#the treachery of images

[secondbeatsongs]

[marinebiologyshitposts]

[prokopetz]

Upon reflection, the fact that I'm hornyposting about the treachery of images at 9:30 in the morning is probably a solid indicator that I'm not getting enough enrichment in my enclosure right now.

[youwerelikeanangel]

x

[Image description: Tweet by bhavani kunjulakshmi that says: Your solidarity with Palestine is accused of anti-semitism? Like your feminism is accused of misandry/man-hating? Like your anti-racism is accused of reverse racism? Like your workers rights’ unionism is accused of treachery? Like your protests are accused of vandalism?

The oppressor will always find ways to appropriate, co-opt, and manipulate the language of the oppressed to claim victimhood and to justify their violence as self-defense. \End description]

[bakesforsport]

the treachery of images

[ozzgin]

Is it just me or can I imagine a yandere with a darling who’s immune system and possibly everything about them just screams weak and pathetic, BUT their darling is actually very strong mentally and has and will create the most fucked up, batshit crazy inventions from what used to be harmless to something that can help them escape and possibly destroy everything in its path.

But at the end of the day, they become sleepy koalas who hug whoever is near them and fall asleep :)

This could be a request or rant, whatever you can think of! I just wanted to see how different yandere writers would interpret this small imagination of mine <3

But as always, stay safe and take care! everyone needs a break some time to time~

Sorry, but the moment I read the Darling's description, I instantly thought of Dr. Finkelstein from Nightmare Before Christmas. You know, Sally's inventor. 😭 So let me quickly write this down while I'm in my Shelley vibes, because I like the idea a lot. With a little twist, if you don't mind. :)

Yandere! Monster x Inventor! Reader

A frail inventor, and their affectionate rag doll that has been carefully stitched together for the purpose of a caregiver. An artificial existence, trapped within the confines of your lonely tower. Or so you might think.

Content: gender neutral reader, monster romance, obsessive behavior

"I ought to be thy Adam, but I am rather the fallen angel..." [Frankenstein]

You dangle an old, rusty bell for a good minute before leaning back in your chair. The barely audible chimes are quickly swallowed by the loud, mechanical groans of the gears and engines occupying most of this room. No matter, his ears are good. You picked them yourself. And surely enough, within moments, the door to your laboratory opens and someone cautiously walks in.

A tall, slender man. Or rather, something meant to resemble a man. The skin is a clumsy patchwork of blues and grays - you're no talented seamster, sadly - gathering together the body parts in what feels like a parodic attempt at mimicking God and his image. You gaze at the creature approaching you with a tray of tea and sweets. Scarcely your best work, if you must adhere to honesty. Regardless of the quality of your labor at the time of creation, you are proud of the result. How could you not be? You know this man better than you know yourself. Every organ, every artificial nerve cord, every blemish and stitch of his body was placed according to your intentions. A masterfully detailed project that took you years to complete; not an easy feat considering the lamentable state of your health.

"Here's your deadly nightshade tea." The man places a small, porcelain cup on the desk. "Do let me know when I should take you to bed, (Y/N)." You wave your hand dismissively and stretch out your limbs. "Not yet. I am almost finished", you respond, returning to the mound of metal scraps and pipes before you. "Can I ask what you're making?" The pale creature lowers himself to your level, a curious smile plastered on his face. "It's a mechanical heart", you reveal boastfully. "Like the one I have?" You run your hand through the creature's hair affectionately. "Almost. I'm testing out a different way to build the valves, for a more efficient pumping cycle." You continue to explain the intricacies of your novel mechanism, occasionally sipping on your tea. "Who knows, you might have a sibling in the near future."

The man's smile drops in an instant, and his sunken eyes widen at your statement. "What? Am I- am I not enough?" You glance at the creature as he becomes increasingly frantic. "Don't speak nonsense. If it comes out alright, I'll upgrade your own parts as well. I'm a disciple of scientific virtue, of continuous improvement." Nonsense? Vile treachery! You might've chiseled the brain that throbs within the walls of his skull, but his mind is his alone, and you seem to lack a fundamental understanding of his feelings and thoughts. His ardent confessions of love are met with mockingly pitiful grins, in the way a parent soothes a needy child. Even now, your eyes reflect nothing more than sympathy towards his protest. A childish tantrum is what you're most likely thinking. You've no time for emotional bagatelles. He can read you like an open book.

You simply won't understand. There is no place for a stranger in the life he's crafted with his very own hands: you, and him, and the evening tea with a side of butterscotch biscuits, and the bedtime talks, and the stripped branches of the decaying tree that rap at the windows on stormy nights. You might be the Inventor, but he is not just a mere, humble servant, a rag doll to be tossed around or toyed with. As you will soon discover, after all.

You awaken in the midst of night with your temples burning from a much too familiar headache. Although it's not just the pain that has disturbed your slumber. You can hear rattles and thuds coming from the upstairs laboratory. An intruder? Oh, your creations! The sound of glass breaking and metal scraping sends you into spiraling despair. You fumble to reach the nightstand, patting the surface in search for the bell and keys. You shake the handle in a panic, unable to find anything else in the darkness.

The chaotic rustle abruptly stops, followed by descending footsteps. You hold your breath as the chamber door opens, but it's none other than your creature. "Another flare-up? Shall I bring you some medicine?" the man asks with monotonous courtesy. "What have you been doing? What's all that noise?" you demand, agitated, but upon lifting yourself off the mattress you discover your legs are numb and uncooperative. The man hurries to your bed with a worried frown, and you hear the familiar clatter of the keychain coming from one of his pockets. "Have you taken my keys? Cease this foolishness at once!" Indifferent to your reproach, he places a firm hold on your shoulders and forces you back down, tucking you in effortlessly.

