#do not look to these if you want accuracy!

[gold-iridescent]

Always check.

A few things you could look for or do:

0 (Always do this): Take a breather, try to calm your emotions. Fake news want you to feel a certain way so you believe them!

Now.

1. Do they cite their sources?

2. Search up something that was claimed to be true by the source and check with other sources (be wary if there is no other sources.)

3. Search up WHAT ORGANIZATION(S) FINANCE THE NEWS OUTLET. Be especially wary if it's by a Political party or a company in close cooperation with a Political Party

4. Check the URL (if it seems to be an 'edu' domain, but is followed by a ".co" or "Io", it likely is a fake site.)

5. Be wary if the info is protrayed as SENSATIONAL or seems TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE.

6. If your resource has an ABOUT US section, read it. Modt reputable websites WILL have an about us and a way to contact them.

7. Check the Authors credentials. Why are *they* an authority on the matter? Do they currently work in that field? Check their LinkedIn, if available. Google the authors name.

8. Does the article only present one side of a debate? Then it is biased. That is not necessarily bad but make sure to get all sides of the arguments to make a well-based opinion

9. BE AWARE of CONFIRMATION BIAS. People tend to seek and interpert info and evidence in the way that confirms their belief or expectations. Try to be neutral. Don't fall into this trap

THIS IS NOT ALL so well explained, but i tried my best /gen

I have linked resources and such below. Will be updating this post. making edits if i see mistakes, etc. PLEASE MESSAGE ME of more tips and resources and such that might be helpful! I would appreciate it /gen

BE AWARE SOME SOURCES ARE BY THE GOVERNMENT (.gov). we do not know how much the government will control/change the acurracy of them, so PLEASE double check)

ALWAYS CHECK WITH SEVERAL RESOURCES, NOT JUST ONE, TO FACT CHECK

https://www.factcheck.org/about/our-mission/

https://www.washingtonpost.com/politics/fact-checker/

https://www.allsides.com/media-bias

https://www.courtreference.com/

https://factcheck.afp.com/

https://www.reuters.com/fact-check/

SOME GUIDES AND INFOS ABOUT / TO FACT CHECKING

https://www.wnyc.org/story/breaking-news-consumers-handbook-pdf/

https://andrew-philips.medium.com/a-beginners-guide-to-fact-checking-a98309fe875b

https://projects.research-and-innovation.ec.europa.eu/en/horizon-magazine/five-fact-checking-tips-disinformation-experts

-Ares

just as a general reminder

learn how to fact-check for yourself, cause soon enough, most online sources won't be reliable

[niccolites]

febrile (or; input vs output)

He expects some kind of betrayal, for you to hiss and snap at him. Image of the NCPD, accepting your cyberware one week and raiding your clinic the other.

Instead you stand to the side and watch with him as the other officers dig through your stuff. They’re a bit too enthusiastic, your tray gets flipped over and your bench kicked over to check underneath and it isn’t righted again.

Simon watches you, uncaring that he should be watching his men. You tilt your head back and look up at him, you aren’t half his size but it’s a close thing. He thinks he likes that, watching the top of your spine disappear into your neck just to look at him, the arch of your throat. Traces his eyes over it, tendons and a vulnerable jugular, pushed out for him.

-

or: Simon is a member of the Night City Police Department and you're a ripper doc. It is his job to catch criminals, but even he can admit, he's taken a different approach for you. CYBERPUNK!AU

TAGS: Dubious Consent, Power Imbalance, Size Kink, Unhealthy Relationships

read here on ao3

Simon’s got a bug in his system that is turning his vision white at the edges when he finally visits you.

Not that he has much of a morality regarding visiting ripperdocs. Sure, they’re criminals and as a member of the NCPD, it is his job to arrest and charge criminal activity, but that was a rigid rule set decades ago. These days, the split between the NCPD and a common gang is that the rules the gang lives by aren’t written into the law. But, allowances are allowed on both sides.

Simon has never cared much to think about it. He sees some other officers have that blank look in their eye after they finish a shift, others who seem to revel in being able to do whatever it is that they want. Simon just does as he’s told. If he’s told to save the woman who survived a cyberpsycho attack then she is tossed over a shoulder and brought to the ambulance. If otherwise, a nod is all he needs to know that there are no witnesses. Finger, gun, trigger. The explosion in the palm of his hand, kicked back and caught. Delivered.

Maybe it has left a screw loose in his head. Not his job to analyse that.

Flouting the law as and when it suits the law is a part of the job. Not one that Simon has much indulged in, he must admit. Any murder, extortion, crime that is involved in the ‘etcetera’ part of his work, has been asked of him. His fellow officers flout the law as and when it suits them. Illegal weapons, killing a perp who gets too mouthy, maybe getting a bit too handsy with a victim. Simon hasn’t been much interested in the ‘benefits’ he can reap with his badge.

However, after a job where the NCPD took down a group of scavengers, Simon’s vision starts getting spotty. He’d had to jack into one of the victims to see if they were still alive. Horrible static, bad channel. They hadn’t been. And seemingly willing to haunt him from the afterlife, leaving a pesky virus in his system.

There are NCPD designated docs that he could go and visit, but the idea of letting one of their starched, freshly pressed hands go worming around in his cyberware makes his skin crawl. Years before his official service, he’d had all his kit installed by a ripperdoc, and he hadn’t had an issue he couldn’t fix himself since.

He spends a few days just trying to deal with it, still able to hit his shots using the noise that all criminals insist on making. He can still mostly see, even a few days in. Maybe not make out features, but people are blurry and morphed shapes that approach him and he puts them down with the same accuracy as before.

It’s not long before his captain pulls him up, though. Forces him to admit the bug, and issues a new command. Sort it out.

Standing in the doorway of your clinic, hidden in his civvies, here he is. Sorting it out.

You’re in the middle of muddling around with some of your equipment, humming to yourself before you must catch sight of him. The blur of your figure jumps, as your face comes into profile. You must be intimidated by the sight of him, something that he registers with a cool type of pleasure. Even not in his uniform and clearly strapped with all of his weapons, he blocks the light coming in from your doorway. You must see the metal of his left arm, nothing human left there. The gas mask that covers half of his face, black and stark against the pale of his skin.

