#CLAWS' Upper Echelon

[mandareeboo]

What kind of Avengers Assemble bullshit-

[almondpiglet]

hey toichiro may induce you into a murder cult but at least he pays for your gender affirming care!! 1 point to claw

YES we love our middle aged world dominating trans supporting ally terrorist!! 🫶🏳️‍⚧️🏳️‍⚧️🏳️‍⚧️

[starbluekindo]

Vampire Vic x Werewolf reader

Fun plot point is that its like forbidden lovers (you know vampires and werewolves hate eachother bla bla bla) and so the reader and Vic try to keep that shit hidden from the public because they both have high standing within their supernatural community

so i was really excited writing this, but i was also a little unsure about what to do and how to do it since i've never written anything like this (and it wasn't as easy as i thought it would be), BUT if you - and the other readers- like this i can try to turn it into a small series.

warnings: au, a little angst i guess, mentions of blood, mentions of the boys (butcher more specifically), dead humans, a little homophobic and sexist if you squint, reader just wanting to love victoria in peace - i don't think i forgot anything.

the night was restless. the full moon shone high in the sky, its lights bathing the dense forest that separated the werewolf and vampire territories. you patrolled the borders with your pack, but a dark foreboding grew in your chest.

something wasn't right.

the silence was too dense, suffocating. the night seemed to announce that something bad was coming - and bloody hell, you always feared the worst. suddenly, the silence was broken by a high-pitched scream, unmistakably human.

and then, the smell of blood hit you like a punch.

“vampire” you heard one of your companions spit in disgust and then a large giant wolf ran past you quickly, not bothering to ask your permission or wait for the rest of the group.

“fuck! follow him!” that would be a bloodshed. you knew the temperament of your group, especially butcher's - he never respected your authority.

when you came to clarity, the scenario unfolding before your eyes was a nightmare. one of the vampires, practically a child, had crossed the border to hunt, something unthinkable. three human bodies lay on the ground, brutally torn apart, blood still running through the dry leaves. butcher had his claws stuck in the vampire's neck, trying to rip his head off.

“release him, butcher” you ordered when you saw what he was trying to do, that would only make the situation even worse and put your pack in a war with the vampires. "now".

"he crossed the damn border and killed under our noses!" he roared, his eyes blazing with anger. “this is an insult, a declaration of war!”

“war will start if you don't release this vampire now” your voice was firm, the situation wasn't the best but you knew that acting on impulse would only make everything worse.

your hands shook. this couldn't be happening. you knew that if this was exposed, the fragile peace between vampires and werewolves would shatter. and worse, it would put victoria—and the relationship you shared—at risk. your eyes fixed on the vampire, the invader, as the chaos in your mind screamed for control. how did this happen?

“summon the council and don’t let this get out of here, that’s an order.”

the pack meeting was called hastily, with only the closest and most trusted members — the upper echelon, the wolves with experience and power to influence the direction of leadership. the small group was gathered in a circle, under the shelter of tall trees that blocked the light of the full moon, with the smell of damp earth in the air. the atmosphere was tense, heavy with the expectation of action.

you were in the center of the circle, feeling the heavy gazes on you. everyone was waiting for a decision. the massacre on the border had deeply shaken the trust among the wolves, and now, everyone wanted justice.

butcher, as always, was the first to break the silence.

"there's nothing to discuss here," he began, his voice firm and full of hate. "that bastard crossed the border and killed humans. we already know what has to be done." he crossed his arms, his muscles bulging with pent-up fury, and his eyes glittered with mischief. "we want his head."

a murmur of agreement passed through the others present. one of the older wolves, known for his coldness and prudence, took the floor soon after.

"butcher is right. we can't ignore this. if we don't take action now, we will look weak. this isn't just an offense — it's a breach of the treaty. it's a direct affront."

you felt the weight of those words. i knew the situation was delicate, that tensions between vampires and werewolves were always a powder keg ready to explode. but at the same time, you knew that giving in to demands for revenge would only bring more blood and a conflict that could be devastating for both sides.

“i understand what you’re saying,” you began, keeping your voice controlled even as the pressure grew by the second. "but taking his head won't solve the problem. it'll just burn everything down."

butcher took a step forward, his eyes fixed on yours, as if he was waiting for that answer. "burn everything down?" he growled. "do you think this place isn't already on fire? they've already crossed the line. they've already killed innocent people. and you want to let it go? we need to act with strength, show that we are not weak!”

you took a deep breath, feeling the heat of butcher's fury radiate. "i know you're angry. i am too. but we need to be strategic. if we kill this vampire now, we will be declaring war. are you prepared for that? a war that could end us all?"

butcher laughed, a short, bitter sound. "and since when have we been afraid of a good war? let them come. let's cut each of them down and see if they're still as brave without their fucking fangs." his eyes glittered with the desire for violence, and you knew he was ready to dive head first into any conflict that came his way. “or are you afraid of hurting someone in particular?”

butcher's insinuations did not go unnoticed. some of those present exchanged quick glances with each other, and you felt your stomach sink. he was playing dirty, planting seeds of doubt about your loyalty.

“this has nothing to do with fear,” you snapped, voice firmer. “this is about survival. if we act without thinking, we will all pay the bill.”

another member, a woman with sharp eyes and known for her wit, intervened. "so what's the plan? are we just going to let this go? how are we going to explain to the humans what happened? and more importantly, how are we going to keep the pack under control? they're demanding an answer. if you don't do anything, you're going to lose the support from many.”

she was right, and you knew it. the pack was restless, on the verge of revolt. they needed action, justice. but the justice they sought was immediate and brutal, something that would only worsen the situation. you needed a solution, and fast.

“i’m not saying there won’t be consequences,” you replied, aware of the eyes fixed on you. "but let's do this the right way. i'll talk to victoria. she has control over her territory, and we'll make sure this vampire is punished — their way. if he crossed the line, they'll take care of it. but let's not we will be the ones to ignite this war."

butcher let out a short, sarcastic laugh. "do you really think you can trust them? that they'll take care of this? don't fool yourself. she'll protect him. this vampire will come out unscathed, and we'll look foolish— weak."

“that’s not going to happen,” you said, more to yourself than him. “if there is no justice, then we will reconsider. but until then, we need to remain calm.”

you needed to see her

hours later, you met victoria in the secret hideaway where you always meet, away from any prying eyes. but today, the environment carried a suffocating weight. victoria was already waiting, dressed in her usual elegant attire, the usual coldness in her eyes. but you knew something was out of place. she looked paler than usual, her lips tight.

“this is going to spread, and fast,” you begin, voice hard and controlled, but anger bubbling beneath the surface. "one of yours invaded our territory, victoria. he broke the treaty and killed humans. if this isn't resolved immediately, there will be no going back."

victoria stares at you, but doesn't back down. she crosses her arms, maintaining a rigid posture, while her mind works overtime. “i did not authorize this attack.” she said calmly, so calmly that it bothered you.

“but it happened” you replied through gritted teeth, taking a step closer to the brunette “and innocent people were hurt… do you realize the seriousness of the situation?”

“no one needs to know what really happened”

"this isn't simple, vicky!" the anger finally escapes your voice, the words sharp as knives. "you think you can just hide the shit that happens in your territory and everything will work itself out? if my pack finds out that i let this go without fighting back… it will be the end of me. the end of us.”

you see the pain flash in her eyes, but only for an instant. victoria approaches you, her cold fingers gently touching your hand in an attempt to calm the growing storm inside you. "i promise you," she says, her voice softer, almost pleading. "i'll make sure this never happens again. but you need to trust me, like you always have."

your hands shake, not just from anger, but from a deep sadness that nestled in his chest. the weight of what you are — vampire and werewolf, enemy races — felt unbearable now. the fear of losing victoria, the only person who truly understood you, was suffocating.

"if this goes wrong..." you whisper, voice almost breaking, "there are no more secrets. everyone will know what we are. who we are."

victoria stops, her eyes fixed on yours. “then i’ll make it work. i won’t lose you.”

the tension between you remained, an invisible wall, built by years of hatred between your races, but now reinforced by the fear of losing each other. silence hovered, thick as the dark clouds that gathered in the sky. the weight of victoria's words echoed in your mind, but you couldn't shake the feeling that something bigger was lurking, something that even she couldn't control.

“it’s not just my pack we have to worry about,” you said, turning your face to the sky, smelling the approaching rain. "other packs are already watching. if they see the slightest sign of weakness, they will attack. and if that happens..." you hesitated, swallowing the lump in your throat. "i'll have to choose."

victoria remained silent, her face impassive, but you knew she understood the gravity of what was being said. the choice between her and your family, between love and duty to your people, was a decision victoria never wanted you to face. but now, it seemed inevitable.

