#Desecration gray

[starlightsconstellations]

a list of everyone's tag

If they're an emoji it's something else

Added to as needed

Corpse green - evil rick (Rick and Morty)

Desecration gray - Rick Prime (Rick and Morty)

Cake yellow - Tori (Toriel Dreemurr Undertale, neutral ending)

Cranberry red - Cranberry (Underfell Papyrus)

Electric yellow - DC (Error Sans)

Electric black - AC (Error Sans)

Moon white - Luna (MLP au)

Sun yellow - Celestia (MLP au, same au as Luna)

Stone yellow - Ruffled Feathers (Crystal pony OC MLP au, same au as Luna and Celestia)

Indifferent black - The Director (Crystal pony OC MLP au, same au as Luna, Celestia and Ruffled Feathers)

Magic purple - Twilight Sparkle (Season 2 variant)

Tar black - Patrick (mlanders0n au)

Blush red - Marion lavorre

Lipstick red - Velvette (Hazbin Hotel)

Feather black - Stolas (Helluva Boss)

Royal pink - Stella Goetia (Helluva Boss)

Adoration red - Valentino (Hazbin Hotel)

Electric green - AI Chihiro Fujisaki (Danganronpa)

Gambler gold - Celestia Ludenberg (Danganronpa)

Gear gray - Mangle, Fun Time Bonnie, Withered Bonnie, Fun Time Foxy, Springtrap, Spring Bonnie, Freddy Fazbear and Fun Time Freddy (Five Nights at Freddy's)

Hero yellow - Toshinori Yagi (My Hero Academia au)

Love red - Hizashi Yamada/Present Mic (My Hero Academia same au as Toshinori)

Ice white - Rei Todoroki (My Hero Academia)

Gear black - Black Lion (Voltron)

Gear yellow - Yellow Lion (Voltron)

Gear red - Red Lion (Voltron)

Greed gold - dragon! (He's just a sleepy European dragon)

Honey yellow - Beelzebub (Helluva Boss)

[diodellet]

stress (jamil viper x gn!reader)

where: jamil sort of interrupts your self-care session, but makes up for it with fervent participation. all for mutual stress relief. content warnings: -bottom!reader -reader is yuu/ramshackle prefect ++confidants-to-bedmates(? lovers? there's hints of mutual pining if you squint), swearing, masturbation, fingering, foreplay galore, sex toys, so so much banter, reader is unserious, there is no plot here. assume everything here is safe, sane, and consensual. word count: 2.6k words minors do not interact

Alone time is sacred. Especially when your weekly agenda consists of you running to-and-fro across a magical campus, constantly being buried under tasks tedious and menial, and keeping egotistical mages from ripping out each others’ throats over affairs concerning the student body.

Well, a “thank you” made you feel less shitty at the end of the day.

Sure, a good nap could revitalize you.

Being treated to an actual meal instead of Mystery Shop brand-instant food was great. But, your alone time, you’d kill if anyone desecrated that.

A sigh leaves you. You click on a higher setting, angle the vibrator against a spot that has your thighs trembling. Your free hand plays with one of your nipples. You’re past fantasizing about phantom sensations and honeyed words.

For a brief moment, you think of firm and callused hands holding you down. Long silky hair brushing against your heated skin. Perceptive gray eyes drinking in your every reaction and the way you arched yourself for more stimulation. They are the last coherent thoughts that flicker through your synapses before your mind is overrun by the singular desire to rut until you come your brains out.

Sadly, the universe does not believe in the sanctity of your alone time.

The vibrations abruptly cut off.

This can’t be happening.

Not even left teetering on the delicious cusp of release, you’re dropped back into your body. Nerves hyperaware of each silicon inch of the toy as you pull it out of you. You click the button multiple times, confirming the worst—

“Stupid batteries. Fucking useless…” Similar curses strung together fall from your lips. You slip on a graphic tee and head to the bathroom, carrying the toy in one hand. 

Your phone powers on as you sit on the toilet, the device buzzes with the simultaneous arrival of message notifications. The sound is a mockery of your interrupted alone time.

Maybe you could rub one out in the shower… That thought will probably become more appealing in about fifteen minutes.

Your eyes catch the first line of a text preview that makes a cold pit open up in your stomach.

J. Viper: I am going to lose my mind. I’ve had it with…

Reading the full text doesn’t ease your worries. There isn’t any more of that dulled neediness tugging at the back of your mind. Your hands move automatically, dumping your cleaned toy and unused towel on your bed’s mattress. While slipping on the first set of bottoms you could reach for, you fire off a reply—Hey don’t say that and other similar placating messages—then pick up your discarded blazer off the floor before finally leaving your room.

[...]

“You’ve been making that face for a while now.”

“What face?” You ask, feigning obliviousness as you keep your attention focused on the electric kettle.

Maybe there was one exception to your need for alone time. Fitting, that it would be one of the few confidants you made in this place.

Never mind about the last thirty minutes before this moment. Like a switch, you’re back to being a dutiful errand-runner, a sympathetic listening ear.

(Once, Jamil called you one of the few other sensible people on Sages’ Island and you have yet to stop riding the high of that moment.)

“Like my being here is making you uncomfortable.”

No shit, Sherlock. Feeling his sharp gaze on top of the sensation of your clothes chafing against your oversensitive skin was uncomfy as fuck. “Look man, I could give you a mug of tea or we can open a new can of worms. I suggest you take the tea.” You lean back against the counter top and tug the end of your blazer a bit more protectively around you.

His lips press together in a thin line. “I can see myself out. Thank you for the offer, though.”

The sound of boiling water reaches its apex. In that split-second, you backtrack. “Wait��I’m sorry, I’m just, I was busy.” Your hand readjusts the pair of pajama pants you hastily threw on, index finger dipping just a fraction of an inch beneath the waistband. Your eyes don’t miss the way his gaze follows the movement of your wrist before it returns to rest itself atop the counter. “I’m not…uncomfy because you’re here. I was just nervous and—and I thought I could serve you tea instead of bothering you with my…current predicament.”

“Oh.” Very eloquent, you’d say the same thing if the positions were reversed.

“So, could we focus on you first? Over a cup of tea, as friends?”

The kettle finally calms down, announcing the newly-boiled water with a loud Clack! of its switch.

Jamil doesn’t immediately respond, scrutinizing you with an emotion you can’t parse. Until it settles onto one of faint interest. “We can have tea later.” He stands up and walks over to you, placing a hand on your waist. “Right now, I think we can both use some stress relief. If…you’ll have me, that is.”

“Really? I hear it’s better to talk things out though. Not that I wouldn’t be open to that second thing….” Your hand lays itself atop his.

“Oh, I’m sure this will be better for the both of—” He pauses, runs his fingertips along the expanse of your lower navel a second time to confirm. “—no underwear?”

Your cheeks warm. “Yes, shut up. I actually got worried for you—ah ah ah! No touching yet!” You slip out of his hold. “Give me five minutes to clean up or something, my room’s a mess.”

Jamil doesn’t let you escape so easily, arms coiling around your middle, your back against his chest. Close enough for him to mutter against your ear in a low voice. “There’s no point to that if we’re going to make a mess in the end.”

(And it’s unfair how the implication—the invitation hidden underneath that—stokes the fire in your gut anew, almost makes you ruin the set of bottoms you threw on.)

Any restraint either of you carried snaps once the lock to your room twists shut. Jamil tugs you close to him, pulling you into a fervent kiss. Once you shrug off your blazer, his hands slip under the hem of your t-shirt, teasing at the sensitive skin of your waist, hiking higher and higher—damn.

“Bed first,” you demand once you pull yourself free. You aren’t panting—you try to convince yourself—though one of your hands is fisted in the front of his hoodie. When he sits on your mattress, you get pulled straight into his lap. His fingers hook against the waistband of your pants, sliding them down to bare your thighs.

Basically, confirming what he already knew. Felt, rather. Your hips buck against his palm as he cups your groin.

“How long were you at it?” There’s a sly smirk pulling at his lip, like he’s pleased to have you and your need for pleasure resting in his hand. All for him to control.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you huff. “I was already—ngh—washing up when you messaged.”

His smile doesn’t abate. A finger slips into your entrance. “And you couldn’t find the time to properly dress yourself? I’m flattered.”

You’re about to fire off another retort, but the digit curls infuriatingly into a come-hither gesture, slowly rubbing against your inner walls. What leaves your throat instead is a soft, needy noise. “Come on, you’re gonna make me come too fast…”

“So?” And he keeps that irritatingly steady pace. Letting the pleasure in your lower stomach build and build, until you’re shaking from exertion. “Go ahead, then.”

“Mmgh, I want—”

“More? How greedy of you.” Another finger joins the first one, a delicious stretch against your insides combined with each thrust of his wrist.

“No, fuck….wait, I mean—” Words longer than two syllables were suddenly harder to manage. “—you, what about you…?”

“...Me?” 

Maybe, just maybe, your insistence on having mutual reciprocation was biting you in the ass, you’re right on the edge of sweet release. Just one more stroke against that bundle of nerves inside of you, or maybe if you just clenched down hard enough—

“...You’re too considerate, really. To someone like me.”

His words are soft, barely heard over your mounting need. Your insides throb in time with the beat of your heart. But your voice can only manage a dismayed whine when Jamil’s fingers pull out of you.

(That you’re still on the cusp of an orgasm is another thing, but it helps to have your head clearing up a bit.)

“Don’t look at me like that,” he chides you, palms caressing the sides of your thighs. But the smile on his features tells you that he’s drinking in your hazy gaze, simply endeared at how you were reduced to neediness just from his touch. “You wouldn’t want this to end too quickly, would you?”

…he has a point. Your tongue wets your lower lip. “Lose the hoodie then, so—so we can continue.” One of your hands reaches for the hem of his top.

It’s no secret that you find Jamil Viper attractive. Hell, the way he carries himself suggests that even he knows it himself. At least sneaking a few glances gave you some plausible deniability. But in baring just a sliver of his midriff, you might as well have broadcasted the very thought.

Better to get that sorted out before getting him inside of you, right?

Your eyes trace the toned lines of his stomach, the lithe muscles of his arms, the way his loose ponytail hung artfully against his shoulder. Off his hoodie goes, joining your discarded pajama pants and blazer. 

“Easy, there.” The way he drawls your name has your stomach flipping somersaults. 

“I guess you look fine.” You could burn a hole through him with how hard you were staring.

“Mhm, sure.” A warm palm cups the back of your neck, guiding you into an open-mouthed kiss. Tongue swiping against your bottom lip, pulling a surprised moan from you.

What else can you do but melt into it?

Even though the two of you were urged on by fervent need, there’s an undercurrent of tenderness—something more delicate than your mutual pent-upness—with each graze of your skin against his. You could barely hold a candle to Jamil’s seemingly-innate grace and sensuality, yet he meets each of your tentative touches without pulling away, as if insistent to keep your hands on him too. To keep at least some point of contact on you as much as possible. Your hand dips beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, to palm at his hardening dick.

You’re rewarded with a languid roll of his hips. The painful yet pleasurable scrape of his canine against your lip. That needy sound bubbling up from his throat, only to be swallowed up with another feverish kiss.

You could live in this moment forever.

Until you fall back against the mattress and feel the shaft of your forgotten vibrator digging painfully into the small of your back.

“Ow!”

Jamil’s palm soothes against the pained area. “Are you alright?” 

(You could’ve sworn you felt his clothed erection twitch at the sound you made.)

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” you grunt, fumbling blindly for the culprit. Guess you forgot to put it back in your nightstand’s drawer.

Well, you were in a hurry.

Jamil eyes the discarded toy in your hand. “That shade of purple is…a choice.” Yet he accepts it when you pass it to him, telling him to compare it to his own.

Which earns you a flustered huff, no trace of genuine malice in the look he gives you.

“It matches the school colors, doesn’t it? Go, Night Ravens, go…or something…?”

“That is not how the cheer goes.” Your grin widens at the scowl sent in your direction, though his eyes are soft with fond exasperation. “Hand me that.”

 “The lube?” And that too.

Oh, forget your room, you were the mess all along.

