#combat damage step

[magicjudge]

If I have a Kwende, Pride of Femeref in my graveyard and hit someone with Sidar Jabari of Zhalfir's first strike, reanimating Kwende, will Jabari deal damage again this combat?

Yes, he will.

When there are two combat damage steps in combat because of a creature with first strike or double strike attacking or blocking, they act as completely separate steps with triggers resolving and players able to cast spells and activate abilities between them.

In the second combat damage step, the only creatures to assign and deal combat damage are creatures with double strike and creatures that either didn't already assign combat damage in the first combat damage step.

Since Sidar has double strike at that time, he will assign and deal combat damage just fine in that second combat damage step.

[corvigae]

I think it's very fitting that the incantation for Magic Missile sounds like "Tormented" bc I imagine "tormented" is exactly how enemies feel when I rock up like L + ratio + don't care + didn't ask + hitting you with Magic Missile + hitting you with Magic Missile + hitting you with M-

[astralprisms]

Wrote a little prompt fic courtesy of @bg3wips flowers prompt list on twt. I can't remember the first time Xa'rok used Dissonant Whispers, and their signature weapon came later, but the first time they used the illithid powers was memorable, relevant, and came with a fun interaction perk, so.

Thistle - the first time they used their signature weapon or spell.

The din of unsheathed weaponry rings around them in a cascade of echoes. Goblins shift on their feet as bowstrings creak with impatient tension. One of the goblins spits, loud and wet, and the glob of it lands just shy of Karlach's fur-lined boot.

“Prick,” she mutters before burying her fist into the abdomen of the troll that towers to her right.

The troll looks caught off guard, either by the attack connecting or the fact that it actually felt the blow, but it doesn't have time to ponder the discrepancy further before Karlach whoops and follows that strike up with another, the air around her fists crackling in her wake.

Xa'rok spares a seconds-long glance at the staggering troll before their eyes fix on the maelstrom of goblins thickly clustered in the center of camp. They are no natural-born tactician, but they are gith. In the end, it amounts to one and the same.

They take stock of their enemies in increments, grouping the threats by severity, weapon, and proximity. They can see the tell-tale regalia of the goblin priesthood peeking out from the doorway of a rampart wall. And the two humans they met in the woods north of the Grove, the ones who first called them True Soul.

The parasite squirms in Xa'rok's skull. Something sparks to life behind their eyes and they blink as the feeling washes over them. Power.

One of the goblins in the cluster at the center of camp shifts on his crouched haunches, the crossbow in his hands aimed with deadly accuracy. Xa'rok takes one feinted step forward and calls upon the pulse of magic in their blood, blurring out of existence at the front steps and re-appearing at the epicenter of the crowd, hand already reaching for their sword.

But by the time they materialize the squirming in their skull has become a buzzing that filters down into their sword arm, and as they bring both hands to their face to shake it free, Xa'rok finds a new course of action: for their vision has gone dark around the edges, blurred as if they are still in between one place and the next. Their feet have left the ground, and the buzzing has become a hum, a wellspring, a gaping hungry maw. The only thing restraining it is their own will.

Once realized, they let it go.

Reality shifts. A blip in their vision. An expulsion of force with the ring of psionic detonation. It tears through their mind and out.

The goblins drop around them like flies. Bryanna and Andrick stare in twin horror until their eyes go blank, and they, too, collapse into the shadow of their rampart hideaway.

A pleased, honeyed voice sluices through Xa'rok's slowly-reconnecting thoughts. Good. Again.

[vounoura]

the maister system and the new 'find vocations out in the world' system is...ok, but I prefer the old colour system

[zipquips]

vent in tags

[rodimissliveblogs]

I keep forgetting to make a proper post introducing the character I'm playing, but suffice it to say, "I need you alive, you need me strong" is honestly a pretty convincing argument for letting a vampire drink your blood to a woman who has one (1) more hp than the squishy wizard, and who has one (1) cantrip that does damage and zero (0) leveled spells that do damage. That's it. That's all she's got. She's got Eldritch Blast and a rapier. She is a support caster, and the spell of support she's cast tonight is "become juicebox".

[juniepops]

So for the most part guesses on these lined up roughly how I expected! First Strike and Lifelink were more evasive than I thought they would be but the incorrect guesses were understandable, and Reach also gave folks trouble but some guesses did land surprisingly close. A couple folks noted knowing some terms because of other card-based combat games which is a neat fun fact.

I’m going to briefly explain the first list of terms in the tags of this reblog so anyone who still wants to guess them can do so, and throw on a bonus round of rarer or more complex keywords. Some of these interact with things I didn’t describe in the first post, like the ability to modify creature’s stats, but are otherwise all primarily if not exclusively combat-related:

Defender

Wither

Annihilator

Mentor and Training

Decay

Battle Cry

Landwalk (usually specified as, for example, forestwalk or swampwalk)

Shadow and Horsemanship

Ninjutsu

I’ve only been playing magic the gathering for a few months and I feel like I understand how it works pretty well, but I tend to pick things up quick anyway so it makes me wonder how comprehensive it is to complete strangers to the game.

For people who don’t play magic: one of the types of cards is “creatures,” which are left on the playing field and have numerical values called “power” and “toughness,” meaning strength and health. During one player’s turn, they may have their creatures attack another player, which requires them to be “tapped” (turned sideways); being tapped prevents the creature from doing other actions, including blocking. However, creatures that were played the same turn can’t be tapped to attack. For each attacking creature, the defending player chooses one of their own creatures to block it, and blocking creatures do not tap. If an attacking creature is blocked, both creatures deal their power against the other’s toughness as if fighting. Creatures that are not blocked damage the other player’s life total.

With this in mind, creatures can have additional abilities that modify the above combat process. Each of the following “keywords” is used to summarize a sentence or two of additional rules that apply to creatures who have the keyword on their card. I’ve sorted them in what I personally consider to be most to least intuitive, and would like any willing non-players to try and guess their effects without looking them up:

Deathtouch

Trample

Double Strike

First Strike

Lifelink

Flying

Reach

Haste

Vigilance

Menace

[dravidious]

Very wonderful

Went to bed late last night because I got carried away talking to myself about video games for 30 minutes

Anyway

So in 2 digital card games, Hearthstone and Legends of Runeterra, there are single player modes where you go through a series of bot matches against enemies with special powers, and along the way you pick powers and extra cards to build up your deck for the final boss. These are in some ways similar to deckbuilder games like Clank or Slay the Spire.

Hearthstone had multiple modes of this style, the first being Dungeon Run. It's the most basic example; pick one of the game's 9 classes, get a generic starting deck, and fight through increasingly powerful enemies as you try to put together some kind of synergy. The most impactful aspect of this mode are the "passive treasures" that grant very powerful effects, like buffing all your creatures or making your spells cost health instead of mana. You get one near the start and another mid way through, but only get 3 random treasures to choose from each time. You'll typically want to find cards that synergize with your treasures, but card offers are also random. Basically, you don't know how your run is going to turn out; what treasure's you'll get, what cards you'll get, and what kinds of combos you'll find between them. It's uncertain and exciting!

Later, they put out another spin on the mode called Rumble Run. Instead of choosing a class, you pick a special passive treasure called a totem, and your starting deck is built to synergize with it. However, starting with a synergetic deck means that every time you're forced to add cards to your deck, you might dilute the synergy and make the deck WEAKER instead of stronger. You also don't get any other passive treasures, so from the moment you see your totem you already know exactly how the run is going to go and what kind of deck you'll make. Having your deck get worse as the run goes on destroys half the point of a deckbuilder game, and the other half is destroyed by forcing the player into a specific playstyle from the very start. That's why deckbuilders like Clank and Slay the Spire start you will an awful starting deck, with the cards you get along the way frequently being straight upgrades. It makes sure that your deck gets BETTER as you go on, not worse.

In Legends of Runeterra's deckbuilder mode, Path of Champions, you start each run by picking a champion (basically a legendary creature) and getting a starting deck build around their theme. Just like in Rumble Run, your starting deck is already synergetic, and being forced to add cards can dilute the synergy. And starting out with a theme for your deck pushes you toward a specific playstyle. It's Rumble Run all over again.

EXCEPT

There's a bunch of mechanics that beautifully solve these problems. First of all, you get a guaranteed 2 passive powers (powers = treasures) per run, one at the start and one midway through, which can drastically change your run. Second, early on you get a 2nd champion to add to your deck, along with some cards that synergize with its theme. This gives you 2 distinct themes to pursue, or you can try to meld them together; runs with the same starting champion can be completely different because of the 2nd champion. Third, almost all cards you get have items attached that give a buff to the card, ranging from +1/+1 to giving abilities to cost reduction to turning it into a 1-drop 1/1. This means that the cards you get will have more raw strength than your starting deck, so even if you're diluting your synergy, your deck is still getting stronger. You can also get rare items that give bigger buffs, up to stuff like +3/+3, so getting a card with a really good item can have a big impact on your run. Thanks to all these mechanics, Path of Champions maintains the uncertainty and deck improvement that are core to deckbuilders!