“hey, look at me” her hands cupped your face, making you look at her again “i’ll fix the situation… just trust me, please darling”

you wanted, you really wanted to believe that it would be resolved, but even if your promise was kept, you knew that the trust between the races would be broken. however, you didn't say anything, just tilted your head and let the brunette's lips meet yours in a passionate kiss full of care and longing.

back on their home turf, things are also tense. the pack leaders questioned your decision not to retaliate immediately. suspicious gazes follow you every step. you feel the weight of the silent betrayal, the secret you carry in your heart.

that night, alone under the starry sky, you look at the full moon. the silver glow brings comfort, but today, it seemed like just another reminder of the gulf that separated you and victoria.

the feeling that your relationship was hanging by a thread is almost suffocating. how long until someone finds out? how long until this falls apart?

you were a good leader, at least you considered yourself one, but at that moment you didn't want to have that weight on your shoulders. you wanted to have victoria, you wanted to love her and be loved in return.

honestly, your desires seemed more distant and impossible every day.

[hiskillingjar]

Posture Training (Fox/MC)

g-d this shit makes me so horny. probably because i have trauma associated with being scolded for my shitty posture. anyway.

day 25: posture training second person. gn mc referred to as a lady (up to you if that’s derogatory/sexual or not lmao)

"Pick your head up, please."

You lifted your chin quickly, pressing your lips into a tight line as you adjusted your posture against the tall dining chair, your thighs pressed together tightly and your gaze locked straight ahead.

"S-Sorry..." You murmured apologetically.

With an amused hum, Fox circled you casually, admiring you as one may admire a piece of art. His lips twitched with a slight smirk at your soft-spoken apology, your tenacity to submit to him, no matter what, but it didn't touch the rest of his expression, at least not completely. 

He was here to teach you a lesson, after all.

"A lady doesn't slouch at the dinner table," He then said sternly, his tail swaying behind him. "Nor does she stammer when she is spoken to."

"Mm," You felt your cheeks flush at his firm tone and his calling you a 'lady' when you normally felt like anything but. "Right. Yes." You said, your voice a little firmer. "My...apologies, sir."

"And look at me when you speak," He added, stopping his pacing at your side. "It's polite to. You know that much, don't you, you weren’t completely unsocialised before this?"

You swallowed, with a flicker of a frown (just for a moment, lest he believe you had any opposition to his orders) and looked towards him, making sure to keep your chin at an even level and move your gaze with your shoulders, lest you strain your neck.

"Yes, sir," You said with a polite smile.

"Good girl," He praised, giving you a brief look of pride, before swiftly taking on an expression of a stern teacher, yet again. "I expect you to be on your best behaviour at dinner this evening. My highest account clients will be there, and you need to be a prime example of my work."

"Yes, sir," You said again, your eyes going forward towards the opulent set of dinnerware in front of you, bowls upon plates upon plates and more sets of cutlery on either side of the dishes than you knew what to do with.

Fox knew that you were out of your depth, hence the activity of the afternoon.

Like some fucked up version of My Fair Lady.

"Don’t look so startled. It's easy to remember, you just move inwards with each course," Fox instructed, pacing to your other side and leaning forward to gesture at each of the forks instructively with a clawed finger. "Salad, fish, and  meat. Dessert is the top set, and the spoon is for the soup course, and nothing but."

"Is it that much?" You asked, leaning in to take a closer look at each piece of silverware. "Feels like a lot for a dinner..."

"With the upper echelons of society? Of course, this is bare minimum, quite frankly." He said with a slight scoff (an eyeroll not visible but assumed) as he leaned against the back of your chair. "But, you have to know, darling, some of them are just as interested in watching you stumble as they are in tasting their food." 

His voice lowered down to a whisper, leaning closer towards you. 

"In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if they would find your humiliation downright delectable."

You felt your cheeks flush a little darker, feeling the warmth of his words against your flushed skin, before he took a firm hold of your shoulders and forced them back against the chair.

"I told you; keep your back straight." He ordered harshly. "Head raised high, eyes forward. I will not let them enjoy any of your humiliation."

He then gave your shoulders an idle squeeze, claws digging into your skin.

"Not for free, anyway."

You pressed your knees a little harder together, nervously licking your lips, before pouting slightly at the idea of him humiliating you for profit again.

Your dynamic with Fox was…odd. 

You always had the sense that he was moments away from hurting you again, from sticking his foot in front of you and laughing as you feel flat on your face, and yet, he did so much to defend you and preserve your dignity when you (rarely, but occasionally) interacted with those in his social circle.

In private, it was another story, of course, but you figured that was just his taste in things.

"Don't pout, darling," He said airily, with another casual wag of his tail, leaning forwards to speak into your ear again. "You and I can deal with any failures later, but for now,” He rapped his fingers on your shoulders. “I will not allow a bunch of old, rich creeps, “Which clearly didn’t include himself. “To ogle you as if you're one of the wares on the auction floor tonight."

"I hope you're not anticipating my failure, sir," You murmured quietly, letting out a slow exhale.

"I'm not anticipating it, no," He said, standing up straight. "I actually have complete faith in you. But, ah…I wouldn't mind an opportunity to prevent any potential for it.” You sensed another smirk to the tone of his words. “A posture collar, for example, that would stop that pretty head sinking again."

You let out a tiny squeak, raising your head.

You really weren't good at sitting up straight.

"Ah ah," He said with an amused hum, his hand sliding up the back of your neck and tilting your chin up once again. "Eyes forward, chin up. And chest out, please, darling."

"Hahh..." You breathed out as he cupped your jaw with surprising gentleness, pulling your body into the appropriate posture. “Yes, sir.”

"There we are," He said quietly, admiring the pose he pulled your body into, like you were nothing more than a doll for him. "Beautiful. Mm, it might not be necessary, but I can't deny, I'd love to see a nice, thick collar keeping that lovely neck straight."

You shivered slightly as his claws carressed your throat, a certain heat gathering beneath your skirt, making your thighs squeeze together even more.

"And a corset too, perhaps?" He suggested, his hands sinking down your neck and towards your chest. "To keep your back straight, of course.”

"Of course," You agreed, your voice sounding a little dazed as his hand slid down the front of your shirt, cupping the soft weight of your naked chest and rubbing the pad of his thumb over the blooming bud of your nipple. “That sounds…very practical, sir.”

"Yes, very practical, of course," He said with a low hum, his thumb and pointer finger gently pinching your nipple, then, as his other hand cupped your chin again and forced your head up and your back straight, tired of reminding you. "And so very necessary. Perhaps I ought to get you some heels, too, just to make your posture even better."

"Mm," You let out a trembling whine, your hands curling at your sides, unsure whether or not to let them slide between your legs and up your thighs. "Y-Yes, sir..."

"No stammering, remember." He murmured a soft, chiding scold, his breath hot in your ear and giving your nipple a firm pinch. "I'd hate to have to keep this training going all afternoon…mm,” His palm groped your breast again, as he rested his chin on the crown of your head. “And I would really, truly hate to have to lock you in your collar and corset and high heels, just to make sure you always remember the behave like a proper lady."

"Hahhh," You exhaled, squeezing your eyes shut for a brief moment before straightening out again, swallowing hard. "No, sir. I’ll remember to behave, sir."

"Good girl, suuuuch a good girl," He murmured with a broad smile, his breath hot in your ear, "And I'm sure you'll appreciate that all of those things are far less for my amusement and, mm, my pleasure,” The hand on your chin descended to indulgently grope your other breast., “And more for your ability to sit through a long, tedious dinner without embarrassing me, hmm?"

"Of course, sir," You gave your head a little shake, still whining as he touched you. "Of course..."

"Good," He said with another smile, before abruptly pulling away from you, leaving you breathless, flustered, and ever so eager to please him. "Very good. Now, I want you to try and hold that pose for me, while I go and make a few preparations before our guests begin to arrive, alright?"

"Ah-" You let out a little sound of outrage, moving to peer over your shoulder towards him. "Hold it? For how long?"

"As long as I want," He said, his hand wrapping around your chin and forcing you to look forward again. "And eyes. Forward. Do not catch yourself slouching again, or I'll be forced to be much tougher on you. Okay?"

His grip tightened on your chin when you didn’t immediately answer.

"I said, okay?”

"Okay," You said quickly with a little nod, doing as you were told (as you always did, as you would always do) keeping your posture straight as he let go of your jaw. "Yes, okay, yes sir."

“Good girl. I’ll get started on dinner~”

[tashiberrie]

THEOPHAGY a challengers fanfic.

chapter one

↳ table of contents • one • two • three •,…

— in which the relentless pursuit of victory entangles rivals and friends alike in a complex web of obsession, love and self discovery.

an: who knew i could make tennis this dramatic. anyway, rebloggs are very much appreciated <3 please let me know what you think and feel free to send asks about theophagy, eve, challengers, whatever you want 🤍 enjoy.

ps: i’m thinking about creating a tag list for theophagy, so let me know if you’d be interested in that.

2004

Tashi Duncan was a name that echoed through the world of tennis with a reverence that bordered on awe. A prodigy from a young age, she had an almost supernatural grace on the court, a fluidity of movement that left spectators spellbound and opponents in despair. Winning had become a second nature to her; it was not just an expectation but a foregone conclusion. Tashi's journey through the ranks was meteoric, and by the age of just fifteen, she had secured her place as a future legend of the sport.

