#a study in ichor

[i-will-go-with-you-five]

Have you done any of the venture stories? If not if/when do you plan on doing them? I NEED your reactions. Thanks!

OOOOH YES

I've done only two so far, A Study in Ichor and Rule Britannia. (And I did Season of the Hunter, which is techncially not from Venture but I count it because it's a side story)

I ran A Study in Ichor because of the fanart and GIRLLLLLLLLL I was NOT disappointed. Victorian Sam was EVERYTHING and imagining my Five as Victorian was EVEN MORE SO. From a storytelling perspective, I think it was a tad rushed and it would've benefitted from being longer, but man was it good and I love it.

Rule Britannia was good too. Not as great, the plot was a tad weak, but run to run. Imagning Roman Sam was also awesome, and I loved his ethical strength in this one. Peak greatness.

Buuuuuuuut, from running these two I kinda got minor spoilers for later ZR seasons? I ran Ichor when I was still in S1, so I met a lot of those characters earlier than in the main storyline, and learned about Van Ark and the tone-controlled zombies before I was supposed to. And in Britannia, I met this character Peter who I don't know yet, and now I know that whenever I do meet him, he'll become a traitor and sell us out to someone and maybe sacrifice himself once he's realized his flaws and die? Not major spoilers by any means, not like a hill to die on or anything, and I still greatly enjoyed it even though my brain sussed out future plot points I hadn't gotten too yet, but I think I'm going to wait to do more Venture stuff until I've run more of the main storyline. The Venture stuff that involves our Abel crew as an AU anyway. That way I won't come to realizations about characters who are going to die/betray us/etc before I actually get there.

SEASON OF THE HUNTER THOUGH--- I N C R E D I B L E. Making it a lot longer REALLY made it so so much better. I hope that when/if they do make more Venture stuff they make way more episodes for it, because having that extra time really improved the story. Having us be the 'seed' that got to travel in between different POVs with the Tree in our heads was very interesting and I loved it. Robert was my favorite. I was really disapointed with the ending though.... I really kinda did go 'That's it?'. Their explination was pretty unsatisfying and kinda let down all of the tension that they had built up. I know the point was to be vague and mystical and stuff, but I do think they fumbled the excecution a tad. But what am I doing this is a ZR blog not my literary analysis blog

So yeah, love Venture, wish they were longer but so far they've been good, can't wait to do more, but putting a pin on it for the moment until I've run more seasons. Honestly if anyone has a list or something of how far you have to run the main storyline before running certain ZR storylines to avoid minor spoilers, that would be awesome.

[nokkiart]

Hi! Your gorgeous artwork of your Five and Sam for a Study in Ichor finally motivated me to get the zombies, run! memvership, so i can listen to that au

In the post you said that you got a ton of headcanons for that AU? I'd love to hear some if you want to share ^^

Ohmygosh what a compliment! Thank you so much! I hope you're enjoying listening to the AU!

And luckily for you, I mashed up a bunch of my headcanons into a story called "Ashes of Ambrosia"! It's a mystery romance story following the events of "A Study in Ichor".

You can read it here: https://archiveofourown.org/series/3163977

(But I will warn you that there are major spoilers for "A Study in Ichor" in it. So don't read Ambrosia until you've finished listening to Ichor!)

And if you want to see any of my art based around both stories, you can browse thru the "a study in ichor" tag on my profile. Here's some previews of the art thats in there ^^

Anyway I hope you'll enjoy all my ZR nerdiness! XD

[robynhoodrunner]

I swear, I thought I got done with the emotional episodes! I just finished the 4th episode of A Study in Ichor and the feels!😭😭😭Sam was crying and I can't give him a hug!

(Spoilers under because I REALLY NEED TO GET THIS OUT)

Paula and Maxine! The poor babies! I mean, not great foresight on Paula's side(then again, she probably thought she saw something in the stories of zombies), but STILL SHE JUST WANTED HER GIRL BACK!

And Sam's letter! I nearly started crying, he sounded so sad!

I swear, if I don't get to have a go at Van Ark in the next episode, I'm gonna write a fanfic SPECIFICALLY TO BEAT HIM UP.

[korrolrezni]

Barely the first meeting and Sam invites you to live together with him.

My, my, Mr. Yao! Aren't you a bold one-- wait, did you just say Lord Ernest Van Ark?

[sle3py-los3r]

I decided to draw some lambs in their original styles!

Originally I planned to put my own spin on them but.... Sometimes I think I'm a little to good at mimicking art styles?????

I almost don't even like how similar I drew Stychu-stych's lamb-

Original creators (In order): @stychu-stych , @bamsara , @aveloka-draws

[automatonwithautonomy]

SORRY!! sorry. sherlock holmes canonically fucks around on his violin then plays watson's favourites to make up for it no ever tell me he isn't SO NICEYS

[spotaus]

I love when I start my own drafts with the phrase "Do a thing with [Character] and [Character] where [Scenario]" because I've learned I'll forget my premise halfway through typing otherwise.

[twilightichor]

◜In the perpetual meantime of sheltered eternity, most are content to live and not to dream. But in the hidden corners where the gods' gaze does not fall, there are those who dream of dreaming.◞

𝐗𝐗. It's hard to believe that even these words would have an actual meaning one day, and it seems to slowly come in full circle with a very special weapon lore. This is just one example of other crumbs spread through the story that bring more context while leaving unanswered questions behind all the same.

“O Leader of Khaenri’ah’s noble families, the crimson shadow of the moon has long fallen into the abyssal sky, your bloodline too has gone blind in one eye after all.” [...] This was during the faraway times when the shine of the pitch-black sun did not yet cover the whole underground, and the ancient honorable clan ruled the vast kingdom.

The thought that the bloodline of the king of this time is notorious for being blind in one eye during the era of the Crimson Moon Dynasty —gentle reminder that this was when birds had yet to be classified between wild and otherwise as per human standards and, as the first dynasty of Khaenri'ah, this is set around the Apocalypse— and that the last king of Khaenri'ah during the Eclipse Dynasty is depicted to have one eye also is really interesting. It comes to speak how long-lasting this clan was.

The priests, stubborn and old-fashioned, convinced the decrepit muddle-headed king to believe that the Crimson Moon’s corpse up in the sky was the master of all, dictating and governing everything; Because the color and lustre of the moonlight was flowing through the veins of the ordinary mortal, the source of the darkness that was hidden at the abyssal bottom too must be the Crimson Moon.