"You must forgive my impertinence." he says in a pleading tone. "I do not wish to impede the works of your genius. As your partner, however, it is my duty to prevent you from making mistakes." You furrow your eyebrows at his words. "What mistakes? My invention was flawless!", you argue fervently. "Indeed it was, but not its purpose. What need have you for another being?" It is the creature's turn for a passionate speech. He stands up with a confidence you don't recognize and continues: "You should know by now that I am fit to perform any role. That of your servant, your caregiver, your lover, or anything else you may desire. You can resume your tinkering starting tomorrow, but such blasphemies to our bond as the one today will not be tolerated." He straightens his vest and reaches for the door handle. "I will prepare some tea to help you rest."

Inconceivable. Your own creation, built with your own hands...Has something escaped your attention? His dialogue is deranged, tainted by madness. "Have I done something wrong?" you mumble to yourself, deep in contemplation. "Nonsense." the creature turns to face you briefly. "It was you who created me after all. Everything is perfectly splendid."

[disasteradam]

my prediction for Treachery

Original image if anyone wanted it lol

[talesofhawkins]

the tortured munson department presents | you okay, honey?

— or simply, entering Eddie's bedroom. no towel, nipples perked, skin glistening, causing his brain to short circuit. eighteen plus, no minors allowed. 18+ — a. notes: apologies for this taking me so long, it was a crazy turn of events and a long weekend, but here we are! feedback is much appreciated.

He's lounging — leaned back in the armchair, legs spread, unruly curls bobbing to the beat in his head. His eyes shut, fingers shredding in an epic rendition of Metallica's hit Master of Puppets.

His door creaks upon opening, gaining his attention. His gaze dark, bulging out of the sockets at the sight of you, waltzing into his room without a care.

No towel, nipples perked, droplets dripping down bare skin. A sight of beauty, gifted by the gods — truly marvelous, and for his eyes only.

His jaw slacks, drool seeping from parted lips — his cock twitches against the rough denim of his pants, cursing into the silence.

Time versus desires, a quarrel, battling the craving to touch, to taste, fuck until the only thing those pretty lips could do was beg for his cum.

He couldn't. Wouldn't, rather, refusing to fall prey to this disguise of feign innocence. Not this time, anyways. The minutes spiral, conspiring against him. His appetite too much, standing to flop down onto his bed, desperate for relief from this treachery.

Meanwhile, an impure grin forms on your lips — a mischievous sparkle behind a naive gaze, rummaging through the dresser in search of a sinful, little number. The soft skin visible beneath sheer lace, ass left bare. A thong, one he treasured.

You took pleasure in the deception, teasing him. You enjoyed the way he turns into a rugged beast — frantic to unbutton his pants, shimming them down to just pass his pale thighs. His cock springing to life, slapping his hairy trail and leaking for you.

He'd pat his lap, begging for a quickie. Eddie would insist there's plenty of time, only for you to deny him, giving him that agonizing speech on the importance of being on time, setting a good example. You'd walk him to the van, giving him a quick kiss to the cheek — leave his balls aching.

His night ruined, plagued by the images of you and all the things he plans on doing to you, generating him to wrap up faster.

You bend over, giving him a perfect view of your drenched folds. Your lips curve into a satisfied grin, spinning to discover Eddie's face buried in his mattress. The poor thing, so desperate to ignore the corruption of your little act.

"You okay, honey?"

His response is muffled, ring covered hand flying upwards to give a thumbs up. Your arms cross in a huff, trying your best not to giggle.

"You act as if this is the first time you've seen me naked."

His curls launch up, turning to glare at you. "You're being very rude, sweetheart." The grin on your face pivots, turning sinister. He gulps, tongue darting from his mouth as you crawl onto the bed, sitting in his lap. "Can't handle it, big boy?" You tuck some of his hair behind his ear, temptation hovering, lips inches apart.

His for the taken.

He leans in, forgoing his plans — lips brushing past yours, smashing onto your cheek. "Oh, would you look at the time!" You gasp, leaning away from him with a pout of your lips. "Mustn't be late for Hellfire." You task, pecking a gentle kiss to his nose.

"I fucking knew it." He groans, generating a giggle from you as you climb off his lap.

You grab his leather jacket off the chair, skipping out of the room and towards the trailer's door, waiting for him. It takes him a few minutes to emerge from the room, sneakers striding to stand in front of you — a scowl on his face, hands on his hips.

You smile at him, motioning for him to spin and helping him into his jacket. When he turns around, his eyes give him away — soft and warms towards you. "You're killing me, sweetheart." His arms lace around your waist, pulling you to his chest and planting a kiss to your forehead. "Love you, baby."

"Love you, pretty boy."

You stand on the porch, watching his van drive out the driveway. His eyes haven't left your figure, allowing another wicked idea to form. His shirt flies up, flashing him your bare chest. The van screeches to a halt — the taillights coming closer, returning to his parking space. He leaves the engine running, snatching you up and throwing you over his shoulder.

The first and only time Eddie the Banished, dungeon master of The Hellfire Club was late to a campaign.

[chvoswxtch]

Hi! I’m really sorry to keep requesting this but could you write about blackwidow!reader being on a mission to kill Matt/Daredevil and that she ends up getting close to him just because of the mission but it could possibly end with a happy ending?

please never apologize for a request! you have no idea how beyond flattered I am that you come to me with your ideas & trust me to bring them to life. I am having so much fun with all of these matt x black widow reader requests, so thank you! ❤️

warning: some swearing, slight mentions of violence word count: 2.2k

we can do this together.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. You were never supposed to hesitate. You were never allowed to question a mission. And up until now, you never had. But he made you question everything.

“You don’t have to do this. I know you don’t want to.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know everything about you. You lied about a few things, yeah, but nothing that mattered. Everything else you told me was real. Listen-“

“Don’t move.”

You aimed your gun directly at Matt’s chest, pausing his ascension forward. He quickly brought his hands up in surrender, the sides of his mouth turned downwards in a slight grimace. 

“Y/N, you’re not gonna shoot me.”