Her confidence was as unshakable as her skill. She approached each match with a calm certainty, her powerful serves and precise volleys dismantling any challenge that came her way. Tashi Duncan was, simply put, the best.

But then came Eve Anh.

Eve was a name Tashi had not encountered before, a new entrant into the upper echelons of tennis who had taken the circuit by storm. There were whispers about her in the locker rooms, murmurs of an almost feral intensity, a predatory focus that left her opponents rattled. Tashi paid little attention to the rumours; she had faced countless challengers and emerged victorious every time. Eve, she thought, would be no different.

The day of their match arrived with an electric tension in the air. The stadium was packed, the audience eager to witness the clash of titans. Tashi stepped onto the court with her usual confidence, her eyes scanning the crowd before settling on her opponent. Eve stood at the other end, her expression inscrutable, her eyes locked onto Tashi with a piercing intensity that sent a shiver down her spine.

The match began and Tashi quickly realised that Eve was no ordinary opponent. She moved with a ferocity and precision that was terrifying, each stroke of her racket a slash of claws, each serve a piercing bite. Tashi struggled to keep up, her usual grace and power faltering under the relentless onslaught. It was as if Eve was not just playing to win, but to consume.

Point by point, Eve tore through Tashi’s defences, ripping apart her composure and confidence. Tashi felt as though she was being dismembered, piece by piece, her pride and skill devoured with every brutal volley. Each time she looked at Eve, she saw a hunger that went beyond the desire to win; it was a ravenous, insatiable need to dominate, to consume everything Tashi had ever been.

Eve's gaze was like a shark's, cold and unfeeling, and Tashi felt herself being drawn into those depths, drowning in her own fear and helplessness. She was no longer the lioness; she was the prey, caught in the jaws of a predator far more formidable than any she had faced before. Eve's dominance was total, her victory a feast, and Tashi felt every bite, every tear as her spirit was shredded.

When the final point was scored and the match ended, Tashi stood on the court, feeling eviscerated. Eve approached, her expression unreadable, but the gleam in her eyes spoke of a hunger momentarily sated. Tashi extended a trembling hand, feeling the cold grip of her conqueror, and in that moment, she knew she had been devoured.

Eve had not just defeated her; she had consumed her, leaving Tashi a hollow shell of the champion she once was. The court was her hunting ground, and Tashi had been her feast. As she walked away, Tashi could still feel the gnawing teeth, the relentless hunger of Eve, and she knew she would never be the same. She had been devoured, body and soul, by a predator unlike any she had ever faced.

Eve was a figure of mystery and intensity, her presence on the tennis court nothing short of mesmerising. Her journey in tennis had been one of relentless pursuit, a hunger that drove her to devour her competition with a ferocity that was both awe-inspiring and terrifying. For Eve, tennis was not just a sport; it was a lifeline, an essential part of her existence as crucial as the air she breathed.

From a young age, Eve had discovered that she possessed a talent for the game, a natural ability that set her apart from her peers. But it was not just her skill that defined her; it was the insatiable hunger that burned within her, a need to dominate and conquer that transcended mere competition. Tennis was her battleground, and every match was a hunt, every opponent a potential feast for her unrelenting appetite.

Eve's rise through the ranks of tennis was marked by a series of brutal, decisive victories. She had a keen eye for talent, seeking out the best players with a predatory instinct. She latched onto them, drawn to their strength and skill like a moth to a flame. These players became her prey, their prowess on the court the sustenance she craved. She thrived on the challenge they presented, their resistance fueling her drive to overpower them.

But this hunger came at a cost. Eve was acutely aware of the the merciless nature of her pursuit. She knew that her approach to the game was not just about winning; it was about consuming her opponents, drawing from their strength until there was nothing left. She fed on their fear, their desperation, their struggle to keep up with her relentless assault. And when they began to falter, when their strength waned and they could no longer provide the challenge she needed, she would leave them behind, moving on to her next target.

This cycle of predation left a trail of broken players in her wake, each one a testament to her ruthless efficiency. Eve felt a pang of guilt every time she moved on, a fleeting acknowledgment of the destruction she left behind. She knew it was terrible, this parasitic drive that defined her. But the hunger was too strong, too deeply embedded in her soul. It was who she was, and she couldn't change that, no matter how much she might want to.

Off the court, Eve was a solitary figure, her intense focus on the game leaving little room for personal connections. She kept to herself, her interactions with others marked by a certain detachment. It was as if she feared that letting anyone get too close would expose the voracious hunger that drove her, the dark need that she barely contained.

Despite her inner turmoil, there was a part of Eve that reveled in her power, in the fear and respect she commanded. She saw herself as a necessary force in the world of tennis, a crucible through which the strongest players must pass. Yet, there was also a part of her that longed for something more, a connection that went beyond the superficial ties of competition.

Her encounter with Tashi Duncan had been different. Tashi had been a formidable opponent, her strength and skill a tantalising challenge that Eve had relished. The match had been a feast, every point a morsel of satisfaction for her ravenous appetite. But in Tashi, Eve had also seen a reflection of her own struggles, a kindred spirit battling her own demons. The connection they shared on the court was electric, a blend of rivalry and respect that left a lasting impression on Eve.

After that fateful match, Tashi Duncan's world was irrevocably altered. The court, once her kingdom, now felt like a graveyard of her shattered pride. The days that followed were a haze of restless nights and distracted days. Tashi couldn't escape the haunting presence of Eve; she was everywhere and nowhere, a spectre that invaded her every thought.

Tashi's obsession with Eve grew, an insidious vine wrapping around her mind, squeezing tighter with each passing day. She replayed their match in her head endlessly, dissecting every movement, every stroke, every glance. She scrutinised Eve’s form, trying to uncover some secret, some flaw she had missed. But each analysis only deepened her sense of awe and dread. Eve was flawless, a predator who had revealed Tashi’s own vulnerabilities in the most visceral way possible.

She began by studying Eve's matches with an intensity bordering on obsession, dissecting every move, every habit, searching for some clue, some insight into the mind of her conqueror. And it didn't take long for Tashi to uncover the quirks and rituals that defined Eve's presence on the court.

The soft hum that Eve emitted between points became a haunting melody in Tashi's mind, a constant refrain that echoed through her thoughts even when she wasn't watching. She found herself humming along, trying to decipher the meaning behind the ever-changing tunes, wondering what secrets they held.

Eve's unique way of bouncing the tennis ball before serving became a mesmerising spectacle for Tashi, a hypnotic dance that seemed to defy the laws of physics. She watched in awe as Eve spun and twirled the ball with effortless grace, each variation a testament to her skill and creativity. Tashi found herself mimicking the motions in her own practice sessions, hoping to capture even a fraction of Eve's magic.

And then there were the water bottles, meticulously arranged in a precise pattern on the sidelines. Tashi watched as Eve lined them up with obsessive precision, marvelling at the dedication and focus it must take to perform such a seemingly mundane task. She wondered about the significance of the ritual, the hidden meaning behind the carefully arranged bottles.

Her own training took on a frantic, almost manic quality. She pushed herself harder than ever before, driven by a desperate need to reclaim what had been taken from her. She studied Eve’s techniques, mimicked her strategies, and adapted her own style in a bid to become stronger, faster, better. Yet, no matter how hard she trained, the image of Eve standing over her, victorious and unassailable, remained seared into her mind.

In Eve, Tashi saw more than just a formidable opponent; she saw a divine force, a manifestation of power and grace beyond mortal comprehension. Eve's dominance on the court was not just skill; it was a revelation, a glimpse into a higher plane of existence where victory and defeat were mere illusions.

Tashi's fixation consumed her personal life as well. She withdrew from friends and family, her world narrowing to a singular focus: Eve. Conversations were tinged with an undercurrent of Eve’s name, her presence a ghostly thread woven into the fabric of Tashi’s existence. Her relationships strained and faltered, unable to compete with the all-encompassing spectre of her infatuation.

[lets-try-some-writing]

I've eaten up all your feral!Orion content and it's SO GOOD!! Do you...have any thoughts on feral!Orion and Megatronus???

I do love me some feral Orion. So of course here is some more for you dear anon!

Previous part here.

The Terror of the Pits

Megatronus met Orion in a rather simple way. Orion Pax came down from the upper echelons of Iacon to ask him some questions about his ideals and beliefs. While not normally something he would entertain, Orion had a look in his optics that Megatron knew well, the gaze of a hunter. Thus, intrigued with the archivist, he allowed an audience... then two... then three... and before long he was having bi deca-cycle meetings with the head archivist.

Orion was well educated in all manners and knew far more than he likely should have about anatomy, methods of making mecha "disappear", and how to get out of arrests and assault charges. Not only that, but Megatronus noted nearly immediately the fanged denta the archivist had and the slightly clawed digits that he sported. At first he thought them mods or upgrades made for appearances sake, but upon meeting Ratchet around the time Orion began associating with him regularly, those thoughts went out the window.