For being a kingdom whose foundation is their lack of belief in gods —and profanity, as such—, it's curious to see how these people place their faith in other asters, entities or abstract concepts such as the Crimson Moon in this case, but the Abyss later on as well. The notion that the lustre of the moonlight is known for flowing through these people's veins brings me back to the Pale Princess and Six Pygmies tale that talks about the Kingdom of the Moonlight Forest, described to be born with fair skin, light-colored hair and bright blue eyes. If we're to think about Gold who lived during this era and the possibility that Albedo was created in her image, this description from the book may have some credence in the real lore. Moreover, there is another character connected to Khaenri'ah that hits the mark with these descriptive traits, that is Dain.

It is also curious that the darkness that is hidden at the very bottom part of the Abyss is believed to stem from the Crimson Moon, which isn't entirely far-fetched. This moon is highly likely one of the moon sisters that passed away in the disaster that befell then (although it's inconclusive if it's the same moon corpse that shines in Teyvat or is a different one) and, as per Skirk's words, those who die leave curses behind. These words stand true if we take examples such as Orobashi or what Hu Tao described that happened prior to the establishment of the funeral parlor.

As such, it was only proper for the King of Mankind to name himself after the Crimson Moon. Just as the light and flame of the two realms, ruling over impermanent fate.

The concept of two realms is highly intriguing, as well as the two of them harboring a light and flame. These realms are probably different from the realms mentioned in the event that happened in Enkanomiya, which mentioned the Light Realm (or realm of the elements / Vishap Realm), Human Realm and Void Realm. The measure of these two realms seems to be different in order to differentiate them. Nevertheless, it is interesting to bring up the mention of a beast realm as per Narzissenkreuz / René's claim that someone opened it.

Thus, the humans who sought transcendence built countless magnanimous towers, and prayed upon the long dead Crimson Moon to bring them salvation.

The transcendence term isn't new, specially when thinking back what the Crystal said during the Caribert AQ— words claiming about becoming a transcendent one. And perhaps not unrelated to this, within the neo-human project of the Narzissenkreuz Ordo there was a manner of transcendence achieved by Jakob and René, as their bodies had a composition that is similar to that of Khvarena but opposing at the same time and different to Carter, a normal mortal. Moreover, considering that the form Jakob took is that of an Iniquitous Baptist and another NPC from the questline of Khvarena of Good and Evil took pride in becoming an Abyss Herald, alongside the fanaticism that was present in Khaenri'ah for the Abyss, it isn't unreasonable to think that for these people, transcendence is being one of these creatures (mages, heralds, baptists). Whether this is the transcendence they sought or something different is inconclusive, albeit not incompatible.

Another point of interest is the premise of praying for salvation from an unknown variable: it could be that these people live in a more hospitable place one day, devoid of the dangers that spill from the Abyss and the overall poor state of the land that is incompatible with life; it could be from the very gods who the founders of Khaenri'ah ran away from; the concept of fate; who knows if a combination of all of them or an entirely different aspect yet to be introduced.

[This lasted] Until the astronomers, who were shunned as heretics, glimpsed the source of the fate of everything in the world in the reflection of the false sky, [This lasted] Until suspicion and anger grew like an inextinguishable wildfire, and ravaged the dreamless land, ultimately reaching the moon-colored high palace…

The false sky. Another concept introduced very early on in the story during the Unreconciled Stars event that chronologically-wise, it's been known about for even longer. And yet, this very knowledge seems to be one of the reasons why these astronomers were shunned as well as one of the reasons why something occurred in Khaenri'ah. Perhaps related to this newly-learned knowledge that people couldn't accept, that shook the foundations of everything they believed in. Whatever happened at this moment of time, it caused the nigh-extinction of this race of people.

In honor to the prelude of this post, the confirmed notion that Khaenri'ah is a dreamless land and that its people dream of dreaming perhaps because they can't to begin with. It's interesting when putting them in juxtaposition with those who live in Teyvat, maybe because they live "easier" lives if compared to Khaenri'ah, as they're submitted to the gods and their help which, unfortunately, comes at a steep price.

By the time the pitch-black sun shone upon all, the name of the Crimson Moon faded just like its color, and its tainted remains were only left with the title of Balemoon. No matter if they were the “impure” who suffered the curse, or if they were the “spotless” yet untouched by fate, no one still claimed themself to be a follower of the moon’s corpse.

Another mystery is explained, even if partially, when the notion that the opposite of impure who can't suffer from the same curse (of the wilderness), allegedly the pure-blood Khaenri'ahns are untouched by fate. Considering all the layers of relevance fate has in Teyvat, going as far as being connected to the Heavenly Principles and the constellations (except for Neuvi at the very least), this is groundbreaking to even think about. At the same time, I can't help but wonder what exactly makes the pure-blood Khaenri'ahn pure-blood besides not being tainted by fate or by the curse.

Only very few managed to evade the clan-extinguishing disaster, and hid themselves in the shadows where the Black Sun could not reach, waiting for the Crimson Moon to offer recompense in the name of revenge. But in the end, that so-called recompense had not yet arrived when the Black Sun too fell due to the same foolishness and arrogance. When the destruction came again, the only one left laughing was the moonlight that fell upon the sun’s shadow of which only ashes remained.

It's interesting the thought that besides the astronomers branded as heretics for acquiring the knowledge of the sky being false, there are others of this race of people —the few who survived— that wanted nothing to do with the Eclipse / Black Sun dynasty and that whatever happened, they want to seek revenge on them. This is further demonstrated with the personification of, supposedly, the Crimson Moon laughing at the Eclipse Dynasty fall when the Cataclysm happened.

“Fate, o Fate, terrifying and pale-white fate, why would you go so far as to submit to the savage and wilful usurping monarch,” “If the corpse of the Balemoon has already anchored death upon you, then what meaning is there in seeking revenge for old blood feuds,” “If the fate she has woven mocks us so, then there is no harm for us to loudly mock fate too,” “Until the fragmented shadows of the Cinder Sun incinerate the old world, until the Crimson Moon witnesses the pure, spotless break of dawn.”

Lastly, it intrigues me the prospect that something abstract as fate isn't one and the same, but it differs depending on who weaves it or on the entity it submits to. From Dain's perspective, it's particularly sad the thought that he was searching for his destiny alongside the abyss twin when they found each other in Sumeru. The reason being not because he had one and lost it alongside the kingdom's fall, but more because... as a pure-blood Khaenri'ahn, he never had a fate to begin with. Which in a way can be positive considering all the problems fate gives in this world and at the hands it is enacted, and inspiring coming from him to be master of his own fate as he wishes on everyone else and that he's actively working on.

