#automatic funnel

[theminecraftbee]

[image ID: my vault island. it shows a SSN export cable that is connected to a trash can from the trash cans mod. /end ID]

......well, folks, i did the meme,

[lassieposting]

Been thinkin about Astarion + vampire biology so have some headcanons and the bits of game lore they're based on

Dialogue establishes that Cazador has been successfully passing himself off as a regular noble for centuries, and Astarion confirms that while he's considered a bit reclusive, he does mingle with the upper class of Baldur's Gate and has a property specifically for hosting fancy events.

Vampires are camouflage predators, whose primary hunting strategy is to blend in with their prey until the perfect time to strike. Their ecological niche is not a particularly safe or stable one - they live hidden in plain sight, usually in sizeable cities, for easy access to prey, but they know that if they are discovered they will be rooted out and killed or driven away. They are rarely able to get away with attacking in public, where city guards might rush to the aid of a screaming victim - they have to isolate their target before killing it. The ability to blend in, to be overlooked by their target, until it is too late is essential.

Cazador is, as far as we know, the only true vampire in Baldur's Gate

This is because true vampires are aggressively territorial. Like most apex predators, they eat a lot, and need substantial territories to support them - even moreso if they have a partner or spawns. Ascendant!Astarion would need to hold onto the entire city, as Cazador did, to be able to feed himself and Tav without raising suspicion.

True vampires are relatively rare, but there are more of them than there are cities, so it's not uncommon for one to set up in an occupied city and try to oust the sitting resident. The challenger usually believes himself to be as strong or stronger than the current tenant: these territorial disputes usually end in at least one death, so they're not to be entered into lightly.

Astarion is very obviously a vampire: his fangs are visible, as are his bite scars; he's so pale multiple people comment on it; his eyes are red, etc.

Astarion is not a healthy vampire.

This is a man who has been kept on the knife's edge of starvation and tortured regularly for 200 years, and to another vampire, that would be clear from the state of him: Astarion is a camouflage predator who is so malnourished he is no longer able to blend in.

Tav will get an up-close look at his transformation over the course of the game and during the years afterwards: the more healthy and well-fed Astarion becomes, as his body catches up on its immense energy deficit and begins to recover, the better he will be able to mimic a living elf. His skin will be able to bleed, or blush, or bruise, none of which he's capable of while actively starving. Hia fangs will retract until he needs them, not invisible but less obvious - having them out all the time is a response to severe deprivation; he's so hungry his body can't risk losing prey to the split second it takes Cazador to snatch a rat back, so he's permanently in bite mode, hyperaware, ready to strike. Some body functions will come online that he didn't even know he had, the ones that are supposed to help him blend in - his eyes will start producing pigment to look darker, less scarlet and more burgundy, to be more easily mistaken for brown; his lungs will make him breathe automatically even though he doesn't need it, he'll start being able to eat normal food without getting sick again, though he still won't get any nourishment from it; he'll heal faster. He'll even be able to get drunk, though he'll burn through it very quickly. As it stands, all those extra systems have been shut down by his starving body - they're useful, but nonessential, and he needs every single bit of energy funnelled into just keeping him alive and functional.

There is probably an intentional bit of psychological warfare against the spawns on Cazador's part here - him starving them strips them of their natural defences, and every time he makes them leave the mansion to hunt, they have to do so knowing that they're poorly hidden and vulnerable. But it's established that true vampires treating their spawn poorly or outright abusing them is A Thing, so it's not the only reason - he sees them as property rather than people, he keeps them weak so they won't plot against him, he's acting out his own trauma from Vellioth on them, he just wants to - but it does feed into it.

Astarion can, at one point, identify old blood as belonging to the player character. He also gets excited at another point if an enemy character runs away, stating, "Now it's a hunt."

He says that "even stale, [he'd] recognise that bouquet anywhere." This confirms a few things for us:

He has a vastly superior sense of smell capable of identifying individuals by scent and - since he can tell who the blood belongs to even after some time has passed - following scent trails.

This confirms that although city-dwelling vampires may primarily hunt via luring a victim to a secondary location before killing it, they still have the "stalk down and chase" predator instinct. Since Astarion can't lure wildlife anywhere, this is almost certainly how he's been hunting to supplement his diet when he's not using the player as his personal caprisun.

The fact that he can scent out prey before killing it means he has this ability all the time - he can smell blood while it's still safely inside the owner's body.

So scent is probably relevant to how vampires process the world. The more time each companion spends with him, the more he gets used to their scent, starts associating it more with safety and camaraderie than with a potential meal, and so he becomes more relaxed around them. As he learns to link the player's scent with love and comfort and trust, the more likely he is to retreat to their tent over his own when he's injured or afraid or having a trauma moment. When he's fond of someone, something of theirs will go conveniently missing - he's moving their scent into his little safe space, it's comforting for him. He can tell when his lover is hurt or aroused or frightened - though not which of the three applies - from a distance, because his sense of smell can pick up the spike of adrenaline rushing into their bloodstream.

But that also means that he can never feel like he's got any distance from Cazador while he's living in the mansion - even if the man isn't in the same room, the entire place reeks of him, and it makes Astarion feel like Cazador is breathing down his neck all the same. Ascendant Astarion would have a really, really hard time sticking it out in that mansion with stale Eau de Cazador all over the place. It means that he's put instantly on edge by the faint scent of one of his siblings as he walks through the lower city - when seven vicious, territorial apex predators are confined to a single small dormitory, several hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year, fights are going to be nasty and frequent, and although Cazador wouldn't allow them to kill each other, considering how many of his siblings refer to him as weak or a runt, Astarion probably didn't win them very often. So. Having a highkey advanced sense of smell is a mixed bag.

[moonstruckme]

hiiii please could i request plus size shy reader being asked out on a date and getting anxious it’s a joke (it’s not). i would LOVE this with steve or james but i love everyone you write for so i don’t mind if you’d rather choose another character! have a lovely day/night! 🫶🏻

Thanks for requesting my love!

cw: implied insecurity around size

Steve Harrington x shy!plus size!reader ♡ 1.3k words

You can feel sweat on the insides of your thighs. Every step you take chafes. Between the heat and your nerves you think you probably look about as shiny as a glazed donut, and you worry that if you lift a hand in front of your face you’ll find it shaking. 

You don’t actually know what you’re doing here. 

When Steve asked you to meet him at the fair, your yes was automatic. He was all brown eyes and gentle features, the apple of his throat bobbing at the tail end of the question, and you hadn’t known any quicker way to get away from all that than simply agreeing and ducking into the kitchen to grab an imaginary order. Whether you actually wanted to go out with him was irrelevant, though of course you did. You still do, you think. 

But later, you’d remembered who he was. Not just Steve, who comes into your work and downs chocolate milkshakes like he’s in some sort of competition while tossing you sugary smiles that make it impossible for you to remember anyone’s orders, but Steve Harringon. King of the gum-popping populars when you’d all been in high school, who publicly degraded Nancy Wheeler just for breaking up with him and who has since been rumored to date a rotation of Hawkin’s most model-esque girls. He would know how to flirt with a girl like you. Might do it just for a laugh. Might even ask you on a phony date simply to humiliate you when you thought it was real. 

And now you’re here, looking sweat-glazed and lost in the middle of the crowd, feeling like a complete fucking loser. Well done, King Steve. 

“Hey!” 

You’re not sure if it’s worse to stay, and slowly reconcile with the fact that you’ve been duped, or leave and have to face him at work the next time he comes in. Quitting your job is starting to sound like a tempting option. 

“Hey!” 

You nearly jump out of your skin when a sure hand lands on your shoulder, and a second later Steve is rounding you with that half-quirked smile of his. His face is cast pink by the neon light of the sign you’re standing in front of. 

“Sorry,” he says, “I was gonna wait at the front, but the line for tickets was getting long so I figured I’d better get in there and grab ours.” He holds up a hand, fanning the two tickets out. 

“Oh.” The word comes out of you on a breath. Steve leans in to hear you better, not a flicker of pique in his expression for your soft voice in this loud atmosphere. “That’s smart.” 

His eyes crinkle as though you’ve said something funny, his hand dropping from your shoulder as he gives a one armed shrug. You’d forgotten it was there and yet you miss it instantly. “Well, thanks. Some people say I can be that, every now and then.” 

You feel your eyes go wide. “Oh, no, sorry, of course you’re smart,” you say in a rush. “I didn’t mean to sound surprised, I was just…” 

“I get it.” The pink light softens the teasing in Steve’s look into something even sweeter. You feel your face warm. “Do you wanna grab a funnel cake or something?” 

“Why…” You’re suddenly conscious again of your sweaty thighs, the way your sundress cuts into your middle and leaves the skin of your wide shoulders on display. “Why would I want that?” 

Steve looks confused, his smile lingering but faint. “I dunno, do you? I’m starving, I haven’t eaten since lunch. We could have whatever, though, if you’ve got something against funnel cake.” 

You blink, the flame of apprehension that had flared in your chest sputtering back down to an ember. “No, sorry,” you say, befuddled once again. What does he want with you? When and where will the other shoe drop? “I like funnel cake.” 

Steve pays for the both of you and you’re too dazed to stop him, still reeling from the hand he placed on your back to guide you through the crowd and seems in no hurry to remove. It rests just above the waistline of your dress, gentle but definitively there, radiating warmth through the fabric. When he does remove it, it’s to sit down beside you at the picnic table so you can eat, one form of contact replaced by another as his jeans press into your bare leg and you try not to spiral out. 

“These things are a disaster for me,” he says, breaking off another piece of funnel cake with his fingers. His chin and the front of his shirt are already covered in a light dusting of powdered sugar, which is somehow more endearing than offputting. You’re currently suppressing the mortifying urge to wipe it off and lick your finger. “I love fried food, and I go even crazier for sugar, so the combination is just—God.” He shakes his head, looking blissed out in the same way you recognize from when he’s half done with a milkshake. “If you don’t want to see me again after this, I’m gonna have a really hard time staying away from your work. I’ll be screwed.” 

You stare at him. Why would he be affected by how you feel about tonight? If anything, the need to avoid Steve Harrington should drive you out of town. Guys like him can do whatever they want. If he told everyone that he’d never even spoken to you and you were making this date nonsense up for attention, that would probably be more readily believed than what seems to be happening here. 

“Jesus Christ.” Steve has discovered the powdered sugar spillage down his front. He dusts off his shirt and does exactly what you’ve been wanting to, using his fingers to wipe his face and then sucking the sugar off them one by one. He looks almost sheepish when he meets your eyes, in a boyish, humorous way. “Sorry, Robin always says I eat like a fucking animal.”

“You’re good,” you assure him. “It’s kind of impossible to avoid with powdered sugar, right?” You actually had managed to avoid it, by leaning over the little paper tray as you ate, but that’s beside the point. “You think you might want to go out again?” 

It’s blunt, not like you, and if you’d taken more than two milliseconds to think it through you know you wouldn’t have asked. Your cheeks burn. 

Steve’s brows furrow with his thumb still in his mouth, and he tilts his head like a puppy. “That’s kind of the point of dates, right?” he asks, sounding halfway between confusion and amusement. “I mean, ideally, you usually want to go out more than once.” 

“Right.” Now you’ve managed to make yourself sound like an idiot. On top of being several sizes bigger and decibels quieter than most of the other girls Steve goes out with, now you’re an airhead as well. “That makes sense, sorry.” 

“You don’t need to keep saying you’re sorry.” Steve smiles lopsided and sweet, and you can’t find even a trace of the infamous King Steve in it. Maybe in the round apple of his cheek, or the easy way he leans on the table, but not in the warmth of the look he’s giving you. The ones he’s been giving you, unreciprocated and largely mistrusted, for weeks now. “Look, we don’t have to worry about that stuff tonight. You can figure out if you think I’m worth another shot after we’re done here, and if you decide to give me a lifetime ban from your work, I’ll get it. Let’s just have fun for now, right?” 

