#Aliens: Purge | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bestboiraditz · 4 months ago

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I was watching some old clips of Raditz and I realized something interesting about this characterization. Yes, Raditz is immediately interesting because he's Goku's older brother, but he's made even MORE interesting in my opinion thanks to the brief characterization he's allowed to have.

Take his first lines to Goku:

He doesn't immediately berate him for his failure to purge the planet, he takes a moment to muse on how much Goku has grown and how he looks just like their father Bardock. Keep in mind, Bardock wasn't even a spark in Toriyama's mind, so for him to have Raditz say this when he's supposed to be a throwaway villain shows an unusual level of fondness for family, especially considering what we later learn about Saiyans

Raditz, upon realizing Goku doesn't remember him, isn't just annoyed that Goku forgot his mission, but seems distraught that his little brother doesn't remember him.

It's a small detail, but again, cements that Raditz shows an unusual level of attachment to family bonds, especially for a Sayain.

And then (and this is something important to keep in mind) he declares that he will find a way to recover his little brother's memories because Goku is NEEDED.

His priority isn't to get the planet purged or punish Goku for failing, it's to regain the only biological bond he has left, however little of it there may be.

I find it interesting Toriyama wrote this piece of dialogue. It just seems odd he would write such layered dialogue to characterize a villain he always intended to kill off ASAP. I guess it was to play into the whole "subverting the brother trope" but still, it doesn't make the characterization any less interesting

When Raditz tells Goku how their planet was destroyed and how everyone died, he AGAIN emphasizes that this means their parents died too.

Again, Raditz really seems to put value on his family. Note he says PARENTS not just father. Even Vegeta, for as long as we've gotten to know him, never talks about his father King Vegeta that much (if at all? He's thought about him, but not really talked about him) I find Goku's reaction interesting too, as if deep inside, despite not remembering Bardock and Gine, his heart still feels the pain of losing them. (Could it be possible Raditz noticed his reaction and took that as a sign that Goku felt the bond too, hence his following actions?)

Like @masakoxtra said, Bardock's line seems to be unusually empathetic for Saiyans. (He talks about it at 3:30)

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Even Raditz, despite living his whole life under Frieza's boot and submitting to the bullying and callousness of Vegeta and Nappa and hardening his heart because of it, hasn't completely lost his sense of empathy, it's part of his nature albeit incredibly suppressed.

Raditz then has an unusually distressed response when he realizes Goku doesn't have a tail.

He doesn't mock him for losing it or immediately gets disgusted by his weakness, he is outright horrified and then gets mad at Goku for letting others just remove his tail (From Raditz's perspective, It would be like if Goku just let his arm get cut off to fit in with a race of one-armed aliens).

For Raditz, he views it as a form of betrayal, not just of his race, but the idea that his own brother would rather pass as a lowly earthling than embrace his own heritage (family being something Raditz clearly values) really gets to Raditz on an emotional level.

Now that I think about it, Raditz kinda goes through 4 out of 5 of the stages of grief for the brief time he's alive.

His first reaction is denial that Goku had forgot him and accepted life on earth, then anger that he would rather live as an earthling than be with his Saiyan kin, and then he starts the bargaining phase, trying to entice Goku with the idea of fighting saying that he's a Saiyan and it's in his blood.

When that bargaining doesn't work, he resorts to a different form of bargaining.

Blackmail.

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Raditz steals Gohan trying to force Goku to join him. He tells Goku to kill 100 humans by tomorrow as proof of his submission, but pay attention to the wording:

Raditz says "when you decide to join us, and you WILL decide to" that's how much confidence he has in Goku's devotion towards his son EVEN THOUGH Goku's a Saiyan.

Raditz doesn't have a shadow of a doubt that Goku will do everything in his power to protect his son, even if he is a weak crybaby. Saiyans don't typically care much for their kin as shown in several flashback material later on (in fact it's later explained that they'll completely disown and abandon babies that are too weak to be considered useful. They have a very Spartan-esque society).

But Raditz knows he can use Gohan as leverage because Raditz actually understands emotional connections between family members, something he would've likely valued all the more being considered weak himself.

A lot of times people are able to use emotional manipulation because they either understand or were a victim of similar manipulation.

He then warns Goku that he might as well comply because everyone is going to die anyway, the earth being scheduled for purging. He hammers home the point that Goku's defiance is pointless and he really doesn't have a choice anyway so he may as well submit.

But what Raditz is doing here is almost an act of compassion (for a Saiyan). The way he sees it, Goku will die if he doesn't comply, so joining them is the only way he'll be able to survive. If he didn't care about Goku's life, why warn him? Why give him a chance to prove himself?

In fact, why would Raditz need Goku to prove himself when he was willing to take him without that before?

This is just an idea, but could it be...because of his scouter?

Remember, his scouter was open the entire time so Vegeta and Nappa are listening in. If Vegeta was listening it, after hearing about Goku's weak power level and his defiance and kind-nature, Raditz probably knew Vegeta might just dispose of Goku when they returned, considering him a disgrace to the Saiyan race. So Raditz has to have Goku prove himself by killing a bunch of humans to show Vegeta he's worth keeping alive.

It's horrific in Goku's eyes, but to Raditz, the lives of a few humans is inconsequential compared to his brother. This again is why Raditz says Goku has no choice, Vegeta won't give them a choice.

This also might be desperation on Raditz's part. If we are to consider the opening of Dragonball Z: Kakarot canon, Vegeta and Nappa mock him, Nappa going as far as to declare it's why he's called "Raditz the Runt", apparently a knickname he's saddled with in the Frieza force.

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Raditz, instead of responding angrily or protesting as most Saiyans would, bows his head and pathetically apologizes, promising things will be different next time, showing that not only is this bullying common, but Raditz has just accepted it at this point. The way Raditz treats Goku when meeting him may stem from this treatment, he's trying to sway his brother the only way he's seen, through brute force and intimidation.

But Vegeta, getting sick of Raditz's weakness, promises to kill him if he screws up again, and if Vegeta promises death, you know it's coming. Raditz, panicking as his self-preservation instincts kick in, mentions his brother, saying he can help make things easier, but really Raditz just doesn't want Vegeta to kill him. Even then, Vegeta scoffs "The fact that he's YOUR brother doesn't exactly fill me with confidence" It's possible that Raditz did actually forget his brother and it was only in his panic, scrambling mentally for any way to save his life, that in that moment of desperation he at last remembered Kakarot.

Again, if we are to consider this conversation canon, Raditz needs Goku to survive to better the odds of his own survival, it's only after he's in a pod heading to Earth that he has time to think about Kakarot and wonder why he hasn't tried contacting them after so long.

But back to the OG manga, After Raditz gives Goku his ultimatum, he says this:

Again, he could've stopped at "I hope you don't disappoint me" but to follow it up by emphasizing it's for both his and Gohan's sake is noteworthy.

And even though Raditz clearly doesn't have much of a connection with Gohan as he does with Goku, I find this bit particularly interesting:

He barks at Gohan to stop crying and states that he possesses the proud blood of Saiyans. Yes, he is annoyed by Gohan's crying, but he also feels that he's better than that since he is still a Saiyan and wants him to be strong.

I like to imagine that Raditz is repeating something Bardock told him when he cried as a child, it feels like a very Bardock thing to say.

I particularly like the english dub of this scene, Justin Cook gives such an interesting and tender delivery of the line.

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Also I really like how Raditz pauses to look at Gohan before walking away in the anime, I like to interpret it as Raditz seeing a bit of himself as a child in Gohan, but quickly burying those feelings.

There's a little fancomic I found that really drives that idea home.

When Goku and Piccolo show up, before they even fight, Raditz says this:

Again, why warn Goku? This feels more like Raditz is still in the bargaining mindset, he's trying to get his brother to give up and now must resort to brutally beating him to get his point through.

And then followed by this.

Remember, his scouter is open, so it's entirely possible he's acting ruthless and declaring they'll die so he won't look soft to Vegeta. I mean, he'd kill Piccolo without a thought, yeah, but Goku...? It may still be a bluff.

Plus, if he was serious about killing them, why stand around and let them plot instead of finishing them off?

The tail scene is where we see Raditz's cowardly nature on full display. But I think this moment really enhances his character because most Saiyans probably wouldn't beg for their lives, at least not to the degree Raditz is doing, they're too proud a race.

Raditz starts rambling about how he'd never actually kill his brother and his death threats were just bluffs.

Yes, we know it's a ploy to get free, but could there be an iota of truth in there? The fact he could've cut off his tail but was waiting for Piccolo to fire off his second Makenkosopo shows that Raditz is a quick thinker and very calculating.

Plus he probably didn't want to have to lose his tail unless he absolutely HAD to.

Goku was NOT stupid for letting go.

After Goku releases him, Raditz mocks his softness stating that he, a Saiyan-warrior wouldn't hesitate to kill their own brother, only to confusedly ask if Goku wants "a demonstration".

Like, if he wouldn't hesitate to kill his brother, why is he hesitating to kill his brother?

He's not killing him, he's torturing him, he could easily end it.

Remember that Double Sunday he shot off with ease earlier?

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And of course after Raditz and Goku get turned into donuts, Raditz says one of the saddest lines in retrospect:

Like, he is relying on Vegeta and Nappa to save him, believing that they'll value him as a Saiyan and bring him back because HE HAS NO ONE ELSE TO RELY ON.

Right before he dies, he's in a sort of stage 4 depression where he can't believe this is how his life is going to end, dying alone and disgraced on some backwater planet at the hands of his own brother, their family line coming to a miserable end. He's never allowed to come to stage 5: acceptance (which is often where the change in a person's perspective/character tends to happen) because he dies and is forgotten.

Another thing that makes me sad Raditz didn't survive is cuz he's the perfect medium between Goku and Vegeta.

Goku rejects his saiyan heritage while Vegeta clings to it, but Raditz feels like he could easily straddle both worlds. He'd cling to his saiyan heritage out of love and respect for his parents (He'd still call Goku Kakarot, not because "it's a Saiyan name" like Vegeta, but because it's the name Bardock and Gine gave, his reason a much more personal one).

However, Raditz would have plenty of things NOT to like about Saiyan society, especially with how he and his father were treated as low-class warriors.

Being on earth, surrounded by kind people who don't belittle him and show basic kindness and respect would quickly endear Raditz to earth (remember, Bardock's kin are unusually empathetic for Saiyans).

Plus, being around Goku, who'd no doubt encourage and be proud of Raditz whilst training, would do a lot to boost Raditz's confidence (Goku looking like Bardock a way to ease his yearning to prove himself to his father) and further make him enjoy earth.

I like to imagine that, while Goku always wears a training gi from earth and Vegeta always wears some semblance of saiyan armor, Raditz would probably have a saiyan breastplate resembling Bardock's (as a kind of tribute to his dad) and go with loose pants like Goku which is good for training, visually symbolizing his willingness to find the balance between two worlds.

If Raditz had survived in the canon, this could've played even further into Vegeta's sense of isolation post-Cell arc. During his whole Majin Vegeta vs Goku fight speech, he could've said something like "And imagine the frustration I felt, when the only other pure-blood of my race left, your brother, that low-level trash who'd trembled for years under my elite warrior might, not only obtained the power of a super saiyan, but deemed me, ME the prince of all Saiyans UNWORTHY of his time! UNWORTHY FOR HIM TO FIGHT!"

Oh, and...

Must run in the family.

