cutzthecrap

[backjustforberena]

I wonder if any of them knew it was all for her.

[starry-bi-sky]

mmm throwaway conversation between Dan and Danny that popped into my head that I had to write out:

"You spent ten years being a one-man mass extinction event, then went back in time and fought me, and lost." Danny snarls, arms crossed and throat tight. His mouth pulls back to bare dagger-sharp teeth, and his eyes burn with the familiar thrum of ectoplasm heating up behind his eyes. "If I didn't believe you were half of Vlad before, I do now."

His other self -- and really, can he even call him that? He's half of Vlad too. Two halves severed from each other and welded together to make a new whole, -- snaps his head over to him. Wild-eyed and furious, he looks unlike the man Danny fought before, the one unruffled and untouched, unbothered by the world around him. It's familiar, but not like the way a reflection is.

"What's that supposed to mean." The Other hisses, matching Danny's scowl one-for-one with fangs much bigger and sharper than his.

But there's a reason lions fear hyenas. Danny matches the rumble in The Other's chest with one of his own, and shoves his face close to his. "I don't lose."

[iamhereinthebg]

✨The stars of season 2 ✨

[casually-eat-my-soul]

I keep thinking about jealous pining desperate Stiles and Derek

But like specifically Stiles Seeing Derek kiss someone else.

Stiles goes to visit Derek at his loft and he walks into a scene from a hallmark movie. Derek is kissing some random women under fairy lights to the back drop of a sunset. Stiles feels like someone plunged their hand through his heart and infected with body with ice. He genuinely feels sick to his stomach.

Derek looks down at said person with a soft smile, thinking that this time he can be safe. Before turning and seeing Stiles. They lock eyes and stiles is so visibly distraught. Like in the “where’s my dad scene”. One tear sliding down his face, hands clenched, grasping at his chest as if to rip his heart out.

And Derek knows he fucked up, but he doesn’t know how. All he sees is Stiles in distress and he needs to fix it. Stiles base scent has changed in a split second, now deeply intertwined with misery. He immediately moves from his love interest towards Stiles. But Stiles won’t let Derek comfort him. When Derek grasps his wrists, He tries to pull away.

Stiles is inconsolable at this point, choking on his sobs, barely able to breathe, barely able to see. This only makes Derek more desperate, he’s trying to pull stiles into a hug but Stiles keeps fighting him. Derek’s mind is racing with an explain on why stiles is falling apart in front of him. He thinks of Scott and the sheriff, praying that they are both still alive. He’s now genuinely begging stiles to let him help, to tell him what’s wrong, but stiles keeps pushing Derek away.

Derek’s love interest moves to help but stiles screams when she touches him. In his shock Derek stumbles away from Stiles, but not before ripping her arm off of Stiles.

The room freezes as the both of them are just staring at each other, stiles still sobbing, Derek shaking with adrenaline or fear he doesn’t know. Before Stiles turns and runs out of his loft.

And then nothing is like it used to be. Not like the summer they spent together, not even like the days of when they first met. Stiles is so different with him. Derek can’t remember the last time he saw stiles smile, or his eyes. All he can see is the eyebags that match his own and bitten bloody lips. He barely speaks to Derek and when he does is tone is soft and flat. They no longer banter back and forth with each other exchanging friendly insults. He is a ghost of the stiles that Derek knew.

Stiles doesn’t reach out and touch him anymore, not in camaraderie or comfort. Derek’s skin is devoid of stiles scent. His scent hasn’t changed from that night, now overcome with depression, pain, and tears. But even so Derek would still prefer to carry it with him. Derek feels like he is watching stiles die.

And Derek is ripping his hair out of his skull. He going insane. He has tried to talk to stiles but at meetings Stiles wouldn’t even look at him, and the Stilinski house has been lined with wolfsbane.

He goes to Scott and Lydia for advice, or understanding, fuck at this point he’d even take a stupid riddle. But scott just twists his lips in disappointment while Lydia glares at him with more hatred than she does Peter. Which is really saying something.

Derek is getting more frantic as days pass and nothing changes. It’s starting to affect the pack. The betas are more snappy and uncomfortable. Derek, himself is having a had time keeping his shift under control. Anger isn’t helping, if only it’s making it worse, more feral.