Except

Unlike Hearthstone's deckbulders, Path of Champions has progression. Each champion has a level that goes up with each run, and the benefits of each level up most often involve giving an item to a card in your starting deck. That means that the cards you get mid-run gradually stop being stronger than your starting cards, which goes back to the problem of disrupting your synergy and making your deck weaker instead of stronger. With your starting deck being both powerful and synergetic, there's less reason to pursue other themes, pushing you toward using the same strategy every run. The 2nd champion you get still works though! Except, you also unlock relics as you level up, which are items you can put on your starting champion. You eventually get up to 3, which is far beyond the single item the 2nd champ starts with. But, there's at least still strong passive powers that shape your run. Except. You also unlock a special "star power", which synergizes with your champion and is often stronger that regular powers. Once you get the 2nd star power, regular powers are thoroughly overshadowed. I don't want to know how bad it gets when you get the 3rd star.

Somehow, the designers for Path of Champions made a beautiful system, allowing you to start with a playstyle you're interested in and then branch out into a world of possibilities. And then decided to gradually chip away at all the uncertainty and variety and growth the longer you play. You start each run with everything you need, and all the cards you get along the way are just flaws forced onto your perfect deck. The powers are distractions, weak in the face of the star powers you started with. You play the same cards, with the same items, every run, beating the final boss with the exact same strategy every time.

What a waste of a perfectly good game.

[solarpunkwarlock]

Ways to Live in Direct Opposition to Capitalism

I am by no means an expert in any of these things I’m gonna talk about, so keep that in mind! I am just making a compilation of things I know of that we can do to lessen the stranglehold the capitalist lifestyle has on us while enriching our lives, our surroundings, and the lives of others. Please add anything I miss or correct anything I may be getting wrong! Anyway here goes!

Use what you have, fix what’s you can, make what you can, accept from others, thrift what you can, and finally purchase as a last resort.

This is advice I have seen float around here a couple of times that can apply to a lot of things including clothing, furniture, food, and more besides. It’s meant to be done roughly in that order as it applies to what you’re wanting/needing/doing. It’s about preventing waste, promoting self-capability, having a heightened reliance on your community, and consciously rejecting the ingrained habit many of us have to just purchase things or services.

Here’s where you can read about growing an indoor garden!

Here’s where you can read about sewing things yourself!

Here’s an online site for giving and receiving items for free!

Here is where you can find a local Mutual Aid to get things from, learn skills from, give do, volunteer for, etc. (in the U.S.)

Be politically active! (from a U.S. perspective)

Vote for every election. Know your representatives and those who will be competing in the next election. Vote without ignorance and without falling for unfounded claims. While operating within the system that actively oppresses us will not bring about the future we want, it can serve as damage control (preventing worse candidates from taking office) and it can potentially create a national atmosphere more open to change.

Here’s a good article about getting more involved in the U.S. political process.

Here’s a site that will show you how to register to vote, when and where elections are held, and more!

Here’s good advice on finding protests in your city!

Here’s some readings on unionizing! It’s your legal right to unionize!

Here’s a more user friendly site for learning about unions!

Be active within your community!

Developing strong, motivated, capable, knowledgeable, and inclusive communities is the ultimate way to combat the relentless and bleak present and future. When you’ve worked on the things above and have gotten good at it (or even if you haven’t gotten good at it yet), start spreading what you know and what you can do with others!

Give your neighbors, coworkers, and friends some of the vegetables you’ve grown.

Invite your community members to volunteer events.

Talk to folks about how to vote, when you’re doing it, etc.

Take part in Mutual Aids to teach what you’ve learned or whatever you may be an expert in! Invite neighbors, friends, and coworkers when you take part in the Mutual Aid!

Accept your community. Take them for who and what they are. Discrimination is the enemy of cooperation. You have much more in common with everyone in your community than a single billionaire or corporation. We’re all passengers on this spaceship earth.

Do it one step at a time!

Obviously we can’t do all of these things at once. Do what you can when you can, and you’ll start to notice real change in your life!

Our online communities where we talk about our visions and hopes are fantastic, but they have little impact if we don’t actually get up and do the real work that change requires.

Want to be better, and keep hope for the future!

Harbor and nourish that desire to be a better person and to be the change you want to see in the world. You need to be hungry for a better future if you plan to make it through the rough times when everything feels pointless and without hope. Reach out to others when you’re down, and be someone others can lean on when their lives get hard.

That’s it! Please interact with this, spread it to others, and add your own thoughts and ideas! It’s important that we do the real work to get the change we crave!

[maximumzombiecreator]

Since @thydungeongal is going through it with the "combat isn't roleplaying" people, I feel like it's worth pointing out that if you're playing a game system with a lot of combat and your big roleplaying moments are happening almost exclusively out of combat, that's a big storytelling problem that's happening.

Here are some classic story beats that most combat-heavy TTRPGs are easily capable of creating with their game mechanics:

The characters are fighting an overwhelming tide of enemies. One of them calls for a retreat, and the characters flee, only to realize that one of them stayed behind, sacrificing themselves to secure their escape.

A character is holding a single use weapon --a pistol with one shot, a scroll, a magical arrow-- and the situation is getting desperate, but that weapon has a hated foe's name on it. Do they use it now to save their friends and give up their one shot?

A character is fleeing from an enemy that has proven overwhelming in the past. Suddenly, they stop, and turn to fight. They are beginning to believe.

Two characters who have been separated for ages are finally fighting together again. They know exactly what to expect from one another, their abilities synergize perfectly, they fit one another. The carnal metaphor is obvious and goes unmentioned, but not unnoticed.

A character is dropped in a fight by an overwhelming foe who doesn't kill them, but tells them to stay down. They know if they get up, they'll die. They get up anyway.

The characters who bicker constantly and seem to hate each other outside of a fight are constantly upping the ante on who can put themselves in more danger for the other in a fight. When death is on the line, true feelings show through.

Filled with rage, one character in a fight is going too far, is being too reckless, is risking too much collateral damage. An ally steps between them and the target. If their bloodlust is truly out of control, then they'll face their friend next.

If you are experiencing a disconnect between combat and roleplaying in your combat roleplaying game, please consider whether you're telling the stories the system is equipped to tell. Because even the less great combat TTRPGs can create stories that rule.

[varpusvaras]

Batman and the Joker were already gone when Dick made it to the scene.

So was the Red Hood, it seemed.

Dick stood there for a moment, just watching the still smoldering rubble. He wasn't even sure why he was here in the first place. Batman was already out, and the Joker was with him.

The Red Hood was nowhere to be seen.

He should just go home. Go home, and not say anything about coming here. It wouldn't have done any good for anyone, anyway, after all. He could hear it in Bruce's voice, then in Alfred's.

A moment passed. Dick was still there.

There had been something. Something so familiar about the Red Hood. Something that made Dick feel strangely hopeful the more he thought about it, and he didn't know why.

There was just something.

He made his way down. He stepped around the bigger flames and into the scorching rubble. He didn't know what he was looking for. The Red Hood was gone already. He would be, if both Batman and the Joker were. That much Dick had understood about what he had been able to hear.

Still, it was like something was calling for him. Something, somewhere.

Dick wandered through the rubble and the smoke rising from it. He had been trained to listen to his instincts, after all, and this was him listening to them, he told himself, over and over again. He was doing what he knew the best.

It was the only way he could explain the feeling.

There was something in the rubble.

His eyes took a moment to recognise that what he was seeing was different from all the surrounding stone and metal. It was decidedly not made from either of those, and once his brain caught onto that fact, he zeroed in on it completely.

It was a leg, sticking out from beneath the rubble.

Dick had ran over and started to lift the rubble off of the leg before his brain caught up with him again. It was a leg dressed in torn, dark fabric, with a heavy boot on the feet. Another one became visible as Dick got some of the rubble off.

Then became visible part of the torso, dressed in torn and burnt combat shirt, and it was then Dick knew who exactly he was diggin out.

Or at least he thought he knew.

He would remain oblivious to the real truth for a moment longer.

Dick grabbed the next piece of debris, his fingers digging to what had once been either a part of a wall or a floor, with shattered tile still somehow clinging to it, and he dragged it off of the Red Hood, uncovering more of his body.

That was when he noticed the blood.

There was a lot of it. It didn't come as a surprise, exactly, with the amount of heavy wreckage that was on top of the guy. It would've been a miracle if nothing had hit him hard enough to cause some real damage.

It was a little surprising that Dick couldn't see the source of the blood yet. Was there really only one, single wound, despite all of the chances to get them all over instead?

He would worry about it in just a moment. First, he needed to see what was actually going on.

He pushed and pulled the pieces of the building away from the Red Hood, uncovering him bit by bit, discovering more of his blood in the process.

Then the last piece was pulled away.

With it, Dick found himself staring down at the face of Jason Todd.

