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ivystoryweaver · 2 months ago

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Cosmic - Poe Dameron

Episode 1: A Space Odyssey next

Cosmic Masterlist | Poe Dameron Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Happy Poevember!

Pairing: Poe Dameron x gn!reader

Summary: In 1981, in rural America, Poe crash lands to earth and you have to show him everything (set in America but reader is not necessarily American)

Content: some minor injuries and blood, not beta'd

Word Count: 2.4k

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

A deafening crash obliterated peaceful sleep on a silent, country night. You sat up in bed, abruptly, rubbing sleep from your eyes. Heart pounding and ears alert, you listened, hoping to convince yourself it was nothing - a dream, or maybe even a distant car crash.

Willing yourself to climb out of bed, you crept to the window, trying desperately to calm your breathing before drawing back the curtains.

That's when you saw it. A fire - distant, but definitely on your property. Maybe someone did crash. Or...was there some sort of electrical or gas explosion? As far as you could tell, the fire wasn't near your barn, or any of your sheds or buildings.

Scrubbing a hand over your face, you decided you better go check it out. Pulling your nightgown over your head, you grabbed the nearest pair of sweats - a crewneck gray top with matching bottoms. Taking the stairs two at a time, you headed for the back door, slipping into your boots and lifting your coat off the hook. Twisting the lock, you yanked open the door, but paused. You turned back and rummaged around in the drawer for a flashlight.

It flickered once before powering on, bright enough to lead you to the laundry room where you found a more useful spotlight flashlight and a fire extinguisher. Pushing open the screen door, you tried to estimate how far the fire was. This prompted you to grab your truck keys and drive.

The familiar creak of the your father's old truck door reminded you that this thing was probably on its last leg. You put the key in the ignition, impatiently bouncing on the bench seat.

"Come on, girl, not tonight. Come on."

After a few more sputters, the old thing cranked, a puff of smoke its only protest. With your high beams illuminating the path, you made your way to the mysterious flames.

In the few minutes it took you to drive across your property, bouncing over the uneven ground in the old truck, you started to realize how big the fire was...and that you probably should've called the fire department before you charged at it with a mere fire extinguisher.

Twisted hunks of metal had ravaged your farmland. Something huge had crashed here. An airplane or jet of some sort. Maybe experimental aircraft. Or a UFO. The musical motif from 2001: A Space Odyssey drifted through your mind. The government was sure to be here soon, probably setting up camp on your property and kicking you out of your own home on grounds of national security.

You were at a complete loss, heart racing as the smoke began to burn your lungs. Pulling your shirt collar up over your nose as a makeshift mask, you began to walk the perimeter of the crash, deciding to take a look before calling the authorities.

Rounding the corner of what appeared to be a black and orange metal wing, you heard a groan.

"Oh my god," you gasped, easing closer, braving the heat and the smoke to see what you assumed was the pilot. Something welled up inside you - adrenaline, probably, but your legs carried you forward to a man, half strapped into his seat, bloodied and unconscious.

"Oh god. Hold on. Hold on, I'm gonna get you out."

Racing back to your truck, you climbed into the truck bed, looking for a tool - anything to help you. Thankfully, you found a pair of work gloves, a wrench and a pair of pliers in the back, and a utility knife normally kept in the glove box.

You scrambled back to the man, praying to anything listening that he was not dead. After using the fire extinguisher to put out the fire immediately surrounding him, you used the knife. You cut him free of the straps holding him to the aircraft seat, grateful for gloves around such hot metal. Thankfully he wasn't a big person - not overly tall or heavy, so you were able to drag him all the way back to your truck.

It took all your strength and then some to get him all the way into the truck. You quickly examined him for obvious injuries, hoping he wasn't bleeding out or hadn't broken his back. He seemed generally okay, aside from some scrapes and cuts and minor burns.

Gingerly, you buckled him into the seat and slowly removed his helmet. He was bleeding from his temple, but the cut didn't seem deep. Blood and dirt covered his cheeks and was matted into his thick, dark curls.

"Gotta get you to a hospital." Cranking the truck, you glanced over at his orange flight suit, wondering who he could possibly work for.

You drove to the end of your property, wondering if you should drive the closest medical center, which was ten miles away, and closed, or if you should drive a hour to the closest city hospital. Either option was a gamble with your somewhat unreliable truck. What if you got stuck?

You decided against it, heading back to your house to call the fire department. They could take this man wherever he needed to go in an ambulance.

You pulled up to the house and switched off the engine, exhaling heavily before unbuckling both yourself and the pilot. You walked around the truck, opened the passenger door and jumped back with a scream as his head lolled over and his eyes blinked open.

"Where am I?" He croaked out. "Which system?"

"Hey, it's okay," you tried to soothe both him and yourself simultaneously. "You're at my farm. I think your jet crashed. I'm going to call for some help."

He tried to climb out of the truck, but flopped back into the seat with a groan. "The f...the First Order. Is the First Order here?"

You shook your head. "I-I don't know what you mean. I think you need a hospital."

Slinging one leg out the door, he gripped the truck door with his gloved hand, hauling himself to his feet.

"Careful," you instructed, reaching out to help steady him.

Deep brown eyes locked onto yours. "Thank you."

"Of course. Come on, let's get you inside."

He nodded, arm resting heavily around your shoulders. "Kriffing hell," he choked, limping with difficulty.

"Hey, I've got you. Just lean on me."

The two of you made it through the back door, into the kitchen, where you helped the pilot ease down onto a chair.

"You okay?" You asked, trying to steady him. "Is your leg broken?"

"I-I don't know. I don't think so." He leaned forward, resting his head in his hands.

"Hold on. Let me get you some water. I need to call for help."

"Wait!" He protested, stopping you with a strong grip on your arm. "Wait, who are you calling? The First Order can't know."

You shook your head. "I don't know what that is. I was just going to call an ambulance to help you and the fire department to take care of your jet out there."

"I'm fine," he waved you off, attempting to push himself up on the chair. "Believe me, I've been in tougher scrapes than this. I just need to get back to my ship, to my transceiver. Where's your satellite?"

"My satellite? I don't have a satellite," you explained. "I have a telephone. And a couple of CB radios. That's it. No satellite."

"Damn it," he huffed, seeming to grow more agitated by the moment. Yanking off his gloves, he pushed his hands through his hair, wincing as he grazed the cut on his temple.

"Let me get you some help," you insisted, opening the cupboard to get a glass, which you filled with water from the tap. "Drink this."

His eyes met yours and he nodded once, downing the glass in one gulp. You took it from him and refilled it, collecting the first aid kit from under the kitchen sink. "Here," you said, handing the glass back to him. "Drink some more. Let me look at your head. Then I'm calling an ambulance."

Without answering, he slowly accepted the glass of water, waiting patiently while you dabbed the cut on his temple, hissing as you cleansed it.

"You need to hold this gauze here for a minute. I don't think a bandage will stick in your hair," you explained. "I don't think you need stitches, but I would rather a doctor look at you."

Reaching for your arm, he stopped you, his calloused fingers circling your wrist. "Please don't call anyone. You're very kind but...please. Not until I'm sure."

With trembling breath, you swallowed down a growing sense of dread. Was this man some sort of spy? Maybe he was Russian? "Not until you're sure of what?"

"Of where I am," he emphatically explained. "And who's in control of this system. Noticing you shudder, he released your wrists. "Please, can we take your...speeder back to my ship? I won't bother you anymore."

Slowly nodding, you stood, flabbergasted as he used the table to help him climb out of his chair, standing with difficulty.

"Here, I'll help you," you found yourself offering, despite your concern about who this man could be.

Soon enough, you drove him back out to the crash site, wondering if you would somehow get into trouble with the government if this man communicated with an enemy of the state. But, not sure of what else to do, you watched as he climbed out of your truck, limped around the perimeter of the crash and did something with the ship that made the fire go out pretty quickly.

You weren't even sure if he wanted you to stay and wait for him.

After a few minutes, however, he made his way back to the truck.

"Comms are busted. My droid is a pile of wires. Glad it wasn't BB." Shaking his head, he sighed in frustration. "This whole thing is too hot to look at tonight. Do you think anyone will come looking?" He glanced over at you.

"Uhm, the nearest neighbor is five miles. Maybe no one saw," you told him. "They might see the smoke in the morning."

He nodded curtly, running a gloved hand over his face. "Would it be okay if I waited here for a little while? Maybe let my ship cool off and..." With a groan of pain, he turned to peer through the window behind him. "Do you think we could use your speeder to haul away some of the wreckage?"