This costs Derek.

One night when the pack is fighting the next big bad. Derek’s sleepless nights and being distracted nearly gets him killed. He only wishes he could go back to that day, he would spend it, from sunrise to sunset with Stiles. Just making him laugh and smile.

The last thing he sees before he collapses is Stiles eyes in the moonlight, glistening with tears, same as that night. Beautiful all the same. But still Derek smiles. He is at peace knowing that this will be the last thing he sees.

But he wakes up, and all he has of stiles is traces of his scent on his skin. Derek roars in anguish. He can feel his betas trying to hold him down, he can hear them screaming but it all fades to white noise. He understands nothing at this current moment but loss. His wolf won’t stop howling.

He doesn’t fight the pull of the wolf, as he falls under his instincts. At the back of his head he knows that the people he is fighting are his pack mate, his own betas. The smell of blood affronts his senses. But nothing can be felt but violent grief.

The wolves in his den are wary and hesitant to fight him, as they should be. He can hear more wolves coming, and the deafening heartbeat of prey. He snarls at the prey that moves closer to him, fulling intending the go for the kill. As he pounces on the prey pressing him to the ground, teeth reaching to sink into his neck, he feels Stiles hands on his chest and he stops. The scent of Stiles is all around him, and Derek presses his face to his neck. Keeping Stiles pinned to the ground.

Thus way stiles cannot escape, cannot leave Derek grappling with the thought of losing him. Another wolf tries to get closer, reaching for stiles but Derek snarls at him. Stiles talks to the wolf, —

“Don’t worry about it Scotty, I got it from here”

“You sure dude?”

“Yeah, take the wonder trio and get out of here. We’re good.”

— as Derek pulls him into his lap, face still pressed into the junction between neck and shoulder. Not even willing to miss even the vibrations of Stiles voice. The wolves leave and Derek can finally relax and enjoy the presence of Stiles.

Derek feels overwhelmed, after weeks of not interacting with Stiles he is now surrounded by him. His hands run through Derek’s hair, his voice floats in the air, his scent finally intermingling with his own. This idea of losing the heat of stiles body pressed against his, makes Derek pull stiles even closer.

He doesn’t know how long they sit together but when he comes out of the fog. Derek breaks. A complete reversal of the night he lost stiles. Derek is crying in ernest, pleading and apologizing over and over again. Stiles is hesitant when he places his hands on Derek cheek. But when Derek leans into it Stiles begins to wipe the tears from his face.

They both face each other with open expressions. Stiles struggles to finds words to explain to Derek but all he can get out is a broken repeat of Derek’s own apology.

Derek felt as if his heart couldn’t know anymore pain, but as Stiles choked out an apology he could feel another piece break. Derek was just relived that stiles was finally letting him comfort him. Derek pressed their foreheads together and took a deep breath. Waiting for stiles to following along with his breathing. When they both calmed down stiles Slumped exhausted into his chest. With a heavy limbs Derek picked him up and carried him to the bed. Derek’s bed.

Neither of them need to speak durning this time. Derek was reluctant to set Stiles down, to let go for even a second. Instead he settled for watching Stiles as they both undressed and fell into the bed. Finally after weeks of sleepless nights, unrest and nightmares, they both full asleep wrapped in each others arms.

Derek refuse to open his eyes when he awakes. Afraid that when he does, Stiles will be gone and this would be a cruel dream. So he keeps them closed even when he hear Stiles breathe hitch. Even as he hears his heartbeat pick up. Even as stiles trails his fingers over Derek’s face. But he does open them as stiles presses a kiss to his lips.

Derek kisses him back just as fiercely. And this leads to teary confessions — “Don’t fucking lie to me Derek please, I can’t take it, don’t fucking kiss me out of pity.”

“Never out of pity, Mi Vida, I never wish to part from you even again, I love you, Mieczyslaw, truly. I can finally breathe again.” — They spend the day in bed, only leaving to eat. Even then they are always touching the other in some way.

After this Scott and Lydia pull Derek aside and threaten him with extreme violence. Peter joyfully welcomes stiles to the family.