Dick's world stopped for a one, single, long second.

Then it started all over again.

"Jason", Dick gasped, because he needed to breathe and speak at the same time to get his voice to work. "Jason."

Jason laid there, in the middle of smoke and rubble, his eyes closed and blood all over him.

He was taller than Dick remembered. He was bigger, too. Of course he was. Dick had seen the Red Hood. He knew who he was dealing with.

Jason was taller, bigger, older.

Jason was the Red Hood.

Jason was Dick's little brother.

Dick's little brother laid there, in the middle of smoke and rubble, his eyes closed and blood all over him.

There was so much blood.

"Jason." Dick wanted to scream. He didn't. If he did, then he would break the dream he was in. "Jason."

His fingers latched around Jason's wrist. Even through his suit, he could feel the warmth of his skin. He could've been warm because of all the fire that had been burning around him. Dick chose to believe otherwise.

He had been given a miracle. A miracle that was slightly twisted, but a miracle nevertheless.

He didn't want to believe that the world would be so cruel to give it to him and then take it away before he got to even have it.

He held onto Jason tight.

"Jason." His other hand craddled the side of Jason's face. The side with less blood on it. He still looked so much like he had before, despite all of the changes Dick could see. It had only been a few years, after all. Three? Four? Not too many. Entirely too many.

It was still Jason.

"Jason."

Jason opened his eyes.

He didn't look like he really saw Dick there, even though he was right in front of him. At first, he just stared somewhere past Dick, his eyes clouded over.

"Jason", Dick called.

At his voice, Jason's eyes moved ever so slightly more to Dick's direction. He still didn't look like he was really seeing him, but he was awake and moving at least somewhat. It was more than enough for Dick.

"Hold on", Dick told him. "You're going to be just fine."

There was blood on Jason's neck. It had spread from there and splattered onto his face and hair as crimson speckles. He had been bleeding quite some time.

Dick had no idea how he was still alive.

He wasn't complaining.

He needed to see a bit better, so he would know what he was dealing with, exactly. Reluctantly he let go off Jason's hand to wipe away some of the blood on his neck, to expose the wound more clearly to his eyes.

The skin beneath the blood was scorching through the fabric of Dick's suit.

Dick didn't pull his hand away. He continued to wipe away the blood, drenching his own hand in the process.

Beneath the red, there was a golden glow.

He got the edge of the wound visible. The flesh was still cut open on the surface there, but everything beneath it, the blood and the muscle were basking in golden light coming from the inside, slowly but surely knitting the flesh whole again, like thousands of needless with heavenly string in them were stitching Jason back together.

Dick had seen stranger things before.

One of them being his little brother back from the dead right in front of him.

He could take a little golden glow and the body healing on its own if it meant that his little brother stayed back from the dead.

"It's okay", Dick told Jason. "You're going to be okay."

He wiped away the blood from the edge upwards, all the way to the other side of Jason's neck. The cut was long and still deep in the middle, where the flesh had not yet healed itself as well, and Dick had the odd sense of familiarity come over him the longer he looked at it.

This time, though, there was no hopefulness accompanying the feeling.

This time, there was only the growing sense of despair.

Dick had seen a batarang being thrown enough times to know what a cut left behind by the edge of ones blade looked like.

Jason was not wearing his helmet. He was laying there, in the middle of smoke and rubble, blood all around him.

Batman and the Joker were both gone.

Dick's suit was covered in Jason's blood. He tore his eyes away from the wound, that damning wound, and looked back into Jason's eyes. They were still open, still looking at Dick, even if the slightly faraway look was still present in them.

It was enough.

"You're going to be okay", Dick told him.

Jason didn't say anything. Only one, singular tear gathered into the corner of his eye, dropping down to his cheek, washing away the drops of blood on its way.

He didn't resist when Dick gathered him into his arms.

"You're going to be okay", Dick told him. He pressed his face onto Jason's shoulder. He could feel the blood sticking to his skin, warm and damning. "You're going to be okay. I'll make sure of it."

Dick had been given a miracle, and he held onto it tight.

[minihotdog]

Have You Seen My Boyfriend?

Summary: You see Simon in the mask for the first time

C/W: angst (?)

A/N: I've been wanting to write this fic for a while now and I didn't really know what to do with it BUT @celestialwhoree wrote this lovely fic right here and it lit a fire under my ass. I also don't think Simon would wear his mask outside of combat-active areas sooo I threw that out the window to make this work.

Word Count: 723

He didn’t even remember that he still had that damn balaclava on when they touched down on the runway. Months had gone by and eventually, as it always did, it began to feel like a second skin.

He never let you see him with it on either. Simon made sure to keep Ghost on the field and Simon at home. He’d watched countless men throughout his career take work home with them and the damage it left on everyone they touched. He wasn’t perfect. He had his own struggles in disconnecting from the adrenaline and danger, but he’d been meticulous so far.

Since you came into his life the balaclava stayed in his ready-to-go bag that you weren’t allowed to touch.

The bulk of the unit grabs their bags and heads towards the hangar as fast as they can, happy to be freed from the C-130 they’d been cramped into like sardines for hours. Their families wait for them, cheering as they get closer.

Simon knew you didn’t like crowds and messaged you to meet him at the compound instead, he’d instructed a private to let you inside the barrack’s common area to wait for him.

You were sitting on an ugly old brown couch fidgeting with your fingers. He’d been gone for months and your excitement to have him back home was mixing with the anxiety of being in this environment that didn’t feel right for you to be in. You wondered if he’d get in trouble for letting you be there.

At some point, you get on your feet and begin pacing away from the door in case they barge in to take you away for being in a restricted area unsupervised.

Simon detours to throw his bags in his office before heading towards the common area. His weapon and clips are long gone, turned into the armory waiting for his next embarkment. His vest is still snug on his frame, his skeleton-printed gloves still donned with months of sweat and grime soaked into the fabric, and his forgotten balaclava sticking to him absentmindedly.

You jump out of your skin in fear when the door swings open and spin around on your heels to meet your awaiting demise. Your nerves don’t subside when a giant man steps into the room. All the air suddenly gets sucked out.

He’s covered head to toe and the only thing your eyes can focus on is the skull print on his face. He closes the door behind him, his eyes not leaving yours.

You swallow harshly, trying to force words out. Or do anything to save yourself.

“Have you seen my boyfriend?” You squeak out. You watch the mask move over his features and you avoid his eyes at all costs. The overcast from the eyeholes makes them look like black holes.

“Y/n,” He breathes out while taking a step closer. You swear to yourself he almost sounds like your Simon but the alarm bells continue going off at the sight of him. You take a step back and in his exhausted state, it finally clicks. His eyes close and his eyebrows furrow in disbelief. He looks over you taking in your reluctance and the fear coursing through you.

Fuckin’ Hell

He reaches up slowly to not scare you. His fingers pull at the fabric at the top of his head slowly pulling the balaclava off to reveal his all-to-familiar face, his messy blond locs sticking out in every direction.

“Jesus, Simon!” You gasp, running to him and banging on his chest. “You scared the shit out of me! What the fuck!”

He wraps his arms around you, pinning you to his chest. You writhe in his arms trying to escape.

“I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean to.”

You look up into his sad chocolate brown eyes now freed from the darkness that hid them before. “I never wanted you to see that, doll. That isn’t me, I promise.” His voice comes out soft and full of regret.

He yanks his gloves off letting them fall to the ground so he can lace his fingers in your hair. He holds you against his chest, occasionally brushing his lips against your forehead.

Cats out of the bag.

He doesn’t know what to do now. What if this is the start of something he can’t prevent?

[toshisdecadence]

ERROR 404: Overload!

PAIRING: svarog x mechanic!fem reader

TAGS & WARNINGS: dark content, dubcon (reader says it’s too much but svarog has a mission to collect data), rough sex, multiple rounds, dom!svarog, sub!fem reader, svarog is Massive, cervix mentions, tummy bulge descriptions, multiple rounds, overstimulation, size difference, power dynamics, size kink, fingering, unrealistic sex, robot fuckers unite!, can you tell i have a size kink?

WORD COUNT: 5.1k

SUMMARY: You discover the reason why Svarog wears pants.

© toshisdecadence

The repair bay smelled faintly of heated metal, coolant fluid, and faint traces of alcohol—a sharp tang that clung to the sterile air. You barely noticed it anymore, accustomed to the hum of machinery and the faint vibration of tools against metal. But today, that hum was louder, and the vibrations sharper, emanating not from your usual repair work but from the massive, battle-worn war machine sitting across from you.

Svarog loomed over the room, his 8’11 frame too large for the reinforced chair you’d hastily reinforced when he arrived. His joints hissed faintly, micro-servos struggling to compensate for the damage he’d sustained during the Wardance duel against Luka earlier that day. Faint dents marred his reinforced dark blue chest plating, and faint sparks sputtered from the exposed wiring along his arm.

You reached for your tools, hyper-aware of the pinkish-red glow of his cyclopean optical sensor tracking your every movement.