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ilium-ilia · 2 months ago

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a fox cries; never howls

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | in limbo au | masterlist

Part (2/3): rooftops

tw: torture, gore, non-con

Slowly, things begin to change.

It comes leisurely like the rising sun dawning on rimy land, or the change of a leaf from green to gold. First, it appears in the tips of your fingers. Baby pink gel polish lengthens and grows as your nail bed widens. Like the triumph of mother nature, your real nail attempts to drown out the synthetic lacquer that coats them as if purging some blight on your body. Riley—no, Simon now—catches you chewing on them one day and comes back home from work one night with a fresh pair of nail clippers and files. You spend an hour hunched over on the couch spreading dust everywhere as you grind off the polish on your hands and the glitter on your feet.

When you’re finished, your nails are torn to shreds. Uneven and jagged, they catch on fabric and cling awkwardly to your skin, but the incessant color is gone. Purged from your body, you are left with nothing but your natural nails in all their weak, dull glory. Simon asks you if you want him to buy you any polish, and your denial leaves your lips before your brain has the time to fully process it. No—nail polish will never taint your body ever again.

The next change you note is your body hair. While under Marco’s thumb, he ensured you were waxed regularly at scheduled esthetician appointments that he would always drag you to every other week or so. Everything would go. Your legs, your arms—especially your pubic hair. There wasn’t an inch of your skin that hadn’t been ripped apart by wax, leaving you as smooth as a baby and feeling naked even with your clothes on. Now, you don’t have those appointments, and though you were provided with a razor when you were first brought here to Simon’s home, you’ve yet to use it.

So it grows. And grows. It comes in thick and wild. You run your hand over your legs and the hair tickles your fingertips. It’s a texture you’re not used to, yet one you can’t seem to get enough of. You’ll often catch yourself mindlessly tracing the changes of your body, and Simon doesn’t speak a word about it. He does not call you gross or disgusting. He does not claim that it’s unattractive, like Marco would. In fact, he seems to pay no mind to it at all.

There is very little that you do that Simon comments on, really. Usually they are more questions rather than comments, anyway. He asks if you’ve eaten, what you’ve eaten, how much water you’ve drank, if you need anything—you are wary of his kindness. Of this alien hospitality. You fear he thinks of you as an animal; a pet. Something to feed and water and make sure that it doesn’t kill itself in the meantime.

The small scratches on your wrist heal within a week and don’t even bother to leave scars as the scabs crust and dry. On the other hand, his cat scratch lingers. The blade carved deep enough into his arm that he ended up needing stitches; something he had done overnight at work without telling you. Not that he needs to tell you what he does—being the one taking care of you and all—but you caught sight of the thread poking out of freshly formed skin. His tattoo is ruined because of you. Jagged skin refuses to line up properly, and the ink fades as scar tissue forms over what used to be well-done artwork.

You often catch him rubbing at it as if the wound is fresh, and he often catches you staring at it as if you can still smell the blood. He’s told you time and time again not to worry about it, but the agita haunts your gut anyway. You are well aware of the irony that lies beneath you injuring the man who’s effectively saved your life. He’s given you a place to stay—his own bed and damn near the shirt off of his very back—but your sorrow does not absolve you from the sin of having committed that act.

Not yet.

As time drones on and the days gradually become shorter, you and Simon grow closer—as close as a stray cat is able to get to a big dog, anyway. Your bravery evolves as you venture out of your room—his room—and explore the expanse of his home. The kitchen and his always fully stocked fridge. The soft cushions of his couch as you flip through streaming services on his TV. The stairs in his garage and how they squeak as you sit amidst quiet music while he works on his motorcycle.

Eventually, when your intrepidity grows, you find your voice. Words still come slow and fractured, and punctuated with uneasy hums and gasps, but it is something. You tell him what little stories you feel comfortable sharing, and your stomach drops when you fully realize how much of your life has been devoured by Marco. There are no mawkish tales of your crazy teen years for you to bond and laugh over, but Simon is good at filling the silence.

He’s under the impression that you like hearing him talk. Your fingers stop tapping against each other when he speaks, anyway. So he fills every doldrum that passes with stories of him as a child and the trouble he would get into at school, or odd things he’s seen at work. His voice is nice. It crackles like a phonograph and hums deep like waves in the ocean, beckoning you home. Simon is a stark difference from the honeyed coos and cutting gazes you are so accustomed to with Marco.

When Simon has run out of things to say, he puts on a movie.

It’s never a big deal. There’s no fanfare of popcorn and candies—rather, it simply exists in the living room. He doesn’t invite you to watch the movie with him, but he leaves half the couch empty. Simon Riley shrinks himself until he’s cornered to one side when he could very well swallow the entire furniture set himself. When you eventually grow curious enough to sit yourself next to him, he glances at you for only a short moment before returning his attention back to the TV. His feral cat has decided to take company with him, and he refuses to scare her off too soon.

Not sure what the movie is—and feeling too anxious to ask—you keep quiet as the action unfolds before you. There’s a plane crash, and death, and some man named John Ottoway is attempting to save the survivors from being eaten by a voracious pack of wolves. Some scenes are so gruesome with shredded bowels and choked cries that you tell yourself to look away, but you can’t. You are enraptured by it. It captures your attention the same way the glint of a knife does.

There are softer moments, though, where the men sit around a crackling campfire in an attempt to stave off the Alaskian winter storm. They speak of home. Of their wives.

Of their daughters.

“I knew a girl named Mary.” Your voice cracks when you speak, but you quote the name of one of the character’s daughters anyway.

Simon shifts next to you. “Yeah?”

You nod as your eyes stay glued to the screen. “Yeah. She… she worked at Makarov’s club but… I don’t know if she was like me, o-or if…”

Cacophonous howling interrupts your recollection, and you pause to watch the men engage in a fight with the wolves. Sparks fly, shotgun shells pop, and then there’s laughter.

“She caught me crying one day,” you admit. You’re not sure why you’re talking, but now that you’ve started, you can’t get your mouth to cease. “I was seventeen and I… was scared. We didn’t… speak the same language. I only learned her name because I saw someone else call her that but she… found me crying in the hall after…”

You swallow down the memory of that night. Of the sting, of the laughter, of the hands that held you down while needles whirled away. Coughing, you rub at your neck.

“I guess crying is universal though. She sat on the floor with me, and just… held me. She’d speak and I wouldn’t understand a single word b-but it was nice all the same.” A ghost of a smile flickers across your lips at the memory of her. This Mary. You remember the warmth of her, and how nice she smelled—sweet like vanilla. You bite it away. “I don’t… I don’t know what happened to her. She showed up at the club one day with-with these bruises on her face. I remember her falling while trying to dance on stage and… some men dragged her away and I never got to see her again.”

A stillness settles between the two of you at your admission, and for a moment you think you might regret having opened yourself to him. Simon has given you his bed, and his home—he is not your therapist. He is not your friend; he simply is. Nothing more than a caregiver babysitting a woman too gauche for her own good.

“I’m glad someone was there for you. Even for a little while,” he says after a beat. “I’m sorry you lost her.”

Simon’s words are foreign to your ears, but they do enough to quell the throe that’s burrowed into your chest for too many years. Blinking, your vision drops to your hands. On screen, a man falls through skinny tree branches where ravished wolves wait for him in the snowbank below. As narrow snouts prod at his skin, and jaws unhinge to take his legs and arms into their mouths, he imagines his daughter—Mary—leaning over him. She tickles his face with her long, brown hair, and when he dies he’s dragged off by the wolves without a second thought.

If Simon is glad someone was there for you in some strange, dark moment of your life, is he glad to be here with you now? Is he glad to be that person?

You think the answer to this question might be yes when Simon invites you out of the house one night.

“What?” you breathe.

You’re sitting next to one another on the couch, hunched over plates like food motivated animals as you scarf down dinner. Your fork clinks against the china as you stare at him, heart raging like thunder in your chest.

“You haven’t been outside in weeks. Might be a good idea to get you fresh air,” Simon explains nonchalantly.

Pressing your lips together, you look at the floor. “Where would we go?”

“Wherever you want,” he says.

It would be a lie to say you have no appetency for this—this idea of fresh air and freedom. Though you are away from Marco, you’ve yet to experience it truly. You are still in a man’s house. You are still struck with fear that one day you’ll turn around a corner and be met with those aching, green eyes of his. You are still hiding in slivers of shadows; in the palm of another man’s hand.

“I don’t… know of anywhere,” you admit.

Simon finishes swallowing the food in his mouth before speaking. “John Price has a club. It’s loud and rowdy, but I’ve got access to the roof. No one would bother you. Except maybe me.”

His flat attempt at humor is almost enough to draw a laugh from your lips. “Okay.”

“Is that a yes?” he clarifies.

You nod. “Yeah that… that sounds nice.”

You tell yourself that you’re dressed up in a hoodie to stave off the algid weather that rushes autumn into winter, but that’s only half the truth. Anything to obscure your face is favorable when you’re taking the plunge into the big unknown. While Simon drives you to this club, you try not to think about the first night you met him. How you were put in the back seat of this car and forced to blindfold yourself—how everyone thought you were the enemy. So much has happened since then, and still it’s as if nothing has changed.

Simon parks towards the back of a large, brick building adorned with neon lights. There’s not a single soul to be found and you still find yourself gritting your teeth as you step out of the passenger’s seat. You’re reminded of Makarov’s club—this building sports the same grimey brick and drumming music—but Simon’s hand on the small of your back is grounding. You’re quickly ushered inside the back entrance to the building where pulsing music washes over you in a garroting wave.

As Simon leads you through dark hallways, you try to ignore the alcohol in the air. Sour beer and stinging liquor—you’re forced to remember your time with Marco. It always creeps. Slithers beneath your skin where you’re forced to feel it writhe. You recall tear-blurred vision and a glass pressed against your lips. Mead washes over your tongue and the fermented honey burns just as bad as Marco’s lips against the back of your neck. There are too many hands on your body for you to count. Too many fingers digging into raw flesh begging for reprieve. A simple scent sends you back in time—your senses always seem to make a prisoner of you.

After climbing several flights of stairs—many of which you swear you’ll fall through if you step incorrectly—Simon opens the roof access door. Wind pulls at your hair and clothes, but the air is fresher up here than it is inside. The music is quickly snuffed out the very moment the door shuts behind you, and you find that your ears are filled with the sound of speeding cars and dull chatter. There’s not much to see besides exterior ducts and vents, but when Simon motions you further along the rooftop you know that he’s brought you here for something else.

Both of you approach the edge. There is no railing to prevent you from plummeting over the side and crashing onto the sidewalk below, and for some strange fleeting moment, you have the urge to jump. To spread your arms and see if you can fly. Simon sits with his legs dangling over the side, but you know better than to tempt your thoughts like that. Sniffling, you sit slightly behind him with your legs pulled up to your chest, arms acting like cuffs to keep you chained to the building.

It’s beautiful up here. You look out at the world as if its exterior has cracked and you’re finally allowed to see what it looks like on the inside. It’s full of pedestrians in coats skipping through intersections and cars honking as soon as traffic lights turn green. Glittery street lights attempt to convince you they’re stars as they illuminate cracked streets and crumpled trash. Despite all the grime, it takes your breath away. It’s the first time you’re able to look up and see something that mesmerizes you rather than terrifies you.

After a moment of soaking in the view, Simon reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. He taps it against the palm of his hand a few times before looking at you.

“Mind if I light one?” he asks.

Why is he asking you for permission? “Go ahead.”

