#i want star wars OBLITERATED

[hazelcallahan]

yall will put willow on indefinite hiatus but release 50000 more star wars shows foh

[psychomusic]

i had a vague idea last night on chiss space-traveling system. it's really just an idea and maybe it breaks the existing lore so. if there's any chiss expert here PLEASE tell me if it's something that could exist because i wanna know if i can put it to use in my story

i know they use force sensitives with that third sight power, but like. idk. i understand that they are trained and sometimes they fail but like that's SO complex. you're traveling faster than light - you can have jedi like reflexes and shit but that's still hard af.

so i was imagining (because lately I've been trying to better understand chiss lore, which i LOVEEE) wouldn't it be easier if there were like some stations in between planets, especially important colonies, to allow the force sensitives to have to navigate between smaller points, and not completely in the dark?

idk if any of you know sky: children of the light's trial of fire, so here's the link (skip the intro part). now imagine that instead of the checkpoints with rocks and candles you have little artifical moons/planets/asteroids (depending on how important that station is), and force sensitives are supposed to reach that and then re orientate etc.

BUT to make it cooler and most importantly, easier to sense for the force sensitives, imagine that those artificial ecosystem are made to be inhabited by different creatures that can't stay on their planet of origin (like. maybe because the environment changed and they are endangered, or they're too dangerous so they like. put them there). so they're full of life. they'd be like lit candles in the dark, literally.

THIS CAME TO ME BECAUSE TWO WEEKS AGO I SAW SUCH A COOL VIDEO (a 12 hour analysis of the phantom menace that's like. so fucking well-researched??? considering its length it's impressive really, so here's the link) that spoke (at 1:19:22) about that Boss Nass's phrase about going through Naboo's planet core. But to synthetize: basically in the lore, Naboo is supposed to lack a molten core, and at the center of the planet, plasma is being emitted, and it creates infinite tunnels that can connect even theed and otho gunga. but besides other worldbuilding problems that this rather absurd idea would create - that i won't recap here - in the video, there are some ideas on how to make it make sense (like. "going through the planet core" is simply a figure of speech and not what actually happened), BUT between those, there is one in particular that struck me: at 1:30:40, he proposed Naboo could be a constructed planet - like a planet-aquarium.

then, the video explains why it can't be the case for naboo but. GUYS!! if there's a species that could pull off something like that it's the chiss, with their sense of order, their need for knowledge, and organization abilities.

the maintenance of these stations with particular ecosystems could then be left at the nearest colony of csilla (kinda like the romans delegated the maintenance of their streets to each town it crossed and benefitted off of it), and be used as a "lighthouse" for new sky-walkers to train their third sight. researchers would benefit from keeping these animals alive + they could be kept in various different scenarios depending on how the specific station is made. if it's big enough, those creatures wouldn't be even captive, in a certain sense. especially since these stations need to be big enough (and full of life) to be perceived by the force sensitives, they'd just become replicas of the planet, where researchers, even in the creation of such stations, can really have a boost on their understanding of those ecosystems, through the feedbacks and experiments on the stations.

i have made a few sketches to visualize the idea

(ugly quality and poor rendition ops. in my defense it was late)

i know i wrote A LOT and prob not many will read this BUT if you've come this far, what do you think?

[torgawl]

i was playing luocha's quest "guide for a knight stranger" when i spotted a genshin character. this is like finding beyoncé in a supermarket. what is chang the ninth doing here? i think it's pretty cool that he's a detective romance novel character in this universe instead of a writer, it's like the world is inverted. and he's the killer's uncle, nonetheless. too bad we don't know (as far as i'm aware of) if genshin's chang the ninth has nephews, but with at least 8 siblings it's very likely.

[hueningkoi]

TWINKIE QUICK DOODLE!!!!

[l0w-p0ly-3dz]

Omg y’know when Star Wars when they were like oh yeah the Jedi??? Kill ‘em all that but like zobotnik amd zonic<3

[swordoffrivolousthings]

The gods in PJO are not godly enough, in my opinion

I will start this rant by saying that this is only one of my problems with the PJO series. I understand why Riordan has humanized them, I know this is a middle school age book series. But I am older and I want to make them freaky and strange and kind of eldritch. With little to no explanation as for my choices.

ZEUS. He is the Olympian king of the gods, god of the sky, weather, law and order, destiny and fate and kingship. He is the law, as any king is. Every word he says is godly law, every little order will be followed. He is the king. So, he is stone-faced, made of marble, with no expression other than thoughtfulness and severeness (even if he sometimes isn't). His eyes are pure lightning, the hurricanes that ravage the world and the gentlest of summer rains. Most days, when he speaks of future events, they tend to happen that way, if not overruled by a higher power. His very presence is the ozone layer being brought down, heavy, tiring mortals and demigods out quickly. He treads lightly, with steps like gentle patters of rain, but his every breath is thunder.

HERA. The goddess of marriage, women, the sky and the stars of heaven, and the Olympian queen of the gods. Marriage, despite her own being something less than aspiring, is sacred. Couples that marry are under her protection, she still blesses their marriages. She sky shifts with her emotions, getting darker and night starting to fall. Her himation worn over her head, the only garment visible, reflecting the sky above. Her eyes, two bright stars, seeing something more than human perception can begin to understand.

POSEIDON. Olympian god of the sea, earthquakes, floods, drought and horses. His body is not, just from the corner of the eye, made of muscle, bones and tendons. Water, swirling and moving in the shape of a man, the odd strand of algae. Then you turn and he is barely human, but not saltwater. The waves seek and tug at his heels whenever he walks along the beach. His eyes, oceanic tectonic plates crashing, sending tsunamis to devastate the world. The air around him is salty, sea air clinging to his skin. Algae appear in his wake, reeking of the sea.

DEMETER. Olympian goddess of agriculture, grain and bread who sustained mankind with the earth's rich bounty. In her wake, every step makes a grain sprout, growing tall and healthy, and nothing can take it down. The seasons are slowly blooming and booming in her presence, the spring more verdant, the summer hotter, autumn plentiful beyond measure and winter always frigid. From behind her ears sprout oats and barley, always young and vibrant green, crowning her in the coming bounty. Her eyes are the colour of wheat, and when the wind blows the shadows in her eyes move with it.

ARES. Olympian god of war, battlelust, courage and civil order. He is war, bloody and cruel, senseless, personified. His very presence makes fights break out, indignities and betrayals happen. He is an oppressive force that bring the bravery out of the people, along with all the hate. If he stays long enough in one place, even Olympus, war breaks out, be it civil or not. This is why he never stays in one place too long. He is luting for blood, but war had wearied him. He will not do the same mistake twice, even in war. His eyes are the open wounds of soldiers, bleeding, infected, dying skin and rotting meat.

ATHENA. Olympian goddess of wisdom and good counsel, war, the defence of towns, heroic endeavour, weaving, pottery and various other crafts. Every tapestry and pot and garment worked by hand that is not up to her godly standard shrivels and turns to ash in her presence, obliterated by her beyond-human perfectioned craft. Towns are instantly protected when she is there, good grace and godly favour. War, like Ares, follows her. It is not kinder, nor is it bearable. Calculated, cold, some would argue that her wars are crueler, sadistic. Eyes like garment fiber and shattered pots, blood covering them.

APOLLO. Olympian god of prophecy and oracles, music, song and poetry, archery, healing, plague and disease, and the protection of the young. The sun, a power passed on, burns under his skin. It is the worst in the summer months, when the sun is more preeminent. His music, lighting every room in shades of enticement, is otherworldly, his voice, be it in song or word, is a mastery of perfection. From his hands, a single touch can be salvation or sickness. His arrows, silver for his twin, always strike true, no matter the target. His presence brings prophecies and fates to light. The power of the sun is in his eyes.

