girl in particular must be the most niche, underground group to be selected here. It's one of the pillars of Japanese Indie Rock, and the main inspiration of groups like Asian Kung-Fu Generation (you know, the ones that pulled that off.), whereas The Prodigy was featured in a late segment of the game that is a nice strong the the best video game level ever made with how on point and cathartic it feels to go through, and how well it delivers on the whole game's promise. Aside from the licensed tracks, the rest of the OST nails the spot it aims to with its constant 120 BPM that goes from Alt Rock to Jazz Fusion to even Classical Music. With the music being the centerpiece of basically every aspect of the game, it was paramount for it to deliver an enjoyable, non-repetitive experience, and it does so by the use of dynamic music, where it'll adapt depending on the current state of the game (exploration, combat, cutscene, etc.). And despite the referencial tone of its presentation, and the impressive audio design necessary for a beat 'em all/rhythm hybrid game, Hi-Fi Rush's actual production team was rather small. It has all the components of a big triple-A release yet managed to deliever all of that with a rather small team in comparison. Crazier yet, the game had basically no marketing campaign at all, with the developers showing the game for the first time ever in a relatively random livestream, and releasing it right after, betting a cheaper price-tag, gamepass inclusion and word-of-mouth to boost its sales.

Hi-Fi Rush continues to borrow from millenials' teenagehood

A crazy plan that only made me think that I was being sold a CD by an indie group on the streets, but it turned out to be pretty well-produced in the end. All of this sounds crazy, all of this is crazy, unexpected from both Bethesda & Microsoft, and would be deemed a guaranteed failure should you pitch that to any kind of executive in a suit and tie. But that crazy plan actually worked, with the game reaching 2 million players by it's first month of release, with some citing it as "Perfect until proven otherwise". And you can't help but feel that part of all of this was intentional. As if the game itself was screaming to the current status quo of the game industry to invest millions in marketing, trying to equate hollywood in prestige and production value, and its disregard for the conditions of ethics and focused vision, to go fuck itself.

The main antagonistic force in Hi-Fi Rush is, quite literally, a corporation. The levels include a factory, a laboratory, an expo, and the bosses are the heads of the departments you'd expect from any tech corportaion. It's a business, through and though, just like what the game industry is. So then you start to look at it through that lens. And you can see how on the nose it happens to be: The head of production is a ruthless ball of anger obsessed with pumping product at maximum capacity, at all times, without any consideration for it's employees (which are, well, literally robots, but you get the gist). The head of R&D is an evil scientist with ambitions ambitions that go way beyond of the scope of what is actually asked of him, spending money loosely to quell his ego-fueled "vision". Marketing, in illusions of grandeur, puts on a literal show where they put themselves in the center spotlight in-lieu of what they are supposed to sell, the head accountant will do anything for profit, even if it means using underhanded tactics and cutting essential costs, and of course, the CEO's main motivation, is find the most convoluted and impractical way to sell more product. All aspects are common issues found in way too many recent studios. Some of you may have thought of names of industry veterans tied to similar problems in the past (or present).

The main antagonistic force in Hi-Fi Rush is, quite literally, a corporation. The game doesn't hide its criticism of the industry, or its self-awareness as a game. It's humour go from subtle metatext to breaking the fourth wall with the finesse of a wrecking ball.

Given all of these elements, and the game's development history of a timid production squeezed in parallel to an expected release, that has gone against all expectations established by the studio and the publisher, one can only wonder if John Johanas, the director behind all of it, didn't have a bit of resentment with how the current video game industry turned out to be. He's already stated in the game's first demonstration that it was a "dream game of his, that he thought about way, way back." and his admiration for past works, and a past time, can be observed both in surface, and more subtle ways.

Intentional or not, Hi-Fi Rush defies the status quo with a bold, confident, stylish neon explosion of stellar gameplay & nostalgic yet fresh presentation that brought me back to easier, simpler, more fun times with video games as a whole. It's one that I'll remember fondly for years to come and that I hope will, just like it's predecessors, gain fame in the minds of people slowly but surely.

#hi fi rush #hfr #devil may cry #dmc #bayonetta #jet set radio #jsr #space channel 5 #guitar hero #nine inch nails #the black keys #number girl #the prodigy #rock #alt rock #punk rock #jrock #naruto #akfg #sega #capcom #bethesda #xbox #microsoft #reviews

[golby-moon]

got some art for a round in the @destielomegaversebigbang. got to draw lots of new things with this fic which is always fun and partly why I started doing bangs at all

with the banner, I was actually given a color scheme by the author to try out, which is why everything is so...green and tan. I wanted to represent the uh weird chastity belt thing without actually showing it, so I designed a belt with fancy Celtic designs on both the belt buckle and the belt itself (which were made to look like 's's for Supernatural). the keys mirror the belt as Cas is the key to unlocking it in the fic, and the background with its dangerously off centered dots and wooden board sort of title are because Cas owns a hardware store in the fic. I definitely didn't overdo it on the symbolic silver color I continuously reused

I originally chose the fic due to this scene being described in the claims, where Dean and Cas bump into each other in a hardware store and all kinds of stuff spills around them on the ground. admittedly I didn't know Cas worked in the hardware store from the claims, but this did give me a great opportunity to draw all kinds of stuff I never have before (mostly in the background with all the tools and idk plates and stuff everywhere). I wanted to imply that Cas knows about hunting and monsters and such, so I not only have iron, silver, and salt bullets on display on the counter, but also added a devil's trap sticker on the cash register next to the cat one and the 'save <3 (bee) bees' one. everything is charged by the dollar instead of any of the $x.99 stuff due to a thought I had about Cas being too blunt to bother with making things seem cheaper (and if any of the prices are way off, that's because I have no clue how much any of this stuff would be ignore that)

I did originally have their faces turned a little less and Cas looking more...well, like Cas, but I like the vibe of the later version better since they seem more friendly instead of like strangers having their first ever mutually gay awakening moment. this one just looks kind of awkward. thank goodness I used references for the kneeling positions for once though 🎉 (I think Cas' was some lady gardening lol)

the art limit for the bang was actually brought down, but I did two pieces for the minibang fic anyway and added the scene of Dean lying on the couch and Cas with his weirdly long right arm (oops) cupping his face. when I read the scene, I just immediately pictured Cas owning an ugly floral grandma couch, which turns out to be the kind of disaster couch the author kind of pictured Cas as having as well. it's such an ugly couch I love it

(not that anyone probably noticed but I did draw this a while ago which is why Dean's hair isn't consistent with the new way I draw it. Cas' is about as messy as always though 👌)

the fic this is made for is called "An Intervention of Silver" by @hannahctwk for the destiel omegaverse big bang

(09/29/23)

#my art #supernatural #spn #spn fanart #castiel #dean winchester #destiel #my thoughts #my bang legacy #my process #fic art #art made for other people #destiel omegaverse big bang #omega dean #beta castiel #really slim pickings on the fics for my usual preferences #this one was actually tagged differently than it ended up being which is partially why i picked it #that and the hardware store scene which seemed fun to draw and i could picture weirdly well before even reading the fic #either way i won't be joining this bang again i don't think #fandom leans one way and i lean the other #still an interesting enough fic