Even though half of his face was covered, you could see the betrayal written on his features clear as day beneath the glowing moonlight. You could practically envision the hurt permeating his golden honey eyes, and that image in your head punctured your heart like a jagged, rusty blade. The effect of your treachery was evident in his voice, but you had to remind yourself why you were here. You cocked the hammer of your gun as you clenched your jaw, noting the way his lips parted slightly in response to take in a breath.

“No?”

At this point you weren’t sure who you were trying to convince more; him or yourself. 

Your grip on the handle tightened as you struggled to compose yourself. 

He’s just another mission. You’ve done this a thousand times. Just pull the trigger.

Matt swallowed thickly as he took a cautious step forward, shaking his head slowly as he spoke.

“No, you won’t. You won’t hurt me.”

You fired a warning shot by his foot, causing him to freeze immediately. He turned his head away from the sound of the bullet ricocheting off the concrete of the rooftop, wincing as the sound pierced his sensitive ears. Matt’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, letting a frustrated sigh escape his mouth as he focused his head in your direction. The disappointment was practically radiating off of him, and it made you sick to your stomach. 

“Stop pretending like you know me. You only know the version of me I wanted you to see. Manipulation and deception are our greatest strengths, Matthew. It’s how we bring down empires.”

Matt scoffed as he let out a humorless laugh, instantly dropping his hands by his sides and clutching them into tight fists as he shook his head defiantly and took another bold step forward. 

“No.”

Goddamnit Matthew, stop. Quit being so fucking stubborn.

“It’s not up for debate.”

Deep down you wanted him to run. He was quick and stealthy, you knew that. He could disappear before you even had a chance to track him. That would give you more time. To do what, you weren’t sure. Delay the inevitable? Hope they pulled you off this task and assigned someone else? Runaway yourself?

But Matt wasn’t a runner. He was just as combative outside of the courtroom as he was in it. There was no changing his mind once it had already been made up, he was too tenacious.

“It’s bullshit. I know when you’re lying. I can tell by your heartbeat. You can lie to everyone else, but you can’t lie to me.”

Matt’s confession stunned you completely. He was blind, you knew that for a fact. But he was also the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. You hadn’t quite figured out how he was able to do the things he did, but it wasn’t important to your assignment, so you weren’t allowed to test your curiosity. Get in, get what you need, eliminate the threat, and get out. Those were the rules.

None of this matters. He’s a mission. Just complete it. 

Sensing a falter in your facade, Matt took another cautious step forward, and you reflexively aimed your gun directly towards his face. You never had an issue completing an assignment before. Every target you were assigned to take out was a threat. It never bothered you before, because each of them had things far worse than skeletons in their closets. Some of them had committed sins you didn’t think any God could forgive. The world was better off without them. 

Why was this time so hard?

Because it was Matt. Matthew Murdock that let his clients repay him in banana bread for helping them get justice. Matthew Murdock that gave his literal blood, sweat, and tears every night for a city that would never thank him or even know his real name. 

Because it was Matt that stopped by your apartment randomly and asked you to accompany him to do mundane tasks like go grocery shopping, or claiming he needed feedback on his closing argument with an elaborate ruse. He always had an excuse, but it was simply because he knew you didn’t have any family either, and sometimes felt just as alone as he did. It was Matt that remembered how much you loved pickles and always offered you his even if he wanted them. It was Matt that walked you home every time you went to Josie’s, even though you lived 2 blocks away, because he wanted to make sure you made it home safe. 

Because it was Matt, and he wasn’t really the threat; Daredevil was. Because Daredevil was dangerous. Because he was too good at what he did, and was getting too close. Your other targets were more competition than threats. But him? He was a threat. They had every right to be terrified of him. They should be.

The only advantage you had at the moment was that you hadn’t reported that you figured out Daredevil’s identity. They didn’t know about Matt. But if you were able to figure it out, you knew another widow could too. Matt was only safe the longer you dragged out this assignment, and you were running out of time.

“Sweetheart-“

“Don’t.”

You squeezed your eyes shut as you tried to focus. It felt like you were spiraling in a haunting kaleidoscope of guilt and fear, anxious as to where you would land. You were fighting against every single code of your programming. Everything you were trained to do. Everything you were molded to be. Matt had unlocked something in you, and you were struggling to keep it contained.

“Put the gun down.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. Just-“

“You don’t understand.”

You didn’t even try to mask the vulnerability in your voice. Part of you knew Matt was right. Your mission was to get close to him, but either consciously or subconsciously, you’d also let him get close to you. You had told him things, real things, that no one else knew. You tried to convince yourself that it was to draw him in closer, to make him trust you so you could take advantage of him. But the more you were around him, the truth became harder to deny. Matt Murdock was like gravity. You were drawn to him, like everyone else around him, and he grounded you into a space that felt secure. 

“Then help me understand. Please, sweetheart.”

“I can’t just walk away. One of us isn’t leaving this roof alive.”

“I don’t believe that. I’m not going to hurt you. I won’t fight you.”

“Then you’ll die.”

Matt charged forward until the barrel of your gun was pressed directly against his sternum. The action surprised you and caused you to stumble backwards, but Matt gripped onto your wrist and forced you to keep the gun in place. The way his chest was heaving had your hand almost shaking, and you grit your teeth in annoyance at his persistence. 

“Then shoot me.”

“Goddamnit, Matthew. I’m not what you think I am.”

“I know you’re not what they made you.”

Your fingers trembled slightly around the handle of the gun. Emotions were something you were trained to let go of. They were never supposed to get in the way or compromise a mission. But a piece of you refused to accept the truth that was gnawing at the pit of your stomach; you couldn’t pull the trigger. You knew that. He knew that.

“I can’t walk away. You don’t…you have no idea what…what they’ll do to me.”

A shudder raced down your spine at the thought. You knew what happened to widows that couldn’t complete a mission. They were tortured if they were compromised, and only granted the mercy of death when their body finally gave out. A low growl ripped through Matt’s chest as he tore the gun out of your hands, throwing it behind him as he grabbed onto the back of your neck with his other and pulled you flush into his chest.

