tirednamelessguy

Latest Posts by tirednamelessguy

Words Unspoken - gerard keay

Gerry isn't used to the Archives being quiet. Good thing he's got you, then.

masterlist

a/n: back from hiatus w a podcast fanfic out of nowhere. yippee enjoy

Gerard isn’t used to quiet.

He doesn’t usually get a lot of it. Not since he started working at the Institute. Certainly not since his mother started plaguing him, even before the books took her skin and soul. He’s been a Keay for longer than he’s been conscious. He doesn’t think he’s truly been at peace since he first opened his eyes.

He takes what he can, of course, bits and pieces in between the forays out into the world to find the books, the fucking Leitners, and burn them. He’s always been calmest when he can watch the pages turn into ash, crumbling away on the wind. The words inked within are twisted, vile things, bringing only ruin to those unfortunate enough to read them, but Gerard almost feels jealous when he watches them go up in smoke. It would feel extraordinary to be light enough to coast away in open air, he thinks. The weight would be nothing then. Certainly not enough to crush him whole like it does every other day.

He hasn’t burned a book in a month, maybe that’s why he feels so uneasy. He runs his fingers over the holes in his ripped jeans for the nth time that day, dark fingernails accelerating the ruin of the threadbare hems. The eye tattoos on his knuckles appear and disappear as he bends his fingers, as if they’re blinking over and over again. Sometimes, Gerard tells himself this ill-gotten stalemate in between terrors is the reason he stays here, in the Magnus Institute, in this world of fears and statements and book-burning. He can barely handle quiet when he gets a few days of it. He’d probably go mad if peace and calm became his whole life.

The door swings open behind him, and Gerard has to fight not to flinch. He’s not quite sure he manages it. In between reminding himself how to breathe, Gerard has enough time to notice the identity of his visitor. His shoulders drop a little in relief when he recognizes the even footfalls of Y/N L/N, Gertrude’s latest hire. Y/N’s another archival assistant, primarily engaged in researching statement givers. Their paths don’t always cross, but when they do, Gerard finds himself happy for it. Y/N– Gerard can’t describe it, really, what they do to him. They make him feel normal, almost. Almost, until he remembers the eldritch all-seeing overlord they serve, or the myriad disasters they catalog every day, or any other detail of their insane lives.

Y/N smiles at him, taking a seat on a nearby chair. They’re holding two mugs of tea, one of which is slid across the table to a grateful Gerard, and a few file folders full of various notes.

“How’re you?” Y/N asks pleasantly. Most find the labyrinthine underbelly of the Archives too cold and austere for words, but it never seemed to bother Y/N. The Institute, much like everything else, just seems to make them that much better and brighter in Gerard’s eyes.

Gerard takes a sip of tea to avoid answering. “I’m alright,” he murmurs at last. “A little restless, but that’s nothing new.”

Y/N hums in agreement. Not for the first time, Gerard finds himself wondering why on earth someone like them would end up somewhere like here. He could find out, if he really wanted to, could look past the pretty face and encouraging smile to read the truth like another printed line from a cursed book, but for once, he doesn’t give in to the urge. He’d rather have Y/N tell him. He’d rather be the willing keeper of their secrets, not the thief.

Y/N catches his musing stare and Gerard coughs, embarrassed to be caught, and points his chin towards the stack of file folders in their hand. “What’ve you got there? More statements?”

Y/N nods. “Actually, I wanted to ask you about them. There’s somebody, a banker out near Bradford, who’s been having weird encounters with one of his neighbours. I don’t think the banker has read a Leitner directly, but I wanted to see if you thought his neighbour might be a victim of a book. He’s been describing weird, erratic behavior, odd patterns–”

Y/N flips open one of the manilla folders and slides it across the table. Gerard leans over to take a look, his tattooed fingers tracing the lines where they point. For a few carefully held breaths, their two hands brush, and Gerard has to fight the urge to wrap his fingers around theirs and never let go. It’s a right pain to make himself focus on the statement again, especially when there’s someone vastly more interesting right next to him, but Y/N is diligently focused and so Gerard reluctantly follows suit, peering at the description of the banker’s worries.