You stared at him for almost a full minute. "Who are you?"

With a sardonic, exhausted half-chuckle, he shook his head. "Sorry. I...I can't tell you until I know where I am."

Chewing on your lip, you tried to decide what to do. "I'll tell you where we are. But you have to tell me where you're from too. Deal?"

He nodded, so you unbuckled your seatbelt and shifted to face him, one leg drawn up to your chest.

"We're in Iowa. But you must have known that. You must have been flying over us, maybe to the closest base, when you crashed."

"Iowa," he slowly repeated. "What system are we in?"

"You keep saying 'system' - I don't know what that means," you insistently explained. "We're in Iowa. In the United States. Are you not from here?"

"Uh, no," he quickly answered. "I have no idea where we are. Who's in charge of your United States? Are you occupied by the First Order?"

"I don't know what that is! We're the United States. Do you seriously not know the United States of America? Maybe the most powerful nation in the world? Or one of them, anyway. There's no one occupying this country. I've never even heard of something called a First Order."

"Good. That's good." Removing his gloves again, the man stroked his chin. It seemed to be a habit of his. "You said 'this world'. What planet is this?"

Without meaning to, you looked at him like he was crazy. "You must have a concussion. I definitely should've called an ambulance."

"Just - please, answer me. Please." His eyes found yours, dark eyebrows shifting pleadingly. True, deep concern radiated from his gaze as a shimmer brimmed along his lower lashes. "Please tell me. I don't understand. I don't know where I am."

"Okay, okay," you quickly reassured him. "I'll answer anything you ask. And...remember, you're going to tell me where you're from too. And a name."

He nodded quickly, scooting a little closer as if he were hanging on to your every word.

This poor man. He seemed really out of it. "We're on Earth. This is planet Earth. In North America. United States. In Iowa. On my farm. That's it, that's where we are. And you can call me Trix." You shrugged one shoulder. Not your real name, but your dad called you Trix when you were really young.

"Trix," he slowly repeated. "Trix...from Earth." He sighed, worriedly. "Earth. I've never heard of it. And you don't know the system?"

You shrugged. "I mean...Earth is in the solar system? In the Milky Way galaxy? Is that what you mean?"

"Milky Way," he gasped, staring at you in disbelief. "The Milky Way galaxy? Oh my...I've...I've never left our galaxy. I've never..."

His breathing grew shallow as his head hit the headrest with a thud.

"Oh, god, I think you're having anxiety or...just breathe." Reaching across him, you rolled down the truck window to give him fresh air, which didn't help much, because the air smelled like smoke. It seemed to help, however as he slowly began to calm down.

"Are you okay?" You finally asked after several tense moments.

"I think so. I must've. I think..." He trailed off, something in his eyes so forlorn.

You had to ask. "Are you...a spy? Are you Russian?"

Turning to face you, he frowned in confusion. "What's Russian?"

Okay. So either this man was completely mental, or...no. It couldn't be. You had watched too many science fiction films. He must have amnesia or something.

"Where are you from? You promised," you reminded him.

He swallowed hard, sitting up a bit straighter. Then he looked right into your eyes, again. There was something so honest and slightly unnerving when he did that.

"My name is Poe," he finally declared. "I'm from Yavin 4. It's in the Yavin System, in the Gordian Reach sector, in the Outer Rim Territories." Glancing down at his lap, he exhaled shakily. "It's definitely not in the Milky Way Galaxy."

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

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mothiir · 5 months ago

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the watcher from the wastes

Mortarion jerks it. That’s it, that’s the fic. @moodymisty and @kit-williams to blame, specially @kit-williams since I basically stole her entire idea.

cw: wanking. self loathing, sort of. mort being a creep and having issues with bodily autonomy. self harm in a weird 40k way. did not mean it to be this gross but ended up that way because morty.

—

This process is deeply unpleasant, and Mortarion prefers to go through it as little as possible — and yet you, cursed thing that you are, have forced him to drastic measures.

First of all: the mask must be removed. He unhooks it from his ears, curlicues of oily smoke escaping as the suction gives way. He holds his breath, keeping the toxic fumes nestled in his lungs as long as possible, and sets the mask onto his desk. His work-chair is hewn from the sort of raw pig iron that has Horus despairing. Brother I can have something nicer made — even something with a cushion —

Mortarion does not need such frivolity. It is a chair. He can sit upon it. Thus it serves its purpose.

He can hold his breath for hours, should he need to, but that would defeat the whole purpose of this exercise. With a moment to brace himself, Mortarion exhales the last of the gas, momentarily covering his face in a rank green shadow.

It dissipates, and Mortarion waits for a few heartbeats to pass before inhaling.

He tastes his own flesh: half-cooked, and putrefying.

It is not an unfamiliar taste — it’s almost nostalgic. For a moment, he is a boy once more, nailed to the bowels of an alien planet, eyes fixed on the distant, uncaring sky.

He inhales again. Sharper now. The glutinous phlegm his sinuses produced in a vain attempt to capture the worst of the toxins is starting to thin. He coughs it out into his sleeve, then spits on the floor. Another breath. His throat is always the worst. The gas rots the tissue within, destroying the tender membranes, rendering his voice raspy and ragged.

Without the constant application of the gas, his body has time to heal. And oh how the healing hurts. He hacks up a glob of snot, and then of quivering red tissue. Inside, his cells multiply frantically, like they know that they only have a scant space of time before the mask is reapplied and the perpetual injuring begins once more.

Another burst of coughing; then a frankly revolting sneeze — again, captured into the billowing sleeves of his robe.

He inhales again — and curses, because the healing has moved faster than last time, and his sense of smell has returned with a vengeance. By the Emperor’s ballsack, the stench is overwhelming. What —

He looks down at himself: robes stiffened with effluvia from experiments and battle, fresh gobbets of snot and rancid blood dripping off the end of his sleeves. Hm. Yes, well — that would explain it.

—

By the time he has finished bathing, his body has healed as much as it will ever be able to, and he feels acutely uncomfortable. Even without the influence of the gas, his voice is still a guttural rasp, vocal cords ruined from years of experimentation. His shoulders still hunch instinctively, used to crowding through narrow corridors; his eyes — though brighter — still have sclera of sulphur yellow, polluted with broken blood vessels.

When he inhales the poison of his homeland, at least he has an excuse for how broken his body still is. Without it, his weak flesh stands in testament to the monumental failure of his youth. Not only did he fail to slay the monster who held him captive, he failed to recover from its abuses, remaining a broken-limbed mess of a Primarch.

And yet — and yet a part of him enjoys this feeling. There is no pain in his throat, or behind his eyes; he is not subject to the constant cycle of his lungs rotting into slurry and healing themselves once more. His gums are shiny and pink, not sloughing off his teeth in grey scraps.

Best of all, his senses have returned to their Primarch peak. Even constantly poisoned, and half-crippled, he can smell and taste and hear better than any baseline — pathetic little things the lot of them, no better than scurrying ants.

Apart from…well. You smiled at him You did not cower from the pallour of his flesh, or cringe from the huff and click of his respirator. You looked him full in the face and you beamed.

Lord Primarch, you called him. Lord Mortarion.

And afterwards, to your friend, where you thought he couldn’t hear you: you never said he was handsome.

He pointed you out to Typhus, a little later. Asked his eldest son why they were so desperate for staff that they were now employing defective baselines, like you, who clearly had an incredibly limited range of vision — if you weren’t blind entirely. Typhus had informed him that he didn’t think you were blind — indeed, you had cleaned his armour to perfection just this morning — but if you displeased Mortarion he could have you —

No, Moration cut in. No, that wasn’t necessary.

Not blind. Just — stupid, possibly.

Probably.

Anyway — if you are stupid then he is a fool as well. And worse: he does not have the excuse of being mortal.

Soapy and slick, white hair hanging in a curtain down his back, Mortarion sits in the deserted communal showers and stares at a little plastic sleeve in his left hand. It’s sealed tight — waterproof, preserving the object within as well as can be hoped for. He wonders if you have noticed the theft yet. Probably. Serfs aboard the Endurance do not have many possessions — they do not need them. More than likely he’s caused a little bit of grief, with you either blaming yourself for the loss, or snapping at one of your fellows, blaming them.

He cannot bring himself to care.

His clothes are long gone. The serfs will incinerate them, and bring him new ones when he sends for them. Perhaps this time, he will not go so long without cleaning them. Humans have terrible senses, but he wagers that you would probably prefer —

He amputates that thought abruptly. It does not matter what you prefer. It does not matter what anyone prefers. This is a temporary indulgence to end his madness, and then he will move on.