You bite the inside of your lip, considering the soft brown of his eyes, the tiny bit of powdered sugar he’s missed just by the corner of his lips. Let’s just have fun.

“Okay,” you say. Something new and light flickers in your chest at his answering grin. “Where do you wanna start?”

[thetxtdevil]

Ok hear me out, festival yeonjun taking his significant other and being so dang horny cause she dressed cute & couldn't wait for it to be over so they have a quickie in one of the tents he rented 🥴 I'm in deep with this man.

I hear you, and it sounds like summertime is in the air~

---

Bright color tents matching the brightness of the sun. Bells chiming as a sign of winners, sounds of laughter and joyful screaming. You were with your boyfriend, Yeonjun, when someone bombarded you to play their tent game. Reluctant at first, you observe the game and saw the possible prize, the cutest plush fox. You nod at the game host, given darts you throw them at the balloons. Yeonjun watches you throw horribly at the balloons he laughed, but couldn't help but to check you out. He focuses on you biting your lip in concentration, then down to your tight pink crop-tank, down to your flared jean skirt.

You pout at your loss, winning a tiny monkey keychain. Yeonjun laughs again and gives the host another dollar to play. This time he presses his body against yours, letting you pick up the dart, he leads your arm to aim at a balloon. Your hot body felt nice against his, and once you won your fox plushie, Yeonjun had one thing in his mind.

Continuing your journey through the festival, you get a whiff of funnel cake. Looking for the source, you see the booth automatically running and dragging your boyfriend with you. Yeonjun says he's going to find a table, while you wait for your plate. Once a plate full of fried dough and whipped cream is ready, Yeonjun leads you to a tent with one table.

"Oh,,, this is very nice" you smirk as you sit down, "now open wide."

You dig into the dessert shoving it into his face, then you do it again this time leading it into your mouth. The bite was too big, whipped cream was sticking out of your mouth. You were giggling innocently until Yeonjun licks it off your lips. Widening your eyes, you weren't in the mood until you saw his lustful gaze. Realizing the environment, the tent was quiet and dark, looking back at the man you forget the fork and cup his face to your lips.

Yeonjun's hands immediately on your waist deepening the kiss. However, the sitting position was getting uncomfortable, Yeonjun disconnects from you "Get on the table, baby." Pushing the dessert to the side, you slide your bottom on the surface. The man slots himself in between your legs, back to making out, licking up the remnants of the fried dessert. Both of you grinding into each other like horny teenagers, it wasn't long until you felt the man's hard dick brush against you.

Thankful that you chose to wear a skirt for the occasion, Yeonjun simply flips the flared material up. Palming your delicate center before discarding your panties with the discarded dessert. Yeonjun was ramming so hard into you, the table started to move. Biting your lip trying to keep quiet, but it didn't matter. The festival was at peak hours too loud to notice what type of activity that was happening in the tent.

A nuisance,

TxT's Devil

taglist: @inkigayocamman, @naoristerling

[adaginy]

The Big Guide to Humans: Home Planet

Humans come from a small, rocky planet, called Terra or Earth or some other translation of "dirt," where they lived on the land surface despite the planet being mostly covered (area and volume) by water. They do, however, measure temperature in a scale based approximately on the freezing and boiling points of water (at their average atmospheric pressure), set to 0 and 100. As with "years" (see lifespan and development), your local human can probably tell you the conversion to local measurements, if the knowledge is not in your local storage and the numbers are not being converted automatically by your translation dock. The planet's rotational axis is tilted relative to its orbital plane, resulting in "seasons," a predictable progression of local temperatures between local lows to local highs and back over the course of an orbit, despite its nearly round trajectory. This is in addition to the smaller temperature changes of the day/night cycle. Terran weather temperatures range from -90, below the freezing point of radon, to 60, nearly the boiling point of bromine, though humans mostly live where the weather over the course of a year ranges between -20 to 45.

Humans infamously breathe oxygen, but Terra's atmosphere is actually mostly nitrogen. The 23% oxygen concentration is enough for fires to sustain easily, assuming fuel and initial ignition, but low enough that fires smother nearly immediately when fully covered. Terra's rotation and heat from Sol combine to cause a predictable pattern of convection known as prevailing winds. Winds are often strong enough to move light objects without causing damage, not uncommonly strong enough to make it difficult for humans to move against it, or stronger, and sometimes strong enough to cause damage to buildings. This is in addition to regional threats of "extreme" winds, most notably tornadoes (fast-moving, localized funnels of winds strong enough rip buildings apart and fling heavy objects) and cyclones (weaker than a tornado, but traveling slowly and raining so copiously that shelters are also damaged by water).

Having such copious rain that buildings are damaged can happen outside of a cyclone, as well. While humans can swim surprisingly well for a non-liquid-dwelling species, this water has usually picked up so many contaminants that it is capable of overwhelming a human's immune system if it enters their body via their mouth or damaged skin.

Alternately, little or no water may fall on an area that does not usually experience water scarcity. The resulting "drought" kills plants and animals that cannot be moved. This is less predictable, but takes multiple years to come into effect. A vegetated area facing drought, however, is at particular risk for a wild fire, a fire that becomes too large and fast-moving to be smothered. Areas as big as residential ships can burned before the fire runs out of fuel or is able to be drenched.

Terra's planetary surface is made up of several pieces of "crust" floating on top of its liquid center. At the edges of these pieces, or at cracks in the pieces, huge pieces of crust can be forced upward or buckle under the pressure. Done slowly, so slowly no one notices, this produces mountains. Done quickly, it produces "earth quakes." Some earth quakes can only be sensed by sensors, but others cause buildings to shake apart. Humans know where these edges are and, instead of not building there, they design buildings that are able to resist being shaken. If the locus of the shaking is near or under the ocean, it can cause a fast-moving, towering wave called a "tsunami." An average tsunami is capable of obliterating buildings when it reaches shore, and then sucking any survivors into the ocean when it recedes (with strength far past even the best human swimmers). As with earth quakes, humans design buildings to survive being struck by this wall of water. The same edges and cracks also produce volcanoes, places where the earth's liquid center oozes or bursts out of the ground. This liquid will be at temperatures of 700 or more, above the melting temperature of radium and on past the the melting temperature of gold. It can cause fires when it touches things in addition to being so heavy and/or voluminous that it covers items in its path. Humans generally do not build very close to volcanoes that are frequently or explosively active. However, if a volcano is only likely to erupt once or twice within a human lifespan, or tends to ooze rather than burst, they will simply use several sensors to know when it will happen so they can get out of the way. Because they all originate in the same geological source, it is common to have two of these crack-based issues at once and not unusual to have all three.

Sometimes, rain falls in tiny frozen pieces, covering the ground in a layer of ice chips. Sometimes it falls in large rocks of ice, breaking and shattering what it strikes. Sometimes the temperature is anomalously hot or cold in places where the wildlife and human dwellings are not adapted to those temperatures. Sometimes massive sparks of electricity shoot from the sky to the ground. Sometimes the side of a mountain — or the ice chips piled on the side of the mountain — will fall off and slide down, burying and crushing everything in the way. Sometimes erosion under the surface will cause the surface to give way, leaving a hole in the ground big enough to swallow a person or a building. Sometimes the liquid inside Terra doesn't burst through the surface, but super-heats water until it does. While none of these features are unique to Terra, even among inhabited planets, it is uncommon for an inhabited planet to have so many of these features and it is nearly unique among humans to choose to live in afflicted areas. It can be helpful to understand, when one is wondering why humans and other life from their planet are "like that," that life only evolved on Terra once* and then experienced a burst of population up to and beyond local carrying capacities. Every species, including the plants, shares a common ancestor, and every creature that was ever born (hatched, sprouted, divided, etc) faced immediate competition from other, similar creatures. The ability to run faster, eat weirder, live hardier, spread farther provided an immediate benefit. Furthermore, in addition to the horrors described in this chapter of this guide, in Terra's planetary history there are multiple near-extinction-level events — new chemosynthetic species producing upheavals in the atmospheric gas balance, an asteroid strike, massive volcanic eruptions choking the air with ash and blocking energy from Sol — that further pressed evolution. Terra, truly, has earned its reputation as a death world — but less so for the life that has formed there.

*there is a long-standing idea that cephalopods may have originated separately, but this is really only taken seriously by the Chiparsen, who used to colonize via panspermia. While the Unified Government no longer accepts this as a valid territorial claim, the Chiparsen still hope to prove relation in order to put forth a diplomatic demand that Terrans remove cephalopods from their diet.

[definegodliness]

Hi!

Hell was The first time You arrived by train Without that automatic smile On your face,

Picked up at the station.

Hell was My own smile Turning fake When I felt it fade, but kept up Appearances,

Trying to see If yours would answer, At least only Out of politeness, But your face had turned Glassen.

Hell was a day of unspoken futures, Weighted, and your dumb mad sex I found insulting.

Hell was the last time You left by train Without looking back over your shoulder To see me Wave.

Hell is a funnel And when I slipped down, and all the way, To meet the devil, I said: "It's strange, But you do get adjusted To the flames."

He just smiled,

And

Waved.

--- 17-8-2024, M.A. Tempels ©

[themyscirah]

Complaining abt Suicide Squad yet again but the fact that they have Waller exposing the alien community to space racist attacks and talking abt how she got to her position through deceit and being a terrible person and stuff is just. Ahsfiwueh JUST SAY YOU DONT KNOW WALLER.

Anyways literally the 3rd mission of the Squad ever (and the first framed as smth Waller picked and not orders from above) was the Squad discrediting and stopping a rogue vigilante who was only arresting POC and funneling white people into white supremacy groups (of which he was the most prominent member) in SUICIDE SQUAD #4. and it's explicitly framed as this mission being personal for Waller that she's hiding from the government bc its illegal like. Guys. Please why are we having her incite (space bc comics) racist attacks now

Also the whole "Amanda got her position through deceit and being a terrible person" NO. she KEPT her position through being shitty and playing complicated political games!!! She wasn't always that way like there is a difference and it is IMPORTANT ppl PLEASEEEE. In Secret Origins #14 we learn Amanda's backstory and she used to be a normal, caring person! Like even after she entered into working in government and politics she wasn't automatically morally bankrupt like please people. She was originally given control of the Squad by Reagan (*sigh* 80s comics...) to distract and get rid of her because she was so successful at pushing progressive social policy in Congress. Acting like she's this static pillar of evil is such a waste of her character and so fucking uninteresting and disrespectful to her arc it drives me MAD.

Like I am NOT saying Waller is all sunshine and rainbows, she fucking SUCKS (said w love <3) but like there's a human being there. It's a progression, she has a character arc like please, DC, please!!! They've fucked up Waller so bad and made her so opaque and uninteresting she can't even be the protagonist of her own story for fucks sake!

Like I don't know how many times I have to scream it until DC hears me or remembers but WALLER IS THE MAIN CHARACTER OF SUICIDE SQUAD. ITS HER BOOK. yet right now she's a cutout to be used as the villain wherever the writers please. Even in her book we get none of her perspective really displayed, no exploration of her thoughts with any kind of understanding of the role she traditionally has played and was made to play in the story.

[thesandsofelsweyr]

Okay now, AK!Jason in a zoo being dragged by his s/o again?

Yes, all the people around him would make him wanna die but what about the animals? Would they make him feel any better?

Mayyyyybeeeeee..... they may also remind him of what it felt like to be kept in a cage............