The two of you sit quietly as he takes drag after drag. Smoke rises and dissipates in the air and it travels far enough that you can smell the nicotine. It’s an intoxicating scent, one that somehow calms the quiver in your heart. Simon’s fingers twitch as he flicks ash onto the brick next to him. You notice the build up of soot—an old scar that’s been years in the making like the mound of a keloid against puckered skin.

“Used to come up here all the time when I first started working here,” Simon admits softly. “It’s quiet. No one fucks with you. Good place to think.”

Humming, you nod in agreement as you rest your chin on your knees. “What are you thinking about?”

“My brother and mum, mostly.”

The air shifts. There’s a change in the wind, and it’s enough to send a shiver throughout your body. “Are… they okay?”

“My brother’s dead.” He says it simply—states it like a fact. Like it doesn’t sting his throat. But you can smell the blood that lingers in his mouth from the very wounds the words leave behind. “Has been for a while.”

“I-I’m sorry,” you choke out, stunned.

“Don’t be,” Simon says with a shake of his head. “Marco’s the one who should be sorry.”

Your silence is deafening—concerning enough to get Simon to turn towards you. He soaks up your wide eyes and lips parted from the question that died in your throat. A deep breath expands his chest before he huffs in a sour laugh.

“Yeah. Marco gets his dirty fuckin’ hands on everything,” he mumbles as he shoves his cigarette back in his mouth.

You carefully scoot toward Simon, toes inching closer to the edge but you don’t notice the urge to fall this time. Swallowing, you stare at him. “What happened? If… if you’re okay with, like… talking about it.”

At first, Simon shrugs as if it’s no big deal, but you can see the contempt roll off of him in waves. It’s the first time you’ve seen him like this since the night he found you; pretending to buy a session with you in order to steal you away from your captors. Is this why he was so bitter? Why his tone cut you so deeply? Was his vitriol not meant for you but for Marco?

“His name was Thomas. Tommy,” Simon shares with a sigh. “He’d gotten really bad into drugs. Guess havin’ a shit life can lead you down that road sometimes. Used to buy from people off the streets but somehow got mixed up with Marco and those other cunts.”

His cigarette burns nearly to the filter, so he shoves the tip along the brick next to him. Embers sizzle and flicker before they’re snuffed out, dying in the cold chill of the air.

“I remember that a little,” you admit quietly. “Not your brother but… well, sometimes Marco would… like, use. At the club and stuff. Usually he smoked, like, weed and stuff but I think he’d steal… other stuff from buyers. Coke usually, I think?”

“Shit’s bad news,” Simon mutters. With his hands now free, he rubs them together as he leans his elbows on his knees. He glances at you and how you curl inwards on yourself like a cracked egg attempting to hold itself together and his lips purse. “Dunno exactly what happened. Guess it doesn’t really matter. Tommy ended up owing them money somehow. A fuck load of it, too. When he couldn’t make the payments, well…”

An unwelcome memory invades your thoughts as Simon explains the story, and you are violently tossed back in time several years. Suddenly, you are naked and shoved back inside your sixteen year old body. Skin puckering with goosebumps, you pitifully wrap a soiled blanket around your shoulders. Ichor dots the fabric, though not nearly as much as your tears do, and it’s so thin that it hardly keeps you warm inside this poorly insulated warehouse.

Sitting in front of you on a rickety chair upon the concrete floor is a man. His greying beard collects the blood spewing from his nose, and there are several patches of hair missing from his scalp, leaving behind nothing but near perfect circles. He tries to open his eyes, but they’re swollen shut with fat, periwinkle bruises. Each punch he receives from the man in front of him only worsens the wounds until the skin on his cheeks splits and cracks easier than thumbs digging into the peel of an orange.

“See that?” Marco purrs into your ear. His hand snakes around your waist where it dips beneath the blanket you attempt to cover yourself with. Thin nails trace along your skin as he pulls you closer to him. “Not too fun, is it babe?”

You watch in horror as a blade suddenly glints in the dim warehouse lighting. This abuser—an enforcer?—curls over his victim as he sets the knife alongside his ear. All it takes is a simple flick of his wrist for the cartilage to pop free from his skull with a scream. When you attempt to look away, Marco snatches your jaw with his other hand and yanks your head to the side, forcing you to witness the dismantlement of Makarov’s latest victim.

“Shy thing, aren’t you?” he chuckles. The man is further torn apart before your eyes all while Marco makes you watch—skin gone from his nose, nails ripped from their beds. “No, I need you to watch. Good girl. Yeah, soak that all up. I need you to remember this, alright? Think of it as… a lesson. Don’t want you getting the wrong idea that I’d go easy on you if you tried leaving.”

He interrupts himself with another laugh as his nose nuzzles against the back of your neck. Tight muscles winding in your body begin to tremble so terribly that it squeezes the tears free from your eyes. The old man’s other ear joins the first one on the floor, along with a few disembodied fingers. Pink bone glints through the numbra, and you find that you can’t look away. It’s too fresh—like you could pick it up and place it back against the man’s hand and it would screw right back on as if it had never left.

“Alright, maybe I’d go a little easy on you, but I couldn’t have everyone thinking I’d let some sweet thing like you walk all over me,” Marco humors. Fingers letting go of your jaw, his hands begin to further wander as he paws over your bare body. Your lips tremble as you force yourself to keep watching the man while Marco pinches the crying flesh of your nipples. “I’d hate for you to end up like this, so just be smart babe. It’s not so bad here. I promise.”

The memory fades just as quickly as it arrived, and you once again find yourself sitting on that rooftop next to Simon. Twitchy fingers paw at the nape of your neck as you wait for him to continue.

“They came for me next,” Simon huffs. “Said that if I couldn’t pay, they’d kill me too then go after my mum. So I fought like hell. Got mixed up in some underground boxing ring in order to make enough money for the monthly payments. That’s how Price found me. Struggling down in that piss hole. When he offered me a job, I didn’t refuse to take it. He gave me enough money to pay off Tommy’s debt and to keep my mum safe. Price has been after the fucker for years ‘cause of shit like this.”

“I hate him.”

Those words leave your mouth without permission, and you nearly slap your hand over your lips in fear of reprimand. It’s the first time you’ve ever said it outloud—express your hatred for the man who’s kept you under tight lock and key for over a decade. It’s a thought that’s lurked in the back of your mind for ages, stuck dormant in some part of your brain. Smothered by Marco’s greedy teeth.

“I… hate Marco,” you say, louder this time.

Simon’s titter is warm but jagged in his throat. He looks back out at the city for a moment to bask in the pale glow that bleeds into the sky, and you find yourself staring at the silvery scar that bisects the side of his lip. “Yeah, proper piece of shit, that one.”

You nod in agreement. “I’m sorry that you… had to go through all that.”

Simon’s mouth opens to shoot you a quip, but it dies on his tongue the moment he looks at you. Curled over, eyes focused on the pale brick at your feet, you’re pawing at your neck again. An odd habit he’s noticed you can’t seem to drop. Something lurks on your skin—something he’s only seen small glimpses of. A mark. Words he can’t read. Shifting, he turns his body so that he’s able to get a better look at you.

“That thing on your neck. What is it?” he asks.

Hesitation interferes with your mindless rubbing for only a split second before you’re back to tracing. Your fingertips track the raised skin—old scars that refuse to properly heal. You can almost make out the cyrillic script letter by letter. М… A… P… К… O…

“It’s a tattoo,” you answer truthfully.

Curiosity piqued, Simon rubs at the old wound on his arm. “What of?”

“Words.” Your voice feels stale. Flat. Your hand drops from your neck as you rest your chin on your knees. “It says… Marco’s Girl.”

Once again, Marco has rendered you nothing but a prisoner within your own body. You still feel the plush rug tearing at your cheek when he held you down to brand you. Needle digging into your neck, he whispered to you saying that it was for your own good. That everyone needed to know who you belonged to. So many eyes witnessed you as they knocked back drinks as if watching their favorite movie. Legs squirming, feet kicking, you sobbed the entire time. You continued to sob as he raped you afterwards, thumb brushing over his artwork like it was his magnum opus—as if he was sealing the bond.

For years, you’ve tried clawing at it. You thought that if you could dig your nails in deep enough you could shovel the ink out of your skin, but it persists. Inflamed tissue, it now sits on your skin like a brand. Nothing but cattle. Nothing but Marco’s good little girl who belongs to him and only him.

When you finally gather the courage to look back at Simon, you notice how rosy the tips of his ears are. Bright pink and deepening, you don’t mention it as he retrieves another cigarette. He doesn’t light it. Instead, he keeps it tucked between his lips where his teeth bite at the filter. Thick fingers toy with his lighter, igniting a flame just to watch the wind blow it out. There’s an urge to speak more, to tell him that you’re fine and that he doesn’t need to worry, but he cuts you off before you even get the chance.

“I’m settling your debt tomorrow,” he says.

It’s nonchalant. Inconsequential. He says it like he doesn’t realize the way it makes your heart twist against your sternum. Finally, he lights his cigarette and begins to inhale. There’s an odd twitch in his fingers as he pulls it out of his mouth, like he wishes he had something else in his hand.

“What… like… I don’t understand,” you stutter.

“I did my homework,” he admits with a sour chuckle. “You owe Marco money. A debt that was passed to you after he killed your parents, yeah? It’s why he toyed with you the way he did. I’m settling it tomorrow.”

Mouth suddenly arid, you shake your head as you scoot closer on stiff limbs. “Simon that's- my debt it’s- like, I’m talking hundreds of thousands of- of-”

“I did my homework,” Simon reiterates. He looks at you with a lopsided smile as he huffs a drag of smoke from his nose. “I know what’s at stake here, sweetheart.”

Lips trembling, you bite into the side of your cheek. “So you’ll… give him the money and… and that’s it?”

He snorts. “Probably not.”

“What else will you have to do?” you ask.

“Nothin’ good.” Simon flicks ash from the cigarette. You watch the wind take it away until the embers burn out. “I’m tellin’ you this because I might be gone for a while.”

“How long?”

He shrugs. “Dunno.”

Acid broils in your stomach and begins to chew away at your esophagus. Every building in London seems to sway as you try to keep yourself grounded. Your leash has gone slack. You’re not sure what you should do with the collar.

“You… shouldn’t have to do this for me,” you mutter, voice hardly audible. “I don’t… I don’t want you getting hurt because of me.”

Simon puts out the remnants of his cigarette on the brick next to him. “Alright. I’ll do it for myself then.” His words feel like they should be spoken with a tone of humor, yet each syllable is just as cold as the last. “I hate the fucker. Would be good to finally get rid of him.”

Once the wind begins to pick up, and neither of you can handle the algid autumn air, Simon takes you back to his house. The ride is just as quiet returning as it was arriving, but the weight is different. It’s crushing. Insidiously constricting around your rib cage until the breath is all but gone from your lungs. As Simon drives, you can’t help but to look at him. If he catches you staring, he doesn’t say anything. There’s nothing but silence to pair with the way your eyes trace every feature of his face or the curve of his fingers as he grips the wheel.

Why does this feel like goodbye?

It’s well after midnight by the time you both step through the threshold of Simon’s home. Dinner still wafts through the air—fresh chicken and baked brussel sprouts, probably one of the fanciest meals you’ve ever eaten—but not even the change of scenery can quell the raging solicitude that thrashes in your skull.

You watch with a tense jaw as Simon preps the couch for the night. A fat pillow that bends awkwardly at the armrest, and a blanket that looks a few inches too short to cover him completely—your stomach twists. The cushions dip from the memory of his weight. He’s spent every night for the better part of the last couple months shoved onto this furniture.

