#Conduit!Pit

[hotmilf45-xxx]

Lots of little details in Eugene's storage unit I haven't seen documented anywhere else

I have more, but that will be in a separate post; color graded variants that make the space easier to see

[bellshazes]

dreaming of a warden farm that shoots wardens up to the surface and well actually i think i'm reinventing the warden aquarium concept again because i do want someday to see a) if the conduit darkness effect glitch still works and b) what's the point of having a surface-level warden farm if you aren't going to make a menace of it to other people. unfortunately wardens float but now i'm thinking about hooking up a randomizer to a scaffolding-observer-water dispenser tower and playing plinko with them. why? i don't know. i think it would be funny. maybe you'd have to race them down without getting obliterated in your own separate water column. the possibilities are endless

[cryptocism]

!!

Hey guys, now that I’ve finished my semester (and college forever, hooray!) I can post the fun project I’ve been working on! My Inertia Fanzine!!! Hope y’all enjoy! It has references to @cryptocism’s Too Many Thads au & Frequency Fic, as well as an analysis post written by @dementedspeedster!

[alicentsgf]

The way no one even wanted the hunt at all really, not even Lottie who suggested it. even Shauna doesn't want it, she just can't let herself be seen as weak or fearful, so she agrees to it. and Lottie... even when she suggests it, she doesn’t want the hunt. she never has. shes adopted it into her understanding of the Wilderness but it only began because of the way her suicidal ideation manifests. she desires death but it has to be the wilderness who comes for her. “life and death has always been for it to decide”. its why she walks across the pit. its why she turns her back on akilah when she knows akilah has the rock in her hand. every time they’ve drawn the cards, teen and adult timelines, Lottie has looked disappointed not to be picked. the first real instance of this instinct is her turning to Shauna and telling her to let her rage out on her and, unlike travis or akilah, shaunas experiences have made her willing to commit acts of direct violence. Lottie intended for that beating to kill her on some level, she was seeking it, and she certainly never wanted Misty to create the hunt as a way to keep her alive. She’s horrified by it in fact, but Misty forces her to accept it and adopt it into their religion to alleviate the guilt of the others (as has always been Lottie’s role). This when the wilderness and violence become explicitly and accidentally entwined in a way Lottie never intended.

So after being beaten, Lottie finds she has to see the wilderness in Shauna because of that instinct for violence Shauna has. its why Lottie switches her vote during Coach Ben’s trial as Shauna becomes more aggressive, hearing “the wilderness” in that moment. It’s why she looks to Shauna for approval after she kills the researcher, saying “it doesn’t want them here”. What she desires is violence against herself, and so the potential for violence that Shauna has is intoxicating to her. Looking into Shauna’s eyes is like “looking into the earth” because that capacity for the dark and brutal is what makes Shauna representative of the Wilderness to Lottie. How cognizant Lottie is of it I’m not sure, but its clear all this time she’s been searching for some kind of conduit for the Wilderness who's willing to take her life. In their prayer, Lottie asks Shauna’s baby to “deliver them”, a plea for absolution. forgiveness. I think ultimately Lottie sees death as her only possible path to absolution. “Of all the ways to lose a person, death is the kindest.” She has already lost herself in so many ways that death would be kind.

So imagine the thrill for her when in the middle of a hunt, Shauna’s second child shoots her in the arm. I think after perhaps years of laying dormant, it reawakens her desire. She literally looks like she's experiencing some kind of enlightenment when she says “Is this your daughter? She’s so powerful.” Finally, Lottie finds what she’s looking for. She feels innately that it’s Callie she’s been waiting for all this time. “It brought you to me.” Shauna losing her first child was supposed to kill Lottie, but it didn’t. Now Lottie gets another chance and this time finally gets what she wants, but the cost is Shauna essentially losing her second child too. All of this is why she turns up on Shauna’s doorstep even though she does have other places she could go. She's seeking out Callie because she immediately senses that under the right circumstances Callie could have an even greater capacity for violence. And it turns out maybe she was right. After all, Shauna had to undergo extreme trauma to be capable of killing someone, and even then her only direct kill that we’ve seen is Adam. Callie pushed Lottie without the threat of violence against her just because she didn’t like what Lottie had to say. Callie even takes a pause, decides, and pushes her. I believe she regrets it, but it most definitely wasn’t an accident. That is the propensity for violence Lottie has been searching for since she was a teenager because she wanted someone to end her life and (possibly because of a survival instinct deep in her subconcious) her fabricated belief system would not let that person be herself. So no, even Lottie never wanted the hunt, we literally see she doesn’t even participate in it, Lottie just wanted to die.

[jesterkoops]

It’s really funny to me to see people suddenly going all SHOCKED PIKACHU after this episode with the realisation that the show will have to address how Helena being complicit in Gemma’s.. whatever it is is going on down there has repercussion for Mark and Helly's (and Helena's) relationship. And saying this suddenly changes how they see Mark and Helly’s relationship and HELLY BAD! NO MORE HELLY FOR MARK! NO!

Really?? It took THIS episode for you to realise this was literally going to be THE major point of conflict for them?? I remember finishing the rewatch before this season began and saying this very thing to my friends. Why else would they even make MarkHelly a thing and reveal she was Helena in the very next episode, if that’s not precisely where this was going to go? This episode hasn’t really changed how I see Mark and Helly/Helena’s relationship at all, because for me it was a given all along this was bound to come up. It was literally THE thing that shot my interest in their dynamic through the roof, when before I was like "meh, another workplace romance between leads". There was literally nothing in this latest episode that changed how I see any of these dynamics. The specifics of whether Gemma was braindead, or alive, or cryogenically frozen, or what have you has no impact on the fact that Helena is to some degree complicit in all this (to what degree, and just how much she actually knows, is still TBD; she's still such a mystery - I have another post about this in the works).

And what baffles me is that some seem to think that the people who came up with THIS show couldn’t possibly find a way to develop this that hasn’t yet occurred to us. "Well, I can't see any other way this ends if not with Mark getting Gemma back, and Helena evil/sacrificing herself for Mark and Gemma/dead" (or something along those lines). Like, sure, that's the most logical conclusion and THAT is what intrigues me: what am I missing that these writers have up their sleeves? It baffles me that it took ONE episode for some to be willing to strip away the entire complexity of the show and the innies/outies dichotomy and the moral and empathy dilemma it is supposed to force upon us through Mark acting as a 'conduit' for the audience.