“Hello. How can I help?” you ask, shifting something up your forehead. It distorts ths shape of your head and he realises that they must be massive goggles. Ridiculous, he imagines you must look like the image of the crazy scientist from old stories; you probably have a lab coat on. He wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for your reputation, known as one of the best ripperdocs in Watson, even if you are as cheap as they say.

Ripperdocs are the gray area in Night City. Criminals, yes, but the hassle of actually taking down ripperdocs is more than it’s worth. Not that Simon tends to give a fuck about the politics, or the give and take of crime vs law. He is a bullet, pointed in a direction and shot out.

“I got a bug in my system,” he says, taking another step into your clinic.

You nod, gesture for him to take a seat on your bench. Something out of a dentist’s nightmare, he imagines, but he takes a seat nonetheless. Despite lying down, everything in him is as tense as a straight line. Gaze landed and caught on you, lazy as he watches you drift around your clinic. His vision is filtering your clinic as starkly white, the outline of your light grey. You both may as well be in void, he can only see the outline of objects as they get close to him.

You swing your chair around and pick up a wire. “You cool if I take a look?” you offer, gesturing with the wire. His forearm is already tense with the instinct to catch your hand before you can plug that into the side of his neck. His metal gasmask covers the slot anyway.

A beat, in which you look back at him. He considers making it awkward, telling you no or something. Settles on nodding and watches the way you flounder for a moment when you realise you can’t reach the slot. You’re paused, flatering in the space between the two of you.

“Can you take off your mask?” you ask. Your voice is deliberately light, but he can hear the catch of annoyance underlying your tone. It makes him want to grin, wonders how you look right now, if you’re frowning at him or trying to hide it with a smile.

“No,” he tells you. A beat. You don’t move or attempt to say anything else. Stalemate, when he can’t see how you look. “There’s a catch on the side, you unlatch that to reach the slot.”

You don’t say anything else, and he’s irritated by that. Relying on noise when the other individual doesn’t want to make any noise just leaves him listeless. You reach up, click open a section of his mask and plug in. You turn away, pull what must be a tray towards yourself. You must have plugged him into your laptop, your figure hunched towards it.

You cluck your tongue, goggles shifting across your brow as you gaze at your screen. “This is a nasty one, how’d you catch this?” He decides that’s not relevant and watches you instead. You give him a quick glance, head tilting his way, but decide to shrug off his strange silence. “I’ll just be a moment while I clear it. Seems to have caught onto a lot of your neural sensors, I’m surprised you can still walk.”

His chest doesn’t puff out with pride, but it’s a close thing. You tinker away at it, finally clearing it from his system. The whites that had clouded his vision clears, and he can see you in high definition finally. Can see the pores next to your nose, the frizz around the strap of your goggles as it disappears into your hair. You’re giving him an evaluating look, your eyes intent even as the rest of your body is deliberately loose. You don’t seem to have much chrome on you, thin lines of metal around your eyes, and a scanner on your right palm. He doubts you have much more.

“There we are, good as new,” you tell him, leaning back in your chair with a pleased huff. You give him another long look, but this time he can see the widen and pinprick of your retina. He wonders how he comes up in the scan that you must’ve pulled up the second he was in your doorway. Cop, ex-army, de-commissioned, KIA but here, in the (mostly) flesh. You don’t give any of it away, just shut your laptop and unplug him.

You hadn’t asked for payment upfront, and he imagines just walking out. Wonders if you would scowl at him, if you would expect it, maybe scowl for once. Drop that calm look on your face in exchange for something a bit uglier.

There is a long beat that he draws out to see what you will do, but you only sit patiently. You turn back to your laptop, tapping away on something else now. It’s not fun if you’re not biting, he sends you what he decides must be your standard fee, watches you tilt your head to the side at the chime of money exchanged.

He doesn’t thank you, just gets up and leaves. You didn’t close the latch on the side of his mask, and he considers marching back and making you do it, but decides to save it for another day. He closes it himself for now, and fancies that he can feel the finger print that you left behind on it, evidence.

-

The first warrant he comes back with is legitimate. Cyberpyschos are going mental over the bridge, and they have a faint enough lead that shows some of the cyberware tracing back to yourself. He knocks on your door and watches your face when he presents it to you.

He expects some kind of betrayal, for you to hiss and snap at him. Image of the NCPD, accepting your cyberware one week and raiding your clinic the other.

Instead you stand to the side and watch with him as the other officers dig through your stuff. They’re a bit too enthusiastic, your tray gets flipped over and your bench kicked over to check underneath and it isn’t righted again.

Simon watches you, uncaring that he should be watching his men. You tilt your head back and look up at him, you aren’t half his size but it’s a close thing. He thinks he likes that, watching the top of your spine disappear into your neck just to look at him, the arch of your throat. Traces his eyes over it, tendons and a vulnerable jugular, pushed out for him.

He imagines reaching over and holding his hand over the soft column of your throat. You’ve left it bare, you’d likely barely have any time to start flailing before he’d squeeze with intent and you’d drop, caught in the palm of his hand. If you can sense his thoughts, you don’t give it away, just watch him in return, blinking like a stray cat. Curious but wary.

“You know, Officer Riley, if you wanted to see me again, you didn’t have to bring the official signed document,” you say, gesturing with the hologram that was on the chip he presented to you. It’s slightly flirty, but cautious, like you’re padding around an interrogation room, but you don’t know what he’s done yet.

He doesn’t say anything. You smile back, as if he had responded, and let it lie. Your eyes are sharp, he imagined he could hear the whir as you scanned each of his men as they came in, but your smile and limbs are loose, like you are unaware of everything. Your teeth are blunt, but he imagines the cut of one against the metal of his forearm.

They don’t find anything, and one of his men huffs, giving you a dirty look. You’re asked what you work as and your smile doesn’t slip. “I help those with addiction, this is a place for them to speak, to be treated,” you answer.