“You should sleep in… the bed tonight,” you interrupt.

Stiff, Simon turns to face you with narrowed eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“I just… it feels wrong. Having you sleep out here. Especially if… tomorrow…” You can’t finish your thought. Fear captures your tongue and turns it to stone within your mouth, and you’re stuck trying to swallow the lingering cement.

“I’m not lettin’ you sleep on the couch,” he interjects as he continues to make his bed.

“Why not?” you challenge.

Simon shrugs. “Feels wrong,” he echoes.

“It’s big enough for two.”

Stunned, Simon turns back around to face you. He takes in your wide eyes and how they refuse to flicker away from him despite his gaze.

“You want me to sleep in bed with you?” he confirms.

You nod. “Yes.”

“You sure about that, sweetheart?” he asks further.

“Yes.” You swallow. “Please, Simon.”

Despite your history, it’s a strange feeling to lie next to someone else. Marco never exactly lingered around when he was finished with you, and neither did any of his friends. There’s enough space on Simon’s cyclopean bed that neither of you have to touch, leaving a gap that’s almost large enough to hold the depths of your grief. Faced away from him, you curl on your side as he lays sprawled on his back next to you, breathing slow and even as he sleeps.

You’re surprised his slumber took him so quickly. There’s not a single bit of tension to be found in his body when you roll over to face him. Street lights bleed through the bedroom curtains, illuminating the curve of his nose and the slight part of his lips. It’s strange to think that a few weeks—or, has it been months—ago you regarded him as nothing more than another man for you to fear.

Now, here you are. Lying next to him in bed as you try not to shiver like a wet cat.

“Hard to sleep when you’re tossin’ and turnin’ like that,” Simon breathes.

His voice makes you flinch, though you’re not sure why. It’s quieter and softer than you ever would have expected out of him. Perhaps it’s your shame that gets the best of you.

“Sorry, I… can’t sleep,” you admit meekly.

The mattress dips and shakes as Simon twists to his side. He’s close enough to you now that you can smell the tobacco on his breath. “What’s on your mind?”

“I’m worried about you,” you whisper.

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t want you to get hurt.”

His chuckle is soft, and you can feel it travel through the bed as it grumbles through the cotton. “It’s nothin’ I can’t handle, sweetheart.”

“I know, it’s just…” You taste the words on your tongue. Feel the way the tart syllables dig into the wet muscle. “He terrifies me. I don’t know what to think about any of this. I’ve been living under his thumb for so long but it’s all I’ve ever known. I just- I don’t want you to get hurt over this j-just for me to not even make something of myself afterwards.”

“I’m not doing this for you, remember?” he says, harking back to your conversation on the rooftop. His tone tells you otherwise. “You don’t need to make anythin’ of yourself. Not for me. Not for anyone else. You always hear ‘bout those stories of… people like you. In your situation. They save themselves or they’re rescued and they go off and… get degrees or discover some bullshit that gets them on the news or somethin’ but… no one expects that outta you. Not me. You shouldn’t expect it out of yourself, either. Sometimes it’s just enough to be alive, sweetheart.”

Alive. Living. Is that what this is? Are you living while laying in bed next to a man who stole you away from your abuser? Or is this just existence? How would anyone have ever expected you to stop and smell the roses when your entire life has been devoid of flowers—full to the brim with thorns that rip into flesh like nails into the fuzz of a peach?

Can you only enjoy the fragrance when the collar around your neck is gone?

You think of your leash snapping—this terrible leash that’s bound you to Marco for eons—and—

“C’mere,” Simon whispers.

—then you break.

Simon pulls you into his gravity; sucks you in like a black hole, and you’re too far past the Event Horizon to argue. Arms tight around your torso, he holds you close to his chest as you begin to crumble. A swell of emotion drowns you like a tidal wave, and he makes no mention about the wetness soaking into his shirt.

He’s warm like fire. You think that’s why you’re not scared of him anymore. Despite the dark hue of his eyes and the rigid lines along his body, Simon’s been the first and only person to light your way. To provide you warmth where you would otherwise freeze to death.

But he is more than just some incandescent heat—he is also a metronome. A raging war drum lurks in his chest where you can feel it beat against your cheek. His lungs expand, and yours follows. It sings you to sleep, steady and loving, where each pulse is a kiss against your skin.

Come morning, when Simon peels himself away from you to make breakfast, you fear you may never hear it again.

It’s all you can think about as he whips up something grand. His heart. The sound of it—of him. Fork poking your eggs, you want to tell him to let it go. To let you go. That you’d rather live the rest of your life cowering in fear like you always have than attempt to bear the thought of him returning home in pieces.

Of not returning home at all.

(When did you start thinking of this place as home?)

“You alright?” Simon’s shouldering on his coat. It seems to broaden his shoulders, makes him look like the fighter that he is, and still you stare at him as if he’ll crumble before you. “Lookin’ a little queasy.”

Your eggs have gone cold.

“How… how long will you be gone?” you ask as you try to keep the tremor in your voice at bay. It’s the same question you asked last night; one you already know the answer to.

“I dunno,” he repeats.

Tears begin to swell in your eyes again, and at this point you’re not sure that they ever stopped. Praying that they stay at bay, you stare at the counter with your fork still grasped in your hand. “I just… would feel a lot better if I had a timeframe. Knowing that… you’ll be back, I…”

“Hey,” he softly interjects. He reaches over the counter and gently prods at your face with his knuckle, urging you to look at him. A wiry smile graces his lips as you blink at him. “Chin up, sweetheart. I’ll be back by dinnertime, yeah?”

You realize Simon Riley is a liar when the clock strikes nine and he’s yet to return.

Nervous eyes peek out through thick curtains, hoping to see a flicker of headlights along the street or broad shoulders marching up the walkway. You are only met with the same darkness that’s blanketed the neighborhood for the last few hours. A tremor shakes throughout your fingers as you step away from the window and look at the empty living room.

Everything stares at you. The couch he’s slept on for the last few months. Sparkling dishes drying off in the rack next to the sink. You stare back, but not in the same way in which they look at you. You cannot pick these items apart with your eyes and dig until the pain bears fruit. You just have to stand there and take it.

At half past nine, you toss yourself into the shower. Really, you’re not sure why you’ve ended up here in the very place you tried to kill yourself in a few months ago. Some days you enter the room and swear you can still see the blood soiling the cracks in the grout on the floor, but for now you ignore it as warm water blankets over your skin.

For a long while, you stare at the lineup of body washes that decorate the edge of the tub. When you had first been brought here, Simon had bought you some off brand shower gel that smells like pomegranate and gardenia, but you find your fingers reaching for his body wash instead. It’s warm. Spiced. Clean and mild—not strong and overpowering like the cologne Marco always bathes himself in.

The very moment you flick the cap open and squeeze a coin sized dollop onto your fingers, you begin to cry. Cracks form in the brittle dam that had been keeping you feelings at bay, and now they overwhelm you insouciantly. Knees buckling, you find yourself sitting in the tub. Hand clutching to your chest, you wail like a broken alarm. It echoes off of the walls and rattles your ear drums, but your throat isn’t strong enough to choke back the agony.

You see Simon. You see him sitting in that chair, and there is Marco with a knife that sports a cruel blade. There has never been a moment when he’s yelled, but your brain orchestrates the sound of him screaming with concerning ease as Marco carves him like a butcher chisels away at swine. You are tormented with a nightmare of your own creation as you envision Simon’s body slumped forward, motionless and cold. His fingers are on the ground, plucked free from his palms like the seeds from an apple, and the features of his face are all wrong as it’s sliced free from his body.

There are no lips to cover his teeth. No cartilage for his nose or ears. No lids to cover the eyes that scream at you that this is all your fault.

But nothing lasts forever—though, it often feels like it will.

Blissful silence shrouds your mind as your tears finally cease. Overwhelmed with a lack of emotion, you find it difficult to feel anything at all as you sit with your legs crossed and your hands palm down on the tub. Eventually the water grows cold enough to chase you out of the shower, and you push yourself to your feet with a grunt as you turn the water off. You take your time drying yourself off as if you can rub away the ache with the fabric of your towel, and then dress yourself in pajamas before exiting the master bathroom.

The television is on, and you don’t remember leaving it sitting idle. The vibrations of the speakers bleed through the door, beckoning you out.

Sanguinity pulls at the strings of your heart until you’re rushing out of the bedroom and bursting into the living room. Simon sits on the couch with his legs spread wide as he slouches on the cushions. He’s kicked his boots off next to the coffee table, which homes a couple of boxes of Chinese takeout.

Your hand clasps over your mouth as you soak up the state of him. Plum bruises haunt his cheekbone and seeps all the way into the bridge of his nose, which sports a new, crooked bump. His eyebrow is split almost in the same exact place where his scar lies, and there’s at least two visible stitches on a laceration along his jaw. His right hand is bound in a splint and he keeps it held against his chest. Though his lips pull into a smile when he sees you, his neck moves stiffly as if every gear and joint in his body is clogged with rust and debris.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he greets. “Sorry ‘bout dinner. Bought some takeout to make up for it.”

“O-Oh my god, Simon, you…”

Words failing you, you instead stumble across the room before collapsing onto the couch next to him. Your hands hover over his body, but you’re too afraid to touch him. Instead, you evaluate him with your gaze. He still has all ten fingers, though they’re all cracked and sporting bloodied knuckles. His ears sit just as large as ever on the sides of his long face. Though he is beaten and bruised, Simon is still in one piece, even if he is marred with cracks.

“Oh my god,” you repeat. Though you were certain you had cried for all your worth earlier, more tears begin to well in your eyes. “Look at you. W-What happened?”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it. I’ve had worse than this,” he assures you. His words are faintly slurred as if his tongue is too big in his mouth. Squinting at him, you notice how half of his lip balloons with swelling. “Have you eaten anythin’ today besides breakfast? You should eat up.”

“No! I’m not eating anything until you tell me what happened!”

Surprised at your outburst, Simon’s eyebrows raise before his lips quirk with a chuckle. Adjusting himself on the couch, he winces as he attempts to get comfortable despite the aches that ail him.

“Just had a little scrap with Marco, that’s all,” he says flippantly. “Broke a few bones in my hand and got a couple of stitches in my face, but that’s ‘bout it. Besides maybe a bit of a concussion. Nothin’ serious.”

Your teeth grind against one another as he explains his half of the story. “No. No, no, no, t-this isn’t good.”

“What’re you fussin’ for, sweetheart?” Simon asks with furrowed brows.

“He’s not gonna stand for that. For what you did,” you begin to blubber. “Fighting with him? I-If you’re hurt this bad, then he’s probably pretty hurt too, and Marco, h-he gets really angry about stuff like that, and-”

“Baby, I killed him.”

Shock overwhelms you into silence at Simon’s interjection. It fizzles and vibrates through every neuron in your body as your brain works in overtime to make sense of the words he’s thrown at you. There’s a discrepancy in what you know is possible, and what reality is. Marco can’t be dead. You never thought it was possible to kill a beast like him. Yet, here Simon is, triumphantly home, sitting on his couch still drawing breath all while claiming the man who toyed with you for eons is now nothing more than a rotting corpse.

“What?” you breathe.

“He’s dead,” Simon reiterates. “You don’t owe him anymore, and Makarov and his fuckers won’t be comin’ after you either. He’s dead, baby. I killed him for you.”