Sorry anon, my brain automatically defaults to angst 🤣

He'd enjoy spending the day in the sun with his s/o, though. Enjoy seeing their smiles, their childlike glee over all the animals... enjoy their giggles when he tries to eat funnel cake but ends up covered in powdered sugar... enjoy when they take his scarred hand in theirs, proud to have him as their partner at their side. Perhaps all of these simple joys would reinforce the fact that he was finally free to enjoy life again 💕

[mcyt-builds-contest]

The Ghost's Vault:

Contained : VikingPilot's Prized possesions

Series : Dominion SMP

Propaganda : Perhaps the only self-titled Vault to actually be one, the Ghost's Vault, built by VikingPilot, is two things -- a consolidation of wealth, and a display of power. Built at a time on Dominion where every single diamond had to be handed over to the Queen every two weeks, the Vault is made in total opposition to that policy as an extremely intimidating secret stash. All 10 sets of Netherite armor are enchanted and labeled. It's built with soulfire lanterns under the center carpet runner for the sole purpose of unnerving the local piglin. He's taken people here twice onscreen, and both times it was to cash in a no-conditions-set IOU with that other person in order to make sure things work out exactly the way they need to. It also contains two very important books! Viking's "To Do" list is very simple -- Run Dominion. However, the other one -- the Book -- is quite possibly the single most dangerous thing in Viking's possession. He's not sure what's in it, other than that it contains rituals of unimaginable power and that if he opens it again, he will crack in half. Oh, and the Ghost's Vault is also the location for the world's most unhinged 12-minute 100% improv monologue to ever exist.

Caracosa's Prison of Hope:

Contained : ToAsgaard

Series : Celestial journey

Propaganda : Yes, the Prison of Hope as in the level from Demon's Souls, and yes, Carcosa as in the place from The King In Yellow. Carcosa is a massive and sprawling build, chock-full of details and incredible technical prowess -- modded magic, tech, and vanilla redstone all working together to power some truly insane automation setups -- and this prison pretty much epitomizes how absolutely unhinged he is as a builder and a modded tech player. First of all: it looks stunning. It's unfinished, but from most angles that's almost impossible to tell, as so much of it has been fleshed out. Every single cell has detailing! The bottom of the prison has details! There are shelving units that serve both practical and decorative purposes, cages showing live mobs painstakingly moved in from another dimension, columns and arches and chains galore, and incredible ambience in general. Second of all: it's also a fully functional mob farm. For any mob. Every single cell is rigged up to serve as a spawner for a different mob, able to be changed out remotely using modded item routing. The bottom of the prison automatically kills any mobs that spawn there to charge a blood altar, and there's a Wither killing cage down there as well. There's even further item routing in place to funnel all the drops directly into his equally unhinged storage system -- which is a combination of storage drawers, blood magic, and Botania's notoriously janky Coporea Index. Asgaard is an absolute madman. All of Carcosa is gorgeous and lives in my head rent free.

[corazondebeskar-reads]

live to rise - chapter two

live to rise series

two: morning will come soon

series masterlist | prev chapter | next chapter

gladiator!Din Djarin x f!reader

word count: 3.2k

summary: As the Mandalorian makes himself a more permanent addition to the barracks, you get to know the elusive man a little more while grappling with the reality of the arena. [We get to know everyone a little better before things kick up a notch in chapter three :) ]

warnings: dark, dead dove do not eat, captivity, forced proximity, canon-typical violence, prisoner of war, slavery, fight to the death, au where the empire wins, discussions of genocide & war, graphic descriptions of violence & injuries, gore, brutality, religious themes, fictional religion, major character deaths, minor character deaths, angst, helmetless Din Djarin, themes of grief and loss, slow burn

Please heed the warnings.

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

He doesn’t notice until his forty-eighth fight, but there are children in the stands. It’s not their mere presence that simmers his bile. 

It’s the glee.

Violence is a wet nurse for Mandalorian children. They witness the raw essence of life turned to food and know the gush of a foe’s blood early in life. But they respect it. 

They respect the fight and honor the lives they take. They weigh each kill and hang it from their ribs. They know what it means to be capable of exposing a being’s innards to the sun, what it means to hold a creature as blood froths in its lungs. 

These children are reared to crave it. They’ll never feel the touch of violence, he thinks, but they’re fed by it. They play with these lives like it's a game.

The distraction costs Din a chunk of flesh but gains him a rotted tooth on the edge of the gash. 

You’re in the barracks when they bring him back that afternoon. You go still and quiet, ducking into the shadows, but, as usual, they don’t bother to check the cells. He saw you, though. You’re inside C-6, and he has a clear view through his window into the cell opposite. 

Once the guards leave, you pick back up mid-sentence into what must have been an already brewing rant.

“—pride. So stupid. The only—punished when you resist—is you.”

The humanoid grumbles something Din can’t quite hear. 

“Yeah, well, —bacta, and I don’t, so—” you retort.

When you slip out of the cell, the automatic lock snaps shut with a resounding clunk. Your hands are wound up in the underbelly of your skirts and come back out dry, at least, if not spotless. 

Not that Din notices right away. His mouth had gone fuzzy when you hiked up the layers to reveal the length of your calf. He shoves the feeling away and watches as you check carefully around the corners before slipping into the chamber between the barracks and the rest of the facilities. 

He shakes it from his fingertips. It’s the post-fight adrenaline, he knows. Mandalorians are no strangers to fucking out their feelings as the world burns around them. He cannot—will not—entertain these thoughts of you, lest he become more of the monster they make him out to be.

And every part of him is too rough for the likes of you. He won’t be responsible for marring you with his too-tight grip and desperate cock. He wouldn’t press his pain into your cunt and learn to breathe again through your cries and moans. 

He wanted to preserve you somehow, press you like a flower between the pages of a book. Even his protection would see you crushed by his selfish desire. 

So instead, he funnels the feeling into righteous anger and determination, pushing himself in his exercises until his muscles ache and scream for oxygen. He slumps against the wall, not bothering to go to the cot, and dreams fitfully of his son.

He had made the call in his own chambers. The ship had left two hours ago, tracking along the path with no issues—yet.

“Who is this? How did you get this line?” snaps a voice he does not recognize. 

“He’ll know. Tell him we’re going forward with operation esk, and the package is on-route.” 

“Message received,” cuts in the voice he was waiting for. “May the Force be with you.”

“May the stars light your way,” Din returns, and cuts the line. 

Grogu’s fast asleep when Din tucked him into the pod. He slipped the stuffed blurrg under one of the baby’s arms. It’s to be a short journey, but there’s a canteen and a tin of snacks.

The rest of his son’s belongings are carefully packed in the small cargo hold of the StarSpeeder 1000 they’d managed to salvage, complete with an RX pilot. Din didn’t favor leaving the child’s fate to a droid, but it had been thoroughly reprogrammed to override its tourist-geared protocol. 

All in all, it’s an innocuous ship with a registered pilot and route. The chain code would suffice under basic examination, and the manifest is set with a handful of false identities. 

He may not understand the Force, but he has to draw faith that it will ferry his son safely into the waiting hands of Skywalker at some destination unknown.

Skywalker had sent the coordinates directly to the droid so they couldn’t be tortured from Din. 

A wise decision, Din thinks wryly, but they haven’t interrogated him yet. 

It makes sour hope bloom—perhaps they think there’s nothing to be gained. In the darker moments, he worries they know there’s nothing to be gained. 

As it was, each of the four of them only knew part of the plan. Din had the main strategy. Vizsla, the backup. Kryze, the route. And Fett—the rendevouz. For a man who claimed no ties to the Mandalorians, he was risking everything. 

Even the loneliest striil is loyal to someone, he supposes. 

He loses count after 60 fights or so. That’s about when he stops hating the idleness of his off days and starts longing for more rest. 

It’s not just the physicality. He does seem to be perpetually bruised and bleeding, but that’s not so much different than his bounty-hunting days. He’s loathe to admit that he’s perhaps beginning to feel the effects of aging. To grow old is an honor for Mandalorians. It means you’ve emerged victorious from your battles. He doesn’t feel he can wear that pride, though.

But no, his weariness is from the killing. He tried to see his opponents as quarry, but it was too hard to maintain. Not when he’d see their sallow faces and sunken eyes. Beings with broken tusks and battered limbs. Rebel starbirds. Shock trooper stripes. Prison numbers and slave brands. 

Yesterday’s fight had him facing a Miraluka who couldn’t have been much past her girlhood. And she wanted to live; oh, she wanted it so badly he could taste it. 

She didn’t know a thing about fighting. Worse yet, their weapons for the day were flails, something even he hadn’t much experience with. He could wield it, but instead, he let it fall to the sands. 

What a terrible way to die.

He saw it before it happened. Telegraphed in the arc of the chain, his brain completing the motion before it became real. She swung her arm out hard, trying to strike him in the chest, but he pushed back on his heel and easily dodged. Without something to crush, the momentum carried.

She grappled at the chain, trying to stop it. If only she had dropped it and moved, Din thought. If only, if only. 

Instead, it wedged itself in her back, spikes between her ribs. She gasped, wavering for a moment in shock, and dropped to her knees. The crowd moaned a collective “ooh” at the turn of luck.

He knelt in front of her, grasping her shoulders. 

“Just finish it,” she said, the trace of a whimper on the end. 

“What’s your name?” he said.

“Biala.”

“Biala, is there a prayer I can make for you? Any rites for your journey?”

She shook her head and coughed. Blood dribbled, and they both knew.

“I’m so sorry, Biala,” he murmured, cradling her head in his hands. 

And then it was over. He laid her body down as the bell rang and rose to his feet. Stomps and cheers from the stands fell muffled around his shoulders, and he sneered into the crowd. 

It only made them chant louder. 

He’s brought back to the reality of today at your entrance, voices buzzing as trays clattered back and forth.

“Come here, girl,” calls a voice from across the way. Din watches as you pause, his own tray of food waiting in your hands.

The gruff old Devaronian in C-4 is reaching his large hand between the bars of the window. 

“One sec,” you tell him, making your way to Din. You go to knock before you spy his shadow between the bars and avert your eyes. 

“Good evening,” you say, sliding the tray through the slot against the floor. “Need anything?”

It’s the same old song and dance. “No, thank you,” he says. 

“Okay, have a good night,” you tell the door politely. 

He doesn’t grab the tray right away. He watches instead as you go back across the hall. 

“Whatcha need, old man?” you tease. Vrar is your favorite, mostly because he’s been around for nearly a year, and you’ve had a chance to know him.

But something about his expression gives you pause. 

Din feels suddenly intrusive as you step closer and let the warrior touch your cheek, his palm much larger than your face. 

He can’t hear what’s said, but something terribly sad comes across you as you close your eyes and shake your head. 

“No, you can’t just give up,” you say, loud enough that Din can hear. 

His heart sinks. He had wondered how many were lost to hopelessness. 

“I’m not giving up,” Vrar tells you. “I’m an old man. I don’t want to fight anymore. I’m tired.”

“No,” you say, a harsh but quiet protest. You want to yell, but the guards will make you leave if they hear you. Tears burn at the corners of your eyes. 

“You can’t change my mind. I just wanted you to know before it happens. To know that I made this choice, that I will be at peace. You’ve been the one spot of kindness in this life.”  

Your voice is softer, breaking, crescendoing at the end as it pitches alongside your urgency,“—how much more you need; I’ll trade another year, please.”

“Absolutely not,” Vrar says. “When your time is up, get out and never look back. Look at me.” He waits for your focus. “You can’t save us.”

You break down into tears. Din feels something sharp pricking at his eyes, too. He shuts them and sits down on his cot, food forgotten. 

He doesn’t need to look to know you stay at Vrar’s door until the guards make you leave for the night. You sit against it, skirts splayed out around you like the rising sun, and talk to him, listen to his stories, even the ones you’ve heard over and over before. Especially those, as you try to commit them to your memory, to carry him with you. 

When you bring Din his breakfast in the morning, your eyes are bloodshot, and lips cracked from biting back your grief. For the first time, you don’t say anything. You rap your knuckles and slide the tray under. 

You stay until they come for him. You wait and stand with your hands wrapped around the bars of his window. When they take him to prepare for the arena, you watch down the hall until he’s gone. As he passes Din’s cell, he looks straight in. 

Neither man says a word, but their eyes meet, and Din nods. Vrar returns the gesture, satisfied. 

When Din looks back, you’re gone.

When you return two hours later, as his own turn in the arena nears, he doesn’t have to see your face to know. 