Pitting up the two relationships against each other as one being superior to the other trivialises innies and their feelings the same way Lumon does. You can't on one hand feel empathy for Gemma's multiple innies and consider their feelings as valid and the impact they have on Gemma and in the same breath dismiss innie Mark's and Helly's feelings as childish and unimportant.

Being able to dismiss innie Mark's feelings as unimportant or inferior to outie Mark's feelings is an easy solution to the struggle reintegration is supposed to present. Take away that struggle, and you remove what's narratively interesting about reintegration.

Along these lines, the last few days I realised that Gemma HAD to be alive for this to be interesting because her being actually dead gives Mark (and consequently the audience) an easy way out. If the whole point of reintegration involves Mark dealing with the fact that he merged a part of him that loves Gemma with a part of him that never did and loves someone else instead... well, if Gemma is actually gone, that doesn't pose much of a challenge for Mark, does it? If Gemma were gone, his predicament would be the same as any other widower who falls in love again. But if she's alive, he has to actually wrestle with the two parts of himself that pull him in two different directions and want two different lives.

And we circle back to point 2: the only way point 3 is narratively interesting is if innie Mark's feelings are just as strong and important and valid as outie Mark's feelings.

And, to a lesser extent, for his feelings to be as strong and important and valid, Helena CANNOT just be a straight up villain because then we would circle back to point 3; it would be the equivalent of Gemma being dead. It would strip the dilemma from Mark because it would be easy for him to dismiss his feelings for her/Helly.

I admit, this is a very very tricky situation to navigate for the writers to avoid falling into cliches and to wrap it up in a way that's original and satisfying. But it's ridiculous to be definitive about an endgame at this stage when there is still so much story to go through. You are literally jumping the gun and reaching conclusions while missing a ton of information and development still.

[incesthemes]

god i just love heart. it's such a good episode. sam doesn't want madison to die because madison is an allegory for himself and sam does not want to die. he doesn't want to be a monster. he sees himself in madison and he desperately wants her to be good because if she is good then so too, maybe, is he. and killing madison is admitting that there's no hope for him and that he can't be saved.

what's particularly thrilling about this episode though is the way this allegory interacts with dean, and particularly the developing relationship between sam and dean.

namely, sam refuses to let dean be the one to kill madison. he takes up the mantle and expressly disallows dean from being there when the bullet is fired. throughout the episode, even, dean is sent on the wild goose chase while sam stays close to madison. and oftentimes, these chases are initiated by sam, who urges dean to follow the trail. it comes off, in the end, as if sam is trying to actively prevent dean from interfering with what he needs to do. which is, ultimately, to kill madison.

when sam begs dean not to be the one who kills madison, he is ultimately talking about himself. the message of the episode is that he doesn't want dean to kill him. this is a striking difference from playthings, where sam begged dean to kill him. sam spends much of this span of time between the two episodes grappling with the depth of dean's love and his fears of the inevitable (his own monstrosity). and the turning point of these episodes appears to be the direct midpoint between 2x11 and 2x17, born under a bad sign—it's where dean insists that he will save sam no matter what happens. and from then on, sam's fears turn from the inevitability of his monstrosity to the desperate hope that dean will, in fact, save him. his dependence on dean for stability and hope is growing, and he comes to trust in dean as the only person on earth who can save him from the promise of the monster.

madison is therefore a conduit through which this discussion about their fate is had: if dean is successful in killing madison, then it becomes a confirmation of sam's fears. if dean kills madison, he is killing sam. he's going back on his promise to sam. it's a betrayal of the highest degree, and sam must prevent that at any cost. and so he disarms dean and sends him away from madison, never lets him get too close. and in the end, when he realizes his efforts were futile, he kills madison himself. metaphorically, he kills himself before dean can do it for him, which is a subversion of fate in itself. he may not be able to prevent the monster, but he can destroy it with his own power, and destiny will be thwarted because dean's hands will be clean.

and as such, this is a microcosm, a foreshadowing, of swan song. where the metaphor becomes real and the monster inside of sam is indeed killed by sam's own hands, leaving dean's bloodless. more than anything, 2x17 heart insists, sam will not let fate run its course. if he can't prevent his own fate, then he will prevent dean's. so he kills madison; so he throws himself into the pit. it's the ultimate act in service of the brother and therefore the ultimate act against destiny. and well i just think that's neat.

[oldmanffucker]

thinking abt lestat, in present day, remembering the precise date Armand “called him” & said Louis had “injured himself” and was “thinking of him” & lestat knew that it was not an accident.

& he knew Armand & knew if Armand was reaching out to him out of no where bc Louis was thinking about him, it wasn’t out of good will but manipulation. And to not just threaten to reach out but do it Lestat must’ve had a million alarm bells ringing & red flags fluttering in his head.

The feeling like a stone falling in the pit of your stomach when you get a call that the suicidal person you love has hurt themself (“You wanted to say something to me?” thinking is this a suicide note?) and Lestat’s knowing Louis as fully as he did, knowing Louis was prone to suicidality, knowing that he himself was haunted by their daughter and wondering if Louis was too. Knowing he “injured himself” but through the conduit of Armand only allowed himself to wonder “Why are you ill?” (does he get to ask more? does he deserve to?)

Then finally, the INSTANT he feels them shift into more intimate and forgiving ground he recalls the date. “September 8, 1973.” he chokes it out like he’s never allowed himself to recall it til then. A pause & he takes in Louis’ face that knows what he’s referring to. Now that’s he’s let himself choke it out once he has to say it again. “September 8, 1973. It was 11:07 here. It would have been 9:07 in San Francisco.” (Checking for time of death. Is this a time of death? Does he need to remember this moment? He’ll catalogue it in case.) “Armand called me. Were you there?” (Or was this all another cruel manipulation?)

Finally now able to ask what he’d been wondering for almost half a century, mouth opening to words that claw their way out, tearful in the most earnest, loving, vulnerable question, “did you hurt yourself?”

