#experimental gas mask

[goatsludge]

M45 Evolution (sort of)

Rejected Mold Negative

XM44 Mask (1990?)

XM45 Aircraft Mask (1992?)

XM44 Hood Assembly

XM45 CB Mask (1995)

M45 CB Mask w/ Butyl Hood, VPU, Wilcox Exhaust Valve, C420 Blower (1998-2004)

M45 CB Mask w/ Prototype AP-PPE Hood (2003)

M45 CB Mask w/ AP-PPE Hood (2010)

[operation-priority]

Gore CPCSU-2 Prototype Over-Garments - Jumpsuit Variant

Showcased here is a W. L. Gore & Associates prototype CPCSU-2 CBRN suit. This variant is the standalone jumpsuit variant which is one of three variants in this new CBRN family. This is a relatively new suit which uses Gore CHEMPAK material and SONICS Bio-Shell technology. Having worn both a commercial chemsuit and the current generation MOPP suit in the past, this CBRN suit is a substantial improvement in all aspects of design. The future of CBRN equipment may no longer be at odds with user comfort should the technology be pursued. At the time of writing, this is the only example of the CPCSU-2 in non-official and non-government hands. A full writeup on this suit, its variants, and overall history on the item is available here.

For those curious, the gas mask is an Avon C50 with a VPU.

[rrrauschen]

Nikolai Ekk, {1935} Карнавал цветов (Carnival of Colours)

[audloaso]

[hezuart]

