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vyzz-undercover · 2 months ago

Text

the voices have made this happen

[cato/f!ambassador]

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5)

(5,900ish words) (OUUGHHHHH)

CONTENT WARNINGS:

•slight dubcon

•hints of size kink [obligatory]

•vaginal fingering

•oral [f receiving]

•mild possessive behaviour

•the consequences of ignoring important medical devices

•mentions of (hypothetical) torture

•tumblrs recurringly cancerous formatting

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im back on my bullshit after having to do overnights so as payment to the dark gods of whoring and degeneracy i humbly offer this taglist of sweet darling who've indulged my insanity: @the-raven-lady, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @bispecsual, @lemon-russ, @kit-williams, @passionofthesith, @egrets-not-regrets, @moodymisty, @sinistermojo, @justeverythingnothingelse, @pluvio-tea, @thevoidscreams, @beckyninja, @yestheantichrist!!! if you wanna be tagged (or not) in the next let me know!!! also it may take me longer to do a part four to this namely because ive got more wageslaving ahead of me soon but alas i'll definitely have rowboat girlyman catch em. also maybe give cato some top. myehehehehe,,, AND THANK YOU FOR READING AS USUAL ILY ALL!!! :3

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Cato is just about leaving.

After having spent the better part of an hour discussing the predicted destruction pathway of a hive-fleet on the system's rim with his Father; it sends his balls into his throat when you nearly run into him in the chamber's huge archway.

It only takes a fraction of a second to catalogue your presence.

You're wearing the same utilitarian blue robe as you had been last week again.

Last week, when he'd been pounding you insensible on a lounge in the library—Cato promptly quashes the insidious memory, smothering down any sort of reaction. But there is a change in comparison to the dizzying reminder: there's a new addition to the reoccurring outfit.

You've brought a navy, high-collared turtleneck into the mix, layered below your lapels.

So, the efforts of his mouth hadn't gone unheeded, then.

Throne, if he's not smug, he's got no bloody clue what he is.

Cato steps aside and turns to allow you entrance first before his exit.

"Commander Sicarius," you lilt with a soft voice and a small downward tip of your chin, all while holding his gaze.

He's transfixed periodically at the honeyed sort of warmth in your eyes.

Despite himself, he lingers and greets you with a slow, "Lady Ambassador."

The left side of his mouth twitches upward in a half-aborted smirk that he quickly tries to mask as a stern, frown-nod combination.

You break the staring match and Cato's confident he's salvaged his slip-up without detection.

Or not—because oh, fuck—if he doesn't feel the burning focus of a Primarch's eyes boring a hole into the side of his head like a brand.

It only lasts an instant, but the second is an eternity to him.

Of course, you're oblivious to this subtle exchange—and promptly trot past him to his Father's vast desk.

"My Lord Primarch," you say with a curt little bow; and then Guilliman's attention is solely on you, his favourite little pet project. "I read the data-drives you instructed from the preceding article logging. I've arranged them back to the most recent mark counts."

You're looking for an empty spot to lay them on his table, but with all the meticulously arranged stacks, it's none too easy to find one.

"Perfect," the Primarch breaths, "Just on the side there is fine, don't worry."

Obligingly, you lay them atop a small mountain of paperwork.

"Do you need anything else of me, my Lord?" You chirp brightly, the tone of your voice so very painfully sweet—Cato is nearly overwhelmed fighting a pitched battle against the urge to run over, pick you up and shake you around suddenly.

Guilliman chuckles, waving one massive hand about vaguely, "You've done more than enough for me today, why don't we leave it at that for now, hm? Go on."

"Of course; thank you, and have a good evening, my Lord," You say, bow once more, and turn on your heel from the Primarch, and—and smile at Cato as you walk back towards the exit. That's—that's the first time you've smiled at him. His twin hearts lurch, slamming forward against the inside of his fused chest cavity. It's perfect abominable. You rotten temptress, he's—he's going to rectify that audacity later. Or now, if you're... possibly heading the same direction he is. Which is whatever direction you're going, purely by chance.