He tilts his head to the side, considering the statement. “Yeah, might be. He says his neighbour was doing, like, weird rituals, right? Could be the People’s Church of the Divine Host, but given how closely it all seems to relate to, uh, meat, it’s probably Flesh-adjacent.”

Y/N snorts. “Flesh-adjacent?”

Gerard rolls his eyes. “Fine, you come up with a better way to say he’s been reanimating random corpses or bits of corpses without seeming silly. I’m just trying to help.”

He’s grinning, though, and Y/N laughs too. He likes it when they laugh. It makes him feel better about himself. Can’t be that fucked up as a person if you can make someone like that smile.

“Alright,” they say, still humored, “Flesh-adjacent it is. So you’re thinking all this stuff was started by a book?”

Gerard lifts a shoulder. “Might be. The neighbour guy’s probably learning some spells from a Leitner, thinking he’s the next big thing in witchcraft, when in reality the book is just draining his measly little soul to do it. I’ll go take a look around in a few days, see if I can track down the thing.”

Y/N’s face falls. “No, I can’t ask you to do that. It might be dangerous!”

“No, it’s quite alright,” Gerard says. “Like I said, I’ve been getting restless. It’ll be good for me to get out and do something.”

Y/N arches a dubious brow. “It’ll be good for you to track down someone reanimating corpses using evil spells from a murderous book?”

“Are you worried about me? That’s sweet of you,” Gerard teases, noting with a thrill of delight up his spine how Y/N’s face heats up when he leans ever closer to them. “I’ll be fine, I promise. Plus, I’ll run it by Gertrude first. Downright cautious. How’s that sound to you?”

Y/N flips closed the file folder, smoothing down any errant paper corners with a deliberate movement of their hand. “I guess. I just didn’t want you to think that I only came down here to send you on another death mission.”

“Of course not, I know you love my company,” Gerard grins.

“I do,” Y/N insists, their eyes rising to insistently meet Gerard’s gaze, like it was incredibly important that he know how they felt. Like it might even matter as much to Y/N as it does to Gerard. Like for once, they feel the exact same way, and it’s– it’s–

Up one floor, a door closes a little too loudly, the reverberation of the slam echoing down to them. Y/N flinches away, and just like that, they’ve both lost their nerve. Y/N stands up quickly, gathering up the folders again and their tea. “I’ll see you around, then,” they whisper, and head out, stealing one last glance at Gerard when they think he doesn’t notice.

He does notice, though, and he does notice the plaintive sigh they let out once the door closes behind them. It’s alright. He’s got plenty more chances to say what they both want to hear.

all tags list: @wordsarelife, @supervoldejaygent

You should sleep

TW! self-hatred, grief, apathy, dehumanization, more tw's to be added

Note: this is a diary page written about my own emotions/struggles/views. it's written in second POV

Date: 8/24/24 -- 2:45AM

            You should really be sleeping now, not reading. Or writing, in this case, but it’s hard to sleep when you feel like you’re wasting your life! The voices of your loved ones ring in your head. ‘’you should make the most of it now’’ or ‘’you should go out more’’.

             You know that already, but you have no desire to see the sun or touch the grass—not when that specific presence isn’t with you. Something inside you has died, and all the joy has simply faded away. It’s hard. It’s hard to enjoy, to laugh, to feel. The emptiness within you is the worst thing in the world. You wish you could fill it, but nothing is ever enough for you.

Nothing satisfies the hunger of the monster you’ve become. Yes, you call yourself a monster. Because it’s true—you are a monster. You don’t heal, you don’t grow, you don’t change, you don’t believe or live; you only deceive. It’s a trait you inherited (you won’t say from whom), and it’s a burden. The destruction you bring is absurd. How can one person bring so much destruction? Why are you like this? You’ve destroyed so many things in your life. It’s depressing—so, so depressing.

            Sometimes I wish I could restart or pause, take a breath of fresh air, or have someone hold my hand and say, "Okay, slow down, breathe. Now, tell me." I’ve said those words to others many times, but why don’t I deserve to hear them? Why am I so different? Not in a cheesy way. Hell, I’m not even going to try to explain what I mean. If someone reads this someday, they’ll either understand or say I’m dramatic and stupid.