And it’s so visceral bc he cares and he was so afraid and finally he can show it and he can ask and he can see he’s still here even though for a moment he almost wasn’t and Lestat doesn’t (get to) know any of it.

[lady-lemonycakes]

HOUSE OF MEMORIES

the days of aegon's conquest

Prologue Dragonstone, 3 BC

Restless.

That is the only word Daenaera Targaryen could use to describe her state these past few days. Ever since her most recent dream, she had felt haunted. A sensation she had not experienced since her last major dream that she imparted on her father shortly before his passing only several moons ago. In such states of unease, Daenaera had taken to sitting on the ledge of the windswept battlements of Dragonstone.

This is where she sits at present, her now chin-length hair blowing softly against her nape, the color reminiscent of molten moonlight. Sitting on the edge, nothing but the wind below her dangling feet, Daenaera felt a semblance of tranquility. Something she only achieves from here, when she looks below her to the waves crashing against the blackened rocks along the shore of their island, sending spray into the air. As she gazed off, vaguely in the direction of Essos as the sun rose. It's light casting in a manner that leaves the narrow sea in hues of fire and blood.

The castle is slowly coming to life, servants and squires soon to be wandering the halls, the lord and his ladies shall be waking not long after if they have not already gotten a start to their day. If Daenaera knew anything about Visenya, it is that she rose with the sun to get the most out of each day. The discipline it required, Daenaera could only dream of one day having herself. But not today. Not yet. For the youngest Targaryen had been sitting on the battlements for hours now. Sleep had not found her as of late. Not since her dream of ice.

Daenaera had always dreamed. Her father Aerion would proudly proclaim them as dragon dreams, a well sought after trait from the days of the Old Valyria that had saved House Targaryen from the Doom. Her father said these dreams were a blessing. That he is blessed to have fathered two children who inherited the gift for the first time since before the Century of Blood. Aegon, he was like their father, seeing their dreams as something to be proud of, a duty he earnestly accepts. But Daenaera had never been like the calm, unshakeable Aegon. She saw her dreams as more unsettling, if anything.

Since she was but a child, flashes of fire and flight, of shadow and steel, plagued her mind. They went between being no more than fragments, fleeting visions that left her confused and breathless, or sharper, more vivid dreams that would keep her up in the coming days.

But there was something so unsettling to her about this one. It was brief, yet still managed to be oh so impactful on her. And she doesn't even have her father to confide in anymore.

In the dream, she stood in a vast frozen wasteland, the air biting and cold. In only her nightgown, she shivered her way through the snow, feeling the ice below her feet burn her skin worse than any fire ever could. Daenaera walked and walked, hoping to come across a settlement to be her saving grace, but all she saw was a great weirwood coming more into view. She had never been so relieved to see a plant in her life, it was the one sign of life she'd seen in this snow. With its pale bark like bone, its red leaves hanging over like dripping blood, Daenaera finally had a conduit. When she was underneath the tree, she could truly see it. She took notice of the face carved into its great trunk, a thing of sorrow and menace, its empty eyes staring into her soul.

And then there was the man.

He was dark of hair and clad in heavy furs, his back turned to her as he sat on one of the roots of the tree. There was something hauntingly familiar about him, though she could not place why. Even without seeing his face, she felt an immediate sense of calm with his energy. The strong feeling she felt in the pit of her stomach when she peered at him was enough for her to forget the biting cold around her. It unwittingly gives her the strength to approach him. At the same time, he turned, and for the briefest moment, their eyes met. She was sure of it, yet his face is blurred in her mind when she tries to recall it. Almost as if obscured by frost, but she remembers the feel of his gaze, clear and piercing. He saw her.

And he knew she saw him.

This was what frightened her most. In all her past dreams, she had been an unseen observer. But this man—whoever he was—had looked at her as if she was as real to him as he was to her.

He appeared confused at her being there, she was likely a sight for sore eyes with her hair the color of the snow beneath their feet in her pink nightgown. Seeing—no, more like feeling—his confusion, Daenaera tried to speak, but it was at that moment the dream unraveled, leaving her gasping in the darkness of her chamber.

And now, it is all that lingers on her mind. She had dreamed of fire and blood before—visions of towering flames devouring cities, dragons wheeling in the skies above endless fields of battle. Those were dreams she could understand, dreams that aligned with what Aegon had shared with her in their rare, careful conversations. But this... this dream of snow, of cold so biting it seemed to seep into her very bones, of a young man cloaked in shadow who saw her... this was different. And could prove troublesome should it advance.

As Daenaera made her way from the battlements to make her descent down the spiraling stairs into the apartments in the castle before anyone could find her out of bed, she tightened her fingers around the folds of her cloak. The echoes of her footsteps were swallowed by the oppressive quiet of Dragonstone, broken only by the faint rumble of waves far below. She focused on keeping her face serene, as her mother had taught her, despite her racing mind, so as not to appear suspicious in the event she is caught before making it to her bedchamber.

It was bad enough that her mother and her sister Rhaenys had taken notice of her acting out of the ordinary the first day after the dream had happened. Having such attention from both women was tiresome to the mostly solitary Targaryen. The only respite Daenaera had was that Visenya had been out at the time—she and Aegon had just returned from business they needed to attend to with some one of the Westerosi lords or kings two days ago—for her eldest sister's sharp gaze had a way of cutting through any mask she wore. But it was Aegon who Daenaera was looking forward to seeing the least this morning. When his violet gaze fell on her, she felt the same scrutinization that Visenya all but perfected. Only that he did not speak, his eyes alone lingered on her for a moment too long in assessment before he would cross the room to try and get her to talk. He always knew when her troubles were tied to her dreams, perhaps because it was the only time he truly paid her any mind since their father's passing.

'Nevermind all of them, though', Daenaera thought.

She has become rather skilled at the art of sneaking to and fro her room in the middle of the night. Her mother's handmaiden Leana would not come to dress her until an hour before the food was prepared for the family to break their fast. A wave of relief washes over her when she finally reaches the door to her chambers, undetected. She lets out a sigh as she kicks off her slippers upon entering the room and unclips the cloak she tosses atop of the open door of her wardrobe. With nothing left to do, Daenaera hops into her bed to prepare herself to wear the facade of being well-rested once more, so she might hide the effect her dream had on her just a little longer before she'd inevitably reveal it all to Aegon. The Lord of Dragonstone did always have a way of getting such things out of the youngest Targaryen, after all.