Consternation quickly swells into something else as your lips morph into a pained smile. Your attempt at keeping back over a decades worth of grief is quickly cracking. “I thought you said you weren’t doing this for me.”

He smirks as best as he can with his swollen lips. “I might’ve lied a little.”

Your laughter strangles into a sob, and your teeth begin to bite at the still growing remains of your fingernails. “You mean it? H-He’s really gone? That’s it? Am I… am I really…?”

Simon’s arms swaddle you just as you begin to crumble. Even with his injured hand, he cradles you against his chest as a culmination of emotion seeps out of every wounded pore in your body. It’s thicker than molasses. Thicker than blood. You’ve held onto this shame for so long that it doesn’t know where else to go besides out. Into the air to find some other poor host—it sublimates before your very eyes. Vanishes until it’s nothing more than a bad dream.

He’s averruncated the one thing that’s haunted you for your entire life, then came back home with food and a smile.

Eventually you cry out every emotion that you can—shame, grief, relief—and when you’re finished, Simon urges you to eat. It’s the first time in ages that you’ve been able to eat food and truly taste it. The sesame seeds and how they pop on your tongue. The seasoning of the chicken and how it sticks to the roof of your mouth. When you’re finished, you attempt to urge him to go to sleep in the bedroom with you, but he declines and says he doesn’t think he can sleep through the pain.

So you stay with him in the living room. Curled up against his side, your cheek presses against his chest as the TV drones on with some late night programme. Your eyes can scarcely make sense of the images that flash before you as the weight of sleep begins to pull on your body without discrimination, and you find yourself slipping under its demanding wave without incident.

You never thought that you’d ever get the luxury of feeling content, but you think this must be the closest you’ve ever gotten to it. You revel in its warmth—in the safety of it—all while the heart that you feared you would never heart beat again lulls you to sleep.

this chapter is dedicated to the woman who fed me when i was a child, going on day two of no food.

we didn't speak the same language, and i never learned your name, but i think of your kindness all the time. i like to think you got out of there. that you went to live a good life. i hope i'm right.

#ilium writing #sr ilia #fc;nh #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #female reader

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zylev-blog · 1 year ago

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It’s the purge. Danny decides that he’s going to destroy the GiW in every universe he finds. The Justice League is confused on how this meta (alien?) teen keeps finding all of Waller’s forces and what he has against her.

#dp x dc #dp x dc au #dp x dc writing prompt #dp dc crossover #dp x dc fanfic #dp x dc prompt #danny phantom crossover #danny phantom #dp x dc crossover #dp crossover #dpxdc prompts #dpxdc #dcxdp

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revelboo · 2 months ago

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Thank you for feeding us Senator Shockwave fans. I humbly ask for another bowl of good soup.

Sure!

The Worst Is Yet To Come Pt 2

Senator Shockwave x Reader

• Watching you pawing at your head, the crack on your visor registers. Poor little thing. You’re hurt. He’s aware of Proteus demanding he offline you, but how can you be a threat when you’re so charmingly tiny? A complete unknown to study and understand. Flinching when you remove your own head and he vents realizing it was only a crude helm. And what’s underneath? Even stranger. An organic with an unsettlingly Cybertronian face and a shock of fur on top of your head. Big, frightened eyes stare up at him. As eerie as your similarities are, you’re almost cute as you chirp and shrill your distress. “Someone destroy that abomination,” Proteus snarls and he stiffens.

• Struggling against the giant that’s holding you, you’re aware that he’s not hurting you. Just caging you between his big servos. Shying away when he rubs a servo against your cheek, you try to shove his hand away. Can hear him growling at another alien, his language guttural, metallic clicks, snarls, and inhuman noises that make your skin prickle all over. Hear the other snarl something back and your captor frowns. And it’s creepy how eerily human his alien, metal face is.

• Stiffening as Proteus starts yelling for the guards, he stares down at your frightened face. You’re a mystery he needs to unravel, has so many questions and he’ll never know if Proteus has his way. Shutting him down like he always does and he’s sick of it. “Sorry about this,” he murmurs. Still crouched with his back to Proteus, he subspaces you and snarls, making a show of slinging his hand. “It bit me,” he says, turning with a grimace. “Teeth on that thing like a scraplet.” And Proteus freezes before screaming at the guards to find you.

• One second you’re in the giants big hands and the next, you’re nowhere. Floating between lucidity and madness. Aware that you’re not breathing. That your heart isn’t beating. Stuck in an endlessly stretched out moment. Not sure if you’re even alive anymore, unable to move as panic claws at you. And then you’re back in your captor’s hands, gasping raggedly, retching as your eyes start streaming. Screaming at the top of your lungs as fear shakes you.

• Shuddering as you purge between ragged, mewling screams, he’s afraid to put you down as you violently shake. Wasn’t sure you’d survive being subspaced, but it had seemed a reasonable assumption with what he knew of the science behind it. If he hadn’t hid you, Proteus would have demanded you be destroyed for certain. “I had to. They would have killed you.” Feeling guilty as you keep wailing, he rubs a servo against your spine. Had you been aware in there? As far as he knows, no one’s ever subspaced a living organic before. Wishes he could understand your chirping so he could ask what it was like. And that curiosity when you’re obviously miserable makes him feel even guiltier. Filling a dish with water, he dips a cleaning rag in and starts cleaning you ignoring your weak attempts to shove him away as your cries quiet.

#transformers x reader #shockwave x reader #senator shockwave

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sultrycometz · 3 months ago

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Porntastic (Starscream/Female!Reader)

Divider: inklore

Warnings: 18 + ONLY!

Word Count: 4,000 +

Plot: Starscream watches porn.

Inside the walls of the Harbinger, Starscream attempted to focus on the positives as a rogue instead of the negatives.

He located the other half of the cargo ship, thus leading him to create an army of (rather unsuccessful) clones, acquired the apex armor (before losing it to the accursed Autobots), and uncovered red energon (although, it was still processing).

Yes, just as he thought. Positives.

Beneath the dim lights of the ceiling, Starscream searched the internet, his optics flickering from the pad below him to the monitor in front of him. He intended to find valuable information that could be of use to him.

Still, it didn’t mean that he particularly enjoyed it.

“Miserable humans…”

He grumbled, muttering about the folly of the dominant species on planet Earth. He tapped away with his claws, clicking and clacking until one wrong move caused some type of footage to flash across his feed. Once he processed what he was looking at, the mech felt as though he were about to purge his tanks of limited energon at any moment. With a panicked yelp, Starscream leapt back and flailed his arms. A look of sheer horror crossed his faceplate, and then, he scowled.

“Vile human pornography!”

He was not naive to sexual endeavors. Seekers of Vos had a reputation for a reason, after all.

But...humans?

After recomposing himself, Starscream stepped back towards the monitor. Before he tried to shut it down and reboot the system, however, more recordings flickered across the screen. Much to his utter disgust, Starscream paused. He began to watch, he began to listen, his gaze darting from one scandalous image to the next.

Starscream’s claws twitched, his wings flicking. He wanted to pull himself away, but he couldn’t. He felt odd. Slowly but surely, his disgust faded into the back of his processor. A new thought popped into his processor, one that made him feel more curious than anything else.

He thought of his human. Yes, his human, the one who visited him sometimes, listening to him, tending to his wounds, and even assisting him whenever necessary.

“By the AllSpark, what am I thinking?”

Starscream scoffed, trying to force the thoughts away but to no avail. The more he immersed himself with the pornography in front of him, the more he thought about his human’s soft, squishy body. Beneath his interface panel, there was a throbbing sensation.

What would it feel like to bury his spike inside the human?

He groaned, trying to bear his denta but once again faltering. Slowly, he lifted a claw to his chin and hummed.

It has been some time since you last entered the Harbinger, so when Starscream called you out of the blue from nowhere, you practically pounced at the chance to visit him.

You jumped through the ground bridge portal, immediately feeling nauseous. You held your stomach, groaning and moaning to yourself before finally allowing the feeling to pass. God. You would never get used to it, would you? Alien transportation just didn't sit right with you.

Shrugging, you made your way through the Harbinger, trying to ignore the sight of the dead Starscream clone hanging limp in the background. Once you spotted Starscream himself, you glanced upwards at him with a smile.

“You rang?”

Frankly, a part of you was thrilled. Surprisingly enough, Starscream required lots of help from you, and you wondered what it could be this time. The mech locked his crimson optics with you and nodded, his frame towering over you. Still, you didn’t budge, already accustomed to his size.

“Yes, I want you to explain something to me.”

With a servo, he beckoned you closer, so you followed him on foot through the hallway of the fallen ship. Once he paused near his computer, you hopped onto a low-hanging platform to focus your attention on the screen he was pointing at. Starscream wore a sickened look on his silver faceplate.

“Is THIS what you humans call entertainment?”

You blinked, peering closer at the monitor. To your shock, it was a man fucking a woman doggy style. The realization hit you like a freight train. Almost instantly, you released a hearty cackle.

“Oh. Oh, my God. You're watching PORN?”

Starscream huffed, his wings flicking in irritation. Swiftly, he turned the monitor off.

“Don’t laugh at me!”

“I thought you hated humans!”

Starscream crossed his arms.

“I do! Don’t think that this changes anything! Now, are you quite finished?”

Gradually, you sighed and recovered, straightening your back a little to answer his previous question.

“Yeah, porn is pretty common on the internet. Sometimes it just pops up on websites as ads.” You stifled another snicker with your fist. “Sorry you had the misfortune of coming across it.”

Starscream grumbled, something clearly weighing on his mind.

“Yes, well. Ever since the Great War began, there has been a…shortage of such material available to mechs.”

Surprised, you lifted your eyebrow.

“You guys get horny?”

Starscream stammered for an answer.

“Well, of course we- I mean…the point is, what I’m attempting to say…”

For some reason, it was difficult for him to speak. And for a moment, it was even difficult for you to believe. Eagerly, you smiled at him with your hands held behind your back. If he was implying what you thought he was implying, then you should shoot your shot, right?

“You…want to have sex with me?”

Starscream visibly shuddered.

“Don’t say it like that.”

He walked over to you, his heeled pedes thumping against the floor as he lowered himself to bring you into his claws.

“As painful as it may be for me to admit, life as a rogue has left me feeling…”

You smirked at him, resting in his hold.

“Horny?”

Starscream narrowed his optics on you.

“Deprived.” He vented with a sigh. “Now, I shall make you an offer, since you are the only human that I know personally, and, no one really has to know…”

You tapped your palms against his claw, causing him to pause. Warmth filled your chest as you nodded fervently, excitedly. There was no chance in hell you were missing out on such an opportunity.

“I accept. I accept wholeheartedly.”

Starscream’s wings twitched, a smirk threatening to tug at the corner of his dermas. But he didn’t.

“Very well. I have prepared a section of the ship which may strike your fancy.”

As you sat safely in his hold, Starscream carried you into another room. It was smaller and darker than the other quarters of the ship, but it still contained various platforms, monitors, and a single slab in the corner. As you recalled, Starscream referred to it as a “berth”. Soft bedding stretched across it, the same bedding you brought during long nights with him.

You blinked as he set you on the berth, placing your hands on your hips.

“Uh, not to be rude, Stars, but how do you expect that you will fit?”

Directly behind you, there was the sound of clicking and whirring. By the time you turned around, you found Starscream climbing on the edge of the berth. He was now roughly the size of a human, only slightly taller and larger than you. He grunted, but he managed to walk over to you just fine.