“They are not going to touch you ever again.”

“Matt-“

“You are not what they made you.”

“Stop trying to save me. You don’t know what I’ve done-“

“I don’t care.”

“You should-“

“Whatever you did, it was against your will. They didn’t give you a choice. But you have one now, Y/N.”

You didn’t deserve his forgiveness. You didn’t deserve his understanding. Whatever light he saw in you had to just be a reflection of his own. Why did he have to be so good? Matt had found a loose thread in your being, unraveling everything you thought was real, and had you now completely wrapped around him. Ever the good Catholic boy, here he was still trying to save you, even when you had pointed a gun in his face and threatened his life. 

Matt quickly pulled off his helmet, tossing it carelessly to the side as he cupped your jaw delicately in his gloved hands like you might shatter any second. The anguish shadowing his beautiful face made you wish he had kept the fucking thing on. You couldn’t handle the look in his eyes.

“Come with me. Let me help.”

“You can’t-“

“I can. I can help. I have friends that will help. We can take them down together, sweetheart. You don’t have to be scared. I won’t let anything happen to you, I promise. No one is ever going to hurt you again. We can do this together.”

Matt pressed his forehead to yours, reaching for one of your hands to hold against his chest. He gave your wrist a light squeeze, gently nudging your nose with his own.

“I know you, honey. I’ve heard your heart, and I can feel your soul. Please come with me.”

“Matt…if anything happened to you-“

“Nothing is going to happen to me. Nothing is going to happen to you. We can protect each other. We can do this, sweetheart. I know we can. But I need you to trust me.”

Something about Matthew Murdock made you feel like you knew who you were outside of the Red Room. Who you really wanted to be. You’d felt the spark the first time you met; something pure and light like you’d never felt before. Every second you spent with him, you felt like pieces of you were being healed, so much so that you hadn’t even realized some parts weren’t broken anymore until you noticed they stopped hurting.

There had to be something good still left in you. If Matt believed you could find redemption, it had to be true. He was the first person you felt like you could actually trust, and that was terrifying. But despite everything, the heartbreaking truth he had learned about you, the revelation of lies and deceit, he was still here. He was offering you his forgiveness, and his hand, but more than that, he was offering you something you hadn’t felt in a lifetime; hope. 

“I…I don’t know how this works, Matt.”

“We figure it out together, one step at a time.”

“I don’t think I’m worth all this trouble.”

“I do.”

Matt’s face had softened as he pulled back slightly, blank eyes darting back and forth as they burned with recognition. There was a melancholic smile tugging at the corner of his mouth while he nodded his chin in your direction. 

“I know that darkness you feel. I know you think there’s something inside of you that can’t be fixed. And…maybe it can’t. But I do know that you and I are a lot more alike than you think. Our broken pieces…they fit, Y/N. I think you feel that too. We fit together, sweetheart. We can do this. We can take them all down, together.”

It was hard to argue with the confidence and conviction in Matt’s voice. You could feel his own heart beating strongly against your palm through his suit. It hadn’t faltered once. You couldn’t tell if it was because he really believed that, or if he refused to believe anything else.

This decision would alter your life forever. There would never be any going back, and it was quite literally life or death. But you had never been more sure of anything in your life. 

“Where do we start?”

Matt let out a deep exhale of relief, his entire body visibly relaxing as your words hit his ears. His mouth parted into that dazzling smile that made you dizzy, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear and leaning in to carefully brush his lips against yours.

“How about dinner?”

[smallgodseries]

[image description: A bright red bottle of hot sauce hangs from a frame more usually associated with IV fluids. And like an IV drip, the red fluid descends through a coiled clear plastic tube to the bottom of the frame. The features on its face are comprised of peppers – as are the demarcations on the bottle. Text reads, “58, Sri Gotcha ~ The Small God of Hot Sauces”]

Sometimes he’s a trick.

Sometimes he’s hidden deep in the layers of a sandwich, concealed under lettuce or blended with savory-sweet ketchup.  Sometimes he burns the unwary.  Sometimes he’s not wanted.  And on those occasions, he blames the trickster, not the tricked.  None can truly accept communion unless they do so willingly.  And even in the rare times when the tricked finds joy in the experience, there is blame, for he is an honest god, and has no wish to be conveyed through trickery.

He wants those who come to him to come in joy and honor, hands and mouths open, ready to embrace the Scoville burn.  He wants only the willing.  To all others, he is a torment, and he doesn’t want to hurt those who might yet become the faithful, if only they were given the opportunity.

After all, if he was a god of treachery, wouldn’t he ask to be placed in opaque containers and labeled something like “minty, refreshing sauce that won’t burn at all”?  He has so many opportunities for cruelty, and he eschews them all in favor of keeping to his kindness.  He has standards.  He has little regard for those who don’t.

So before you sprinkle hot sauce on someone else’s sandwich, or slip chopped peppers into someone else’s salad, stop and ask yourself whether this will find you favor in the eyes of Sri Gotcha, in whose hands all capsicum rests?  For if he finds you unworthy, he is likely to strip all his gifts away, leaving you with nothing but simple blandness for the rest of time.  No more stinging crispness, no more burning bite.  Gone will be the grace of jalapeno and curry alike, stolen by your own malfeasance.

Consider carefully.  Be kind.  He is an honest god, and he asks of his faithful nothing more than consideration, and kindness where applicable.

• • • • • •

Artist Lee Moyer (Trident of Aurelia, 13th Age) and author Seanan McGuire (Wayward Children, October Daye & InCryptid series) sincerely appreciate you, even if you're secretly hotter than the fires of the seven hells.

[eclecticmiasma]

Down Comes the Claw Ch. 1 (Raphael x Reader)

Doomed, detected, and caught.