LITTLE NIGHTMARES 3

aaaaaaAAAAAA

DANG OKAy

So I had a premonition for Little Nightmares 3. Last night I had a dream that Mono was just growing old in a tower he chose to stay in as a hermit and just retired there. The runaway kid's real name was revealed to be "Gilbert" and he summoned UFOs that performed a wicked cool airshow over the sea, but then the USA government shot them down and captured them for experimentation. The government was also after a bunch of super powered teenagers and children. They all swam away and tried to escape. Six was amongst them. One of the teenagers took a liking to Six and used her powers to change Six's (super long???) hair a bright red. It was then revealed the government figurehead in charge of the capture raid was Buzz Lightyear from Toy Story. I should also mention every single person including the kids in my dream looked like they were from the Lorax movie. Like imagine Little Nightmares but all Onceler style. I woke up to several dozen messages of Little Nightmares 3 trailer and well... I'm very relieved it's nothing like my dream.

~~~

Anyway! I had very low, negative expectations for LN3. I didn't think it would ever come out, and if it did, it wouldn't be the same. I am SO glad to be wrong. This developer apparently also worked on Little Nightmares 2, so they had a feel for the story, concepts, atmosphere, and gameplay. Little Nightmares 3 trailer doesn't give us a ton to work with, but I see high inspiration from previously unused concepts. Like the crows and mirrors in the Little Nightmares comics, and the giant baby from Little Nightmares 2 concept art.

The crow boy looks as though he can go through mirrors and technically fly with a black-feathered umbrella he uses to float. The girl has a wrench, and at first, I thought she was wearing an ugly gas mask, but it's apparently an old-fashioned pilot hat. So I touched it up in my drawing to make it look more recognizable... and cute. Already their designs are very intriguing. Can't tell what the full story is about, but they're new characters in a new setting, I'm very excited to see the world get expanded!

It's still a somewhat different style and atmosphere to the previous two games, but this developer really seemed like they paid attention and made it as authentic as they possibly could, and for that I am so grateful, I respect them so much. I am now changed! I've got a hopeful and optimistic mindset for the future of this series.

ESPECIALLY AFTER LEARNING IT'S ACTUALLY GONNA BE CO-OP. HELLO?!

WHO WANTS TO DROP ME OFF A CLIFF?? LETS DO IT

[oliversrarebooks]

lay down on the operating table

TW: forced sedation, experimentation, restraints, struggling

Lay down on the operating table for us. I know you're upset about being experimented on and brainwashed, but it's for the greater good. You'll feel much better about it once we've sedated you. These restraints are for your own safety. Just put your arm down, and -- there we go, all secured. Just relax. There's no point in fighting. You should know that by now.

That's right, soon you'll be trapped inside a body that's too heavy and too drowsy to move, completely relaxed, unable to focus on anything but how much you want to sleep. Every fiber of your body will be relaxed. Your eyelids will become too heavy to keep open. The sedation will slowly overwhelm you until you can't fight it any more. 

And once you're asleep, no matter what is done to you, you will not resist. You won't even be aware of what is happening. You'll be completely at our mercy, sleeping so peacefully. Once the sedative starts to kick in, you won't even remember a thing.

Here, let me put the mask on you and secure it. It's only oxygen. Now breath in deeply. One deep relaxing breath for me. In and out. That's it. Another deep breath. In and out. Good.

Now I am going to start the drug that will put you to sleep. It'll take a few minutes to work, but soon it's going to make you very, very relaxed, and very, very sleepy. No use holding your breath. Just breath normally. There you go.

That's it. Relax and let the sedative work its magic on you. You'll start to feel drowsy and floaty as the drug enters your system. Your eyes will become heavy, and you'll let them drift shut. Your mind will blank, leaving you so relaxed. Do you feel it yet?

You're starting to look a bit dazed. The sedation is beginning to work, I think. You're feeling nice and relaxed, aren't you? And so sleepy. I can see your eyes blinking so slowly. No, no, it's no use to struggle against the restraints. Eventually, you'll stop fighting it and go to sleep. 

Your body is becoming heavy and your mind is growing hazy. Just lie back on the table, yes, that's good. Take another deep breath. Is that a yawn? Is the gas making you drowsy? You're starting to feel it affecting you, aren't you? Lying there, staring up at the ceiling, fighting those heavy eyelids.

I bet you feel so calm and peaceful. Like you want to let yourself drift off to sleep, right?

Your body and mind are relaxing and becoming more sedated, and there's so little you can do about it. Your eyelids want to drift shut. That tiredness is spreading all throughout your body. Is it starting to get hard to keep your eyes open? Is your head starting to feel heavy? Do you feel like you could fall asleep at any moment if you wanted to?

Yes, that's how the sedative is supposed to make you feel -- calm, relaxed, heavy, sleepy. You're fighting your body's natural urges to go to sleep. You'll lose that battle. You are going to go to sleep. 

Did you realize that you've stopped struggling against the restraints? It looks like you can barely keep your eyes open. Slowly and surely, the sedative is putting you to sleep, and there's nothing you can do about it. It's no use fighting those heavy, tired eyelids. They're shutting all on their own.