Your jaw dropped, your eyes widening in shock and wonder.

“How? What did you…?”

Starscream nodded, appearing smug and pleased by your astonishment.

“It is called “mass-displacement”. It allows us cybertronians to compact our bodies into smaller versions of ourselves. Only for short periods of time, of course.”

Gingerly, you stepped closer towards him, fiddling with your fingers.

“Is it uncomfortable for you?”

For a second, Starscream stared at you, seemingly taken aback by the question.

“Not at the moment, no.”

A brief moment of silence ensued. Starscream crept closer to you, his wings twitching as he thought to himself. And then, he cleared his throat.

“Well, I suppose I should…”

Without hesitation, you slowly lifted your hand and set it on the red Decepticon sigil on his chest plating.

“Can I start out first, Stars?”

Starscream gawked at you for a second before nodding. Humming with delight, you leaned forward, closed your eyes, and kissed him on the lips. His dermas weren’t hard and cold. Rather, they were smooth and warm, instilling your chest with an undeniable feeling of adoration. You pressed your hands to the side of his faceplate, drawing him further into the kiss. At first, you were gentle and slow, wanting him to make the next move. Fortunately, he did, much more passionate than you. He applied some pressure, a low moan rumbling deep inside of him as he melted into your lips, encouraging you to squeak. Starscream parted his dermas to grin at your reaction, his claws beginning to roam your body, pulling you closer against his frame. As the two of you kissed, his sharp digits dragged down your spine, causing you to shiver and moan.

Once you pulled away for air, you whispered his name.

“Starscream…”

Amused, the mech flicked a stray strand of hair away from your forehead.

“Remove them.” He tugged at your clothes. “Show yourself to me, my human.”

You didn’t have to be told twice. Swiftly, you backed away to lift your shirt over your head. And then, you unbuttoned your pants and shucked them off your legs. You tossed them across the berth before Starscream took you by the hand, leading you to the end of the slab with the soft bedding. Together, the two of you relaxed and lowered yourselves to the blankets. Starscream eyed your bra, huffing to himself as he pinched the strap on your right shoulder.

“I meant every garment.”

You giggled, reaching around behind your back and unclasping your bra, releasing it to the pillows. Starscream’s optics widened as he fixated on your tits, humming here and there as he inspected your chest.

“Mm. They look much different in person.” He cupped a breast in his servo, bouncing it. “And what are they made of? Fat?”

You laughed, heat blossoming across your cheeks.

“Fat and other things.” You puffed your chest out, granting him permission to touch you. “Go wild.”

Starscream blinked. And then, a sly smirk swept across his faceplate as he added another servo into the mix, jiggling your boobs. His digits sank into the soft, squishy mounds, gathering warmth. You moaned a bit, tossing your head back as you felt your nipples harden beneath his touch.

“Hmm…” Starscream hummed curiously, taking one erect bud between two claws and pinching them. “I’m making you feel good.”

His tone of voice, coupled with his low growl, prompted your crotch to pulsate. You squirmed, falling further into his touch as he teased your nipples. Your thighs shuffled together as you tried to lean closer against him.

“Y…You are, Stars.”

He appeared triumphant, giving another pinch to each nipple before pulling away from you. But before you could even stutter out a protest, Starscream leaned forward with his mouth and brought a nipple between his dermas. A gasp left your throat as you rested your back against the pillows.

“You’ve been…learning, haven’t you?”

Starscream chuckled.

“You could say that.”

As he rolled your nipple against his denta, he lifted a free servo and fondled your other breast. You shuddered and moaned, closing your eyes shut in bliss.

“Just…know that porn isn’t accurate to sex.”

Starscream paused for a moment to speak to you.

“Yes, I…gathered.”

He nipped at your nipple, retracting his mouth to give the other one attention. As gently as he could, he rubbed the bud between his denta, prompting your toes to curl as another noisy gasp escaped your lips.

“Mmngh. Fuck!”

Finally, Starscream pulled off your tit with a popping sound. He smirked at you, still massaging the other breast by rolling his servo back and forth.

“I trust that I’m doing well for my first time with a human?”

You nodded, panting with a heaving chest.

“You’re doing fucking fantastic.”

Starscream hummed, only releasing your tits when he was finished. Eventually, he focused his attention on your crotch. He lifted an optic ridge, pulling your back against his chest plating as he cradled you close to his metallic frame.

“I’m assuming that you possess a valve.” He trailed a single servo down your stomach and into your panties. “But no spike. Correct?”

Once he reached the lips of your pussy, you squealed. Starscream chuckled, pressing another kiss to your neck.

“Ah, I suppose that confirms it then.”

Starscream teased your cunt, his claws slowly spreading your lips apart. A little panicked, you shrieked.

“C...Claws! They’re sharp!”

Starscream blinked before hugging you closer to him, shaking his helm.

“No, no. I am well aware of how soft and fragile you are, just as I am aware of the might of my claws. I do not intend to harm you. Trust me.”

It was hard to trust him. You knew that you shouldn't, given who he was and the shit he could pull with you. And yet, in this situation, you did. If he wanted to harm you, he would’ve done so already.

Starscream allowed you to relax into him before continuing. With a sigh, you nodded, permitting him to proceed. With your aid, the panties were kicked off from your legs, and the mech now had full access to your cunt. You leaned the back of your head against him, moaning. Once he found your clit, your body arched by instinct.

“Ah.” Starscream observed your reaction. “This must be your little node, isn’t it?”

You blushed, trying to grind on his claws as you nodded vigorously.

“Fuck, Stars! Keep going! Please!”

“Well, since you asked so nicely…”

Starscream drew circles into your clit with the tip of his digit, forcing you closer and closer to the edge. He was tender, not even harming you by accident. It surprised you, but you certainly didn’t complain, not when he was willingly giving himself to you like this. It felt as though a good fuck was something Starscream was truly longing for.

“You’re moist,” he whispered. “But you’re not wet enough. Allow me to work on that.”

A chill of pleasure overtook your body as you wriggled in his grasp, fully submitting yourself to his control. He enjoyed control, that much was for certain. Still, he was merciful in his own ways. You appreciated that, you supposed.

With one claw, he teased your hole, gingerly pressing inside. He felt your walls, stiffening once he realized the strength of their grip. He moaned out your name, fingering you by slowly and gently inserting his claw inside your pussy repeatedly. It was a sweet rhythm, sensual in touch and in motion. You moved and leaned your body in response to his touches, bending and weaving with him. You were so enraptured with the flow of his fingering that you only just now realized that you were about to orgasm.

“Starscream!” Your abdomen buzzed and throbbed with the familiar, breathtaking sensation. “Starscream, I’m going to come!”

You did. With a great cry of pleasure, you orgasmed, your walls contracting around his digit before coating it in your fluids. With your hands, you gripped the plating of his thighs, riding out your climax as he chuckled against you, relishing in your blissful state.

“That’s my good pet…overload for me.”

He crooned to you, easing you along your orgasm. He massaged the lips to your pussy with his other claws, teasing you as well as preparing you. Once your orgasm passed, you sighed into him. Starscream retrieved his claw from your cunt. You turned and stared at him, expecting him to be repulsed. Instead, he brought his claw to his mouth and licked it with his glossa.

“Hmm. Not bad, human.”

You peeped, too flustered for words. Starscream gazed at you, his expression softer than before but still possessing a mischievous glint in his optics. He lifted himself, spreading his legs apart.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, my dear, my spike is pulsating and ready to be revealed.”

With a mechanical hiss, his crotch panel slipped away, displaying what appeared to be a penis of sorts. It was long, silver, and topped with scarlet biolights running down its sides. You gawked at him, trying to resist the urge to moan right then and there.

“Like what you see?” Starscream was prideful. “I do, too.”

You felt like rolling your eyes, but you didn’t. You were much too preoccupied with the size of his “spike”. Fluid squirted from the tip, something you realized to be precum. Starscream laughed softly.

“Go on. Touch it.”

For a minute, you hesitated, your hands hovering over his spike for a moment. How gentle did you have to be with him? Carefully, after some consideration, you finally grasped his girth with one hand. Starscream moaned, rolling the plating of his pauldrons and tilting his helm back in wonder.

“Yes, good job.”

You reacted positively to his praise, starting to increase the pressure and speed of your fondling. Much like the rest of his body, his dick was warm to the touch. Well, only much smoother and wetter. The biolights felt like pebbles beneath your fingers.

“Stroke me harder.” Starscream’s legs quivered. “Stroke me faster.”

A gentle, blue blush spread across his faceplate as you proceeded to give him a hand, grasping and squeezing whatever you could. The more you stroked, the more his cock twitched in front of your face. It brought you great satisfaction to see his knees buckle beneath him due to your touch. Starscream whimpered, his moans turning more high-pitched by every second that passed.

“I got the touch, don’t I?”

You chuckled, prompting Starscream to scoff.

“Y…Yes, well. Don’t get too cocky-”

When you leaned forward, you allowed your hands to fall back down to your sides. Briefly, you gave a kiss to the tip of his spike. Starscream’s entire frame shook as he stuttered, his wings flapping as more transfluid spurted down his spike.

“Frag.”

Pleased, you pulled away, giving him some time to recompose himself.

“You alright, Stars?”

His blush only darkened.

“I’m fine.” He straightened himself. The two of you readjusted your positions on the blankets, seeking more comfort. “Rest your back against the berth, human. I wish to give you a proper spiking.”

You did as you were told, quickly relaxing into the bedding as he loomed over you in a missionary position. He set his palms on either side of your head almost possessively. As the mech drew his slick dick against your folds, he tilted his helm at you.

“Ready?”

It was rather sweet that he asked you beforehand.

“Yes, Stars.”

Slowly, teasingly, he pushed the tip inside you, only beginning to move when you gave him the go-ahead. You gripped the blankets beneath you, hissing a little at the slight twinge of pain. However, it quickly passed, replaced by an overwhelming feeling of pleasure. Starscream slowly inched himself further inside you, stretching you with his large spike.

Well, at least, you assumed it was large by his species' standards.

“Starscream. Starscream!”

The mech mumbled to himself, expelling hot air through his vents as he fucked you.

“Tight…and so, so soft…all for me.”

Perhaps there were certain aspects of humans that even he couldn't resist.

While minding his knee spikes, you wrapped your legs around his waist, beginning to move with him. Starscream moaned, hitting a spot in your pussy which urged your back to arch. With every thrust, you felt the grooves and ridges of his spike, pumping and pulsating inside you.

“FUCK! It’s so…filling!”

Again, Starscream chuckled. Although, it was much breathier this time. He touched your cheek with the knuckle of a digit.

“But it feels good, right?”

It did, more than you ever thought possible. He rocked into you, thoroughly but slowly, building into something strong. The claws on either side of your head dug into the sheets, creating marks. Whimpers left his dermas as your walls squeezed him tight and snug. You knew that he would never admit it, but he needed you just as badly as you needed him. Ripples of pleasure washed over your body like a tidal wave, driving you closer to the edge. As he rested his chest plating to your bosom, however, that was when something strange occurred. Starscream paused his thrusting and glanced at you.

Puzzled, you blinked at him.

“Huh? You okay?”

Starscream heaved, hot steam rolling out from his dermas.

“I…I want to change our positions. Quickly!”

You lifted a brow but complied with him anyways, smiling and doing as he instructed by shifting your body around on the berth. Apparently, he really did take his porn seriously.

“Yes, yes. Now get on your knees. Just like that.”