He watched on in total bewilderment as Orion went from normal mech™ to possessive nightmare fuel straight from the deepest pits of Cybertron in under a Klik whenever Ratchet turned up. Orion did not play games when it came to his medic and Megatronus was quick to stay the frag away from any action that Orion saw as a threat. He was there to observe the archivist nearly shred a gladiator after the mech in question made an inappropriate comment toward Ratchet and since that cycle he never again judged Orion based off his appearance and kept himself in line.

Ratchet was off limits and that was fine in Megatronus's book. Orion was a good companion and grew to be an excellent aid in his efforts. Thus he could easily overlook a little hyper aggression on the archivist's part. He was content to merely observe Orion's little habits and keep himself out of them, however he should have known that as his and Orion's friendship grew stronger, so would Orion's tendency to act out of the norm.

It was small things at first, a simple lingering touch here, a slight growl there, and the odd instance of Orion stepping in front of him almost protectively. That was it for a while and despite being odd, it was nothing worthy of much note. They were friends and gladiators tended to behave similarly when they felt the need to make a point. Of course then Orion seemed to get bolder and those small things evolved into something more.

Next thing Megatronus knew, Orion followed him fragging everywhere when he was in the pits visiting. The archivist was not as tall as him, but Primus his field made up for the lost height easily. Orion took no slag and made himself to be Megatronus's personal guard even though it was completely unneeded. The younger mech was not afraid to size up gladiators nearly double his size nor did he hesitate to begin growling and making a show of himself with flared plating when he felt Megatronus was in any sort of danger.

It was odd, very much so. However when asked Ratchet simply shrugged and offered the truth like it wasn't the strangest thing of the century.

Megatronus: Why is he like this? Is he perhaps malfunctioning?

Ratchet: No, not at all. He's just got active base coding.

Megatronus: Orion Pax? The archivist? Who hurt him badly enough to have him acting on base coding?

Ratchet: No one. According to Alpha Trion he came straight from the wilds and the coding has just stuck.

Megatronus: Then all this-?

Ratchet: Its a sign that he cares. You get used to it.

It was worrisome at first, but Megatronus let it be. Orion could be as wild as he wished so long as he didn't cause any wars or civil unrest. Thus Megatronus also overlooked the scratches that were most decidedly not from battle that he found carved onto his back almost as boldly as a "kick me" sign. He got a bit of mockery for it from his fellows, but that mockery quickly evaporated like smoke when his archivist threw himself into the arena during a particularly tense fight and practically mauled Megatronus's opponent.

Orion was downright feral as he latched on and dug into his enemy with enough strength to have Megatronus considering weather or not Orion was a civilian or not. Of course what terrified him most was how Orion's mouth seemed to open far larger than it should have as he bit down on the other gladiator's neck all while his optics widened so impossibly that it was frightening. It took three separate mecha to get Orion off Megatronus's opponent and even then it also took Ratchet to calm Orion down enough to peel him off where he had practically welded himself to Megatronus's side.

Orion Pax was from then on known as a terror in the pits not to be trifled with. Not a spark dared go anywhere near Megatronus with anything but pure intent when Orion was around simply because there were also a few incidents reported to him by Soundwave of Orion hunting certain mecha down to leave ominous dead things on their porches.

It just kept escalating as their friendship grew and eventually Megatronus grew to appreciate the little things Orion did. He liked the way Orion wrapped his field around him and he greatly enjoyed the random gifts Orion brought. They were always a tad ridiculous, but he was proud to weave the bits of plating Orion collected from his foes into a charm that he wore when he wanted to make a statement. And while a little more irritating, it was rather humorous to have Orion go out of his way to bring Megatronus his energon for him and only after checking for contamination.

It was almost like he had his own attack dog, but Orion was far too clever to be awarded such a pathetic title. No, with the way he would hunt down those he thought wronged Megatronus with a vengeance? He deserved the title of Terror of the Pits.

In the end Megatronus took great pride in painting Orion's armor a few vorns after their meeting and proclaiming him an honorary gladiator with how often he somehow managed to kick the afts of his fellows during spars. Orion was a challenge the gladiators liked to face and Orion was always calmer after getting down on all fours and going wild against the heavily armored gladiators who could take a great deal more of a beating than the soft little city mecha.

Good times.

Megatronus never forgot those simple days and had a great deal of fun making bets with Ratchet regarding who Orion would fight and who would win. Ratchet usually won, but Megatronus told himself it was because Ratchet had known Orion longer.

[solaneceae]

my battery is low, and it's getting dark.

a codebreakers fanfic about étoiles losing his sight. read on Ao3

It starts off with light blurriness — the kind you get when you forget to remove your contacts before bed, dryness and irritation welcoming you back to the waking world. Étoiles doesn’t wear contacts, although he does don a pair of sturdy, cheap rectangular glasses on occasion, whenever reports have to be read or written in thin leather-bound books for the Résistance’s upper echelon. 

(Upper echelon he’s never caught a whiff off, by the way. Étoiles understands the need for secrecy, for compartmentalization — but damn, it does get lonely here in headquarters, with nothing but his own voice and long-dried ink speaking of codes going rogue and islander alignments to entertain himself with.)

He blinks, once, twice, rubbing at his eyeballs through the skin of his lids. No amelioration. He shrugs it off, readjusts the straps of his slime armor. It’s a shit one, not even the good enchants on it. But he’s been restless lately, antsy. Not quite worried, but something else, something in the negative shape of a beloved, beret-wearing egg. Ants under his greenish skin, a fire only the cold bite of enemy blades and a close brush with Lady Death can fix.

He likes Kristin. She’s funny, with her large brimmed hat and gentle smile and gentler words still. Philza’s a lucky man.

“You are sad,” she would say, in the space-between-spaces he would drift to when downed, just before the ‘doom-doom’ of revival. The crimson bud of her smile would twist into a scowl, as she watched him give her a two-fingered salute. “Is that why I see you so often, starling?”

“I’m not sad,” he would answer without fail — the ache inside his chest wasn’t sadness. Étoiles didn’t do sad. He killed, he destroyed, his body grown in a weapon meant to hurt and maim and be hurt in return. Meant to be wielded by someone worthy. (He thinks of pitch-black feathers and a wheezy laugh, the tingle of wither-decay dancing on his skin, the smell of bone. Claws digging into his bony hips, a litany of trills speaking of ownership-claim, great shadows trapping him in so effectively. His knee guards stained by fresh soil where potatoes are endlessly grown in honor of a great warrior he once crossed blades with. Worship, devotion.)

“I’m not sad,” he mumbles, jumping down the well and into the darkness of the dungeon below. Hopefully it wouldn’t be a shit one, and he could scratch that itch in the back of his mind that demanded blood be spilled, be it his or otherwise. “Maybe I die for real today, let’s goooo.”

He never does. He’s too good at dungeoning, too good at placing blocks and throwing splash potions at his feet, golden apples now a rare last resort because he knows what happens when he eats too many. Aaaah, what a pity, he thinks, as he loses himself in the clash of metal on metal and the grunt of mobs falling at his feet. What a pity, I feel nothing. Bad day for me, bad day.

***

The blurriness stays. Days go by, sluggish and quiet, too quiet on this shit island, and no amount of sleep or healing potions make it any better. His arm stings with static-burn where the black and green binary tar has spread, higher, creeping up his neck. But it does nothing to hinder his movements, doesn’t dull the sharpness of his mind. So he ignores it. “Maybe you should get that checked out or something,” Foolish pokes at it once, as they sit and talk atop the Titan’s head using the blue and green plush chairs the TazerCraft have sneaked in. Pac e Mike, wow wow, sings a little voice in Étoiles’ mind whenever he sees splashes of blue and green, because those two live rent-free in everyone’s builds and brains.

“It’s okay,” he smiles at the shark-totem, easy and casual and Étoiles. “It doesn’t hurt.” It doesn’t. “It’s not changing me.” He is changing, that softness that Pomme had made bloom inside him eroding away with every day she’s gone. It’s harder to stay still, harder to stop and talk to the others, because half of them are depressed and the other half are going insane. But none of that is the code’s doing. “Look, I’ll prove it! 1v1 stick?” he jumps to his feet, throwing a wooden stick at his friend with a fiendish grin. “1v1, right now, let’s go.”

Foolish chuckles, even though his smile doesn’t reach his emerald-carved eyes. (His features are hazy, fuzziness getting worse every time Étoiles wakes. Doesn’t matter.) 

They fight, Étoiles takes it home with six hearts to spare. And he still feels empty.

***

Lilacs. Sunflowers. Cornflowers. Poppies.

Flower biomes were Pomme’s favorites. They’re hard to find, but Étoiles is one patient, stubborn cucumber. “T’aurais adoré ça, légende,” he hums, picking another poppy by the stem and stuffing it into his inventory, the frozen subspace keeping it suspended in time and fresh. He can almost hear the pitter-patter of her little cheeto legs in the grass, the rustle of the blades against her shell. The bomp of a red sign being placed, asking for more red, more blue, more of every color to make her siblings flower crowns and dye her trusty scythe like a rainbow.