(Honestly this was a whole train wreck. I also had another idea/version where this was happening during the nogistune. Where Stiles goes over to Derek’s loft as the darkness around his heart fills heavier that day and he sees Derek kiss someone else. The this is what finally pushes stiles over and allows the nogistune to fully take over. And Derek is forced to listen to the fox gleefully tell him that this action nearly broke Stiles. That while turning feral Derek has to learn that his actions cost him another person he loves. That because of this stiles and Derek are turning into twisted version of themselves. But honestly a fox should have never underestimated how far a wolf would go for their mate)

My bad for the long post but if you made it to the end, welcome to the trenches and suffering in the misery with me.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Thank you. I'm sorry.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[chaos-of-the-abyss]

celegorm laying eyes on dior for the first time and not knowing if he wants to kill him be killed by him be his dad or have sex with him or all four

[quanblovk]

Briefly doodled a Uther gijinka thats long overdue!!!

he uh....HE KEEPS STARING AT ME LIKE TH-

[melodyofthevoid]

If I had a nickel for every time one of my dnd characters by all means should've died in a way that was honestly really thematically resonant and managed to scrape their way back to life again I'd have 2- no... 3 nickels. Which isn't a lot but says something.

[alienssstufff]

Be kind to him he was forced to eat micro plastics when he was 24 😢…

[mo-ok]

thank you do it again please

[angelplayzgames]

AAAAA!! I LOVE @sleepykittties CLERICAL ERROR AU!!!

GAHHHH!!!

Cannot stop thinking about em.

Here it is for you to read

(You have no other choice)

[get-more-bald]

frank should be killed

[conostra]

Griffith's Relationships

The White Hawk. The White Phoenix. The King of Falconia. The Savior. Femto. The Blessed King of Longing. Once, the greatest mortal to ever wield a sword. The bane of the Black Swordsman. The most beautiful man alive. Him with a stature nothing short of pure magnificence. You know him. You love to hate him. I’m talking about one of the greatest characters not just in manga, but in all of fiction: Griffith.

Griffith is one of many examples of how masterful Kentaro Miura was with a pen, be it pressing against a notebook or a panel. An incredibly written character, as complex as they can come, with some of the most complicated, deep, and tragic relationships I’ve ever seen put to any form of media.

Here, I’ll be discussing what is inarguably a core tenet of Berserk: Griffith’s relationships. With two exceptions, there is no dispute that Griffith’s relationships are the singular most important part of the media he resides in, there is no debate over whether or not they are still crucial parts of understanding both Guts’ disposition, and the world of Berserk. Griffith’s different approaches to interacting with those in his vicinity warps the very world itself, and his whims shape the very nature of the conflicts the protagonist engages in.

Here, in 6 parts, we will be dissecting Griffith’s most important relationships through Berserk, how they shaped him, and what they explain about who he is and how he got to where he is now.

Part 1: The Boy, and The Hawks

Part 2: The Governor.

Part 3: The King.

Part 4: Charlotte.

Part 5: The Wings of the Hawk (1)

Part 6: The Wings of the Hawk (2)

______________________________________________________________

Part 1: The Boy, and The Hawks

Throughout the story of Berserk, Griffith goes through many changes, some more drastic than others. But no change is more pivotal than the one caused by a certain young bird who flocked with him and the Hawks when he first started his journey. Before Guts, before Casca, Griffith was no one. He was a commoner, no more than a child, starting his own little group of misfit warriors to become… something. Whatever it was, surely, it must set him on the path to his dream. But to the others, whatever that something was did not matter. It was of no consequence to them whether that mystical something ever came into fruition. All that mattered was that Griffith was the one who was pulling them along with him into the smoke that obscured their immediate war-torn futures.

Among them was a young boy. Younger than Griffith, even. So young, he would even bring his toys onto the battlefield. A young boy who admired him from what he thought was afar, but in actuality could be only a few feet away at times. It was like admiring a star, or, as Griffith puts it, “the hero of some story.” A hero not too unlike the toy knight Griffith found one day in his satchel, no owner left to claim it, as he lay on the ground, blood pooling around him as it soaked through his bare clothes, no armor, merely a tunic and a dream. A dream to serve alongside Griffith. A dream to aid Griffith in achieving his dream, a small dream, a dream to aid another man’s story.