As your back faced him, Starscream knelt behind you, grasping your hips and sinking his claws tenderly into your skin. Once the two of you grew comfortable, he wasted no time in slowly entering inside you once more. This time, his spike slipped inside you with ease. Evidently, he noticed it as well, pressing further into your folds and walls. A plethora of moans erupted from your lips, your words faltering to complete and utter nonsense.

“Oh, Starscream!”

The mech’s voice grew ragged, causing your heart to beat wildly in your chest.

“Yes! That’s what I want to hear, human! Remember who frags you the best.”

Again and again, Starscream buried his spike into your pussy as he fucked you doggy style, hitting the spot which made you moan the loudest. It was done on purpose. He wanted to hear just how good he made you feel. Just as before, you felt the pressure in your abdomen build and swell. You began to squeeze him tight.

“I-”

You gripped the sheets below you, sweat dripping down the side of your face.

“Starscream! I’m-”

You were cut off by your own orgasm. You moaned into the pillows as you cried out his name and his name alone, your walls gripping his spike as he thrusted inside you with great fervor and diligence. When he reached your g-spot, tears formed inside your eyes. They were good tears, happy tears.

“That’s it, human,” Starscream said. “Take me. Take as much of me as you can.”

You moaned, your tits and rear shaking with every thrust of his hips. The sound of metal against flesh was loud and lewd to your ears. As you lowered yourself to the blankets, Starscream started to speak. However, his own words fell short by his own cry of elation. He gripped your hips even firmer, undoubtedly leaving marks.

With a moan of your name, he came with his cock twitching inside of you. Although you couldn't see him from behind you, you imagined that his wings fluttered away like a fairy. His entire frame shook, the mechanical bits inside him sputtering and whining, piercing your ears and shaking you to the core. Hot, sticky cum flooded your pussy, reaching nearly every nook and cranny as you whispered out words of praise and delight. Trapped in a daze of rapture, you allowed him to pump inside you as much as he could before he quickly pulled away from you, the rest of his transfluid trickling onto the blankets below.

Exhausted, you flopped to the pillows. Likewise, Starscream knelt beside you, combing his claws through your hair. Chuckling softly, you turned your head slightly to gaze at him.

“How was that?”

Starscream’s wings flapped.

“It was much…better than I was expecting.”

You chuckled, sighing as you gave yourself more time to relax. However, when you eventually stood from the berth to make your leave, a servo grabbed your wrist.

“Wait, human.”

You cocked your head at him. Starscream loosened his grip on you with a nod. “I must monitor you…for any severe reactions to my transfluid.”

You smiled at him, understanding him. Quickly, you snuggled into the stained blankets beside him. He was reluctant, but Starscream did draw his claw along your naked body.

“I am…looking forward to similar experiences with you in the future.”

You kissed him on the cheek to signify that you felt the same.

“Me too, baby.”

Ao3 Link

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mariacallous · 6 months ago

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Rhetoric has a history. The words democracy and tyranny were debated in ancient Greece; the phrase separation of powers became important in the 17th and 18th centuries. The word vermin, as a political term, dates from the 1930s and ’40s, when both fascists and communists liked to describe their political enemies as vermin, parasites, and blood infections, as well as insects, weeds, dirt, and animals. The term has been revived and reanimated, in an American presidential campaign, with Donald Trump’s description of his opponents as “radical-left thugs” who “live like vermin.”

This language isn’t merely ugly or repellant: These words belong to a particular tradition. Adolf Hitler used these kinds of terms often. In 1938, he praised his compatriots who had helped “cleanse Germany of all those parasites who drank at the well of the despair of the Fatherland and the People.” In occupied Warsaw, a 1941 poster displayed a drawing of a louse with a caricature of a Jewish face. The slogan: “Jews are lice: they cause typhus.” Germans, by contrast, were clean, pure, healthy, and vermin-free. Hitler once described the Nazi flag as “the victorious sign of freedom and the purity of our blood.”

Stalin used the same kind of language at about the same time. He called his opponents the “enemies of the people,” implying that they were not citizens and that they enjoyed no rights. He portrayed them as vermin, pollution, filth that had to be “subjected to ongoing purification,” and he inspired his fellow communists to employ similar rhetoric. In my files, I have the notes from a 1955 meeting of the leaders of the Stasi, the East German secret police, during which one of them called for a struggle against “vermin activities” (there is, inevitably, a German word for this: Schädlingstätigkeiten), by which he meant the purge and arrest of the regime’s critics. In this same era, the Stasi forcibly moved suspicious people away from the border with West Germany, a project nicknamed “Operation Vermin.”

This kind of language was not limited to Europe. Mao Zedong also described his political opponents as “poisonous weeds.” Pol Pot spoke of “cleansing” hundreds of thousands of his compatriots so that Cambodia would be “purified.”

In each of these very different societies, the purpose of this kind of rhetoric was the same. If you connect your opponents with disease, illness, and poisoned blood, if you dehumanize them as insects or animals, if you speak of squashing them or cleansing them as if they were pests or bacteria, then you can much more easily arrest them, deprive them of rights, exclude them, or even kill them. If they are parasites, they aren’t human. If they are vermin, they don’t get to enjoy freedom of speech, or freedoms of any kind. And if you squash them, you won’t be held accountable.

Until recently, this kind of language was not a normal part of American presidential politics. Even George Wallace’s notorious, racist, neo-Confederate 1963 speech, his inaugural speech as Alabama governor and the prelude to his first presidential campaign, avoided such language. Wallace called for “segregation today, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever.” But he did not speak of his political opponents as “vermin” or talk about them poisoning the nation’s blood. Franklin D. Roosevelt’s Executive Order 9066, which ordered Japanese Americans into internment camps following the outbreak of World War II, spoke of “alien enemies” but not parasites.

In the 2024 campaign, that line has been crossed. Trump blurs the distinction between illegal immigrants and legal immigrants—the latter including his wife, his late ex-wife, the in-laws of his running mate, and many others. He has said of immigrants, “They’re poisoning the blood of our country” and “They’re destroying the blood of our country.” He has claimed that many have “bad genes.” He has also been more explicit: “They’re not humans; they’re animals”; they are “cold-blooded killers.” He refers more broadly to his opponents—American citizens, some of whom are elected officials—as “the enemy from within … sick people, radical-left lunatics.” Not only do they have no rights; they should be “handled by,” he has said, “if necessary, National Guard, or if really necessary, by the military.”

In using this language, Trump knows exactly what he is doing. He understands which era and what kind of politics this language evokes. “I haven’t read Mein Kampf,” he declared, unprovoked, during one rally—an admission that he knows what Hitler’s manifesto contains, whether or not he has actually read it. “If you don’t use certain rhetoric,” he told an interviewer, “if you don’t use certain words, and maybe they’re not very nice words, nothing will happen.”

His talk of mass deportation is equally calculating. When he suggests that he would target both legal and illegal immigrants, or use the military arbitrarily against U.S. citizens, he does so knowing that past dictatorships have used public displays of violence to build popular support. By calling for mass violence, he hints at his admiration for these dictatorships but also demonstrates disdain for the rule of law and prepares his followers to accept the idea that his regime could, like its predecessors, break the law with impunity.

These are not jokes, and Trump is not laughing. Nor are the people around him. Delegates at the Republican National Convention held up prefabricated signs: Mass Deportation Now. Just this week, when Trump was swaying to music at a surreal rally, he did so in front of a huge slogan: Trump Was Right About Everything. This is language borrowed directly from Benito Mussolini, the Italian fascist. Soon after the rally, the scholar Ruth Ben-Ghiat posted a photograph of a building in Mussolini’s Italy displaying his slogan: Mussolini Is Always Right.

These phrases have not been put on posters and banners at random in the final weeks of an American election season. With less than three weeks left to go, most candidates would be fighting for the middle ground, for the swing voters. Trump is doing the exact opposite. Why? There can be only one answer: because he and his campaign team believe that by using the tactics of the 1930s, they can win. The deliberate dehumanization of whole groups of people; the references to police, to violence, to the “bloodbath” that Trump has said will unfold if he doesn’t win; the cultivation of hatred not only against immigrants but also against political opponents—none of this has been used successfully in modern American politics.

But neither has this rhetoric been tried in modern American politics. Several generations of American politicians have assumed that American voters, most of whom learned to pledge allegiance to the flag in school, grew up with the rule of law, and have never experienced occupation or invasion, would be resistant to this kind of language and imagery. Trump is gambling—knowingly and cynically—that we are not.

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daydreamer-in-reverie · 10 months ago

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The Victor’s purge is absolutely something that just blows my mind.

The Capitol propaganda against Victors were so effective, even the very people fighting for their freedom turned on them.

During the events of TBOSAS, we learn that the first 10 winners of the Hunger Games received no compensation for their participation in the games. Why would they? They’re nobodies. Reminders of a war that had forced the people of the Capitol to turn on each other, forcing them into such desperate lengths that they had to resort to eating other people just to survive. They were not celebrated like the Victors we recognize in the 75th Hunger Games. They were not victors but survivors. In fact, we learn that not many people wanted to watch the Hunger Games in the beginning. It left a bitter taste in a person’s mouth to watch children fight to the death and have the event sensationalized, even if the child is considered the enemy.

And yet, with Victors being placed on a pedestal after the events of TBOSAS, we saw how quickly the Victors were woven into the Capitol’s society.

Upon winning, Victors were alienated in their own Districts. They were given beautiful mansions, fed three square meals a day, and their families wanted for nothing. They became mentors, becoming active participants in the very Games designed to kill members of their own Districts. Their participation may have been forced but when you smile and wave at cameras and show off your new found wealth, it’s hard to believe you didn’t want these things.

Victors are even further alienated outside of their own Districts with the Victor’s parade. A whole week of traveling through the 12 districts to show off your vitality and strength and your life, the very thing you took from the other tributes in order to survive. Victors did not need to drip themselves with jewels to offend the other Districts, their survival was insult enough. Never mind that you didn’t want to kill these kids. Never mind that you are a child yourself.

Every place you turn, you’re met with jealousy, derision and contempt. No longer the perfect quintessential victim but a killer of children who “benefitted” from the very system designed to oppress you. By winning the Hunger Games you are no longer District.

So you turn to the one place that showers you with any hint of adoration.

Ingratiating themselves into the Capitol’s society cemented their identity as Other. They may live in the Distrcts, may be forced to subject themselves in horrors that are far worse than any modicum of starvation they faced in the Districts, but they are no longer one of them.

And so the Rebels forget who exactly they’re fighting for, forgot who actually experienced the horror they could only dread.

Yes, they are fighting against their own oppression. Yes, they fight for their child’s right to live and never play in the Games. But they forget about the 59 other Victors who actually went through the horrors they’re fighting against. They forget about the biggest victims of the system they are fighting against.

Snow alienated Victors from the rest of the Districts so much that of the surviving 59 Victors before the events of Mockingjay, only 7 come out alive.

7 out of 59.

There’s not even enough of them to distribute one to every district.

The biggest victims of the Capitol’s oppression also became the biggest victims of the rebel’s war.

#hunger games #media analysis #catching fire #mocking jay #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #tbosas #katniss everdeen #peeta mellark #haymitch abernathy #finnick odair #betee latier #johanna mason #sunrise on the reaping #annie cresta #lucy geay baird

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victusinveritas · 3 months ago

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“You have heard that it was said, ‘Love your neighbor’ and ‘hate your enemy.’ But I say to you, love your enemy and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be like your Father in heaven, since he causes the sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous. For if you love those who love you, what reward do you have? Even the tax collectors do the same, don’t they? And if you only greet your brothers, what more do you do? Even the Gentiles do the same, don’t they? So then, be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect." Da Big JC

More below the cut.