(You sneak just a glance at his groin, he’s still sporting a half-erection, so hooray..? There may yet be hope for getting dicked down? Maybe you should have asked him to remove those first…)

“What else?” And he pours a copious amount onto the toy. Drawing your gaze to the way he curls his fingers around the shaft of the thing, how he gives it a slow and obscene pump to coat it with lube, sending a rush of heat through your frame.

“The batteries died, it’s useless.” Still, you spread your legs as he presses the slicked-up tip against your entrance.

Jamil keeps a hand on your knee, eases the vibrator in slowly—even though you’ve been more than sufficiently stretched out with his fingers. “Don’t need it to vibrate to fuck you.” 

Well, there wasn’t much arguing against that logic. “Then, please…please…!”

He adjusts his grip on the base of the toy, accidentally clicks the button as his pace quickens.

What you don’t expect is the sudden pulse of vibrations against your core, you’d snap your legs shut from surprise if Jamil wasn’t keeping you lightly pinned down.

“Mm, that was a nice sound…” The smile on his face is evil. 

“Oh, motherfucker, don’t tell me you’ve got—” Your words taper off into an embarrassingly loud whimper as he presses the vibrator against that sensitive bundle of nerves.

Who’d have thought the thing kept one final spurt of energy, if not to spite you?

“Would you look at that? It still works.” The pressure doesn’t let up, in fact, he’s meeting each desperate buck of your hips, making sure that each thrust brings you closer and closer to that peak you’ve been aching for. 

Your own coherence, on the other hand, is nowhere to be found. A choked sob falls from you, and your abdomen clenches, and—

“That’s right, just let go,” Jamil croons.

In those few moments, the batteries of your vibrator truly and finally breathe their last. It doesn’t stop Jamil from prolonging your release with gentle thrusts. You’re lost in the waves of your orgasm, each motion pulling a high-pitched keen from your throat when it tips into overstimulation. Vaguely, you’re aware of the sparks of pleasure radiating up your frame, the feeling of his free hand interlacing your fingers together.

You didn’t know the touch of another person could also feel so grounding.

“Mmgh…don’t pull it out yet.”

“I wasn’t going to. You’re holding onto it really tightly.” Jamil gives the vibrator a little tap which makes you squirm away from him.

You’re past embarrassment though, letting the sorely-craved happy hormones flow through you. Your nerves have calmed down just enough to pull out the used toy. This time, eliciting a pleased sigh from you.

This time you make sure to set it aside properly.

“...you’re quite the treasure, do you know that?”

There he goes with another of those quiet remarks, making your cheeks burn. “If you said that a while ago, I was too busy coming to hear it.”

“I said, you’re hopeless.” 

“Nooo, say it one more time, at least!”

“Don’t be insufferable.” Even as he says that, Jamil lets you clamber into his lap to cuddle against his chest.

“So…”

“Hm?”

You trail a suggestive palm against his inner thigh. “...would you want me to use my mouth or…”

Surprise flickers over Jamil’s expression, eyes widening for a fraction of a second. “Ready to go again this quickly?” But there was no denying the amusement coloring his voice.

It takes a bit of maneuvering for you to remove your t-shirt. “Well, you haven’t had your fill of stress relief yet.” Jamil’s palms steady themselves on your waist as you properly straddle him.

Were you basically propositioning him to use you as he saw fit? Maybe.

“I’m afraid I’m quite the insatiable type,” Jamil utters, leaning close to you, breath fanning across your lips. Maybe he means it as a warning, you know this reflex. You were guilty of it too, sometimes.

But if he could still look at you with such warmth and tenderness, sentiments you could easily reflect back onto him, then—

“That makes two of us.”

a/n: icb jamil just dodged the impending heart-to-heart talk and just wanted the spicy smuttenings 😤 like that'll stop me from writing more angst and hurt/comfort scenarios. anyways i hope this was an enjoyable read! thanks @jessamine-rose for betaing this with your (slightly less) sleep deprived eyes, your assistance makes editing so much less stressful. to all my readers, thanks for enjoying my silly writing, i hope to bring more this coming 2025!

tagging: @viperwhispered @twstgo @just-a-little-silly @bakedgrape @mama-m1na

@cataclyysmiic (hehe i think ull also enjoy this) @sillystr1ngs @scint1llat3

(lmk if you wanna join the taglist for jamil writing in the replies!)

[lipstickchainsaw]

Arcane season 2 has touched on religious themes considerably more than season 1 did. This has expressed itself primarily in Viktor's prophet narrative (no, he is not a god, he is being guided by one), but we also see it in a lot of Janna worship showing up in Zaun, especially among the most impoverished.

And her most prominent depiction is in the stage Jinx sets for her fight with Vi. This seems relevant, so let's dig into that for a moment.

The stage Jinx has set is deep underground, in the ruins of what seems to have once been a grand temple (with an altar, but we'll get to that), which Jinx has repurposed as a monument to the tragedies of her own life, but I don't think this is portrayed as a desecration of this temple. Rather, I think it's a set-up for where we're going.

Over the course of their fight, Vi and Jinx destroy the pillar showing their childhood, which could be read as the definitive destruction of their sisterhood, but, given how things end, I think it's more likely the destruction of the specific dynamic: Vi can no longer be the protector, and Jinx does not need to be protected.

The conclusion of that fight has Jinx held down on the altar, which seemed to be very much on purpose, because she wants to die, and her decision to do it like this is important. She wanted to go out in a grand, important way. Like a ritual sacrifice on the altar to a god, with a grand ceremony in the form of the paint bombs to mark the occasion.

But the world won't let Jinx die, forces her to live, in this case in the form of Isha bodily getting in the way of the people trying to kill her, which doesn't strip this religious ritual from its meaning, but it changes it from a sacrifice to... something else.

At the end of season 1, Vi and her sister had to make a choice between Jinx and Powder, but they got neither. This isn't the Jinx that they thought they were choosing, and it isn't the Powder that wants to die, either. So if this is not a death, perhaps it is a rebirth, but as what?

Anyway, all of that sells the significance of the religious imagery, but it doesn't explain why Janna, specifically.

Fittingly, Jinx introduces us to who Janna is as a deity, and equally fittingly, she presents this as a non-believer:

"Don't you remember the old Janna bedtime stories Vander used to tell us? Miners trapped underground. Air running thin! But then some wispy wind woman wafts to their rescue. Wild the kind of crap people get up to when you choke them out."

Janna is fresh air to those about to choke. Life to those about to die. It is a second wind when poison threatens to end you. Jinx, at this point, probably thinks of this as a hallucination by people who were just rescued and interpreted the source of the fresh air as something it wasn't (after all, she's well familiar with what a person's brain can come up with when put under significant strain).

But the Strike Team was threatening to choke the Undercity, with the Gray being an expression of Caitlyn's grief forced upon the citizens of Zaun, and Jinx' ritual sacrifice gets interrupted by Isha (and Sevika) rescuing her, all culminating in them blowing up a seal depicting Janna that was holding back a massive gust of fresh air that turned the poison against those using it.

So with this being a rebirth for Jinx, I think it points out in a certain direction.

For one thing, while she has been associated with smoke (see also: Powder), the way her tattoos show that smoke is very much a depiction of it being stirred by wind. For another, it involves her both rescuing and being rescued, becoming both Vi and Powder. She reflexively protects Isha, and finds in that a reason, perhaps, to live.

But this has only delayed matters, not solved the problem, with Caitlyn's grief now wielding the military might of Noxus (noxious) to choke the Zaun once more, and it once again needs its fresh air to survive.

So perhaps Jinx can find a renewed purpose. Can find meaning in a life where she protects and supports people. Can become Zaun's hero, instead of simply Piltover's villain.

And perhaps Janna finally has a herald to fight for the city under her banner.

[crisiscutie]

a doll in paradise.

Pairing: Safer Sephiroth/EVA (JENOVA!Darling)

Content Warnings: NSFW. Teratophila. Body Change. Tentacles. Slight Mommy Kink.

Song: Hurt and Healing Incantation

Blades of dying grass curled around your fingertips as you reached out to the black, dwindling water. The corners of your lips curved into small, icy smile as the black water was illuminated with that lovely pink tint. Your corruption. Ever since you and Sephiroth became one, you've been in complete ecstasy. The gray skies were oozing with despair and hopelessness. And the plants wilted, their leaves shriveled, and the little lifeforms left from your conquests with your divine husband scuttled about, barely clinging to existence. There's just so much wither and decay around you, it's intoxicating.

Your precious Sephiroth had you rest in this dimension after a long and tiresome battle against those who dared to oppose your unity. You didn't want to leave him, but it was necessary for you to take time to rejuvenate. He had to employ his lovely humming to lull you into rest while he dealt with the clean up of battle.

Your body, despite the immense power it held, took the short straw when you two completed the reunion. Your divine form was prone to fatigue and restlessness after some time because one needed to bear that physical burden. Not to mention, you still needed recovery from your recent rebirth. Fragments of your humanity lingered, but it'd will vanish in due course.

You focused your sight on the lands he desecrated in the distance. Every catastrophic deed he committed in your honor was beautiful. And he, himself, was the epitome of beauty. Your lovesickness for him had no bounds, and he equally could not satisfy his lovesickness towards you. This constant feeling of needing him, as he needed you, will never subsist.

As a sudden familiar signature approached, your emotions went into overdrive. It was him. Your chosen one.

"We reunite at last, Mother," His velvety voice echoed in your mind. In no time, his luscious lips found your neck, beginning a trail of kisses down to your pillowy chest. A quiet mewl left you from his touch, ecstasy sparking through your bodies. He softly gripped your hips and rotated you to meet his gaze, so two you could properly revel in the other's ethereal beauty.

As your eyes locked with his, a tingling sensation traveled through your right breast. Then, a soft pulse began at your nipple, which opened up to reveal an eyeball that blinked and studied his perfectly sculpted torso immediately. Pink-red tentacles emerged from your body afterward, giving his body the worship it desired and then revealing his throbbing cock.

Your legs spread open, and he positioned himself at your pulsating core, his hand interlocked with yours. As the mini tendrils within your cunt eased his entry, he let out a grunt of satisfaction, feeling the pleasurable sensation of his cock being massaged as he started his slow yet powerful thrusts.

It felt absolutely incredible to you as well, your emotions were one after all. Every thought and feeling he had, you had, and vice versa. He's your everything. He brought back what rightfully belonged to you and shattered the earthly chains that held you back. Your tentacles gently caressed his perfectly sculpted ass, exploring every curve and crevice.

"My chosen, my liberator..." Your voice echoed in his head, as a lone cock tentacle plunged into his ass, aiming for his prostate. It wouldn't be fair if you were the only getting fucked, after all.

He didn't change his pace while fucking your cunt, but his thrusts became more intense. You two became lost in your own and each other's euphoria, continuing on like this for as long as you both wanted. Eventually, he became the first to relent, filling your womb with his divine seed and then your own orgasm followed.

While your hands were still interlocked, you shared a heartfelt kiss on the lips. His head rested on your chest, eyelids half-closed. With an amused expression, he watched your eye-nipple, blinking softly at him.

You turned your head slightly, seeing that the black water you corrupted earlier had fully dwindled by now, a signal of this respite accomplishing its purpose. Your hands cupped his warm cheeks.

"Let us continue with the conquests of despair,"

He didn't respond. He didn't need to. He took your hand and led you to a portal out of the pocket realm, ready to conquer more with his beloved goddess once more.