He can barely make out their shape anymore, only differentiating roses from poppies by tracing their petals with gold-scarred fingers. He sees a blue blur somewhere at his right, oh, cornflower probably. Her secret code.

He lets out a deep, guttural groan and lets his body fall backwards, hitting the plush grass with a thump. A few butterflies flutter out of the way, one of them settling back on the bridge of the warrior’s nose. He glares at it, faded golden stars comically crossed. He only sees the yellow of its wings, stark against sky blue. “Hey, hey. Tu vas rien trouver ici, tu sais. J’ai pas fleuri depuis des plombes.”

The critter’s wings flap once, unbothered. Étoiles blows on it to make it go away, fails. (He’s a failure, at everything. Fails to keep his kid safe, fails to win a 1v1 against an insect.) Soon enough, there is enough butterflies on him to pin him to the ground under the would-be guilt of disturbing them. Étoiles whines, childish and unserious. “Vas-y, j’peux plus bouger. Pas juste. Même la nature me déteste, c’est bon.”

He’s missed this. The warmth of a sunbeam, the scent of fertile soil, the brush of grass blades, the call of the earth below pulling at him. Part of him wants to sink into it, curl up in Her embrace like a child would in their mother’s womb, forget about the world and the Federation and the Codes and all this shit. Maybe he could fall asleep right here. Let his body soak up the sun, let himself bloom again. Let that softness grow out of his skin for all to see, like he used to. Or, he thinks he used to. The memories of Before are static-fuzz between his ears, unreachable unless he looks at them at the corner of his eye, so to speak.

(The freezing cold, then heat as air exploded around him, an impact. Physicality, sudden and unexpected, the song of the stars loud in his ears as he opened his eyes for the first time in front of a bewildered human in a frayed straw hat. He was happy, wasn’t it? He thinks he used to be happy. What happened?)

But Étoiles is a warrior, a weapon, and weapons dull and rust and grow weak if left to rest. So he takes a deep breath, pushes himself up. “Désolé,” he hums to the butterflies as they scatter away. They are but bright, colorful blobs in his dulling eyes. “Désolé,” he says as he warps back home to forge yet another axe. 

His inventory is full of flowers that he’ll forget about, wrapping him in a constant mix of herbal scents that has Cellbit recoiling next time they cross paths. Étoiles doesn’t notice it, the Brazilian’s bothered expression lost on his rapidly-decaying vision.

***

By the time the Code challenges him to what Étoiles knows will be their last duel for the foreseeable future, his sight is all but gone, everyone and their dog has taken notice, and he has brushed off their concern. “I don’t need to see to click good,” he boasts, slamming down deepslate to launch himself fast and run circles around a disgruntled Pac. “See, see! I’m strafing, I’m doing it, playing the game.” Pac makes a strange sound, one he struggles to guess the emotion behind without body language. “It’s okay, Pac. It’s easy. There’s no problem, at all.”

Phil isn’t here yet, can’t see any names on his comlink but Tubbo told him he wasn’t. Shame, shame he won’t be there to see him die, Étoiles thinks as the rain soaks through his shirt, the boom of lightning bothering him more than he lets show. His ears are ringing as he jumps, ducks, tugs at the string of his bow and sends an arrow flying where he knows the Code is, he can feel it, the only spot that doesn’t smell like anything but void. But there’s no feedback, no satisfying sound of health being chipped at, nothing.

This Code is too strong, his sword winging an off-tune melody as it goes through the binary without ripping or tearing. No damage. Ah, he thinks, so they have finally stopped playing. I see now.

The back of his chestplate shatters into a blast of broken enchant magic and diamond shards, some of them lodging themselves into his flesh. Something cold sinks between his ribs, brushing against his spine in a white-hot flash of pain that irradiates through his whole body, and oh, yeah, it’s over. It’s joever, as Tubbo would say. “GGs,” he gasps through a mouthful of dark green blood. He coughs it up, lets it splash down his neck and paint his shirt. Tubbo’s screaming somewhere, too far away for Étoiles to discern the words. “You- eugh, you slash-kill’ed me, good job you cheater. Easy win.”

The entity growls, a hum-buzz that makes his brain (or whatever he has for brains, maybe lettuce?) rattle inside his skull. The blade slides out, cutting away at him further on its way out, and his body falls into a puddle of rainwater and mud with a wet thud. It hurts, blackered arm buzzing, pain creeping up his neck and the right side of his face, extinguishing the last of his remaining sight. 

He faintly realises that almost nobody knows about his respaw mechanic. Ah, et merde. He hopes they’ll have the presence of mind to ask Antoine, when they realise he wouldn’t just re-pop into existence seconds after his death… or when they noticed his body starting to wilt and decay, if they stuck around for long enough.

(Tallulah knows, he remembers. He told her. But had she told Philza, before she disappeared along with all the other eggs?)

Through his fading senses, his comm buzzes with what he knows is his first death message in a really long time. He can make out the sound of rapid footsteps, clickety hooves and heavy, leather work boots. Tubbo and Pierre. He closes his eyes, not that he needs to anymore for darkness to cradle him. He lets go.

He doesn’t see Kristin this time, only hears a faint sigh and a gentle breath sending him off into the void. He hopes they find his seed soon. He doesn’t wanna stay missing for too long, after all.

***

His personal death-void is not so bad of a place. Boring, obviously, but there’s a familiarity to it, to the way the darkness shrouds him like a heavy blanket, pushing against him from all sides. Not oppressive but comforting. Cradling, instead of crushing.

It reminds him of the dirt patch he was born in — he had been asleep and new, just ripe for the picking, dirt-stained hands pulling at his stem with the roughness of a long-repeated gesture. He had screamed, he thinks, not in pain, but to show the world he was here and alive, hello, hello sun, hello dirt, hello person! Had given poor old Théo a heart attack too.

Ah. He could remember, now. Théo, his leathered face and kind eyes with crow feet, wary at first before this walking, talking little legume with the night sky in his eyes, flower-covered vine-tail like some sort of umbilical cord trailing behind him as he follows the old farmer around, asking him endless questions in barely-legible French. But… yes, he’d been kind to him, Étoiles thinks. The first face his face saw. Makes sense it would be one of the first things that came back to him. Maybe remembering was easier in the void? Maybe he should die more often.

…Nah. Dying wasn’t his style. And having to regrow a whole new body over a week was annoying. He had things to do in the island! Like talking with people (eurgh), and giving them things (yes) and fighting with Philza (yes! yes! yes!) and have fun!

So he waits, oblivion pulling at him like gravity. The void is a quiet place, sometimes, but more often it’s not, with the song of supernovas and wailing stars far away keeping him aware, listening. He hums along to it with no mouth or vocal chords (not yet, still growing, still so small, unripe), and sometimes he swears he can hear another voice singing with him. Off-key, awful really, almost crow-like, but it sounds like someone he cares about, so he’s happy to listen to its drone.

Other times, he sleeps. And he dreams of tiny hands and quiet chirps and clicks, of the yesyes uncle Phil taught her, of the chrr-chrr-peep that means him, when she calls Étoiles’ name in her own little language. And he curls around the memory, softness, and lets it carry him up into the stars glittering behind still-forming eyelids.

***

“Étoiles.”

He hums — warmth, the slow beating heart of the earth. The choir of stars constantly burning far, far away. He could listen to it forever, because he had been listening to it since the birth of the first star, he knew.

“Mate. You with me? C’mon, s’been a week already. Come up here, you can do it.”

The voice scratches pleasantly at the back of his brain. But the earth is so warm, so comfy, a cocoon of peace and respite he’s not sure he wants to leave. He sighs with no lungs to breathe, no need for them, when all he could ever need is right there — perfect temp, perfect moisture, glucose, carbon dioxide, rich nutrients all around. Who needs gapples, really. Or thoughts. Or responsibilities. This is the best.

“...Mh. Alright then.”

The voice grates on his ears, ears that try to flick but are stopped by the soil packed around them. He groans in drowsy irritation, curls in on himself in an attempt to shield himself from it and from the world. It seems to work, the noises fading into nothing, and Étoiles feels his thoughts scatter as a faint scratching sound seeps through the earth and into his mind like white noise. Sleep pulls at him again, and he lets it.

He’s startled back into wakefulness by something pulling harshly, somewhere that feels a bit away but is still part of him. His eyes fly open in pained surprise because ow, ow, that’s my— “Come here, you lazy fuck!” That voice — high-pitched, that heavy accent he’s come to love, amusement and exasperation combined, Phil, his Phil, his GOAT, his brother in arms, his Death-touched angel.