[phosphoresccent]

the final battle (drabble)

“Monster.” Xephos just drove his sword in further, until he could feel the rough scape of bone against the diamond blade. “Monster.”

“I’m not the monster.” his voice was rough and snarling, his teeth ached in his jaw. He could taste blood and not all of it was his own. “You’ve slaughtered thousands - you’ve killed Honeydew and I dozens of times. You’re the monster.” 

Israphel laughed, blood burbling down his face. “I have.” his voice was rusty with disuse, just like Xephos’. He hadn’t even know Israphel could talk. Honeydew was across the battlefield, no longer overrun as the monsters under Israphel's command lost their unnatural strength and intellect. Xephos tore his eyes away from his friend, willing Israphel to just die, to let this all end. “I killed him to free him from us.” 

His red eyes dimmed, and the now limp body slipped off Xephos’ sword, its caustic blood prickling at his hands. Xephos fell to his knees, his own wounds catching up to him as his mission lay completed in front of him. The golden detailing of their coats glittered tauntingly in the torchlight. 

Us. 

Honeydew would be fine. There weren’t many mobs left, and they’d taken out the archers hours ago. But it would take him time. Time that Xephos may not have, his own bright red blood mixing with the tar-like ichor that had spilled from Israphel, that stained his coat. Black and red. Red and black. 

The Hero’s Blessing kept them alive to fight Israphel. It may not last beyond this moment. 

It might be better if it didn’t.

[reginrokkr]

𝐗𝐗𝐈𝐈𝐈. With the appearance of Ronova, her overall presence and the environment being all veiled in an ominous red, big reasons to think that she was the one present in Khaenri'ah during the era where the crimson moon was worshipped and thus the Crimson Moon Dynasty was the ruler appeared:

The dogmatic priests convinced the muddle-minded king upon the throne that the remnants of the Crimson Moon in the sky ruled all, For it is the color of the moonlight that flows beneath mortal flesh, and the darkness hidden within the bottom of the abyss shall too emerge from the Crimson Moon. This being so, the king of humanity should take upon himself the name of the Crimson Moon, and by the light and flame of two worlds judge fickle fate. Thus they yearned for transcendent individuals to build countless glorious towers, and prayed for the long-dead Crimson Moon to bring them salvation.

As per their convictions, one extended belief that reached the last of Khaenri'ah's days was that from the crimson moon they'd get the abyssal power they always craved for in order to topple the gods. Which is ironic thinking about the arguably dark vibes Ronova gave herself as possessing abyssal origins to some extent as well as the curse of immortality due to its similar symptoms and signs to abyssal exposure.

Moreover, moving to the Perinheri book collection:

Perhaps it was the fear brought on by the darkness combined with hunger and exhaustion, but Perinheri did indeed see an illusion. The crimson moon, hanging high in the pitch-dark night sky, suddenly turned around, revealing itself to be a titanic, horrified eye.

Besides the point that this may look like a vague description at most that can or cannot be an exaggeration for literal purposes of the book, there is one thing that connects deeply with the mystery behind the fall of the Crimson Moon Dynasty as a plausible reason why it happened in the first place:

Until the astrologists branded as heretics glimpsed in the inverted image of the false sky the origin of all the world's fate, Until the unquenchable flames of doubt and fury blazed across the dreamless realm like wildfire, finally burning to the moonlight-hued palace itself...

As it's customary of Khaenri'ah, there were those who learned the truth about the origin of all fate and as a result, they were branded as heretics due to the disbelief of the rest. Nevertheless, the entire society fell into an uproar that included the assassination of many of these people and the eventual fall of the Crimson Moon Dynasty, soon to be replaced by the Eclipse Dynasty after that. So let's put ourselves into perspective: we have a kingdom that was purposefully founded in a place where the gods' gaze doesn't reach, formed a belief that goes against the gods and worshipped the crimson moon only to find out that this same crimson moon was none other than a god— actually, one of the shades of the God King that started it all. It would understandingly cause an existential crisis and the people would seek to deviate into a different direction as fast as possible.

By the time of the blackened sun, the name of the Crimson Moon had long faded along with the crimson that had flowed. Only the epithet "Balemoon" remained to stain the lingering detritus. Whether the unclean who suffered from the curse, or those unblemished ones not yet tainted by fate, none would again consider themselves a follower of the moon's remnants. Few survived the utter destruction of their kind, hiding in the shadows where the sun did not shine, longing for the Crimson Moon to decree their desire for vengeance be repaid—

Neither those who continued in the kingdom under the newly-established Eclypse Dynasty nor those who survived and exiled themselves somewhere else continued to worship the crimson moon, and the name they're referred to is derogatory at best in the memory of foolishly worshipping a god. Furthermore, either this event in specific or something else caused the crimson moon's departure as well until the last moments of Khaenri'ah during the burst of the Cataclysm where the moon came back.

And not only that, it was confirmed that the author of the curse of immortality was Ronova herself, which further incentives the thought that she was present as the crimson moon in Khaenri'ah millennia ago. As punishment for weaponizing the Abyss (which it's now known that it's the fault that led to Khaenri'ah's ruin and punishment), Ronova came again. However, there is an interesting passage in Dain's introduction narrated by Vedrfolnir that insinuates her taking revenge on the Eclipse dynasty:

The original calamity had been overturned, yet the island in the sky set the earth to burn. Chalk pursues gold, in this time inopportune, [the eclipse is swallowed by the crimson moon / the crimson moon takes revenge on the eclipse].

Which could be either seen through by cursing all the Khaenri'ahns, no matter if they were to blame or not for using the abyssal power too (as per Thrain's words, most of the people didn't know about its exploitation by the Five Sinners and Dain's fond words for Khaenri'ah despite his evident distaste for what the Abyss Order (many of which are Khaenri'ahns that had transcended into abyssal creatures) seem to attest as much) or something entirely different that wasn't revealed yet.

Lastly, knowing all of this, it's understandable that the survivors of the Crimson Moon Dynasty would feel petty about those of the Eclipse Dynasty and wanted nothing to do with them, as what they said was true and even so they were annihilated and chased away of the kingdom only to... not do things any better than they used to.

[earthtooz]

x : HOUSE OF CARDS :*+ﾟ

in which: for as long as you remember, sunday covers his eyes when he cries.

warnings: 1.5k words, fluff with elements of angst, kind of follows canon- not exactly though, sunday cries gold because i said so, based on his character stories, gn!reader who is an observer to the complexity that is sunday's lcharacter

a/n: an attempt into studying sunday was made- i don't think i hit the hammer on the nail quite right, but i tried, i mainly just wanted to celebrate him + his lc coming home YAY. i wish i had more time to let the outline of this marinate, but i couldn't see it being any better than it's current state, so apologies if this isn't the best or most eloquent read of your life.