“Treated?” one of his men pushes, giving Simon a look. It’s a terrible lie, so bad that Simon reckons they’ll have a hard time proving it’s not true. This is a shitty area, there’s likely 3 gonks in the alleyway outside lying in the gutter, high. You’re also liked enough that they could grab a random off the street and they’d lie for you easily enough.

“Simple brain dances, meditations,” you explain, rolling your head back to give Simon another look. The smile is gone, eyes gone guileless. He squints at it, suspicious and the corner of your mouth gives the faintest twitch. “Honestly, officers, whatever it is that you’re looking for, I’m sure I would not be of any help.”

One of his men steps forward as if to grab you by the arm but Simon barks at him to step back. You haven’t looked away, but you look analysing again, like you had looked at the virus in his system. “We’re done here,” Simon announces and steps back before you can say anything else. Leaves you with your trashed clinic and his warrant on the chip he gave you.

Simon falls asleep later and dreams of you with a scalpel in your hands, and when you cut into him, there is no blood.

-

Simon sees you again, but this time you’re outside. It bristles him, seeing you standing on an open street. Your sides are bare and before he can think about it too much, he’s cut his eyes around every alleyway around you. Making sure that there is no one on the rooftops. Traffic roars past and he grits his teeth. There's been a spike in drive-by shootings, gangs nipping at each other’s heels in a show of territory.

He’s over to you before he can stop himself, a hulking mass at your back, shielding you from the view of the road. He would tell himself that he is doing his duty as an officer, but he has always been a self-interested man, and never cared much to lie to himself. 

You startle as his shadow swallows you up, turning around to blink up at him. You squint at the sight of him. “Officer,” you greet. He grunts in response, which makes you almost roll your eyes.

You turn back to the stall you were standing at, humming over some mods for sale.

The man at the stall is terrified at the introduction of Simon, pale and nodding mindlessly as you start to barter. Simon imagines if he flashes his holster then you would even get the mod for free, a thought which amuses him. You'd likely get even more annoyed, which he does want to see.

As if you can sense his thoughts, you wrap up the exchange quickly and step away, Simon following at your back. “There something you want from me, officer?” You ask, giving him a look over your shoulder. He stares back at you, unyielding.

He’s unsettled suddenly, imagining how often you must be outside of your clinic. He hadn’t thought of it, had only imagined you were constrained in those four walls. The door had shut behind him and he had left you there, a still picture until he would return eventually. Waiting, like a good girl, sat by the door.

“You going home?” he asks you. Tells you.

You give him another look. He wants the crack of your skull in his palms, like the clean split of a watermelon. Wants to parse through your thoughts, wants to have them before they even fully form on your own.

“Yeah, I got what I needed,” you reply. He grunts, follows you until you tilt towards the side streets that lead back to your clinic. Barely any safer, but at least it’s not the open street, and he has his orders to patrol here. He watches you as you disappear around a corner. His gums itch, his tongue flexes in his mouth. He is a wild dog held back with a tattered leash, but he respects it all the same, heads back to his post, but keeps his ear tilted in the direction you went in.

-

He comes back again, and the warrant isn’t even real. He stares you down, wants you to open it, wants the reaction to his baldfaced lie. You take the chip and step aside to let him in. There’s a cut across your brow, purple bruising around it and he can’t look away from it. White in his vision again, he’s starting to suspect you’ve put another virus in his system, infecting him. He blinks and it clears, but the distrust stays like a rotting in his core.

He wants to dig his teeth into the edge of the metal in your palms and peel it up, wants the imprint of his teeth somewhere on you that you couldn’t replace with technology. He thought about you while he fucked his fist in the shower, and you had been beneath him, teary-eyed as he broke you in on his cock. He wants to fuck you until you drop that questioning look in your eye and bare your throat for him again.

“Look at the warrant,” he tells you. You smile up at him, like he is someone charming. He’s not, and he wants the reaction that he has sought out of you.

“Won’t it just say what all of them say?” you point out, leaning back against your desk. “Something that may have something to do with me, and here you are.” He stays silent, stares you down. “Do you want me to be a criminal?”

“You are one,” Simon rebuttals. That’s why he’s here. You need to be, he needs to catch you. He dreamt of chasing you down a network, jumping between wires and static until he caught your hips in his hands and crushed them. His desire for you is entwined with the dichotomy of your identities. He isn’t much interested in forcing you to become a legal law-abiding citizen, as he is pushing the two of you further into the roles that you are in.

“You know what I mean,” you add, pushing off of your desk and stepping towards him. A step away and he reaches his metal hand out, clamps your jaw in his palm. You let him, like you always seem to do, and it’s like pure heroin, lights something up in him.

“Who did this?” he asks, your chin in his palm, his thumb on your eyebrow. Right on the cut. He thinks if it was him that put it there, he might dig in a little, but he wasn’t. It’s hidden from view like this, with the edge of your eyebrow, disappeared behind his ugly, metal thumb.

“Got jumped by some asshole who thought he was hot shit,” you say, easily. The way you say everything, no pit-stop between your brain and your mouth. He wants to dig his tongue into the back of your throat and catch the words there, drink them down.

“Who?” he asks. You shrug and he shakes your jaw like a bad dog. “Who?” he repeats, tone biting. There’s a twitch in your eye at being roughhoused but you don’t step back.

You give a name, raising an eyebrow at him. He vaguely recognises it, some asshole who’s been causing trouble in Watson. Some wannabe gangbanger. He butts his head against yours, too hard to be truly affectionate before he leaves. His gas mask bumps against your cheek, leaves a red mark on your jaw from where his metal fingers dug in.

He shoots the fucker who jumped you, and dumps his body in the river. He watches it float, knowing it’ll be found. When they see the NCPD bullet extracted from his brain, he’ll be dumped back out again. Simon thinks about allowances, thinks about ropes of wire and how they snap. Rubber ripped, coil exposed.