ARTEMIS. Olympian goddess of hunting, the wilderness and wild animals. She was also a goddess of childbirth, and the protectress of the girl child up to the age of marriage. Around her sprout forests, wild and untainted, a world where humans could get lost in and never be found again. Wild animals prowl after her, protectors and friends of her hunters. When the night is darkest, a power inherited, her skin lights up, a moon to shine in the dark of the shadows. Her hunters, her girls, are protected and her wrath is painful and cruel, like her domains, and they are recognisable by their golden arrows.

HEPHAESTUS. Olympian god of fire, smiths, craftsmen, metalworking, stonemasonry and sculpture. Beneath his skin flames are visible, a moving part of him, like tattoos. Every piece of metal he works with, no matter how briefly, turns into beatiful and powerful tools, an art all of their own. His buildings are steady and everlasting, the stone protected by his touch. His eyes, the hammer hitting metal, are coloured in such a way that they resemble statue's eyes.

APHRODITE. Olympian goddess of love, beauty, pleasure and procreation. Born of sea foam and godly blood, the salt clings to her. Curls her hair and makes her glow, the power of the sea just under her perfect skin. Everyone finds something beautiful in the face of beauty. It is enchanting, a spell most can hardly exist. She is everything everyone could ever want, a goddess for everyone's taste. Yet her anger is born of the sea, a cruel and unforgiving sort of death. To make love dislike you is to lose it all in the blink of an eye. To disrespect a goddess means death.

HERMES. Olympian god of herds and flocks, travellers and hospitality, roads and trade, thievery and cunning, heralds and diplomacy, language and writing, athletic contests and gymnasiums, astronomy and astrology. He speaks in languages long lost, and his travel notes are written in queer glyphs and writing systems. Sheep like him, without doubt. The souls of humans clash and itch to follow him when he enters a room, beyond willing to be taken to the underworld. The stars illuminate his path, a road he knows by heart but they don't care. They will guide him, no matter what.

DIONYSUS. Olympian god of wine, vegetation, pleasure, festivity, madness and wild frenzy. Vines grow from his footsteps, water and seawater and nectar and any other drink turn to wine in his hand. Where he is, the frenzied, happy and drunk follow, a retinue of people that enjoy and enjoy and enjoy. There is nothing not to like at first glance, and only at first glance. When one looks closer, the insanity begins. It is like sparks in his eyes, a nonsensical word past his lips. When you look closer at the people, there is no happiness in the thaws of madness.

HESTIA. The virgin goddess of the hearth and the home. It does not make her kind, because the gods rarely are. It makes her steady, the fire in the home that keeps the chill away from making itself at home. The fire that lights the way back home, sacred in temples and to extinguish it is to forsake her favour. Homes she has blessed are cozy, full of love, of safety. It does not make them fireproof.

HADES. The king of the underworld and god of the dead. He, king over bones and lost memories. His wife, unnamable, his presence like the heavy hand of time on mortal shoulders. Bones and skulls and the wispy whisper of the lost are his retinue. Half decomposed corpses his servants and valets and butlers. His name, scorned, is never said but on the eve of the winter solstice, when death is the surest companion. His eyes, dark but brittle as bone, promise something any other god can't understand.

PERSEPHONE. Goddess queen of the underworld, wife of the god Hades. She was also the goddess of spring growth. Her presence brings with it the smell of the first flowers of spring, little by little making the world greener. But her steps are always silent, always just a little far from the ground. She is a queen, death is her and her husband's domain. Of course she is ghostly, terrifying. Her perfume is of freshly dug earth and autumnal rain, the weeps of widows and widowers, the death of the young and elderly. Her name is unspoken, a curse when invoked. You will not hear her name on Olympus, in mortal mouths. Kore, Despoena, her titles are safe. Her eye is not benevolent, when it's attention is captured.

[ivystoryweaver]

No One Like You - Poe Dameron

Poe + Horseback riding

Fall Fluff Masterlist | Poe Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Okay so, this ficlet is a "deleted scene" from my unwritten "Poe crash lands to Earth" story I'm pretending will be posted in Poevember. For that reason, you will discover the slightest slivers of angst surrounding that concept, but I promise it's fluff.

Word count: 1.3k (technically not a ficlet, oh well!) || for @virtie333

Darkness faltered as the last stars danced against its covering canopy. Robins chirped dawn's arrival, their song scattering night's hold over the earth.

Booted footfalls fell on damp soil, carrying you out to the stables, where two magnificent animals waited for your attention eagerly.

Poe Dameron watched as you nuzzled your forehead against the fairer one, stroking gently and whispering, "Good morning, sweet girl."

The darker, redder horse beside her let out a slightly annoyed squeal, which made you chuckle before granting her equal attention, speaking so softly, Poe could barely hear you.

Polishing off the rest of his caf - or coffee, as Earthlings called it - Poe set his ceramic mug down, hoping to be of some use.

Weeks had passed since he'd come to be here with you - since his X-wing spun out of control, through a black hole to a galaxy far, far away. It took the two of you almost a week to successfully hide his nearly obliterated ship on your farm and make up a cover story, should anyone come knocking.

It also took quite a lot of convincing for Poe to believe that there was no one on Earth who could help repair his ship - not without drawing the kind of attention that would get him locked up or put under a microscope.

So, he decided to trust you.

You gave him a bed in your spare room, two warm meals a day, and in return, he helped out on your small farm. He wasn't sure how he could ever get home, but this place wasn't so bad, for now.

"Are there horses where you're from?" You asked Poe a bit later, brushing the coat of your sweet Annabelle.

"There were animals called orbaks one one of the moons of a planet called Endor. And I think there are your kind of horses on its forest moon. Never seen those myself, though," Poe explained, gesturing toward your animal.

A warm smile brightened your face. "So did you ever ride an orbak?"

"No," he cockily grinned. "I was too busy flying my X-wing. My best friend rode one in battle though. It was - what do you say? ‘Badass.’”

Giggling at the colloquialism, you finished brushing Annabelle's mane and reached for the fly spray. "I cannot believe you've been in actual battles. In space. You must think Earth is so boring."

He shrugged one shoulder. "Earth has wars, right? Battles, soldiers? It's the same thing."

"True, but no laser guns and laser swords and powerful wizards and talking furry...what did you call Chewbacca?"

"A Wookiee," Poe chuckled.

After spraying Annabelle, you fed her a quick treat and saddled her. "You be nice to Poe, sweet girl," you instructed her affectionately. "He's new to this."

"Are you sure you don't want to ride her?" Poe politely asked you. "I can try the other one."

You glared at him half-jokingly. "I promise you do not want to ride Arzola. She's not for newbies."

Dark eyebrows shot up at the challenge. "You know, I can fly anything."

"Fly, sure. Ride?" Pulling your bottom lip between your teeth, you winked at him. "Leave the riding to me."

Poe Dameron had never backed down from a challenge in his life, and two in a row had just been laid before him.

Arzola. And you.

"Her loss," he playfully shrugged, carefully approaching the moodier chestnut. "You don't know what you're missing, sweetheart."

"Are you flirting with my horse?" You swatted his arm with a pretend huff.

Trapping your hand against his bicep with incredible reflexes, his eyes locked with yours before momentarily flickering down to your lips. "Not with her."

Arzola nudged her way between the two of you protectively, breaking your temporary trance.

Clearing your throat, you nodded toward her saddle. "Come on, I'll show you how to do this."

Soon enough, you and Poe guided Arzola and Annabelle, respectively, out for an early morning ride.

As expected, Poe was a natural and quickly took command of Annabelle, showing no signs of nervousness and forming an instant bond with her. He seemed so good at it, you almost felt a mildly jealous pang at how she warmed to him. He'd tried out Annabelle a couple times, on quick walks around the paddock, but this was the first real ride.