From Rebecca Solnit:

Yeah, we've reached the state where Christian nationalists hate Jesus and anyone like him. "Sin of empathy." [Last] screenshot is Speaker Johnson having a hissy fit about that Episcopalian's sermon.

Some Bible passages on love and kindness, for the record:

John: 13:34

A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another; as I have loved you, that ye also love one another.

Matthew:

36 Master, which is the great commandment in the law?

37 Jesus said unto him, Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind.

38 This is the first and great commandment.

39 And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.

40 On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.

Zachariah, Old Testament

8Then the word of the Lord came to Zechariah, saying,

9“Thus says the Lord of hosts:

‘Execute true justice,

Show [g]mercy and compassion

Everyone to his brother.

10Do not oppress the widow or the fatherless,

The alien or the poor.

Let none of you plan evil in his heart

Against his brother.’

Galatians 5:22

But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, gentleness, goodness, faith,

Psalm 31:21

Blessed be the Lord: for he hath shewed me his marvellous kindness in a strong city.

Colossians 3:11-13

11 Where there is neither Greek nor Jew, circumcision nor uncircumcision, Barbarian, Scythian, bond nor free: but Christ is all, and in all.

12 Put on therefore, as the elect of God, holy and beloved, bowels of mercies, kindness, humbleness of mind, meekness, longsuffering;

13 Forbearing one another, and forgiving one another, if any man have a quarrel against any: even as Christ forgave you, so also do ye.

2 Peter 1

5 And beside this, giving all diligence, add to your faith virtue; and to virtue knowledge;

6 And to knowledge temperance; and to temperance patience; and to patience godliness;

7 And to godliness brotherly kindness; and to brotherly kindness charity.

8 For if these things be in you, and abound, they make you that ye shall neither be barren nor unfruitful in the knowledge of our Lord Jesus Christ.

9 But he that lacketh these things is blind, and cannot see afar off, and hath forgotten that he was purged from his old sins.

#compassion #mariann edgar budde #bishop mariann edgar budde #bishop budde #christianity #national prayer service #liberation theology #mercy #rebecca solnit #long post

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cityof2morrow · 2 months ago

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(Re)organizing Your CAS/Bodyshop Folders

Published: 2-16-2025 | Updated: N/A SUMMARY One of the challenges of themed worldbuilding in Sims 2 is finding the custom content (CC) to bring your world(s) to life. Between October and December 2024, I reorganized my CAS/Bodyshop folders, purging ~4-5 gigs of CC. I wanted to share the strategies I use - Plan, Shop, Sort & Delete!

PHASE ONE: PRE-PLAN WITH A BASIC BACKSTORY Having a backstory for your world is not required – simming is supposed to be flexible and open-ended after all – but it will make organizing CC easier if you do. The backstory is your rationale for why your sims look the way they do…the basis for whatever CAS/Bodyshop-related CC you decide to use. This should evolve as you start shopping/sorting CC. Skip to PHASE TWO below if you want to skip the “backstory” phase and jump straight into (re)organizing files. First, figure out the WHAT, WHEN, WHERE, and WHY details of your world. You don’t have to figure out everything now. If anything, try to come up with the most basic details. (1) WHAT kind of society do your sims live in (utopian, dystopian, mixed, fantasy, etc.)? Example: Pleasantview is pseudo-utopian, midcentury-style, pedestrian, mostly middle-class neighborhood. Strangetown is an eccentric, comically dystopian town nearby. (2) WHEN do played events in your world take place (recent or distant past, modern-day present, near or distant future, timeless, etc.) Example: Pleasantview and Strangetown are set in the early 2000s, after an alien abduction. Veronaville is 2000s-era take on the English/Italian elements of Shakespeare's universe, inspired by 13th century political factions.

Pictured: My game takes place in a retro-afro-futuristic setting...it's not uncommon to see A.I's, drones, and other non-human sims through the world. (3) WHERE do your sims live in this world? There should be some climate/seasonal clues here. People tend to dress for the weather – your sims should too! Example: Pleasantview is a lush, mostly temperate, hilly/mountainous, waterside, suburb outside of SimCity. Nearby Strangetown is a rural, militarized spot along a desert highway, not far from an alien crash site.

Pictured: My sims live on an arid planet that they terraformed and altered with advanced tech. Their clothing reflects the climate. (4) WHO are the sims in your world? Whether you focus on social groups or individual families and sims, make sure your ideas hint at the kind of lifestyle those sims have (jobs, hobbies, abilities, income, social roles, etc.). Example: Take the social groups from the Apartment Life EP for example. Gearhead townies often have darker, torn, utilitarian clothing. Meanwhile, socialites have more expensive looking outfits appropriate for leisure and high-status career paths. Lilith and Angela Pleasant are sisters with highly conflicting personalities – so they must have drastically different looks.

Pictured: My simlish society includes plantsims and hybrid plantsims (half plant, half human). These sims are more likely to be a part of my eco-friendly faction. (5) WHY do they appear the way they do? Dress them appropriately for the climate and time but make sure they actually look like members of their given social groups. You don’t have to make things historically accurate or logical unless you want to – have fun. Example: The utilitarian/punk-style look of the gearheads reflects their lower income and “toughness.” As nonconformists, bohemians dress in loose, artsy and colorful pieces. Lillith’s darker/gothic style reflects her grouchy/rebel personality in opposition to her more suburban/agreeable sister Angela.

Pictured: I'm using lots of trait and occult mods to reorganize my supernaturals into elemental classes. Here is a waterborne conjurer (left) and a grimborne necromancer (right). PHASE TWO: GO CC SHOPPING (AGAIN) This is the fun part. Now that you have a general backstory, go CC shopping! Grab everything that might fit – don’t overthink it! If you like it and think the sims in your world might rock it, download it. However, I recommend coming up with some ground rules, such as (1) A maximum poly count range (“faces” in simPE) for hairs, accessories, and/or clothes. Example: I have 32GB of RAM and decent hardware, but I still avoid hairs above 10K poly. If I really want it, I might go as high as 12-13K – no more than that. This is admittedly a conservative limit compared to lots of contemporary simmers. (2) A maximum file size (in gigabytes/GB) for all CAS/Bodyshop CC you’re willing to put in-game at one time. For windows players, SIZE is the actual size of your files/folders. SIZE ON DISK is the amount of storage they take up via system processes such as (de)compression, duplication, etc. Example: A maximum of ~6GB (actual size) of CAS/Bodyshop CC is my self-imposed limit. This keeps loading times and performance ideal since I also use several gigs of build/buy CC and mods. (3) Choose custom body shapes sooner rather than later. More than 50 (!) custom body shapes have been made for Sims 2 over the past two decades. Make sure you can find enough clothing for whatever shape(s) you choose…including career/work clothing. Example: Currently, I use 8 custom shapes - 3 for male/masculine sims (Bodybuilder, Fat, Bear Bodybuilder) and 5 for female/femme sims (Bodybuilder, Classic Pin-up, Dummy Thicc (not pictured directly below; pictured at the end of this post), Momma Lisa, Rio). I eliminated others to stay below my maximum file limit.

Pictured: When choosing body shapes, I spent a lot of time comparing options. If you really like a shape but it lacks clothing, try using it alongside a similar shape. For example, I used clothing for the 'heavy male' and 'chubby guy' shapes on the same sims for a while. (4) Choose REPO’D versions whenever possible. Reposited/texture-linked skins, hairs, clothing, and accessories share image resources across multiple files. In contrast, standalone versions contain a copy of all necessary texture images in each file. Repo’d files are typically smaller in size/quantity and easier on game performance. PHASE THREE: SORT & DELETE This is the annoying part – but the payoff is worth it. I sort my CAS/Bodyshop CC in phases. If the CC doesn’t fit the backstory for my hood or exceeds my limit for poly counts – I remove it right away! I sort what’s left using the following criteria: - weakest fit for my backstory compared to other CC - poly count is too high - broken/bad CC (missing mesh, warped/distorted, excessive clipping, causes lag) - duplicate files and repetitive looks (too many items that look about the same) - repetitive colors (12 colors of each outfit, in 3 different shades/textures each, is too much for me!) I repeat this process anytime I add more CC to my game. During steps 4 and 5, I start recategorizing/townie-fying CC as well (see recommended programs below). I usually save the color/texture-sorting round for last. I just might be able to keep more color/texture options if I’m still below my max file limits (repo’d CC really comes in handy here!). …ENJOY! Organizing CAS/Bodyshop CC is often tedious and frustrating, but smooth, performance-friendly gameplay is worth it! The recommended mods/programs below allow more random diversity in my simlish population, and the sims truly look like they come from my world – not one dreamed up for me by maxis. I don’t play with pre-made sims, so seeing townies and NPCs with “maxis face” in my hood is considered an act of violence! Repo’d items, separates, and recategorized CC makes the same items available to more sims. I end up needed less CC overall…..then again, they also make it easier to justify more CC shopping. 😊 See how I organize my individual mods/cc folders for Sims 2 HERE (2024).

Pictured: Rough drafts...recreations of Urbz sims. RECOMMENDED CAS/BODYSHOP-RELATED MODS -Shared Maxis Outfits for YAs, Adults & Elders (Sim-Wolf, 2009; or Motoki, 2005) - young adults, adults, and elders will share the same default outfits. -Buyable Maxis Work, NPC, and Maternity Clothes (Motoki, 2005) – outfits are buyable when creating sims in CAS or shopping on community lots; clothing racks by Gayars (2019) HERE. -Separates For All (LazyDuchess, 2021) – dress sims in separate tops/bottoms in all clothing categories (you still need to download CC separates or recategorize default separates). Outside of the everyday category, you can only view/pick separates in-game via CAS (not Bodyshop). -Sim BIN NPCs (Test Version) (Free via Patreon - LazyDuchess, 2022) – townies/NPCs will generate using the genetics of custom sims saved in Bodyshop instead of default genetics. You need to download and/or save a larger-than-usual number of sims to your SavedSims folder for best results. Requires RPC Launcher (LazyDuchess, 2020).

-TS2 CAS Makeup Lag Fix (Test Version) (Free via patreon – LazyDuchess, 2024) – minimizes the infamous lag players experience when using the CAS makeup tabs in-game. -Townie Body Diversity (Nysha, 2017) – townies/non-playables will generate in different sizes (i.e. thin/fat/fit). RECOMMENDED CAS/BODYSHOP PROGRAMS -Sims2Pack Clean Installer (Mootilda, 2014; 2010) – use it to safely install custom sims (as well as lots, store content, etc.) or select CC used to make them; scan/sort duplicates and specific file types as well. -Bodyshop Organization Kit (BSOK Editor) (WHoward/PickNMix, 2024) - sort clothing/accessories according to default/custom body shapes. FYI: Sometimes, hairs may show up as “clothing.” -Outfit Organiser (WHoward/PickNMix, 2024) - sort and recategorize items across the CAS/Bodyshop catalog. -Delphy’s Download Organiser (Delphy/Tashiketh, 2020; 2007) – organize and investigate package files; compare poly counts at a glance. NOTE: Reported counts are global (total count for all versions contained in the package file) rather than the actual/original count (the count for the object in its normal/static state). If you’re unsure, double-check the count in simPE.

#co2testcenter #co2tools

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