-

He comes to see you again, this time in the middle of the night, wanting to see what you look like when you’ve just woken up. He imagines you’ll be pliant, let him shift you around as he wishes, sleep in your eye and a dream still dragging on your limbs.

You open the door and rub your eyes. Your hair is a little ruffled from your bed, blinking up at him with thick-cottoned eyes. He smiles with teeth beneath his gas mask at how awareness flickers into your eyes before you force a yawn. You’re so quick, which is why it’s always so satisfying to catch you.

“Something I can help with, officer?” you ask, leaning against the doorframe.

“Let me in,” he tells you. Demands it of you. It would be so easy to force his way in, but he likes it when you do as he tells you to.

“You got a warrant for that?” you ask, scrubbing a hand over your jaw. Eye him like he’s your patient again, like you’re finding that virus in his system and cutting it out.

“No,” he replies. Watches your expression, the subtle tick of your brow at his bold-faced honesty.

He wonders if you’ll shut the door on him. Make him peel the metal back to get in anyway. He would, he’s saved up his allowances and he plans on cashing them out on you.

You give him another long look before you step to the side and let him in. The door slides shut with a wheeze and a soft thunk.

“Is there something that you would like to say, Officer Riley,” you say, as if it’s a question but your voice doesn’t lilt at the end. He wants to catalogue every one of your reactions and keep them to himself, squirrelled away, out of the sight of anyone else. That is something beyond liking you, beyond attraction. Simon feels possessive of everything about you, like he might cave someone’s skull in if they saw too much of you.

Simon’s never been too much of a talker, he steps forward and crowds you into the desk that has all of your equipment on it. You blink up at him, perfectly still in the way that prey animals are, when they know they’re caught. The rabbit-like flutter of your heart, caught in the palm of his hand as he cups your neck. Thumb against the soft give just beneath your chin. “Simon,” he tells you, although he knows you already must know. He never told you he was Officer Riley, knows that you must have pried your way into whatever confidential information that you could find on your scan of him.

“Well, that doesn’t feel appropriate, Officer Riley,” you point out. Your calm tone is undermined by the kick of your pulse. His fingers flex, held back with a trained restraint. He likes knowing you’re afraid of him, like that you talk back to him anyway. Like watching a kitten yowl at a beast. Cute.

“Simon,” he repeats, bending his head closer to you, A hunch in his shoulders, and his face still isn’t that close to yours.

A quiet beat. “Simon,” you repeat. Your voice is flat, as if you’re trying to take the enjoyment out of it for him. He huffs with something like amusement. He gets his rocks off here, having his way in your clinic, the feel of your skin against the scar tissue of his human hand. You could be scowling or smiling, and he’d like either once he’s got his fingers in your mouth.

He reaches his other hand up and undoes his gas mask, lets it drop off and sets it on the desk next to your hip. Hoists you up, catches the kick of your leg, steps into the cradle of your thighs. “There we go,” he tells you. Your eyes have taken in the exposed section of his face. Ripped skin, some replaced by chrome, most of it left to heal as is. He knows that he is an ugly sight, a hulking, horrible man, hunched over you. He doesn’t care much what you have to say about it.

He ducks his head and looks you in the eye, even playing ground. You glare back at him and he grins with teeth. He hopes that you bite him, seals his mouth over yours. Your tongue is wet and he tilts your head back, wanting to get into your throat. You bite his tongue and he groans, his other hand pushing your hips into his. He grinds into you, huffing into your mouth. He memorises each point of your teeth, sucks your tongue into his mouth and blinks at you with half-closed eyes.

He pulls back with a wet smack, which leaves your cheeks flushed. “Show me your tits,” he tells you, hands flat on your desk, framing your hips. You don’t move, glaring up at him again. He gives you a lazy look, like you’re boring him now. If anything, the hateful look in your eye has made him even harder, if it were possible. “Now.”

“Such a dick,” you mutter to yourself, reaching for the buttons of your pyjama shirt and slipping it off. There’s a fine tremble in your hands before you still them with a calming breath. He was right on his first impression of you - that you barely have any chrome on you. Your skin is soft looking, no harsh metal on your torso. Restricted to the framing of metal around your eyes, your right palm. 

He smooths his metal hand up your side, watches gooseflesh and vellus hair raise in its wake. Cups one of your breasts in his cold metal palm. Almost coos at the sight of your nipple pebbling as his thumb swipes over it. Restrains himself at the last second, but gives into the urge to give you a mean pinch as retribution for your filthy mouth. You jump, a hitch in your breath. He smirks at you, hopes you can see the chip in his canine. “Behave,” he tells you, reaching for the waistband of your bottoms. Maybe once he’s drunk his fill, he can indulge the bite of your mouth, but his skin feels stretched thin over chrome and bone, and he wants what’s his and he wants it readily.

There’s a jump in your abdomen as his hand dwarves your hip, tugging your pyjama bottoms off and tosses them behind him. He spreads your thighs, peaks at the curls the cover your sex. All of the dolls in Night City are clean shaven. He likes this better, likes that you hadn’t been expecting him, and here he is anyway. He makes a mental reminder to bin all of your razors if he gets a chance.

He parts your sex with two fingers, huffing at the sight. So sweet, even with your strange looks and your filthy mouth. Sweet as sugar down here, your hole fluttering, your clit hidden under its hood like it’s shy. His hands are a cage around the span of your waist, squeezes in warning before he thuds to his knees and flattens his tongue against you. You whimper at the contact, manage to strangle the noise just barely. When he seals his mouth over your clit and sucks, you yowl, thighs kicking out. He squeezes them in place over his shoulders, barely jostled.

He brings one hand down from your waist, lifts his head, a string of saliva connecting him to your clit. It’s out now, throbbing and awake. He spits on it, watches you flinch with it. Spittle drips down, sits on the slick that has gathered at your hole. He feeds you one finger, groans as he watches your flesh part for him, and feels how hot you are inside. You're tight, he can feel muscle clamp down around his index, clinging to him. “Need to relax, sweetheart, or my cock’s gonna break you,” he tells you. It almost feels like a struggle to even feed you one finger, something that leaves a strangled feeling in his chest.