The plastic crinkles as he opens it, his tongue dashing out to wet his lower lip. The garment is plain cotton, with a little green bow at the front.

Garment. Fabric. So many distancing words to cover up the fact that he has stolen your underwear. He can never let Horus find out. He can never let anyone find out. Even though there is no one here to witness his shame, he feels a flush creep up his back. His cock leaps eagerly as he takes himself in hand, his toes curling on the wet floor. It has been so long since he last touched himself.

It’s pathetic. It’s revolting. And yet —

Mortarion buries his face into the gusset of your underwear, inhaling deeply as he strokes himself. Your scent is faded, but still clings to the fabric, thick and musky and sweet. He can imagine burying his face between your thighs, just inhaling. He’d bite your soft flesh, leaving bruises the exact shape of his teeth — and he would not let them heal. He’d do it every night until they scarred, and you could not change clothes without remembering exactly whose bed you were crawling into.

His breath stutters; his drool seeps into the cotton as he sucks. He’s never taken anyone to bed — there have always been more important things — but he knows what he wants to do. He knows that you would smile at him, and stroke his scars with gentle hands, and welcome him in so deeply that no one would ever be able to pry him out. You’d let him ruin your insides, stretch you so no other man would ever be able to satisfy you again. He’d fill you up to the brim, and then he’d do it again, and again, and again. He’d make you swallow him until you were coughing his seed up, he’d cum in your hair and —

His orgasm rips through him like a tempest, so abrupt that he cries out in shock, cum spurting up over his chest. His flanks heave, and he comes back to his senses in a humiliating rush — he’s chewed through your underwear, shreds of fabric stuck between his teeth. He picks them out, grimacing.

A shameful display. He cannot wait to do it again.

#mortarion/reader #uh yeah i have no excuse for this #alternative summary: what if mortarion stole your knickers #my writing

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maxwell-grant · 2 months ago

Note

im researching Scarecrow hench-people and the DC wiki is really unhelpful, can you give me a list of a few notable ones. Also who's this Autumn from the Audio Adventures people keep mentioning. Is she a canon character or is she an OC

thank you! also loved the list you did of your favorite hench people

Thank you! Now that you mention it, it does seem like Scarecrow's kinda lacking in terms of notable henchmen, even purely in terms of visually distinct one-offs. It might have something to do with how little he's been traditionally focused on crime and coalition building, per se, and more so on lone terrorist campaigns and experimentation. Besides Scream Queen, who I already went into in the other post, these are the ones that I can think of:

Autumn / Miss Autumn is canon to TBAA, she just never showed up in the show. We hear about her in S1 via two scenes where Miss Tuesday talks about her friend in Scarecrow's gang, another villain assistant named Autumn that she always texts with and coordinates with, and then later she'd appear in issue #6 of the Audio Adventures comic, kidnapping Dick while he's disguised as a Burma Shave Boy and bringing him over to the Scarecrow as part of his plan. She claims to be a scullery maid in charge of the "kitchen" and is instructed by Crane to prepare a new batch, and Dick finds an Arkham Asylum physician's clearence and security badge that might belong to her, given Miss Tuesday in the show claims to have grown up in Arkham and the two seeming to be fairly close friends.

The Audio Adventures Special prequel comic released along with S2 also showed that, along with his biker gang to peddle in the street, he employs dealers hidden in plain sight such as the elderly librarian Mrs.Elliot, who we don't get to know much more about other than her being known by Dick and his friends, and a willing enthusiastic participant in the Scarecrow's plans to sell drugs to kids, as well as kidnap and experiment on them.

In terms of notable henchmen I think the first one he ever got were the Strawmen from Batman #296: said to be named Otto and Raymond, former students of his who've joined him and became students of the Scarecrow, serving as the muscle to his operation.

There's Linda Frittawa / Fright, introduced in a Judd Winick arc by the name of "As the Crow Flies", who became his assistant and confidant, while secretly manipulating him under a deal she made with the Penguin. She's the one who turned Scarecrow into the Scarebeast, and eventually showed up later working for Jeremiah Arkham Black Mask.

Not quite a henchwoman per se but there is a character named Haunter who showed up in the 2017 Batman (vol.3) annual, who's able to kill people with her DNA and who coordinates a small-scale fear gas with Jonathan to make her escape from Arkham, and it's said the two had a "twisted mutual admiration thing" before Batman put her away. She's only made two appearences in total, in two anthology shorts penned by her creator Scott Bryan Wilson, and I'm including her because given her name and gimmick and lack of prominence, she might as well be a Scarecrow henchwoman or partner or extension of his deal.

There's a fairly long pattern of Scarecrow being responsible for the creation of new villains with his experiments even if they don't necessarily go on to become henchmen - Madame Crow from Tynion's run was a former student who was tortured with fear toxin for months and took over a year to recover, before embarking on her own fear toxin campaigns. Colin Wilkes from Streets of Gotham was an abused orphan kidnapped by Scarecrow and given Venom injections before being ordered to attack Batman, and who was freed and became a hero. The Gotham Knight movie states that this version of Killer Croc was experimented on by Jonathan Crane, who caused his condition to worsen and seems to have kept him around a sewer hideout as an attack dog. The Titans show had him behind the resurrection of Jason Todd and his transformation into Red Hood, and Gotham had him create the show's version of Joker Toxin that kicks off Jeremiah Valeska's transformation.

And finally, we'd be remiss not to mention that a couple of times in his older appearences he's had a pet raven named Nightmare, a concept that's come up again in more recent kid-friendly books where it's named Croward instead, who assisted him in his criminal endeavors. I suppose that raven evidently doesn't make too much sense given Crane's backstory revolving around the crow trauma inflicted on him by his grandmother, or that trained birds are still very much Penguin territory in spite of him never using them anymore, or it clashing too much with the darker tone and vibe he's supposed to have, but there's a self-evident charm to the scarecrow-themed villain having a pet raven circling him.

#replies tag #dc comics #batman #scarecrow #jonathan crane #the scarecrow #not counting Becky Albright because she never actually wanted anything to do with him or became the Mistress of Fear outside fanon #and that story is garbage #also not counting that scrub dipshit Tommy Elliott because we don't know to what degree Crane mentored him and he's clearly independent #I mean I'm not counting them but if you want to feel free to #I do really like Miss Autumn's design we just don't know anything about her #and the Strawmen work but could definitely use a make-over #if you're gonna go through the rank and file of Scarecrow henchmen looking for stand-outs I think you might as well just make your own #incredibly slim pickings here

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wolveria · 19 days ago

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What We Did on Felucia - Ch 1

Pairing: The Bad Batch x f!Reader

Series Warnings: Eventual smut, dubcon, slow burn, sex pollen

Event: Paired with my amazing artists @binkyisonline and @phantasmagoriatime for the @clonebang event!

Summary:

Springing a trap in a Separatist lab shouldn’t be a problem. Your squad is the most prestigious in the GAR, even if they are a bit extreme in their methods, and fighting their way out of a corner is what they do best. It’s fortunate their tactics are so unconventional; as the heavy, potent gas pours into the lab, you soon learn there’s only one way out. And you won’t be fighting.

AO3

The thick set of blast doors closed behind you, and the entire squad turned to face it, blasters raised a second too late to avoid the trap.

“That’s not ideal,” Tech commented. Hunter turned to him with a tilt of his helmet.

“Can you get it open?”

Tech wasn’t given the opportunity to try; a soft hiss came from above, followed by a dispersion of gas or vapor. It carried a sucrose flavor, like the nectar from the moon flowers on your home planet.

You covered your mouth with your robe’s sleeve, but you were too late once again. Heat flushed under your skin and your senses burned from the gas, the residue sticking to your throat. A hand spun you by the shoulder, and Tech held the back of your head as he swiftly placed an air mask over your mouth.

You breathed in relief, the oxygen mixture easing the sickly-sweet fragrance from your nose. Unfortunately, it lingered on your tongue.

“Thank you, Tech.”

He set his pack on one of the nearby tables, having taken it off to get out the mask. It seemed you were in another lab. Tech’s method of “alternate egress” through the Separatist compound had led you somewhere that decidedly wasn’t an exit.

“That may be premature, General.” He held the datapad close to his face, his brows furrowed. “It appears we’ve been dosed with the experimental formula.”

The mission had been off from the start, even more than your missions usually went. You’d received intel that the base contained an experimental droid unit, not a biological weapon. But when Echo had spotted the formula buried deep in encryption, Hunter had given his approval to download all the information he could find.