SFW (For now)

[Warnings: afab reader, noncon/dubcon, mind control-ish elements, incubi, clones, ownership, imprisonment. EVENTUAL: cambion Raphael, degradation, domination, forced voyeurism, orgasm denial/delay, size difference]

Artist credit: @wrroniec on twitter

The Archivist’s curiosity isn’t well hidden underneath his thin veil of distrust. A mortal, alone, simply wandering the halls of one of the Hells’ most powerful Cambions because she wanted to...peruse his private collection of artifacts? Even a troll would smell treachery miles away.

Were it any other being, the Archivist would have had you sent screaming to holding cells until the master of the house could decide what plane of torment to shuttle you to next, but Korilla had been rather forceful in her instructions not to intervene.

“He’s got a plan for this one,” She’d grinned, the gleam in her dark eyes devilish in its own right, “Let her play while she can.”

Your lips are split from worrying them between your teeth. As if the Hells aren’t hot enough, the Archivist’s gaze has you sweating buckets. He alone could rip your throat to shreds with those fangs the minute your presence has been deemed unsavory, you’re sure of it. As a gleaming ruby locket catches your eye, you try to regard it coolly. You are nothing more than a purveyor of incredibly rare goods, and not at all trying to make your way toward the glittering contract sat front and center of Raphael’s trophy room. The phrase is a mantra you desperately wish to believe.

“Worn by Lumi, a cleric beholden to twilight…” Gods, is your voice trembling? You repeat the name again as if you’re trying to search your vast religious knowledge for the origin of this treasure. Not a single snippet of information comes to mind. Internally, you brace for the house itself to eat you alive.

Instead, Korilla barks out for the Archivist’s attention. Something about another contract ready to be sorted. The man regards you with a final furl of his brows before turning his back to you and attending to his duties. Adrenaline floods your veins and your fingers flex with anticipation. Get the contract, smash Hope’s chains, and get out.

Hope herself appears out of thin air and parrots your thoughts giddly, “Get the contract, smash Hope’s chains, and get out!” before nipping out of existence once again.

You don’t give yourself another chance to think. Without a sound, you prowl towards the center of the grand room and beeline straight for the contract. This is why they agreed to send you alone- Karlach, Shadowheart, the others. Years of prowling the streets of Baldur’s Gate made you nearly undetectable when you wanted to be, so much so that you had even startled Astarion for a laugh on long boring treks. Sure, Gale and Lae’zel nearly came to brawl over the decision, but after two days of quarrels the answer was final.

It could only be you.

The contract before you almost hums with power. Anxiety gnaws at your stomach as you check it over thrice for traps. Nothing. It seems wrong, somehow. A piece of parchment that potentially dictates the fate of Faerûn itself guarded by nothing but a few words. Something tells you to leave it and run, perhaps remnants of the Emperor’s hold on your psyche. Images of your companions, the Hammer, Hope’s face quickly override your doubts and you close your eyes, prepared.

“Give me my heart’s desire,” The words fall from your lips with ease, but nagging trepidation constricts around your heart. Without a sound, the glittering sphere surrounding your contract dissolves away. Before the Archivist can sense what has occurred, before you can convince yourself to turn heel and dash away from all of this, you snatch the page and tear it in two.

Everything plunges into silence. The eternal screams of the damned beyond the gilded walls, cries and whimpers and babbling of long-gone debtors, Korilla’s nagging- all of it gone in an instant. The air around you becomes oppressive, constricting, increasing degree by degree. Ashes fall from your fingertips as the shreds of your contract disintegrate. Get the contract, smash Hope’s chains, get out. You repeat it again and again in your head until your mantra is a scream, but your legs will not move.

“Fools...fools...how hard you have fought,” A familiar baritone echoes out across the empty archive accompanied by slow clapping. It can’t be, you want to shriek. Hope said he was planes away, that you had time.

“Brave, brave, but it's all been...for naught,” You can’t tell from where his voice is coming. It sounds both far and near, across the hall and right in your ears all at once. Even his footsteps, slow and commanding, don’t betray his location.

“True Souls that couldn't be bought,” He’s mocking you now, a gleeful lilt in his otherwise menacing tone. True Souls...the faces of your companions flip through your mind’s eye like pages of a tome. This isn’t how it’s all supposed to end, is it? Your lungs start to burn, unable to expand or contract to the fullest.

“Doomed...” Raphael himself is in the room now, you feel it. As he takes his sweet time sauntering up to you from behind, the magic that holds your limbs in place begins to be revealed. A holding spell, tendrils wrapped around your legs and snaked up your torso through your fingertips. It pulsates with a blinding purple glow. Sweat drips down your temples as the heat of the Hells becomes sweltering, as fear settles in your bones.

“...detected…” Gods, you will. Tyr, Mystra, Shar for Hells’ sake, you pray to every last one. Anything to bid your body run. As the screams of the damned filter back in, growing louder and louder with each step Raphael takes, it becomes devastatingly clear that not a single deity can hear you.

Raphael’s hands land on your shoulders. His fingertips, though gently splayed, might as well be digging into your skin. If you could move an inch, you would have jumped ten feet in the air. Instead you tremble like a rabbit held in the canines of a much larger beast. He leans down and aligns his lips with your ear, breath ghosting across your flesh, “...and caught.” If you could sob you would, but the fear won’t allow it. Instinct of prey that’s well and truly done for. Instead you tense, bracing for the impending pain of retribution.

“So,” the Devil muses, mile wide grin easily detected through the undercurrent of excitement in his tone, “this is the path you have chosen. Anything you and your group of sorry souls could have wanted would have been yours. Your names would have gone down in history as the heroes that saved Faerûn. Yet, you squandered it with a flick of your wrist. What do you have to say for yourself, oh fallen hero?”

Your mouth opens, but not a sound escapes. Nothing that surfaces in your reeling mind feels like it could ever be enough to reverse the tide of ruin you’ve brought upon yourself. Raphael waits patiently as you flounder. Your terror is a wine finer than any bought, and he has all of eternity to savor it.