“Do one,” you reply, eloquently. But you don’t kick him off you or anything, so he just gives you another look. He’s being too indulgent with you, he knows. But, it’s better to let a puppy misbehave so they know what’s not tolerated. Training for another day, he lowers his head and licks at the stretch of your pussy around his finger.

He slides his finger in and out of you, gives you another when your panting starts to hitch up, rubbing his thumb over your clit when you whine at the stretch. You start whining out swears, hips jolting forward and then back again as if you want to come, but don’t want him to give it to you.

His third finger is pushing it, he knows because you start clawing at his scalp, sharp little nails. He groans hot onto your clit, which has you shaking. You’re wet with sweat, he can see the shine of it on the curve of your belly, on the strip of skin between your tits.

He slows the pump of his fingers, idly toying your clit with his tongue. He debates if you should be allowed to come. He doesn’t want you knowing that he finds your pissy words amusing, doesn’t want to overly encourage it. However, you haven’t tried to run, or punch him or anything of that ilk. He knows that you can’t help the kick of your hind legs. He pinned you down with teeth at your throat, and he knows that you’re trying so hard to behave. Besides, sinking his cock into you is already going to be a struggle, nevermind if you aren’t loose and pliant for him.

He curls his fingers, sucks your clit, chasing your orgasm like it’s his last meal. A test in his restraint. He thinks that he wants this more than you do. Your lungs stutter, shaking as your hands cradle his head. You’re muttering to yourself, ‘please’ spilling out of you, again and again. Another mean suck and your shriek, back bowing and he feels the clench of your cunt around his fingers.

He fingers you through it, until you are almost sobbing, trying to crawl away from him, but held in place with his metal hand that has slipped to the small of your back. He gives your clit a kiss, mean and hard just to watch it throb before he gets up off his knees with a groan. He;s getting too old to be kneeling on tile like that. He’ll fuck you in a bed next time, if you’re good.

He slides his fingers out of you, unbuttons his trousers. You stare at him, vaguely out of it as you try to catch your breath. Awareness seems to slam back into you as he fishes his cock out. He’s big, he knows this, but the way your eyes widen like he’s pulled a gun on you has him chuckling to himself. “That’s not going to fit,” you tell him, tone dead.

“Enough flirting,” he tells you, catching your legs over his forearms and dragging you to the edge of your counter.

“You’re deranged,” you snark. He’s amused, watching the anger tugging at your scowl, naked beneath him, and your slick caught in the curls between your legs.

He gives the side of your thigh a firm smack, catching the jump of your body. “Watch that mouth, or I’ll put it to use,” he warns you. You glare up at him, but don’t say anything else. A shame, but he does have to have a firm hand with you.

He takes his cock and grinds it against you, parting your curls to get to the hot, wet flesh beneath. He catches the head of his cock against your clit, slicks himself up, knowing that he’ll need it if the greedy suck of your cunt around his fingers is any indication. He pulls back and lines himself up. He understands what you’re saying, the mushroom shaped head dwarves the small hole that flutters as he presses against it lightly. It’s hard to imagine fitting in there, even given that he has tried to prepare you.

You don’t seem to understand how bullheaded Simon is, though. He hasn’t chased anything that he hasn’t caught yet. A tense of his wide bicep and he starts to push into you, metal hand on the base of his cock, the other lightly rubbing your clit in circles to get you to give way.

There’s a moment where he thinks it might not happen, you’re starting to flush, face shining with sweat. Then there’s a shudder and your cunt parts, splits, sweet fruit halving and the head slips inside. You both groan, his head dropping onto your collar as he pushes further into you. You’re slick, he can feel your cunt sucking at him.

You start to whimper as he pushes further into you. His thumb rubs up and down on your clit, insistent even as if you try to cringe away from him. Shallowly thrusts, keeps pushing until you start to give way. You thump your fist against his chest, the impact bouncing off of chrome. He barely acknowledges it, and continues grinding into you.

He bottoms out, groans into your collarbone. “There we go, there we are, sweet girl,” he tells you. The muscles in your back loosen at the praise, feels tense flesh give out into his metal hand.

He pulls fully out and slams into you, and you whine, hands on his shoulders and clinging. “Simon -” you start, but he shifts both his hands onto the back of your knees and pushes them up to your shoulders. He can see the stretch of your cunt around him like this, the spread of your legs for the monstrous size of him. He feels dizzy with it, can’t stop himself from pulling almost all of the way out of you before slamming inside. His eyes almost roll back into his head, and you sob, nails digging into the flesh that he has on his back.

Your knees over his forearms, he braces his hands on your hips and he starts thrusting into you, pleasure zipping up his spine. Breathy sounds are punched out of you each time his thighs slap into yours. There’s a heat rising in him, catching and flaming.

He lifts his torso up, looks down on you. It’s like he thought, the prick of tears in the corner of your eyes, the swollen spread of your pussy around him. He drops one of your legs in favour of flattening his palm against your throat. Your pulse is fat in his palm. He catches it there, feels the ricochet into the meat of his hand.

You clench down on him and he groans, bares his teeth at you. “You like that, huh?” he asks you, flexing his fingers over the tendons of your neck. Your mouth is open, he can see the pink flash of it in your mouth. You try to shake your head but another hard thrust just sends it rocking back instead, another moan gritting through your teeth again.

He digs into you, flexes the metal in his legs to thrust into you hard and fast. Exertion is an old friend, and he takes it into his stride. He is only starting to pant a little, but you’re running hot and have been for a while.

Pleasure is molten hot at his pelvis, and each time his hips meet yours, cock kissing your cervix, his vision whites out at the sides. The virus that you must have planted in him is deteriorating in his system, leaving him almost mindless. He’s chasing you, still, even with you caught between his body and your desk. Breath like steam pouring out of his mouth, saliva pooling under his tongue as he realises that you’re within reach.