You should have pulled them sooner. A disturbance in the Force tugged at the edges of your mind with every step, and you had ignored it. You thought you could get your men out in time.

And now, they would pay for your mistake.

“But we should be fine with our helmets, right?” Hunter faced Tech, but by the slight angle of his head, he was noting you and your lack of protection.

“The molecules of this chemical are incredibly small, and therefore designed to bypass the filtering system on all Phase II clone armor. So… no. We are not fine.”

“Tech,” you said with a slow turn of your head, “what does it do?”

He didn’t bother to look up, his focus still on the datapad.

“I shall know momentarily. There is a staggering amount of data to sort, but I may have good news. The effects, such as they are, should be slower to present themselves in us, seeing as we had a smaller initial dose than you, General.”

Wrecker mumbled under his breath, “That’s the good news?”

You approached the blast door that had locked you all inside, ignited your lightsaber, and thrust forward. Your blade bounced off its surface, sparking at the contact, and a brief shimmer rippled underneath.

“Ray shielded.” Hunter lowered his blaster with a tired sigh. “Not getting out that way.”

“Great,” Echo said, folding his arms. “How do we counter this chemical?”

“We cannot,” Tech answered.

“There must be something we can do!”

Tech finally looked up from his datapad, giving Echo a look that might have been curiosity or annoyance.

“I take no offense at your tone, seeing as you have no control over it.”

“What did you say?”

Echo stalked across the room at an alarming pace, but Hunter got between them before you could intervene and put a calming hand on his shoulder.

“Tech, explain.”

“Besides the general, Echo will be affected first. He has less organic body mass than we do. Less mass means a greater concentration of the chemical from the initial dose.” Tech tried to push his goggles up his nose, but seeing that they were inside his helmet, he didn’t move them very far. “And, well, being once again subjected to Separatist experimentation is understandably putting you in a foul mood. Heightened aggression is one symptom of this chemical.”

You sat on one of the tables, the clear mask fogging from your panting breath, and you envied them for having sweat glands. You shouldn’t be this hot, not when the laboratory had been cold a moment ago.

“What are the other symptoms?” It had been a long time since you’d felt this level of nervousness, maybe since you were a Padawan. Or at least, when you were asked to lead this squad of unconventional clone commandos.

“Increased body temperature, which I believe you are experiencing, and a heightened state of aggression, as we have witnessed in Echo. Also, a remarkable increase in libido.”

When the rest of the squad stared at him, Tech added, “Arousal.”

“Yeah, we got that,” Wrecker grumbled.

Crosshair, who had remained unusually silent so far, leaned against one of the walls with his arms folded, feigning a casualness that didn’t reach his voice. He spoke as if through clenched teeth, a faint growl underlying his tone.

“How do we stop it.”

“As I told you, there’s no stopping it.” Tech frowned at them, one by one. “The molecule has entered our bloodstreams and crossed the blood-brain barrier to affect our hormone levels—”

You doubled over, catching the choked gasp before it could get very far, and a hand rested on your shoulder. You gave Wrecker a weak smile and sat upright once the discomfort passed, and he snatched his hand back as if burned. Unusual for the affectionate clone, but you didn’t need to see his face to sense the embarrassment radiating from him.

There was something else as well, and it wasn’t just him. A sense of mortification perforated the room as Tech’s third symptom began to surface. You pulled the Force close around you, not wanting to sense… that from them.

“Is it fatal?”

Your question broke through his scientific curiosity, or maybe it had been your outward sign of distress, because when Tech looked at you his eyes held a softness they lacked before.

“No. At least, I see no record of any deaths during the experiments, but… we will eventually be forced to alleviate the symptoms as they will grow exponentially more intense.”

At least you would survive, though you weren’t sure what survival would look like. Another wave of heavy warmth flushed through your abdomen, and your claws dug into the edges of the table hard enough to dent the metal.

“Alleviate the symptoms how?”

“Well.” He squinted. “The solution is obvious.”

Apparently, it wasn’t obvious to you. He sighed.

“The biochemical stimulates the part of the brain that controls arousal, and in order to mitigate the worst effects, one must find release of a similar nature.”

Tech was again caught in the middle of their focused silence.

“An orgasm. Specifically, through sex.”

“You’re kidding me,” Echo said, dragging a hand down his face.

“I’m afraid not.”

You rubbed the back of your neck, striving to breathe in regular deep rhythms and not think about what Tech had just suggested. It wasn’t an option. It couldn’t be.

“What happens if we do nothing, Tech?”

“We will go into a ‘black out’ state,” he answered without skipping a beat. “In which case, we will have intercourse anyway, with no recollection of the event. We will have no conscious control of our actions, and as a result… injuries are likely as a result of lack of care.”

“That’s not happening,” Hunter said, and even with your gaze focused on the floor, you sensed his attention on you. You were grateful they still donned their helmets, even if you could sense their agitation, it would be harder to see it on their faces. Tech’s expressive eyes were difficult enough to witness, unable to hide his reluctance despite his clinical words.

“Why would the separatists create something like this?” you asked. “What could they possibly use it for?”

The reason didn’t matter, not right now, but agitation bubbled under your skin. It wasn’t like you. You’d learned to control and focus your emotions long ago, as all Jedi Masters should, but this was an itch… no, a set of claws under your skin, trying to dig itself free.

“Ah, that I can answer,” Tech said and tapped a few keys. “It was designed for use on humanoids. Clones, specifically.”

“What?” Hunter asked, his voice far away.

“It’s an effective means of biological warfare. Droids would be immune, but clone troopers and their Jedi generals would succumb to the symptoms and seek relief. It would be an immediate Republic defeat on whatever battlefield it is used.”

No one spoke. Your stomach twisted into roiling knots, and you couldn’t tell if it was from the information or the chemical. But you had to ask, especially when no one else did.

“What… happens then?”

“According to the observation logs, the test subjects are compelled to copulate with those physically closest to them, and then they fall unconscious immediately after reaching completion. It is quite ingenious, actually. Whether the chemical is subverted through orgasm or allowed to run its course, the troopers and Jedi generals would be effectively disarmed and distracted.”

“They actually did this to people?” Echo asked with a wrinkle of his lips.

“Well, yes. How else would you perform an experiment without test subjects?”

Echo launched himself at Tech and punched him across the helmet before Wrecker could grab hold of him, lifting him so he couldn’t land another blow. You sensed the stress radiating from Hunter, and you shared it. The Batch were a volatile mix on a good day, but tempers flaring this quickly meant you were running out of time.

“Echo, stand down!” Hunter snapped.

“Yes, sir.”

Echo shook off the bigger clone, shooting one last look at Tech before finding a corner to pace in.

You stood from the table.

“We have to get out.”

“Agreed,” Hunter said.

Tech rubbed the side of his helmet while Wrecker kept a watchful eye on their seething brother. You and Hunter walked the perimeter of the room from opposite sides, reaching out with your senses while he focused his, but there was… nothing. The room was heavily fortified and clearly designed to contain dangerous experiments.

After doing his own sweep, though you doubted this was his first and he was just as thorough as you and Hunter, Tech put down his datapad and met your eye.

“There are no access panels, and I cannot breach the security system remotely. There is only one exit, and that door won’t open by force. Our only means of leaving this room is if the enemy opens the door.”

“And why would they do that?” Crosshair sneered, still in a bad mood, but weren’t you all.

“They will when we’re unconscious.”

“But you said we would have to…” Hunter couldn’t finish the sentence, so Tech did it for him.

“Have intercourse until we reach completion?”

“Call it what it is.” Crosshair pulled the toothpick from his mouth and jabbed it in Tech’s direction. “We have to fuck or be fucked until we come.”

Tech’s returning glare was decidedly un-Tech-like.

“That is what I said.”

You took off your outer robes, the heat unbearable, and besides that… they would only get in the way.

“Then there’s no reason to wait.” You pulled off the oxygen mask and held it out to Tech, and he stared for a moment before taking it from you. In fact, they all stared at you.

“Unless you’re willing to do this with each other, then it’s going to have to be me.”

Crosshair’s grin was quick and sharp.

“I certainly prefer you over them.”

“Don’t talk to the General that way!”

Crosshair gave Echo a smile that could have been lazy if it wasn’t full of so much intention and spite.

“Admit it, reg. You’re as eager to fuck our Jedi as the rest of us.”

“Stow it, Crosshair,” Hunter commanded through his teeth. Any other day, such an order would have been delivered without actual fire behind it. It was a bad sign when it sounded like Hunter actually wanted to throttle Crosshair.