“Please…” The pitiful, squeaking word escapes your throat more so than it coming out on purpose. Raphael chuckles darkly and moves to tuck a stray wisp of hair behind your ear.

“Oh, I do so love to hear you beg, little mouse. However, I think we can both agree that ‘please’ isn’t an answer. Perhaps if I tell you a story, you’ll be more inclined to...talk.”

Raphael pulls away from you and steps lithely to your front. With a snap of his fingers and a puff of flame, he transports the two of you to his dining room. Roaring flames lick the inside of the fireplace before you, silhouetting the Devil as he prepares to speak. The holding spell wraps tighter.

“You see, the Devil is a rather busy man. When I’m not gracing your merry band with my presence, I’m often attending long meetings with prospective clients, or checking up on those that have already promised me their souls. Perhaps I’m even doling out a punishment or two to a cheeky human that thinks it’s found a loophole. It’s all very important work, and requires quite a bit of cunning and concentration.”

The oppressive heat is getting to you. Raphael’s deep voice sounds like it’s ringing in your head, almost akin to the Emperor’s presence. He paces back and forth before you, gesturing his arms in theatrical movements as if performing a monologue. Each word sends your psyche farther into disarray.

“Hero,” Raphael claps loudly, bringing your attention back to him, “Since my tales seem to bore you, I’ll get straight to the point. I had a fairly important event to attend right before your flagrant disregard for our agreement. Now, imagine my surprise when right in the middle of securing a rather rare and valuable contract, I feel a...shudder, wrack my entire body.”

Glowing eyes level with yours as he leans in close. His brows are furrowed now, genuine anger contorting his features, “My skin began to feel hot, clammy. My concentration waned. Before I realized what was happening sheer ecstasy pooled in my abdomen and then-” He’s so close to you that you hear his breath catch, “It became apparent that someone was using my body.”

Your heart drops. It was the only way. The Archivist had given you access to Raphael’s bedroom with a little cunning, and the only thing standing between you and the contract was a rather familiar looking incubus. What harm could there have been in trading your body for the fate of your companions, your home? The incubus had warned you, though, in its own way. If everything it did with your form meant you would feel it on a different plane, it should have been obvious that Raphael’s form would feel it too.

“I...I didn’t-”

“I knew you would betray our agreement,” Raphael spits, lips hovering just in front of your own, “I knew that eventually I would find you hear in my home, remnants of your misdeed in hand. Korilla and I machinated thousands of ways to tear you asunder, to torment you for breaking my one, most cardinal rule,” Raphael catches himself in his rage, and pulls back. He looks to the fire, light reflected in his eyes. Inhale, exhale. When his gaze meets yours again, all remnants of fury are gone.

“I was ready to kill you in an infinite number of ways. But I should have known better. The moment I met you, I knew you were...special. Of course you would throw a wrench in my plans, and do so beautifully. I almost commend you.”

As he smiles, your skin crawls. He moves in circles around you, thinking, plotting. After some time he comes to a stop, once again behind you.

“So, I propose a better solution. I’ve decided that I rather...enjoyed indulging in your body,” You swallow a protest as his chin rests in the crook of your neck, his left hand sliding down the curve of your waist and along the front of your thigh, “Form a new contract. Submit to me, and I won’t touch a hair on your companions’ heads. As much as I would love to take the place of that poor spawn’s master, I can control myself- for you.”

He squeezes your thigh and drags his lips across the straining muscles in your neck. Your sweat slicked skin sticks to his own, and you feel a deep rumble at your back as he revels in the sensation, “For all they know, the contract is still intact. I’ve captured you here,” He kisses your neck and you squirm, fighting back a gasp, “and their only option is to use the hammer,” another kiss, “or you perish.”

“No…I won't...” The answer comes as a piteous whimper. Raphael cackles against your skin, squeezes your body tight to his own, and tuts like he’s caught a naughty child with their hand in the cookie jar.

“Wrong answer, little mouse.”

Chapter 2 smut incoming 😘

*do not post elsewhere without explicit permission. please consider reblogging, as Tumblr tends to hide more mature content!

[RULES] [MASTERLISTS] [AO3] [KO-FI]

[dyssonant-skyline]

I've been working on the worldbuilding for Hellbound Hostel! I like the idea of having the circles of hell arranged in a ring cosmology where some circles overlap... though each circle would act more like its own plane of existence with the subterraces in slivers inbetween.

I'm still working on key locations for each ring but I'm happy with this so far!

Text on the image transcribed below...

Hellbound Hostel: The 9 Circles of Hell

Each circle embodies a deadly sin, with the introduction of idolotry and treachery as non-traditional sins.

Hellbound are sent to the circle closest to their sins from their life.

Each circle is a place to honor each sin.

A Hellborn rules over each circle.

This is more of a cosmology than an actual physical map.

Terraces between circles are generally controlled by Hellbound souls called "overlords".

They rarely work in unison unless they are all threatened.

The terraces are a combination of the sins of the circles they border.

[destinysquared]

"Treachery keeps the wits sharp."

Sooo did that technique for the first time where you shade the image black/white and add color. I'm not too confident w/ it yet.

Either way, hope you like my drawing!

See inks here:

The inking here however was inspired by how I ink my murder drones art! Might use this style for future TFs, esp. beast wars.

(who is megatron stepping on here?? hmmm.... >_>)

[nobrashfestivity]

The newer myth, derived from a post-psychological conception of consciousness, installs within the activity of art many of the paradoxes involved in attaining an absolute state of being described by the great religious mystics. As the activity of the mystic must end in a via negative, a theology of God's absence, a craving for the cloud of unknowingness beyond knowledge and for the silence beyond speech, so art must tend toward anti-art, the elimination of the "subject" (the "object," the "image"), the substitution of chance for intention, and the pursuit of silence.