[word count: 1403]

[funkaoverwar]

Raindrops : Part 5 – The Choice

The abduction was surgical. Silent. Precise.

One moment, Raven was meditating on the roof of Titans Tower. The next, her surroundings blurred into blackness laced with static and fire.

(Y/N) never saw it coming either—just a flash of red light from the alley near Gotham’s lower east side. A whisper of fear. Then nothing.

---

They awoke in a cathedral of shadows—an abandoned Arkham wing, twisted and overrun with creeping vines of power that hummed with dark magic. Shackles infused with anti-magic runes bound Raven, while (Y/N) was restrained by steel that cut deeper than just skin.

A figure stepped forward from the gloom.

Felix Faust.

"Such lovely pawns," he said, voice like cracked parchment. "One, a conduit of otherworldly power. The other, a heart too precious to be forgotten."

Raven glared, energy writhing uselessly against the spells binding her. “You’ll regret this.”

Faust smiled, ancient and cruel. “I’ve crafted a little tragedy for our dear Damian Wayne.”

---

The call came at midnight.

“Coordinates. No backup. Come alone or they both die.”

But Damian never followed orders—especially not from villains who thought they understood the depth of his fury.

The Bat-family arrived in full: Nightwing, Tim, Jason, even Cass. A silent storm ready to raze the world.

They hit Arkham like a thunderclap.

Blades, smoke bombs, magic barriers crashing. Faust held his ground, summoning entities from the beyond, but even he knew—this wasn’t about victory.

This was about pain.

---

Damian cut through the final barrier and saw them—Raven and (Y/N), opposite sides of the room, suspended above pits of arcane fire.

Faust floated between them, triumphant. “You’ve fought hard, boy. But it all comes down to one decision. Choose.”

The world went silent.

Damian froze.

Raven met his eyes, calm even now. “You have to save her,” she said softly.

(Y/N)’s eyes brimmed with panic. “No. Don’t do that. Save Raven. She matters—she’s a Titan, she—”

“Stop!” Damian roared, stepping forward, swords drawn but shaking. “You don’t get to choose for me.”

Faust smiled. “Tick-tock, little prince. One lives. One burns.”

Damian’s breath hitched.

He looked at Raven. Strong, wise, always sacrificing.

Then (Y/N). Fragile, broken, and still trying to save someone else.

His voice was a whisper.

“I’m not losing either of you.”

Then—movement.

Cass struck from above, shattering the spell circle. Tim flanked left, Jason opened fire with blessed rounds. Faust screamed, staggering.

Damian launched himself forward.

He cut Raven loose first. “You told me to save her. That’s how I knew I had to save you.”

Then (Y/N), just seconds before the pit beneath her surged with flame.

She collapsed into his arms.

It was over. The villain fled—wounded, but not dead.

The damage, however, had already been done.

---

Outside, as dawn broke over a ruined Arkham, Damian stood between them—one hand resting briefly on Raven’s shoulder. The other still wrapped in (Y/N)'s.

“I won’t let the world take either of you from me again,” he said.

But even as he stood there, whole in body, his heart remained divided.

[violetlichen]

dol surnames

I've spent the past two years since I first discovered DOL painstakingly considering the surnames of the love interests and Bailey. I'm finally satisfied with what I've come up with and wanted to share:

John Avery

Now this one is not a surname. Avery is always male in my game. In my (currently on indefinite hiatus) fic Immaculance I wanted Avery to seem very imposing by being referred to as a name that's not really his name, a la Mr. Big from Sex and the City, so I decided he commonly goes by his surname. John is basic enough, one syllable and chic yet traditionally masculine sounding. Sounds good paired with Avery, rolls off the tongue nicely.

Alex Greene

This one is a little on the nose. Alex lives on a farm surrounded by nature, nature = green. But I also like that it feels fresh. Whenever I romance Alex and start staying out at the farm it feels like a fresh start for my PC, like they're starting over together. I can picture their mailbox out by the road with The Greene's written on it... I might've also been inspired by the Greene family farm from the Walking Dead 👀 I headcanon that all the farm workers call Alex 'Greeney' as a cute nickname.

Thomas Bailey

Another character that I think goes by their surname. I haven't decided on a feminine name because Bailey is also always male when I play, but I feel like it would be a strong name that could shorten to something masculine, like Wilhelmina or Bernadette being shortened to Wil / Bernie. Something long that feels a little stuffy, that fem Bailey would hate being called. Not necessarily because it's too girly but because it's a mouthful and Bailey doesn't have time to say all that. For male, I like Thomas because it's classic and gives me Victorian era vibes and even though the game has a modern setting PC is still an orphan and I want to pretend it's the 1800s.

Eden O'Connor

Still kind of up in the air about Eden, but I've settled on this for now. I just like how it sounds.

Kylar Fritz

Kylar was the hardest one to come up with. I was really set on it starting with a funky letter like G or F, and not being super common. I wanted it to feel a little strange when you say it. They could easily be bullied with this name. Fritz rhymes with pits. And everyone thinks Kylar stinks, so there you go.

Robin Davies

I feel like Davies is a quintessential English surname? Don't come at me, I'm American. I don't really have much to say for this one other than it just sounds pretty to me. Very boy/girl next door.

Sydney Spiegelman

Really, really had my heart set on this for some reason. It came to me straight away. According to House of Names, it's derived from the German word "spiegel" which means mirror, and also the Yiddish word "shpigl" which means to look or to see. I thought this was really fitting for Sydney who seems to be a conduit for the Ivory Wraith.

Whitney Clarke

Came up with this for my fic. Again, I just like it. I've posted about this before but I headcanon that their parents names are Robert and Elizabeth, and that male Whitney's middle name is Robert, and that he hates it. Fem Whitney also really hates her middle name - whatever it is - and never tells anyone what it is.

Let me know what your thoughts are, or comment if you have any name ideas yourself!