Of course, Crosshair had never said anything like that to you before, but you dismissed it as the effects of the chemical. You were certainly having your own problems, and you braced against the table again, trying to be subtle and not show just how unsteady you were. Your legs had taken up a series of fine trembles, and the pressure between your legs grew stronger with each minute that passed.

“So,” you picked up when the silence grew too heavy, “the plan. Once we wake up, wherever and whenever that is, we find a way to escape.”

Hunter stepped forward, a hand outstretched.

“Whoa, hold on. We’re not going to… There has to be another way.” He turned to Tech, his posture open and beseeching. “You understand this chemical, right?”

“Yes.”

“Can’t you make a cure?”

“With what laboratory, Hunter? The one we are currently occupying that happens to be empty of equipment, viable samples, or a working terminal? All things I would need to replicate the chemical, let alone create an antiserum? That laboratory?”

Silence filled the room. Even Crosshair turned his head to stare at Tech. You’d never heard Tech angry at Hunter before. Annoyed, yes, but Tech got annoyed with everyone.

Tech sighed, and his shoulders slumped.

“I… apologize. It appears I am not immune to the effects of the chemical.”

You placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, and even though your palm was over armor, Tech startled as if you’d poked him with a live wire. You lifted your hand from his pauldron and kept your voice low and calm.

“We wouldn’t have any information if it wasn’t for you. At least now, we have a better idea of what we’re dealing with.” You met Hunter’s gaze and spoke a little louder. “We’re out of options. I don’t see another path, but I’m not giving the order. It’s your squad, Hunter. Whatever you decide, I’ll follow.”

He was skilled at hiding his emotions, but you sensed his resolve waver, and worse, the loss of hope as he expelled a quiet breath.

“Then… this is what we do. And we deal with the consequences later.”

Without waiting for another prompt, you untied the sash around your waist and peeled off your inner robes, letting them fall to the floor. All that remained was your body suit.

You held your lightsaber hilt in both hands and held it up to Tech, trying not to let the regret touch your voice. Regret that you led them to this. Regret that you hadn’t done more.

“Will you hold onto this for me? I don’t wish to lose it.”

Tech looked from your face to your hands, and with uncharacteristic hesitation, took the hilt from where it lay across your palms. He held it with great care, as if he held your life in his hands, which he did. And soon, he would hold your life in his hands in a different way.

They all would. And it would be no different than any other mission where you trusted each other to make it out alive. That’s what you told yourself. Had to tell yourself. If you faltered… who else would get them home?

As Tech gently tucked the hilt in his pack, Wrecker broke the silence with a meek, “Are you sure about this, General?” He rarely addressed you so formally, a sign of how delicately he treated the situation, but his low voice trickled up your spine in a way he didn’t intend.

“It’s better to do this under our own volition before our choices are completely stolen from us.” But as you gripped the zipper at the top of your body suit, Hunter cut in, his palms raised and his voice on the edge of panic.

“Wait, maybe there’s a way around it. If it’s just an orgasm that fixes it, then—”

As soon as Hunter pulled the helmet off his head, his expression shifted from concern to shock. And then it hardened into something animal, untamed, and with a snarl, he launched at you.

Crosshair was on him in a flash, putting him in a headlock and stopping Hunter’s forward momentum even as he reached out for you, his teeth bared as his eyes fixed on you, predatory and hungry.

Tech and Echo both moved in front of you, blocking Hunter’s way in case Crosshair couldn’t hold him, and Tech cried out, “Helmet!”

Wrecker understood immediately and grabbed Hunter’s helmet, thrown to the ground and forgotten, and forced it over his head. As soon as the seal fixed in place with a hiss, Hunter went lax, half-held up in Crosshair’s hold.

“And that,” Tech said quietly, “is why we cannot wait any longer.”

“I’m… I’m sorry.” Hunter’s panting was hard enough to be picked up by his voice modulator, and he got to his feet with a surprising lack of mocking on Crosshair’s part. He tilted his helmet in your direction, his posture the equivalent of an apologetic wince. “I don’t know what… what happened. I wasn’t… in control.”

You hadn’t moved through the entire event, frozen in place. Even now, your heart raced as you had to swallow the excess saliva in your mouth, and your legs trembled in what you wished was fear.

“Your enhanced senses will make this worse for you,” Tech said. Hunter huffed but continued to catch his breath.

“Yeah, I got that.”

Tech fixed him with a narrow side eye, but then he addressed the rest of the group.

“Hunter’s line of inquiry is a good one—”

“That would be a first,” Crosshair sneered.

“—but unfortunately, the chemical was designed to dissipate with genital-to-genital contact only. Fellatio, cunnilingus, or any other variation of orgasm will not be enough, including self-stimulation.”

“Wow,” Wrecker said, “the Seppies think of everything.”

“If we’re doing this, I think it’s best we keep helmets on. Armor too.” Echo glanced at the others for signs of disagreement. There was none. You knew it was in case the Separatists decided to attack, which wasn’t outside the realm of possibility, but you also suspected making this as clinical as possible would be easier for everyone.

You dragged down the zipper for the upper half of your body suit, the noise drawing the attention of Echo and Tech, both of them glancing over their shoulders. Echo quickly faced forward again, giving the illusion of privacy. It was sweet, in its own way.

Tech also looked away, burying his face in the upturned glow of his datapad.

You gathered your resolve but didn’t remove the suit yet, and it was only through years of training and discipline that your voice didn’t waver when you asked, “Who’s first?”

The men shared another nervous round of glances, but it wasn’t all dread and guilt that radiated from their thoughts. Restless agitation and desire were beginning to gain momentum, and for a squad that often flouted the rules and acted unprofessionally, they hid their physical reactions very well. You might have been proud, given other circumstances.

“Echo. The molecule will be most concentrated in his tissues.” Tech kept his eyes downward on the screen. “Then Wrecker—”

“Why me?!”

Hunter, who had finally regained his composure, said, “Because whoever purges the chemical soonest will wake up the earliest. And we’re going to need your strength to get us out of this, wherever we wake up.”

“Correct,” Tech said, and Hunter turned to face him.

“Which means you should be next, Tech.”

“I volunteer to go last.”

“Why?”

Tech met your eye with reluctant slowness.

“I wish to make sure the… event goes as smoothly as possible, considering what it is we will be doing.”

That too was sweet in its own way, and you appreciated the gesture and thoughtfulness that went into his planning. Tech always tackled his projects with a careful exactness, even if that same care didn’t translate to tactics on the battlefield. You’d lost count of Tech’s reckless, chaotic strategies that sent ripples through the Force warning of imminent, bodily harm, only for him to slip away unscathed.

None of you would be making it out of this unscathed, and you could see in his worried gaze that Tech understood that. So for him to offer to endure it the longest—

“And what we’ll be doing is fucking our Jedi.”

“You just keep bringing that up, don’t you,” Echo stated through his teeth. “Any reason for that?”

Crosshair’s sneer could be heard even under his helmet.

“None in particular.”

“Fine,” Hunter said, ignoring the jabs with the practiced patience that comes from ignoring Crosshair often. “Tech will go last. I’ll go after Wrecker, and then Crosshair—”

“—If you think I’m taking your sloppy seconds—”

Surprisingly, it was Wrecker that swung at Crosshair, the sniper ducking under the massive fist before it could slam into his helmet. He snarled, and then Hunter was trying to restrain Wrecker, who simply grabbed him by the neck and hauled him into the air.

They were going to kill each other, and the enemy didn’t have to lay a finger on them.

“Enough!”

The men turned as you peeled off the upper half of your suit, leaving yourself bare-chested and exposed. The intricate markings of your fur were on display, coiling down your sides and back. Your fur ruffled at the abrupt chill, or maybe it was the sudden attention on the places of your body that had never had such attention before.

Wrecker dropped Hunter so quickly that he stumbled on landing, and his focus was so wholly on you it was as if he’d forgotten Wrecker had just tried to choke him.

“We don’t have the luxury of one at a time,” you growled, and you couldn’t remember a time when you’d done that before either. Not in the Cathar way, with a rumble in your throat and bared fangs. “I’ll take both Echo and Wrecker, then Hunter and Crosshair. Tech last.”

The potent arousal in the air was so sharp that you could taste it even through their body suits and armor.

“Will that work?”

Tech blinked as if startled by being addressed, and his gaze quickly focused on your face from where it had been roving over your body as if studying and committing it to memory. You told yourself it was his usual curiosity, more clinical than personally interested.

“That is… sufficient.” The breathless quality of his voice was anything but clinical. “I… didn’t suggest such an arrangement as it might not be comfortable for you.”