Sunlight spilled over the horizon, illuminating the path before you, inviting you to rush headlong to where light kissed the earth.

You clicked twice, urging Arzola ahead into a full run, which Annabelle immediately followed.

Poe, of course, accepted the challenge and gave Annabelle a gentle squeeze with his legs. “Come on, sweetheart.”

Annabelle neighed out an affirmation, galloping ahead of the competition. Arzola possessed fiery spirit in spades, but Annabelle's legs were longer, and she preferred to think of herself as the favorite.

"That's my girl," Poe bellowed out a joyful laugh as crisp autumn air whipped through his curls, tossing them carelessly around his forehead. He chanced a look at you, flashing you a devastating grin, dark eyes bright and reddened by the sun's kiss, almost a twin color to Arzola's coat.

This was closest you'd come to seeing him in action, aside from a few projects he'd attempted with a hammer around the farm, and you had to admit, it was a good look on him.

Despite the joy surging through you at the chance to take both your girls out for a run, and with Poe, no less, you still possessed a competitive streak of your own.

With a powerful command you'd probably come to regret, you granted Arzola the permission she was impatiently waiting for, to run top speed and catch the stranger riding her adoptive sister.

Despite the vigor and exertion involved with riding a horse at a full gallop, the look on Poe's face as he stared out over the horizon could be considered nothing short of pure peace.

The two of you slowed and finally brought your animals to a stop. After walking them for a few minutes, you offered them a drink from a hose and trough near a ramshackle tool shed at the far end of your property.

You and Poe sat down on the creaky old steps leading up to the door, taking a moment to have a drink yourselves while the sun finally climbed all the way to full daylight.

"Thanks for this," he softly uttered, turning to gaze at your profile.

Although you felt him staring, you couldn't bring yourself to meet his eyes.

"You're welcome." Finishing off your water bottle, you glanced over at your horses. "Annabelle likes you. Really likes you. She usually can't be bothered to race Arzola."

"Why is that?"

"She's just gentle. She must've had a good reason to challenge her," You explained with a knowing wink.

Poe beamed proudly, following your gaze over to the magnificent creatures. "They're amazing animals. I know it doesn't make sense, but Arzola reminds me of BB-8 a little bit."

"Of a robot?" You scoffed. "For real?"

"A droid," Poe corrected. "Believe me, they can have spirit."

"He must be wonderful," you sympathized, knowing he was separated from the little guy.

Poe ran a hand over the stubble on his chin, eyes dipping as he contemplated a life so far away from everything he'd ever known.

Swallowing, he bravely scooted a little closer to you, meeting your eyes with the openness and sincerity you'd come to expect from him.

"He would be really happy to know that I met someone like you. Someone who helped me. Protected me."

Your lip trembled slightly under his intensity. You'd never met a man like him in your life. There couldn't possibly be anyone like him, at least not on this planet.

Laying your hand gently over his, you spoke from your heart. "I know you didn't plan on any of this, but I'm happy I met you, Poe."

Fall Fluff Masterlist | Poe Masterlist | Main Masterlist

[furious-blueberry0]

Are there people out there that really think that Star Wars is too political? And say that as if it is a flaw?

Like, I’m sorry, but did people seriously look at a saga literally named Star WARS and manage to complain about the fact that it has politics? Did these people watch the movies and only saw the lightsabers, the cool music and the pew pews? Is that all their brain could comprehend?

I’m not saying that you can’t do that, if you want to look at the fun side of the saga only than good for you, but using the argument of “too much politics” and make it the flaw of the story is so stupid.

Like that’s the point, THAT’S THE WHOLE FUCKING POINT.

George Lucas didn’t just make a story of a good guy vs a bad guy, he made a story where a Republic, a just system that has become corrupted to its core, finds itself into a devastating war and is pushed to its limit by a slimy and disgusting scheming bastard (inspired by George Bush), who then uses its weakness to take control of it and transform it, from a free system to a fascist dictatorship (inspired by Nazi Germany and the USA of the Vietnam war) and whose one of the first things he does is a literal genocide and ethnical cleansing of a religious order.

And this is only the Prequels, because in the OT the story is about how this Empire, whose head and right hand are literally the most powerful beings in the galaxy, gets utterly destroyed not by other powerful beings, not by superpowers, not by mystical forces that the human mind can’t comprehend.

But by people, normal people, the average person, who can’t fly, who can’t use mystical objects, who cannot move things with the mind or other tricks.

The heroes of these movies are the rebels, who are not fighting because of some ancient prophecy, or because of a quest given by mystical beings, or because they have to restore the fabric of the Universe, they fight because it’s the right thing to do, because this is what happens when you take away freedom from people, when you destroy their homes, when you kill their loved ones, when you obliterate everything they have ever known and loved.

Treat people like animals and they’ll react like animals, by biting the hand that carries the stick and then ripping it into shreds.

And yes, Luke is the hero that saves the day by killing Sidious and Vader, but he would have never, and I say NEVER have arrived at that point without the help of the Rebellion, it’s something that no one could have ever done alone, a single individual against an entire Empire is a suicide, no matter how powerful you are.

And I love it. I don’t even know how to put it into words, I love how this ancient and meticulous plan gets annihilated by normal people, who just wanted to be free.

THIS is Star Wars: a fight against tyranny.

And it makes me sad how people forget and ignore it. With the Rebellion it’s not just the special people who can be heroes, everyone can! And they don’t even need to do the heroic actions described in the stories and the myths.

A Hero says “No” when the Stormtroopers ask if they saw the young and scared boy who ran and hid behind the bins near their home.

A Hero gives extra blankets and food to the neighbor that is hiding refugees.

A Hero “accidentally” blocks the way of a squad of Stormtroopers, to give others the time to escape.

A Hero hides the weapons of the rebels in their well while the Stormtroopers raid all the houses.

A Hero runs through the streets and into the woods to go find the rebels that are hiding there, to tell them it’s time to run

A Hero talks loudly about the atrocities that the Empire is committing, forcing those who are silent to listen.

A Hero comforts the mother who lost all her children to the Empire.

A Hero organizes the funeral of that same mother, after she tried to take her revenge.

A Hero doesn’t let the Empire enter their head, they don’t let it change their being.

It’s all about the small acts of insurrection that pushes the line forward.

[jmdbjk]

Thinking too hard.

I was having a delusional episode while talking to my bestie:

Here's my wild concept for the BTS comeback MV: a Star Wars-like spoof where they are the rebel underdogs fighting the evil empire.

The song would need to have an overall "together we will overcome and save the world" theme. Or it could be a "fuck you evil bitches time to die". Either/or.

They are in those X-wing fighters and those huge land walker thingys.

Jimin can have smeraldo flower decals on his X-wing and JK can have tattoo graffiti looking decals on his. Of course both of their light sabers would be purple. Duh, right? It gets hot in those fighter space craft, they'd be shirtless of course.

Tae can be riding one of those two-legged horse/kangaroo looking things, wind blowing in his hair. Hey, I just googled what they are called... Tauntauns... tan tans? The universe is universing here. Stick with me, I might be on to something.

Yoongi can be operating one of those land stompers. Googled what those are called (can you tell I'm not a hardcore Star Wars fan? But I did see most of the theatrical movies, except maybe one... anyway) All Terrain Armored Transport or AT-AT Walker because at one point in Yoongi's life, he worked as a motorbike delivery person. Universe, stop it! While delivering more troops and weapons to the front lines, Yoongi can crush people who look like k-media and fake media... or MHJ. For sure kpoppies. Crush 'em all, Yoongi.

I don't want to say it but its a no-brainer: Namjoon is a wise and philosophical ancient being who can slice an enemy in half using only his words. May the force be with you. Slash.

That leaves Hobi. He's the commander of course. Perfectly fitting uniform (designed by LV of course) manning the war room.