“Superficial damage sustained. Functionality remains above 90%. Repairs are non-essential.” His voice rumbled, a deep, mechanical timbre that sent a shiver up your spine.

You regarded him critically. “Non-essential? Your vents are overheating, and you’re rattling like a dying starship. Sit still and let me work.”

He didn’t argue. Svarog was nothing if not logical, and logic dictated that he allow himself to be repaired. Still, there was a tension to him, a stiffness beyond the rigid design of his armor. He didn’t like being examined, didn’t like lowering his guard to anyone else other than Clara, even in the hands of someone who statistically meant him no harm or stood a chance against him.

You stepped closer, tools in hand, and gently pressed against the plating on his shoulder. His frame vibrated under your touch, a subtle hum you might have missed if you hadn’t been so close.

“Core temperature stable,” he intoned. “Subsystems fully operational.”

“Your fans tell a different story,” you muttered, running diagnostics through a handheld scanner. “You’re burning hotter than you should be.”

Svarog didn’t respond right away, but you could feel his pinkish-red optic watching your hands as they worked, tracking each movement with the precision of an apex predator. The thought sent an odd warmth through your body, and you tried to shake it off. 

You needed to focus.

The repairs took you lower, inspecting the dents along his torso plating. The main brunt of the damage he took from Luka’s mechanical arm focused around his torso. One of the seams had split, exposing a layer of reinforced polymer beneath the outer shell. Carefully, you reached for the damaged panel, fingers brushing against the edge of the pants covering his lower half—an unusual addition for a machine built for combat, and one that always raised questions in your mind.

You tugged lightly at the material, intending only to check the joints underneath, but your fingers brushed against something unexpected beneath the fabric.

Your breath hitched.

The surface wasn’t the cold hardness of metal or the pliable texture of synthetic padding. It was smooth, warm, and distinctly… organic in shape.

You froze, pulling your hand back as though burned.

His optic dimmed slightly in a flicker that you’d come to recognize as his equivalent of a blink.

You swallowed down the saliva that had gathered in your mouth, gesturing vaguely at his lower half, struggling to form the words.

Svarog tilted his head, the motion eerily human. “This component was included in my original design for biological infiltration protocols.”

You stared at him as if he grew a second head. “Biological… infiltration?”

“My model is the third series of the Monitoring Automaton Prototype, engineered to simulate human anatomy. The purpose was strategic manipulation through intimate interactions if required by mission parameters.”

Your throat felt dryer, and the question that left your mouth sounded ridiculous even to you. “You’re telling me someone thought it’d be a good idea to put a dick on a war machine?”

“Affirmative.”

His voice remained perfectly calm, but your face was burning. A sneaky glance at his lower half rendered you speechless once again. Whoever designed Svarog certainly made his… appendage proportional to his hulking body.

You tried to laugh it off, but the sound came out strained. “And… what? You’ve just been...” You made an awkward gesture with your hand, “carrying it around this whole time?”

“Correct. The feature has never been activated.”

He said it like it was the most normal thing in the world, and somehow that made it worse.

You stared at him in disbelief. “Do you even know how it works?”

Svarog paused, the glow of his optic focusing intently on you. It flickered momentarily.

“My systems include theoretical data on function and compatibility. However, no practical demonstrations have been performed.”

The room felt hotter suddenly, and you were certain that it wasn’t because of Svarog’s malfunctioning fans. Your mind raced with countless possibilities. Given Svarog’s size, you weren’t even sure how anyone was supposed to take that. Did it have a shrinking feature? Did it automatically adjust with Svarog’s… partner? 

You swallowed, trying to steer the conversation back to something technical and banish the questions swirling in your head.

“Right,” you muttered, clearing your throat. “Well, let’s make sure you don’t explode first. Then we’ll worry about your…” Your traitorous gaze flickered down again, swallowing, “attachments.”

You regretted the words the second they left your mouth. Svarog’s optic dimmed again, and he shifted in his seat with a faint creak of metal.

“Acknowledged.”

You groaned internally and forced yourself to focus, pulling open the next panel and reaching in to check his sensor nodes. But you couldn’t help the way your mind kept wandering—to the warm, flexible material hidden underneath that fabric. Whoever invented Svarog’s model was an absolute pervert and lunatic, you thought to yourself. A war machine equipped with a dick? You still could not wrap your head around it. To the way Svarog had described it so matter-of-factly, like it was just another tool in his arsenal.

And yet… the tension in his frame, the way his systems overcompensated whenever you touched him, those weren’t reactions you’d expect from a simple machine.

Your hands hovered above the exposed sensor nodes, still adjusting the connections, but your thoughts were no longer entirely focused on the task at hand.

It was impossible to ignore the strange electric tension in the air between you and Svarog. Every time your fingers brushed against his cooling panels or adjusted a wiring interface, you felt it—the subtle hum of his systems, almost like a heartbeat. Or maybe it was just the increasing proximity to his form, which felt more real with every touch, even if you knew he wasn’t alive in the traditional sense.

The heat beneath his outer plating felt too organic, too alive. The warmth spread further with each subtle shift of his hulking frame as you adjusted his internals, a mechanical symphony of soft clicks and hums that made your breath catch in your throat.

This was nothing like the Intellitrons.

You had worked with hundreds to thousands of them over the years, and each time it had been the same routine: simple diagnostics, quick fixes, nothing too complicated. They were built for efficiency, cold efficiency. Their systems were bare-bones, nothing more than a body of metal and circuits with only the basic instincts to follow commands.

But Svarog…

He was different. Complex. His systems, his body—everything about him screamed intricacy and human-like design. A part of you resigned yourself to further look into Svarog’s specific model. Perhaps it was time to take a deeper look into Belobogian technology. Even the way Svarog’s body responded to your touch felt foreign. He was more than just a machine, wasn’t he? He wasn’t just a war machine, a combat tool; there was something underneath, something untapped, a feature of his yet to be understood.

And that thought… that burning curiosity clawed at you.

You’d always prided yourself on being a mechanic. You understood machines, systems, the cold logic of how things worked. But Svarog wasn’t cold. Wasn’t simple. The way his body responded to your movements, the imperceptible shifts in his temperature, the faint, almost unnoticeable changes in his posture whenever your fingers brushed too close to certain sensitive spots—all of it made you wonder.

What if I pushed him further?

A thought you could barely even process, but it lingered, stubborn. The daring curiosity that ran deep within you as a mechanic—was this not what you lived for? To understand the unknown, to push the limits of what could be fixed, adjusted, modified? Svarog’s design wasn’t just mechanical, it felt like a puzzle you couldn’t quite solve, like a language you only understood in fragments.

Your hands moved to reconnect a set of wires, but you barely felt the tools in your grip. The warmth from his frame was distracting, constantly pulling your focus away from the task at hand.

You set your tools down with a sharp click, exhaling as you leaned back from Svarog’s towering frame. The repairs were done. Functionally complete. His damaged plating had been reinforced, circuits reconnected, and his sensor nodes recalibrated. Everything checked out.

Or at least, it should have felt finished.

But you lingered.

Your gaze swept over him again, tracing the seams of his armor and the smooth lines of his construction. Svarog wasn’t like the Intellitrons. His design was deliberate. Every joint, every harsh angle of his frame, was crafted with an almost human elegance that made your brain stutter every time you tried to compare him to standard machinery. Even the sections hidden beneath his plating—the ones you briefly glimpsed while making repairs—were unnervingly realistic in their precision.

And then there were the features he’d kept covered.

You dragged your gaze back to his waist, to the reinforced plating that remained stubbornly intact throughout the repairs. That section.

You hadn’t needed to touch it, hadn’t even dared to ask about it again, but the shape and positioning had made it impossible not to notice. That, combined with the suspicious necessity of his pants, had left your mind spiraling with questions you couldn’t shake.

Why go to such lengths to simulate humanity in that area?

You knew you shouldn’t care. You were a mechanic. Curiosity was natural. It came with the job. But no matter how many times you tried to frame it as a purely technical interest, your pulse told you otherwise.

It wasn’t just simple curiosity. It was a fixation.

You reached out, under the pretense of double-checking one of his sensor-nodes, but your fingers hesitated. You could feel the faint hum of his systems through the plating, steady and constant, and for reasons you didn’t want to unpack, it made the room feel smaller, like the two of you were occupying too much space at once.

“You are hesitating,” Svarog declared suddenly, his mechanical voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

You froze, pulling your hand back like you’d been caught committing a crime. “No, I was just making sure everything’s—”

“False,” he interrupted. His optic seemed red as it regarded you. “Your behavior has deviated from standard patterns. Focus is inconsistent. Eye movement suggests distraction.”

You swallowed hard, heat rushing to your face. Svarog wasn’t wrong, and worse, he wasn’t letting it go.

“Your gaze has returned to my lower half multiple times,” he continued, his tone as flat as ever. “Body temperature elevated by 15.3 percent. Heart rate increased. These patterns suggest heightened interest.”