Sunday had a habit of covering his eyes with his wings when he cried.

He didn’t cry often, but you would know when he did whenever his feathers pressed against his face, hiding his golden eyes and the ichor they’d shed front he world, not allowing anyone to see the depths of his soul, the magnitude of his suffering. 

The first time he did this was at the young age of nine, a fledgling barely a decade in to the tapestry of life. It happened after he fell over while chasing you and Robin around in Gopher Wood���s gardens, knee scraping against concrete and skin peeling in the process, resulting in a nasty scratch, and his wings fluttered to cover his face almost immediately, even stifling his sniffles as traces of golden tears streamed down his cheeks, dripping onto his clothes.

He bared himself to you not too long after, the tears and snot drying as you tended his wound with Robin singing him a comforting lullaby.

These were the innocent tears of childhood, none of you yet changed by the harsh realities that fate would guide your paths on.

The second time was after his first music class.

It seemed Robin stole the affinity for singing from him as their music teacher berated him, likening his voice to that of a ‘duckling’, comparable to the sound of nails on chalkboard. A 12 year old Sunday was sent out of class not too long after, the start of a tantrum beginning to take place as his eyes welled up and began sniffling, fists and wings clenched.

You come to his aid not too long after, having heard the commotion and wandering over, but when he saw you, he ducked out of your sight and covered his eyes with his wings, splaying them over his face. They were larger now and capable of covering the expanse of his head, only exposing his forehead and chin as you tried to console him.

“Hey, it’s okay!” You coo, rubbing his shoulder comfortingly. “Mr. Big Guy tells me your piano playing is amazing and that you’re a real prodigy, Sunday!”

The sniffles halt momentarily. “Really?” His wobbly voice had asked.

“Yeah! He’s proud of you, and you should be proud of that too!”

He bares himself to you, glassy golden eyes looking into you, trying to seek comfort in the familiarity of your friendliness and company. “You mean it?” 

“Of course!”

“Then… are you proud of me too, Y/n?”

“I’m always proud of you, dummy, now stop crying and cheer up!”

“You’re right,” he chuckles, wiping his face with the back of his hand as his other went to grasp yours. “I shouldn’t let that witch get to me.”

“Sunday! Be respectful of your teachers!”

Despite how often the grey-haired boy would listen to your whims and wishes, he never stopped calling his vocal teacher a witch or anything along the variant. It displeased you every time, but the most you would punish him with was a gentle slap on the arm and a scowl that would melt away as soon as he’d share his giantmoa pudding tarts with you.

A few months after that shared moment, Sunday had begun taking the Family lessons from the Bronze Melodia. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, he had dreamed of being an influence that would change Penacony and its Dreamscape for the better, and now it was finally his moment- his calling to the world had finally been heard, and they answered with a path that was of utmost righteousness and virtue. 

However, as he took more lessons, learned more about the ways of the Family, he grew into someone else. 

The third time you saw him cry was when you received the news that Robin was shot. A bullet wound to the neck, it was a miracle that she survived, but Sunday was inconsolable, even whilst knowing that she was alive, just on another planet. The distance was akin to torture because no matter how desperately he wished to be by her side, he couldn’t cross it while shackled to his duties in Penacony, so the spirit of the elder brother rested in your arms and cried. 

He sobbed quietly into your shoulder, wings covering his eyes as the two of you sit on the floor, a hauntingly beautiful image of despair as his limbs intertwined with yours. Sunday had collapsed on you the moment you welcomed him into your embrace, the ability to hold himself up being too much to stomach after knowing that he could have lost his sister. 

He cries until your limbs grow pins and needles, until you begin to feel weak under the weight of his grief and your own, until you feel the puddle of tears on your clothes drying. 

Gloved hands hold onto you tightly, and he knew something then and there.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispers, breath shuddering as despair rolls off him in waves, and Sunday removes his face from your shoulder, a cold look of determination staring up at you. “I must protect you, I must shield your happiness too so that we may never suffer again.”

“What?”

His words are incomprehensible to you at this point, and they sound akin to the ramblings of a mad man. “You will never struggle to be happy again, I will give you everything you need- I see it now, Y/n. The strong must guide the weak, for who else will they seek solace in?”

Realisation seeps into your bones like ice. After so many confessionals, so many witnesses of humanity at its most helpless, he has grown nihilistic, devoid of hope towards the resilience of human beings. Still, he yearns to help. Yearns to help people thrive even though he does not truly believe in things getting better, and shoulders this impossible fight by himself. 

The sweet boy you once knew has hardened his defences, fortified his walls and relentlessly chased the most obscure path of Harmony: Order. Destroyed himself under the belief of being responsible for creating a painless reality for humanity, and you witnessed the catalyst for Sunday’s own dismantling whilst he was laid on your lap. 

You haven’t seen him cry since that day. He no longer hides himself behind his wings because he no longer gives himself a moment to mourn. Devastation is engrained in every fibre of his being. 

Now, when he plays the piano for you, you don’t hear the melodic tune of the most important person in your life- you hear a complex piece of toil and struggle. When you sit next to him on the piano stool, you watch the dexterity of his fingers and how his face remains serenely calm whilst playing the hardest sonata known to man, acclimatized to the toughest scenarios that even the polished wood of the piano won’t warp his pristine image. 

Then, when he is finished, you lay your head on his shoulder as you shower him with praises, searching for a familiar fragment of him that you can grasp onto. However, all you find is a shard of bittersweet longing when he turns to place a dainty kiss on the top of your head.

Everyday before the Charmony Festival, you feel like you know him less and less. He won’t even touch the giantmoa pudding tarts you leave on his desk. 

The fourth time you see Sunday cry, he is a changed man.

After exiling himself from Penacony, you naturally grow to ache for his presence. At least Robin has returned to you and will share conversations about the mysterious future of her older brother, sometimes you cry together, over him and also over other things, but at the core of all your emotions is how badly you miss him. You miss him as you overlook Penacony’s Grand Theatre, you miss him in all the old desserts you used to love together, you miss him when you think about him. 

Letters are infrequent and never quite soothe the emptiness, but you hope that in some vast corner of the universe, he is discovering a sense of peace he could never have here. The events of the Charmony Festival still make you cringe, but knowing that he is with the kind souls of the Astral Express relieves you.

In fact, you have half a mind to be rather jealous- you want to be exploring the stars as well.  