And to those who understand—I’m sorry.

I know how much you want to be held but can’t stand being touched. I know how you long for someone to pet you on the head, but you hiss and growl like a wild animal. I know how you yearn for warmth, yet still prefer the cold. I know how you read just to escape into those stories, to live vicariously through those characters, to imagine that your life could be like theirs, with those specific experiences. I know how much you want to live, to feel, how you start to absorb the emotions from the stories you read, just to feel something. But it’s not yours. That story isn’t yours, that emotion isn’t yours, that life isn’t yours—and it never will be. You’ll rot forever, alone, because nothing is good enough, and if it is, you can’t trust it, so you destroy it.

            That’s how you monsters operate. You seek comfort, you seek emotion, you seek getleness and when it’s given, you refuse it, you damage it, you destroy it. I’ll give you my gentle hands, and you’ll return them scratched and calloused. It’s your nature—to manipulate, deceive, destroy—over and over. No one knows what it’s like to be destructive, how dehumanizing it is. No one can come close because they’ll break or rather—you’ll break them . They’ll lose a piece of themselves, leaving empty and incomplete, because you just take and take and never give; you take away from others to fill your own void in your chest, to fit in whatever you can because it hurts. You once believed you had a heart, that you were good, but there’s no good, and there’s no heart and it is your own fault. You are what you hate the most. That’s a bit pathetic, isn’t it?

            You should really stop, but all these emotions and thoughts that aren’t even yours are swirling in your head. You wish so much to be loved like the characters in the books. You wish you could be in their shoes, even with all their suffering, just to finally feel something other than the ache of the void in your chest. You swear, no one knows emptiness and loneliness like you do. You know you’re isolating yourself, but you don’t know why (maybe to protect those around you, maybe because deep down you care, but then you remember that there’s no deep down and that you are what you do). Your chest burns unpleasantly when people talk to you, and it feels gross, it feels wrong, foreign, unnatural. Sometimes you don’t even feel human, you feel like you lack the humanity necessarry to call yourself that. You’re confused, scared and uneasy, you aren’t sure what you are anymore. Are these your thoughts? Are these your feelings? Did you become someone else again?

You should really sleep

An attempt was made

ok so now that i have had time to process the insane episode which was 52, i have some more thoughts and theories about it.

Mostly thoughts about whats going to happen next. I think Jarthur are going to be separated again, maybe not for long, but for at least a couple of episodes. Because Arthur is very much dead, and Kayne did mention that he'd end up in The Dark World. But I think Arthur is going to end up in The Waylay, and if not then he'll end up in a random part of the Dark World alone and have to make his way over to wherever John is.

Because i was listening to season 3 again yesterday, and then this conversation happened between them.

So I do think that they might either end up separated at some point in season 6.

I Died For You [A Malevolent Animatic]

Voice acting and audio by @malevolentcast , who very generously sent me this audio file to use for this animatic. Thank you for creating such a beautiful show.

Background and details under cut

I began this animatic early last year after finding the audio on TikTok. Once I heard it, I was immediately struck with the thought of how those first couple of weeks in the Dark World would be for John immediately after Season 2. It seemed perfectly fitting, how John might be tortured by his guilt and uncertainty if Arthur was even still alive, and that torment would only aid his regression to his more… Kingly qualities.

I began to draft the thumbnails of the animatic in my sketchbook before transferring it to my digital workspace, which was incredibly intimidating at the time. This was my first independent animatic. In last year’s InvictusCon, Harlan popped into my stream as I was explaining my animatic thought process to my viewers, shaking with both excitement and terror. I was stunned when he offered to voice it himself. The next day, he sent me the audio file. To this day, I am still stunned he spent so much time and effort to create something. It was the encouragement I needed to finish a longer-form animatic. It may be only a minute and some change, but this is a whole year of my life condensed - my obsession, my adoration, my passion for not only this podcast but for art in general, both visual and audio.

It’s by happy accident that I finished this right at the cusp of the Season 5 finale. It almost perfectly slots in. So… let’s all pretend that this animatic took me a month to do rather than the year I spent sweating on my couch and complaining about the number of times I forgot Arthur’s wooden finger.