That's right, you're completely unable to fight the sedation. It's strong and powerful. It will make you feel floaty and drowsy and oh so blissful. It will override your desire to stay awake. It was all over the second we started the drug, and you knew that.

The sedation is conquering your body and soon it will conquer your mind. Your body will fall asleep soon. Let yourself stop fighting, let sleep claim your helpless body. Let sleep take you. Let the sedation claim you. Let your eyelids close. 

You're becoming drowsy, drowsier and sleepier. Soon your eyelids will close, and you will give in to the sedation, and you will be so docile and pliant and entirely at my mercy. Are you ready for that? The moment when your eyelids close will be the point of no return. A fleeting moment when you are not yet asleep and not quite awake. A moment where you know you've lost the fight, where you feel utterly helpless.

There we go. Shut those sleepy eyes for me. Don't open them again. Let the sedative put you fast asleep. There we go, fall asleep. Go to sleep, deep asleep. So deeply asleep. It feels so good to stop fighting and go to sleep. And now that you've fallen asleep, we can do whatever experiments we please.

Now, we can get to work.

[ivystoryweaver]

Cosmic - Poe Dameron

Episode 1: A Space Odyssey

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]

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.

[maxwell-grant]

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.

[phoenixcatch7]

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."

[goatsludge]

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

[frogblast-the-ventcore]

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:

[scrunckled-idiot]

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 :(

[inkformyblood]

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. 

[stevesjockstrap]

Devil in Disguise (Steddie!My Bloody Valentine)

Part two (mind the tags)

rated E - read on ao3 - cw: blood, off-screen violence, secret identity, and all the smut

Eddie doesn’t usually hang out at the mine anymore. No one’s really supposed to hang out there, which does give him the itch to do it. And he’s inexplicably friends with the sheriff. Generally speaking he’d rather be on his couch than with the same people who couldn’t get out of the same shit town. But none of this matters because he’s here. Nursing a beer and listening to the same stories Tommy Hagan tells about high school every time he drinks. 

He’s pulled from his depressing thoughts by a shockingly familiar face. “Holy shit, it can’t be-“

Tommy beats him to it. “Fuckin’ Steve Harrington! Look who graced us with his presence!”

Steve winced as Tommy grabbed him into an enthusiastic hug and breathed in his face. Eddie held back a chuckle. 

“Well you all are on my property,” he said dryly. It would technically be a joke if it wasn’t so dark. Eddie had heard Steve’s old man had finally died and left him everything. He hadn’t known he was back to town, though. Word on the street was he was selling the mine. Eddie figured that meant he wanted to cut all ties to this place. 

It wasn’t long before Eddie was a few beers in, everyone looser and fuzzy around the edges. Something pulled him from the fog and he looked around. Groups had been filtering in and out, people usually getting dared to go further down into the mine shafts. But now everyone seemed to stop and look around all at once. A chill ran up his spine as he finally registered the screaming. The group across from him saw something behind him and ran towards the exit.

Stupidly, Eddie spun around instead and with a gasp backed against the dirt wall. A figure slowly walked towards him, in full dark coveralls and gas mask. He was dragging a pickaxe next to him, scraping noisily against the stone floor. Eddie gulped. 

It wasn’t until the miner reached him that he realized the pickaxe was dripping with blood. Eddie’s heart was beating out of his chest and even more shockingly his dick was throbbing in his pants. 

The figure came to press him against the wall, his shallow breaths echoing through the gas mask. Eddie somehow took in the fact that the man was about his height, with broad shoulders and the arms of the coveralls were stretched tight over his biceps. He couldn’t make out any features through the eye holes in the gas mask as he was stared at. 

The murderer was probably trying to figure out why he wasn’t freaking out or fighting back. Eddie was also trying to figure that out. He felt even more drunk than before, dizzy and flushed and such a large part of him wanted to tear this guy’s clothes off. A whimper escaped his lips. 

The man made an appreciative noise at him and slotted his leg between Eddie’s, pulling a shocked gasp from him as his knee met his hard cock. Eddie melted against the wall and realized too late that he’d grabbed onto the miner’s biceps to hold himself up. The man leaned in closer, pushing his own hard length against him and rasping his breath into his ear.

“Christ,” Eddie breathed. Everything else dropped away as his sole focus was on the body pressing against him. He might pass out before he got to come at this rate.

Since the man didn’t seem to be going anywhere, Eddie held onto his biceps and rocked forward into his leg experimentally. They both groaned as they got much needed friction. Eddie whimpered again as the man dropped the pickaxe from his hand, clattering next to them, bringing his arms up to cage him in and pressed their chests together. Eddie slid his hands up to settle on the other’s shoulders, using them as leverage to rock them together. His head dropped forward into the stranger’s neck, the spicy sharp scent of his cologne shockingly normal despite everything else.