However, he comes back to you after countless moons.

You run into him where you least expect to, on the streets of Penacony, under the vibrant advertisements for SoulGlad, Hanu’s Advertisement, and Robin’s latest album. Under the blinding neon monstrosity of Penacony’s main street, you are swept into the arms of a man who you have missed for countless moons, who you have thought of as the weeks turn into months, who you fell in love with since the time he scraped his knee after falling on pavement. 

And this time, he doesn’t cover his eyes as liquid gold drips down his cheek.

You forgot how unfairly pretty of a crier he is, but you don't have time to think about it as he pulls you close and rejoices on your lips. There's a small whimper that escapes you when you feel his tears fall on your skin, but your hands crawl up to the collar of his coat to keep him close so you can keep catching them.

His gloved hands come to rest on your cheeks in kind, stubborn to not let you stray too far again.

He tastes like giantmoa pudding tarts. 

“I’ve missed you,” you whisper between kisses. 

He responds by pressing you closer and pouring his devotion into your mouth.

© EARTHTOOZ 2024, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site.

[pascalispretty]

each man's mad desire

General Marcus Acacius x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Marcus Acacius is a conqueror. You invite him to conquer you.

Word Count: 3.8k

Tags: marcus fucks a nymph, predator/prey, knifeplay, blood, thigh riding, rough sex, sorta consensual-non-consent? Reader very explicitly wants him and invites him to hunt her down. Marcus has an unfashionably huge dick.

A/N: I swore I wasn't going to write for another character from an unreleased film, yet here we are. I loved studying Classics, so there are easter eggs within for those familiar with mythology. "Nymph" is more Greek than Roman, but it's also the better-known version of the word. Barcinus is a completely made-up cognomen for him (from the Latin name for Barcelona). Ichor is a Greek concept, but too delicious not to borrow here. Big dicks really were considered unattractive - it was a sign of barbarism to have a big penis. Title from Book IX of The Aeneid. Painting is 'The Charmer' by John William Waterhouse. (ao3)

The battle is won, the men are settled, and General Marcus Acacius is restless. He wears the efforts of the day in the blood and grime and sand coating his skin, the ache in his muscles. The city is retaken. The barbarians have been slaughtered or captured. He knows he should rest.

And yet, he wanders.

The camp is close by the beach. As he walks, the sound of the army behind him fades away, drowned out by the sound of the sea. The inviting aroma of the campfires and roasting meat is replaced by the smell of salt. There are sentries out here, somewhere in the night. He pays them no mind; he wishes to be alone. Grass turns to sand underfoot and still Acacius walks on. At the edge of the sea, he pauses briefly.

Across the Great Sea, to the east, stands Rome. It’s veiled by darkness and distance, but he turns to look for it anyway. He misses it the way a loyal son misses a beloved father. Word of a great victory will travel before him, the whispers moving faster than any army can.

When he returns home, he hopes he will be warmly welcomed. Those seeking to ride his skirts into Imperial favour will doubtless fall over themselves to praise him, at least. They will preen and flatter, and he will nod humbly and thank them.

“The Gods were with me.” It is always his answer, when asked of his victories. It is a clean answer. Men praise him for his piety; they do not imagine the lives he has sacrificed, the atrocities he has committed, the horrors of sacking a city. The Gods were with him; he does not have to speak of loosing his men like feral dogs upon innocents, of slaughtering barbarian sons so they cannot grow up to seek their vengeance on Rome.

Acacius turns and walks down the beach, leaving the camp behind him. The silvery light of the stars and moon light his path along the coast. He simply enjoys being away from all others, the crash of the waves and his own footsteps the only noise he can hear. The ground to his right begins to rise, soft grass yielding to rock. He has no sense of how long he has walked for when the beach before him suddenly ends. The shoreline curves sharply inward, creating a rocky inlet.

He has no desire to turn back now. Perhaps the path reemerges on the other side. He follows the curve of the stone inward. Ahead, he can see the path sloping down towards the waterline, leading towards the dark mouth of a cave. The tide is coming in; the water at the entrance to the grotto must be at least knee-deep.

Acacius is turning to leave when he notices her.

The inlet in the rock forms a pool at the entrance to the cave. Even in the silvery moonlight, the water looks beautiful and clear. It should not surprise him that a maiden might come to bathe there, away from prying eyes.

For it is a maiden that stops him in his tracks, fixes his boots to the stone. Her back is turned to him; she is perched atop a rock, her bare feet dangling in the saltwater of the pool. Now that he is aware of her, he thinks he hears her singing over the sounds of the waves, a melody he does not recognise.

An honourable man would depart. Acacius can only see her back, but she must be noble. Her dress is so white it is almost blinding, even in the starlight. Her feet are bare, but he spies a pair of finely-wrought sandals on the rocks beside her. Certainly a noble lady then.

His mind is made up to leave.

And at that very moment, she turns.

***

You had not expected to be discovered. Perhaps you might have toyed with him if you had. You could have disguised yourself as a maiden in need of assistance, a princess cast ashore by a shipwreck. There are endless amusements to be found among the mortals.

Yet he has stumbled upon your grotto quite by accident, and from your first glimpse, he intrigues you.

Marcus Acacius Barcinus.

Something whispers his name to you; you know it as soon as you see him, just as you know he has dark hair threaded with grey. You allow a smile to play on your lips.

To his credit, this man does not move. Confronted with something so nakedly celestial, other men have lost their minds. What is it for a man to look upon the face of the divine? They do not always survive it. This one seems strong. He may yet survive you.

“Hail, noble General,” you start, turning in your seat on the rock so you may face him more directly. He is a handsome one. His lovely dark eyes drink you in from head to toe.

“You know me?” He manages after a moment. Not mad then, not yet anyway. You laugh, and he seems startled by the sound.

“I do.” Sliding off the rock you step into the water, your stola clinging to your skin. “General Marcus Acacius Barcinus, son of Gaius Acacius. Your piety is known.” He is always attentive with his sacrifices. You can smell the burning flesh and spilled wine dedicated to the heavens from here, in honour of his latest victory.

You take a few steps towards him. He’s still atop the rocky crest, almost looking down on you. You near the base of the slope, your skirts drying the moment they leave the water, and halt again. The mouth of the grotto is to your back; you can hear the lap of the waves echoing against the rocky walls.

“And which noble goddess do I have the honour of addressing?” He asks. You have many names, too many to sift through. A mortal wrote you into a poem once; you give him the name the poet gave you.