[cheolism-archive]

DEVOTION (TEASER)

✰ — choi san x gang leader!reader ✷ — summary: after a year of fighting in a rebellion, san was tired of battle. like an angel, a goddess, you offered him peace. ✰ — teaser wc is approx. 1.8k ✷ — genre: nsfw, mafia/gang society, themes of worship, cultish, power imbalance. simp!san for his "rescuer". ✰ — warnings: violence and murder; mature themes. morally gray reader and san (san is the equivalent of a stray puppy you’re nice to once and then never leaves you alone ever again). ✷ — rating: 18+. ✰ — note: this fic draws inspiration from the roman colosseum and society with a mafia. the reader in this fic is the leader of a gang, or a “sect” that inhabits a city and she is referred to as “the empress”. FULL FIC TO BE RELEASED OCTOBER 25.

p r o l o g u e .

the city held its breath when you fall ill. it's a fleeting illness, your aunt, who was left regent in the wake of your illness, announced. the empress will return to her duties as quickly as possible.

and then nothing happened for six months.

rumors spread. you'd died and your death was kept a secret to prevent rival sects from trying to steal territory; you'd been kidnapped for ransom and the "sickness" is a smokescreen. some spoke of treachery, but that's quickly hushed up. for who would dare betray the empress, the sweet little lamb of a girl who crowns her citizens with flowers?

your aunt was found dead in a pool, and you began to get better.

the city let out a relieved breath.

you began to appear in public once more. the city basked in your attention. all seemed to thrive. you kept the city secure under your watch, each entrance and exit under firm surveillance, guards on the corners of streets with guns at their hips, politicians carrying suitcases of powder, corrupt men and women entering your penthouse and never seen leaving.

"it's wrong," said choi bada to his brother. "she'll run our sect to the ground."

and once again the city held its breath as choi bada blew up your favorite temple.

war had begun.

choi san had no choice but to stand beside his brother. surely choi bada was right; he wouldn't steer san in the wrong direction. he wouldn't do the wrong thing.

temples crumble; public buildings were desecrated with bullets and blood. san got used to the feeling of fighting, of bruised muscles and blood staining his clothes; he got used to the feeling of wrongness, of feeling as if he was walking a dark and dangerous path of sin.

then choi bada was killed.

the empress, it is relayed to san as he was chained to a wall, was giving him a choice: die beside his treacherous brother or fight in the empress's arena for her forgiveness.

in the end the choice was easy. after all, san had been fighting for the past year of his life. what was one last battle?

the final body striked the ground, face having turned a violent mixture of red and purple, blood staining his mouth and teeth, and the crowd roared with approval. 

it was deafening. the screams and shouts of the crowd nearly drowned out the thundering of blood in san’s ear, his adrenaline shooting through his body like waves crashing down against rock. he couldn’t think. he couldn’t do anything other than stand there in arena, looking at the bodies littering the sand. 

“our winner!” declared a voice, loud and booming even without a microphone. the overseer moved into the arena, his clothes a bright, clean stain against the bloodied sand. he effortlessly wove around bodies to get to san. “our champion!”

the overseer grabbed san’s forearm. the other man’s hand was spotless against san’s skin, dirt and sand and sweat molded to flesh. san protested for a moment, instinctively pulling away. 

he had been fighting for as long as he could remember. touch meant hurt, and he had long stop expecting otherwise. 

the overseer laughed at san, lips twisted thin and wide. he grabbed at san again. “keep easy, pup,” he hissed out. “you’ve won the fight. congratulations. but you won’t win the battle if you keep trying to bite.”

san wanted to punch this man. he remembered how the overseer had introduced him, the sanke in wolf’s skin, the brother of the traitorous subordinate to the empress. he remembered the overseer glancing over him, loudly announcing that he’d do. 

san was just another pawn for entertainment to the overseer; to the crowd. he was just another puppy expected to sit and lay and play dumb. 

he’d been fighting for so long. who would fault him if he were to swing around and throw a punch into the overseer’s face? who’d disapprove if he were to slam the man into the ground, if he were to fucking drive his knee into his stomach? 

san made to draw back. he cast a wild look around, searching for something. instead of aid, his eyes caught on the large screen. for a split second he saw himself, feral and filled with hatred. then the screen switched, showing the empress. 

the empress’s lips were split in a smile, showing off the white of her teeth. she had her chin resting on her hand, watching; watching san.

“our champion!” the overseer yelled out once more. “the winner of our empress’s victory! choi san!”

the crowd’s praise grew to a frantic roar, rabid with their adoration. he couldn’t see them, the lights of the arena bright. they loved this, san knew; loved blood, loved fighting. it was a performance to them. it didn’t matter who was in the arena. they were all dispensable. 

what mattered who walked out. 

“to the empress,” said the overseer, moving his hand to clap san’s shoulder. his nails dug into san’s flesh. “she was most impressed by your little performance.”

san let the overseer direct him from the arena. the crowd was alight with awe, despite knowing san. well: despite knowing san’s brother. despite knowing that for the past year san had fought alongside his brother, war replacing the blood in his veins, soft words replaced by venom. 

none of that mattered anymore. none of it mattered now that san had won, had survived a fight against forty-nine others. he was blessed, the crowd saw now; blessed by the gods and to be blessed by the empress. 

he had punched and murdered and shot relentlessly in the name of his brother for the past year. and as the overseer bid the guard to open the gate separating the sands of the arena from the crowd, san realized he wouldn’t be expected to fight anymore. 

because that was why he had been fighting, wasn’t it? 

he was bound by blood to fight alongside his brother. even as he realized it was wrong – fighting for the sake of it, fighting for the sake of power was wrong. he had to stand beside his brother.

and now he was stepping from the arena, stepping from the sands of war and leaving behind bodies he had injured with his own hands. he realized he could leave it all behind. he walked in a prisoner, was walking out a winner. he won the empress’s crown; would wear the flowers of victory. 

his brother was no longer his ruler. 

now it was – 

“the empress,” the overseer began, speaking loudly into san’s ears as to be heard over the crowd. people reached out to press their fingers against san. he didn’t know why. he had been bathed before the arena, but it didn’t matter. he was covered in sweat and grime. he was bruised and scratched. 

someone pressed their fingers against san’s bicep. he flinched back, inadvertently pushing back into the overseer. the other man gripped san tight. “when you see the empress, you won’t look the empress in the eye. kneel at the empress’s feet. both knees, hands on the ground, forehead between. the empress will say your name. you will announce your wrongdoings and beg for forgiveness. if she forgives, you will earn the empress’s victory. don’t look at her. don’t say anything beyond what i have instructed you.”

the overseer directed san up the stands. there were all kinds of people: some wore tattered clothes; some suits, hair greased back; some industry uniforms. they were all youthful and vibrant beneath the arena lights. 

the empress and the empress’s court, as it were, were separated from the rest. the empress’s balcony overlooked the entire arena. only the elite within the gang – sect, san remembered, within the sect – were allowed to sit this far up, this near the empress. 

and it showed. they wore polished suits and glittering jewels. the holsters of guns were bedazzled and glimmering. instead of cans of beer, they held crystal glasses. these were the ones the empress trusted most – no, san corrected again. the empress doesn’t trust anyone. these are the ones that have gained, in one way or another, the empress’s approval. 

murderers and sellers; crooks and robbers. 

san was directed up a short staircase. he stepped foot onto the platform. the metal was covered in soft, lush rugs. incense was lit, overtaking the dusty air of the arena with a fragrant scent. it was purified; they were purifying the space. 

san’s eyes flitted over the rising smoke from the incense, and then he caught sight of the empress. 

caught sight of you. 

“eyes,” the overseer warned. 

san fixed his eyes onto the ground. the overseer guided him with a hand on the shoulder, steering him towards the center of the podium where you sat. once the overseer adjusted san so his shoulders were square with you, presumably, he dug his hand down onto san. san went, obediently, to his knees. 

his knees, bruised and raw from fighting, hit the soft carpet. san placed the palms of his hands down against the rug, his knuckles violently red from all the punching he had done, already swelling – and he placed his forehead down against the carpet. 

something settled the crowd, silence taking over and reigning. 

a voice broke through. “choi san,” you said, “younger brother to our dearest choi bada, of the formerly respected choi clan.”

your court tittered with laughter at the reminder of how far he had fallen. 

“no worry.” your voice neared. you had risen from your chair – your throne. “the man you were when you walked into the arena is no more. now you are before me, clean from your sins if you so wish. 

“tell me: choi bada spoke of treachery and murder, of annihilation of our precious sect; do you concur with your brother’s disastrous agenda?”

san spoke to the ground, but, he found, he was speaking from the heart. “no.”

two letters, one syllable. 

that’s all it took to renounce his brother, to turn his back on his brother’s corpse. 

“no,” you echoed. “yet you had fought alongside him. you had killed and burned alongside him. were you not his most trusted?”

san scraped his nails against the rug. “i was.”

you hummed. san thought he recognized the tune, but then it was gone just as he was able to reach out and catch the thread of it. “you could have chosen loyalty to this true emperor, as he proclaimed himself. my guard would have killed you alongside choi bada. and yet you entered my arena, fought, and won. you entered to leave your old life behind, yes? you entered to renounce your clan.”

“yes.”

“and so you will,” you said. “rise, choi san, and know that no hatred, no ill-will, will be held to you.”

slowly, as if you were a predator, a lion, and he were the prey, a mouse, san moved. he lifted himself from the bow. he did not stand. he remained kneeling, palms placed on the torn fabric stretching over his knees. san kept his face towards the ground. 

“let me see you.”

san thought back to the overseer and his warning: don’t look. he wasn’t to look at you. yet you were asking, were telling him to look. 

so san looked. 

[cheesycatz]

Wow! It only took me 966 days of Spamton brainrot to make an actual reference

(text ver under cut)

- Based on ventriloquist dummies and ball-jointed dolls, both of which require strings in order to move

- Bird nostrils: one of the only remaining "addison" features (also I didn't want to make him a chronic mouth-breather)

- Black hair is permanent from puppetification shenanigans

- Widow's peak to make him more skeletal

- Eyes, teeth, and muscles visible through joints are the only biological bits that haven't been covered by the plastic exoskeleton

- Scratches and yellowing across the plastic epidermis

- Tattered suit jacket and dress shirt; repaired with messy stitches and patches on elbows

- Joints poke out weirdly under suit, especially in the torso area

- Toes, tail, fur, skin, and part of his fingers are missing—destroyed in puppetification process

- Seam lines on body to mimic manufactured dolls

- Four fingers because bird

- Shoe-esque feet

- Where are his pants? Top 10 Questions Science Can't Answer

- Technically had an underbite? Your lower teeth are not supposed to be directly below the upper teeth

- "Ball jointed body"—he still has muscle, organs, etc. under the plastic

- Animatronic puppet eyes

- Lazy eye? He just like me fr

- Had blue eyes, but they're more gray at this point

- Pipis are, uh... he canonically makes nests for his eggs of unknown origin, I guess

- Jacket is longer in the back and ripped at the seam

- Design is meant to work in a 3D environment; AKA no weird v-tuber hair flipping when he's facing forwards so he looks more "real"

- Flesh under his chin where the puppet jaw connects to his actual jaw hinge

- Glasses are screens & clear on his end

- Lenses glow

- He controls what [the lenses] display when he's not having one of his frequent mental breakdowns

- Four hair spikes on top make his mullet look less weird from the front

- Blue tongue (mandatory Spamton design element)

- Addison Spam: 4 ft 11 in without those heels

- Puppet Spam: 3 ft 6 in - height of a ventriloquist dummy

- Puppetification: he slowly transformed into a living puppet due to his exposure to supernatural forces beyond reality. He was mostly unaware until he was on the streets due to his desecrated mental state.

skill issue

- Most shrinkage is from his legs getting shorter from the puppetification

i think i have developed chronic spamton wasting disease

[roseodelle]

Arcane Pt2 - Eris Vanserra x Unnamed OC

Eris’s best kept secret is infiltrated.

No use of y/n

WC: 1326

Warnings: Angst, Violence

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4

The forest is charred. Their wards are broken, and the glamours have fallen. The cottage is in shambles. Once a beautiful home for them both, smoke now drifts upward from the rubble. Trampled are the flowers and vegetable garden she’d tended to dearly for so many years. The smell makes him sick to his stomach, and he falls to his knees. There’s nothing left.

His chest heaves, his hands gripping and pulling at his short red hair. Tears begin to fall from his face as reality sets in and the sobs begin. It’d happened so quickly. In his quarters of the Forest House one moment, standing above his beheaded brothers the next. Beron will be after him; he knows. He’ll send the hounds and guards before he himself comes to smite him down. He has minutes, if that. He’d killed his brothers. He’d have killed his father, too, if he didn’t know better. But while Eris was strong, Beron was stronger.