Étoiles blinks, unseeing. Étoiles remembers. And with awareness comes something else, something that shimmers and calls his name in gentle whisper-echoes, as he feels himself being pulled up, and up, dirt parting to let him ascend back to the surface. Aah. Goodbye mama. Hello problems. “Get harvested, idiot!” Philza Minecraft grunts with effort somewhere above him, and the tug gets stronger, prompting a pained ow out of him as the ground crackles and breaks above him, and he feels air-sun-outside on his back as he’s forcefully pulled from the ground like the fresh crop he is. He flails a little bit, kicking off dirt and soil (it’s everywhere, in his hair and between his toes and a little in his mouth and nose, bleh!), then rolls onto his back with a groan, frowning up at the sky he knows is there, blue and clear, because it doesn’t smell like rain and the surface soil is dry and warm.

He’s back. And he sees nothing at all. Welp, better close his eyes again then. He feels a shadow fall on him, feels a sandaled foot nudge his side. “Helloooooo. Hello Phil,” he greets the other leaning hard on the deadpan because he knows it makes his friend laugh when he does that. It lands. “What, that’s it?” the elytrian caws, kneeling beside him and poking at his face, talons dulled to a gentle roundness. Étoiles wishes he didn’t trim them, but Phil is too nice, too careful, too eager to smooth himself down for others, for the eggs. Docile.

Étoiles despises it, but he keeps quiet because he knows Phil doesn’t like to talk about those things. “You get yourself killed by a fucking Code of all things,” Phil keeps going, “make everyone freak the fuck out because you won’t respawn like a normal fucking person, and that’s all you have to say for yourself?”

“Antoine knows. And I’m here now, so it’s okay.”

“Antoine barely logs on, you absolute dumbass. You’re lucky Lullah told me about the seed thing, because you would’ve been fucked six ways to Sunday.”

He opens his eyes, if only to shoot Phil a halfhearted glare. And then immediately forgets about it, blinks owlishly. Sits up to get closer to the other man. “Phil. Why are you stars?”

“What.”

He sees stars. (And not in the sex way, because he doesn't do that.) It’s not night, but there are stars in his vision, where pitch blackness used to be, and the constellation is Phil-shaped.

Philza is a cosmic cluster, a nebula shining bright in the darkness that has become his world. He can see nothing beyond him, not the plants surrounding him, not the long vine attached to his lower back Phil used to pull him out. He can tell it’s there, though, lightly thumping at the ground in agitation. “You, are stars. That’s how I see you now.”

“Wait. Can you, like, see again?” Phil asks, uncharacteristically soft. “I know it was getting… bad. And your eyes are like, all greyed out. Did the code stuff on your arm do that?” Étoiles sees a cluster of stars approaching his face — hand — and feels fingers brushing just under his right eye. He’s a bit startled by the contact, the area usually covered by his trust bandana (he needs it back, needs his stuff back, hopefully someone held onto it for him). Phil draws away, an apology ready from the way his constellation-body shifts, but Étoiles doesn’t let him. “I can’t,” he answers, tilting his head, ear flicking in focus — the stars that make up Phil sharpen, and he can almost make out the shape of the wings bound behind his back. “But I can See. I think.” He also wouldn’t mind Phil’s hand on his face again. It feels nice. Scratches at something long-buried, and denied.

Philza makes a confused sound. “Okay, I heard that capital S there. What’s that mean? Are you pulling a Daredevil?”

Étoiles grins, sharp-toothed and playful. “Oh, oh! He thinks I’m a superhero? He thinks I’m cool, Felipe Minecraft? Big win for me.” Phil rolls his eyes, which Étoiles can tell because the crow always makes that low warble when he does. “But no, it’s not like that. I still need my eyes to see like this, and I don’t hear or smell better than before.” Although his status as a hybrid means his baseline is still higher than the average person’s, but that’s irrelevant. “FF.”

“So no cool blindfold for you, ey?”

“No cool blindfold. I will just do a Pomme and drown myself later, to make up for how uncool I am.” (He cannot drown. No lungs. But he can pretend.)

He squints. There’s a little cluster, right there at the side of Phil’s head. He can connect the dots, identify the shape of the elytrian’s bucket hat, but there’s something else there too. “What’s that on your head, Phil? I can’t make it out well.”

“Oh— here,” the other takes his hand and guides it towards his hair, and Étoiles feels a familiar texture under his pads. He makes a noise of surprise. “That’s. Mine.”

“Do you want it back?” Phil hums, brushing at the large cucumber flower tucked in the band of his hat. “It bloomed this morning, on top of the plant you were growing under. Took it as a sign you were, uh, done cooking.” Étoiles snorts. Good guess. “But uh, I guess the plant was also you, cuz it’s at the end of your tail now. Dragging.” Ah. Yeah. He really ought to cut it. “Is it weird? That I’m wearing a piece of you? I don’t know what… fuckin’... cucumber etiquette is.”

“It’s not weird,” Étoiles says, because he doesn’t think it is. “You can keep it.” He kind of likes it. That Phil’s wearing a piece of him. It makes him, happy? “You know, that I am your weapon. Yes? So it makes sense, that you show it.”

“You’re my friend. Don’t call yourself a weapon, man.”

“Same thing for me.”

Phil’s response is wordless, a simple, noncommittal mmh. But Étoiles can hear the hidden fondness in it. He pushes a little further, crudely imitates that  one bird sound Philza makes when he’s happy. Whoops internally when Phil puffs out his feathers and trills out a yesyes in return. Héhé. “Yes yes, Philza? Fight me, right now?” he slips into his usual stance, just a bit offset by the lack of armor weighing him down. “1v1, no weapons, no armor? Fistfight, let’s go.”

Phil cackles, crow-like. “I am not fighting you right now, you little shit. You menace. What’s wrong with you?”

“Aww, Phil hates me,” the warrior whines. “He hates me. He won’t 1v1 me, he must hate me. Sad.”

“Oh my god, stop being a baby.”

“I was literally born five minutes ago. I am baby, and Felipe Minecraft hates me,” he sasses back, and Phil throws his arms towards the sky in exasperation. “Oh come on. I spent a week protecting your green ass! Making sure you got enough sun and water and shit, it was like doing egg tasks all over again. Antoine even talked me into fucking singing, pretty sure he was pranking me with that one by the way, and still you think I hate you?”

“Nice caulk, Phil.”

He can’t see it, but Étoiles knows Phil’s eyelid is twitching. “Mate. I got a faceful of ass pulling you out of here, you’re on thin fucking ice.”

The cucumber snorts. “Héhé, got mooned by the stars.” That was kinda funny. “You were pulling me by the tail, I do not know what you expected. You’re lucky I’m a plant, or there would have been full cock and balls there.”

“Bruh. I thought it would be connected to your… plant belly button, or whatever, like an umbilical cord.”

“It’s an ass button, GGs.”

“Jesus Christ, please don’t call it that. I didn’t even know you had a tail. You didn’t before.”

“That’s because I always cut it,” the warrior huffs, said tail lashing behind him from the restless energy that always accompanies a new body. Its leaves drag around the loose dirt in little swish-y sounds. “Give me a sword, Phil, it’s already annoying me.”

The crow peers down at the vine, then back at him. “I dunno, man. You look kinda fun with it.” Étoiles squints. He can’t quite make out Phil’s expression like this, all stars and nothing between them, but he can hear the hidden laughter in his voice. “...I will cut it with my teeth then.”

“Won’t that hurt more than with a blade?”

“It doesn’t hurt. Only the base. Like when you pulled on it.”

“Why not keep it? It’s a part of you.”

Because it speaks for me, he considers replying. Because it says and shows things that I don’t want people to see. Even now, it wags, because Phil is here and now brushing stray dirt out of his hair and it’s very nice. (Is he touch-starved? He might be. Pomme is gone, and he doesn’t trust people to touch him, other than with blunt force and sharp diamond blades.) But Étoiles hasn’t kept his tail since he was a child, still wide-eyed and showing his innermost self to the whole world without any shield. He feels weird. Exposed. And it’s okay with Phil, because Phil is Phil, but it’s not okay because they’re out in the open and anyone could come and see. He doesn’t like that. “Because people can grab it, and it gets stuck in things, and it’s annoying. I cut it, now.” He tugs at the appendage, bringing it up to his mouth. “Nope,” Phil snatches it away, and Étoiles hisses at him. “Calm down, dude. At least let’s do it cleanly.”

“Eeeeuugh. Okay.”

”Then we’re getting your stuff back from Antoine’s, good god. You’re still butt-naked and I won’t have you strut around like that.”

“He has my things? Comms, armor, my backpacks?”

“All of it, yeah,” the older man huffs, and Étoiles can hear the telltale sound of an item being summoned of an inventory. Enchanted axe, he parses, recognizing the ozone-y smell of the sharpness enchant and the sound of the air being sliced downward. He doesn’t feel anything when the vine is severed, frowns when he realises Phil left a good… fifty centimeters of it, still attached to his body. “Phil. You misclick? You aim like shit today?”

“You said it hurts near the base,” the elytrian huffs, finality lacing his every word. “Keep it or cut the rest later, your pick, but I’m not hurting you.”