Griffith wondered, as he placed the boy’s toy back on his chest, whether, when he died, he felt comfort from his dream. Or, perhaps, did he die in agony, unable to achieve it? Was death the start of a new dream, or the end of all other ones? Was it even the boy’s dream that he felt as he slipped away? Or was it the dream Griffith imposed upon him? He did not know the answers.

But he knew one thing- that he could no longer idly hope for his dream to be achieved. He knew he could not simply throw enough numbers at the board, have enough fights, gain enough men, and maybe he’d get lucky, and his dream would simply fall into his lap. He would have to take initiative. He would have to work for his dream, would have to devote every waking moment, every sleeping moment, to the pursuit of that dream. 

One night, later on, upon returning to the castle, Casca finds Griffith with a man known for… having a particular taste regarding young boys. Later on, she finds him, bathing himself in a nearby river. He begins to quite literally tear into himself, ripping open his arm in a perfect metaphor for how he feels. He claims he has logically reasoned out that what he did was necessary in order to make sure that he gets the funds needed to properly helm a militia the size he will require. But this is only after admitting that he feels that he must be as filthy as those who follow him, because he does not deserve to be clean when his dream is smeared in the blood of thousands who follow his words.

Despite his supposed recovery from this mental break, and despite his claims, the scene of that young boy, dead on the battlefield, with his only belonging encapsulating the lofty ideal to which he held Griffith, broke him. It could have, should have broken any man who would be in the same situation. But it did not just break Griffith. It melted him down, only to reforge him again. That young boy pushed Griffith to do whatever it takes to achieve his dreams, and to accept that casualties will occur. It was a notion Griffith accepted, but not one he fully understood until it was there, laid bare in front of him, forcing him to either confront it, or to give up. And Griffith confronted it. And it warped him. As the story progresses, we see that Griffith is still affected by the death of this young boy, and that his blood still stains crimson all of Griffith’s decisions. 

Without this death, perhaps Griffith is content to simply grow the Hawks through skirmishes, through battle, and through battle alone, until another opportunity presents itself. Perhaps Griffith does not sleep with the old man. Perhaps Griffith does not engage in the activities he does later on in the story, assassinating rivals in his chase of his dream of a throne. Perhaps he does not pull Guts as his sole equal in the depravity he lowers himself to for his dream, sending him on an assassination mission where Guts has a realization of equal magnitude to his own. But Griffith does not recover from this spiral. Perhaps, if this child did not die as a result of Griffith’s own actions, perhaps The eclipse never occurs. Perhaps Griffith must work ten times as hard, it takes ten times as long, but perhaps Griffith does not become the false emotional stonewall he acts as. Perhaps he gains a new dream, perhaps he does not, but either way, perhaps he can have that journey with those he loves, he values, to keep him company.

And Griffith loves the Hawks. All of them. Perhaps not to the same degree, but for all of them, Griffith feels this same type of patriarchal, shepherd-esque obligation, with perhaps the exception of Guts, and Guts alone. He takes on the burden of making the hard choices, of putting himself through hell, to attempt to mitigate the harm they can potentially receive as much as possible. He bears the weight of every victory, every loss of every individual, all willingly given for the sake of his dream. He alone bears the cross of being the head of the Hawks, at every step of their journey.

And this makes his decision at the Eclipse all the more powerful. Some may think that Griffith made the decision because he did not actually care about the Hawks, those who would so loyally lay down their lives if he were to so much as ask. But no. The thing that makes Griffith’s decision to follow that through, to sacrifice all of the Hawks for the sake of his dream so sickening, so gut-wrenchingly despicable, is that he does care. He values each and every single life that was lost at the hands of the apostles, and the demons that began to ravage his party at his behest. He has to care. After all, the Behelit requires him to sacrifice whatever he values most in order to give him his chance at his dream. 

All this death and mayhem, yet underneath it all, it is the scarlet blood of a single child, barely younger than him, that tinges Griffith’s memory. 

[starswallowingsea]

Psychoanalyzing my anime boy until I feel something

[azirafuck]

sandalphon being the one to hit him and aziraphale saying he’s known for doing a lot of smiting in sodom and gomorrah,,,like,,

YEAH. YEAH. YEAH.

[fear-ze-queer]

i did not expect to have my heart ripped right out of my chest while playing dlc for a five nights at freddy's game but here we are