Jin, since he's the oldest and the most hardcore gamer, would volunteer to be the one to fly into the heart of the evil empire's ship/vessel/planet/egg/brain/bowels/whatever and blow it to bits before he zooms out safely, escaping obliteration. I guess that would also lend itself to having a slight astronaut touch to it wouldn't it? Kinda also ties in with military stuff.

Cue the close up of Jin winking to the camera and blowing a WWH kiss.

At the end of the MV the evil in the world is destroyed and everyone cheers. The whales in the ocean rejoice.

A bit violent but in a sci-fi fantasy way. Hybe can spend a lot of money on special effects and make it very sparkly and over the top cinematic.

At least you can’t say I don’t have a sense of humor along with this wild imagination.

Time to exit the emo angst school boi era and enter the mature hunk oppa hero era guys. Universe! Get on it!

[ominous-horse-noises]

my last couple of fhjy posts have been popping off (by my blog's standards) so now i present to you: serious + unserious finale pt 2 predictions

Squeem makes a final heroic sacrifice for the bad kids. it is very emotional. Gorgug almost gets rage starred over it.

Gertie cameo in the post-fight epilogue + Kristen letting her down easy (I think Kristen's going to realise she's kind of been taking their flirtationship less seriously than Gertie and end it) -> also a possibility Kristen is going to see online/get a call from Tracker that Nara and Tracker have broken up but decides against trying to rebound back

The Rat Grinders (including Lucy) are resurrected by Ankarna and Fabian immediately gets an alert from his bank that he's gained 5 new nemesises: he is miffed that Mary Ann isnt one of them

The FBI agent shows up mid-battle trying to arrest Fig and all the bad kids yell at him to fuck off simultaneously. Adaine pushes him into lava.

Buddy pulls a Kristen and creates his version of Yes! out of Baccarath

Newly revived Yolanda boots Bobby Dawn out of her office and it's extremely satisfying

I dont think Brennan is going to reuse the deus ex machina of fhfy so Ayda and Aguefort are definitely only showing up post-fight, but Fig tells Ayda on the spot that she's dropping out to go travelling with her OR Fig very excitedly introduces Ayda to an uncorrupted Ankarna ("My girlfriend's back in town!!!")

K2 uncorrupts Cassandra in a move that makes Brennan leave the dome again. Zac once again has to narrate it.

Either Aelwyn or Ragh/Lydia show up during the battle as back up allies. Personally I hope it's Lydia because I'd love to see her confront Porter on the correct use of rage

Turns out TRGs they're fighting are simulacrums bc of their disproportionately small hp- ngl I'd hate this outcome, bc TRGs having shit coordination and hp feels like a justified consequence for them cheating the system, but it would make sense since Porter needs followers to become a god of rage and war, and he has to know these kids don't stand a chance considering TBKs obliterated the Last Stand

Adaine smug callback to resurrected Oisin's oracle taunt/killing his grandma but she fumbles the execution and hits him with an Adaine's Furious Fist instead. Bonus if Riz threatens to eat him

Mary Ann is revealed to have never been rage starred she's just here bc she was told by Porter that it was mandatory to attend

Bucky asks Kristen to meet Cassandra and very clearly begins to want to convert

Hallariel drops that she's actually pregnant during a tirade about Fabian crashing the house

Aguefort tells TRGs that they're being held back a year

'hey girlieeee' callback during climatic moment

Ecaf cameo

[aboxthecolourofheartache]

box- youve got me interested in trigun but alas i have no idea what it is, pls help me understand

Oh god, my sincerest apologies ^^;;;

Trigun is a space Western and a thinly veiled allegory. It’s about a pair of twins, Knives Georg and Belts Georg, who are ideological opposites (except when they aren’t; they’re both extremists). This would be fine, except they are also insanely powerful interdimensional biological generators/space angels, making their conflict one between essentially minor gods. So they make their trauma Everybody’s Problem. One of them (Knives Georg) has set himself up as a cult leader with the intent of obliterating the human race because humans keep other, less independent, interdimensional biological generators/space angels captive as tools somewhere between Star Trek replicators and batteries. He gives this several goes, first by sabotaging humanity’s fleet of spaceships and crashing everyone onto a barren planet without resources in a painfully obvious reference to the expulsion from Eden/fall from Heaven, then by making his brother blow up a city, and lastly by stealing as many of the dependent generator angels as he can and trying to kill humanity via depravation and war crimes. His brother (Belts Georg) is a pacifist gunman who has internalized his trauma differently and does not want to obliterate humanity. In fact, he wants to stop his brother doing that, so he makes multiple badly-planned attempts to end the conflict until one of them sticks. He also lives on the run as a reviled, hated outlaw and a legend after Knives Georg made him blow up a city. The story is one long, intense interrogation of pacifism as an ideal, the consequences of taking or sparing lives, and answers the age-old questions: if nuclear bombs were sentient and afraid of exploding, could/would they love us? And: what would a traumatized angel do with a gun?

Come for the aesthetic, stay for the blatant biblical references and the gut-wrenching tragedy.

And yes, there are, in fact, three guns. One’s a species of Colt (.45 Long Colt?? I do not remember off the top of my head) or the bastard offspring of a Colt and a cinder block, the other is a prosthetic arm, and the last one is a flesh arm that’s actually a biblically inaccurate angelic energy-missile launcher. (OR they are two matching Colts and a spiritual bazooka with a bonus prosthetic arm gun. Depends on the version. As of now, Stampede (2023) only has two guns. The third is much anticipated.)

There are three versions of the story, too. The manga (personally my canon of choice, explains nothing and yeets events at you, incomprehensible fight scenes, emotionally devastating in ways the other two cannot even begin to touch), the 1998 anime (very good, made while the manga was still being written, has its own thing going on, suffers terribly from 1990s anime-itis aka bizarre sexism), and the 2023 anime (very good, mix-and-match canon that turns the timeline into pretzels, suffers from 12-episodes-long-itis with too much happening and not enough time to explore things).

[rotworld]

5: Violent Embrace

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

gifted with remarkable psychic power, you've found yourself allied with an unusual group of misfits. chaos space marines are fractious at best. keeping the peace is an arduous and deadly task, especially since your newest recruit comes from the world eaters, but you'll do anything for your warband.

->warhammer 40k. original chaos space marine/reader. explicit; contains graphic depictions of violence, dismemberment, extremely rough sex, consensual but not safe or sane, body horror.

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Siarotha handles you like glass. 

Your hand is caught between his much larger ones, completely eclipsed by the span of his graceful fingers, but his grip is not tight. You could pull away if you wanted. The caress of his thumb against your joints and tendons, his testing squeezes of your palm—all painfully, tenderly gentle.

His hands have more blood on them than you can possibly imagine. He has buried armies. He has decimated war fleets while they were still in orbit. He has murdered planets with spells of cosmic destruction that invert the delicate ordering of reality. His hands have wielded staves that channel the raw, reactive dreamstuff of the Warp and blades of dark matter. They have hurled supernovas. Conjured event horizons. They have ripped souls from still-living bodies. Siarotha of the Stars, they called him once, in awe and in fear. 

Those same hands hold you carefully, delicately. They splay your fingers and caress each one with the reverence of an artist appreciating a masterpiece. In these rare, private moments, he sheds his heavy armor and conjures softer garments. Loose, white robes, colorful sashes, jeweled bangles; the attire of an ancient priesthood obliterated from human history. He wears his dark hair long and loose down his back, the thick locks framing his face decorated with small golden clasps.

“What do you think?” you ask him, a hopeful edge to your voice. You fidget restlessly atop the examination table, your legs growing stiff.

“I think you’re in good health. As good as we can hope for, anyway,” Siarotha says. His tone is uneasy, the words slow and reluctant. “If there were any ill effects, they’re not apparent yet. Tell me if you notice any discomfort or further changes.” He hasn’t let go of your hand yet, tracing small circles with his thumb. 