You felt your stomach flip as he laid out your reactions like cold, hard data. And yet, his voice was so mechanical, so calm and detached, that it made the weight of your embarrassment feel even heavier.

“I can conclude the source of your distraction,” Svarog added. “You are exhibiting curiosity regarding the anatomical structure concealed beneath my armor.”

You didn’t know whether to flat out deny it or run out of the room entirely. Neither option felt viable. At least, not with him towering over you like that, unflinching, his glowing optics locked onto your every move.

“I—no, it’s not like that,” you stammered, even though you knew it was exactly like that.

“Your biological responses contradict your statement,” he said simply. “You are aware of the human-like components integrated into my design. Your fixation suggests a desire to understand their functionality.”

Your breath hitched. The words functionality and components should have grounded you. It should have made this situation feel as clinical as he seemed to think it was. But instead, they only fueled the heat already curling in your stomach.

Because Svarog was right.

You wanted to know—aeons, you’ve been dying to know—how far his human design extended. And now that the repairs were done, now that he’d laid the truth bare, it felt impossible to stop.

“You are not the first to display interest in this feature,” Svarog continued, as though he were listing out schematics. “However, prior inquiries did not progress past verbal questioning. You are demonstrating physical tension indicative of deeper investigation.”

Your throat felt dryer than the desert.

“I propose a solution,” Svarog said, tilting his head slightly. “Controlled exploration. Further data on synthetic anatomy is limited. Your curiosity provides an opportunity for analysis and documentation.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. He wasn’t joking. He couldn’t joke.

“You are suggesting we… test this?”

“Correct.”

His lack of hesitation made your pulse stutter. He saw this as a logical step, nothing more than a means to gather data, and yet, the way his frame loomed over you, the hum of his systems almost vibrating through the air, felt anything but detached.

“Decision required,” Svarog said after a beat. “Proceed with testing, or terminate this interaction?”

Your body betrayed you before your mind could catch up.

“Proceed,” you said softly.

His optics flared slightly—almost imperceptibly—before he nodded.

“Acknowledged. Experiment initiated.”

Svarog wasn’t designed to rush.

He worked methodically, his plated fingers tracing along your thighs—testing, measuring, pressing into the soft flesh as though assessing the tensile strength of your muscles. Assessing how much you could take.

“Body temperature elevated by 1.8 degrees,” he noted, his optics narrowing slightly. “Pulse irregular. Predictive analysis suggests heightened arousal.”

You whimpered as his thick mechanical fingers dipped lower, sliding between your legs without hesitation. He brushed against your heat, deliberately testing the slickness already building there.

“Lubrication present,” he said. “Preliminary preparation observed. Additional stimulation required.”

You barely had any time to register his words before his thumb pressed against your clit. The motion was slow, deliberate, grinding down just enough to make your thighs tremble.

Too much.

The smoothness of his plating, the slight hum of his servos adjusting with every movement, left you aching almost instantly. He applied more pressure, adjusting the angle like he was calibrating the motion for maximum effect.

You gasped, hips jerking against him instinctively, and Svarog’s optics dimmed.

“Response strength at 63 percent,” he observed. “Testing deeper penetration.”

You bit back a cry as his fingers slipped inside. Thick, unyielding, and cool against your heat. He stretched you slowly, adding another finger almost immediately, pushing past the tight resistance with clinical focus.

“Muscle tension detected,” he said, his thumb circling the erect pearl of your clit again as his fingers curled inside of you. “Adjusting pressure.”

You whimpered as he spread his fingers, stretching you wider until the ache blurred into something hotter, sharper.

“Elasticity improving,” he noted, tilting his head as he pressed deeper. “Lubrication increased by 24 percent.”

You clenched around him, your gummy walls struggling to accommodate the deliberate stretch, and Svarog’s optics flickered.

“Resistance still measurable,” he said, slowing his movements. “Further preparation required.”

Your head was spinning by the time he added a third finger, the burn almost too much, but Svarog didn’t falter. His fingers moved with precise rhythm, pumping and curling until the tension broke, and your body melted around him.

Svarog’s mechanical fingers lingered inside you, coated in slickness as he worked them deeper—pressing, stretching, curling with deliberate precision. His thumb dragged slow, circular patterns over your clit, the rhythm steady enough to make your hips jolt against him in a helpless, uncontrollable reaction.

“Muscle tension improving,” he observed. “Current dilation at 73 percent. Additional preparation recommended.”

His tone was calm, detached, but the way his optics dimmed as he watched your thighs trembling betrayed something deeper. He pressed in further, adding another finger. Thicker. Unyielding. Enough to force a sharp gasp to tumble out of your throat.

The burn was too much and not enough all at once, your body clenching down against the stretch even as your legs fell further apart under his firm grip.

You could feel yourself dripping, already struggling to take his fingers, but Svarog didn’t falter. He spread them wider, deliberately testing your limits, and the ache left you clawing at his arm, nails scraping helplessly against smooth plating.

“Elasticity increased by 18 percent,” he said, pulling his fingers free with a lewd, wet squelch that made your breath hitch and your cheeks burn. He inspected the slick coating his fingers before tilting his head slightly. “Sufficient for insertion.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before you heard the sound of fabric rustling. Your eyes widened as he was lining up, the thick, mechanical weight of his massive cock pressing against your sopping entrance and making your stomach twist with a sharp mix of anticipation and fear. His cock contrasted the rest of his metallic body, covered by a synthetic material that seemed to emulate the sensation of skin.

“Size differential detected,” Svarog noted, palming your thigh to angle your hips upward. “Accommodating size will result in initial resistance.”

You bit back a cry as he pushed forward, the broad, blunted tip spreading you open with agonizing slowness. The pain is sharp, your walls pulsing and struggling to accommodate him even after the preparation.

Too big.

The words barely formed in your mind before the pressure stole the thought away entirely. You gasped sharply, arching as he forced himself deeper, the stretch too much—burning, tearing, making your legs shake uncontrollably.

Svarog’s grip on your hips tightened as he paused, allowing you a brief moment of reprieve to adjust, but as his optics flickered, scanning the trembling of your muscles and the fluttering of your gummy walls around him.

“Pain response detected. Estimating threshold at 62 percent.”

You cried out as his hands tilted your hips. You were barely able to breathe as he pressed further, the new angle forcing him deeper into your cunt, and your stomach twisted as you felt it. His cock bullied its way in, the meaty girth of his shaft forcing you wider and wider until you swore you could feel it pressing against everything, imprinting his shape inside of you.

Too much. Too deep.

Tears welled in your eyes as your body struggled to take him, your hands scrabbling against his frame, fingers digging uselessly into unmoving steel.

Svarog’s hand pressed against your stomach, his thumb grazing the prominent bulge already forming there.

“Internal displacement observed,” he said, pushing down slightly to feel the way his massive cock shifted inside of you. The sensation earned a quiver of your legs, the pressure in between your legs rendering you unable to utter a coherent sentence. “Pressure response increasing. Adapting angle.”

Your head fell back with a guttural cry as he adjusted, pressing even deeper, his thumb brushing over the bulge experimentally while he thrust deeper, the bulge in your stomach shifting with him. It felt like the wind was knocked out of your lungs. Your lips fell open in a silent cry, eyes rolling into the back of your head. Your body clenched down hard, pulsing and fluttering, struggling against the size, and Svarog stilled.

“Involuntary constriction detected,” he said, his optics dimming slightly.

His free hand reached up, spreading your thighs wider, and he began to move.

Slow, deliberate thrusts that forced you to feel every excruciating inch of him.

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.

All you could do was feel—the stretch, the ache, the grinding pressure of him bottoming out inside you again and again and again. The bulge in your stomach shifted with every thrust, a visible reminder of just how deep he was, how much he was filling you.

Svarog’s optics glowed faintly as he observed you, his gaze calculating and unwavering as your body trembled beneath him. Each shallow breath you took, each gasp for air as his cock pressed deeper, he noted, analyzing the involuntary way your body gripped him, how your muscles fluttered around him with every thrust.

“Heart rate accelerating. Muscular tension increasing. Increased stimulation evident.”

He could see the way your body reacted. How your hands clenched, how your thighs shook, how the bulge in your stomach shifted with each deep push, marking the extent to which he had filled you. He watched the way your chest heaved, the way your pupils dilated with every inch of him that stretched you wider, deeper, further than you ever thought possible.

You were on the brink of breaking, the tension in your body growing unbearable as your mouth opened in a silent scream, unable to keep up with the onslaught of sensations. Your body, desperate for more and yet unable to fully handle what was happening, was his to command, and he couldn’t help but watch in quiet fascination as you succumbed to the overwhelming pleasure.

You were becoming dumber. So much of you just couldn’t function anymore. You were speechless, unable to utter a coherent sentence, broken down by the intensity of his cock fucking its way into you, and the way you melted against him was nothing short of fascinating. Your voice was lost to you, your thoughts clouded by raw sensation, but the pleasure you felt was clear. It was painted across every quiver of your body, the sheen of beaded sweat lining your face and neck, in the strained arch of your back, the desperate shuddering of your limbs.