The man’s thrusts became frenzied, his panting breaths rasping through the gas mask into his ear. Eddie’s eyes rolled back as he came with a harsh groan, the shock of humiliation of rutting against a stranger (and a murderer) making it that much sweeter. The stranger threw his head back and shoved his hips into Eddie’s, signaling his own release. 

As they stared at each other, panting and coming down, the wailing of a siren suddenly echoed around the walls making them both jolt. The man pulled back, grabbed his pickaxe and disappeared down into the mine.

Eddie slid down the wall, unable to keep his legs under him. Soon there was a flashlight in his face, a man asking him questions. 

“Son, hey, get the medic in here. Hey!” 

The man patted his face and he looked up. “What?” he said blearily, blinking up at him.

“Are you okay? What happened?” The man crouched down in front of him. “You’re covered in blood, man. Are you hurt?”

Eddie looked down, perplexed by this. His shirt was saturated with blood. He swiped a finger through it and it seemed like real blood, not fake corn-syrupy movie blood. He swallowed. 

Clearing his throat, he answered finally, “I’m not hurt. But there was a man. He, uh, hurt people. He was dressed like a miner… had a gas mask on. Went back down there.” He raised a hand to point in the direction he’d disappeared in.

The officer looked at him like he was crazy for a moment before his radio went off on his shoulder, “There’s five or six bodies down here, it’s a whole mess. He say anything yet?”

In the days afterwards, amidst the news reports and manhunt for a strange killer miner, the only thing that seemed strange to him was how often he ran into Steve Harrington. At the grocery store. Putting gas in his van. Once at the library returning a book for Wayne. It had started to piss him off, really. 

“Are you sticking around then? Or just trying to see all the places that’ll shut down when you sell off the mine?” He snapped at him finally in the butcher’s shop. 

Steve held his hands up. “No, man. I’m, uh- Look, okay? I promise I’m not the jackass everyone thinks I am.”

“Prove it,” Eddie countered. 

They ended up at the bar. It was early, so it wasn’t crowded but enough of the regulars were around to make it entertaining. Eddie ordered them a round and a basket of fries.

Hours later, they’d discovered Steve was slightly better at pool but Eddie could kick his ass at darts. Steve had bought shots of whiskey and it had gone downhill from there. 

Eddie wiped tears from his eyes as he leaned against him at the bar, laughing at a story about Tommy in middle school. Probably getting too close, especially as a sharp spicy scent hit his nose. He pulled back with a sharp inhale. 

Steve quirked an eyebrow at him. “What’s up?”

“I dunno,” he shook his head. It had to be a coincidence. A lot of people wore the same brands of cologne. It couldn’t. But his head was now full of strong arms and a thick thigh shoved between his legs. Blood on his shirt. His cock twitched in his jeans. Eddie shook his head around to try to clear it. “Maybe that last shot really sent me over the edge,” he tried to joke but it came out flat. 

Steve let him make a dumb excuse to get home, shop to open in the morning, something something. He nodded and they walked out to the street together. The fresh air helped, and he tried not to stare at his broad shoulders under the street light. Steve’s motel was the other way, so they shook hands a bit awkwardly and walked away. 

Eddie was not at all surprised when he heard a clatter and his floorboards squeak. He had been expecting it, actually. This was even the first night after he’d persuaded Jeff to call off the patrol car guarding him. He wasn’t hard to find. The mechanic shop downstairs and tow truck with his name plastered across it, E. Munson in the phone book. He kicked the blanket off of him and settled back into his pillows, his hands behind his head. 

Despite knowing it was coming, he did gasp as the masked miner appeared in his open doorway. Blood traveled to his dick. What was wrong with him?

“Come here to murder me?” He asked flippantly. The figure cocked his head. “Or come to finish me off in a different way?” He snaked a hand down to grasp his rapidly filling cock through his boxers. The masked man made a small noise in his throat. Eddie smirked. “You can keep the mask on while you fuck me. This whole thing has been very eye opening for me, you know?” That was an understatement. This morning he’d come twice in the shower thinking about getting fucked by this man, covered in someone else’s blood. 

The miner stepped forward, Eddie eyed him as he continued to tease his dick. He was still buzzed even after the walk home and a chugged glass of water. 

The man peeled his gloves off and Eddie whimpered, somehow seeing his big rough hands sending lightning down his spine. He needed those big hands on him, everywhere. Inside of him. 

“Fuck. Hurry up,” he hissed, cutting it off with a groan as the man pulled open his coveralls and stepped out of his boots. He squeezed around the base of his cock, eyes on the white undershirt stretched across muscled shoulders. The helmet hit the floor with a thunk that had him gasping again. 

“This is so nuts,” he breathed. He had to let go of his dick completely when he received a dark filthy chuckle in return. “Holy fuck. C’mon. Get the fuck over here already.” He’d feel weird about ordering around a killer later, right now the pickaxe was nowhere in sight and he needed to get off. Now. 

The miner stepped out of his uniform and walked up to the edge of the bed. Somehow he seemed even more imposing in just dark briefs and a tshirt. Eddie gulped. He blinked and the man was beside the bed. He turned his masked face to look at him as he opened the drawer in his bedside table. Oh fuck yes. 