You stare up at him, eyes wide. The vision of your head held up by his hand is enough to finish him off. He slams into you a few more times, groaning deep in his chest while you squeak, spills hotly in you, grinds to draw out the spark that glares in his vision until he stills.

A moment of quiet, air thick with sex and sweat. He drops his head against yours with a thunk as your skulls collide. Feels the buzz of your grunt in your throat with his hand still nestled there.

“You got a bed back there?” he asks, temple against yours.

“Not telling you,” you mutter, sounding wrung-out and gutted. He snorts, scoops you up in his arms, stepping back from your desk, holding you up. Still have a smart mouth. But, he has the patience to get that out of you. Not all of it though, but he won’t tell you that.

-

A week later, a missing report for a ripperdoc in Watson hits Simon’s desk. He shreds it, and it sounds like the chime of an allowance, cashed in.

[areyougonnabe]

do you have any book (or other media) recommendations for someone looking to go completely insane about arctic exploration now that they've finally caved and watched the terror after holding strong since 2020? i'd love to dive more into the franklin expedition and especially fitzjames and crozier but i'm also very interested in this cherry dude you've been posting about recently.

NONNY OF COURSE I DO. the last time i got an ask like this was over 2 years ago, so i am eager to deliver a refined version of my POLAR FLOWCHART...

SO YOU JUST WATCHED THE TERROR. AND NOW YOU WANT TO READ BOOKS.

A) Do you want to read more about the Franklin Expedition specifically?

If YES, go to B.

If NO, I'M OPEN TO WHATEVER, go to C.

B) Do you care about super detailed historical accuracy or do you just want a fun breezy intro book? Alternatively do you like ice mummies?

If YOU ARE KIND OF A STICKLER, go to D.

If YOU JUST WANNA VIBE AND LEARN THE BASICS, go to E.

If YOU WANT THE FUCKING ICE MUMMIES, go to F.

C) Do you want another story where people die and are sad and fucked up but also hold each other and experience intimacy in extremis?

If NO, YOU KIND OF WOULD RATHER HAVE AN UPLIFTING ONE THIS TIME, go to G.

If YOU DEFINITELY JUST WANT MORE POLAR MISERY, go to H.

D) Would you rather learn more about what happened before the expedition or what happened during/after?

If you want the JANKY FRANKLIN SHITSHOW PREQUEL, try The Man Who Ate His Boots by Anthony Brandt.

If you want the AMBIGUOUS HORROR OF DYING WHITE MEN INVADING A LAND THAT ISN'T THEIRS, try Unraveling the Franklin Expedition by David C. Woodman.

E) Would you rather have a polar-specific overview or a more general book on exploration history of the era that includes polar stuff?

If you want ICY BOYS ONLY, try Erebus: The Story of a Ship by Michael Palin.

If you want to read about GUYS HAVING A BAD TIME IN HOT PLACES TOO, try Barrow's Boys by Fergus Fleming or James Fitzjames: The Mystery Man of the Franklin Expedition by William Battersby.

F) STRONG AS FUCK ICE MUMMY MONDAY

The ONE YOU WANT IS Frozen In Time by Owen Beattie and John Geiger.

G) Is your vibe more "the power of friendship and brotherhood to overcome immense challenges" or "worst fucking rich boy gap year of all time" ?

If you want to be stirred by fine leadership qualities and hope against all odds, try Endurance by Alfred Lansing.

If you want to be entertained by awful leadership qualities and deranged crew antics, try Madhouse at the End of the Earth by Julian Sancton.

H) Would you want your dead heroes to be beloved and valorized or ignored and forgotten?

If you're all in on posthumous legends, try A First Rate Tragedy by Diana Preston or The Worst Journey In The World by Apsley Cherry-Garrard.

If you want to be one of the only ones who care, try The Lost Men by Kelly Tyler-Lewis.

BONUS RECS

If you want to know about ghosts, mediums, and the psychic ghost child Little Weesy who is one of the most legendary Franklin-adjacent curiosities: The Spectral Arctic by Shane McCorristine

Either before or after you read Worst Journey (before might be better if the full book intimidates you, but only if you've prepped with the Preston): the Worst Journey In The World graphic novel by Sarah Airriess

For after you have loaded up on Franklin and Terra Nova lore (the book doesn't hit as hard without deep emotional attachment to both imho): I May Be Some Time: Ice and the English Imagination by Francis Spufford

If you need to know more about the Discovery expedition-era Toxic Polycule (Scott/Shackleton/Wilson): Shackleton's Forgotten Expedition by Beau Riffenburgh

(very selfish recommendation motivated by wanting more people to care about him) If you want vivid detail on the day-to-day life of the Terra Nova expedition: With Scott: The Silver Lining by T. Griffith Taylor

and lastly but CERTAINLY not least:

If you are "very interested in this cherry dude i've been posting about recently" and have prepped with the Preston and/or WJ: Cherry by Sara Wheeler ... then you will understand.

[syndrossi]

wait we can request again? shit then what do i have to do to get a new scene from Reversal?

what about a scene in which Jon wants to attend sword lessons and Daemon, who is confused but agrees because who is he to deny his daughter a valuable skill set that their ancestor Visenya possessed? and because Viserys obviously goes “no” since she’s a girl, we get to see Daemon go “oh fine, she would’ve been taught by Cole anyway” and proceeds to secretly teach her himself. Rhaegar can join too.

that, or a scene where they pick their new names and we get to read Daemon’s POV and his thoughts on their choices. (i think this may be the easier, quicker scene to write)

also who do i have to bribe to make Jon’s name Daenerys— is it Daenerys or is it Aemma— i will fight, i will beg, i will cry, mostly beg because it’s all that i can do atm, i’m all cried out rn but i’ll do it🥺

side note: it’s thursday and i had pizza, it made me think of resonant.

Mercy! I still have 30ish NYE prompts sitting in my inbox, including at least one of yours from that time! 😂

I love your pizza Thursdays that I often live vicariously through. I'm sure you don't do it every week, but next Thursday should be a Resonant Thursday at least!