“You don’t like it?” You know it’s an absurd thing to say. Like you’re wearing a new shirt or trying something different with your hair, not…

You glance at the thing in the corner. The rumpled, blood-encrusted mass. The half-shredded, empty-eyed, gaping-mouthed stack of skin, raw at its torn edges and glistening moist inside like a pile of peeled fruit rind. Siarotha taps your chin and guides your gaze back to his face. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says, sounding strained like he can’t decide whether to scold or soothe you. “This isn’t a matter of aesthetic preferences. Surely you can agree that this mutation is…alarming.” 

“Zonaras calls it a gift.” 

Siarotha sighs heavily. “Of course he does.” His grip shifts from your hand to your wrist, sliding your arm and shoulder, coming to rest on your cheek. He bends slightly from his towering height to look you in the eye. “I do not mean to imply disappointment or disgust. Change is a blessing. You and I are the only ones who truly understand that. But change of this nature can also be volatile. I cannot…” He clears his throat, lowering his hand and pulling away from you suddenly. “We cannot afford to lose you. You are vital to the continued existence of this pathetic excuse for a warband. You will keep me informed of any pain, discomfort or further mutation.” 

You let him try and force distance, physical and emotional. He claims superiority and wisdom, but Siarotha is just like the others. Vulnerability is a sickness, he thinks, an insidious and creeping thing. He’s been burned too many times to believe he can care for you unscathed. “I’ll keep it in mind,” you tell him, hopping off the table. Your empty stomach clenches and stings, making a sad animal sound. You can still taste the stale, salty flavor of the ration bar you ate earlier. “I hope they get back soon. We don’t have a lot of food left.” 

Siarotha rests a hand on your shoulder. You feel a pleasant tingling sensation, a rush of coolness in your belly that takes the hunger pains away. Still starving, but at least it doesn’t hurt so much. He hovers, of course, like you knew he would, following you down the long, echoing corridors of an abandoned manufactorum. The breeze is cool and pleasant, sunlight pouring through endless honeycomb rows of windows. From five stories up, you can see the pockmarked landscape of a world scarred by apocalyptic war. The sidewalks are shattered and the streets half-sunken, gray, ugly buildings peeking from the gaping maws of giant sinkholes. 

It probably wasn’t green before. Too much rockcrete and steel, too many fences and walkways and sprawling industrial complexes, too many people stuffed in too small a space. But they’re gone now, vanished in a calamity that happened before you ever found this empty place. New life fills the spaces they left behind. The trees are thin and sickly, the grass sharp like little daggers. Snaking roots and grasping vines slowly worm their way up the sides of towers and observation platforms. 

It’s beautiful, you think. Maybe the most beautiful Imperial planet you’ve ever seen.

“They should be returning shortly. I told them to keep it brief,” Siarotha says.

“You mean you threatened them?” 

“If they responded well to requests and gentle suggestions, I would do that instead.”

“Do you think they’re alright? Kyloteknis mentioned something about probable resistance.” 

Siarotha chuckles. “Eavesdropping now?” 

“I’m a part of this warband, too.” You frown, glancing up at him. “I wish you wouldn’t try to leave me out so much. I could help more than I do.”

Siarotha flicks a hand in front of his body and his armor materializes in a flash of firefly glimmers, slowly engulfing him as he walks. His graceful footsteps suddenly become loud, heavy crunches of metal scraping metal and his face is hidden behind an expressionless helm. His already staggering size becomes truly monstrous when he vanishes into those broad, bulky panels of blue adorned with gold trim. “Some things are not your concern,” he says, his voice deeper, muffled and laced with static through the vox of his helmet. 

“Like Erghol?” 

He turns, the glowing lenses of his helmet glaring down at you. “Yes. Like Erghol. I didn’t realize you’d heard that conversation.” 

“We can’t just abandon him. It isn’t right.” 

Siarotha sighs heavily. He opens the door to the stairwell without touching it, a simple flick of his wrist making the groaning metal slide out of the way. He doesn’t fit through the doorway but he doesn’t have to. You hear his voice in your head on the way down and feel his presence shadowing your every move. “Since you were listening so closely, you might recall that my suggestion was to put him out of his misery. I understand this seems cruel to you, but he is a son of Angron. The Nails gnaw at his mind. Battlelust clouds his judgment, making him impulsive and unreliable.”

“Grigori told me the Nails can be subdued.”

There’s a pause. A tranquil feeling washes over you, an echo of Siarotha’s emotions leaking through the bond between you. The Enumerations, you realize, that peculiar meditation he practices. This is the self-soothing one, a way to banish stubborn thoughts and emotions. He is, in essence, breathing deeply and counting to ten before he speaks to you again. “Grigori does not know what he’s talking about,” he says simply.

“He sounded like he did.”

“The Nails cannot be subdued. They can only be temporarily sated.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do,” you insist. “Why am I here, Siarotha? Why are you? Or Zonaras, or Grigori? What do we all have in common?” You can sense his frustration, a thorny feeling in the back of your mind. “We were abandoned. All of us. Cast out and left behind. Erghol is one of us now. We can’t turn our back on him.” 

When you reach the ground floor, Siarotha is already standing there. He conjures his staff, a gnarled contortion of gold, silver and colors that make your eyes sting. “You are infuriatingly stubborn,” he says. “Erghol is dangerous. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. It’s not just his devotion to the Blood God. There is a hunger in him.” 

You shrug. “I know.”

“No, you don’t. You don’t understand—” 

“I do,” you insist. The air around you bristles and heats like the grit of sand in desert wind. It’s a show of power, an intentional slip before he smothers his anger. Months ago, you would’ve been intimidated. You feel a lingering coarseness that tells you he wishes you still were. “I know his hunger and I’m not afraid of it. I can help him. I’ll prove it.” 

You can feel Siarotha in the shallows of your mind but you don’t let him in any deeper. He could push and you could push back. You could fight; you would lose. Large, metal-covered fingers hook beneath your chin and all it takes is that moment, that lapse in concentration, that shiver of desire down your spine. A thought slips through your careful control and he seizes it, tugging gently, following the spool of memory and intention to see where it leads. 

You know when he finds what you were trying to hide because his emotions come all at once in a sudden shockwave. Suffocating surprise. Confusion, light and airy. Hot anger and sickening disgust. A curl of lurid, voyeuristic interest before he separates his mind from yours. “This is foolish,” he hisses. “Unbelievably foolish. You could be killed. Your mutation is new and untested. There’s no guarantee your body will recover from such extensive damage.” 

He’s not saying no, you notice. “You’ve healed me before,” you insist.

“I was once Pavoni. Healing is a simple matter, but even my power has limits. Rather than attend to you afterwards, it would be better if I was present. My main concern is exsanguination, given Erghol’s proclivities…” He stops, shaking his head. “I cannot believe I’m even considering this.” You try to wipe the smile off your face when he looks at you. Another staticy sigh comes through the vox. Siarotha wraps his massive gauntlet-covered hand around your forearm and tugs you stumbling into his breastplate. His voice lowers to a gravelly rumble. “I saw something curious while I was sifting through your thoughts. It was an image. Something you picture frequently. A bit distant, but I could have sworn it was you…writhing under me.” 

Your face fills with heat. Siarotha doesn’t touch you but his presence ripples softly at the edge of your mind like the caress of velvet, a teasing touch that makes a shiver run down your spine. 

“You and I are going to have a talk later. For now…” He lets you go and brushes past you. His hand lingers for just a moment, sliding away from your shoulder one finger at a time. “Let’s make sure Erghol didn’t kill anyone.” 