Étoiles’ ear flicks in confusion, and so does his tail. It moves faster, easier now without the rest of the plant weighing it down. “...We fight each other all the time, that hurts more. I don’t care.”

Phil stays silent for a few seconds. Nebula-Phil shifts before him. “It’s. Different.”

Étoiles hums. Philza has the Tone™ again, the one that means he’s thinking of things that hurt. He thinks of clipped feathers, of matted down that he wishes he could run his fingers through and fix, fix, let me fix it, let me do this for you. But he says nothing. Maybe another time, when they’re both ready for that conversation. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Maybe I keep it this time. Maybe.”

He can hear Phil’s smile in the next word he speaks. “Attaboy.” And he tries to ignore the way his tail wags with renewed enthusiasm at that.

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

Can you tell us what the answers to the six of crows color experiment is?

Yep! ☺️

I realised too late that I really should’ve organised it as a poll somehow, because I’ve had loads of responses (thank you all very much) and whilst a lot of them agreed with me there were a few I wasn’t expecting. My associations in the order than I wrote them in the original post:

Red - Nina

Green - Jesper

Black - Kaz

Blue - Matthias

Purple - Inej

Orange - Wylan

So generally speaking a lot of people either agreed with exactly what I’d said or swapped Wylan and Jesper, which makes a lot of sense. A few people also moved Jesper and Inej around, which I understand and I wanted to add on that point I always connect Inej to purple with the idea of her reclaiming the colour and its power in the same way that she referred to her knives as her “proper claws” to reclaim the image of the lynx. Purple is the colour that was used against her and the colour that represents Ketterdam (Stadwatch uniforms, colour of Kruge notes, and the Geldrenner Ketterdam suite being the main examples); with a part of what separates Inej’s journey and her ship from Kaz’s style of vengeance is the acknowledgement that the city itself is the monster she’s facing, she’s been forced to come to terms with the idea that what happened to her wasn't the result of one terrible person or group of terrible people, but a dangerous environment and society that was never going to see her as an equal go matter what she did in life (this realisation is particularly linked to the “Rare Spices” billboard, which I wrote a post on a while back so if anyone wants to read that let me know and I’ll tag you) so by reclaiming the colour she is not only reclaiming the power Heleen took from her but the city as a whole. I hope I worded that all okay I worry that my point doesn’t come across properly it feels unclear please let me know and I’ll try to explain it differently. However I also understand the perspective a few people raised in their responses of wanting to separate her from that colour because she should always be seen as more than who she was forced to be, it’s just my personal interpretation that part of her pathway to healing is reclaiming the symbols used against her as a symbol of power to use against the system and people that put her in her position.

With Jesper and Wylan, I can definitely see it going both ways and I guess it also depends on what shades of the colours you’re imagining for each of them. For me, Wylan is orange because it can be a quiet, beautiful sunrise but it can also be fire and rage, it can be dark and deeply lonely but it can also be bright and blazing, it can be the first light of home in the dark but it can also be the flames of righteousness. “You were angry. I needed you righteous” “well, you’ve got me”. I realise all/most colours have a natural dual nature but I think orange does particularly and I think that it compliments him wonderfully. I connect Jesper to green for brightness, fun, the “lime green” clothes and vibrant plaid, but also for the farm and the card tables and the painful difference between them - the way his life split in two like a log cut down the middle (I don’t have my book with me so not quoting, but he says something along those lines in Crooked Kingdom when talking about how he ended up moving from the university to the Barrel).

I think the one’s who were always connected the same way were Nina to red and Kaz to black, and I wanted to add a couple of reasons I didn’t see anyone mention yet and that would be Nina being the “little red bird” and Kaz wearing black, mercher suits to mock them and to look, by Ketterdam’s colour-represented social hierarchy that I could talk about forever, like he fits in with them in the upper echelon of society.

And most people also maintained Matthias with blue, connections to water, ice, storms, but I think also it’s worth emphasising his blue eyes that Nina finds so beautiful

I will go through later and tag everyone who has responded so far in this post so everyone can see the results if they want to, thanks to everyone who responded ❤️

[weareallgonnaliveforawhile]

7th Division Arc- Kokomi Reigen AU

Orignally, this was gonna be about the Teru's but then I realized that Teruki doesn't really interact much with Reigen

Ah, the Teru's. The reason I have to use both of these fucks full or first names when referring to them. To make this less annoying for me, I'm referring to Teruhashi as Kokomi and Teruki as Teru.

Kokomi meets Teru during the 7th division arc. Kokomi, in the time that since she had been hired, was extremely attached to her coworkers, and when Reigen tracked down Mob's location, she went with him. Despite Reigen's numerous protests that it might not be safe, Kokomi refused to budge and went with him anyways.

The whole claw confusing Reigen for their boss goes even better for two main reasons

Kokomi's natural glow, beauty and aura made it seem like she was a powerful psychic who was willingly listening to their random guy

Over month or two that she's been at Spirits and Stuff Consultation Office, and the weeks she's spent mainly around Reigen, she managed to hone one skill. The skill of 'Yes and'ing

So they see this powerful young psychic being like 'What? They really can't tell who you are' and were like 'Holy shit, this must be the boss and one of his right hands'.

(Reigen did not realize they were mistaking him for the boss. Kokomi absolutely did and had a field day with it.)

She meets them very briefly before they're attacked again and for the first time in her life, she's put in danger. Not the kind of danger that her brother brings but the kind that brings death or severe harm.

Unfortunately, Claw's upper echelon have no qualms about attempting to attack her alongside the rest of the cast. Half of them believe she's psychic and are enraged at her for taking 'the other side' and 'making herself look prettier while the rest of us suffered in society'. The other half think she's not psychic but are angry that someone so pretty exists in a sense.

(Remember, these people think society wronged them by existing and that they're above it. They're not happy to see someone 'normal' who has abnormal traits, Kokomi's beauty, that make her almost on the same level as them)

(It's kinda like incels to put it simply)

Luckily, Mob and Reigen make sure to protect her and Reigen ends up saving the day.

The arc ends with Kokomi realizing that her beauty doesn't necessarily mean she's unable to be hurt. The cosplayers psychics in Claw clearly thought she was beautiful but their own delusions made it so that they believed they were fully entitled to harm her. It also makes her think about her own morals and what it'd be like if she let her beauty go to her head like that.

She ends up asking Reigen if she's a good person. He tells her that if she has these types of doubts, she's already doing better than the Claw fucks.

He also tells her that he knows it takes effort for her to be kind to other sometimes, but she puts that effort in constantly. So yeah. He'd consider her a good person.

[catwithaknife]

i spent most of the day sleeping in silence alone with my thoughts and it led to me hallucinating messages from angels so i'm trying to watch voyager as a way to occupy my mind

i am currently in the throes of my worst migraine since 2012 and i am being so brave about it

[mandareeboo]

I don't normally agree with the police but I say we do it and let them fight it out.

[cursed-40k-thoughts]

Did you know you can do admech however you want?

Its true!

Some are weird centipede adjacent (Cawl)

Some look like dreadnoughts (Magos Prime)

Wings? Go for it, wing style jump packs exist both in DH and now on table top

Claws? Again those funky skitarii

The flesh is weak. The flesh is also boring. Go nuts. Make some fucked up cyborgs. You don't even need to give them deep motivation beyond "you know what would be neat?"

And, after all, there was the Horse Inquisitor. Nothing the admech do to themselves can be as weird as the Horse Inquisitor (Golesh Constantine Pheppos Heldane)

I interpreted the first line of this ask in a whole other direction. Anyway.

I agree, we need more weird and zany techpriest bodies. You know how esoteric and specific PC builders can get at their upper echelons? AdMech are basically that vibe distilled and splashed across the pages of a religious text. More cool ones, more creepy ones. We need… biblically accurate AdMech.

[fullscoreshenanigans]

#OOH #don't get me wrong i adore canon Mujika we love a pacifist girlie #but damn her pulling out a sword and baring her fangs is doing things to me #i love fanart that shows off her demon features fr #its probably because of the evil blood thing but i always thought she was a bit too human-looking yk #she is a creature let her show her fangs and claws 🥰 #also prev what doodles i need to see them (via @darklight-owl on this comic by @frozentothetouch)

My bad with the wording; the doodles I was referring to are the chapter 46 and 48 bonus sketches and the concept art from the art book and mystic code book that have been out for a while.

The chapter 48 one shows her eating a whole chicken in one bite. The chapter 46 one isn't quite as noticeable, but it's a convenient visual divide between what could easily pass as human on quick glance—the angle purposely obscuring the sixth finger on hand with how they're posed—and her feet, which is what tips Ray off in chapter 45/46 that Mujika is a demon in the dark cave Sonju constructed since she was taking great care to hide her hands from him and Emma. The angle we see them at in the water further distorts their appearance, making them look even more alien, and I think it's an interesting way for Demizu to illustrate that mental divide the Grace Field children have of her at this point to an audience experiencing the series through the volume releases. She's a demon, yes, but she's not in the same category as the one they were chased by earlier or the ones they envisioned prior to escaping in their minds, and the easiest physical reminder of that is separated from her in their minds.