Her body... her body lay ahead of him in the destruction of their home. What will Beron do to her, even in death, he wonders? He won’t find out. He will not let Beron desecrate her further. She deserves dignity in her death, and he will give it to her. His love. His grace. His empathy and compassion. His brilliance. His mate. He failed her. How didn’t he know? Why didn’t he feel the intrusion on the ward? Why didn’t he feel her through the bond? Why didn’t she call for him? Why leave her side of the bond closed to him, even near death? Why shield him from his failure, from her pain and fear?

Rising from the scorched earth, he takes an unsteady step forward. His right foot lands on a shard of stained glass that once belonged to the beautiful front door. She’d been so proud to have found it. A great discovery: a decrepit old wooden door with a stained glass window. His chest tightens again. He wasn’t here. He wasn’t here. With uneven steps, he walks through the rubble. The sitting room was once such a beautiful space. They’d spent so many hours and so many years together in that room. Once lively shades of green and orange are now a burnt charcoal gray. The kitchen was the same. Only the innermost walls of the home still stand as he makes his way down the hall.

He needs to find her. He dreads finding her. He tries again to tug on that string, that bright orange thread, tying them together. Nothing. He feels nothing. Minutes, he reminds himself. He has minutes until the sentries come. Before Beron comes with vengeance. 

Their bedroom lay just a few steps ahead. The door was broken, leaning sideways on it’s hinges. The smell is stronger here. Putrid death mixes with the remaining scent of his life. Only faint hints of jasmine and sage rise above the remnants of an angry, relentless flame. The scent of his brother was a bitter aftertaste. He marches on.

Their bed was left unmade. The lxurious golden sham is now a horrid black. Down pillows burned to a crisp. Intricate woodwork smolders, and her scent is stronger here, but he still can’t see her. He passes their bed and her vanity. Flower pots and dirt litter the floor, and the burgundy rug he found on a trip to Adriatta is torn into shreds. She’d put up a fight. Good girl. His chest heaves, vomit rises in his throat, and he shakes his head, steadying himself again. He needs to get her out and take her somewhere Beron cannot find her. Where he cannot do her more harm. Where she can rest.

He finds her in the closet. She’s curled inward on herself, her beautiful dress bloody and torn. Her back is still, and the familiar rise and fall of her breath are nonexistent. She’s gone. She’s gone. She’s gone. He’s shaking again, tears burning his cheeks. Unsteady hands reach toward her burned body. The skin of her back was blistered and damaged beyond repair. There’s so much blood. From her face to her chest, her arms, and her legs. She’s covered in cuts and burns. His sobs become stronger and louder as he reaches for her. She’s not breathing.

“My love.” He brokenly whispers, begs, and pleads with her as he pulls her destroyed body into his arms. He turns her face toward him. Unmarred by the fire of his brother. Her eyes remain closed, the stillness of her chest breaking his soul into pieces. He rests his cheek on hers, his tears making their home on her skin. 

“My love, please. Please wake up.” He chokes back a sob, running his hand along her arm and along her spine in an effort to wake her, but he knows. He knows she’s gone.

“Please. Come back to me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He’ll die here, he decides. How could he take his place as High Lord without her by his side? Let Beron strike him down. Let his father's fire end his life as he holds his mate in his arms. He’d die with her. He leans down, pressing a chaste kiss to her cold lips, and he closes his eyes. Let him die here.

Two hundred years. Two hundred years of safety. Serenity. Peace. Over. All over. His heavy sobs shake his shoulders and shake the still body in his arms, and as he holds her tighter, he still runs his hands over her arm and back. His hand finally rests on her wrist, checking for a pulse he knows he won’t find. 

“I’m so sorry, my love. I’m so sorry.” He repeats until the words run together in an incomprehensible mumble, his fingers digging too tightly into her wrist, hoping to feel something he knows he will not. He wasn’t here. He didn’t protect her. For two hundred years, he’d kept her safe. It wasn’t enough. He had failed her. 

His breath stalls in his throat, eyes widening in shock. Denial floods through him as he tugs again at the bond that remains silent, but he felt it. It was so faint, so faint, but it was there. Her pulse.

“My love, my love, please.” He straightens, pulling her tighter to his chest and forcing her face toward his once again. Her beautiful eyes remain closed, but he feels it again. It's so faint, but it’s there. She lives.

His demeanor shifts, his mask falling into place as he assesses the situation anew. She’s mortally wounded. She will not live, not unless she receives help he cannot give her. Cannot provide for her. Not with Beron’s sentries so close behind him. Minutes, he reminds himself. He has but a few minutes with her before they come for him. Before Beron comes from her. Seconds, he amends, another faint pulse coming through much later than the last.

He’s on the border of three courts. He has two options. He can beg for sanctuary in the Summer court. Tarquin is known to be just and kind. But Beron will follow. Beron will follow him across Prythian. Tarquin would not be able to provide the safety or care she requires. Nor Kalias in the Winter Court, who would likely attempt to freeze Eris on sight. 

There is only one true option, he realizes. The Night Court sees Eris as the ruthless, conniving killer he made sure he was known as, but his mate was not like him. Not like the mask he wore. The mask he perfected over two hundred years to protect her. Tensions between Eris and the court were harsh on both sides, but it may be the only place Beron will not follow.

It’s the only option, he knows. And as another weak pulse graces his fingertips and the rustle of leaves alerts him to the first sentry sent for him, he knows what he must do.

[c-m-li]

As much as I liked Caitlyn's character far more in s2 bc they made her a lot more complex -

I haven't seen anyone else talking about how Caitlyn was basically desecrating the memory of her mother and her family's life's work by what she did with the Gray.

Caitlyn's family designed the ventilation shafts and systems in order to disperse the Gray bc "the people of the underground deserved to breathe" and Caitlyn took those designs and good intentions and weaponized them against the very people they were supposed to help for her own crusade.

(whether those designs actually made more than a dent in the underground pollution is another matter bc all I can think about is where everyone from topside has to wear breathing masks when they went underground in s1)

[theroyalhouseofwindenburg]

The Reaving: Part 3

At Windenburg Castle, after the Christmas Eve festivities had subsided, King Edward retired to his chambers, seeking solitude. The weight of the evening hung heavily on his shoulders. He loosened his tunic as the firelight flickered, casting restless shadows across the stone walls. As he finished changing into his nightshirt, the sound of footsteps echoed. Turning, he found Sir Walter Arnold, his private secretary, bowing deeply. "Your Grace," Sir Walter said, his tone cautious, "forgive the intrusion, but Lady Adelaide is waiting outside. She wishes to speak with you."

"Now?" Edward asked sharply. "Did she forget everything she said tonight? Or does she think my chambers are some kind of theater for her midnight inspirations?"

Sir Walter hesitated. "She seemed insistent, sire. She… appeared regretful."

Edward pinched his nose, muttering, "Very well. Let her in."

"I shall see myself out," Sir Walter said, bowing before stepping aside for Adelaide.

Adelaide entered with deliberate steps, the amber glow of the fire illuminating her figure. "Edward," she began, her voice trembling. "Please… I beg a moment of your time."

Edward turned to face her, his expression masked. "You already have it, Adelaide. Make it count."

"I've come to apologize," she said softly. "What I said at the banquet… it was thoughtless, cruel, and unworthy of your trust. I wasn't thinking clearly. I—"

"Wasn't thinking clearly?" Edward interrupted, stepping closer, his towering presence casting her in shadow. "You humiliated yourself, insulted my family, and demeaned those I swore to protect. Do you understand how foolish you look, or is this just an attempt to escape consequence?"

Adelaide flinched, sinking to her knees, grasping his nightshirt. "Edward, please," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I was foolish, blinded by arrogance. I swear, I'll never meddle in matters of state again. I only wish to make amends and prove my loyalty."

Edward's eyes narrowed. "Loyalty?" he repeated, his voice bitter. "True loyalty does not falter under ambition. Tell me, why should I trust you?"

Her tear-streaked face lifted, eyes searching his. "Because I love you," she whispered. "With all that I am. I know I don't deserve forgiveness, but I beg for it."

Edward's gaze lingered before he cupped her cheek, brushing away a tear. "You test my patience," he murmured, his voice soft but commanding. "But even in your folly, you are… radiant."

Adelaide's breath hitched as he leaned closer, capturing her lips in a searing kiss. The tension shifted, their anger and despair dissolving into a fervent embrace.

The midday sun of Christmas Day was muted behind ash-gray clouds and falling snow, casting an oppressive pall over the battlefield. Inside King Henry’s tent, the air was thick with grief. Henry sat on the floor, his head in his hands.

Arthur Cromwell, his trusted advisor, knelt beside him, Harold’s severed head resting on a chair nearby. "Your Grace," Arthur said softly, his voice careful, "we cannot remain like this. Action must be taken."

Henry raised his head slightly, his eyes bloodshot. "What king allows his heir to fall into enemy hands? What king sits idly while they desecrate his son?"

Arthur's gaze didn't waver. "A king who has not yet finished his fight. Show them they’ve only stoked the fire of your wrath."

Henry stood slowly, fists clenched. "You speak well, Arthur. But make no mistake—this is not a plea. It’s a summons."

Arthur nodded. "Then let us write, sire."

Henry moved to the desk, picking up the quill, his words sharp and unyielding—a king’s decree born of fury.

At Windenburg Castle, King Edward, his mother Queen Cordelia, and Lady Adelaide sat together, the feast before them was an array of delicacies, yet the air was thick with the tension of unspoken thoughts. Lady Adelaide, seated beside King Edward, began to speak, her voice laced with a mix of optimism and barely veiled frustration. Queen Cordelia, ever watchful, listened from across the table, her eyes sharp as the words floated into the air.

Adelaide glanced at Edward, her expression sweet but calculating, knowing well the sway she held over him. “Edward,” she began, her voice softer than usual, “I’ve been meaning to bring this up for some time. You know, for the past four years, my family and I have been living in the same apartments here at the castle. It’s… becoming a bit too cramped, don’t you think? I believe we could use more space, something more fitting.”

Edward’s brows furrowed for a moment. “The apartments seemed adequate when you first arrived,” he said, his tone neutral.

Adelaide shook her head slightly, an artful expression of gentle distress on her face. “They were, yes, but the walls feel closer now. It’s not just the space, it’s everything—the view, the light. I’ve been patient, but now…” She let her words trail off, glancing at Cordelia with an almost imperceptible smirk.

Cordelia watched her intently, her lips thinning into a tight line. The queen’s patience, already worn thin, was beginning to fray at the edges. She leaned back slightly, raising an eyebrow as she met Adelaide’s gaze. “Oh, of course,” Cordelia said with a touch of biting humor, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Perhaps you would like to be moved to the wing with the servants. I’m sure they would appreciate the company.”

Adelaide’s eyes flashed with indignation, but she quickly masked it with a composed smile. “Your Grace, that’s hardly necessary,” she responded smoothly. “I would never—”

“Oh, but I did see you, dear,” Cordelia continued, her tone sharp but playful. “You know, the other day, when you… accidentally struck one of the servants? Quite a strong hand, I’d say.” She chuckled softly, a hint of dark amusement in her eyes as she studied the younger woman.

Adelaide’s face went pale, her voice faltering as she quickly tried to cover her tracks. “That… that never happened,” she stammered. “There must be some mistake. I would never—”

“Would you not?” Cordelia raised an eyebrow, her voice laced with a sharp edge. “I believe I saw it with my own eyes. And, honestly, I think that poor girl was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. But of course, I’m sure it’s all just a misunderstanding.”

Adelaide's face grew colder, the warmth in her expression replaced with a quiet, simmering anger. “That’s absurd,” she snapped, her voice tight but controlled. Edward, sensing the tension rising, interjected, his tone firm. “Enough, both of you,” he said, his voice low. “Adelaide, there is no need for this. Please, let us move on from this topic.”

But Cordelia, always the sharp wit, wasn’t ready to let the moment slide. “Oh, Edward, my dear,” she said, her eyes glinting with irony. “You see, that’s the issue with loose mouths and even looser tempers. One day, someone will come along who isn’t so… forgiving. And then where will you be? The court won’t take kindly to someone who can’t hold their tongue or keep their hands to themselves. Perhaps you should take a long, hard look at who might one day sit beside you on the throne.”