“None of this is comfortable.”

You stripped off the bottom half of your black suit, leaving you entirely naked to the air and their devouring stares. It didn’t matter that you couldn’t see their faces, and if anything, it increased the impression that they were a pack of predators salivating over anticipated prey.

But you weren’t prey. The Jedi in you attempted to fight the invading chemical and find the equilibrium that wasn’t there, and the blood in your veins cried out for a primal chase that would have been a familiar song to an ancient Cathar.

You hid your sharp teeth behind your lips and were once again glad for the additional barrier of armor between you and their vulnerable skin.

“Echo, Wrecker, come here.”

“Wait.”

You bit your cheek and tasted blood, but you remained quiet as Tech dug around in his pack and pulled out a tube of bacta gel. He offered it to you, and you took it, the gesture feeling somehow final and terrible.

“You think we’re gonna hurt her?” Wrecker asked, sounding both offended and worried. Perhaps you should have been worried too, but the idea of Wrecker’s unbridled strength sent saliva flooding into your mouth.

“Well, that is a possibility, but the gel is also a source of lubrication. It will reduce the likelihood of injury, as well as increase, the… uh…”

“It’ll feel good,” Crosshair supplied helpfully, but even he sounded distracted from where he leaned against the wall in a way that was too forced to be relaxed.

Echo and Wrecker approached, and your body burned like a living flame, your skin so sensitive it nearly hurt. Both of them removed their codpieces, revealing sizeable bulges underneath, and a distant, rational part of you thanked Tech for his foresight. Though considering the size of Wrecker… lubrication might not be enough.

“There’s one other thing—”

“What?” Echo snapped.

“General.”

You focused on Tech with painful difficulty; Echo and Wrecker were so close, and your fingers twitched with the agony of being denied touching them.

“Yes, Tech?”

“You will have to refrain from achieving orgasm until, ah… until the end.”

You blinked away some of the fog clouding your mind.

“What?”

“If you orgasm, you’ll lose consciousness soon after. I… I think I speak for all of us when I say we prefer not to do this while you are unaware.”

If you weren’t in such a state, you might have smiled. Had Tech always been this thoughtful?

And then your attention wavered and settled on Echo standing in front of you, Wrecker towering behind you, and it was all you could do to form coherent words.

“I’ll try not to, but if I fail, don’t stop. Not until it’s over. That’s an order.”

Hunter responded this time, and you sensed he was having the same difficulty of speaking. He growled, “Yes, sir.”

And then Echo touched your arm, light and exploratory, at the same moment Wrecker placed a large hand on the back of your neck. You nearly buckled at the sudden pressure, even if Wrecker’s hold was gentle, and the last of your control slipped away.

But there were hands to catch you, and you didn’t fall.

Next Chapter

#the bad batch x reader #tbb x reader #the bad batch #the bad batch fanfiction #clone bang 2024 #wolveria writes #cathar reader #cathar jedi reader #what we did on felucia

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goatsludge · 1 year ago

Text

XM29 Experimental Protective Mask

By the late 1970's, the U.S. Army was already looking to replace the M17/M17A1 Field Protective Mask with a mask that was compatible with the 40mm NATO Standard Canister Thread that was beginning to become more widespread at this point.

The XM29 was the initial experimental design submitted to answer this requirement, being molded single-piece out of silicone rubber, which was more comfortable and hypoallergenic.

The mask could be adapted to left or right-hand shooters with an interchangeable secondary side voice emitter, and featured the same M1 QD Drinking Adapter as the M17A1 (though some versions like this example were made without one).

It was discovered that silicone had poor resistance to blister agents, and so various special scratch-resistant coatings were tested with the lens, as well as some examples being molded from clear urethane plastic.

Neither were satisfactory, so the XM30 program would soon be initiated, which took the principles of the XM29, but used a silicone mask with a separate urethane lens.

This program would ultimately be cancelled by the Army in 1981, but re-opened by the Air Force and ultimately adopted in 1983 as the MCU-2/P while the Army had moved on to the XM40 program.

As usual, this example belongs to @bureau-of-mines

#gas mask #vintage gas mask #xm29 gas mask #mcu-2/p gas mask #msa millennium #cold war gas mask #oldschool gear #experimental gas mask

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phoenixcatch7 · 1 year ago

Text

Open up

Based on this wonderful art of @puppetmaster13u for the dollhouse au!

It had been a long day, and was destined to be even longer.

The original plan had been bad enough; the league had a media conference planned for three o'clock, one that involved foreign presence and thus required pristine presentation.

Then, as all perfectly good plans that could have been left alone by the universe did, it was derailed by a villain attack or several. He said several because it seemed almost a dozen separate villains had individually had the bright idea of sabotaging the well publicised event. Though they'd failed, the accidental collaboration had done what each alone could not, and now the league was dragging themselves to base to hurriedly patch up the thankfully minor wounds and try and rush to meet the deadline.

Each league member on the list had a formal version of their usual super suit - flash's main change had been a bowtie before it met almost unanimous disapproval, and on the other end of the effort spectrum was Bruce. Not of his own will - he quite envied Flash's staunch faith in the single black bowtie - but he not only had been raised for the fast and critical world of the upper class, but was currently in a metal plated marionette held together by glue and screws and wires, which meant changing attire was more of a debacle than it would ordinarily be.

He flipped open the toolkit with the best approximation of a sigh the doll body could manage. The chest inflated and deflated, which was in fact a rather worrying sign because it wasn't supposed to be able to do that. He grabbed a screwdriver and a pit of tar glue and approached the mirror. He'd just have to go into the globally broadcast meeting stinking of sulphur... Perhaps he could borrow perfume from one of the girls, cologne combined dreadfully.

The chest cavity opened with little tugging, and he held one side in place as he attacked the bent hinges. An odd feeling, for sure. He took a hammer to the dent, imagining it was the penguin's face and praying Clark didn't decide now was the time to approach him on his self soothing metalworking hobby. He'd been entrusted with the override code for the door and Bruce was now quietly regretting that.

The chest cavity doors creaked back into place, which enabled him to finally pull out the costume change for the evening and dump it on the side.

Now for the leg, having been crushed under a tank penguin had smuggled into Gotham. It now bent the wrong way, and hiding it under his cloak had been a pain, but at least it hadn't come off -

There it went. Batman watched, almost despondent, as it toppled free of his body and crashed to the ground. The unhappy static that raced up his spine at the sight was expected - he'd be paying for the lack of care for the Patriarch Doll in nightmares tonight.

Joy.

He tipped into the nearby stool and kicked the lost limb closer with his remaining foot, squinting. Just a cracked screw and torn spring at the knee, thank goodness. He'd have it fully attached again within the hour.

But he was pretty sure he couldn't bend that far over without his jaw falling off, so face it was.

Hood off, wires unlaced under the chin, hidden screws loosened. The gas mask came off. The velcro on top of his head took good old fashioned yanking, but eventually peeled off with reluctant crackling, revealing the unpainted grey metal beneath.

As expected, his jaw was almost entirely loose, unable to close now without the structure of the mask. The nutcracker mouth in the lower jaw fell to tap against his throat, leaving either side of the actual lower jaw to hang in the air. Experimentally, he opened and closed his mouth, and watched all three parts swing and clink like a robot body horror wind-chime.

This was going to need a finer touch, and so he stripped off his gloves to access the sharp points of his talons - capped while with the league to keep the prick of steel rending claws to a mere suggestion.

He felt bared, now, all his top layer removed and abandoned, the door to his room at his back. He feels the paranoia to double check the lock, reassures himself that even if he'd somehow forgotten in his haste to hide away none of the members were mad enough to try and get in. Outside Superman, of course, but he always knocked.

Still, he hurried through repairs, running diagnostics in the back of his mind as he daubed glue into the cracks and set about restructuring his own jaw. Ears swivelled. Neck rolled. Glider snaps curled.

The jaw pieces were setting nicely when there was a noise at the door, and batman whipped around, cloak flaring behind him. The pliers dropped from suddenly weak fingers.

Captain marvel stood in the doorway, eyes wide as he took in the room, face pale as he saw Batman propped up in middle, bare of his many obfuscating layers. Black tar speckled his lap, wires hung free like veins, blank eyes glowed, his jaw gaping, skinless. Glinting claws and spikes in full view, a limb discarded on the floor like garbage. His chest a dark hole, void of organs, of machinery, of anything that could make him run. A decades old terror gripped his heart.

HE SAW!

Both froze. Time stretched interminably.