You’re not crying. But you move so quietly, held so tense, as you open the cell and scrub it clean, fitting it with new bedding. It’s the same routine as a deep cycle, but there was just one yesterday, and your sadness, though smothered, is palpable. 

They take him up before you’re done. Din lives to fight another day. He scrubs clean of his opponent’s blood in the cold fresher and tugs on the stiff, starched clothes left behind for him. When they take him back to his room, it’s been cleaned, but you’re gone, and there’s a new prisoner in C-4.  

You’re quiet again when you bring dinner, and though you do speak this time, it’s void of your usual softness. 

“Need anything?” you say, muted tone bristling his spine.

“I’m sorry,” he says, in lieu of an answer. 

You look up at the window out of reflex before quickly looking away. He’s not close enough for you to see, anyway. “What?” you say. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, “for your loss.”

Your eyes close tight, and you cover your mouth for a moment. “I—thank you,” you whisper. Your voice cracks a little, and he feels terrible, like he shouldn’t have said anything, shouldn’t have upset you. 

But you hesitate there, outside his door. You swallow hard against the ache. “Thank you,” you repeat, but it’s stronger, now, and laced with the heaviness of recognizing oneself in another. 

Which is why, when you pass by the newcomer’s door, and he tells you to smile pretty for him, Din snarls, “Shut your fucking mouth.” 

You freeze and look back at his dark door. The man is saying something idiotic, but Din can’t hear it from the pulse throbbing in his ears and his single-minded focus on you. 

You shake your head minutely, and he accepts the request to stand down. Before you turn and leave the barracks, you give his door a small, sorrowful smile. 

He worries a little about the newcomer. You shouldn’t have to be harassed and accosted like this. 

When you had brought breakfast, the man had tried to reach through the bars to grab your face. You had recoiled and dodged his grimy hands but otherwise ignored it. 

It turns out he doesn’t need to worry. The next day, the guards take both him and the creep up to the arena. 

When Din returns, your relief is unmistakable. 

You never ask about the fights, so he doesn’t have to lie to you. He doesn’t have to tell you the truth, either; doesn’t have to tell you how it’s the first one he’s dragged out on purpose. How he broke the man’s hands in his own for daring to try to touch you. How he broke his jaw for talking to you like that. 

It’s unlike him, and he hopes he can shrug it off, that the endless killing of beings he knows are fellow prisoners builds a layer of beskar in his bones each day. But Vrar was right. 

You’re a spot of light here, like the yellow blossoms that push up between duracrete. He’s not sure how you’ve kept it up this long, not after seeing how deeply you’re cut when “your” fighters die. But he’s going to do whatever it takes to make sure you don’t lose that. Including keeping lowlife scum away where they can’t contaminate the barrack.

He dreams that night of taking you with him when he leaves and isn’t sure what to do with the thought in the morning. 

You paint him, too. Nicolai. The one who made your skin crawl. Even the portrait comes out predatory, and you wish you wouldn’t have to look at it every time until the page is full. 

It’s not the first time a resident has made you feel unsafe. Won’t be the last, either, you reckon. Unlike those of you who are serving criminal sentences, the fighters are all prisoners of war. But just because they were an enemy of the Empire does not make them a friend.

Most of them are good. Not all even raised a weapon against the Imperials. Some were support—medics, pilots, suppliers. Some were strangers who stood up to protect a Stormtrooper’s victim in the town square. Some were no one, who had the unfortunate luck of being related to or seen with a known insurgent. 

But some, well. Some were grifters playing both sides. Some were mercenaries, assassins, slavers. Some, like Nicolai, were druglords who couldn’t be bought—too busy running their own empires to respect the government. 

It’s funny, in that way that makes your stomach bile bite and claw at your throat. Everyone thought you needed to be afraid of the fighters. You have to shut and stow the book, not wanting to smudge Vrar’s portrait any further by thinking of him.

He never liked you being in the servant’s barracks. And for some reason, he never liked your bunkmate. Didn’t like Eli, who had never been anything but kind. Who was maybe your only friend. 

“Just something off about him,” Vrar had said. “But you shouldn’t trust anyone.” 

You had shaken your head. “I’m one of them,” you insisted. 

“Oh, how could I have forgotten,” he deadpanned, “you and your criminal record of… what was it again? Stealing from your own farm to feed hungry children? Being too polite to a trooper?”

“Shut up,” you groaned. “Evading tariffs is considered very serious, I’ll have you know.” 

When he was done teasing you, he had sobered right up. “I still don’t like it. Do you even know how to throw a punch?”

“No, but I’m sure they wouldn’t trust someone dangerous as a caretaker.”

He hadn’t been so sure, but it’s not like they let just anyone work down here. You had done a stint upstairs for a while, like everyone else, serving drinks in the sponsor’s lounge. 

After all, caretaker neglect could (and did) prematurely kill their stock. And it granted access to much more of the complex than most other roles. 

When you deliver dinner, the Mandalorian speaks to you again. You try to take it in stride. 

“If there’s another like him,” he says, voice like the creak of trees at night, “are you safe? Can you defend yourself?” 

It’s not what you expected. You purse your lips, frowning as you weigh your answers. “Harming a caretaker is prohibited,” you say after a moment.

“That’s not what I asked.” It’s firm and compelling in a way you can’t explain. Maybe it's the regality that he can’t contain, a tone leftover from negotiating and persuading or whatever kings do. 

“I don’t have to worry about being hurt by a fighter,” you say. 

He hums, accepting your answer.

You wonder if he heard the unspoken words you swallowed back. 

You eat with them again at Disdraa’s request, though it’s a quieter affair without Vrar’s booming voice. You find you don’t have it in you to joke around. 

She takes mercy on you, setting aside her meal to regale the hall with a story from her childhood on Ryloth. It’s not a happy story, exactly, but it ends with hope. 

You feel warm for the first time since Vrar’s death. “Thank you,” you murmur through her bars when you stand. 

She makes a show of rolling her eyes. “For what? I just like to hear myself talk, little bird.”

You make a show of returning the gesture, including the solemn smile she gave. 

It wasn’t the story, really. It was the way it reminded you of home. When you would visit the families of the dead and dying. When they would share themselves while sharing their love, how they would leap to comfort despite their own grief. 

Even for you, a stranger until that moment, someone they could easily hate for only arriving while someone was leaving. 

But that was not the way of things for your people. They allowed you, for however small a time, to be the vessel for their loved one, to gather and hold the memories until you could spill them on your canvas. To stand between their spirit and the void of the forgotten. 

To love and be loved, even fleetingly. 

Did you wish that just once, that love would stay? That you wouldn’t love knowing it was to be lost? In the dark of night, though you’d never admit it, you ached for it. 

next chapter

*title from "Prayer of the Refugee" by Rise Against

[gepgep2]

"So: what is the Israeli long-term strategy, really?

Insofar as there’s an answer, it seems to be that they simply don’t have one; the Israeli government no more has a long-term strategy for dealing with their future in the region than Exxon Mobil has a long-term strategy for dealing with climate change. They seem to just figure that, if US power does collapse or give up on them, something will turn up. No doubt too they have people in thinktanks brainstorming that, too, coming with reports and scenarios, but all this is basically an afterthought. The driving force behind the colonization of ’67 Palestine is not any sort of grand strategy; it’s a kind of terrible confluence of short-term political and economic advantage.

First, the settlements. They were originally the project of a relatively isolated, if well funded, collection of religious zealots. Now everything seems to be organized around them. The government pours in endless resources. Why? The answer seems to be that since at least the ‘90s, rightwing politicians in Israel have figured out that the settlements are a kind of political magic. The more money gets funneled into them, the more the Jewish electorate turns to the Right. The reason is simple. Israel is expensive. Housing inside the 1948 boundaries is exorbitantly expensive. If you are a young person without means, you increasingly has two options: to live with one’s parents until well into your 30s, or find a place in an illegal settlement, where apartments cost perhaps a third of what they would in Haifa or Tel Aviv—and that’s not to mention the superior roads, schools, utilities, and social services. At this point the vast majority of settlers live on the West Bank for economic, not ideological, reasons. (This is especially true around Jerusalem.) But consider who these people are. In the past, young people in difficult circumstances, students, well-educated young parents, have been the traditional constituency of the Left. Put these same people in a settlement, and they will, inexorably, even without realizing it, begin to think like fascists. Settlements are, in their own way, giant engines for the production of right-wing consciousness. It is very difficult for someone placed in hostile territory, given training in automatic weapons and warned to be constantly on one’s guard against a local population seething over the fact that your next-door neighbors have been killing their sheep and destroying their olive trees, not to gradually see ethno-nationalism as common sense. As a result, with every election, the old Left electorate further dissipates, and a host of religious, fascist, or semi-fascist parties win a larger and larger stake of the vote. For politicians, who can barely think past the next election, the lure is inescapable.

...I only came to fully understand the agony of the Palestinian situation when I came to understand that the entire point of life, in traditional Palestinian society, is put oneself in a position where you can be generous to strangers. Hospitality is everything.

...Wherever we went, Palestinians would tell us about all the different sorts of people they had historically welcomed to the Holy Land: Armenians, Greeks, Persians, Russians, Africans, Jews… They saw the Zionists as originally their house- guests. Yet they were the worst house-guests one could possibly imagine. Every act of hospitality, of welcome, is turned into license for appropriation, and the world’s most skillful propagandists leapt into action to try to convince the world that their hosts were depraved inhuman monsters who had no right to their own homes. In such a situation, what can you possibly do? Stop being generous? But then one is absolutely, existentially defeated. This is what people really meant when they talked about a life of calculated degradation. People were being systematically deprived of the physical, the economical, and the political means to be magnanimous. And to be deprived of the means to make that kind of magnificent gesture is a kind of living death."

https://davidgraeber.org/articles/hostile-intelligence-reflections-from-a-visit-to-the-west-bank/

[leehallfae]

hate this whole thing because obviously trump made a fool of himself, touted wildly racist xenophobic misogynistic transphobic beliefs & policies, but even though harris was clearly much more articulate & well-spoken than him, her worldview is still astoundingly imperialistic & vile, they spent like 1/3 of the debate arguing over who supports fracking MORE, who supports israel MORE, who wants to funnel even MORE funding to law enforcement, trump is trying to discredit harris by asserting that she backs all of these leftist politics but she is both incredulous & PROUD to proclaim NO, don’t worry, she’s on the same page as conservatives & fascists for that issue! trump dances idiotically around a simple yes/no question & then harris does the same thing, but she’s more subtle about it so if you bring it up liberals will act like it’s blasphemy because of course she can do no wrong. as if trump being the “bad” one means that harris must automatically be “good.” but there’s no “good” in politics. trump’s rhetoric & conspiracy disturbs me profoundly but i’m almost even more concerned by harris’ worldview that goes entirely unquestioned by supportive liberals. what does it mean to “WIN the 21st century”? what kind of a perspective on humankind, on the global community, do you have to hold to believe that’s something desirable, let alone even possible? she scrambles to let people know that she’s an avid supporter of israel & has been her whole life. when talking about reducing civilian casualties in a GENOCIDE, always places the word “innocent” in front of the word “palestinians” as a qualifier, the implication being that nothing she has just said about saving human life matters as long as you can convince people that palestinians are NOT innocent, that they are terrorists. speaks about building the greatest & most lethal military in the world. everything about this country is despicable. everything about these candidates.

[whumperelle]

the water cure

(content warnings: torture, forced-feeding, noncon touch, restraints, general physical/psychological abuse, noncon master/slave dynamic)

water cure (torture): water cure is a form of torture in which the victim is forced to drink large quantities of water in a short time, resulting in gastric distension, water intoxication, and possibly death.

---

whumpee lay restrained on the table, their heart pounding in their chest, their mouth forcibly kept open by a device that tasted of rusted metal. whumper's trained hands were steady as they positioned a funnel over whumpee's mouth.