Lost At Sea

Here I lie, lost at sea,

dazed and lame as I can be.

The sky above is dark

as is the water below me.

How I got here, I scarcely remember—

when I boarded, when I left the pier.

The time as well, I could not decipher—

September, October, or November.

Alone in this vastness,

silence embraces me—

the great stretch of the universe and the sea

do all but eclipse me.

At times I start to wonder

what if instead of wander,

I let the waves take me—

pull me in and consume me.

I close my eyes and picture

my delicate arms and legs,

spread restful as they please,

sink into the cold water.

Visions of the starry sky peek through,

strings of faint light probing in the blue.

The stars shimmer above the mirrory surface,

far and out of reach, they peer with indifference.

But then I pull myself out

of my ruminative bout;

the spirit of life taking reins

to brave my impermanent pains.

My boat is a drifting speck,

a mote between infinite black;

so here I lie, lost at sea,

alone and numbed as I can be.

______________________________________________________________

Inspired by and written for the prompt "Cold water". Prompt credit to @the-kingofdoritos

Ok so I've been thinking about malev part 52 again, specifically about Noel. (Spoilers for 52 of course.)

Firstly, I'M SO GLAD THAT HE'S ALIVE!! I LITERALLY ALMOST SCREAMED WHEN KAYNE MENTIONED THAT HE WAS ALIVE!!!! I'VE MISSED HIM SO MUCH!!!

But I've been thinking about where exactly he is, because we dont get told much - but it is enough to start making some speculations.

I haven't hear anyone mention the fact that he could be in Harpers Hill. Which is where I believe he may be, well, at least physically at least. 1. Harpers Hill is familiar to us. John and Arthur have been there before, and its had a good few episodes set near and in it. And it was quite a big plot-point during the fist part of season 1. 2. It is close to Arkham, extremely close.

So this is where I believe Noel is. More specifically, maybe in the hospital there. Which he wound more than likely have ended up at considering he was shot in the neck and all. But that of course doesn't explain this "threshold" he's apparently at. Which is why I also believe that his consciousness is in The Waylay. We dont know much about it, but it does seem like a rest-stop before death. And there was someone who ordered him a drink (which could be Noel or Parker, or both!).

TLDR: In conclusion I think Noel's body could be in Harpers Hill's hospital, whilst his consciousness is in The Waylay.

Knock-Knock

— Who’s there?

🌻☀️🌻

I'm like if omota uramichi were unemployed and insane and a failure woman and not a gymnast

Purification

Sleep, when you think about it, is like a false death or a little death. Unconsciousness extends to hours of bliss or nightmares, leaving one ignorant and inert, unaware of where one is. The awakening is what breaks the said 'death', pulling one out of the depths of their own mind to throw them into the real world. For a moment or so, I often think about it, the lines must blur; life and death, slumber and consciousness, real and unreal. From this moment rises a new you, one who is slightly different, slightly renewed.

I always understood sleep in that manner. You wake up with a bruise you didn't have before, you wake up with a new pimple, you wake up with more hair on your pillow than yesterday, you wake up feeling more tired than you did when you went to bed, you wake up from a vivid dream of a life so much better than your reality, you spend the rest of the day trying to forget it. I think of waking up as a door to a new day. What you'll find in that new day is shown when your eyes open, its symptoms etched onto you. I've lived through life enough to expect some things from how waking up leaves me feeling.

The 'mark' left me confused. For a good 5 minutes, I sat and recalled what had happened that night. Was I with someone? Was I drunk?

Who was I kidding? I hadn't been drunk in forever. That line of thought is for people who have friends to go out with.

I was sober. I came home alone, had leftovers and went straight to bed. Nothing that explained a strange tattoo that looked like a cursive 'U' or 'V' could have happened. I tried wiping it off, washing it out; nothing worked. It stayed there, dark and crisp, a part of my skin. It didn't hurt or even have any visible redness around it, almost as if it had always been there. But I knew it hadn't.