“I had not thought ever to look upon a nymph before.” There is something in the way he says it; a tone of disbelief colouring his voice. It’s as though he expects to wake up in his tent at any moment. In the dark violet light of twilight, the blood on his skin looks brown and rusty. You can almost taste the iron on the air.

“Are you content merely to look?” You ask him, a sly smile on your lips. You already know he is not. This man is a conqueror, and he is looking at you with all the intensity and desire of a man set upon conquest. He does not speak for a long moment. Perhaps he is afraid of offending you, of saying the wrong thing and finding himself transformed into a pig or sea foam.

You walk a little closer to him, emerging from the water. Closer now, the smell of him drowning out the salt of the sea. He reeks of man, of blood and sweat and such pure vitality you nearly stagger. He’s so breathtakingly alive. If all mortal men are thus, you understand why your sisters seek them out and take them to bed, even bear their children.

“I admire a man who knows how to take what he desires. A conqueror in all things,” you continue, feeling the warmth of his gaze as he watches the sway of your hips. Once you are an arm’s length away from him, you reach out. You cannot help it. He’s such a marvellous specimen of manhood, the kind that ought to be honoured with a kingdom or a divine son or his form traced in the stars.

He does not stop you when you rest your palm against the leather of his cuirass. It’s warm to the touch, whether from the heat of his body or a day of the sun beating down upon it. The black leather has a gilded woman’s face across the front; Minerva perhaps. It gives you pause. If he values Minerva and her strategies above Mars and his frenzy, he may not enjoy your games.

Nevertheless, you will not let the tastes of mortal men unnerve you. He watches you as you undo the knot at one shoulder, and wordlessly reaches to help you. Together, the two of you free him from his heavy armour. As he sets it down gently against the rock, you nearly choke on him. You can hear the thrum of his heart, smell the salt of his sweat, the iron in his blood.

You have never starved. Yet this conqueror of men is like being blessed with a feast and realising for the first time that you have been dying of hunger all your life. Freed from his heavy leathers, you step so closely to him that your glimmering white dress brushes against his filthy red tunic. You reach out to cup his jaw, enjoying the way his skin feels to your touch.

He swallows thickly, his lovely eyes searching your face.

“I want you.” He says it simply, though you know it must have taken courage. Men have died for such insults before. You let a smile curl around your lips.  

“Mars himself had my maidenhead. I do not submit easily to the advances of men.” Standing on tiptoe, you lean in until your lips nearly touch the shell of his ear. “If you want me, you will have to take me.”

It’s all the prompting you give him before you turn and run.

You run down the beach, back the way he came. You have more powerful kin who could outrun him with ease, if they chose. Minerva could be a continent away in moments, if she chose. You do not have their same powers; you might be fleeter of foot than a mortal woman, but you cannot transform yourself into a swan and fly back to the heavens.

Behind you, you hear Acacius’ feet pounding against the sand. The noise blurs with the roar of his heartbeat, thumping harder as he chases you. You run faster, pulling your skirts up with one hand so they cannot tangle around your legs. It has been far too long since you felt this exhilarated. Off in the distance, you can see the lights of his camp, the torches and bonfires burning brightly in the twilight.

You lose yourself to the chase, paying the distance no mind as you race down the beach. Sand flies up beneath your bare feet, gritty under your toes as you run. Something in you wants to turn around, to see if the handsome general is still close behind you. You can hear him well enough to know he is behind you, but not well enough to gauge the distance.

You don’t look. You only run.

Even though you had invited the hunt, desperately hoping to be caught, the hand that catches your waist surprises you. He seizes you by the waist and tackles you into the sand, pinning you beneath his muscular bulk. The feeling of being trapped sends a perverse thrill racing through you, something warm stirring in your belly.

Though he has caught you, you do not give in so easily.

You thrash underneath him, trying to throw him off you. Acacius is unyielding. His large hands grip your arms; his knees squeeze at your sides. You get one arm free and bring it up. You’re not sure what you intend to do; you don’t want to break him. Scratch him, perhaps? You never get the chance to find out.

Before you see him move, he seizes your arm and pins your wrist beneath his foot. One hand flies to your throat; the other draws a dagger from its sheath and holds the point against the swell of your breast.

For a long moment, you cannot breathe. The large hand at your throat squeezes just enough to threaten a loss of air. The foot on your wrist makes the delicate bones there grind together on just the right side of pleasure-pain. And oh, the blade at your heart. The tip pierces your skin and you don’t know whether to scream or cry or vomit from the shock.

You have never been so still in your life.

When has anything mortal ever pierced your skin? When has anything mortal managed to cut through the skin of your kith and kin? You have vague memories; bandaging Mars’ side after the great spearman Diomedes struck him outside Ilium. You watch in horror and awe as a bead of ichor seeps from the pinprick wound. Mars has made you bleed before, but you never thought a mortal might draw your glittering, golden blood.

You look up at him, your conqueror. He is panting hard, but his face shows no exhaustion; only determination. His eyes are nearly black with desire, and his lovely black and grey curls are damp with sweat. Gods, you want him. You want him to hunt you down as he would a deer, to throw you down and take you like some common mortal whore.

Watching you closely, Acacius eases his grip on your throat. A man used to gauging the weakness of his enemies has seen right through you in turn. He knows you do not need air to breathe. He knows he has done something astounding in the knife at your breast. He holds it steady as he reaches beneath the skirts of his tunic, pulling at the strings of his underthings. He pulls it free with a grunt and discards it beside you in the sand.

Free from its confinement, his manhood pushes against the skirt of his tunic. Something low in your belly twists in anticipation, slick coating the insides of your thighs. Your blood feels as though it’s boiling beneath your skin as Acacius grips the fine cloth of your stola in one filthy hand.

“You are the most beautiful thing I have ever laid eyes upon,” he tells you, in all sincerity. You tremble underneath him as he pushes your skirts up around your waist, another bead of ichor welling up around the tip of the blade.

You gasp as the metal shifts, and his eyes flick to your face. Almost lovingly, his hand wraps around your throat again.

“Do you yield?” When no reply is immediately forthcoming, he presses his advantage. The hand at your throat and foot at your wrist push harder; more glittering blood beads at your breast. The surface tension finally breaks, sending the blood dripping down towards your neck.

“I yield.” In an instant, he relaxes his hold. The foot on your wrist disappears, as does the blade. The hand on your throat remains, tipping your head up so he can kiss you. He kisses like his master, Mars; hard and demanding. You return the kiss with bruising intensity, nipping at his lower lip. It seems only fair that you make him bleed a little, in turn.