Obviously finding what he was looking for, he then knee walked onto the bed between Eddie’s spread legs. He felt a quiver go through him as his hands were grasped and pulled away from his boxers. The man leaned over him to press his hands above his head, face to face with him. Eddie nodded. With a small appreciative noise the man let go and leaned back. Eddie left his hands where he’d put them. 

Big warm hands were pulling slowly at the waistband of his boxers and he whined. He silently hoped he wasn’t going to take this much time doing everything. He raised his hips and thankfully they were pulled down and off his legs. His cock begged for attention now that it was uncovered. Eddie yelped as cold lube was dumped onto it but warm calloused fingers drug it down to circle his entrance. Eddie was losing what little patience he had.

“Please. I- uh, already had fingers there today-“ The groan that punched out of the masked man had his dick twitching between them. He slid a finger in slowly and made another low noise as it met little resistance. Eddie pulled his elbow over his face, somehow ashamed even as he was so close to coming. His arm was shoved away from his face, the man between his legs giving him a short shake of the head when he looked at him. 

“Alright, I know. Okay. Unless you’re fucking huge, I’m good. Give me your cock.” The man hummed and pushed three fingers in roughly. Eddie hissed. “Fuck, okay well your fingers are fucking huge but-“

He made another dismissive noise as he scissored the fingers around, mercifully not hitting his prostate. Eddie whined again as he felt the edge of the man’s pinky also push past his rim. He couldn’t be serious with this. He rocked his hips down to try to hurry him up, fucking the fingers further into him. 

After another moment, just as Eddie was going to complain again, the fingers were slid out. The masked man backed away and stood at the side of the bed to drag his briefs off. 

Eddie stared, propping himself up on his elbows without thinking, trying to get a better look. 

The man slid his lubed hand over his impressive cock. 

It was longer and thicker than anyone or anything he’d experimented with before. Eddie’s ass clenched around nothing. He’d never wanted something inside of him so badly.

“Jesus Christ, where did you come from?” He licked his lips unconsciously and the stranger groaned. Eddie groaned, too. “C’mon big boy, I need to come with that thing in me.”

The masked man huffed at him and Eddie watched enthralled as he rolled a condom down his length and repositioned himself back between his legs. Eddie appreciated that he didn’t try to get him to turn over. He wanted to see him. 

Almost immediately the masked man hooked his legs over his shoulders and without preamble started pushing inside of him. Eddie moaned at the stretch and being basically bent in half. On an overzealous inhale he caught the spicy sharp scent of his cologne again and, what really sent him spiraling, the smoky alcohol tang of whiskey. That couldn’t be a coincidence but just then his prostate was nailed and a hand wrapped around his cock and he couldn’t form any more coherent thoughts. 

He reached up and pushed against the headboard as he was shoved up the bed, moaning loudly as he hurtled towards his orgasm. 

“Fuck, oh my god, gunna-“ he nearly screamed as every nerve ending in his body sparked. The man didn’t stop thrusting or jerking his cock and his orgasm went on forever. 

“I think you’re trying to kill me with your dick, holy fuck,” he whined as his body shook with overstimulation. The stranger chuckled darkly and he decided maybe that was fine. Eddie reached between them to pull the hand off his spent cock and shockingly the man laced their fingers together, bringing their connected hands up into the pillow next to his head. 

Their bodies came together again and again and his dick shockingly started showing signs of life. The friction between their chests and the man’s soft tshirt was delicious and he’d never been more turned on in his life. 

“Please tell me you’re close. I’m going to lose my mind.” 

He moaned again as the man changed position slightly to drag over his prostate over and over again. Clearly losing his grasp on reality, he sunk his teeth into the sliver of skin between the fabric of his mask and his shirt. The man’s hips snapped off beat and he swore under his breath. The first actual word he’d spoken to him. Eddie sucked and bit at the mark as he came again untouched between them. 

Eddie could only hang on as the other man chased his orgasm, his thrusts getting faster before he finally groaned and ground his hips into him. He rocked them together a couple more times before collapsing in a heap on top of him. Eddie tried to hold on to his own consciousness as best as he could, wanting to gain any other information about this person, but he slipped into darkness. 

He became aware of the smell of coffee first. He never set the timer on his pot, always forgetting the night before. Then he remembered the night before. He shot upright in bed and looked around. There was nothing out of place or strange in his bedroom to show from his mystery guest. 

He ran out to the kitchen. The pot was on, and his favorite Garfield mug was sat out on the counter with a note under it.

In scraggly print it said See you with a cartoony smiley face with big eyes and an x.

He chuckled to himself when he pulled next to Steve Harrington’s truck at the grocery store. As he opened his door Steve rounded the back of it holding a paper bag. 

He grinned at him. “Motel staples?”

“You know it,” Steve peered into the bag. “All the food groups: cookies, microwave popcorn, and beer.”

Steve pulled open his door and a very familiar mask fell to the ground.

@lighthousebeams

[merbear25]

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.