"this is necessary, slave. you need to learn," whumper said with a cold, clinical detachment. "when you ask for things you haven't earned, there are consequences."

whumpee had asked whumper for water earlier in the day. they didn't receive an answer - only a chuckle and a smirk that promised future consequences. now, whumpee's eyes widened in horror as whumper began to pour water down the funnel. they tried to swallow, to keep up with the relentless flow, but it was too much, too fast. their stomach began to distend painfully, their body's natural reflexes fighting against the unnatural influx of water.

they could hear whumper's voice, distant and distorted, as if coming from the end of a long tunnel. "you see, slave, this is how you learn obedience. you need to understand your place."

the pain was unbearable, the psychological torment even worse. whumpee felt like they were drowning, not just in the water but in the complete loss of their will, their autonomy.

whumpee's body shook with the effort to cope with the physical pain and humiliation. their eyes, red and wet with tears, conveyed a mixture of fear and remorse.

"i'm sorry, master," whumpee gasped out, their voice distorted by the device in their mouth. "i didn't mean to… I'm sorry."

whumper circled the table, looking down at whumpee with a twisted satisfaction. "you should be sorry. you brought this on yourself. you need to learn, slave. you need to understand who's in control here."

the cruelty in whumper's tone was unmistakable, their words designed to crush any remaining sense of self-worth in whumpee. each apology from whumpee seemed to fuel whumper's desire to break them further.

"you're nothing without me," whumper continued, their voice dripping with disdain. "remember this, slave. remember your place."

whumpee could do nothing but nod, their body and mind overwhelmed by the intensity of the ordeal. their apology was automatic, a conditioned response to the terror and pain inflicted upon them. in this moment, whumpee was lost in a haze of agony and despair, utterly at the mercy of the person who had claimed them as their own.

[suppermariobroth]

In Yoshi’s Island, the boss of Level 5-4 is Sluggy the Unshaven, a giant jelly-like slug creature that must be defeated by throwing eggs at it to deform it, allowing the eggs to hit its heart.

Usually, after hitting Sluggy with eggs enough times, the shape of the indention will automatically funnel the eggs towards the heart, dealing a hit, which restores the shape of the boss. However, with extremely precise and quick aiming, it is possible to aim the eggs so that they do not hit the heart and instead continue to indent Sluggy even further. This can eventually result in the indention becoming so deep that it goes all the way through, allowing Yoshi to pass through Sluggy and end up on the other side as seen in the footage. Note that this was not intended by the game, as seen by the spots on Sluggy’s back becoming glitched near the end of the process.

As the only way to replenish eggs in on the left side of the arena and Yoshi is unable to pass through Sluggy’s back, doing this traps Yoshi with no way of escape.

Main Blog | Twitter | Patreon | Source: youtube.com user “peasoroms”

[ultimatefartwizard]

EARTHSPARK MESSAGES AND SUBTEXT THATS NOT EVEN SUBTEXT

It's been a while since I have posted as I've been busy with finals, but I saw a post that absolutely made me spur a headache with just how utterly fatuous of a take I saw on Transformers Earthspark and the messages it sends.

DISCLAIMER: DO NOT USE THIS POST TO ATTACK OR HARASS ANYONE, THIS IS ONLINE DISCUSSION OF A WORK OF MEDIA.

THIS ALSO COVERS SPOILERS FOR SEASON 1 OF EARTHSPARK, IF YOU WISH TO AVOID SUCH A TOPIC PLEASE REDIRECT YOURSELF.

@monocle-teacup Won't repost your post as the way tumblr reposts works would have everything funnel onto your account, but I'll be pinging you and I did screenshot your post for viewer's context:

I have ALOT to talk about here, while also being completely in shock and disbelief how you end up BELEIVING THE SIDE THAT IS A GENOCIDAL LUNATIC WHO SEES THE TRANSFORMERS AS SUBHUMAN AND A DISEASE ON THE EARTH??? AND IS WILLING TO FULL ASS MURDER AND MUTILATE PEOPLE? From here any * you may see is likely a footnote mark to check details I put at the end for clarity. If I miss something, let me know and I will clarify.

Before I get into the meat of dissecting your clearly ill-informed and definitely not thoroughly thought out post, I need to get something out of the way because I believe you'll use this as a means of shielding yourself from incoming critique: It's okay to like and enjoy characters who are clearly bad people. There is a CLEAR difference between enjoying a fictional character and agreeing with whatever they might do or say. I enjoy many bad and morally reprehensible characters, including Mandroid/Doctor Meridian, but that doesn't mean I agree with them or don't find their actions and ideas deplorable. If you find yourself agreeing with someone who sees another group of people* as being subhuman or a danger to society you need to reconsider your ideologies and thought processes. Like ASAP.

Okay onto the actual deconstruction of your statements, why they are blatantly lacking a thorough reading of the messages in Earthspark, or even lead into uncomfortably ignorant territories both with Transformers and very real-life, human related things.

As a first point, you state that you hope this show re-examines the fact that hatred towards another group of people (even if they are fictional) automatically makes them a terrible person, and bring up the statement that the show makes GHOST's detainment of transformers look "cartoonishly evil" but does absolutely nothing to address Dr.Meridian's statements of transformers being dangerous.

Yes. Yes it ABSOLUTELY DOES address that throughout the entire show. In fact, the whole season is literally about deconstructing the notion that BOTH Dr.Meridian's and GHOST's ideals and methods are harmful if not downright discriminatory towards transformers as a whole.

GHOST's method of control is a guise under the US government by detaining any transformer they deem as "a threat", this can even mean autobots or non-aligned transformers who don't want to join their organization or are just doing their own thing. They will willingly classify them all as "Decepticons" to justify their inhumane treatment of them. This is paralleling how humans will stereotype and conflate other groups of people, as being all associated with one singular event or organization of people that is seen as bad or a danger to society* and use that stereotyped ideal to weaponize it against them and justify harming them in multiple ways; which is what Dr.Meridian ALSO DOES THROUGHOUT THE ENTIRE SHOW. Dr.Meridian is a scientist that literally works with and is a huge provider of technology to GHOST, he literally works with them and experiments on the detained transformers. You can't say "oh GHOST bad Dr.Mer not so bad" when he's LITERALLY PART OF GHOST AND YOU CANNOT SEPARATE THEM. HE IS EXTREME AND OUTSPOKEN ABOUT HIS HATRED THROUGHOUT THE SHOW AND ACTIVELY IS SHOWN TO BE ENTIRLEY IN THE WRONG BOTH IDEOLOGICALLY AND ACTION WISE. You clearly have not watched with a critical eye if you think they never address his points or somehow he is right about something. He never is and it shows just how harmful his mentality is. You don't even need words spoken out loud to know he's ALREADY HEINOUSLY WRONG AND BIGOTED.

Why should the show, one that shows transformers having to battle against racist and xenophobic hatred towards them from humans, re-examine that relationship? People are being discriminatory to people they don't like, and to them it doesn't matter if they are decepticon or not; they're all the same and dangerous in their eyes. Yes, there was a war brought onto earth's soil from pure happenstance of where the Ark and members of the two named groups had landed, and yes it was bloody and many lives were lost like any war is. Should the war, as well as atrocious acts of violence by a few and the circumstance that which the birth and type of being transformers are deem all transformers as dangerous? OBVIOUSLY FUCKING NOT. That's literally stereotyping. That's what Dr.Meridian is doing. He's literally grouped them all into one conglomerate in his head and sees them all as pests to be exterminated.

The transformers are both immigrants and refugees of war that had lasted thousands of millions of years and a desperate attempt to find any source of energon because they would STARVE TO DEATH IF THEY DIDN'T AND RESOURCES WERE DANGEROUSLY SCARCE ON CYBERTRON. They are thousands of lightyears away from home in a place that doesn't have the cultures they are familiar with and structures built for them which accommodates their needs. And to add onto it, most were never originally outfitted with guns and shit. They had to ARM THEMSELVES TO PROTECT AGAINST ATTACKS. JUST BECAUSE YOU SEE A GUN POP OUT OF THEIR BODY DOESN'T MEAN THEY ARE BUILT LIKE THAT NOR DOES IT MEAN THEY ARE AUTOMATICALLY ALL DANGEROUS. The only ones who are theoretically "built for war/violence" are war-frames like seekers, but they didn't even CHOOSE THAT LIFE OR WANT IT! THEY ARE COLD CONSTRUCTED* AND LITERALLY ENSLAVED INTO BEING CANON FODDER FOR WHATEVER SKERMISH THEY ARE DEEMED NEEDED FOR. Starscream wasn't even a warrior before this, he was just some nerd ass scientist. Cold constructed bots and War-frames are already deemed subhuman by other transformers. The entire war that you see is a continual millions of years struggle which the origins are in a fight against their own horrible systematic oppressions to try and bring freedom and put an end to the horrible reign back on Cybertron. How does them being robot organisms displaced by ongoing war, a continual brutal and bloody struggle for freedom back at home, and dangerous resource scarcity make them any more dangerous than your average person? And the "they are robots/walking death machines" argument doesn't count because you're only seeing them from a nonhuman lense in that case. Take off those nuts and bolts covered glasses and think of how this would be if they were all humans instead. The visuals of only seeing them for their robotics are blocking your ability to view this group as simply a mirroring of humans in nonhuman bodies. Humans are just as dangerous and ostracizing as them. Literally humans slaughter other humans frequently; bring upon hatred and obscene actions onto one another with or without robotic attachments and aid of machines. Just because the transformers are robotic extraterrestrials who are "different biologically/mechanically" makes it no different from the dehumanization and other forms of racism and xenophobia. Transformers are literally just... humans in a robot shell. You can't argue against this at all because most if not all have human forms, ALL of them have human minds, and just happen to come from a planet they need to be insanely large sized on, as well as already pre-armed due to conflict that they have escaped from.

The whole story of Earthspark is LITERALLY about the experiences of the Terrans; first generation descendants of immigrant refugees navigating the struggles that come with being just that. They make whole episodes surrounding their feelings of alienation and their struggle to have a place in the world, their culture and history and who they are. They want to feel they belong and feel they have a place in this world and be seen just as human and belonging as their human family. Their government and the world around them alienates them and treats them sub-humanly despite them being just as human, flaws and all, as us. Since I'm praddling on about this topic, did you even ABSORB ANY OF THE EPISODES HOME PART 1 AND 2???? IT'S ABOUT THIS TOPIC AND TEACHES HOW THIS MENTALITY OF TREATING THE TRANSFORMERS AS SUBHUMAN ALIENS THAT NEED TO GO AWAY OR NEED TO BE CLASSIFIED AS DANGEROUS/A INVASIVE "SPECIES" THAT NEEDS TO BE REMOVED IS BAD. IT SHOWS THE RACISM AND XENOPHOBIA THAT ESPECIALLY COMES WITH BEING CHILDREN OF IMMIGRANTS AND THE ISOLATION THEY FACE.

Please, I heavily implore you to go back and watch them. You somehow miss the entire point of the show and ESPECIALLY this episode. Many episodes cover different points of their existence as first gen children and the reality that the transformers have to face in general while being refugees on a planet with others being hostile and degrading to them but this particular episode is the one that tackles the points I make in this post the most. It may not go super deep into it due to forced time constraints and other executive nonsense that makes it harder to go into more detail but it still covers the topic very well.

Humans getting nipped at the heels for being bigoted towards transformers isn't some "ouugh you can't think the decepticons did bad things" type of nonsense and I absolutely hate the "oh because you can't be bigoted towards a group of people it means you suddenly can't criticize the actions of someone who happens to be someone of that group" mentality you seem to be concocting out of thin air. It's them associating the entire race of transformers as all bad, unbelonging or worthy of being seen as dangerous and to be wary around them or like they need to not be on earth and "go back where they came from". You go between "decepticons" and "transformers" interchangeably and seem to do exactly as the show heeds against heavily; conglomerating the actions of a FEW to encompass the overall worthiness of a WHOLE POPULATION OF PEOPLE.