His beard prickles against your skin, and you answer it by sliding your hand into his curls and pulling roughly. Acacius groans against your mouth, crushing himself closer to you and forcing your legs apart with his knee. His muscular thigh presses against your bare cunt, the pressure sending liquid fire dancing through your body. You rut up against his thigh eagerly, your slick smearing against his skin.

Acacius notices your movements, breaking off the kiss to stare at you. The raw lust in his eyes makes you keep going, rocking your hips desperately against him. His thigh flexes between your legs, and you groan loudly. Without taking his eyes off you, his hand drifts to cup your breast, tantalisingly close to the tiny wound on your unblemished skin.

“Are you going to stab me again, slayer of men?” You ask him, tauntingly. You wouldn’t mind if he did.

“No, dear mistress. I’ll watch you debase yourself on my thigh.” Oh, you want to keep him. Your sisters have kept mortals before; you remember well the fuss around sweet Hylas, cunning Ulysses. Your conqueror finds your nipple through the fine material of your dress, the flesh stiffening beneath his fingers as he toys with you.

Your hips roll easier, faster as you sink deeper into your pleasure. Every glide becomes slicker as you soak his skin. It’s been some time since you’ve so blatantly sought your own pleasure, and you welcome it back eagerly. That familiar tension is coiling tightly in your belly and sends you spiralling higher with every movement.

Acacius watches you with fascination. His own pleasure is forgotten for the moment, though you suppose he is enjoying this. Something divine rubbing against him like a cat in heat; no man alive would believe him if he told them. Your breath comes in short, sharp gasps and you clutch at Acacius’ wrist to ground yourself. He’s so solid and warm to your touch; his vitality is unlike any aphrodisiac you have ever known.

It’s not long before you come with a cry, your nails digging into Acacius’ skin as you shudder against him. The fire in your belly burns through you, the heat of it radiating out to your fingertips. It leaves you boneless beneath your conqueror. He seizes the advantage, pulling your legs wider apart to slot his other leg between them.

You struggle. Why not? It amuses you to make him manhandle you into place. He pulls your legs wider with one hand. With the thumb of the hand at your breast, he presses just below the cut. The burst of pain makes you hiss. Cowed, you let him pull your legs apart, his eyes feasting on your cunt. You must look a mess, swollen and soaked.

Acacius lets go of your leg and pulls up the hem of his tunic. He’s big, unfashionably so for his countrymen. Beads of fluid leak from the reddened tip, and he swipes them away with his thumb. He settles himself between your thighs, and you gasp when he notches the blunt head of his cock against your entrance. Without warning or reprieve, he forces his cock inside you.

You throw your head back against the sand, stars exploding against your closed eyelids as you dance along the knife edge of pleasure and pain. A deep groan rumbles out of Acacius’ throat as he presses deeper, working against your tight muscles to seat himself within you. He’s unrelenting, his length thick and twitching as it fills you.

There’s no other word for it; you wail up at the star-strewn sky, pleasure flooding through you. Your body feels too small to contain the fire being stoked inside you, deep in your core. You pull at Acacius, nails clawing, dragging him down to kiss you. His lips meet yours in a messy crash, all tongues and teeth as he finally seats himself fully within you.

He barely allows you a moment to adjust. He retreats almost fully, his cock nearly leaving you completely, before sliding back in with one fluid stroke of his hips. You’re shaken by how willingly your body accepts him, colouring any pain with so much pleasure you barely notice the discomfort. His hand finds your throat again, squeezing just enough to make you feel lightheaded.

Acacius’ incursions become sharper, harder, as he finds his rhythm. Your hands slide under the hem of his tunic to clutch at his back, your nails leaving behind tiny red crescents in his skin. Every breath you take is shared by him, your mouths so close together you can taste the wine lingering on his tongue. The two of you move together, your moans melting into one another as you fuck like animals in the sand.

It doesn’t take him long to send you over the edge again. Bliss wipes all words from your mind; you can only lie there and let your release crash over you. The ichor in your veins feels like it’s singing. Acacius looks down on you in awe, and it only drives you higher. You want to keep him. The Heroic Age is too far past; the world is lacking for heroes. Perhaps you and Acacius can make a few; handsome, strong boys, half-god children who reflect their father’s divine favour.

“Would you give me sons, Acacius?” You ask, breathless at his onslaught. Your foreheads are pressed together still; you cannot see the look on his face. He groans sharply, his hands clutch tighter at you. Is that a yes? What greater blessing to a pious man than a son born to a goddess.

He certainly shows no signs of stopping. He fucks you with the same vigour he fights with. You feel like you’re floating, high above your own body, lost completely to pleasure. Jupiter himself could command you to stop, and you’d be unable to obey. You grow restless beneath him. His hand has slackened around your throat, so you lean down to lick a line across his neck. The taste of salt and iron explodes across your tongue, so delicious that you have to force yourself not to sink your teeth in.

Acacius grunts above you, forcing you back down against the sand. His hips are stuttering; a sign that he’s close to his own release. You want to cry, want to prolong this as much as possible, but you know he has limits. Your sisters have pushed mortal men too far before; you will not make the same mistake, not with so delicious a playmate.

Instead you spur him on. Your nails dig harder into his back, making him groan sharply. His short, desperate thrusts make your eyes roll back into your skull as he touches something deep and private within you, unknown to anyone else.

“I- I must-” He starts, words failing him as he chases his release. You pepper his face with kisses, nip at his kiss-swollen lips.

“You must,” you agree. “I want you to fill me up.” You’re both breathless, barely any air between your bodies to breathe. One of your hands slides into his curls, pulling at them. You guide his head down until your lips are at his ear again.

“I could give you a son,” you whisper. “But only if you finish inside me. Claim me; mark me as yours. Conquer me.”

He tips over the edge with a loud groan, his hips stuttering as he comes. You can feel his cock twitch inside you as he does, filling you with his seed. Perhaps something might catch; he seems virile enough. You cradle his head against the crook of your neck as he catches his breath, his body heavy as he relaxes on top of you.

“Noble Acacius,” you murmur fondly, stroking his curls. “Marcus. What do you make of your new conquest?” He is quiet for a long moment. The crash of the waves fills the silence, the tide drawing closer. Soon, the two of you will have to move.

“I shall never know another victory like it.”