[inubaki]

The Exchange (first showings)

part 6

Adam had no accurate account of how long he’d laid in the pit. Lucifer said nothing and neither did the boys as Eve remained in her state of stasis.

The pit was an engorged trench of earth Eve had so keenly constructed amongst many in Adam’s absence. Deep enough to cover but never not adequately deep enough to bury a human body. It was intricately cushioned in stakes of strange smelling plants, flowers and possible herbs. Its bedding bore a sharp contrast to its barren surroundings where floral refused to grow. Nothing disturbed Eve and days dragged along to months without even a murmur.

It came as a double edge to ease Adam’s paranoia from her last fit, but also entrapped him to the same spot. Refusing to abandoned her and cause a rift with the twins. All the while his stomach was only growing larger by the day.

“Ozzy…”

Lucifer announced with a kiss to Adam’s brow. The human man looking up from his assorted rations, giving the pale man a perfect window to push a daisy behind Adam’s ear. Sunflower colored eyes leered back at him with its usual suspicion. The once angel laughed and disrupted Adam boldly to shove himself into Adam’s lap. The beast’s favorite place if not to leer eerily behind him. “Asmodeus, really, but Ozzy for short!”

Lucifer repeated. Like a snake, he curled himself around Adam’s front. An embrace as lucid as it kept constricting. Adam shuddered away by instinct and general unease by physical contact. “That’s a Stu——“ he jerked in alarm as Lucifer’s fangs nicked at his swelled nipple. The arising tenderness in his chest which he refused to acknowledge. Their softening metamorphosis and only inspiring more leeching excitement for the demon making it all the more impossible to shove the leech away. “-STUPID FUCKING NAME!! Ahh—-“. Adam’s breath caught as Lucifer’s warm tongue engulf his nipple entirely. The shock of it eliciting a full body jerk, his cock twitching between his leather and furs. The years of neglect since leaving Eden rendering him ultra sensitive to even the slightest touch from the beast at his breast.

What would Eve say now? Now that he was the one being entrapped upon by Lucifer’s corroding influence. Adam chocked back a stammering moan as Lucifer switched breasts as easily as he switched humans. The fucker… Between them, his stomach gave the faintness of movement and dispute Adam jerking away from the sheer alieness of the feeling, Lucifer only purred. “So fitting it is, for the first prince to be of Lust…”

Lucifer’s hands lower to slip through Adam’s coverings. Tapered claws tracing along the beginning of an ample curve. Something shifted beneath the skin invoking a thirsty snarl from sharpened fangs. The ‘angel’ Adam had long forsaken shoved his face between Adam’s bared chest while giving an utterly inhuman whine. There was no end to Lucifer’s reach as Adam felt utterly engulfed. “Cause we’ll never get enough of you… My Queen and I… to our mother of hell….”

——-

It’s not very good. But, even with my headache, I wanted to do at least something. Eve, the earth’s first witch, had wanted to bring Adam some happiness. In form that would take, not even she expected.

Eve was Lucifer’s and Lilith’s first conduit. Dispute being human children, the children Eve bore carried their blood, strengthening their bond. The pit is the space in which both Abel and Cain drew their first breath and first blood so it’s the site most closeted to ‘them’.

And by extension are the marking Eve’s craved both into herself and Adam. Tying them both to the pit and Lilith, and Lucifer’s influence. Eve had expected to be the mother of humanity. And though she would be, she did not expect to what liberty Adam would carry in parallel to her.

pervs:

Next:

[t-and-n]

N:

I am not your God. I am not your salvation. And yet you make me into a messiah to pour all your devotion into simply because you must put it somewhere or you'll go mad. But the vessel that you call by my name remains empty for it's not a vessel but a conduit to an endless void. All your adoration goes through me and falls into the void and keeps falling never to find a receptacle.

All this adoration is for your own sake anyways. It is your own guilt you wish to soothe, isn't it? Don't like the sharp tang of guilt do you now? Like bile rising up and coating your tongue with the flavour of your past.

You keep flailing in the dark for some God, some meaning to tether your pathetic life to. You are no more than the sinful devotee who thinks he can absolve himself of all his sins by paying a tithe or bathing in some river he deems holy. You do it for yourself and no one else.

I want to see you spend your life agonizing over forgiveness and never find it, for the God you have chosen to worship is not a merciful one. You bathe in a pit of tar, kneel at the shrine of a lie, worship a mirage.

Leave.

The fruit of forgiveness is not worth the hell I'll put you through.

{Find the follow-up here.}

[hamsterbellbelle]

Additional CC list for [Dark Japandi] 930 Medina Studio🎦:

Bamboo || Bar/conduit || Bathroom clutter || Bathroom hanger || Bed/headboard/nightstand || Blinds/orchid || Books || Books || Box ||

Calligraphy scroll || Clothing rack || Computer || Cork bottle vase || Cutting board || Desk chair || Dresser/lamp with books || File folders || Fire pit || Floor (day 12) || Floor - A - B - C || Floor/wallpaper - A - B || Floor pillows || Fountain fences || Fusebox ||

Galaxy (art)/end table || Gaming console || Glass floor || Glasses || Hanging bulbs (light) || Kitchen clutter jar || Light (ceiling) || Light (stripe) || Meditation stool || Ottoman || Oven ||

Pebble rug || Photo frames/coat rack/heels || Photo frames || Rug (entrance) || Rug/candle || Sake set || Sectional sofa || Shoe rack || Shoes || Slippers || Smart phone || Statue ||

Tea set || Toaster (deco) || Towel (bathroom) || Towel (rolled) || Towel/shaving tray || Trashcan (bathroom) || Tray with incense || TV cabinet ||

Wallpaper/leaf plate || Window || Windows/doors/archways || Wine bottle (bathroom) || Wine glass ||

🐹             🐹             🐹             🐹             🐹 

Animated table || Bathtub || Corpo plant light || Exit sign || Floating holo lantern || Light (ceiling) || Stereo (wall) || Suitcase laptop || TV ||

[ficandkaboodle]

Papa’s Favorite Ghoul: Primo

Banner Credit Goes to @saradika-graphics! Word Count: 3281

Man, where do I even begin? I guess by stating that there’s two tropes I like: AUs where characters switch dynamics, and when characters or people go by titles that don’t traditionally align with their gender identity. Like woman kings or, in the case of Star vs the Forces of Evil, Jushtin the Boy Queen. Admittedly they’re more so applied to align with the importance placed on patriarchal and/or matriarchal power but we’re not getting into that. Nor are we getting into the kind of weird patriarchal traits of the Catholic Church the Church of Ghost keeps hold to — there are real-world explanations for them, I suppose, and this is fanfiction.