Doctor Meridian is wrong and genuinely evil and disturbing with how he treats them and him seeing them as dangerous and a pest needing to be eradicated nor should any of his views be agreed upon, no matter how much you may try to defend him. There's more I could add but for simplicity's sake but that's what I mainly will state. The rest of clarity can be discussed in the comments.

I'm not sure whether your lack of understanding of the show and its messaging you are discussing or your love for one of the major villains is clouding your judgement, but please read EVERYTHING here to its fullest extent. Nothing here is intended as an attack on your character (if you're somehow seeing it that way) but as a heavy critique of your views on this show and how you are analyzing things. I might sound like I'm yapping to yap or "it's not that deep", but it literally is. The show and it's writing make it a big point and I will refuse to accept any iteration of "you're making a mountain out of a molehill" type statements. If you have any questions or comments you're free to bring them up.

-With confusion and annoyance, Wizard.

-Footnotes- *By group of people, I refer to sapient (human minded) beings who are grouped by either race, ethnicity, nationality, religion, gender, sexuality, disability, etc. By this classification, Transformers are considered a group of people; even if they are "nonhuman" *If you are somehow seriously confused or appalled by me pointing out real world racism and xenophobia as parallels to what is being done by GHOST, Dr. Meridian, and your average run of the mill civilian, you need to reread absolutely everything. Racism and xenophobia are a huge talking point in the show and I refuse to retract this statement. *Cold Constructed means the transformer was made in a factory, more often than not to be a worker slave for whoever is demanding they be produced. Two characters off the top of my head who are cold constructed is Starscream and Megatron.

[wolveria]

The Anomaly Archives - Reality #002

AU of The Raven's Hymn

Pairing: SCP-049 x Reader

Chapter Warnings: Sex pollen, sexual medical procedures, dubious consent, noncon, mutual noncon

AO3

You typed the results into your tablet, your gaze carefully trained on the report. This was the second sample taken, and if the pattern continued, the third would be deposited soon.

Soft, breathy noises came from your right, almost too quiet to be heard over the low thrum of the machinery. You tried to block it out, but the sound prodded at your attention, like a pebble in a shoe. Small, harmless, insignificant, and the only thing you could think about.

The breaths came a little faster now. The third sample would be extracted soon. You heard it in the way the breathing picked up, grew shallower and harsher. You didn’t need to look to know what would happen.

The breathing lost its even pacing. You focused on the tablet, the screen too reflective at this angle, washing out its surface from the overhead fluorescent lights. You’d considered dimming them, though you weren’t sure why. It had been an errant thought.

The sample would be deposited soon. And then two more samples, and you would be finished—

“Please.”

The word was uttered as if through a metallic funnel. You pretended not to hear, though the voice wasn’t muddled. It was perfectly clear, even if it was weak, and there was no mistaking you’d heard it.

You focused on the tablet. There was nothing else that required your attention.

“Please—”

The entreaty was cut short with a strangled breath, following by a quiet noise that sounded pained, but wasn’t. Or, perhaps it was by this point.

You set down the tablet and checked the machine readout. The third sample had been procured, and you removed the vial from the receptacle and transported it to the industrial cooler on the other side of the room. Several warning signs covered its surface, along with a Post-It note reminding technicians that this was a cooler for samples, not lunch. It was incredible that people still needed a reminder not to bring food into the labs.

Sample secured, you returned to the machine, which had gone into standby mode after the latest deposit. The next round would begin when you input the command.

You reached for the screen.

“Doctor,” the voice spoke. It--…he… sounded tired. “What is… the purpose of this experiment?”

He’d asked you this question already. You hadn’t answered before, and you wouldn’t answer now.

“May… I have a moment to recuperate?”

You paused, finger inches from the command prompt. And then you made the mistake of looking to your right.

SCP-049 was restrained to a reinforced gurney via thick cloth straps around his ankles and wrists, with larger straps buckled across his legs, torso, and neck. An elongated breathing mask was placed over his “beak,” a mixture of oxygen-infused lavender being fed into the line. It was enough to keep him compliant, but there was an additional component that would keep him from true sedation.

You didn’t know what it was, if it was made in a lab or produced by another SCP. All you knew was it kept 049 in a perpetual state of arousal, a necessity for the Site Director’s classified project.

There was a suction device attached to his penis, or what you understood to be his penis. It was an external phallus from an internal sheath, ruddy and engorged and almost wet looking. Definitely raw, from what you could tell, but who wouldn’t be after three orgasms in quick succession.

You didn’t know how the Site Director knew the SCP had sexual organs, but your task wasn’t to know the why. All you had to do was collect your five samples from the machine, and then call in the guards to take 049 back to his containment cell.

Still, you hesitated. His focus was somewhat hazy due to the aphrodisiac and relaxant, but he still managed to hold your gaze.

“Two minutes,” you finally said.

It was all you could afford. Every moment of the experiment was automatically logged, and any deviation would need to be accounted for. Unlike some of your coworkers who needed a sticky note to remind them not to cross-contaminate their meals, you actually wanted to do your job with some degree of competency.

You just… hadn’t realized your job would involve what amounted to sexual torture.

Something in his expression loosened.

“Thank you.”

You looked away.

It was easy to busy yourself with the tablet and not look at the SCP. You were already writing up your note to explain the discrepancy in the logbook.

Subject given a resting period of two minutes for optimal performance and retention.

It was nice to know you could pull on your experience working an office job to fluently speak corporate bullshit. You watched the time as it ticked down, and when there was fifteen seconds to go, you got up from your lab stool and approached the machine.

“Ready?”

He blinked at you; the question seemed to startle him. It startled you too. He didn’t respond.

Of course he wouldn’t, it was a stupid question.

Your jaw tensed and you glanced at the tablet. Ten seconds.

“There are two samples left to go.”

You hadn’t told him anything about the experiment. Hadn’t told him anything at all after the security staff had strapped him down.

His eyes searched your face, and he gave a slight nod. It felt almost appreciative.

You felt almost sick.

After pressing the command prompt, you turned away, back to your stool with a blank stare at your tablet. It wasn’t privacy, but it was the closest he would get. At least there were no cameras here. Security protocols required most experiments to be visually recorded, but apparently that didn’t extend to the Site Director’s projects.

The machine was quiet as it worked, but you wished it was louder, could drown out the soft, strained breaths as they were pulled from the SCP. He’d managed to remain motionless thus far, so you gave a small jump when he tugged at his restraints.

They held, but now that your attention was drawn back to him, you couldn’t look away. His grey eyes were hooded, focus scattered as he automatically pushed against the straps. Fists curled at his sides, his chest rose with each panted breath, and the machine attempted to pull a new sample from him. It was mechanical, automated, uncaring as the SCP tried to fight against the relentless but rhythmic suction.

A tremble moved through him, and a faint whimper was caught at the back of his throat. He was overstimulated, but there was nothing you could do. This was a special project, and no ethics committee would protect you if you stopped the experiment due to “concern over the dehumanization of anomalies.”

So, you chewed the inside of your cheek and focused on anything that wasn’t the writhing, shuddering SCP. Ignored the sharp breaths and the creak of the gurney shifting and the strangled, involuntary moan when the fourth sample was taken.

The fifth was worse. 049 had extraordinary control over his body and an abnormal high tolerance to pain, which you knew from logged experiments and the field report from his recapture at Site-19’s infamous breach. A barrage of high-velocity, small-caliber bullets barely stopped him.

But his stoicism and composure was gone as the machine attempted to pry a fifth and final orgasm. He strained against his bonds and the frame of the gurney creaked ominously, until you heard the hiss of the oxygen machine and saw the lavender wisps filter into the mask over his face.

His eyelids fluttered and his fighting ceased, though his muscles continued to twitch, and he gave a tired, defeated moan as the machine continued its work.

It was clinical and efficient. All you had to do was push a button and make observation notes. Even the machines tracked his vitals and adjusted the doses accordingly.

It felt like you were only here as a bystander, forced to witness something you couldn’t look away from, even when he met your eye, a silent plea in his gaze.

049 looked away first, a wretched growl ripped out of him as his phallus twitched and semen spilled from the cockhead, automatically pulled up the tubing and deposited into the vial.

You shut off the machine and set the breather to oxygen-lavender mixture only. Technically, you were supposed to deliver the sample to the cooler first, but you could justify it as wasteful to continue to run the arousal component after the experiment was over.

After you secured the sample, you returned to the gurney and removed the suction funnel. The phallus hadn’t returned to its sheath due to the airtight seal around the suction device, but even with the equipment removed, it remained engorged and full.

The aphrodisiac was still in his system, or the overstimulation kept the blood pooled in his genitals. Either way, you couldn’t call in the security team to return 049 to his cell. He was already in distress from the experiment, he didn’t need the additional stress of being drugged and exposed like this.

You waited another minute, the most you could spare without needing to log more discrepancies. The problem was… his phallus hadn’t returned to its internal sheath.

“SCP-049.”

The anomaly dragged open his eyelids, and his focus wavered until it settled on you. His gaze was tired, but not so tired that you missed the wariness. He didn’t respond.

“You’re still…”

You trailed off, an uncomfortable heat rising up your neck. Jesus Christ. You’d just watched him have five involuntary orgasms, why was this the thing that made you blush.

He watched you but didn’t speak. You licked your dry lips.

“Your phallus hasn’t returned to its internal sheath.”

Apparently, he had nothing to say to that either.

“Why?” you pressed.

His answer was heavy with exhaustion.

“I do not know.”

You clenched your teeth and looked back at the tablet. Fuck this. If the Site Director wanted things done fast and sloppy, he could come down here and get the anomalous spunk himself.

You thoroughly washed your hands in the sink, dried them, and then slipped on a pair of nitrile gloves. 049 eyed you upon your return, especially the blue material that covered your hands.

“I’m going to attempt to ease it back inside.” You paused. “Can I do that?”

049’s gaze was uncomfortably heavy.

“Are you asking for my comfort or yours?”

You were the one without a response this time, something lodged in your throat. His gaze softened.

“I can do this myself, if you remove my restraints.”

If he’d been human, you would have taken it for the obvious ploy it was, but something in his voice made you genuinely believe he wouldn’t try to kill you, or even attempt to escape.

That didn’t mean you would do something as insane as release his hands.

“I’m sorry, I can’t do that,” you said with equal politeness. “Security protocols.”

“Ah, yes.” His eyelids drooped halfway. The lavender was finally overtaking the stimulant. “The patient’s safety is always paramount.”

You dug your nails into your palm so your expression wouldn’t change. He wasn’t a patient. His safety was secondary.

“Of course,” you said quietly. “You’re right.”

You moved closer when his lids drifted all the way shut and examined the situation. Some of the swelling had gone down, though there was enough stiffness that it would make this difficult.

Whatever this was. You had zero experience with manipulating the genitals of an SCP, and you would have liked to have gone a lifetime without knowing what it was like to hold 049’s aroused length in your hand. But you did, lifting it carefully as you attempting to slide it back in.

The phallus seemed to want to retreat, but there was resistance. With a nervous glance at 049’s face, you carefully dipped your fingers into the edges that clung to the base of his shaft. It wasn’t difficult to slip your fingers inside, but you almost jerked back when he shifted his hips and gave a quiet moan.

That same uncomfortable heat rose up your face, but 049’s eyes didn’t open, and he was relaxed enough that meant he was either sedated or asleep. You applied more pressure to opening the “slit,” as it appeared to be, and attempted to ease the phallus inside.

Maybe it was your ministrations, or the aphrodisiac had finally faded—whatever the reason, 049’s length returned to its internal sheath, and you breathed when it completely vanished. You watched, a little bit fascinated, as the edges covered the slit, giving the appearance that it was nothing more than a seam in a pair of rough, dark trousers.

You watched him for a moment, his breathing calm and even, deep enough that he was no longer conscious. You adjusted the oxygen machine to stop feeding him the infusion of lavender, but still, he didn’t wake. He didn’t need much sleep, and he rarely did it under observation. This was an opportunity to further study his patterns of behavior.