I might have been able to get it off my mind if I had anything to do, but it was a day off. All the time in the world to think about it. But what was the point? I couldn't get to any conclusion anyway. How did it get there? Who did it? What was the purpose of it? All questions hung before me like carrots on a stick too high for me to grasp.

I ate cereal for breakfast, even though I told myself to make something nice for once. I stayed at the table for way too long, staring blankly at whatever my phone showed me, locked in a hypnotic stillness until the clock threatened with hours slipping out of my grasp. I heeded, moving around to go about the chores that I had perfect excuses to avoid throughout the week in a lethargic pace. And when my mind found no place to rest, it wandered down to the mark on my wrist.

I wondered what it could mean. Maybe if I had known, I would have thought of something to do. Although, even if I did, there was nothing I could do.

Clouds took over the sky right around noon, just when the clothes were done washing. The gloom must have taken over me as all I did for who knows how long was pace around the tiny apartment I reluctantly called home before ending up standing before the window, staring out. Grey, wistful swathes hung over the big city; city of the future, city of dreams— all those names and a single, cloudy day dwarfed it before its sombre glory.

The longer I watched those clouds, the more anxious I grew. For what reason, I couldn't tell. Nausea rose upon me, sweat threatening to spill through my skin but not doing so, paralysed in a state of limbo, just like the weather. My insides felt corrupt, leaving an intense drive to spill it out somehow, erase it, cleanse myself of it.

The houses around were quiet, the only sound in the neighbourhood being that of some vehicles passing by occasionally. For once, I lamented the quiet. I had always wished so desperately for it, cursing the kids for all their screaming, laughing, crying, shouting, stomping and playing around the neighbourhood. I was never a bitter person. I never hated children. But the quiet I got to enjoy on days like these was something precious, and anyone to break it made my blood boil. And now, for some reason, I found the quiet nerve-wracking.

The clock seemed to tick louder in the deathly silence, forcing me to do something about the wet laundry festering in the washing machine. Like a marionette, I got to work, hanging and laying the clothes on whatever surface provided the passage of air around them. The clothing rack wasn't sufficient. I would've made lunch, but the nausea made me stay out of the kitchen. I never liked to cook anyway, but takeout was slowly eating away at the peanuts I earned. Going out with colleagues was no better. Somehow, it always ended with me paying for everyone. Fastest way to end my appetite. I was never a miser but constantly ending up with empty pockets after every outing would make anyone resentful.

I couldn't see the Sunset. All around me were tall buildings blocking the Sun at its best hours. Sunset to me was a splash of greyish orange towards the west. Today, it was dull purple, the kind that makes your mouth twist in a snarl, almost like a large bruise or mold sprawling across the sky. It made me want to reach up and tear it down, and the thought alone made my fingertips tingle with disgust. The sight of that nasty shade slowly fading as the dark veil of night spread should have made me relieved, but it only made the sense of doom settle further into the cavity of my torso.

How deceptive time is, rushing forward with no mercy when it wishes and slowing to a suffocating halt when it wishes. I didn't realise when the day passed, but when my eyes landed by chance on the clock proudly counting down each last second of my life, I could only beg for it to speed up. I didn't want to suffer, I didn't want to die— at least not so soon. But death was sweeter than the agony I was put through for reasons I couldn't dare ask about.

It came to me all of a sudden but not at the same time. I expected something, something bad, for sure, when the mark on my wrist began to tickle under my skin. Not long after that, it itched and burned. I scratched and scratched and scratched until blood came trickling out around it, but the mark remained unharmed, pristine. I knew it was over for me then, when my nails, all bloody and full of dead skin, would simply glide over the warm, wet liquid coating my forearm.

My vision was blurry from tears, which obscured the figure that seemed to manifest in the middle of my living room. I kept scratching, growing positively desperate to get rid of the mark. It stayed, pitch black ink engraved into my flesh. I broke down and slid to the floor as the looming figure, cloaked in white and gold, approached. It probably had a head and a pair of arms, but it didn't use them to lift me off the floor. I kept my head hung, even as screams erupted from my throat; I didn't dare look up.