What we are getting into is my blending of the two aforementioned tropes to create this…Well, I guess it’s a series of sorts now because each character segment got too hefty to belong to one singular post. My bad. But I digress:

Somewhere out there, there is a universe where you were a part of the bloodline that has long reigned the Satanic Church as a dark papal dynasty. And now the title of Papa, for better or worse, has fallen upon you. You’ve trained your entire life for this — mephistophically, that is. But few things can prepare someone for dealing with ghouls more than actual exposure can. And now with the task of utilizing music to corrupt and recruit falling upon you, you’ll have plenty of time to become familiar with these literal hellions.

Don’t worry, though: If there’s one thing that has remained consistent throughout the millennia, it’s that a Papa almost always finds that one ghoul form whom they develop a fondness for . . .

You had not, in fact, been the one to summon the ghoul known around the Ministry as “Primo”.

He had been walking these unhallowed grounds since before you were born. A ghoul having an extended tenure topside wasn’t unheard of, but the implications set by his humanoid appearance of a very tall old man seemed to punctuate that point. Was he genuinely that old? Did he use a bit of ghoul magic to influence his appearance? You weren't going to ask.

Coupled with the way he carried himself, his presence commanded respect, something which the Clergy had been surprisingly willing to oblige despite his species.

Primo was, for all intents and purposes, the ideal ghoul: He had an intense work ethic, he was loyal, and he was tame enough to be of use while also posing a threat to anyone who did the same towards the Clergy.

Even something as simple as his horns seemed perfect for his position: The four horns of a Jacob sheep’s spiked warningly from his flesh, the perfect sort of horns for a ghoul of the Satanic Church to bear if there ever was any!

Even though his original summoner had long since passed, they never asked him if he wanted to return to the Pit. And, to their credit, Primo never expressed any desire to. It was that kind of dedication that endeared him so and kept him at the ready to be a conduit for the Old One’s message.

It was also probably the only reason why he’d involved himself in the “Ghost Project” you had recently proposed in a board meeting, even though he had made it extremely apparent that he did not see you as worthy of the title of Papa. If anything, he did so in order to keep an eye on you.

Primo had served many Papas in his time topside. Suffice it to say, you were nothing like any of them! Where your ancestors commanded their dark flock, Primo felt you merely timidly nudged them. Where the Papas of yore spat promises of the Dark One's ire and the rot of man, you seemed to more so focus on concepts of personal principle. Not entirely incorrect, but it certainly felt like a watered down method of leading.

Where was the damned soul made of brimstone and hellfire? Where was that penetrating glare that could freeze the doubters? All the old ghoul saw when you assumed the mitre was a soft-spoken slip of something or other that had fumbled their way through the bloodline. Had it not been for The Mark that paled your left eye, he might have more vehemently – more violently – questioned your ascension.

But the Clergy made no movements to dismiss or discard you, and Primo had never been one to take impulsive action. So here he began to find himself: Sitting at a drum set for rehearsals, battering away whilst his peers made fools of themselves as they writhed about, mimicking sexual proclivities or just plain goofing off.

But for as much as he would glower at them, his true poison was always fixated on you: You, who clearly just wanted the attention the Dark One was supposed to be receiving. You, who was just plain wasting his time – time that could be put to more use around the Ministry instead of spending hour upon hour listening to you warble the same cheesy lyrics, bastardizing unholy psalms passed down through millennia.

But he was nothing if not a professional, attending all rehearsal sessions, barely speaking unless it was to keep the more juvenile bandmates in line. Though more often than not, need only shoot them a sharp stare with those magma-red eyes of his and they would stop immediately.

That was all you needed when, surprised that he would pick something as raucous as the drums, you attempted to offer something not as physically demanding or requiring of too much movement.

You had meant nothing by it, of course. If anything, it was an attempt on your part to at least try and build a communication with one of the people (?) you would be working with indefinitely. Your peers and predecessors as a whole weren’t known for extending much kindness to the ghouls under their power; that was something you wanted to change during your reign. The rest of the ghouls, bandmates and Ministry-established alike, seemed to appreciate that well enough but Primo . . . Well . . .

Weren’t earth ghouls supposed to be less . . . intense? Stubborn and a twinge terse, perhaps, but usually they still had a bit of gentleness to them after a point. But then again, Primo was in a class of his own. Or maybe he’d just been a fire ghoul at some point? Might explain the eyes . . .

Really, though, the praise you’d heard regarding his dedication towards Papas past had yet to make any real appearance beyond him not taking you out. And perhaps volunteering to participate in your brain child, though you felt that was more so out of obligation to the Church rather than out of any real reverence.

Given how blatant he had made his dislike of you from the get-go, you decided to accept his (admittedly impeccable) drumming skills as the closest thing to respect you were going to ever get out of him. Much like the Clergy, you weren’t going to look this gift horse in the mouth too hard.

Your magnum opus couldn't afford it and for as confident as you were in the prospects of it, you knew you would need all the help you could get. Even if some of it came from an ancient earth ghoul who wished you would keel over so the next guy could take over.

If Primo could grit his teeth, then you sure as shit could to get the results you were looking for. Even if the results meant enduring painstakingly awkward rehearsals, right up until Ghost's very first performance.

Primo knew not to expect much in the way of venues. After all, bands that merely copied their principles never had an easy foothold in the world, never mind an actual band representing the Church. In the end, it did make the most sense to perform in lowly places, places inhabited by those most vulnerable and willing to lend an ear. Still: He had not anticipated this . . . “Whiskey a Go Go” place to be your debut. Oh well. The crowd here clearly looked susceptible enough; he could handle it.

He didn’t approve of you donning your chasuble for such an event but at that point, what did it even matter? He just needed to literally play his part and get this over with. Maybe then this tomfoolery could be put to bed and you would be reprimanded for wasting the Ministry’s time and resources, sullying their trust.