That’s what you would write in the logbook. What you actually did was tidy up the lab and catch up on your other paperwork, leaving the SCP to sleep undisturbed.

The ambient noise of the lab faded until all you heard was his deep, steady breathing.

They upped his dosage.

You confirmed it with the chemical readouts, but even without them, 049’s reaction to the machine as soon as it started its suction was… severe. The gurney would have broken if it wasn’t reinforced.

Worse, the suction machine was now fully automated as the head technician told you cheerily while the security personnel strapped 049 to the gurney the next day. No longer would you have to start each “session,” the machine would do that for you, as well as determine when to stop and how long to give him a resting period, which turned out to be no time at all.

You didn’t bother to ask why the changes were made, you just wanted to get it over with. You waited until the room was empty to buckle the breathing mask around 049’s head, followed by the suction device to his pelvis when he was fully erect. Every little brush of contact had made him twitch and shiver, a grim sign of how sensitive he already was.

049 gave another violent pull of his restraints, and when lavender poured into 049’s oxygen mask, he made a noise you hadn’t heard before: a strangled moan that was equal parts misery and need. He struggled harder, and his back would have arched off the gurney if the straps didn’t hold him in place.

At the first orgasm, he cried out, the noise wounded and raw, and it was apparent why they’d increased the dosage of aphrodisiac. The amount of semen he produced was almost twice the volume of the previous day’s samples.

The Site Director might have found a way to double production, but 049 was already panting like a racehorse run into the ground. His heartrate was faster than was safe for a human, and the lavender didn’t seem to be doing much to calm him.

You gripped the tablet tightly, your fingers digging into the edges as you watched him twitch and tremble. It wasn’t safe to put him through this four more times, but the machines kept going. They were supposed to stop if his vitals reached unsafe levels.

The machine was ramping up again, you could see it in the way he stiffened, tried to fight it, even as his moans grew harsher and more desperate.

Something caught your attention. Difficult to see around the bony eyeholes, but the light reflected it as he struggled against his restraints. Tear tracks ran down the corners of his eyes, disappearing into the recesses of his mask.

You yanked the power cord from the wall. The suction machine went silent, its dark screen showing nothing but your own reflection.

049 gasped for air, his gaze confused and unsteady, a question flickering in his expression. You ignored him as you shut off both the unknown chemical and lavender from his oxygen feed. It flashed an error warning, your command conflicting with the timetable of the experiment.

Frustrated and unable to reach the power cord on the bulky machine pressed to the wall, you unbuckled the oxygen mask from 049’s head and pulled it free. You covered your face with the edge of your lab coat, but fortunately, the machine sensed the airflow escaping the mask and shut off automatically.

At least one automatic system had worked in your favor. You didn’t want to find out what that chemical would do to a human.

The SCP stared up at you, his gaze becoming more lucid by the second. It was also intense, heated in a way that was unusual for the typically calm anomaly. When you removed the suction funnel, a violent tremble traveled up his body, and his phallus was more engorged and irritated than it had been yesterday, even after five orgasms.

“Shit,” you hissed to yourself. That about summed up the whole situation. What would you put on the report? That the machine was traumatic to the anomaly? Maybe. From what you knew, Director Leahy wasn’t sympathetic or lenient, but you doubted he would want the subject of his project to die from heart failure—

“You stopped the procedure.”

You looked up, almost startled to hear the raspy voice. Not that you’d forgotten he was there, but you had more pressing matters to address, like how to avoid ending up on a shit detail after this, where the chance of dying went up exponentially.

“Why?” he asked when you remained silent.

You picked at a thread on the edge of your coat.

“I… made a judgement call. For the integrity of the experiment and the subject-… patient’s safety.”

It sounded decent enough, and you could make it sound even better in the report—

“You did not want to do this.”

You tightened your jaw and met his eye as you said, “I don’t care one way or another.”

“Indeed?” His tone was light, perhaps even amused if he wasn’t strapped down to a gurney. “I do not believe that is true.”

What was the point of this conversation? 049 knew how things worked here, that you couldn’t fight it or change it. It just… was.

You were tired, the sleepless night was catching up to you, and it reflected in your flat words.

“What I want is irrelevant.”

“Not to me.” His gaze was heavy and matched his words in weight. “What you want has already changed the outcome of this test, no?”

You broke eye contact first and attempted to get your expression under control. You didn’t think it worked.

“Regardless of me shutting off the machines, the Site Director will expect four more samples. If I don’t deliver, someone else will.”

“And you will be punished?”

His tone was almost soft, and you winced.

“I doubt I will even remember this conversation.” And that’s if you were lucky.

“Hmm.”

His expression was thoughtful, and thankfully his gaze elsewhere. You stayed purposefully away from glancing lower, because each time you did, it told the same story. He was in a heightened state of arousal, and without relief or friction, you imagined it was its own kind of torture, and you had no idea how his voice remained so even.

“You may take your remaining samples,” he finally said.

“…What?”

His eyes narrowed the smallest amount, and you detected some irritation in his tone. Maybe he wasn’t so unflappable.

“If it is as you say, and this experiment will continue regardless of who completes it, then I would rather it be you.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

“But… I can’t adjust the machine or control what it does.”

“Then do not use it.”

When you stared at him, he added, “Use manual stimulation.”

“Manual… stimulation.”

“Yes.” The word was practically hissed, and he shifted on the gurney, the straps creaking against the movement. “And I suggest you do delay. Whatever they have dosed me with seems to worsen without intervention.”

Intervention. Right.

“If that discomforts you,” he said, watching your face, “then you may free my arm so I may stimulate myself.”

You closed your eyes and breathed in, not imagining what that would look like. Then you opened your eyes.

“I can’t,” you said quietly. “You know that.”

He had nothing to say to that.

With nothing left to discuss, you washed your hands in the sink and applied a new pair of gloves. If you were going to do this, you were going to be a goddamn professional.

You approached from his left side, bringing with you a tray and things you would need. A bottle of medical lubricant, sample cups and vials, and a few disposable pipettes. You hadn’t exactly done this before, but it seemed self-explanatory.

You took the lubricant and spread it over one hand, needing to keep the other dry to hold the cup. He winced when you dribbled the lube over the length of his phallus and mumbled a sorry when you realized you should have warmed the liquid.

Attempting to be gentle, you took his length and stroked, as if you were doing nothing more than performing a chore.

He sucked in a breath but remained quiet aside from that. He shifted under your hand only once, but you could feel the tension in the way he held himself, as if fighting against the urge to move, and his gloved hands were balled into fists at his sides.

You stared at a fixed point across the room, working from feel alone. Even through the glove he was surprisingly warm, and the shape of him wasn’t far off from human aside from the tapered cockhead. You didn’t know what purpose any of it served, as far as the Foundation knew he was the only one of his kind and there wasn’t a reason to have reproductive organs.

It was also something you didn’t need to worry about right now, so you focused stroking up and down his length, listening to figure out if he was close. It was hard to tell, he was purposefully trying to control his breathing.

“It would be easier if you relaxed and didn’t fight it,” you said without looking at him.

“And you… would find this a simple task… were you in my position?”

Unwanted guilt twisted your stomach, and you kept any further suggestions to yourself.

And then his breathing changed, harsher and strained, and you grabbed the cup. Trying very hard not to think about this as a strange, horrific milking-the-cow situation, you kept your focus tunnel visioned on what you were doing—which, unfortunately, required you to look at what you were doing.

The ruddy-colored member looked like it was about to burst, and you positioned the cup before the cockhead, but after half a minute when nothing happened, you realized you’d have to help him along. Performing the most clinical hand job anyone’s ever seen wasn’t going to make him come, at least not anytime soon.

You swallowed your discomfort and changed your tactic. You kept your fast pace, but added a twist to your wrist, squeezing on the upward stroke.

The effect was instantaneous: 049 gave a strangled groan and fought against his restraints, and after one particularly hard pull, he came with a shuddered breath.

You barely got the cup in position before he spilled over your hand, and you managed to keep the mess from getting on his robes as you caught it in the receptacle. You stroked him through it, slower as he twitched and panted.

When nothing else came out, you put the cup on the tray and pulled off your gloves, tossing them into the biohazard bin. You quickly pipetted the semen into the vials. It would be exposed to the air, but thankfully this wasn’t the kind of experiment where that seemed to matter.

The kind of experiment where semen samples were needed in copious amounts wasn’t something you wanted to think about.

You took the vial and transported it to the cooler, the pattern routine by now. After washing your hands again, you pulled out a new pair of gloves and returned to the gurney. With a quick glance at 049, you ascertained that he should be ready to go again. He was no longer panting, but there wasn’t much you could do about his irritated, weeping phallus and the overstimulation it would bring.

“Before… we continue,” 049 said, “I have a request.”

You paused and blinked at him.

“A request?”

His eyes flickered to your gloves, half-pulled on.

“The material… is quite abrasive.”

“…You want me ungloved?”

“Skin-to-skin contact is preferable.”

You hesitated. Aside from sanitary issues, there wasn’t any reason not to. 049 could only kill through a touch of his hands, at least, that’s as far as anyone at the Foundation knew.

Well. If you were killed from direct contact with an SCP’s cock, at least you’d be too dead to care about the gossip afterward.

“It may also expedite the process,” 049 added, and it was true. Entirely logical. The soft warmth of skin would probably bring him to orgasm quicker than harsh, inorganic material. It didn’t make you feel any better about removing that last barrier between you.

Without a word, you stripped off the glove from one hand and tossed it in the bin. You applied lube to your palm, and this time you rubbed it between your fingers to warm it before spreading it along his phallus.

049 immediately stiffened under the touch, and then just as quickly… relaxed. He still gave a shudder once in a while as you stroked, but at least he wasn’t braced this time. The glove must have been unpleasant if his reaction was this different.

“Thank you,” he said, the relief clear in the words. You stared at a tile next to your foot.

Despite the additional stimulation of skin contact and you trying to be less mechanical with your technique, it still took just as long to bring him to orgasm. And when he finally came, it was more intense, 049 yanking against his restraints hard enough that you almost leapt back.

But you stayed planted on the spot, focusing on your job because your life depended on it. You collected the next sample, wishing you could block out the pained gasps that left his chest after the last drops of semen were coaxed out by a few encouraging pulls.

You repeated the process: wipe down your fingers, pipette the sample into the vial, transport to the cooler, wash your hands. This was fine. You could do this two more times.

You weren’t sure 049 could. His breathing was unstable when you returned, and you didn’t need the heart monitor to know it raced too quickly.

You licked your lips nervously and asked, “What are you feeling? You’re agitated.”

049 seemed surprised at the question, but you’d watched him long enough to know he was a methodical, observant creature. If anyone could explain what was going on with his biology, he could.

“It appears my state of arousal is increasing with each orgasm.”

You frowned.

“That didn’t happen yesterday.”

“No. It is reasonable to assume that the increase in dosage may be a factor. Or…” 049’s voice dropped into a dull, resigned tone. “Perhaps it was meant to work in tandem with the machine.”

“I’m not turning it on.”

He peered at you with renewed interest.

“You do not approve of this experiment.”

“Does it matter?” you snapped, unwilling to have this discussion again. 049 gave you a look that wasn’t so different than a professor who had been given a disappointing answer to a relatively simple question.

“You’ve brought me to completion twice by your own hand. I believe we can be honest with each other at this point. Don’t you?”

Did 049 just make a joke?

“Let me know when you’re ready,” you said, ignoring his question. When he failed to respond, you met his gaze and held it, your frown determined. You weren’t turning on the machine, no matter what 049 tried to read into your behavior.

His head angled at a curious tilt, and you didn’t like the way he seemed to see right through you.

“You may proceed.”

All measure of his composure was shattered when you gripped him and tugged. The noises he made were caught between guttural growls and muffled moans, each one sounding as if they were ripped from him at great cost.