I didn't realise when the lights went out— or perhaps I had never turned them on the whole day— but it was dark. At least, it was supposed to be. Besides the lightning that shrieked between the blanket of clouds pouring down rain, there was a bright, off-white glow so strong it could blind me easily if I hadn't been staring at my arm the whole time. Even in mid-air, I was below the cruel deity that inflicted that pain on me. When the mark burned so hot it began glowing through the bloody mess I had made of it, I gave up, dropping my spent hand to my side.

Why was it doing this? What did it have to gain from me? Why did it choose me? I hoped my eyes conveyed those questions as I lifted them to gaze upon it. I fought the light through newfound tears only to see indifference in the fully black eyes, a void so vast yet tiny enough to be held within the walls of my home. There was no malice in those 'eyes', only an aloof responsibility. For me.

My ribs cracked under the invisible pressure, the rest of my insides flaring up— muscles turned magma and organs, lava. My throat had never felt so raw before as it did in that moment until it was silenced on its own. I pitied myself for the failed whistling sounds my broken throat made, although I didn't have to bear it for long as my ears started bleeding along with my nose and mouth. There was something coming out of me, besides all the blood that splattered all over, something invisible but so very tangible. A part of me— how big, I could not tell. The bright one ripped it out of me, separating the ugly from the ideal.

I understood. I didn't want this to happen, but I understood. The corruption, the impurities had to go, to be thrown out. A horrid night would result in renewal, in the perpetuation of a better, purer form. I may have accepted it in those final moments. The sky had quieted down after a great storm, creating space for me to lament the tantalising click of the second's hand and the sparse, shallow breaths that leaked out of my respiratory tract. I wanted to let it all go, to go unconscious into the gentle arms of sweet slumber. My eyes shifted around to take in the sight of home one last time.

Soon, I would be renewed, perfect. But the stains of those removed impurities would be carried by the place, by the clothes soaking in my blood, and that would be all that was left of the me that existed before the blurring of the lines. That was enough. If I closed my eyes, death was a certainty, but so was the awakening of a new me. A renewed me.

A/N: This is a little something I wrote for a monthly writing prompt, it being "A character wakes with a strange mark on their arm." Credit to @the-kingofdoritos for the prompt!

OH MY GOD YESS

Can someome draw him with this outfit? 🙏

PLEASE..I'M asking for a friend...

I ADORE the way you paint him

Some of my favorite Alucard paintings in honor of The Symphony of the Night's 28th anniversary

DIY heart transplantation and its consequences (it’s never enough)

------------------------------

Tw: blood, cannibalism (?)

Note: this was made as a submission to a writing challenge, on @the-kingofdoritos 's discord server, so my thanks go to him and everyone there!

Date: 3/2/2025

Have you ever been heartbroken?

Abandoned? 

Judged? 

Left all on your own? 

Did you ever have to pick up the pieces of your poor heart and soul by yourself because there was no one to help you?

Did you turn ugly and bitter? Lost your beauty now that your fundamental parts are missing?

Have you ever had to wipe your own tears with your bloody fingers because the shards of your crushed soul wounded your poor body? 

Have you ever felt that emptiness deep within? In your chest. It must be your heart, right? 

Well, good news, ladies and gentlemen! We have something just for you!

The human body heals, and with today's technology and techniques, it’s easy to replace limbs and even organs! Convenient, no? 

We introduce to you: DIY transplanting technique!!

With this technique, you can easily just get a transplant yourself, all you need is to get another heart! 

How, you may ask? Well, it’s easy! 

Inflict harm 

Bring justice to yourself 

Fill the void that was left by others by taking away their hearts!

Bite through their skin, break their ribs, and get your hand deep into their mortal body and pull it out like the desperate, scared, wounded animal you are. 

Be selfish because sometimes, being selfish is a form of self-care! 

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Uh-oh! 

Did your hands get bloody? 

Are your clothes now stained in crimson? 

Don’t worry! It’s not your blood, so it’s irrelevant! 

.

But something else besides your hands got stained, didn’t it? 

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Souls also get stained;

They don’t heal,

They’re unique; 

They can’t be cleaned or replaced

All your sins will follow you forever, you will rot because desperate times call for desperate measures. The blood you spill will remain deep within the void that used to be your soul.