At least, that had been the idea when the first song was signaled in.

But as the setlist progressed, Primo couldn’t help but note how his expectations weren't being met. In fact, quite the opposite was beginning to take hold. Like how the words sounded different even though they were the same ones he’d heard ad nauseum.

Snippets and verses clipped from corrupt hymns made themselves right at home in the measures, something he’d internally protested the first times he’d recognized their presence.

Rhythms sounded more coordinated against the acoustics of the venue, far different from the way they resonated in the makeshift practice room back at the Abbey. This was what they were meant to sound like? Not a tangled mess of notes and words struggling and biting and fighting for dominance, but actual music stretching to the rafters? Huh. Who would’ve thought?

And all the shenanigans his peers had participated in – back at the Ministry, it seemed so juvenile, so distracting. They weren’t taking this shameful display with any kind of seriousness. But in that moment, the jumping, the showboating, even the gyrating all seemed right at home on the stage.

But above all else, it was the response to it all: Audiences loved it. They loved the words, the chords, the riffs, the "ghouligan" behavior. And, perhaps most of all, they seemed to love you. Who you were, in this moment, was far from whom Primo had been seeing – whom he thought he saw – in the pulpit and at rehearsals.

All that had been apparent child's play. Or perhaps they were simply the wrong environment for your fullest potential. Here, on the stage, you positively bloomed, transforming into something radiant, something filled with infernal fervor. A little hell flower decked in infernal regalia, your chasuble catching the stage lights like petals collecting sunlight.

During the few times you would turn your back to the audience and faced him, he could see it even from his furthermost position in the back: That fire he thought you lacked, blazing from your every pore, brightening your eyes and casting long, dark shadows upon all before you.

Primo had been right: You truly were unlike any Papa he’d ever served before . . .

From then on, Primo was to decidedly keep a closer eye on you. No more having the rug pulled from beneath him. Clearly you were like a mystery seed: He had no idea what your potential truly was, having not quite encountered something like you before. As such, you needed to be . . . studied. If at a distance, for now.

However, it's a bit difficult to go unnoticed when you're a 6'1" ghoul with large horns when out of a glamour. Never mind that you had grown so used to his stare being fixed on you that you always knew when it had reappeared. Only, you couldn't help but feel that something about it was . . . different. Somehow.

It was normal enough to feel them during black mass because everyone's eyes were on you. But to feel them when you would go to the library to request old tomes even most Clergymen did not seek; when you slipped members of the Children's Ministry candy to perk them up after a particularly boring Latin Studies class with Bishop Malicion. Even in what should have been the sanctity of your office, you swore you could feel those red-hot eyes affixed to your person!

But the heat of them was gone now, and hadn't quite been there since the Whiskey a Go Go. Instead, they felt more curious. Maybe like a cat? Ghouls were often likened to cats above all other manner of beast but Primo had only resembled one in the way he composed himself. A trait like intrigue just seemed bizarre to picture him exhibiting, let alone so obviously.

However, you were still Papa throughout all this: Best not to dwell on it and instead keep focusing on keeping your project afloat. You would deal with whatever was going on with old Primo later.

(Though you couldn't stop yourself from feeling slightly giddy at the possible improvement. Having him give you the slightest hint of a nod while passing in the hallways was leagues better than having him radiate bloodlust or disdain!)

Later, however, came quicker than you had prepared yourself for. In fact, it arrived one curtain call during the band’s slow creep towards notoriety.

In hindsight, the fact he willingly held your hand for the final bow should have been a sign that something about tonight was going to be different. Normally, if he had to join hands with anybody, he made sure to position himself at the very end so he need only spare one hand and with another ghoul. Being virtually in the middle with you would have required effort on his part.

But you were abuzz, the performance having gone splendidly with a highly receptive and interactive crowd. You were quite proud of yourself and your ghouls if you said so yourself. Maybe the energy that evening was just enough to make Primo feel less rigid than usual?

You’d only just risen up from your bow, ready to release his hand when you noticed that he himself was not letting go of your own. Odd, considering he’d done so with the other ghoul he'd been holding. You tried not to look perplexed when you spared him a glance; maybe something was wrong and he needed you to be on high alert? Though, no, that wound up not being the problem – in fact, there was no problem whatsoever.

He just needed to keep your hand in his so that he could raise the back of your hand to his mask – where his mouth would be.

It was a pantomime of a kiss, sure, but the gesture was still very evident. Screeches of delight erupted from the audience below as heterochromatic eyes widened against black paint, staring at scarlet ones peering through the eyeholes of a mask.

Suffice to say, what fans Ghost had already garnered had a field day. Soon, fanzines featuring the visage of their new favorite band's lead singer and drummer would appear in grungy coffee shops and to be swapped at both Ghost shows and shows of other bands. It wasn't Time Magazine but the marketing practically handled itself, and that was good enough for the Ministry to quietly applaud Primo's forwardness.

Clearly the Ministry's favorite ghoul knew what the people wanted and took it upon himself to stoke the flames to drum up further intrigue and popularity.

So surely it made sense to continue fostering this relationship, right? For the good of authenticity, of course.

It wasn’t long at all before you found yourself confiding in Primo, bouncing lyrics off of him. Lyrics turned into discussions, dissections of your faith’s principles and even a few misconceptions that most were too tired to correct at this point.

And he, in turn, used his many, many, many years of wisdom in his services to you.

Even divulging into his life before the Ministry, what little there was worth recounting. There was good reason he’d stayed up here so long after all: Life topside was just so different, so brightly-lit when compared to the Pit. Sure, he might’ve been built exactly for the life infernal, but that didn’t mean that a ghoul lacked a capacity for more.

The biggest example in his case was the garden he’d kept during his time here. It was almost funny: You’d walked these grounds for so long, so used to the presence of the greenhouse that sat towards the back of the garden. The brightness of the vegetation and bushes stood out from its darker, more gothic-leaning surroundings in an almost silly way.

Really, though, your only real interactions with that section of the Ministry could be boiled down to times spent in your office. The window there allowed just enough of a view of the little land below, one you couldn’t help but look at when the tensions in your poorly-postured back traveled into your skull, or when a delivery ghoul delivered more heaps of papers for you to look over and sign. (Suddenly, feeling Primo's intense gaze on you even when you thought you were alone made sense.)