Adelaide, her patience fraying, couldn’t contain herself. “And perhaps, Your Grace, you should remember your own past before offering such advice. People here at court still speak of the time you were held on Landgraab Isle, how that certainly took a toll on your mind.” She met Cordelia’s eyes with a sharpness that was barely contained, her voice low but cutting. “Maybe it’s time to consider that your time at court is… coming to an end.”

The words hung in the air like a challenge, and for a moment, there was a heavy silence. Edward’s gaze flickered between the two women, and Cordelia’s smile faded into something much more sinister. Cordelia’s voice, when it came, was cold and full of authority. “You will learn your place, Adelaide,” she said, her voice biting, every word precise. “You’re not fit to rule, and you never will be. I suggest you remember that.”

Adelaide’s face twisted in fury, and she rose abruptly from the table, her chair scraping harshly against the floor. “You think you can threaten me?” she hissed, her voice barely controlled. She locked eyes with Cordelia, her expression full of disdain.

Cordelia’s laugh was sharp, full of bitterness and finality. “Out of my sight, girl,” she spat, pointing toward the door. “Go back to your chambers before you embarrass yourself further.”

Adelaide’s gaze flickered to Edward for a moment, a glimmer of desperation in her eyes, as though she expected him to intervene. “Are you going to let her speak to me like this?” she asked, her voice trembling with frustration.

Edward’s tone was hard, his patience clearly wearing thin. “You’ve done this to yourself, Adelaide,” he said, his words laced with quiet fury. “I suggest you listen to my mother and return to your chambers. We will be in touch.” His voice was chilling, the finality of his words hanging in the air like an unspoken threat.

Adelaide, fury rising in her chest, turned on her heel and stormed from the table, her face twisted with a mix of annoyance and uncertainty. Her footsteps echoed sharply against the stone floor as she made her way toward the door, the tension in the room thickening with each step.

[maria-crossover]

† The Believer ��

After months I was able to finish the concept sheet for my Outlast Trials OC ^_^ I'm still working on her lore and the description of the Trials but in the meantime I'll give you some information about her...

General information | Prime Asset backstory | Trials | Dialogues

「 Prime Assets 」

“Someone is desecrating the body of one of God's children? How disrespectful… You better start repenting and stop, unless you want your pretty hands cut off!” —María Carmichael

Appearance (Physical Description)

Height of 1'55 cm (5'8) is a young adult with the appearance of a teenager due to genetics and probably a slow development in hormones. The age isn't identified due to her bones and teeth, also due to the subject's lack of memory and behavior (Has somewhat sharp front fangs). Her clothing includes a long-sleeved black shirt with gray stripes, a gardening overalls with black jeans stained with white paint, black boots and a gardening glove on her left hand. Short messy black hair with curls. Unlike the Ex-Pops, she doesn't show signs of having undergone surgeries or changes presented by the infirmary. The girl only has a scar on her right cheek, on her neck and bleeding bandages on the hand that carries the deployable sickle, also, night vision glasses that connect to a modified car battery that she carries inside a small black backpack.

There is also Manny, it's part of the subject that possesses and controls. It has a humanoid appearance, almost a "ghost", but it is made of ashes, gunpowder and nanomachines with some blood from the girl and previous people it tried to possess. When the believer climbs the walls and ceilings, you can see that her arms, legs and abdomen are covered by a black smoke that is clearly the Walrider helping her and providing her with unique abilities like those.

Personality

María is the only one of the Ex-Pops who is more sane, but she is very insecure, paranoid and easily manipulated, so much so that she sees the Reagents as sinful enemies. She suffers from a hero complex, telling herself that she is God's chosen one and Manny is an angel who will be helping her at all times so that the world can seek its redemption while getting rid of the sinners. However, she constantly exhibits violent behavior towards any human being, especially adults. She tends to be a bit open-mouthed and rude when it comes to hanging around the Trials when the Reagents or an Ex-Pop are present.

She is mostly rude around the Ex-Pops because they are "adults", but with Franco she is more polite. This is due to a post-trauma that she suffered during her kidnapping in her childhood, her greatest fear and hatred will be adults from then on, however, as Franco shares characteristics of an infant she doesn't say anything because she trusts children more, seeing them as vulnerable and unconscious beings. In fact, María divides between "normal" people and the sick. Her behavior varies to normal adults, seeing them as hostile and potential sinners, she doesn't usually trust anyone. However, with sick adults she sees them as harmless, the sick refers to those who are mentally disabled. One reason is that she sees Franco as vulnerable, his behaviour. But she also doesn't deny that he resembles a child and She sees him a little weaker. Although Manny doesn't think the same and is of the idea that all people, humans in general, are equally hostile and disgusting. Except with Maria, since it have a close bond with her.

Having the Walrider inside her, almost always ruins her brain by sharing a body with an entity. Since her violent tendencies and bad mood are due to the pain of having something in her body, her bones and the mobility that she has not had completely in her body before. Which leads to suicidal tendencies, with clear depressive thoughts of "goodbye" to her life and perhaps abandoning it at the hands of her friend Manny.

Despite being somewhat sane, she displays sadistic tendencies when it comes to torturing a Reagent, whether in a chase, attack, or execution. This is due to the adrenaline and anger she feels, at the traumatic memory, the injustice she witnessed in childhood, and a helpless desire to cause pain to those she considers harmful sinners.

Maria mixes her language with English, being of Argentine blood, mostly when she insults and apologizes when doing so. Also the songs she usually hums while wandering through the darkness looking for Reagents. She uses Spanish as for insults, taking advantage of many who do not understand her language to be sincere with her thoughts and regardless of her feelings. She is very indifferent to speaking openly and honestly about what she has in mind, politically, economically or religiously. But when it comes to her past, the many families she may have been in, she keeps her words to herself so as not to speak.

Despite being very aggressive, she is obedient and makes an effort with Manny to get him to follow her. Besides having a great adoration for Jesus and God, she trusts (in a small part) Dr. Easterman. Although most of the work she does is to seek approval and earn respect or adoration from him, which she desires, a consequence of the loving absence of her parents and generating emotional dependence on Easterman.

Since the first meeting with Clyde Perry to talk, she was always cautious and distrustful. She has never spoken or trusted with any human being, unlike the Walrider. She mostly talks to herself, but she actually talks to Manny who occupies her body and is the only the living being she can trust to talk to and feel safe. Walrider always protected Maria, not only for the body but for the company she offered throughout the journey. Supposedly she can hear it speak, only her, since she shared her body she is the only one who hears his voice, as inside and outside her body. Maybe a connection or a consequence of sharing her brain and hearing the voice through her thoughts.

Weapons and Skills

Like the Reagents, but unlike the Prime Assets, she can see in the dark and climb walls with the help of Manny. The lenses of the glasses change color from green to red when she finds a Reagent. In addition to that, she can climb ceilings or walls with the help of the Walrider. She uses a deployable sickle, modified to be stored while climbing ceilings and only takes it out when she is standing on the ground to attack.

Walrider, or known as "Manny" by María, is part of her abilities. Providing her with greater mobility in the test, strength and support when executing a Reagent. The Walrider also grants her a temporary levitation ability, when she lets go of a wall or ceiling. But when a Reagent uses a stun module, it not only affects the girl, but Manny as well. And after recovering, she shudders along with the cold sound of her bones adjusting, showing that the Walrider is readjusting inside her.

Trials

Ruin the wake

Burn Jesus

Kill the Father

Poison the followers

[doctorofmagic]

No one asked but here's some thoughts about Stephen's current and future life.

First of all (and to be completely honest), before Blood Hunt, I do think Stephen was starting to find joy in being the Sorcerer Supreme now that things were seemingly going well in his life.

Just to name a few, he befriended his general self, his marriage was rekindled, Mordo was finally locked down, Clea and Umar were starting to find a common ground (at least, they were not enemies anymore) and Donna II happened, blessing their lives. Stephen was finally thriving. He was executing his duties just fine despite the challenges of being Earth's magical defender. Conflict was obviously expected but it was far from the struggles he faced in v4, for instance. There was optimism.

The fact that he seems sad in that Pasqual's post could be about anything but if I was to predict why, I'd say it's because 1) he didn't want to pass the mantle down at this point in his life and 2) he didn't want to pass the mantle down to Victor specifically because well, it's Doom. And let's be real, Jed's interpretation of their relationship is not similar to T&T or Infamous Iron Man or even Secret Wars. Even if Victor is rarely portrayed as a villain these days (more like an antagonist), there's still a certain dread whenever he shows up in stories. So it's only natural for Stephen to be worried about what's coming next.

Personally, I think Victor will not be a bad Sorcerer Supreme. He's competent and incredibly complex. There's altruism in him, especially when it comes to protect Latverians and people in general (Doom 2099 my beloved). And let's not forget about his dramatic ego and petty personality. If anything, I'd go for a gray representation. He will not be the king of altruism (aka Stephen), but he will not be a shallow villain by desecrating the mantle (something I'm pretty sure Mordo would do. Hate that guy). That said... Oh, he's also in for a big surprise, not expecting the burden that comes with such a huge responsibility. But that's just my two cents. Could always be wrong. However, I still remember when he tried to go after Jericho and gave up as soon as the light of the Eye of Agamotto hit him, so... This idea does have canon support.

(panel merely illustrative; from an alt future/reality)

As for Stephen and Clea, what comes next for them? I know the fandom is desperate for domestic vibes and a peaceful era for them. But let's be real, it's Marvel. Also it's Stephen and Clea. For starters, Clea is still the Warlord of Manhattan, which means that area will remain under her protection, tying her to our dimension. As for Stephen... We know him, right? We know he will never stop doing what he does, Sorcerer Supreme or not. We have tons of magic characters doing their jobs. Even when magic was practically dead, he found a way to keep doing good because it's intrinsic of his personality. And let's not forget Wong and W.A.N.D. They still need someone reliable, and I hardly think they'll go for Victor when consulting all things mystical. Oh, and Strange Academy, of course.

Last but not least, every change in status quo hardly lasts more than a year or two in comic books. It happened so many times before: Salomé, Jericho, Loki, even Clea. It was only natural for Victor's turn, given how T&T is such an important book to their mythos.

As for me? I think it's not really fair for me to share my feelings assuming how much I love both Victor and Stephen. I've seen some unhappy fans (and I can't relate, sorry 🥲) and some excited ones.

The reason I'm still kinda blue is merely due to the lack of new announcements, whether it's a new Doctor Strange book or a mini featuring Victor. Also it's almost certain that Jed is done with his work, which hit me like a train. I really don't want to say goodbye to Jed just yet, and seeing his work continue with Moon Knight while going for the X-books makes me a bit bitter. There's still the possibility that he's staying, but it's all conjecture at this point. I mean, I dread that some bad writer comes next, and boi do I have a no-no list. Hopefully, SDCC will shed some light on these dark times of uncertainty.

Well, that's it. Do I ramble a lot? Was not expecting to write such a long post, sorry about that (old testament me comeback?). Just wanted to write down my thoughts since they were making a mess in my head. If anything, I'll still be around for whatever comes next. After all, my love for Stephen knows no shame 🔥

[wet-and-wedgied]

Work Stall Blow Out

so this is a story based on a recent experience of mine.

so it’s lunch time in the office I work at and I had just finished eating. I hadn’t had much, but I bring one of those big water bottles in to the office everyday, and I end up refilling it like three times a day. So At this point my bladder is just absolutely full. I can feel all the pee in me sloshing around and I just know I’m going to be bursting any second now. So I get up and hurry to the Men’s Room. Only the Men’s Room on our floor is being cleaned. I let out a low moan and ball my fists up at my sides, holding back the urge to hold my aching bladder. So I back track and head upstairs to the tenth floor. This is the floor where we tend ti have conference meetings, and thus it is almost always empty.

I hurry inside, fumbling with my black belt as I feel the hot yellow flood pounding on the tip of my cock waiting to be released. The urinal is occupied so I bite my lip and throw open the door to the nearest stall. At this moment my only thought is to make sure I don’t make a complete fool of my self and end up loading my pants right in front of the toilet!