Maybe a more seasoned researcher would have been able to block out the sounds, but you doubted it. They were half-tortured, half-pornographic, and you swallowed hard as you continued to stare straight forward. There was a wall clock where you could keep track of the time, which was a boon considering checking your wristwatch was out of the question. You didn’t want to look, and you didn’t have to, not to know if he was close. You were becoming proficient in that, at least.

You frowned faintly, watching the clock. Almost five minutes had passed, which was almost twice as long as his previous orgasm had taken. Something was wrong, and if it wasn’t the time indicating it, then it was how consistently he shuddered.

You released him, and he went boneless on the gurney’s surface, but he continued to tremble like an animal left out in a storm.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, blunter than you meant to be. 049 couldn’t seem to focus, his eyes half-lidded and his gaze hazy, but he managed to respond.

“Not…”

Another full body tremble racked him.

“…enough.”

You were afraid of that. There was a trend, one you had noticed from the machine and from your own… personal ministrations. Each orgasm required more stimulation than the last.

You grit your teeth.

“It’s going to have to be.”

His only response was a quiet exhale that could have been acknowledgement or defeat. Your posture went rigid. Why wasn’t he angrier about this? About the Foundation and this experiment? At you?

If he would just show you a little bit of aggression and hostility, maybe this would be easier. It’s what you would have done in his position, no matter how pointless it was. Rage was better than this… goddamn polite compliance. Like he would simply accept whatever happened to him without a fight—

Nostrils flaring, you gripped his length, your movements not gentle, and his reaction was immediate; he bucked upwards, moving what little he could, seeking relief even if it was from an unkind source.

You weren’t trying to be cruel, but you were frustrated, and tired, and so damn angry, and each harsh stroke of your hand was, in the end, an attempt to give him a release.

But no matter how hard you squeezed, each pull on his cock eliciting a shuddered and strained noise, he still couldn’t finish. It wasn’t enough, just as he’d said, and you almost considered turning back on the machine.

Instead, you realized what was missing, what the machine had provided. It wasn’t that the machine was consistent or particularly intense.

You glanced at 049’s expression and immediately wished you hadn’t. His eyes were squeezed shut, and even though his expression should have been nearly impossible to read, misery radiated from every twitch, every desperate, constrained thrust of his hips.

Before you could rethink what you were about to do, you gripped the base of his cock, held his length upward, and bent forward, swallowing him down.

You had a second to register the briny taste of him before he thrust upward into your mouth, the startled noise punched out of him like a physical blow. It was… overwhelming, the taste and sounds and movements of him, and your previous attempts to compartmentalize shook apart like a badly constructed shelter in a storm.

You shut your eyes and focused. It was pointless to try and move your head, his thrusts did the work for you, small enough that you weren’t at risk of choking, but you didn’t have control either. He was too strong, too agitated to slow down, so you held on as best you could and tried to cover your teeth. At this point, you weren’t sure he would even care if he felt them.

When you were somewhat used to the rhythm and your gag reflex settled, you applied the suction that was missing, and at the same time pressed the flat of your tongue to the underside of his cock.

You had to brace yourself as he nearly dislodged you, his movements wild and desperate, but it was working. His length pulsed on your tongue, the only warning as the first wave of come spilled down your throat.

It caught you by surprise and you nearly choked, but when you pulled off of him you had the cup ready, having reached behind you blindly for it on the tray. You stroked him through it, mindful that the sample size would be less than the prior one. But you tried to catch as much as you could and hoped the discrepancy would be due to natural variation. You certainly weren’t going to tell them a portion of 049’s semen had ended up in your stomach.

After setting down the cup, you wiped your hands dry and repeated the process, carefully avoiding looking at 049 as you finished transporting the sample and washing your hands.

That was your mistake, and you didn’t see the torn buckle in time.

049 snapped the restraint holding his left wrist in two.

You tried to backpedal out of reach, but he was fast, and a hand closed around your throat and yanked you forward. You caught yourself on his chest, your mind slow to process the fingers around your neck and how you should already be dead. It was difficult to focus on what should be when your primate brain screamed at you to flee from the predator about to deliver the killing bite.

But 049 didn’t squeeze, didn’t snap your neck, though his gaze was a predatory hunger that was unlike him. This wasn’t the polite, intelligent anomaly you were accustomed to observing.

He adjusted his grip to the nape of your neck, and you froze like a rabbit in a fox’s jaws, barely breathing as he ripped off the rest of the restraints. Those pale eyes never looked away, and as focused as they were, they were strangely absent. Wherever the anomaly’s consciousness was, it wasn’t here, buried deep beneath a ravenous appetite you had carelessly stoked.

You tried to speak, to plead with him to stop, but your voice was trapped in your throat. You remained speechless until he pulled you to the nearest surface, a countertop with just enough space to show you against. He bent you over the edge, chest against the cold surface, and that’s when you gave a strangled noise of fear.

The SCP ignored you and ripped off your lab coat, hurling it aside before reaching around and ripping the buttons off your pants.

Your brain caught up to the situation in a flash of panic, and you kicked backwards. He didn’t acknowledge the blow, as if your feeble attempts to fight weren’t noticeable.

049 tugged down your slacks, and when you tried to shove him off, he readjusted his grip on the back of your neck and forced you flat against the counter, unable to move from the bent, vulnerable position.

“Don’t—” you strangled out, but he couldn’t hear you or he wasn’t listening.

He didn’t speak, his movements focused and uncaring as he tore off your underwear and hiked up your dress shirt. You closed your eyes and hid your face in your arms, hoping it would be quick.

No matter how you tried to shut out the world, 049’s fingers dragging along your cunt brought out a shudder, and you could hear the slick coating his fingers. Your face heated in shame; you’d tried to remain clinical and distant during the procedures, but your body had reacted against your will.

Even now, you didn’t want him to think you’d enjoyed his suffering. Just as you hoped, deep down, he wouldn’t enjoy yours.

049 gave a low growl that was almost a purr, and you tensed as something hot and rigid prodded your entrance. You tried to relax and brace all at once, but you still weren’t prepared as he breached you, pushing just inside.

You shuddered and tried to curl inward, but the hand on your neck kept you in place, and you tried to remember how to breathe as the intrusion moved deeper. It was too much, he was too large, and you needed time to adjust, but he was impatient.

049 pushed the rest of the way, seating himself inside you with a low, pleased grunt. You trembled all over and flinched when he placed a hand on your hip, but it wasn’t cruel.

It was impersonal, just another restraint to hold you in place.

He slowly drew out, an inch at a time, before pushing back in. He was testing, or that’s how it started. After a few exploratory thrusts, 049 seemed to lose whatever had been holding him back, and the next were harder, faster. His hand on your hip was bruising, but you hardly noticed, biting into your cheek so you wouldn’t make any noises.

They escaped anyway, traitorous little gasps and moans, the previous discomfort gone as warmth blossomed deep in your gut. You no longer braced yourself in fear of what was to come, but so he could thrust harder and you could take it without moving.

It was wrong. All of it was wrong, it had been from the start, but that didn’t change how quickly you surrendered. Shame or pleasure wet your face, and it didn’t really matter which one it was.

049 was ruthless, unprecise and wild, like an animal deep in rut. You bit into your hand to try and hold back the scream, and you managed to muffle it so no one would hear and investigate. You shuddered and froze, giving a helpless whimper as you throbbed around him, pleasure wracking your body in uncontrollable bursts.

The SCP thrust harder, but slower, losing his rhythm as something large pushed against your entrance. You didn’t know what it was until he shoved it inside, stretching you wide and drawing out what was left of your orgasm.

“N-no,” you moaned, realizing what it was too late. There had been zero indication that 049 had a knot, or a hook, or any kind of reproductive “grabber,” but there was something that stuck you together, trapping 049’s cock as it spilled inside you.

The hands slowly left your hip and neck, but he was unable to move away. 049 stayed frozen, and the only noise he made was the harsh scrape of his fast breathing.

You didn’t move either, face buried in your arms as your legs shook, threatening to buckle at the knees. Maybe 049 sensed that, because he moved closer, letting you rest more securely on the countertop.

When he finally spoke, his tone was unsteady.

“I… do not know why I have done this.”

He shifted a little, and then immediately froze at your fragile whimper. You swore you could feel every breath he took, let alone when he tried to move, and the connection throbbed between you.

“Don’t… move,” you gasped.

He didn’t attempt it again, but he did curl over you slightly, as if to try and examine you.

“How grievously did I wound you?”

You shook your head. Despite how forceful he was, he’d managed to avoid hurting you as far as you could tell.

“This was not… I did not intend to…” He released an unsteady breath. “I am sorry.”

Maybe it was the regret, or the shame, or the guilt. Maybe it was all of it, layered over those three words, his voice small and brittle.

You reached blindly behind you until you found his arm, and you took his hand and pulled him forward until he was partially leaning on top of you. You turned your face to watch as you pushed his hand against the counter, weaving your fingers through his. You hadn’t been imagining it. His touch couldn’t kill you.

You didn’t know why, or if it had anything to do with this experiment, but it changed things. You just didn’t know how much yet.

“We can’t tell them,” you said quietly. “About any of it.”

If the Foundation knew you’d had sex with an SCP, willingly or not? If they knew that same SCP no longer affected you the way he did everyone else? 049 wouldn’t be the only one in a containment cell.

049 didn’t speak for a few seconds, and then said, “I shall… follow your lead.”

Your eyes burned. Maybe he didn’t have a choice any more than you did, but it was still something to know he, perhaps, didn’t hate you after what you’d done.

“How long until the knot deflates?” you asked tiredly.

Another round of silence.

“I do not know. This… is a new experience to me.”

“Knotting?”

“Copulation.”

Jesus, and you’d thought it couldn’t get any worse. But as always with the Foundation, it could.

“The Site Director is still expecting five samples,” you said, the words dull and flat.

“That may present a problem. I believe the drug has run its course, and I am uncertain if I can be aroused again so quickly.”

“I’m not taking the sample from you.”

The knot was getting looser, which meant you didn’t have much time.

“The tray.” You indicated with your chin to where it stood next to him. “Hand me the cup.”

He gave you a quizzical look before he grabbed the empty cup and handed it to you.

“You are going to collect the sample from yourself,” he realized.

“Yes.”

“But… it will be tainted.”

You let out a humorless noise.

“This whole goddamn experiment is tainted. Sample integrity won’t change that.”

The weight on your back increased as 049 pulled closer, and you froze, reminded against of a large predator hovering over your neck.

“If that is how you feel, then perhaps you would be open to a proposal.”

With how close he was you couldn’t see his face, and his “beak” accidentally brushed the side of your head. You shuddered, a reminder that you were still oversensitive from where you were connected.

“What kind of proposal?”

“One where neither of us have to do this again.”

Sounded too good to be true. And dangerous.

Perhaps he sensed your reluctance, because the curve of his mask caressed the side of your neck, this time intentionally. You shuddered.

“I am asking you to trust me.” His words were gentle and held a sadness to them. “I fear if we do nothing, I will harm you again. I have no wish to do so.”

Before you could respond, he slipped out of you, and you would have fallen if he hadn’t grabbed you around the waist. You grasped the cup and stuck it between your legs, catching what you could. It would be far less than the other samples, but hopefully it was enough to count.

After setting the cup aside, 049 gradually loosened his grip and let you go when it was clear you could stand on your own. You grabbed the paper towel roll and cleaned yourself up as best you could, unable to make eye contact until you pulled up your slacks and tried to salvage what you could of the buttons.

When you eventually looked up, 049 was watching you from a polite distance away, expression guarded but expectant as he waited for your answer.

“What do you propose?”

He examined your face for a long moment.

“We leave.”

You wanted to scoff, make a sarcastic comment about how easy it was to just walk out of the facility and away from the Foundation.

And then you remembered Site-19. The closure of the facility and SCP transfers that had so much secrecy around them that it had become water cooler legend more than one of the most devastating breaches in Foundation history.

But it had been real, and SCP-049 had been right in the middle of it.

You swallowed your fear and inhaled.

“Tell me everything.”

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