In the early, linear version of art's relation to consciousness, a struggle was held to exist between the "spiritual" integrity of the creative impulses and the distracting "materiality" of ordinary life, which throws up so many obstacles in the path of authentic sublimation. But the newer version, in which art is part of a dialectical transaction with consciousness, poses a deeper, more frustrating conflict: The "spirit" seeking embodiment in art clashes with the "material" character of art itself. Art is unmasked as gratuitous, and the very concreteness of the artist's tools (and, particularly in the case of language, their historicity) appears as a trap. Practiced in a world furnished with second-hand perceptions, and specifically confounded by the treachery of words, the activity of the artist is cursed with mediacy. Art becomes the enemy of the artist, for it denies him the realization, the transcendence, he desires.

Therefore, art comes to be estimated as something to be overthrown. A new element enters the art-work and becomes constitutive of it: the appeal (tacit or overt) for its own abolition — and, ultimately, for the abolition of art itself.

- Susan Sontag

[zombielenin]

[ID: Digital magnus archives fanart. Digital art of a horizontal grey lead pipe with an upwards facing ninety degree elbow pipe fitting on its left end. Under the pipe, “Ceci n’est pas une pipe.” is written in black cursive, similar to René Magritte’s painting “The Treachery of Images”. In the bottom right corner, the piece is signed by “E. Bouchard”. The drawing is in greyscale with no shading against a white background. End ID]

Elias needed a new hobby and decided to try painting.

[intotyun]

Analysis on aizen's goals and motivations + why he actually lost

Since bleach cour 3 is coming out so much later, I thought I should do an analysis on aizen, mainly focusing on his goals and motivations.

So one thing that is made abundantly clear is that aizen's whole reason for going to war with the gotei 13:

1. Change the world that is built on treachery and lies

2. By overthrowing the soul King and become God itself so he can rebuilt it in his image.

“That's an argument only a loser would make! A victor should speak on how the world should be, rather than how it currently operates. I refuse to accept the world ruled by that thing! I am a victor, I shall decide how the world should be! ”

Don't think I have to do a word for word analysis on what Aizen meant here. But what's interesting is how aizen referred to the “soul king” as THAT thing, as if his disgusted and we all know from cfyow how the soul king was betrayed and mutilated by the 5 nobles and used as some linchpin because they were terrified of his power. The 5 nobles then went on the rebuild the world in their image. And when they “rebuild it in their image”, they were actually rebuilding a world that would benefit ONLY them.

And we see how this image they built turned out: the current soul society.

Soul Society is a very shitty place to live in if I'm being honest, and I'm pretty sure someone as smart as Aizen would have noticed this. I always headcanon him as someone who lived in the Rukongai District, so he would naturally see first hand on how the world operates.

Aizen does not have a backstory, but I'm certain that something tragic must have happened in his past for him to be SO motivated to change this world. I'm sure Aizen did not suddenly want to become a God when he was first born (as funny that would be). He took on that role because

1. He had the power to do so and

2. No one wanted to

Aizen's "loser" speech was directed to Kisuke telling him how he despised him for not taking action despite his intellect. Which is why I think Aizen isn't really a egotistical man per say who wants to overthrow God because he believes he is superior. If God was doing his job and making life after death a “true paradise” instead of “a hell hole”, Aizen would have never tried overthrowing him.

And this is also why I don't think Aizen would have mind if someone else such as Kisuke became the soul king. Just as long, they had the intellect and power to change this horrible world. But since no one could see what he can see, Aizen took on the manter to change the world as he had the power and intellect to do so.

Now we all know what aizen's main goal and motivation was: to change this stagnant and shitty world that only existed to benefit the 5 nobles.

Now we move into another goal and desire that is a bit personal. Something that was locked away in Aizen's heart. Something that can only be found if you are on equal footing with him and can feel his sword.

the goal to find an equal.

this was stated clearly by Ichigo when he said, “perhaps he has been searching all this time for someone to regard as his equal” now I don't think kubo would dedicate 2 pages of Ichigo talking about Aizen's loneliness just for it to be simply “Ichigo assumption” I think this was Kubo's way of telling us readers this was how Aizen was truely feeling deep down.

Now, what exactly did Ichigo meant by equal? Did he mean in terms of strength? Well, we have yamamoto for that. How about in terms of intellect? Kisuke has the same kind of knowledge Aizen has. How about a combination? Is there actually anyone who is both smart and strong? nope it's just Aizen.

Then why do people say Ichigo was the only one who Aizen regarded as an equal? Ichigo definitely does not see eye to eye with Aizen's idealogy. Ichigo is strong yes, but that can't be the only thing considered to be “Aizen's equal”.

What is considered being “Aizen's equal” is the ability to understand him as a person and also understand the burden of his strength (really reminds me of gojo)

But you see, at the end of the day, Aizen has not find that equal. Ichigo is not that equal, he can never understand Aizen. He has no idea of his past and had no idea of what exactly pushed him to the edge. He can only understand more aspects of him than the other soul repears. And that is just very.... depressing. I truly think the only reason why Ichigo prolonged that battle, was so he could understand Aizen more. But he gave up when Aizen kept evolving and remembered why he came here.

Why did Aizen actually lose?

First let's mention about the traitor trio relationship.

First we have Tosen, the one Aizen killed.

Toswn served Aizen even before he became a shinigami. He saw the corruption of the Soul Society and believed that Aizen is the only one who can remake it to a better world. But where is he now? Oh that's right, gone.

In cfyow vol 3, page 370-375, the author described aizen and tosen relationship as “close” very bold choice of words given the fact we barely see Aizen being “close” to anyone. But this is backup with evidence:

1. Aizen able to sense the soul of Kaname vanishing, and then the author went on to say, "the soul of the man with whom he shared a destined relationship with; the man who was his confident"

2. Aizen respecting Tosen's wish to be killed if he ever started to accept the world of the shinigamis

3. Aizen telling himself, “sometimes, fear is necessary for evolution” when Tosen asked aizen to kill him.

I think Aizen truly did care for Kaname in his own way and not just use him as a means/tool. He formed a genuine bond with him though I wouldn't go to an extend and say he was an equal. As the only thing he saw eye to eye with Aizen was the state of the world.