I’m bursting, as I yank down my trousers and my blue briefs and drop down onto the porcelain bowl, a hot jet of piss blasting against its inside. The feeling is euphoric! I lean back against the toilet seat, pressing my hand against deflating bladder. “AAHHhhhh~”

But it turns out I wasn’t the only desperate dude in the office. After pissing like a horse for what feels like forever, my stream starts to trickle off just as I hear the bathroom door swings open. I see the shiny black shoes, black socks and gray dress pants of one of my coworkers as they scurry past my stall and to the furthest one. They muttered a curse as they push open the stall door and quickly slam it close as they begin unbuckling their belt.

Normally I probably wouldn’t have stuck around, but I recognized the shoes of my co-worker Jayson, a good looking blond twenty-something who’d grandfather was one of the company’s bigwigs. Jayson was hot in that preppy suit and tie kind of way. Always put together. Nice but quiet.

But it seemed something had roused him up today. He slammed down ass first against the toilet seat, his slim fit trousers around his ankles and his bunched up dark blue underwear around his knees. I heard his hand or something slam against the side of the stall as he seemed to grace himself. I heard him say with a desperate groan “Oh No!” And then the floodgates burst open.

The sloppiest, brattiest case of diarrhea I have ever heard came exploding out of Jayson. It came burst out all at once like a muddy water. If he said anything else, I didn’t hear it as this man painted the inside of the porcelain, the shit pouring out of him nonstop. I could see his feet rise up to the tips of his toes as barrage after barrage of diarrhea blasted into the bowl. He let out several thunderous farts and after maybe a minute or so, he’d finished voiding his bowels.

I went to wash my hands, and a moment later he came out, buckling his trousers and washing his hands, whistling as he dried them and walked out of the bathe room as if he hadn’t just desecrated the toilet.

[chipper-smol]

Please divulge All the Plans and Ideas you had for pale jester AU! Let them out into the wilds

I'll give you A snippet since I can't remember everything off the top of my head xD

The reason why Grimm took an interest in the Pale King in the first place was to ensure the longevity of the Grimm Troupe. The Grimm Troupe is like a scavenger, going around to desecrated kingdoms to harvest the flames for their rituals to rebirth a new Grimm.

So what happens when there are no longer any kingdoms to scavenge from?

In the narrative, the Grimm Troupe is meant to be both supportive and antagonistic to the Pale King. They were meant to be a locus for rekindling his will to found a Kingdom. When the Pale King chose to live again, he would've been set free without a question.

I really wanted the AU to follow a morally gray route where neither parties were the good or bad guys. They just Are What They Are and their actions would drive the plot.

[darklydeliciousdesires]

The Theatre - A Vampire!John Shelby/Polly Gray One Shot Story.

I wanted to have this finished last night, guys, but I wasn't really up to writing by the time I'd finally sat down. So, here it is now. Enjoy.

Words - 1,647

Warnings - None. Though John is a vampire, there is nothing gory, just sadness from both sides as he and Polly meet again.

Polly knew the building she carefully entered of old, even though the once grand theatre had long been abandoned. It was the place where fastidiously saved shillings would be spent, best clothes donned, holding her father’s tobacco-scented hand as she trotted up the steps excitedly, ready to see whatever play was being held there.  

“Holy shit!” Her startled exclamation cut through the desolate quiet, a pigeon low flying in its bid for freedom through the door she’d just pulled open. There had certainly been none of those flying around when she’d visited there as a child. Scanning around, she was filled with a sense of nostalgia tinged with sadness, the beautiful building now lain to waste, a lack of care and upkeep over time as well as the obvious desecration performed by hoodlums adding to the overall decay of a once splendorous venue. 

It smelled of death, too. However, such an odour had nothing to do with the theatre itself. 

“I know you’re here.”  

Her words echoed through the grand hall, the high ceiling ripped open upon the huge dome, a blueish silver beam of moonlight pouring in through the hole. “You can’t hide from me forever, our John.” 

He’d been missing for months, the family worried sick for him, accusations thrown in every direction over who the perpetrator of his demise truly was. Because John wouldn’t simply vanish without a trace unless something nerfarious had happened to him. It wasn’t, Polly realised – and sooner than her nephews – any of the usual suspects, though. 

“Love, you’ve got to show yourself eventually,” she called, dusting off one of the seats, its velvet still plush beneath the gathering of fine debris. “I’m not leaving until you come out.”  

Resolute as always, she took a seat, crossing her legs. “Ain’t the same without you around, you know. I never thought I’d speak the words, but I miss the noise. Never one for being quiet, were you?” She hummed a chuckle, remembering all the times she’d had to see him into the house on shaky feet, drunk as a lord, singing. Without deviation, his song was always out of tune, but delivered with the kind of infectious mirth that never failed to warm her.  

The space remained veiled in silence, but she knew he was there, knew he heard every word. Hell, she could have been standing at the corner of the street outside the green grocers, whispering every one, and he still would have heard her.  

“I know what you are, John boy. I know why it is, that you went missing and never returned. If you want to stay away from us, that’s up to you. At least show your face to me once now I’m here.” Her sigh was borne upon a tremored breath, looking around the shabby surroundings once more with eyes that glassed. “I don’t want you to become a memory.”  

Whatever left within him that was human couldn’t quite harden to those words, the plea of an aunt broken by it, the love she carried for him so very clear. Polly was rarely soft, her grit and tenacity, her strength and fortitude pouring with the love she felt for her boys. She’d been more like a mother to them and Ada for a long, long time.  

“Maybe I should be.”  

She blinked, and it was in that single shutter of her eyes that he appeared, down by the stage, the moonlight bathing him. He was even paler than he’d always been. “Come here, John. Let me see you properly.” 

He walked to her, moving at the pace of a human, of what he’d once been. Of what he’d never be ever again. “How’d ya find me?” 

She almost hadn’t, had it not been for her intuition. The theatre, it hadn’t solely been her special place as a child; John had loved it too. Alas, his trips there had ended at just six years old when it had finally closed its doors, Polly unable to spend that special time with her little nephew of a Saturday afternoon. 

It was a fond memory, remembering watching him leaning over the brass guard rails in the upper mezzanine, his eyes sparkling with wonder at the scenes below. He’d laugh until his little belly ached at the antics of the actors; the slapstick comedy plays he treasured so much. Tommy and Arthur were always too rambunctious to sit still for more than five minutes, but John had been different.  

Of course, he’d still tear through the streets of Small Heath like a little freckled tornado of chaos, eagerly chasing a football or trundling a hoop, but if something made the child laugh until he cried, his attention could be caught and his little legs slowed down. 

“Because I know you, our John,” she smiled, “and I’ll never not know you either. I should have just bloody come straight here when you vanished, should have known instantly you’d be hiding here.” 

He nodded, but his face still showed he sought more. “And how’d ya know what I am now?” 

It was time. She had to reveal the secret she’d kept for so many years, only half believing it, not wanting to think such could ever befall one of her precious nephews. “You’ve heard me speak of your great aunt before, haven’t you?” she began, taking out her cigarettes and lighting one up, the air perfumed by the scent of cloves. 

“Ar, Lorna Boswell, weren’t she?” 

“Correct,” she confirmed, drawing fiercely on her smoke. “She read my tea leaves for me, used to do it a lot. Everything she saw, it came true. One evening, she told me of a creature that would come and take away a boy who was precious to me, one with hair like fire and a temperament to match. Ain’t gotta do much work putting two and two together there, eh?” 

He laughed softly through his nose, Polly continuing. “She said the creature would be living death, and take the boy away, make him the same, condemn him to the night.” Her breath clouded in the cold, shuddered, her heart fracturing a little further. “Nobody talks of the vampires, but our family, we always knew what they were. Our origins are the same, because we’re Roma people, John, and that’s where they sprung up from all those years ago.” 

His brow furrowed a little, but Polly knew there was no real indignance behind it. “And why didn’t you warn me, try and stop it from happening?” 

She scoffed softly, standing, walking to where he stood. “Because Lorna also told me that the boy with the hair like fire would seek it willingly, so tell me, who am I to stand in the way of fate?” She had him there, and he knew it. “Ain’t no fucking way a mere mortal can stop something that powerful either, fate aside.” 

It was true, but still, standing there in the presence of the one he’d truly ached to leave behind, John hated himself even more for the decision he’d made. “She said I couldn’t come home, Ena, the one who made me like this. Said it’d be too dangerous, with me urges an’ all that.” His eyes saddened, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I can’t come home with you cos’ of that, Pol.” 

The weight of it sank in her chest like a stone, a tear slipping from her kohl-blackened eyes. “The blood cravings, I know.” A loving hand touched his cheek, life meeting death, her warmth spreading over his chill. “Whatever you were, you still are to me. Never forget that.” 

His hand, chilled and deathly pale, covered hers. “What you gonna tell the family?” 

“Whatever you want me to, love.”  

“Say you ain’t seen me, just let me be gone for a bit, until I get it under control. Then I’ll come back. Until then, I’ve got this place, ain’t I? All the memories.” He looked up, pointing, the brass rails shining in the moonlight despite the tarnish. “Right there is where we used to sit, watching people clobbering one another, falling over things. Never laughed like I did when I was here with you in me whole life, Pol.” 

And he never would again.  

“I know, our John. I know.” She clasped his face, pulling him to her level, pressing a kiss of unbreakable love to his forehead. “Want me to come back and see you again, or...” 

He shook his head. “Not for a bit.” His hands grasped her shoulders, her human closeness stirring him, but not in the same way it always did. He still had love in his cold, dead heart for her, but the vampiric urges outweighed anything else. His body tingled, the hunger beginning to grow. He couldn’t, though. He wouldn’t. “Go on, get yourself home. Just know I ain’t gonna forget about any of ya. If there’s trouble in the night, I’ll look out for ya.” 

Of course, he would. She sighed, stroking his face one more time, her tears flowing as she turned and with the weight of reluctance and sadness weighing her down, left him there in their special place.  

If only fate could be fought against. Then again, if it could have been, it would have meant that two weeks from then, she’d have lost a drunken Arthur to being jumped by a gang of Sabini’s men, her wide eyed, wild nephew coming back into the house worse for wear, but alive. 

“I dunno, Pol. They was all there, fuckin’ laying into me with lead pipes and batons, giving me a right kicking. Fuckin’ fought ‘em back, though, I did! But then, gone. One by one, they just... vanished!” he boomed, scratching his chin. “I tell ya, someone was watching over me tonight.” 

Yes. Someone was. Polly smiled as she stared into the fire, thanking John silently. 

[myarmsaretoolong]

february recs

happy spring! ive both read quite a lot and not much at all this month so here's what ive got for you. feel free to add recs of your own as well!!

After the house of horrors by evelynIttor

Febuwhump 2025 prompt day 20 "I did good right?" Andy thought Owen would be done with him as soon as they left the house of horrors. He didn't expect Owen to make sure he was seen to.

a really sweet owen & andy fic, highly reccommend!

The Space Between Seconds by erosophic

Jack Harkness makes it twenty-four hours before he breaks, seeking out the Doctor to beg for something he never thought he’d ask for—a moment, a chance for Owen Harper and Toshiko Sato to see something beyond Torchwood before their inevitable deaths. The Doctor, after some hesitation, agrees to the trade, offering Jack five days with a changed Owen and Tosh in exchange for letting them go.

tosh and owen go on adventures with the doctor, whats not to like!? featuring great writing to boot

Another Like Me by UniverseOnHerShoulders

Clara Oswald had never had much interest in Torchwood. They were too loud, too brash, too heavily armed, too rogue. Only then she finds herself passing an idle day in their Archive, reading about Owen Harper - a man who is, like her, both alive and dead. Finding her curiosity piqued, she makes a trip to Cardiff, but she can't escape the inevitable.

beatiful prose, opened my eyes to the potential of clara and owen in the same room as each other

Like Flesh Meets Soulless Steel by HoloMew151

- @brittasfan

The Nethersphere was a device designed to hold the dead until such time as they can be downloaded into an army of desecrated Cybermen husks, at least if one had died before 2014. Ianto Jones, Owen Harper and Toshiko Sato, former members of Torchwood 3, were dead by 2014.

twists and turns galore, kept me on my toes the whole way through

Febuwhump 2025 by Jackdaw816

- @shejustcalledmeafish

In which I whump John 28 times (again) because I love him <3

*the* place to go for john whump

A Parallel Christmas Invasion by By_Gray

- @by-gray

“Don’t wanna hear? Door’s that way.” Jack indicates. “Surprised the Doctor hasn’t shown you the door,” Mickey grumbles. Jack’s heart halts in his chest. Mickey must have x-ray vision. He observes it. “What?” But Jack can’t say it. Nothing is revealed until Mickey deduces it for himself. “Oh my God. He’s shown you the door.” An AU where instead of flying away from Satellite 5 straight away, Jack and The Doctor have a toxic talk on the Tardis. The Doctor makes it clear to Jack right there and then that he's possibly immortal and that he isn't welcome. If only Jack's love wasn't secret.

technically not torchwood, but it is jack and its so worth reccing! exactly as it says on the tin and such a great read

(january recs)

[malewife-overlord]

Six Cycles Later: Cybertron

Chapter 2: The Price of Freedom

chapter summary: we're finally on cybertron! unfortunately we're also in enemy territory. and they've got a specific request of Puncture...