This time we are keeping it SHORT FOR REAL...ish.

x~x~x

“—nor should we be left defenseless, should someone try to take us again,” his daughter said with an edge to her voice that told Daemon she still was haunted by their captivity.

“The hunting knives our mother gave us are no child’s toy,” Rhaella added softly, gaze flicking to the clench of his jaw at the mention of his wife. “She promised that we would learn to defend ourselves.”

Daemon fully intended to be the one defending, but for all his daughters’ carefully crafted arguments, he did not object to them learning both the sword and bow. Viserys might remind him that they were princesses, not princes in skirts, but Dark Sister had been wielded by Visenya before him. The women of their family had as much right to know the sword.

“First,” Daemon said, “I would see what you are capable of.”

He did not hold high expectations, though he knew his daughters well enough to anticipate both discipline and determination. But they exchanged a joyful glance and disappeared into their bedchamber to change into their riding trousers. Daemon could not help but smile as he led them to the training yard and watched them eagerly don the padded training armor.

His nephews did not train until the afternoon, which meant the yard was blessedly free of Cole’s dour presence. His daughters’ presence did earn more than a few curious looks from the various knights and guardsmen training in the yard, and they grew more curious still as Daemon tested his daughters.

They have been taught before. 

He did not know whether to be upset or grateful. Their movements were clumsy at times, but it was a clumsiness born of disuse and growing limbs, and over the course of the hour, most of the rust had gone, revealing the deadly blades beneath.

They are far better than my brother’s sons. Better than many squires he had seen. Aemma was quick and ruthless, her eyes narrowed in concentration at all times. Rhaella was more graceful, with nigh impeccable form, though she lacked her sister’s instinct for blood.

He would have been proud of their skill, had they been sons, and his pride was no lesser for the fact that they were daughters instead. The knights in the yard lined the fences, shouting encouragement with each bout, and cheering the princesses on as they drilled against one another.

The interest did not abate when the bows were brought out. His daughters seemed more than a little disappointed at having to use Aemond’s bow for its lighter draw, but after adjusting, it became clear that their training in the Vale had included the bow as well. That was less surprising, given Rhea’s love of hunting.

After both had finished with their targets—with Rhaella edging her sister out on accuracy—Aemma called for a moving target. An apple was tossed from their audience, passing in front of the targets, and his eldest pivoted to loose an arrow at it, pinning it to the target to a roar of appreciation.

[siggiedraws]

In the time between Rivals 2 and Colours DS, what do you think are things Silver and Sonic could have been doing that made them be better friends? I looking for some inspiration for a fic idea I'm working on🍀

omg I'm so honoured you came to me for inspiration! ☺️

since Silver comes from a peaceful future in Colours DS, he didn't arrive to the past due to something he needs to prevent... I don't think a reason is even given for his presence, but what we have to go off of is that he tries the futuristic attraction and criticizes it which implies he just showed up to judge its accuracy to the actual future, lmao. a neat thing this tells us about him is that he seems very passionate about historical accuracy!

so that establishes that Silver comes to the past for fun! I think it's feasible to imagine Silver deciding to visit simply out of curiosity, and meeting his friends there again, which could facilitate stronger friendships with them, including Sonic.

if you want more shippy overtones for your fic, you could have Silver inexplicably drawn to Sonic and be frustrated over his presence in his mind, prompting him to just go meet him again in the goal that Sonic will finally stop clouding his thoughts. what happens next is up to you! maybe Sonic will offer to bond?

hope I could help you!

[spooksicl-e]

various personal references for funzies!

mockups refs for various war wound circumstances ^^

[hinamie]

"I'll show you every day that choosing to live was worth it"

some of my favourite scenes from @hijinks-n-lowjinks' fic things i would miss from the other side . this fic tore my heart out fr but like in a good way and i wanted to pay it homage the only way i know how <3

[carlyraejepsans]

Do you enjoy underfell? I thought you disliked aus /genq

i don't dislike the concept of AUs itself, I'm just not a fan of like... the subculture that spawned around them in the UT fandom specifically and how it eventually took over almost all canon content (especially when it limits itself to the bros)

i like aus visually! i am an artist at heart after all. it's just that, if I'm going to care about them as stories and not just fun design ideas, my bar is uhh almost impossibly high the further you move from canon lolol.

[winteriron-trash]

rdj the (whitewashed) electric boogaloo

This is a reminder to everyone who's excited about RDJ's casting as Doctor Doom that this casting is whitewashing. Victor Von Doom is a Romani character and has been a Romani character since his introduction in the 1960s. (Fantastic Four Annual #2 [1964]) Not only that, but his Roma identity and the persecution he and his family faced due to it is integral to his character, it is what forms his identity. (Books of Doom by Ed Brubaker) Even if on the off chance this casting is meant to not be Victor but instead be some variant of Tony or whomever else becoming Doctor Doom, it is damaging to the character to rob him of that important cultural background. Doctor Doom does not exist without that history. Fans have been pushing hard to cast Doom as a Romani actor for years, especially since the MCU has whitewashed other Romani characters. (Wanda, Pietro, etc) This casting is not a celebration moment, it's fucking heartbreaking that the MCU repeatedly ignores the important and nuanced cultural backstories of characters.

I know I can't change anybody's mind on whether or not you want to be excited about RDJ's return to the MCU. But I do think at the very least you should be mad that the MCU is baiting us all and destroying nuanced and interesting characters for the sake of self-referential easter eggs and nostalgia bait. Because that's what it is. Feel how you'd like to feel about RDJ's return, but personally, this is soul-sucking. I had such a deep love for the MCU as a teenager, it was obviously something incredibly formative to me, especially Tony Stark. This isn't recreating what I fell in love with the MCU for. This is turning a well-planned and artistic storyline of adaptations into cheap cash grabs and fan service. Because, I think we're past the point of being able to call the MCU an adaptation of anything. They can use existing characters' names and powers, but to say they're being properly adapted is laughable.