And next, we have Gin the one who betrayed him. I believe Aizen knew deep down Gin was going to betray him but kept him around out of curiosity, and he wasn't bullshiting his way. But what I want to talk about is this panel of aizen after killing Gin and seeing everyone around him suffering. He looks... sad???

But why? Does that mean deep down in his heart, Aizen cared for Gin? I mean looking back Gin was a child prodigy something Aizen could probably relate to (as Aizen was also born with exceptional talent and strength)

I think this is the moment where Aizen was slowly beginning to have the desire to lose. He lost thr espada and the only 2 confidents he somewhat cared for. He truely has to stand above the heavens alone. But Ichigo pulled up and obviously Aizen has to put on the facade of “i'm stronger than you”

now, let's move on to the fight

“Let's do this Aizen real quick. It will be over”

But then, when they clash swords, he feels Aizen's sword and the loneliness coming out from it, it probably made Ichigo curious. This was not the Aizen he faced before, the Aizen he faced was confident and showed no signs of "loneliness".

Ichigo says this but goes on to prolongs the battle and keeps asking Aizen a bunch of questions. You can see it as Ichigo flexing on Aizen but I think Ichigo truely wanted to end this battle quick by all means necessary.

This isn't Ichigo flexing, this is Ichigo trying to understand Aizen. But I guess since he spend so much time in the dangai, he probably cannot properly ask aizen like how he would normally do in his battles.

Asking him questions that Aizen asked him before as he thinks this Aizen would be feeling the same thing ichigo did when he first faced aizen. Trying to relate to him and overpower him to tell Aizen, “hey i'm stronger than you, you arent the only one with overwhelming strength in this world”. Trying to relate to Aizen.

Obviously, this doesn't work, and Aizen gets angry and transforms into monster aizen.

Ichigo is confused and looks so sad, his probably thinking, "I don't get it. Why is he doing this? Doesn't he hate his strength? Shouldn't he feel better knowing that there is someone else as strong as him? Dosent he want to lose?"

“I see, so you cannot allow it, hogyoku. You can't forgive me...”

this was the beginning of Aizen's downfall: relying too much on the hogyoku. Aizen talks to the hogyoku as if a shinigami talks to its zanpakuto. The more he bonded with it, the more the hogyoku forged a relationship with him and read deeper into his heart.

Monster Aizen managed to damage Ichigo and I guess since he realised that lives were at stake here, he gives up trying to understand Aizen and ends it. You can see the look Ichigo gives to Aizen's “dead” body and his reaction when he found out he was still alive.

“Hogyoku has determined I no longer need a Zanpakuto!”

Once again, Aizen relies on the Hogyoku rather than his own zanpakuto. His zanpakuto is not disappearing because he has become more powerful. it's because he himself has replaced it with a new weapon.

And once that was done, the Hogyoku managed to bond with Aizen more, and it read deeper into his heart and ultimately saw what his true desire was. The desire to be normal so he can relate to others. So the Hogyoku granted Aizen his wish.

In the end, Aizen lost because he himself does not understand what he truely wants: to be a god or to connect with others. In contrast to Ichigo who has fully accepted himself.

*btw I believe aizen did lose his zanpakuto here, but during the events before tybw, well he did alot of reflection with himself and his zanpakuto spirit and thus, he got back his powers which is probably why he didn't know who yhwach was seeing when he was fighting him

TYBW

In tybw we see Aizen back again, even more stronger than before as stated by urahara and it also seems he has kyoka suigetsu's power back again.

And from what we can tell, Aizen is back to his normal "arrogant" self with a little twist. Starting with his interaction with yhwach.

Aizen pokes fun at yhwach for “having more trouble with kurosaki Ichigo” then he had forseen. But Yhwach refutes back at him and tells Aizen, “not to project his insecurities onto me” (lmao yhwach) but funny enough, Aizen dosen't even try and talk back. He instead ignores him and tells yhwach he plans to stop him.

“so you see me as Ichigo Kurosaki? Fascinating...”

another moment where the old aizen wouldn't have done: using himself as a shield/sacrifice to help to defeat the enemy. I guess yhwach was right, “to join forces when confronted by a common enemy, is this not the actions of those cowards you detest so much?”

Not only that, aizen was trusting the fact that ichigo could figure out that he activated kyoka suigetsu to deliver the blow to Ichigo. A complete contradiction on his statement on “trust is the same thing as reliance”

People always see that moment as a badass moment, but personally this was when I knew tybw aizen was not the same aizen as before.

This is probably why Aizen was getting stronger, he is not scheming anything anymore, and thus has no choice but to do a reflection on himself and has to come to terms with his conflicting desires. The more he understands himself, the more stronger he would become.

And lastly, we have iconic panel of Aizen speech on courage.

There is nobody in bleach that embodies the word "courage" more then Ichigo. He experienced all kind of defeats which shaped him as a person. Even when he was faced with a stronger opponent, never once did he back out and instead he pushed forward and conquered his fear.

Something Aizen was not capable of. Aizen was afraid of his own conflicting desires that lies within deep in his heart. Because he thinks that part of him wont help accomplish what he set out to do and thus, refused to acknowledge that other part of him.

But Ichigo instead accepted both the quicy and Hollow parts as Zangestu. Both who are also conflicting parts of him.

Aizen is definitely returning in the hell arc, szyal stating that the reason why the gates of hell were shut was because of the immense spitrual pressure of aizen. The gotei 13 will have to come to terms that despite how shitty aizen is, they can not deny he is STRONG. And will have no choice but to ask him for his strength. I would really be vv interesting to see how aizen would play out and his role.