Once, it was a hangar of some kind. Tall and cavernous with rusted, cobwebbed machinery, you and Siarotha have made something far more impressive. At the far end, charred, bent and broken scrap metal has been woven into an enormous arch that follows the curve of the ceiling. Gruesome trinkets of human bone sit in its misshapen alcoves. Eight-pointed stars of Chaos, soaked and splattered with blood, are welded to the structure from every angle. A subtle hum fills the air around it. When you press your hand against the metal, it pulses like a heart.

“Are they ready?” you ask.

“Soon,” Siarotha says. You can feel his gaze burning into your back. “You’re absolutely certain about this?” 

“Yes.” 

“Very well.” His hand engulfs your shoulder. “You were right earlier. You are a part of this warband. There’s no need for you to prove yourself.”

“Clearly there is,” you mutter. “It’s fine. I get it. I’m fragile compared to the rest of you.”

“You are important. Irreplaceable.” 

“Kyloteknis would disagree.”

“Kyloteknis is a fool,” he says sharply. His voice echoes throughout the hangar, fading into the ceiling beams. Siarotha clenches his staff tightly. He doesn’t say anything else for a while. It’s the closest you’ll ever get to hearing something vulnerable from him. You savor the moment while it lasts. “They’re ready,” he says. 

It takes both of you to operate the gate. You are the conduit, the empty space the Immaterium rushes to fill. You are the guide, the Stygian ferryman who steers the cosmic dark. Your vision fills with light and your ears fill with the howl of screaming souls, sparks singing the air where your hand meets the gate. Siarotha is the only thing keeping you grounded, the only reason you don’t erupt across the hangar like red, runny shrapnel. He raises his staff and colors swirl, the room seeming to tilt and distort. A ring of symbols that only your subconscious can read spins faster and faster. The whispers of things unborn and hungry tempt you with the promise of power but there is nothing you want more than to be where you are right now, shepherd of the lost and lighthouse of the damned. The light grows brighter and the screams grow louder and you falling, you are floating away, you are everywhere and everywhen and in everything, ever, always—

The gate opens. 

War engines roar. Artillery blasts scour the battlefield. The sky is black with smoke and red with fire and white in searing flashes of death and destruction. Howling, furious winds carry a burning stench, the reek of rust and corpse piles. The thunderous rhythm of space marines in a full sprint feels like a small earthquake. “Close it!” someone screams. “They’re coming, fucking close it!” A whistle. A missile spiraling. A great steel bird shot out of the sky. 

“I have you,” Siarotha whispers in your mind. With a gasp, you remember suddenly who you are and what you’re doing. You pull your hand back and clench it into a fist.

The gate closes.

Your warband is not the sentimental sort. Near-death does not make them wistful or talkative. They’re creatures of habit and the mission isn’t over until their spoils are counted and their hearts stop pounding with combat stimulants. The most you get is a curt, “Objective completed,” from Kyloteknis as he rumbles past with an awful scraping sound, scorch marks dappling the yellow and black stripes on his armor. He drags an enormous slab of metal behind him, Imperial seals and symbols stamped across the surface and sides. A relic of some sort, some priceless equipment they’ve been salivating over for weeks now. Zonaras and Grigori follow. The former offers a prayer of gratitude to the Changer of Ways and to you, guided by incomprehensible hands. The latter simply nods and continues on his way.

Dagger and Claw approach from either side like always, flanking you. You don’t know their real names because they won’t tell you, but one favors a curved disemboweling knife and one has long, electrified claws tipping his gauntlets. They’re Night Lords. They’ve tried to sneak off with half of your supplies twice now; played it off as a joke the first time, a “readiness drill” the second. “Your dog tried to bite me,” Dagger says. “He’s rabid, I think.” 

“Since when is he my dog?” you ask. 

“Since he got here,” Claw sneers behind you. “Practically slobbers all over you.” 

“We’re going to take care of that,” Siarotha says. The escher spiral at the top of his staff crackles dangerously. There’s a pause and you’re certain they’re talking to each other, communicating on a vox channel so you can’t hear whatever’s said. Dagger gives a slight, sudden nod like he’s laughing under his helm. 

“If you’re sure,” he drawls. Claw follows him when he leaves, their footsteps fading. 

That leaves just the three of you. Erghol is covered—absolutely saturated, head to toe—in blood. It slicks his red armor, drying in darker patches. It stains the silver trim. It gums up the joints and speckles the open maw crest of the World Eaters on his pauldron and it drips, pattering like rain, on the floor. He’s breathing heavily, panting like a beast. His armor is ragged and patchwork, panels missing, plates cracked, one thick, muscled arm completely bare. He tears his helmet off one-handed. He shouldn’t be able to but the locking mechanisms that keep Astartes armor cohesive and connected have long since worn away. You see furious, bloodshot eyes. Blown pupils. Gritted teeth. Crisscrossing scar tissue, burns and shrapnel puckers and clawing close-quarters desperation. Dark hair grows in stiff, short tufts from an old military buzzcut, but there are small, circular patches of exposed scalp where thick metal cords snake in and out of the skin.

Those are the Butcher’s Nails, the legacy of his legion. They soothe him when he kills. They torment him when he hesitates. 

“Erghol,” you say, calm and quiet. You take a step forward, testing. He doesn’t react. His chest heaves with quick, labored breathing. “How was the battle?” 

He looks at you. His eyes rake up and down with voracious scrutiny. There’s blood on his hands. Stuck under his nails, clotting on his palms. His fingers twitch. 

“Was it good?” you ask. Another cautious step. “Are you satisfied? Did you spill enough blood? Dagger said you attacked him, but he didn’t look hurt.” Your next step is bolder, your heart pounding in anticipation. You keep your posture wide. Strong. Hostile. “Did he get away? Or did he beat you instead? Did you lose a fight, Erghol? That must’ve been humiliating—”

Erghol lunges. There is nothing graceful about the motion, only predatory swiftness that knocks the air from your lungs. The wall shudders, splintering with the force of his body crushing you against it, and you’re in agony. Something is broken or dislocated, wrenched from the socket it’s supposed to be in. You’re still trying to catch your breath when he starts clawing at you, tearing at your clothes with one bare hand and one armored gauntlet. 

Over his shoulder, you see Siarotha standing very still. His staff creaks, metal bending beneath his crushing grip, but he doesn’t intervene. He nudged into your mind and felt your frantic reassurances, your insistence that everything was fine, so he waits. Erghol’s hands scrabble frantically across his own body next, ripping away chunks of armor that dent the metal ground where they fall. He doesn’t remove everything, only what’s in the way; a black loincloth worn over his armor, decorated with dangling chains and bloody hooks. Sections of chest plate, the pieces in the front he can reach most easily. The pelvic section goes last and your breath hitches seeing his skin is bare underneath it. There should be a skin-tight suit underneath, black and striated like muscle, but you can see the frayed edge where it’s been picked and torn away right above the abdomen. 

His cock juts between his legs, obscenely thick and throbbing. He wraps his fist around the base and squeezes, a glob of precum beading at his tip.

He’s done this before, you realize. Returned from a mission and stripped hastily, taking himself in hand and stroking himself to completion. You don’t have to wonder what he thinks about when he does it. The way he looks at you, the slow saunter of his half-lidded gaze down your body, tells you everything you need to know. 

Erghol lifts you without warning. It’s easy for him. Two hands grab you around the middle, lifting without even a grunt of exertion, and then you’re being lowered again. His wide, flared tip slips past your entrance once, twice, and then it prods. Pushes. Forces its way in with a snap of his hips and makes you choke. 

“You,” he growls. A good sign, you think through a haze of pain. He’s verbal again. “You are infuriating.” He lifts you and then forces you down again, forcing his cock deeper. Your hands scrape uselessly over his pauldron and his bare shoulder, the metal ports embedded in his skin, trying to find something to hold onto. “The way you look at me. The way words form on your lips. You have been teasing me. Haunting me.” He slams his other hand against the wall beside your head and it dents, crumpling under his palm. He presses against you and all you can feel is the bulge and ripple of every muscle in his body straining.