This is not an adaptation of Doctor Doom. This is RDJ the Electric Boogaloo because Marvel's fear of losing the interest of dedicated MCU fans overrides their willingness to tell stories that are genuine to the characters. I don't know what there is to be excited about that. The MCU has lost its authenticity and aside from a few projects, feels heartless. Every movie is a copy of a copy. This announcement isn't something celebratory, it feels like a death knell of a cinematic universe that's so desperate to cling to relevancy it's resorting to nostalgia for a character/actor who hasn't even been dead for a decade. We're not getting anything new, we're just rinsing and repeating the same song and dance.

I get it. I love Tony Stark, his death destroyed me and I to this day, rue the ending he got in Endgame. It misunderstood his arc and it robbed him of a satisfying conclusion. But the solution to that isn't dragging the corpse out of the grave five years later to whitewash an existing character with rich and interesting nuance, just to forcibly tie his existence in the MCU to Tony. Whether he is a variant or not. Why would you want someone else's fave's legacy to be destroyed simply so your fave's legacy can go on? Hell, if we were really all so hellbent on the return of RDJ and/or Tony to the MCU, we have the multiverse for a reason. There were other ways to do it that didn't whitewash and ruin someone else. This just. Isn't something to be happy about.

[averlym]

no one would notice if i ever vanished // if bodies could sustain // this never-ending army // like blood pumping through a vein

(click for better resolution!)

:OOO hello. anyway since these are all posters i'd have in an ideal world or smth and i'd like to store the high res versions somewhere,,, here's the google drive folder for them? hehe ''

close up!

[mangofresca]

detritus

“I dreamt that you died last night,” he said suddenly, and Romano half-turned, surprised at the admission, at the tonelessness of it, that emotionless void a chasm he almost fell into, tangible in its brusqueness. He’d been strange all day, oddly quiet and unsettlingly depressed, barely speaking to any of them, always one step behind Romano, with hands in clenched fists and a mouth set in a bitter frown, every inch the raging empire in collapse.

Somehow, Romano knew that his fingernails would leave dark crescents in his palms. He wondered if Spain even noticed the pain. He wondered if Spain even counted it as pain at all, considering all else he’d been through. All else he’d caused.

Romano blinked, floundered, mouth opening and closing around a voice he couldn’t seem to find, the air in his lungs leaden enough to stay with him, refusing to leave, heavy and cloying. Not that it matters, his mind supplied. Nothing you can say will change anything. He knows that.

Spain stared into the distance, skin illuminated in tangerine and fire beneath the radiant sky of sunset, eyes locked on a horizon they had walked beneath for decades, centuries, dancing around willowing orange trees and sleeping beneath midday haze. Romano wondered what Spain saw when he looked out at a landscape of memories turned antique with change. Romano wondered what Spain saw when he looked at him.

He didn’t say anything, only watched Spain stare into the rolling fields of a land Romano would never call his own.

“Y’know what the worst part is?” Spain’s voice was soft, feather-light and delicate, only just carried from bloodied lips to Romano’s ears through a breeze scented with citrus and perfidy. “When I woke up, I felt disappointed that it was just a dream.”

The air in Romano’s body felt poisonous, rancid, fetid with betrayal and hurt and a grief so profound it felt tangible, like a mass within his body that he could hold, mold, could wrap his fingers around and see the validation of his sorrow. Like he could hold it out to Spain as proof of his apology, words he could never say lost to the inevitability of the future, a timeline of events to which he could only play spectator.

Romano supposed he should be glad Spain hated him. Maybe at one point it meant he had been loved.

The setting sun lengthened their shadows, and Spain’s silhouette was touching his, melding them together into the way they used to be—one form, one being, a single heart beating between the two of them, held together by dewy tomatoes and freshly-made churros and the echoes of tarantella across the tiles of Spain’s floors.

Romano pushed away, gagging on the sour taste of nostalgia grown cold, of yearning for that which could only bite, could only hurt, made bitter and beautiful in its lack of reprieve, of sentimentalities honeyed with war-ravaged brutality. He heard, after a moment, the rustle of grass and the footfalls of steps behind him, and he stopped in surprise when scarred arms linked around his waist, when a chest pressed against his back, when a voice laced with sorrow and imperial madness danced the shell of his ear.

“I hope you and Venezito do well.”

Romano stared at him—his eyes were always green, so green, he noted distantly, vaguely, green and earnest and too fucking good at burning hot with hatred—before shaking him off, walking away, forcing more distance between them, the too-steep edge of a cliff neither of them were willing to cross.

Spain didn’t run after him this time. Romano couldn’t bring himself to feel disappointed.

[icewindandboringhorror]

examining a seemingly normal image only to slowly realize the clear signs of AI generated art.... i know what you are... you cannot hide your true nature from me... go back where you came from... out of my sight with haste, wretched and vile husk

[deoidesign]

"Is Adam ever going to face racism because like… that seems extremely relevant for some of these time periods lol"

I won't be saying this twice.

No.

I think it's inappropriate for me as a white writer to put him through racism that I am incapable of writing from a personal point of view.

I also find it gratuitous at best to depict "historical accuracy" for racism, when suspension of disbelief is had for homophobia, magic, time travel, and historical accuracy in general.

I don't care about historical accuracy. Sorry. Read a different comic.

[anintelligentoctopus]

Hey so why are the colours of a photocopy more true to the original (albeit a little on the dull side) than the printout of the scans

[lucalicatteart]

-- Poorly Constructed Enchanted Tool --

A small tool carved from a fruit tree seed. Energy to power the enchantment has seemingly run-out long ago, and the method of recharging is unknown - but, based on the appearance, it's very likely that this was once used for detecting magic. Usually, looking through the glass center would highlight areas of higher magical energy concentration present in the viewer's environment, even if they were otherwise obscured to the naked eye. While this form of enchantment itself is highly advanced, the craftsmanship of the item is far less neat or complex than what might be typically seen in similar devices. It may have been made as part of training/practice, or as a hasty replacement for a previous tool that had broken.

[iampikachuhearmeroar]

i love when hiring managers play cute little games with applicants in their job descriptions on seek.