This is something I've mentioned before on this post about some of my gripes with the series and how there's something to be said about the anthropocentric idea of humans being the pinnacle of intelligence demons strive to maintain and the organisms they desire to physically mimic (albeit at a larger scale and not exactly one-to-one), but it's something that I can accept given the target demographic of the series, this not being a series-original sin, and most importantly, the parasitic symbolism of those in the upper echelons of a hierarchical society needing someone beneath them in order to maintain their material comforts and define their sense of self and worth in relation to the world around them to avoid cognitive dissonance and doxastic anxiety.

The mystic code book shows her and Sonju looking even more human like a lot of other early demon designs, though there's one sketch of her barring her fangs.

And art book shows some designs further along in the process.

Some other demon designs under the cut for people who haven't seen them already:

[turneradora]

Here is a new press article promoting "Rivals" !

Thanks to Emma Jones for the info and for the written version ! 🙏🌺

TV Times

12-18 October 2024

RIVALS

FROM FRIDAY 18 OCTOBER, DISNEY+ DRAMA

Dust off your shoulder pads! A racy, rip-roaring adaptation of Dame Jilly Cooper’s novel Rivals is whisking us back to the 1980s, where deals are sealed in the boardroom and the bedroom in the heady world of independent television... Landing on Disney+ this week, the eight- part romp is based on the second story in the author’s hit Rutshire Chronicles collection and follows the feud between power- hungry TV boss Lord Tony Baddingham (Doctor Who’s David Tennant) and rakish show jumper turned Tory MP Rupert Campbell-Black (His Dark

Materials star Alex Hassell).

Tony plans to expand his media empire and hires brilliant

chat-show host Declan O’Hara (Poldark’s Aidan Turner) and hotshot producer Cameron Cook (Code Black’s Nafessa Williams). But when he spies an opportunity to publicly destroy his arch-enemy Rupert, can Tony finally get revenge on the man who has it all?

TV Times met the cast in a central London hotel to chat back-stabbing and bed-hopping in the fictional county of Rutshire, where you seemingly can’t move for quarrels ...

LORD TONY BADDINGHAM

PLAYED BY DAVID TENNANT

The controller of Corinium Television and Rupert’s narcissistic nemesis has clawed his way to the top with support from his steadfast wife, Lady Monica (Sherwood’s Claire Rushbrook).

‘These are the days when ITV was split into regional franchises and Corinium is the Rutshire TV franchise,’ explains David, 53. ‘Owning one was a big deal, and Tony is motivated by wealth and power, but also by the fact that he doesn’t come from the upper echelons of society, like Rupert.’

David says he has his actor wife, Georgia Tennant, to thank for his role in the adaptation.

‘Georgia knew Jilly’s books and was convinced I had to be involved, and that it would make sensational television,’ he shares. ‘She said, “It’s exactly what the country needs, exactly what the world needs!”’

RUPERT CAMPBELL-BLACK

PLAYED BY ALEX HASSELL

The ex-Olympic showjumper and Minister for Sport has Rutshire’s eccentric locals under his spell... Well, all except Tony, his ruthless adversary...

‘Tony can’t stand Rupert because, from his perspective, he’s effortlessly privileged,’ says Alex, 44. ‘People throw themselves at Rupert’s feet and Tony is jealous, but Rupert thinks Tony is mean, cold and selfish.’

As one of the executive producers on the drama, Jilly searched far and wide before casting Alex as the story’s irresistible rake.

‘Jilly gave the seal of approval for me as her Rupert,’ says Alex. ‘I’m not blond and blue-eyed like in the books, but I’d managed to portray some essential “Rupertness” that she was pleased with. I hope viewers think so, too.’

DECLAN O’HARA

PLAYED BY AIDAN TURNER

The BBC’s star journalist moves his family from London to Rutshire when he signs with Corinium Television.

‘Declan is selfishly career-driven but he’s neglected his family life, which is undoing his marriage,’ says Aidan, 41. ‘He’s dealing with guilt and shame, and in brilliant 1980s-style, he’s burying it.’

Aidan says ‘many things’ spoke to him about Declan...

‘I had that feeling, which I never really get, but I knew I had to play him,’ he smiles. ‘We all had a blast filming it, too. Jilly set the tone from the top down. She’s cheeky!’

TAGGIE O’HARA

PLAYED BY BELLA MACLEAN

Declan and Maud’s kind-hearted daughter is trying to find her way in the world. She’s overwhelmed by her demanding family, but after being uprooted by their move to Rutshire, she finds a distraction in local lothario Rupert."

As much as people push her around and use her, Taggie has a strong moral compass,’ says Sex Education star Bella, 23. ‘She’s disinterested in Rupert at first and confronts him on how he treats women, which makes him look in the mirror for the first time. He likes that.’

ALSO IN RUTSHIRE...

FREDDIE JONES

PLAYED BY DANNY DYER

The self-made millionaire is an outcast among the old-money families, but his wifeValerie(Mum star Lisa McGrillis) longs to be accepted.

‘Freddie has found himself within this elite world and he doesn’t fit in,’ says ex-EastEnders star Danny, 47. ‘Then he meets Lizzie and they really get each other.’

Rivals also reunites Danny with former EastEnders producer Dominic Treadwell- Collins: ‘It was a no-brainer,’ smiles Danny. ‘And we had a ball shooting in big manor houses, all dressed up in 80s clobber.’

LIZZIE VEREKER

PLAYED BY KATHERINE PARKINSON

The romantic novelist is neglected by her TV presenter husband, James (Miss Scarlet and the Duke’s Oliver Chris), but sparks fly when she meets Freddie Jones.

‘Even though her books get rejected, Lizzie keeps doing it because she loves it,’ says Here We Go’s Katherine, 46. ‘Freddie is in this world due to his talent, so that’s why they’re a good meeting of minds. It’s not just about fancying each other.’

MAUD O’HARA

PLAYED BY VICTORIA SMURFIT

Declan’s glamorous wife sets her sights on seducing Rupert.

Will the former actor’s daughter, Taggie, get in her way?

‘Oh, Maud is a terrible mother!’ laughs Bloodlands star Victoria, 50. ‘She’s a self-obsessed applause junkie, who needs validation from any man who’ll tell her she’s fabulous. But she’s decaying after moving from London and takes it out on her greatest rival – her hotter, younger and better daughter.

[y-rhywbeth2]

"how does Drow society exist" is a question that constantly baffles me too. Like if they really wanted to do a species of super-anti social elves that are constantly murdering each other than why not make them more like bears or something where they meet up to mate and then avoid each other for the rest of the time. I personally interpret a lot of Drow lore as being more about the upper echelons about society bc nobles constantly backstabbing each other like that for power makes more sense than literally everyone in society, ya know?

I'd have to go re-researching but I think I remember that Lolth usually reigns them in before they get to the brink of destruction and lets them recover before telling them to go nuts with the knives and poison again. She doesn't let it drop too low. They're also "blessed" with high fertility rates, prone to multiple births, and their society "encourages" hypersexuality - presumably to compensate for the death rate.

Despite their circumstances, drow aren't inherently murderous idiots and both Eilistraee and Vhaeraun are subtly influencing them (even if it's not openly, and the drow don't necessarily know where the dreams of peace and joy or the whispers of rebellion in their ear are coming from). It doesn't push most of them to undo their programming and risk their entire life, but it's enough that they may ignore an order or spare another's life if they think they won't get caught.

They have a whole romantic holiday that's just... playing hide and seek. No murder involved, just playing hide and seek across the city with your crush/es, so their lives don't just revolve around murder and social climbing. There's a reason Lolth's priestesses have a ritual to appease the Spider Queen that involves cutting out the heart of a lover when you grow too attached; because they do in fact have loved ones they'd rather not kill.

They're all going to be backstabbing and clawing their way up the ranks to some degree, because they need to survive and it's basically the same thing as Cazador and his spawn on a society wide level - you have to fight and claw your way to power and sell your soul for it, because the alternative is being powerless in a living hell where those that do have power will abuse you to save their own skins.

But I agree that the levels of murder are probably varied depending on the situation (less likely amongst the commoners who are beneath Lolth's notice; they probably don't target children and pregnant drow, even if just out of practicality, etc)

[mobblespsycho100]

I can't gatekeep The Hoosiers from the world Because I truly think their songs are so good but I am gatekeeping this one song from labru nation until I make an PMV of it like two cakes and all that but before I release my PMV of it no ones allowed to draw them to this song. Only I can. "Whats the song, then?" AGAIN IM GATEKEEPING ONLY MY ELITE TEAM (THE UPPER ECHELON OF CLAW. EVEN) KNOWS (my silly friends.)

but everyones free to guess what it is. If someone guesses right I'll even TRY AND SPEEDRUN THIS PMV. SOMEHOW.

my friends who know aren't allowed to guess thoigh. srry