He could hear the soft whimpering sounds, could see the way your face twisted with both pain and pleasure, and his own systems hummed with the data flooding his internal logs. Every reaction of yours was so genuine, so untouched by reason. It was an anomaly he had never experienced.

Svarog’s mechanical frame moved with precision, his movements controlled and deliberate. His systems hummed as he observed you, his optics tracking every microexpression, every shuddering breath as you struggled to adjust to the overwhelming size that filled you.

He didn’t feel pleasure. He didn’t need it, not the way you did. But the reactions you were giving him—the way your body trembled, the way your walls spasmed around him—were intriguing, data points he had yet to fully understand.

“Subject’s body reacting to size discrepancy. Estimated stretch threshold surpassed.”

Your hands were clutching at him, your fingers slipping over his cool metal plating, desperately trying to find purchase. Your tight walls clung to him as though your body was doing everything it could to resist the sensation, even though it was now obvious that you couldn’t fight it. Your body was becoming swallowed by him, opening wide to accommodate what it was never meant to handle.

Svarog’s movement’s never faltered, his thrusts measured and precise, studying you as your body began to react involuntarily. Your walls spasmed around him, tighter and tighter, almost as though your body was trying to pull him deeper despite the overwhelming stretch.

“Subject’s body is exhibiting signs of imminent climax. Response timing has been measured.”

You couldn’t hold it back anymore. Your entire body stiffed, an involuntary shudder running through you as every nerve seemed to light up at once. Your vision blurred, the sounds of your ragged breathing filling your ears, mixing with the overwhelming sensation of being stretched beyond belief. Your walls contracted and released rapidly, the pressure inside you finally exploding, and you cried out his name, the world barely a whisper between gasps.

The release sent shockwaves of pleasure through your body, and Svarog could see it. How your body trembled, how your legs locked around his waist, pulling him even deeper—if that was even possible. You were speechless, your mind blank as your body convulsed in ecstasy, your insides gripping him with a tightness that was almost painful.

“Subject has achieved climax. Response exceeds expectations.”

Your breaths came in desperate, uncoordinated gasps as the waves of pleasure crashed over you, and your body was left quivering, unable to do anything but absorb the aftershocks of your mind-numbing release. Your thighs quivered, feeling your cum trickling down your skin, staining his metal plating.

Svarog, ever the observer, did not stop. He noted the way your body reacted to each of his thrusts, the way your tummy bulged with each movement, the way your warm walls clamped down involuntarily as you tried to regain control of your senses.

Despite the fact that Svarog himself could not feel pleasure, there was something undeniably fascinating about the way you came undone beneath him, your body fighting for control even as it surrendered entirely to him.

He continued moving inside you, his mechanical precision relentless, watching as you flinched with each motion, your body too sensitive now to handle it. Your hands, still pawing weakly at his arms, combined with your whimpered protests of it being too much, were growing weaker, and the sensations were too much for you to bear, but still, he kept going—his own curiosity driving him. He wanted to see how much more you could take, how much more your body could endure before it reached its limit.

You were still trembling, still catching your breath, your mind scattered and lost in the aftereffects of your climax. He could see your skin shimmering with sweat, your breasts rising and falling, the way your hips thrusted up to meet his even though you were lost in the throes of overstimulation.

“Subject remains responsive despite signs of fatigue,” he observed. “Data indicates further analysis needed.”

You were so tight, so overstimulated, and yet your body responded again as though it couldn’t stop itself. Another surge of pleasure crashed through you, pulling another, more broken moan from your lips. It was overwhelming, too much, but your body needed it, responding in ways that only deepened his analysis of the situation.

Svarog’s focus didn’t waver. He watched as your body shook with every movement, your legs quivering with the strain of accommodating him, and still, he continued, his thrusts growing deeper, more relentless. His fingers dug into your hips, hard enough to leave litters of bruises that resembled the shade of his metal plating, holding you in place, using your body as a tool for his data collection.

He could see the way you reacted to the sensations, your face contorting in a combination of pain and pleasure, your eyes wide and unfocused, the way your mouth parted as though you couldn’t form any coherent words. Your body had become nothing but a series of responses, unable to control the way you moved or how you moaned, each sound increasing in volume and intensity as he continued to jackhammer into you.

Your stomach bulged from the pressure, each thrust deepening the curve, showing just how much of him you were struggling to take. Your body was so small, so delicate compared to his design—a machine of war—and yet it was somehow adjusting, somehow taking him all the way in, and with each inch he could see your entire body shift, your muscles trembling, walls contracting and clenching around him.

Svarog observed with detachment, but a small part of him couldn’t ignore how your body seemed to respond, how the very tightness of your searingly hot walls seemed to tug at him, pull him deeper as though it wanted to trap him there—needed him to stay there. The way you trembled beneath him, struggling to remain grounded as your body was filled with something so vast compared to your form. He noted how your skin glistened, how you arch your back, trying to take more of him, trying your damned best to accommodate his size.

Svarog noted how you were losing coherence, your once-clear expression now a mess of uncontrollable need, your eyes glazing over as you gave in to the rhythm he set. He couldn’t deny the way your body seemed to yearn for more, even as you struggled with the sheer size of him.

The final stretch was the worst for you, and the best for him—he felt your body grip him, squeezing him impossibly tight as he buried himself to the hilt. This earned a strained sob from your lips. Your stomach bulged more than ever before, a visual testament to just how much of him you had taken, how far he had pushed you. He could see your body tremble, your limbs shaking, your quivering lips gasping for breath.

Yet, even as your body was on the edge, unraveling beneath him, Svarog did not stop. The data was still incomplete. He needed more. He needed to see how much you could endure, how much pleasure your body could take from the sheer act of him pounding into you.

And so, he continued, calculating the rhythms, watching as you came again with a scream of his name, your body seizing, the loud moan that escaped your lips barely audible over the overwhelming noise in your head. It was the most raw, vulnerable he had ever seen you—or any human—and it only fascinated him more.

With another deep thrust, you shuddered, and this time, Svarog could see your body collapse against the surface beneath you, completely undone. You were breathless, barely coherent, your limbs shaking as the final waves of pleasure raked through your senses.

Svarog paused, his cool hands steadying your trembling body, allowing you to come down from the dizzying high. He could continue for as long as he wanted, but your body was too spent for further testing. He could still see the evidence of your come, dripping down in translucent milky strings to the surface beneath you, painting your inner thighs. Svarog decided that this must be what humans described as “beautiful.”

“Conclusion: Subject’s tolerance to size discrepancy has surpassed previous estimates. Data collection complete.”

[reasonsforhope]

"The Hague made international headlines for being the first city in the world to approve legislation prohibiting marketing of fossil fuel-related products and services. This major ruling, issued earlier this month, seeks to limit the promotion of items with a high carbon footprint, such as gasoline, diesel, aviation, and cruise ships. The ban, which goes into effect at the start of next year, will affect both government and privately funded advertisements, including those on billboards and bus shelters throughout the Dutch metropolis.

This groundbreaking legislation establishes an important precedent in the global fight against climate change. Other cities have attempted to limit the reach of high-carbon items through council ordinances or voluntary agreements with advertising operators, but The Hague’s prohibition is the first that is legally binding. It is a major step forward for cities around the world that want to reduce carbon emissions and combat climate change head-on.

A response to global calls for action

The prohibition comes after UN Secretary-General António Guterres called earlier this year for countries and media outlets to take tougher action to combat fossil fuel advertising, citing parallels with existing tobacco advertising bans. Guterres stressed that, as with the tobacco industry in the past, fossil fuel businesses are contributing to a worldwide public health crisis—in this case, climate change. Governments can help change public behavior and prevent the normalization of high-carbon lifestyles by limiting their capacity to market.

Several cities have already made tiny moves in this direction. Edinburgh, for example, approved a council vote in May prohibiting fossil fuel-related ads in city-owned venues. The Scottish capital also prohibits enterprises that sell these products from sponsoring events or developing partnerships. However, unlike The Hague’s legislation, Edinburgh’s ban is voluntary and only applies to council spaces.

A legally binding first

The Hague’s new law is significant since it is legally binding. The restriction affects not only specific items, such as gasoline, diesel, and fossil fuel-powered vehicles but also businesses such as aviation and cruise ships. However, the rule exempts fossil fuel firms’ political advertising or efforts supporting a generic brand, allowing these businesses to keep prominence...

The impact of advertising on behavior

Advertising’s impact on consumer behavior is well-documented, and many experts say that fossil fuel marketing undercut climate legislation by encouraging unsustainable behavior. Thijs Bouman, an associate professor of environmental psychology at Rijksuniversiteit Groningen, stated that “fossil fuel advertising normalizes the use of high-carbon products and services, making it more difficult to change consumer habits.” ...