The captains chest heaved for a scream, and batman was moving before he knew it, grabbing his fallen leg and lunging.

Captain marvel fell with a crack. Batman caught himself on the door. Five seconds before short term memory entered long term, had he reacted in time?

Hm.

He considered the body of the champion of magic laid in front of him, idly rebalancing the eternal tally graph of potential energies the dolls might run on in the back of his head and as always coming up none the wiser. This was a very inconvenient place for a body. Perhaps he could nudge marvel into the hallway to wake up. He glanced up and down the empty corridor, staying out of view of the camera.

Maybe he had overreacted slightly.

Bonus:

Billy and Green Lantern sat in the monitor room, ostensibly on duty but really checking out the watchtower camera feeds of the day before. Lantern was pointing at the screen.

"Here," he said, with a glee Billy didn't honestly appreciate. "Look at that. You go down like a sack of bricks and then -" he clicked forward two frames, "- this silver hand thing appears on the door frame. Look at that, that's a proper horror movie hand curl. The claws! Just missing the glint of a blood covered axe appearing from the shadows."

Billy shuddered, but couldn't help moving closer.

"What do you think it was? Can't have been batman, right?"

"You were there, you tell me." Lantern patted him on the shoulder before he could retort. "I mean, doesn't look much like him. Doesn't really have claws and his are black anyway. Pretty sure his gloves are sewn into his skin at this point."

"I didn't need that mental image," Billy said, because he really didn't.

"Could be another Robin variant? Like that black bat thing?"

"Dunno. I mean, unlikely. Maybe it was batman. Maybe he can shapeshift a little."

"We've had that on the list of possible powers for ages, still nothing firm one way or the other."

"It probably is batman -"

"But the claws -"

They trailed off.

"We'll just add it to the list. I'll save the file, hang on. We can talk about it at the do next week - you're coming right?"

"Yeah, but I've got, uh... A diplomacy thing with the yetis at nine, so I'll have to bail then."

"You always have the weirdest personal missions. Hey, maybe you can ask them about batman, pffft. Maybe he's one of them."

#Not pictured: batman in Victorian-esque drip complete with a black full face phantom of the opera mask in a brightly lit room.#Bundled up in as much cloak is polite and just a dark splotch on camera between a very bright superman and wonder woman #Alfred sarcastically pretends to shed a tear of pride #Also not pictured: batman spending five minutes straight making sure his doors locked while on one leg #long post #batman #dc comics #bruce wayne #cryptid batman #Possessed doll au #Remind me to do a Halloween one because the bats would 100% do a scare competition with the poor goons as targets #Bonus points if you freak out a rouge. It gets harder every year.#Pretty happy with how this turned out but my first plan was to have it the start of the Reveal™. The vibes were right.#Maybe once I've got more done for this au

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scrunckled-idiot · 2 months ago

Note

Any headcanons about how the mercenaries interact with a borrower?

errrm yesh aktualy 🤓

soldier: legit tries to kill them at first. LIKE THE FUCK IS THIS LITTLE THEIVING COMMIE SPY IN HIS BASE!? WHO DO THEY THINK THEY ARE!? makes it his mission to either kill them or take them prisoner, but eventually becomes like entrenchment for the goober. so like the borrower will be like sneaking away from the kitchen and then they'll hear this mf LEGGING IT AT MAXIMUN SPEED DOWN THE HALL. kinda like tom and jerry shenanigans. dw they always turn out ok :)

pyro: OMG A TINY LITTLE BUDDY LETS FUCKING GOOO!!! will instantly try to make contact with them without realising how terrifying it is in their perspective. chases them around the base kind of like soldier but with no malicious intent. eventually realises that they might be scaring the poor thing so stops chasing them. kind of like engie, they'll make these crude little cardboard houses slathered in glitter glue and stickers and make a little city in their room. absolutely ecstatic when they see borrower in one of the houses, but this time keeps their cool and just observes, giggling and kicking their legs. the borrowers just gonna play along and then they can go home- oh shit wait the giant gas mask guy set up a fucking tea party??? oh fuck yea dude, SUGAR COOKIES HORAYYYYY!!!

heavy: he wouldn't. he'd be too scared to. big man + little person? not a chance in hell. he'd probably keep his distance away rom them, pretending he never saw them. will probably leave leftovers out for them though cus he feels bad. if they're lucky, freshly cooked meals.

engineer: thinks he's going bonkers at first when stuff starts to go missing in his workshop. isn't too fond of the whole "borrowing" schlick, but he can understand. would build like little hideouts and dens for them and hide them around the base. purposely leave some spare screws, nuts, bolts, wire around the floor so that they dont have to parkour up to his desk or something. if he's friendly with them he'll just give em a wave, Mabey invite him over to his desk for some coffee and a break. then send 'em off with a bag full of supplies.

demoman: dawg his childhood fantasies just came true. his mother used to read him stories involving tiny people like elfs, pixies, Gulliver's travels, willow whisps, and borrowers. he'd be enamoured with them, but of course knows to keep his distance, he knows how frightened the wee things can get. he'd be as gentle as he possibly could when holding one though, letting them make the first move, and then scream internally when holding one.

medic: oh honey i dont even need to explain. you KNOW its instantaneous death. or trapped in the experimental cum jar. OR TAXIDERMIED!

sniper: probably thinks their just a weird looking cockroach so he'd try and spray them with pesticide or turn them into a kebab with his huntsman. once he figured it out though, he'd probably just shoo them away and to piss off. if he's chill with 'em though he'd probably handle them like a pet hamster or a rat. scoop them up off the floor into his pocket like "c'mon we're goin' to maccas". its like that one cat that hangs around your neighbourhood that you're chill with.

sorry didn't know what to do for scout and spy hun :(

#team fortress 2 #ask box #asks #tf2 g/t #borrowers #g/t merc shenanigans #tf2 demoman #tf2 medic #tf2 sniper #tf2 pyro #tf2 heavy #tf2 soldier #tf2 engineer

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frogblast-the-ventcore · 11 months ago

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From clockwise right, we have:

Hellreigel 9mm submachine gun (text via IMFDB: "As of current knowledge, there was only ever one example of the Hellriegel and it did not survive the war. Its caliber, capacity, operating method, and whether or not it was even a functional weapon are conjecture based on analysis of the photographs and historical context. It is assumed to have been blowback operated with the projections at the rear being a pair of recoil springs, and the large structure over the barrel is thought to have been a leather-wrapped water or oil jacket for cooling. From what little could be known about the weapon from the three images, it appears that the Hellriegel is a large-capacity submachine gun, firing what seems to be a 9mm cartridge. It would make the Hellriegel one of the first submachine guns made in the world by definition of a submachine gun. It wouldn't be referred as a submachine gun at the time, as the term "submachine gun" was first coined in 1921 to advertise the Thompson Submachine Gun; the Hellriegel was referred to as a machine gun (Maschinengewehr) on the image caption. It could feed from straight box magazines, or from a large drum magazine which was not actually connected to the weapon and instead fed the cartridges through a flexible chute. The unusual appearance of this drum magazine led to some assumptions that it was belt fed, however this is not the case with the rounds being unconnected from one another and are propelled along the drum and feed chute by a spring in a similar manner to the Trommelmagazin snail drum used by the Luger pistol. The drum magazine is believed to be able to hold up to 160 rounds while the box mag is limited to 20 or so. It seems to be crew-served, as one image depicts an ammo bearer with a backpack for drum magazines, and its seeming intention to be used as a stationary weapon given its weighted base for the drum and its machine gun name (making it a "heavy" submachine gun of sorts). The provision for a drum but not a bipod however, means it is unclear what exactly the weapon was intended to be used for. All three pictures were taken from the right side of the gun, so what the left side looked like is a complete mystery."

Tsar tank (absolutely bonkers Russian experimental wheeled tank):

Hand-dropped bomb runs (commonplace during the war until bomb racks were invented for small aircraft):

German cavalry with pikes (note the horse gas masks).

Also this happened:

#history #ww1 #ww1 history #world war one #world war i

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inkformyblood · 3 months ago

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kiss me quick (COD Kinktober 2024 Day 12)

Sex pollen, a/b/o dynamics. Alpha Soap, Alpha Alejandro, Beta Rudy, Omega Ghost. SoapGhost, AleRudy, AleGhost, SoapRudy, AleRudySoapGhost. Lemon. (Longer fic will be coming for this prompt, I really enjoyed writing it<3)

There’s blood smeared across Alejandro’s teeth — his own, his lower lip swollen and split, torn open a few seconds prior — and he catches himself against the table, shoving it backwards with the force of his impact. Stupid fucking officials and their stupid half-brained decisions, may they rot—

A flush of heat rolls through him, the beginnings of his rut drawn on four months too soon, overwhelming the bitter chemical tang of the suppressants he takes to regulate his cycle. Alejandro tears at his sleeves, the thin fabric clinging to his sweat-soaked skin before it rips, and lets the tatters drop free. Across the room from him, Ghost prowls, his mask partially shoved up his face and caught in the snarl of his teeth. What little Alejandro can see of his skin is flushed, pale scars standing out in stark relief around his lips, a smear of blood over the corner of his mouth.