“I shouldn’t have worried so much.” Siarotha’s voice is a sensual murmur in your head, a though passed directly between you. You find his blank-faced helm staring at you. The air around him sizzles like a heat haze. “Look at you, being used like a toy. You’re enjoying this. You want him to destroy you.” 

Erghol’s pace is erratic. He’ll bring you down on his cock hard and fast, and then he’ll stop while he’s sheathed inside you, holding you tight and grinding his hips until you whine. He follows no pattern but his own whims, fucking you on just his tip before suddenly impaling you on his whole length. There’s no softness or comfort, nothing to protect your head from slamming back into the wall every time he thrusts up into your tight heat, nowhere to put your legs so they dangle uselessly. You try and fail again to find something to steady yourself, somewhere to put your hands. 

Your nails graze Erghol’s face. It’s just a scratch. It doesn’t even bleed. But you feel him go rigid with tension—with excitement. He pins you to the wall with nothing but his body, the crushing weight of his broad, scarred chest, and seizes the hand that scratched him. His grip is beyond bruising. It’s tearing your skin. It’s making your bones grind together. He leans in close so you can smell the blood on his breath and then he crushes your lips together. The kiss hurts, like everything else. He bites your tongue so hard it bleeds. 

One of his hands presses down on your shoulder, keeping it trapped against the wall. The other starts to pull. His cock drools precum as he grinds against your thigh, searching blindly for your sore entrance. He pulls harder. You feel yourself, flesh and muscle and tendon, stretching in ways you’re not meant to stretch. Harder, and you’re screaming into his mouth. Harder, and there is blood pouring down your back and side, a red puddle trickling into existence below you. There’s a painful-sounding pop and a tearing-grinding-squelching sound almost as awful as the burst of excruciating heat in your shoulder. Erghol thrusts his hips at just the right angle and it catches on the sore, abused muscles of your entrance. You feel him smile against your mouth, hear a pleased groan, and then your world goes spotted and blurry at the edges. 

He buries himself inside you to the hilt. In the same moment, in the same breath, he rips your arm from your body and leaves a gaping, oozing wound behind.

Consciousness flickers. You only catch glimpses of sight and sensation between slow, delirious blinks. Erghol, kissing you. Licking the blood from your mouth. Fucking you, harder and faster than humanly possible. Grunting and cursing, hips straining, thigh muscles taut, as he empties inside you. It’s more cum than your body can handle, foaming up around his engorged length with his last forceful thrusts and sliding slowly down your thighs. His breathing gets slower, and deeper, and finally calmer. 

And then you start to shake. 

It’s an itch. A terrible, bone-deep itch, like you’d have to tear yourself open to reach it. Erghol lets you go gracelessly and you collapse in a heap on the filthy, blood and cum-covered floor, and you can’t stop trembling. “Siarotha!” he shouts, his voice strained. Frightened. You’re held like glass for the second time today. Erghol touches your face but when he pulls his hand away, your skin goes with him. It sloughs away, dangling stringy gristle like melted wax. “Do something!” he cries helplessly.

“It’s alright,” Siarotha says. “They’re just molting.” 

You’re better at this now. Faster than the first time, now that you know what to expect. You twist and writhe like an insect in a chrysalis. You rub against Erghol, all the hard edges and spikes of his armor catching your old flesh. Hearing the calm in Siarotha’s voice soothes him. He watches, entranced. Hesitant, he touches your shoulder and your skin peels like old, rotten wallpaper. He pulls harder and it squelches, a splatter of blood and shimmery Warp juices wetting the floor. Through the hazy mass of your old body, you see his pupils widen again, your gruesome transformation easing the pressure of the Nails on his mind. 

When you emerge, exhausted and glistening, working out the stiffness in your new arm, Siarotha approaches. “How do you feel?” he asks. 

Erghol shakes a sticky clump of old skin and muscle from his hand. “Better,” he says. He looks at the floor, avoiding your gaze. He’s embarrassed, you think. Crying out when he thought he’d killed you has him feeling bashful. “Much better. It won’t last forever, but it’s nice to be clear-headed for a while. This is…fine?” He gestures vaguely to the mess in front of him. You and your molted skin. 

“It’s stable,” Siarotha says, but he’s watching you carefully. “I’m going to keep an eye on it. Get cleaned up, both of you. We need to debrief. You’d better have come back with food.”

Erghol mutters a colorful insult and gets to his feet, grimacing at his scattered armor and the shreds of your clothing. Siarotha conjures you a simple robe to wear, although you sense him running through the Enumerations again when you wipe the cum from your legs with it. 

“Dagger has it,” Erghol says just as you’re leaving. He looks you in the eye this time, unflinching, unblinking, like a dog seeking approval. “The food, I mean. I made sure. He tried to dump it while we were coming back. Said it didn’t matter. Told him I would break every bone in his body if he left it behind.”

“Thank you, Erghol,” you say. He swallows, the muscles in his neck bobbing. His cock twitches and he quickly looks away. 

Siarotha steers you out of the hangar before you can desecrate it again. “I was wrong. Erghol wasn’t the dangerous one. It’s you,” he says. 

“Am I invited to the debriefing now?” you ask. 

He laughs. His hand smooths down your back and then slips lower. “Of course,” he purrs, squeezing your ass. “But first, I think we’re overdue for a private conversation.”

[pipi-un-kaki-in-pipi-land]

it's all just a burning memory

summary: your unexpected death leaves a huge scar on wednesday

tw: mentions of death

No, no. This can't be happening. Wednesday shook your pale body with so much force that if you were alive you would be thrown to the other side of the grass. Your lifeless, pale eyes could only stare up ahead at the cluster of stars that hung in the blood sky as the raven continued her desperate attempt to resuscitate you, but to no avail.

Mose people crowded around your unconscious body, watching Wednesday Fighting a cold war with the heavens to bring your ass back to life. Bianca and the other sirens tried to achieve the same feat the ravenette was trying to, but they all couldn't accept the fact that you were dead.

"I'm sorry, Addams. They're gone," Bianca swallowed thickly, tears starting to fill her siren eyes. "No. No you're not gone, y/n. If you die, I vow to pull you back from the flames of hell and murder you with my own bare hands," Even Wednesday shuddered in fear, her heart aching from the thought of losing you forever.

If she was given infinite lives, she would choose to spend it all with you by her side.

She was given one life and she spent it with you.

But it wasn't long enough.

Tears fell to the ground one after another. She clutched the fabric of your shirt, not wanting to let go.

But even she had to accept the fact that you were gone.

"Rest, y/n," Bianca shut your eyes, shedding a tear as she did so. The battle with Crackstone was already tiring enough for them, but your death just made it even more devastating for the school.

"Let's go, Wednesday," Enid extended an arm to the grieving raven who tried to hold back her tears but failed. The silence was so deep that the police and ambulance sirens could be heard from miles away.

Back at her dorm, tears streamed down both of the girl's faces as Enid pulled Wednesday into a gentle hug.

The goth girl didn't even bother to pull away, your death was the only thing clouding her thoughts right now. "I'm sorry, Wednesday," Enid sobbed uncontrollably onto her sweater, devastated that you were gone.

Both of them couldn't sleep a wink that night.

Few days ago

"y/n. I saw it in a vision. Crackstone's coming soon, and we need to be prepared, " Wednesday said, walking towards your bed.

"Can we fight alongside each other?" you pleaded, a smile beaming on your face.

"No, cara mia. I can't afford to lose you to a ridiculous fight, " She refused, despite knowing how invested you were in finding about the Hyde.