Catalyzing change worldwide

The Hague’s move may have repercussions beyond its borders, spurring similar actions in other cities around the globe. Cities such as Toronto, Canada, and Graz, Austria, are already launching campaigns to outlaw advertising for fossil fuels. In the Netherlands, both Amsterdam and Haarlem have outlawed marketing for climate-damaging products like beef, but these measures have yet to become legislation.

Sleegers believes that The Hague’s move will act as a spur for other towns to follow suit. “More cities have a wish to implement the fossil ad ban through ordinance, but they were all waiting for some other city to go first. The Hague is this city,” she said, predicting that more local governments will now feel empowered to act...

As the world grapples with the rising costs of climate change, The Hague’s pioneering move provides a potential model for other cities looking to minimize their carbon footprints. With cities like Toronto and Amsterdam keeping a careful eye on things, this legislation has the potential to start a global campaign to prohibit fossil fuel advertising. 

More cities may follow suit in the coming years, hastening the transition to a more environmentally friendly and sustainable future."

-via The Optimist Daily, September 26, 2024

[tritoch]

i know a lot of people (very understandably) dislike the paladin job quests in ffxiv, particularly HW, but i do think it's fun that, now that the pre-ShB MSQ revamp is complete, paladins now have a very cool and thematic in-game storyline that happens without a word being spoken: the development of passage of arms.

none of the below is directly stated in the script, but imo it's a fairly obvious gloss on what the game presents, if you assume a paladin warrior of light. spoilers for all expansions through the end of 6.X.

in the new version of steps of faith, as vishap breaks through each ward protecting ishgard from attack, lucia mounts a final desperate effort to hold him back, with a very familiar looking animation:

but even lucia can't hold back vishap's flame alone, so the temple knights surge forward to assist her. their efforts make the shield visually more powerful and larger. the temple knights here band together in defense of ishgard, and their knightly resolve to protect their home is the difference between victory and defeat.

lucia and the knights do ultimately succeed in defending the last ward, as you have to defeat vishap before their shield falls or you lose.

later in heavensward, obviously, we will get ffxiv's most famous (failed) attempt at blocking something with a shield.

this moment can be read as fairly impactful on the warrior of light's development; as i've noted elsewhere, after the trauma of watching haurchefant bleed out in their arms at level 57, at level 58 paladins learn to channel their magic into healing (and it's called "clemency," or mercy. mercy for whom? who was guilty?), and as someone pointed out on that post, at level 58 dark knights used to get "sole survivor", letting them heal in response to a marked target's death.

for a time, you literally carry haurchefant's shield with you, and 3.3 very much literalizes in genre fashion the idea that even when you are standing alone, your fallen friends stand with you. you don't need to call any allies to stand at your side and raise their shields with you because they are already there, in spirit.

stormblood marks a pretty important turning point in the warrior of light as a combatant, in my opinion, and the text makes this clear in several ways. first, in pretty much all your jobs, you've now far exceeded your trainers and are pioneering new techniques. this is no less true of paladin, which for 60-70 abandons any trainers at all for you to show off your peerless skills in a tournament.

second, stormblood is straight up a story about you getting stronger. at level 61, zenos kicks your ass. at level 70, you kick his ass. why? because you fought and got stronger and developed incredible new techniques and became a one-man army.

for a lot of classes, this story lines up nicely with the big rotation changes or flashy new finishers on the way from 60 to 70. SMN is now busting out bahamut and casting akh morn; RDM gets verflare and verholy; DRG starts harnessing nidhogg's power directly through dragon sight and nastrond.

the tanks are divided in two: warriors and gunbreakers get huge damaging upgrades at 70 in the form of inner release and continuation, each of which lets them hit the same button many times for lots of damage and satisfying animations. paladin and dark knight get more protective abilities; dark knight gets the blackest night, and there's been plenty said about that already by pretty much everyone.

paladins get passage of arms. instead of a relentless new attack (and you get requiescat at 68, which is a way bigger deal for your dps rotation), your big reveal at 70 for zenos in your fight in ala mhigo is a superior way to protect your party, a shield that lets you stand for your allies so they never have to fall for you again. it's lucia's same shield, except you need no allies' shields to reinforce you, proof of your martial prowess and your ability to transcend limits, and perhaps in truth a reminder that you never really stand alone.

in many respects passage of arms should really feel like a paladin signature move to you now if you are playing it at this point, because you should be popping it in pretty much every fight (you are using your mits, right...?). basically every FFXIV fight has at least one big AOE with downtime that warrants passage of arms usage, usually after the mid-fight add phase with slowly filling bar. since that AOE usually drops during downtime, there's no reason not to pop passage of arms (which otherwise restricts your movement and actions), and even on normal, sometimes every little bit counts on a damage check even if it means dropping DPS (thinking here of harrowing hell P10N on release, which was...less consistent for a lot of roulette parties than you might hope).

so from 70 onward, passage of arms is in a sense a paladin warrior of light's signature move, and certainly the one a player gets to most actually enjoy (since if you're using it, you're by necessity not doing anything besides moving your camera and admiring your sick animation). it doesn't have any competition in terms of spectacle until confiteor, and those you're usually throwing out in the middle of movement.

it's such a signature, in fact, that the only other person shown using your one-person version of passage of arms is your greatest admirer, who studied your legend for over a century.

and it's when he fails (should've popped arm's length, bud) that the warrior of light decides they can't let their friends fall for them, and sends them away with the transporter beacon. this is all wrong: you were meant to die for them, not the other way around. yours is the shield that stands between your allies and defeat. it is you who will win this passage of arms and break your opponents lance. and you do.

and then later, when they need to quickly establish zero's domain as a place of fallen grandeur, the home of someone who once believed in heroes but is now a cool and cynical vampire hunter d, what do they use? a decayed statue of someone in the paladin endwalker gear doing the passage of arms animation, of course.

from a visible instantiation of knighthood as a joint effort to defend what is sacred, to a tribute to the fallen friends whose memories stand by you and animate you, to a symbol of the wol's power as emulated by their allies or darkly mirrored in other shards.

not bad for a mit button you hit once per fight and otherwise never think about!

[dantenyhpmir]

Boots

Pairing; Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader

Plot; You staying at Ghosts place and see his uniform for the first time

Warnings; CNC, humiliation, Oral M Receiving

Word Count; 2,574

Dante Nyhpmir Master List

So much music you'd never heard of. It was odd dating someone of a completely different generation than you. Why he felt compelled to collect records in the first place was a little beyond you but it made him happy. He had showed you how to start the gramophone before, you'd do your best to remember after,

“Finally” you thought, recognizing an album you actually know. One that would fit the mood you're looking for. You don't grab the actual center, he showed you how to hold it to not damage the vinyl as you bend over. Making sure the needle made contact all while not realizing he had come back into the room. His eyes fixated on you while you put the other record back. Sitting on the floor.

A scream lets out of you when you turn around to see him. You can't help it. It catches you so off guard.

“Holy fuck” you let out as you catch your breath, “you weren't kidding about your uniform….”

It was daunting. Full tactical gear, all black, combat boots, gloves. Everything looked so heavy.

And the mask.

It highlighted his eyes. Eye contact felt more intense. More extreme. The same feeling you get when you know someone's watching you, the instinct to look back. The evolutionary impulse to find what's hunting you.

Were you being hunted?

He stayed there for a minute. No words.

You forgot how big he was. In those moments realizing how quiet he could be.

What the people who had the misfortune to run into him felt, the last thing they saw before they died.

His eyes.

Burning holes into yours.

You felt stuck in place until he finally took his first step.

Simon never ran during any scenes. He didn't move quickly until you were actually fucking. Every moment of build up was slow. Discerning.

Each step he took you felt in your gut as he got closer.

And closer.

You have to at least to try to meet him but as you get up he cuts you off

“Stay”

You sit back down, slowly.

There is no asking.

You recognize a command when you hear one. This is not Simon in front of you. This is not the man that picks you up and takes you for dinner. This is not who brings you flowers and asks you about your day. This is not the gentleman that holds your hand under tables and grabs your thigh in the car. This is not the man you catch staring at you like he's the luckiest person in the world to have you. It's not the man who listens intentionally and shows you how much he respects your opinion. This was not a man of egalitarianism.

Ghost was different.

“Good girl” he says as he takes a seat on the couch across from you. Staring at you.

“Wow” you let out “I didn't expect it to be so….”

He stares, not helping you find words

“Formidable” you finally finished.

“You asked what my uniform looks like”

“I did” you swallow

Beat.

“Do you–”

“Take it off,” he interrupts.

You hold onto your shirt, your eyes asking the question.

“All of it,” he answers.

Sitting up on your knees you remove your trousers, and gliding back down you pull the shirt over your head. His eyes never leave you. Trained on you.

As if they hadn't been undressing you all night.

With your shirt tossed aside your eyes meet but he's not satisfied.

“All.

Of.

It.”

He commands.