They hadn’t even been exposed fully, the canister deploying at Soap’s feet first as the gas billowed out. Not a standard chemical weapon but something experimental so when they had staggered back to base with Rudy tucked beneath Soap’s arm to keep the man upright, Beta pheromones the only thing keeping him awake and moving, and Alejandro with Ghost’s teeth locked into his shoulder tight enough that he scraped against bone, they were bundled into rooms as they stood.

Separated.

It would make sense on paper, Alpha with a Beta and an Alpha with an Omega and it’s that alone that’s keeping Alejandro upright, keeping him furious. Should have least been able to buy the other set of men a drink first before broaching the idea Rudy had whispered into his ear after their first meeting; the pair folded into the closest supply cupboard and Alejandro’s hands tucked down Rudy’s trousers.

His Rudy always has the best plans.

“Was going to—“ Alejandro breaks off as Ghost growls, a distant rumbling like the passing of a train several floors down. The other man hasn’t moved from the opposite wall since they’d been deposited into this holding room, Soap and Rudy kept away by one single barrier. He continues, the tang of iron heavy over his tongue. “Was going to ask you both properly, maybe over a few drinks, but we want to fuck you. Both of you.”

Ghost straightens, the movement nearly imperceptible in the gathered shadows next to the wall. “Soap was— He was going to ask you.” He slowly slides down the wall, hands bunched into tight fists on his thighs. “He’s better at that sort of thing.”

“My Rudy as well.” Alejandro steps forward, chances another when Ghost doesn’t snarl at him for the intrusion. A third step brings him in front of the other man, in reach of his still-bared teeth, a low growl tumbling from Ghost’s throat. “We chose well, yes, Ghost?”

Alejandro bites at his knuckles, his bones beginning to ache from the oncoming wave of want that is burning through his belly, a desperate scramble to remain upright and not wrap his hands around his cock and squeeze until he’s spilling the first of many releases onto the floor. Ghost isn’t faring much better, his hips swaying, grinding himself against the caught seam of his trousers. There’s a sweet scent in the air, something that reminds Alejandro of the little sachets of tea Soap carries with him, vaguely citrus and sharp.

Ghost chews his lower lip, his fangs indenting the skin. Hesitation is clear in the line of his shoulders, the tight grip on the fabric of his trousers.

“You can fuck me,” Alejandro offers, splaying his hands wide. “I don’t mind.”

There’s a gleam in Ghost’s blown-wide eyes, his pupils dark and blotting out the thin strip of brown around them, curiosity merging with a fierce desire. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Alejandro crouches and leans backwards, reclining onto the cold floor.

Ghost moves quickly, one hand planted on Alejandro’s chest and pushing him flat to the ground while he braces himself with the other as Alejandro wraps his legs around Ghost’s hips, tugging him closer.

“Talk later,” Alejandro murmurs, tipping his head back to expose his throat, the mating scar over the scent gland on his throat. “We’ll talk later.”

A growl tears free from Ghost and he bites Alejandro once more, an action Alejandro knows to be an agreement.

#alerudy #soapghost #aleghost #soaprudy #alerudysoapghost #alejandro x rodolfo #alejandro x rodolfo x soap x ghost #my writing #lemon #cod mw2 #alejandro vargas #rodolfo parra #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish

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merbear25 · 1 month ago

Note

Durikg his first fight against Luffy, Caesar said, about his Gas Robe: "after many experiments, I managed to find the deadliest gas"!

This implies that he may have experimented on himself. It is already known that he experimented on/with his gas gas fruit, but previously i thought that it only happened before he ate it. After seeing the quote above, I became convinced that the special gas that his gas robe is made of is a result of deliberate experimentation on himself and the gas that his devil fruit gave him the ability to turn into. Just as he absorbed the Shinokuni, his gas robe might also be something he created and absorbed, though it's much more stable and suitable for permanent use as both a weapon and an everyday outfit. I think he might have developed it trough experimentation on himself while he worked at MADS.

Him experimenting/having experimented on himself is an interesting headcanon/theory, and I want to ask you if you could write down some headcanons or a fic about this?

Hello, I know this took a while to write. I unfortunately haven't got as much time as I used to. Thanks for sending this in, though! I think it's an interesting theory, so I hope you like what I wrote for you 💜💜

CW: mentions of experimentation and death, takes place during MADS, drabble

Experimenting on himself (Caesar)

Failure after failure, they all dropped like flies, only further proving their expendability. Picking up one of the subjects by the hand, the limp corpse showed little difference when compared to the first batch. He was getting nowhere with them. With a disgusted scowl, he glared down at the unfortunate soul. Tossing the trash aside, he ordered another lackey to clean up the mess.

“Such a terrible shame that the gas leak reached them. I’d be extra careful if I were you.” Feigned concern delivered under a masked truth, one of which so few were aware.

Trudging through the corridors, each room that could have been of any use was turned upside down. The aftermath was left as somebody else’s problem when what he was searching for was not there, although he wasn’t even sure what that special something was.

These meat sacks were much too frail for what he was specifically looking for. He slammed his hands on the desk as the inevitable dawned on him. If he were to create a poisonous gas of this caliber, then there were no better subjects than the scientist who’d be wielding it. It was a fate that he’d done everything to avoid.

The risks were obvious, much of which were no doubt excruciating. Although being the holder of the gas-gas fruit came with the necessary resistance to many of them, there were still aspects of his newfound abilities that were yet to be mastered. One wrong breath was all it took for things to slip out of his control.

Staring at his hands, he imagined it: the power he’d been striving for. He licked his lips at the thought; it was so close he could practically taste it. There was no one more suited than him to carry every aspect of this experiment out. The others carried such inferior genes, none of which stood a chance against what he needed from them.

So much time adjusting the formulas and for what? All they were good for was disappointment and meals for the worms, but he would make up for it. Of course, he would. He was the greatest scientist to have ever lived, and he would be damned not to live up to that self-proclamation.

Drip, drop, drip. Little puddles were forming under one of the beakers. The beads of condensation bled into them as Caesar meticulously worked to find a way to have the substance suit his personal anatomy. Being able to absorb it was one thing, but having it stay in his system to wield at his whim was another. There was something missing, something so obvious that it was on the tip of his tongue.

A deadly gas that only he would ever be able to use at will, an extension of himself that nobody else could even fathom. He was getting giddy just thinking about the ramifications of holding such dastardly power. A huff and sigh passed over his lips while flipping through his notes. Mumbling to himself, he was almost too engrossed in his own sulking to notice the faint scent of a newly blossoming toxin. Quick looks around the room led him to the source: droplets of an intriguing discovery.

Since the burner was heating it to the point it was giving off a promising aroma, he pushed further. Lighting a flame closer to it, so as to get the ideal effects. Small puffs of smoke rose and were far more potent. His eyes held on the substance for a moment, as if measuring it with his very being. He rolled up his sleeve and placed a drop on his bare skin. It absorbed easily, not even leaving behind residue. Transforming his arm to different stages of his ability sparked a fire in his soul again. A breakthrough that could only lead to the much sought after result—a gas so poisonous that it would bring Magellan’s own poison to shame.

Purple lips stretched across his face, trembling with excitement. “What a beautiful day to cast the curtain of death.”

Though he was fully aware that this was not going to perform how he wanted right from the start, he couldn’t wait to see what the early stages were capable of. A mere glimpse into its future had him drooling at the endless chaos that would ensue once he perfected the formula. Bodies falling one by one, their lives being striped away, the stench of misery and anguish: he swore he could see their very souls leaving their bodies. Perhaps it was just the rosy filter, but it was enough inspiration to drive him to overcome any obstacles that dared to pose hurdles.

He was provided with a vision of what was to come, giving him all the more reason to push his personal limitations tied to his devil fruit. Exploration and the consequences that were sure to follow would not be in vain. With this he’d be unstoppable, he was sure of it.

#one piece #caesar clown #one piece caesar clown #one piece imagine #one piece headcanons #one piece fanfiction #op

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