Your path to the antipapacy was basically carved out for you, it ironically left very little room for extracurriculars such as gardening. But you could always count on catching a Sibling or earth ghoul or two, hauling heavy sacks of soil and carting that season’s harvest in a wheelbarrow.

Their decision to spend their time on such a long-term task that demanded constant attention and dedication was admirable to you. You could relate to focusing in on a project that would take time and focus.

And to see their efforts be rewarded with something brilliant and fortifying, something that caught the eye and could be used to nourish both the body and mind . . .

In way, perhaps seeing the hardships that produced flowers and fruit might have served as inspiration and motivation for your idea to entice the masses with music. Just a twinge.

To learn that the very things that refreshed you in your moments of exhaustion had grown under the same watch as the one that had once wished you ill initially amazed you. And amused you.

The idea of ever having been afraid of Primo seemed so silly now, you couldn’t even remember what the heat of his ire felt like. If anything, the pierce of Primo’s gaze had softened into something . . . Well, the proper words escaped you any time you tried to settle on one. "Passionate" mixed with "admiration", but still with its tenderness.

As it turned out, that warmth earth ghouls were often characterized with did exist in the old curmudgeon. It was exhibited as the years marched on and as you both grew closer.

It was there even in small moments such as this, with you kneeling in the soil, planting your umpteenth flower. You had learned under his watch years ago and no longer needed instruction, but it still felt lovely to share this type of thing together. Even after all this time.

A grunt escaped you as you wobblily stood back up from aching knees, another when you cracked your back.

“One of these days, Primo,” you sighed, “I’m gonna get down and not be able to get back up. You can just bury me here, then.”

It was a joke, of course, and you were totally prepared to not get a laugh from the old ghoul. Primo’s sense of humor, you’d long since learned, was as mysterious as it was strange. It was frankly a wild guess as to what would make him laugh on any given day. What you hadn’t prepared for, though, was the way the ghoul’s eyes stared back at you. You didn’t feel unsafe or anything, but you certainly felt . . . observed.

There was that curious cat vibe that had started it all from way back when. But, knowing Primo as you now did, you knew he was simply collecting thoughts. He would eventually reveal them to you in due time.

In the meantime, though, it served you better to shake it off. Supper would be served shortly, anyway.

“Remember to wash up,” you offered, standing as high on your toe tips as you could just to place a peck on the soft, weary flesh of his neck. To that, you received a quiet grunt typical of your partner.

As you left, though, Primo kept his eyes on you, tail thoughtfully swaying behind him. He remembered seeing you sparingly in your youth, which was impressive considering how unimportant you’d been back then. You weren’t Papa, you weren’t anything, really. You weren’t important to him.

But now, years later, here you stood: Wrinkles that weren’t there before were beginning to carve their permanence into your features, standing out even through your papal paints. Just the other month, you’d noted an increase in silver strands popping up in your hair. You sighed something about the stresses of dealing with the next projected tour or an onslaught of paperwork, but Primo knew that soon, more silver would come sprouting out at your temples. More than you’d probably bother dyeing, if he knew you. If he knew the people before you.

He'd seen this all happen before, many, many times. You may have been different from all other Papas he’d known, but all Papas were alike in this one way.

A heavy sigh broke him from his stagnation, and Primo began to trek back to your chambers to wash up. Before he even entered the building proper, his mind was made: If and when your time came, Primo would finally request to return back to the Pit.

[moneeb0930]

Sinkhole in China found with an underground forest and its own species:

A giant sinkhole, or tiankeng ("heavenly pit"), has been discovered in Guangxi Zhuang Autonomous Region, China, complete with a forest at its base.

The sinkhole measures 630 feet (192 meters) deep, 1,004 feet (306 meters) long, and 492 feet (150 meters) wide. And it contains ancient trees reaching 131 feet (40 meters) tall and dense undergrowth as high as a person’s shoulders. Scientists believe the lush environment could host species yet to be discovered.

Karst landscapes like this sinkhole form over time as acidic rainwater dissolves the bedrock, creating vast caves and voids that sometimes collapse. Beyond their stunning visuals, sinkholes are critical ecosystems and conduits to aquifers, which provide water for 700 million people globally.

The discovery adds to Guangxi’s reputation for spectacular karst formations, designated as UNESCO World Heritage Sites, and brings the total number of sinkholes in Leye County to 30.

This "heavenly pit" offers a glimpse into the hidden wonders of Earth’s underground ecosystems.

More details/photos: https://www.beautyofplanet.com/scientists-discover-giant-sinkhole-in-china-with-primeval-lost-world-inside/

[springtrappd]

it's time the world needs to hear it. Give us the Glamrock Chica logs.

love how i genuinely cannot tell if you are using my inbox as a conduit to yell at steel wool (always valid) or asking me for the Wiish Cut of our favourite fucked-up chicken, but either way i will reiterate the stance i've had since ruin came out: it is fucking baffling that they chose to focus on roxy, a character who screams her entire deal at you every two sentences (coincidentally the same number as it takes to describe her entire deal), rather than chica (the way promotional material hinted they were going to). roxy's plenty fun but the only idea they had for expanding her character was making her... calm down when presented with someone who doesn't trigger her complexes. (and i don't say this to pit the two against each other -- they, like all the glamrocks, are best when playing off each other; the problem here is that ruin is formulaic in a way that only gets more irritating the farther we get from its release and the more the fandom insists "look you in the eye and tell you to feel sad now" is somehow peak just because the graphics are good)

as for the Wiish Cut, i think @mxchaelsaftxns put it best a while back:

freddy is just genuinely blind to the shit going down, roxy is left contorting around a system that torments her (but is unable to recognise it; thinks her problems are because there's something wrong with Her. this is why she's Like That), sun and moon are trapped in their own personal torment nexus, monty is able to recognise the problems but unable to process + articulate the effect it has on him in any way beyond violence, and chica could probably give you a rundown on the instability inherent to capitalism if you, like, asked, but that'd be, like, such a downer. let's go get some pizza instead!