Trigger warnings: death, robogore, cannibalism, desecration of corpses (if you want to consider it that)

word count: 4829

chapter below cut! prior chapter can be found here. next chapter is here!

Project MS: Log 2

Metal. Fuel. Charge. Shockwave stood before the Distiller, watching its tubes fill with silver and pink. From the viewing window there were only two stages to witness: the start, and the end. He knew exactly what occurred in the hidden portions, sensitive to light as they were, and felt no need to peel back the layers he’d carefully added to protect the vital substances within. All that mattered, to him, was the beginning, and the end. 

The middle could commit whatever atrocities it wanted, so long as it eventually provided favorable results. 

The Distiller was one of many creations harbored in the P1U70 lab. Connected directly to the compactor, it was created with a single purpose: to convert the enemy into resources. He’d tested it before, on turbofoxes and other Cybertronian wildlife. Anything close in biology to a Cybertronian would suffice. But actual Cybertronians? 

He hadn’t managed to acquire any subjects fresh enough. The issue with the Distiller was that it required its victims to still hold some form of charge within them. The brain could be long dead, the metal could be cold, and the Energon could be stale, but the spark must still be warm in some form. Without the spark chamber’s residual charge, the machine could not recognize the metal within it. 

Such characteristics differentiated it from a common smelting pool. Anyone could throw a few mechs into a smelting pool and pull out their dead sentio metallico later. But they could not keep the metal alive, as if it was freshly forged. They could not turn it into fresh protoform, ready to be shaped into a new bot. They could only destroy and reduce, turning a once living bot into a clump of hardened, deceased metal. 

Metal, fuel, charge. Scholars had debated for many millennia just what made up a Cybertronian. Just what made up a spark. Shockwave had already come to his own conclusion, requiring no philosophical insight. 

A Cybertronian was made of up three things: sentio metallico, Energon, and a spark. Metal, fuel, charge. These could be reduced even further to the exact mineral composition of sentio metallico, the exact chemical composition of Energon, and the exact atoms that formed a spark. 

That was all they were. Metal, fuel, and charge. 

He watched the end tubes of the Distiller, hard at work, the sound of thick liquid sloshing through them. Below the Energon tube, he had placed a cube. Below the sentio metallico, a small tub. And connecting to the most delicate, glass line, he had connected a copper chamber. It had been hell to acquire that rare material,  but it was worth it now. 

Bright pink began to drip. Silver, not gray, began to slip forth. And the chamber began to fill with charge, indicated to him by the monitor to his right. 

The distiller was in perfect working order. All it needed was a few fresh subjects. 

He watched the Energon drip until it filled half the cube, then stopped. Mentally, Shockwave frowned. The Rain Makers had cleaned up much more than that. And comparatively, half a cube to three mechs was operating at an immense loss, far beyond the cost of actually powering the Distiller. He would have to adjust for the values, figure out just why it produced so little Energon in comparison to its sentio metallico. 

And speaking of the sentio metallico, it was coming thick now, easily filling the lower half of the tub. He dipped his servo into it and brought it to his optic, observing how it behaved when he rubbed it. The warmth it produced was undeniable. The metal was alive and, judging from its reaction to his circular motions, ready to be molded. It was as if the spark had never left the body. 

It suddenly shifted. The metal oozed down his servos, coalescing into a small ball in his palm. Shockwave watched it for a moment. The orbular form it took began to quiver slightly, then developed a few notable features. 

He’d recognize something attempting to take the form of an optic anywhere. Dismissively, he tossed it back into the tub. 

There were kinks to work out in the Distiller, it seemed. Keeping the charge of the spark to produce constant living metal had a few side effects. Watching the metal in the tub, however, he observed that it did not attempt to take any shape or form. It merely sat still, shifting only occasionally from the fresh drips being added to it. 

It bore a striking resemblance to mercury, he thought. He jotted that down mentally and removed the Energon cube. A plate on his other arm slid open, revealing a small tube with a needle at the end. It arose like a snake from its den, slithering towards the open cube. The tip dipped into the pink substance, and Shockwave sampled it. 

It had no particular taste, not that he had ever cared about taste. The charge was entirely neutral despite having been freshly harvested from other bots. And there were no impurities that he could detect. 

The Distiller was working perfectly in that aspect, at least. Energon was being harvested, distilled, and prepared as if it was occurring from any other natural energy source. But why, when fed so much, did the Distiller produce so little? It could not be that the source Energon was so impure.

Those were questions he would have to ponder. The final test was on the artificial spark chamber. He moved to his monitor, checking its readings. 

There was enough charge for two sparks within it. His mental frown deepened. Enough for three had been tossed in. How was it that only two were properly harvested? 

He ordered the monitor to pull up the specific charges. It produced a graph detailing the levels, and how they’d fluctuated. In the beginning, the charge had been almost entirely null, then mixed, then began to decrease towards the negative. After exactly seven kliks and three nanokliks it shot into the positive, the negative completely snuffing out. 

His optic narrowed and he zoomed in on the charge levels again. There had been enough energy for one spark in the chamber when the charge had been primarily negative. The end result, now, was that there was enough energy for two sparks, both positive. 

Oh, how humorous. If he had any sense of the emotion, perhaps he would laugh. In their desperation to make their environment more appealing for them, the Autobots had snuffed out their ally, simply for its differences. 

How truly humorous. 

—----

The Autobot space bridge wasn’t exactly what she’d expected it to be. The Decepticon ones she’d observed, created by Shockwave, were simplistic things, often designed as little more than a circular structure with a power source. The original one formed on Earth, handed to her courtesy of the data packet Soundwave had left on public Decepticon air, had been a bit of an extravagant structure, but it was made that way because of technological restraints. 

Future space bridges were made to conserve as much power as possible while ensuring that they sent their occupants to their destination with only a slight chance of accidentally killing them. She could respect that last part, what was the fun in life if one didn’t have to guard theirs on occasion? 

The Autobot space bridge reminded her of that original one built. In fact, looking at it, she couldn’t help but wonder if the Autobot’s had just taken the original one and painted it orange. Considering the Decepticons had little need for it after Shockwave had begun working on more, she didn’t doubt it. 

She was marched out in stasis cuffs, a rifle trained on her back. They’d elected to cuff her single arm to her leg in the absence of her other, and her joint was already growing sore from how much she was having to arch and move it. The irritation only added to her foul mood. 

Awaiting her at the space bridge was Ultra Magnus, who watched her like a hawk, and the Autobot Channel. She’d gone through quite an upgrade since their last encounter; it was like she was riding on the body of Uptick, and she didn’t quite fit his frame. 

The head thing would have been more of a shock to her, really, if she hadn’t almost died at the same time it had been revealed. Now, knowing it, Puncture’s greatest feeling on the matter was disappointment. Well, disappointment and perhaps a bit of disgrace. She’d really almost had her brain melted by a parasite whose alt mode was a head?

Channel scowled at her as she approached. They were almost on eye level now, thanks to Uptick lending her the entirety of his frame minus a brain and spark. 

“Here she is, sir,” the Prowl who’d accompanied her announced, stepping forward. “Will you be safe traveling without any additional security?”

Magnus gave him a curt nod. “They’re expecting us. And I think I can handle two cuffed prisoners.” He looked between Puncture and Channel, then at the space bridge controls. “Please power it. Time is of the essence.” 

The tiniest twitch of a doorwing told her that the Prowl was displeased with his order, but he obeyed. The rifle at her back fell away as the additional enforcer moved back as well. No one, it seemed, wanted to be anywhere near the space bridge when it charged. 

At the controls, the Prowl flicked a few switches, and the lights of the space bridge turned on. She could feel charge in the air as they walked down what looked like it had once been part of a race track. Now, it almost had the air of marching to a smelting pool. 

A swirling purple portal manifested, horizontally, at the end of the space bridge. She almost snorted at the sight. Oh, they were using old Decepticon tech alright. Couldn’t any Autobot scientist hold a candle to Shockwave?

“Somethin’ funny?” Channel asked, narrowing her optics. Puncture gave her a snide look. 

“You’re behind,” she mocked, and left it at that. Magnus, who’d followed behind them, was unreadable. 

“Move,” he ordered. And what choice did they have, with the size of the blaster he held in his servos?

Stairs rose just before the portal. Channel took them first, hesitating for a moment before promptly dropping in. 

Puncture wouldn’t be nearly so meek. She took each in stride, overly aware of how many optics were on her (only eight, but hey, eight was still a good number). This was no different than marching out from her chamber in The Pit, approaching the empty, Energon soaked center as her name was cheered. 

BREAKER! BREAKER!

There were ten optics on her now. Struts couldn’t see anymore, though his head was still trained in her direction. 

You know he did it to save your life. 

It would have been better if I died. He’s ruined my life is what he’s done. 

You say that like his actions didn’t almost cost him his own!

SHUT UP!

She looked away from him and reminded herself this was a performance. All of life was a damn performance, a performance proving you were the strongest and you deserved the respect your station called for.

She directed her smirk to the Prowl as she jumped for her death. 

—

She did not, in fact, die. As with any space bridge portal, she merely emerged at the other side after confusing turbulence that somehow saw her dumped out of a vertical portal on her back. Puncture grunted as she hit cold metal, hard, knocking the back of her helm against it. Momentarily, her vision swam, black spots appearing at the edge. 

Then she was grabbed by her shoulders and pulled up. She snapped at whoever touched her, mask flaring open to reveal her rotted intake. The Autobot who’d grabbed her promptly turned her around, then smashed her face on the floor. 

Pain exploded over her helm, pounding at the back. The spots were back, this time accompanied by stars. 

“Kid! If you kill ‘er she can’t talk!” 

“She wants to fight, I’ll give her a fight.” 

“Save it fer later. Mags’ll let you duke it out when he’s done.”

She glared up from her position on the floor, Energon leaking from her intake. The pounding in her head felt worse with every sound. Even so, she found it in her to hiss. 

“Yeah, yeah, we get it, kid.” She could make out a teal Autobot with a cygar in his intake standing over her, servos on his hips. “Yer the scariest ‘Con left on Earth, big deal.” 

The other Autobot from before grabbed her again and this time lifted her up entirely, holding her until her pedes found the ground. As he did so, the space bridge portal released its third occupant, who touched down without any issue. 

“Springer. Kup.” He nodded to them both. “It seems you had difficulty with one of the prisoners?” 

Springer, who was still holding her shoulders, released them. “If she wants to fight, I’ll give her an answer.” 

Magnus frowned, and the disapproval in it was strong enough to make Springer flinch. Despite it, though, he still stood in defiance. A tense moment passed between the two. 

Finally, Magnus broke it. “Take them both to the viewing chamber,” he ordered. “We don’t know when they might attack next. Time is of the essence.”

He passed between them both. Kup, who held a blaster in one hand, nodded to both her and Channel, who’d stood by as Puncture was abused, waiting patiently next to the space bridge. “You heard the mech! Move out.” 

Springer, who had abandoned his rifle for his fists, plucked it up from the console he’d left it on and trained it on Puncture. She bristled at him, and he returned her energy. 

“Move. I might have an itchy finger if you don’t.”

She obeyed, but not without spitting on the ground where he’d walk first. 