"But I can't risk losing you either, Wed. You mean everything to me, and I don't know what I'd do without you, " you said, looking at her with scrunched eyebrows.

Wednesday never replied you. On the day of the fight, you had unexpectedly pounced on Crackstone but was gashed by his magic and flung to the corridor walls, completely obliterating it.

"Ad...dams..." you mumbled at the raven who was at death's doors, your face bloodied as you lost consciousness.

Wednesday jolted up from the nightmare, her face plastered in sweat.

If only she was stronger, she could've saved you.

But if you weren't there, she could've been the one dead instead.

She wouldn't have minded at all. The sunshine from her life faded out when you were gone.

And she knew that she would never, ever find someone like you again.

Wednesday headed to the balcony and looked down with no fear, wanting to join you so desperately.

"Hey, Addams, " you suddenly said one night, the raven's attention turning to you.

"I'm somehow gone, or whatever, dead, promise me you won't cry, please. I don't want those fragile tears to ruin your pretty face. Just live on without me, " you said, tucking her hair behind her ear.

Wednesday didn't really take it seriously, but now with your presence gone, she finally understood how it felt.

She glanced at the chair in which she played the cello on, portraying the times you would laugh at how you miserably failed to get the hang of the instrument.

Her gaze shifted to the blanket of stars that resembled your embodiment, wondering if tomorrow would ever come.

[megamaster64-comms-open]

Oh boy! It's info dump time!!!! So some context to this image: At one point in time I was going to write a Transformers Fanfiction called Transformers: Armageddon. It would've been a TF x FNaF crossover about Elizabeth, Charlie, and Cassidy coping with the trauma of having survived a battle between the Autobots and Decepticons when they were younger. Charlie grew up to be a neat freak with a fear of blood. Cassidy used alcohol to cope with all of the horrors she had to witness as a kid. And due to Michaels fiery death at the hands of Exhaust, Elizabeth becomes a history teacher to teach kids about the war and to prevent them from joining the military. They would work together with Optimus Prime and a few other former Autobots to stop Shockwave and his bounty hunter cronies from using the matrix of leadership for evil. Now that's just the general plot, the story stars off 20 years in the past. Before the end of the Autobot's war against the decepticons. With a group of children that had survived the onslaught. Banding together in a bunker to survive. Jeremy: The ever cautious leader of the group, always taking steps to make sure his people live. Charlie: A teen turned sentient, undeletable computer virus. All she wants to do for her team is console them psychologically and hack machines. While also aiding them in day to day tasks. Andrew: In short: He is the resident prick/troublemaker. But in the end he cares about his team and will lay down his life for them Susie: The medic of the group, often constantly stressed to the point of a breakdown. Making things worse is the fact that the energon running through their bodies is slowly turning all of them into radioactive monsters. Evan: He got splashed in the face with energon, which destroyed his eyes. However due to some body mods that Susie provided to him and a combat chip inside of his brain he uses a sword very well. Cassidy: She saw her mom get obliterated right in front of her by a plasma blast that was fired by Exhaust. And after she hid in a bunker for 3 months she was discovered by the others and integrated into the team. Bumblebee: He doesn't talk much about his past, just really tries to make sure his team stays happy and stacked up with gear and other resources. Gabriel: He was the leader, and then he died. They would all explore the abandoned pizzaplex to figure out the origin of a distress signal, along the way they would encounter Ravage and the mimic. Eventually coming across the Cybertronian bounty hunter Novakane. I stopped planning there, and just began to focus on the other chapters before scrapping the whole thing, tbh

Remember!: Likes are nice, but they don't do much... Reblogs go a long way and are always appreciated! (P.S. You don't even have to tag a reblog!) And if you want to take it beyond reblogs! You can support me through commissions!

[jessepinwheel]

it's been a long time since I've said anything about parasitic extraction on this blog and I've gotten a lot of followers since and I am currently being haunted by how much I want it to be real and the preposterous amount of work it would take to make it real so I'm gonna talk about it again

parasitic extraction is a role reversal star wars au (reversing the clones and obi-wan) taking place in an alternate universe mandalorian empire (a different one than most mandalorian empire aus take place in).

basically: three hundred years ago, mandalorians were like "hey the jedi are the only things stopping us from taking over the galaxy" so they attacked coruscant and obliterated the jedi temple, then killed or assimilated the survivors, then carved bloody conquest across the rest of the galaxy

now: jango is emperor, with his clone sons cody and rex (older twins) and boba (younger). the mandalorian empire conscripts jedi within the empire to be trained as superior warriors within their military, while the remnants of the old jedi order are in hiding and working to protect young force sensitives from being taken by the empire as well as working with rebellion forces.

jango hates the jedi to a frankly unhealthy degree and so he has a plan to destroy them all: he decides to make 2000 clones of the only jedi they've ever captured alive (obi-wan) in order to create an elite force of psychic agents who can help capture and subdue the jedi and force them to give up the location of their home planet so that he can send a giant space laser over there and wipe them out of existence

these obi-clones are distributed as special agents all across the galaxy--jango has his own personal obi-clone, cody gets one, rex gets one, satine (with bo-katan and friends) get one, pre visla gets one, ursa wren (with padme and ahsoka) get one, etc. but what jango doesn't know is that all these obi-clones have a sort of psychic hive mind thing going on and they are all plotting to take down the mandalorian empire so they can save obi-wan and the jedi

there's a lot more going on (like plots from death watch who want jango dead yesterday and every single mandalorian character's Massive Issues including how Intensely Abnormal jango is about obi-wan in particular) but that's the overall gist of the story

anyways, ask me questions about parasitic extraction I wanna talk about it more

[majougari]

hehe, yes.

★ my first event 5-star was nahida, who turned out to be super meta, but i didn't know that at the time. her archon quest was beautiful and sad, she has a very nice voice, and i just wanted to give her the freedom she deserved. despite her tragic past, she's trying very hard to be a good archon, and i respect her greatly for that.

★ yoimiya is the best girl forever, she has the kindest heart of them all, and she's so very brave. one moment she's playing with local children, the next she's busting a political prisoner out of a torture chamber, helping smugglers or publicly showing polite disrespect to the almighty narukami. she's incredible. also, kansai-ben. ♥

★ wanderer's quest has obliterated my initial dislike of the character, suicidal behavior on such scale is simply irresistable.

★ kamisato ayato is a liar, a trickster and a stepford smiler, AND he is voiced by ishida akira! his position in inazuman government is pretty intriguing, too, since his profile plainly states that he is duty-bound to support great narukami, ignoring his own feelings and opinions.

★ xiao has a very interesting character arc as a war survivor. his storyline has great potential for dramatic and/or hopeful character development.

★ baizhu is a snake-carrying highly suspicious doctor with yusa kouji's voice, what's not to like.

★ yae miko's story quest is beautiful, and she speaks that adorable dialect of elderly people, how could i possibly resist!

★ kaedehara kazuha is a pacifist, a political emigrant and a foreign agent an enemy of the state in inazuma. hurt and sadness in his story and voicelines make him pretty relatable. he's a poet and a loner, and he has an interesting and peculiar worldview.

★ zhongli is the bestest, strongest, cleverest, prettiest character in the world, he's an old lizard man, and a god, and a nerd, and a warlord, and a polite highly-educated weirdo, and i don't care one bit about the quality of his shield.

★ childe is a trickster and a murderous twink, and his death flag count is actually higher than xiao's. i have great interest in the future developments of his arc!

★ tighnari is simply the best character in genshin impact, and dehya is super impressive and smart.

★ i'd like to talk about lisa, or ningguang, or yanfei (gods, her voice is pure magic), or faruzan, or kaveh, or beidou, but this post is terribly long as it is.

(that said, keqing still does all the fighting on my account, and the job of all those fine other characters is to hang out in my teapot looking pretty)