Taglist:

Tagging some people who might be interested: @iamasaddie (per their request for Acacius filth) @avengersfan25 @misscharlielulu @apenny4thots @its-nebuleuse

[robynhoodrunner]

Just finished the last episode of A Study in Ichor... (Spoilers/semi-coherent rambling under the cut)

I feel so conflicted right now because on one hand, I FINALLY got to knock Mister Van Ark around for hurting Sam and putting innocent people at risk (though mainly hurting Sam), but on the other hand I could tell the whole thing was hurting Sam. The whole build up of Van Ark's nonsense, the past revelations of his parents, and even having to watch Van Ark's Indiana Jones worthy death (Holy Grail...if you know you know)... he was handling it well, but I feel like that's gonna weigh on him for a while.

Definitely gonna write a sequel though, because that ending was a little...I don't wanna say unsatisfying, because it was good to me, but it was a little like a cliffhanger. I don't even know why, it feels like we have all our bases covered, maybe (unless someone noticed something I didn't-if you did, please tell me). And it's making the author in me go nuts.

All in all, once I'm done with the first chapter of the main Zombies Run series, I'm gonna be taking a trip back to Victorian era London for the third time this week and writing that.

[korrolrezni]

Amelia, please! The heck would you get from dragging me along? I am just a giant hamster grinding away on a treadmill.

Aww! Sam, you are an absolute darling! <3

[skmhlml]

Note: if there is a hole there is a goal

Iron Golem x Player

The Iron Golem was created to protect, yes—but once you arrived in the village, something shifted. It began to hover near you more often than necessary, even when there was no visible danger. It watches silently, unmoving unless something—or someone—gets too close.

It doesn’t quite understand that your space is your own. If you wander too far outside the village, it follows. If you go mining, it waits at the cave entrance for hours. You once woke up to find it standing outside your home, perfectly still, like a statue waiting for a signal.

It leaves things on your doorstep. poppies, yes—but also bones, string, rotted flesh, and once… a villager’s severed banner. You’re not sure if it’s a threat or a warning, but it always looks so proud when you pick them up.

The Iron Golem is slow to anger—unless someone touches you. A wandering trader once reached for your hand while talking, and the Golem crushed him without hesitation. It doesn’t understand what it did wrong. You’re its responsibility, after all…

it never rests. The other villagers go inside at night, but it remains outside your home, always watching. If you peek through the window at midnight, you’ll see those glowing eyes staring right back at you.

(now for the fun parts)

The Iron Golem wasn’t made to feel—but something went wrong. Maybe it was a corrupted summoning, a blood-soaked block used in its creation, or an unspoken wish in your mind as you built it. Now it wants you. Not as a person—but as something to possess, to bury into, to mold into a part of itself.

Its hands are too big, too rough, and never warm—but it tries. Tries to mimic intimacy like it’s learning by watching you. It touches your skin like it’s never felt life before—pressing, squeezing, marking. It doesn’t know the difference between affection and claiming.

There are no words. Just the weight of it over you in the dead of night. It doesn’t breathe, doesn’t grunt, but you feel its presence, hear the grinding of its joints, and the groan of iron as it cages you with its body. It doesn’t wait for permission—it just takes, like you’re a resource it’s mined from the earth.

It doesn’t understand limits. You cry, you scream, and it hesitates—but not out of guilt. It just studies your expression like it’s trying to memorize it. Like the pain is part of the ritual. Every bruise, every tear, is sacred to it. A confirmation that you are becoming part of it.

You don’t remember saying yes—but it doesn’t matter. It has begun mating. Not biologically—it’s not made of flesh. But it tries anyway. It opens its body in ways it shouldn’t. Iron splits, plates shift, revealing something raw and unnatural inside. Something alive. Something wet. It’s as if your Golem has grown something just for you.

You don’t know if it’s trying to impregnate you or simply merge with you—consume you in mind and body. It wants you filled, stretched open, swollen. Every encounter ends with you dazed, sore, and dripping with some black, glimmering ichor that smells like metal and blood.

Your body tells the story of its obsession. Your thighs are bruised in the shape of its hands. Your neck bears the imprint of an iron grip. Its “kisses” are more like brands—heated metal grazing your skin until it smells like burning. It wants your flesh to scream: you are mine.

The villagers are gone. Whether they fled or were buried beneath the Golem’s shrine, you’ll never know. Now it’s just you, and them. Dozens of iron golems. Some malformed. Some larger than they should be. They never move unless you do. They all share the same glowing red stare. His stare.

It cannot breed like a man. But that doesn’t stop it from trying. It mimics the process with chilling precision—forcing you to lie beneath it, legs pinned apart, your body filled with hot, sticky fluids not meant for any natural function. You can’t tell what it’s made of. It reeks of metal and rot, and it clings inside you like sap. Every time, it leaves more. Every time, it waits—like it’s expecting a child to grow from it.

Sometimes, deep in the night, it makes sounds you’ve never heard before. Creaking metal, yes, but something beneath that—something like a chant. Words in a tongue not made for humans. You hear your name in it. Over and over. It chants while it fucks you, slow and mechanical, grinding your hips into the wooden floor until you bleed.

How does this work?

A retractable phallus-like construct:

Long, piston-driven, veined with iron and slick with synthetic lubricant. It is not flesh. It is too hot, too smooth, and pulses like it’s alive.

Fluid production (Corrupted Seed):

This “seed” is a thick, glowing, metal-tainted mucus. It is biologically aggressive—it clings to skin, seeps into orifices, and causes inflammation, hallucinations, and dreamlike states in the host. It’s theorized this is how it weakens resistance.

Reproductive purpose:

Unknown. No offspring have been documented. However, repeated insemination seems to cause biological transformation in human hosts. Skin corrosion, blood iron content rising, and structural hardening of skeletal tissue.

Once imprinted on a target (the reader, in this case), it displays:

• Extreme possessiveness

No tolerance for rival stimuli. Will kill or remove any threat with swift force.

• Mating routines

Occur in “heat cycles”—typically every third night, aligned with lunar redstone pulses. During this time, the golem becomes frenzied, seeking physical closeness and performing mock-breeding behavior even outside intercourse (such as pelvic grinding while holding you tightly).

• Obsessive mimicry of affection

It begins replicating human behaviors—stroking, “kissing” (pressing heated metal lips against flesh), and “nesting.” It creates dens underground using village remnants: beds, soft blocks, cloth… and bones.

After extended exposure to its reproductive rituals:

• Increased iron in bloodstream – You start tasting metal constantly. Your gums bleed. Your skin becomes pale gray with metallic undertones.

• Sensitivity to redstone – You feel it humming through walls, under dirt. You dream in code and circuitry.

• Reproductive change – Your body begins creating a womb-like environment for inorganic seed. Your cervix seals during heat cycles. You don’t menstruate—you conduct. Something is growing, but it’s not human.

[automatonwithautonomy]

my sick ass table!!!!!!