Eternity, immortality, purity…

While your heart might be replaced by another’s, sewn into your flesh and protected by your bones, your soul can’t. 

It will forever be broken, whatever remains of it will cut into your mortal flesh and the rest will be an emptiness. But hey! What’s stopping you from trying to replace it?

What’s stopping you from using blood as glue and violence as your weapon? 

And so you start doing that,

Your survival instincts kick in, you keep chewing on people's hearts and slamming fists into their souls. 

Now there are shards everywhere… 

So you start collecting them, gently holding them in your hands so you don’t cut yourself again, so you don’t damage that fragile thing.

And the soul’s owner looks up at you. They’re on their knees, with a hopeful spark in their eyes, opening their palms so you can hand them back what you took away.

They wish to stop hurting,

They wish for the pain to stop,

But so do you.

And so you walk away, go back into your home and glue yourself together carefully. It’s bloody, it’s messy, but it’s enough, right? 

Wrong.

You’re not whole. You can’t be whole. You’ll never be whole again. There are cracks, there are empty spaces. What once was broken will never be whole again

But you are beautiful again, with crimson on your hands and lips, with the essence of other humans now rooted deep in you, you’ll carry it all forever. 

For an eternity. Souls are immortal. Pure.

You’ll carry it all forever. 

But yours isn’t pure anymore.

It’s replaced. 

🤌🏻🤌🏻🤌🏻

Hellsing brainrot

Alu in this btw

I'm participating in a poetry recitation competition tomorrow (theme 'Power of hope and resilience') and I just wrote my piece, tell me how it is!

Leaves on the Edge

When my feet fall upon

Those crisp, brown leaves

Lying beneath trees

It fills my heart with affliction.

Spindly branches reach skyward,

Grasping for wishes and prayers,

To ask for their spring gone wayward,

Although help is scarce.

But the tree finds a way,

As do all that stray;

Those which kept on the road;

Endured it all and strode

For what is the sea to a sailor

Who weathers every storm and wave?

What is the desert to a traveller

Whom not even the night could save?

What is the mountain to a climber?

What is the sky to a pilot?

Why must one stagger

If even the sky is not the limit?

So when my mind starts to fret

I tell myself not to forget:

'Not all leaves have fallen yet,

Not all leaves have fallen yet.'

These have no business being this accurate

So.

It seems to be a rite of passage for all tma enjoyers to obnoxiously assign entities to every piece of media they consume, which is why I present to you another exhibit of this totally normal behaviour, this time for The Spiral.

I am rewatching this little kdrama called 'Bad and Crazy' and for the first half, it doesn't seem like much, although the themes surrounding mental disorder are very much present. The second half however, has a huge focus on subjects like gaslighting, loss of memory, therapeutic malpractice and doors. Lots of doors. I'm not doing it justice, I know, but it has the perfect culmination of doors and mental health issues. You've seen the Distortion make doors appear out of nowhere and you've seen them lie and manipulate and whatnot but have you seen doors INSIDE someone's head? You'll find them here!

It's starting to sound like I'm selling this drama but like, if you love the Spiral, you NEED to watch it. Also it's hilarious and has probably the best characters in kdrama that I have seen. Even if you don't watch kdramas, you'll like this one, it's built different.

Watch it.

You want to.

Presenting 'Cheating Death' with Hansol Vernon Chwe

I've been wracking my brain trying to assign an entity to this

Quick Alucard, still trying to figure out how to draw him

Starting my 20th year with Ibuprofen

Actually took my breath away for a second

WIP previews of my illust for @mononoke-zine ☯️ Preorders will open soon, and I can't wait to share a preview of the finished illust then 👀✨. Please keep an eye open for this amazing zine!!

Close enough, welcome back Shorter Wong

Finally Meme’d Tim Stoker, this is just a break post from animations, but i am still going to make more animations ehe 🤡

DANDYMANNNNNN

Alhambra

I can never die

Alt Alucard🎧🦢

Bird of Hermes

requesting more dante art because i finished watching the dmc anime (2007) <3

This is from a few months ago, I never posted it but I like it,

anime dante is beautiful btw 💘