“I'll sit back down” You say as you stand up at a leisurely pace, bending over sliding your panties down your legs as they highlight every inch. Making eye contact with him again once they reach your ankles and tossing them aside with a flick of your foot. Without hurry, making your way back to the floor.

It was beautiful watching his chest lift under the tactical gear.

He leans forward, elbows over his knees holding his hands

“Come here”

Beat.

Your body forgets to work sometimes before it snaps back to what's happening. To just respond.

To just let go.

Taking your time to crawl over to him,

“Eyes up” he says with each step you take before you find yourself between his legs.

His hands hold your face. The tension in his fingers is palpable, you feel him holding himself back already. Managing to gently move hair out of the way of your face as his thumb runs itself over your cheek.

Why does this scare you?

Why does this feel like a threat?

Why are you so far gone by now?

Your hair needs to be out of the way for the collar he takes out of one of the many pockets.

“Sit down and straighten your back”

You listen, you're already locked in but the collar proves that point.

He's not the gentleman you know.

You're not the progressive feminist for a night. You're not the woman who fights back at the second site of disrespect. You're not the person who has to navigate each individual situation and how it will affect the outcome of your day to day. You don't have to think of anyone else.

You don't have to think at all.

You're just a body.

His body to play with.

A pet.

It feels so good tightly wrapped around your neck. Both hands holding onto your face as he kisses you, there's a way he kisses you that always takes over. Like his whole body does it, the hold you feel when his lips finally let go but linger next to yours as you hear his breath.

Hearing him breathe always helped you let go. You're just bodies. Exploring each other, matching his breath before his hands tighten up and toss it aside.

He sits back.

“Show me how you play with it”

His arms spread across the couch as you sit between his legs, directly looking at him. Remembering eye contact until your instructions are presented.

“Sir?”

“Show. Me. How you play with it” he adjusts before you clue in. Seeing the bulge you think could rip through his fatigues.

Your lips press against themselves, excited to play with him.

To please him as your hands undo his belt, zipper and adjust to finally let his cock breathe.

Before you drown it in the back of your throat.

Your hand pulls down your face as you lick your palm before your tongue pulls itself up over his cock. No friction to be had as your mouth moves up and down. Feeling him get harder and harder with every slow thrust of your lips and grip of your palm. It was the best feeling, his body couldn't lie, how happy you'd make him with each twist of your hand finding rhythm as your head would escape to the tip. Your tongue wrapping around and centering that sensitive head. Even making your lips wet and kissing it softly before plunging back down.

Your favourite challenge.

To take all of him.

“Eyes up” he says again

Your lids flick up, doe eyes matching his cold ones. You can't smile but your eyes can as your melancholic energy breathes new life into him. Tightening your grip and then releasing, your hand working in unison with your mouth and tongue. Each one taking care of him from the base to the very top.

His body didn't lie, you didn't know how to explain it but you knew exactly what his body needed. So in tune with how to please him, harder and harder, until

“Do better”

You halt mid lick, looking up at him confused before finishing the lap.

Your eyes don't smile. Just concern.

Maybe you forgot to make eye contact. You would get lost in pleasing him at times. That's probably what he meant.

Fixing your mistake as you look up at him, tip of your tongue caressing around the bottom of the head and kissing before going back down with your mouth and hand. This time, eyes locked on.

But his head never falls back, pupils never roll into his skull. Just looking at you.

How can someone look at another in a condescending way? How do his eyes say that?

His hand finds a way around the back of your head and lifts it up off his cock before you once again hear.

“Do. Better”

As he lowers you back down by your hair, eyes trained on him.

You know he's excited. You feel it in your hands. You know how to play with him. You know how to please him.

He's playing with you.

Give him more.

Your body lights up, there's a difference between autopilotting a part of your body and giving over your body. You hold your weight, as you take him with your entirety. All of your energy in your body is being thrown together.

He would kiss you with his whole body.

You would do the same.

But still, if not worse this time,

“I told you to do better”

His boot finds a way to your shoulder, your scared eyes lock into those cold ones before he kicks you back onto the floor. Off your balance.

It takes you a minute to compose yourself before he calls you back over. His boot extended and his condescending lean on his knees again.

“Lick it”

His eyes point to you, his boot and then back to you.

Beat.

“Sir?”

“You can follow instructions, can't you?”

You nodd.

It's hard to get words out.

Find your knees, find your ground.

Even you leaning over isn't good enough as he interrupts

“Slower”

Before your mouth is inches away

“Eyes up”

Your eyes meet his as your tongue falls out of your mouth and head tilts, dragging your tongue behind on the foot of his boot.

Back and forth.

Over and over again.

His eyes smile.

“Good girl”

Your tongue makes its way around your mouth, almost reminding itself what it feels like. The texture isn't normal to you before hearing

“Did I say you could stop?”

You continue.

Back and forth.

Over and over.

Your head drags your tongue, looking at him. Relishing it.

“Ass up”

You do what you're told. You're well trained.

Mindless.

“So you can follow instructions”

As he pulls away. Your head falls forward as if he pulled out a chair from underneath you before his hand reaches down.

His finger finds the piece of the collar to pull you back up, tightly. Holding you in place as he moved the mask up to expose his lips.

“Open your mouth”

God he had a beautiful jawline.

His other hand gives your face a light slap.

“Just when you were doing so well.”

God it felt good.

“Let's try this again. Open. Your. Mouth”

Your eyes meet his as your chin falls.

“Let's see your tongue.”

Gravity pulls the tongue out of your mouth without hesitation.

“Good girl” he says as he spits directly in your mouth, his index finger under your chin to close it.

“What do you say?”

“Thank you” you manage to get out

“Thank you, what?”

“Thank you Sir”

His hand slides to grab your face, pressing your cheeks together before letting go

“Are you ready to try again?”

You nod as your body floats back to him. You dive into him. Both hands holding on and twisting with each thrust of your mouth. Your tongue does not leave any spot untouched. The delicate head being caressed and kissed before plunging back down. Feeling him hit the back of your throat and keeping him there. Your eyes don't leave him. Back and forth repeating, hitting a bit harder each time. The gagging muffles of your whines sounded so sweet to him. Reveling in watching your eyes water and drag the liner down your face. Weak enough to have his eyes roll in the back of his head. Finally hearing him moan at the new pace.

God you lived to make him moan. To watch him breathe.

To use your body.

His hands grabbed onto your cheeks.

To fuck your face.

“Fuck” he whined gripping on tighter and tighter, moving his hips back and forth to hit that back wall of your throat.

“You're such a fun little toy”

Faster and faster,

Over and over again.

You were not in control anymore. You never really were. Your tongue couldn't keep up with this pace now. The only thing it could do was hang out of your mouth and guide his cock as it dove deep in your mouth.

“You have such a pretty little fucking mouth”

His hands tighten in your hair, your eyes watering. Almost crossed in a daze as your eyelids fall half asleep.

Taking him.

“Its so fun shutting you up”

Over.

And.

Over.

Faster.

And.

Faster.

“Eyes up”

You don't hear.

His hands tighten in your hair

“Eyes….”

Your lids open, pupils match with his.

Your cum drunk eyes matching his rage filled ones.

“....Up”

He says before you feel him cum. Before you hold all of it.

His grunt when he cums is one of your favourite sounds in the world.

He needs a moment to catch his breath before he takes his hands and guides your head off his cock.

“Hold” he says in an exhaustive breath.

Your lips glide off his cock and close. His hands holding your face, eyes locked together. Breathing in unison before he gives you your next command.

“Open”

Your jaw falls, your tongue hangs as he watches himself drip out of your mouth. Falling on your naked body.

A smile creeps across his face before he pulls the mask down back over his jawline. His hands holding your face delicately again, his thumb makes its way to sit on your tongue and whip some of it out then moving to your chin to do the same favor. Pressing harder.

“Aren't you a sight”

You nod. All words left your body so long ago. You can't muster them anymore.

He kisses you, with his entire body.

“You're so beautiful”

His hands pull the back of your head into him. Still tight.

He's being loving but the coarseness isn't through.

Merely a break.

He gives you a moment before pulling you.

“Knees” he says “on your knees”

It's hard to hold your body up, he feels like he's doing it while he braces your neck with one hand as the other trails down your body. Over your breasts that his cum has dripped over, past your midriff and just along where your thighs meet your pelvis and finally over your lips, finally between them, finally buried inside you.

“Jesus Christ”

He would drown in you. First in your mouth and eventually your cunt.

It was a long night ahead.

“What a damp little slit.”

His hand tightened around your neck as the other explored your walls, soaked.

“I'm not done playing with you” he threatened

“Still so much of my toy to play with” as his fingers hooked inside you

His hand lessened around your neck as you caught your breath, awake again.

“What do you say with all that air I gave you?”

“Thank you” you muster out, looking at him with the stains rolled over your cheeks

“Thank you what?”

“Thank you Sir”

“Good girl”

He kisses, hard. On your open mouth.

“That's my good little pet”

Dante Nyhpmir Master List