–

The space bridge room they’d arrived in was only a small part of what she was learning was an unfinished Autobot base. The walls were up, but the majority of the rooms they passed were empty or only had bare essentials. One or two were powered, with proper monitors and equipment within them, but as she was guided down one of the many halls, she observed the majority of the base to be empty. 

Clearly, they’d begun their set up on Cybertron, but hadn’t come close to completing it–yet. She’d only been out for about four million years; if this Autobot installation wasn’t new, then she wasn’t currently trapped in the plating of a fragging bug. 

That gave her hope. A new base didn’t mean they were winning. It only meant they’d carved out a space they felt safe enough to settle in. Perhaps the Autobots had taken some of Cybertron, but not all. Her brethren had to still be out there. 

The hall came to a stop, and she was guided into what seemed to be a large conference room at the end of it. There was a screen on the wall, and a large table to sit at. Controls for the screen were found in a panel next to it. Magnus had already positioned himself opposite the screen, at the head of the table. Channel sat farther away from him, almost looking guilty as she stared off into space. 

Puncture took the first chair she saw, caring little of its positioning, and sat down. Springer and Kup both lingered at the doorway, which sealed behind them all. 

Magnus looked between Puncture and Channel, producing a data pad from his subspace. 

“I assume no introduction is needed as to why either of you are here,” he said. “If for some reason you’ve forgotten, you’ll know by the end of this session. And just so you both know, this is intended to be a one time occurrence. Nothing said in this room will be repeated.”

She rolled her optics. “So what, are you asking for a confession, then? Is this your trial?” Casting a glance back at Springer, she scoffed. “The jury is biased against me, isn’t it?”

“This is not a trial,” Magnus responded, casting her a look. “But its outcome will determine your fate, so if you have strong feelings regarding that, you’d best listen.”

She shut up, albeit begrudgingly. Channel cringed, refusing to look at either of them. 

“Channel.” The sound of her name drew her gaze. “You violated the terms of your vow when receiving your Autobrand. As you understand, the punishment for this is a revocation of your badge. You have also waived your right to sanctuary in our bases and cities by violating the terms of your contract regarding your habitation on Cybertron.” 

Her expression spoke of anger and defiance, but she said nothing. Instead, her fists closed, opened, and closed again.

“Puncture.” Magnus turned his gaze on her. “You’re a Decepticon. While interspatial law provides you with multiple protections under the Warfaring Species Act, you have lost the majority of them following your actions on planet Earth.” He looked at his datapad. “And beyond that…your crimes within the Cybertronian underground have not gone unnoticed. I have you on here for more counts of mechslaughter than I can list in a timely manner.” 

She huffed. “So?”

“So,” Magnus continued, “neither of you are in favorable positions at the present moment. Puncture, you are slated for execution no matter where in the universe you demand to stand trial. Channel, you face possible imprisonment and exile from Cybertron.”

“As if I wasn’t already exiled from here,” Channel grumbled so lowly, Puncture barely heard it. 

“That is all just to preface what I am about to propose to you.” Magnus continued to type on his datapad. “What I am about to tell you is private knowledge. If either of you share this with anyone else–” at this he gave Channel a knowing look “--then you face indefinite imprisonment. Puncture, you will be authorized for on the spot execution.” 

Springer favored his rifle a bit too much behind her. 

“So, with that said, I have a proposal for both of you. If you choose to accept it, I can guarantee your charges–all of them–will be completely eliminated from your record, at least according to Autobot records.” 

Puncture blinked. “You aren’t serious.” 

“I am more serious in this moment than I have been in the past seven battles commanding my soldiers.” He didn’t even hesitate. 

Channel narrowed her optics and arched an optical ridge. “Magnus, what’re you getting at? Prowl’s the sort to offer this kinda protection. You don’t pardon mechs. I’ve never seen you let anyone off the hook.” 

“The situation we find ourselves in is demanding of capable soldiers whose sparks we can afford to lose,” he responded. She grimaced. 

“So that’s why,” she spat, looking away. “That all I am t’ you all? After all this?”

It made sense, to Puncture. Of course they’d want to get rid of her. Kill her with a smelting pool, a rifle, or a suicide mission, as long as they killed her, the Autobots were happy. Her antenna twitched. Though it was, admittedly, funny, to see that they’d turn on one of their own. 

“Well?” Magnus said, ignoring Channel’s question. “Does this offer interest either of you?”

Trial and execution, or a suicide mission she might just escape. The answer seemed clear enough. 

“Yes.”

“No.”

She and Channel spoke at the same time. Puncture met her gaze, and for a moment, a shared bond of animosity passed between them. 

You don’t get to kill me, she thought, letting it spill into her EM field. Your best friend dies unavenged.

Magnus looked over to Channel, about to speak. Her fists clenched tighter than ever. 

“Yes,” she grit out, gaze locked onto Puncture. “Frag my previous comment. I am interested.”

He nodded. “Alright then. If you’re both in agreement, then we can proceed.” 

Kup moved away from the door, heading to the control panel for the screen on the wall. Magnus tapped on his datapad, then nodded at him. 

“As I said before, what I am about to show you is entirely confidential. You can tell no one about what you witness in this room, is that clear?”

Puncture shrugged. Channel huffed. 

“Then I believe a demonstration of just what it is we want you to pursue, execute, and detain, would be best. Kup, if you will.”

Kup flicked a few switches. The lights went out. The screen blared to life. And on it, a video log began to play. There was no audio, not that she much cared.

It showed the outside of an Autobot base. Two Autobots, one with a motorcycle alt mode and the other with a truck of some kind, were patrolling. They passed beneath the camera, chatting to one another. They stopped for a moment, just before what looked like the back wall of the base. 

The time indicated it was early morning on Cybertron, approximately forty-two kliks before the light would return. Artificial light poured down from glowing spots on the wall. 

Puncture cocked her head slightly. Why a video? Why not just a data package? If this was so confidential, wouldn’t it be better to pass it wordlessly? Then again…

She looked at Channel again. Perhaps the tiny little parasite had more abilities than she’d originally thought. 

On the screen, one of the Autobots paused and pointed at something off screen. The other followed his servo and raised his blaster slowly. They were speaking, but whatever they said was inaudible. 

Whatever it was began to approach. They both stepped back, training their blasters on it. She recognized terror on their faceplates. The pipes on the truck spat out a small puff of fumes, visualizing his distress. The motorcycle one transformed his legs partially, to permit him to zip away. 

Neither of them would see the chance to flee. A blur shot across the screen, smashing into the motorcycle one and pinning him against the wall. Energon sprayed as the creature tore off his arm before he could even pull the trigger on his rifle. 

Oh, she recognized that shape, albeit just barely. Her helm pounded slightly at the memory, which was mixed with hatred and pain. 

It was on the island. She remembered. It was with Invert. 

The creature was thin, almost skeletal, and six tentacles emerged from its back. It had been those tentacles that tore off the Autobot’s arm. And as they all watched, the claws tipping the tentacles dug into his plating, crackling as electricity surged through them. 

The truck one jumped back and aimed for the creature. Before he could shoot, a blast pierced clean through his hand, causing him to drop his weapon. He cried out and staggered away from the creature, who was now crouched over his partner, tentacles flaring defensively.

Another bot approached from off screen, originating from the same direction the Autobot’s had originally come from. She recognized an Autobrand on its arm, though its back was to the camera. The truck bot looked shocked as it approached, his optics widening with recognition and terror. He was saying something, and judging from how his dermas moved, it was the same thing, over and over. 

The strange bot walked right past the creature. Then it lunged after the truck bot, tackling him to the ground. And with the fury of the possessed it assaulted him, beating him again and again and again, until a pool of Energon as large as its victim had formed beneath them both. His body twitched, spasmed, struggled, then weakened, slowly stilling as each blow took more and more out of him. 

The creature watched, flinching a few times when Energon droplets flew past it. Then it turned back to its victim and wrapped two tentacles around him, lifting his limp form with ease. The other four were used to lift the creature itself, carrying it ever so slightly towards the other mysterious bot.

Expectantly, the creature waited just behind it. It was hunched in a strange way over the truck bot. A sudden light illuminated over them both, reflecting off his plating. Then it extinguished, and the bot stood. 

It grabbed the truck bot’s leg, turned its head towards the creature, and began to walk back the way it had come. Puncture’s optics widened at the sight of its face, her spark spinning faster in her chassis. Channel gasped. 

The creature bowed its head to the bot, and together, they carried their victims off screen. Only now was it revealed–the truck bot had a hole torn in his chassis, right where his spark chamber should be. Already, he was turning gray. 

The video cut when they both disappeared. Puncture’s single fist clenched tight. She could feel her head pounding and her spark spinning.

The bot she had seen, the one which had beaten the other to death and, seemingly, consumed his spark. The one who walked like it wasn’t familiar in its frame, who attacked with such unnatural aggression. She didn’t recognize the bot itself, but she recognized the single feature she had seen: 

The bot’s face was missing. And it’s optics were white. 

Channel had retreated into herself, her in-venting hastening. Her arms were trembling as she stared into nothing with wide eyes. 

“That is what we would like you to hunt,” Magnus said, cutting through the tension like it was no thicker than common Energon. “That duo has already claimed six Autobots. We have theories as to what they are, but no idea where they came from.” He rested his arms on the table, tenting his servos. “Your mission would be to capture both, alive or dead, and bring them back.”

She should be excited, but something about the familiarity of them both left her feeling a tiny sliver of…what was it called? She’d lost the ability to feel fear long ago, but it was some kind of…wariness? Self-preservation? 

There was no use letting the Autobots see that, though. 

“That’s all? Your soldiers must be slipping if they can’t handle a single turncoat.” 

A strange kind of darkness clouded Magnus’s optics for just a moment, though it quickly dissipated. 

“He wasn’t a turncoat,” he explained, focusing on his datapad. “The Autobot you witnessed, the ‘turncoat’, as you claim, was set to patrol four mega-cycles earlier. We found his empty frame a chord later, directly beneath the camera that recorded this.”

She huffed. So not only was this problem duo deadly, they were bold.

Channel whispered something almost inaudible, something only Puncture heard. She turned, raising an optical ridge. “What was that?”

Channel only shook her head. “You’re sendin’ us to die,” she muttered. “You’re sendin’ us to die.” 

Magnus vented. “I wouldn’t phrase it like that. You’ll be provided with appropriate equipment.”

“Those were sparkeaters,” she spat. “You’re askin’ us to be bait for sparkeaters!”

“There is no confirmation that either are–”

“Yes, they are!” She practically screamed it, slamming a fist on the table. “You’re better than this, Magnus! When did we Autobots go from savin’ to sacrificin’ one another!? You of all bots–"

“I’ll do it,” Puncture interjected. Channel glared at her, looking very much like she wanted to rip her head off. “Sparkeater or not. But you’d better hold up your side of the bargain, Autobot.” 

Magnus hummed and looked to Channel. “Channel?” 

She was shaking with rage, and it took her a moment to speak. “I-I’ll…fine. I’ll do it. For him.”

Magnus vented. “Then we have an agreement.” He stood, handing his datapad over to Puncture, along with a pen. “Please sign.”

“What for?” She took it skeptically.

“The official record. This will be reviewed–”

As Magnus poured into legal jargon about the importance of contracts and reviewers, she tuned him out. A contract was pulled up on the datapad. What was it that Sparkripper had taught her? Always read the full conditions? 

Well, it wasn’t like she had anything else to lose. With only a bit too much difficulty, she scrawled her new name, Puncture, onto the line. Magnus repeated the process with Channel, who looked as ready to attack him as she did Puncture.

“We’ll have you both accommodated for your mission, then,” Magnus said after reviewing the signatures. “Springer, take Puncture to the medical bay for additional repairs. Channel…we’ll see about what can be done regarding your ‘condition’.”

“I’m not leavin’ him,” she snapped. “No matter what you say, no matter what you do–”

“We won’t separate you. You can relax.” 

Channel vented in relief. Puncture felt servos on her shoulder and cast Springer a glare, which he returned. As she stood and was led away, she cast one final look at Channel, who was glaring at the table, lost in thought. 

Just what had she meant when she whispered the name Luster?