It's merely coincidence, he swears.

He's certainly not planning on hounding after you like a dog tailing a bitch in heat.

He's certainly not going to drag you into a side room the second he's sure no-one with a credible opinion's around.

He's certainly not going to indulge in anything heretical, like bending you bare over his knee for daring to taunt him.

Cato makes as if to fall in step behind you as you pass the threshold before him, but is quickly halted by his Father's curt, "I do not believe you have been dismissed, Cato."

He's never been subjected to such sinking dread quite so nonchalantly.

"Approach."

Cato complies stuffily, sparing a glance at your figure disappearing down the corridor before acquiescing. He's practically dragging his ceramite boots across the intricate rugs as he nears the Primarch's seated but colossal form.

Guilliman isn't looking at him, having had returned to notating a miscellaneous form.

The scritch-scratch of his gene-sire's preferred, yet archaic method of manually writing on the parchment is like someone grating a plate with a fork to his ears right now.

"You've gotten over your petty grievances regarding the Ambassador at last, I take it?" Guilliman asks, without looking up.

It is not Cato's duty to like or dislike. Nor is it to be biased without reason—his opinions are to be intellectual, not emotional. His duty is to assess, analyse and provide feedback, so that his Primarch can take it into account when making rulings and decisions.

Cato swallows around the proverbial hunk of drywall lodged in his throat and answers, "She has proven herself... useful, yes, sire."

Guilliman finally meets his eyes but says nothing for a short while. There's dark bags under his Primarch's eyes, and the deep, stern crease permanently between his dark blonde brows is a slight bit harsher, but the only thing Cato can parse out of the expression's intent is a vague sense of knowing. Because, insofar, he's thought himself quite adept at reading his Primarch; and rather well versed in deciphering the intricacies of his moods.

And right now, he feels like he's being read like an open manuscript.

The daunting prospect Cato's caught sinks it's teeth in his gullet. It's impossible, he's not left any room for suspicion, he's covered his tracks—there's no logical reason why he should be getting raked with such a look.

His gene-sire isn't a psyker nor omniscient, just impossibly intelligent—and so absurdly good at the mathematics of plotting and planning that it only appears superficially as if he is all-seeing. He can't possibly know what Cato has been doing—or rather, who he's been doing.

"It's about time," his Father hums abruptly, suddenly disinterested. "Now you're dismissed."

Cato nods, turns on his boot heel, and nigh bolts marches out the room. His proverbial tail definitely not between his legs.

The hall outside Guilliman's apartments is a central domed area that functions as a meeting area, where people go to one of six looming hallways. It's the bottom of a series of levels; and above, three echelons encircled by arcades and balustrades, framed on the exterior by engaged columns.

But the structure itself is immense and ancient, even by Imperial standards. One of the few still-original, unaltered parts of the great Gloriana-class warship's innards. It is doused in long swathes of red carpet and great standards of Magcraggian note, alongside glorious, heroic frescoes depicting Legiones Astartes in their thousands, crusading across the heavens with the Emperor their head.

Cato keeps his head down as he passes them, uneasy with guilt. Feeling as if their lenses are following him—intent on venturing into the lower layers to brood.

Several Astartes are hovering about amongst the personnel and serfs. The baselines look up at him in awe, and his Brothers nod in respect, but he pays them all no mind.

The furthest corridor beckons him, and so he goes; down the complex system of broad walks with high, barrel vault ceilings, mazing through the vessel's higher clearance reaches like arteries through a body.

Cato is seething, and self-admittedly itching to take a howler of a swing at the next thing that speaks to him.

He cuts down the southern channel and sees one of his subordinate Victrix Guard lingering in the middle of a groin vault intersection.

The younger Astartes is about to continue straight, yet he pauses.

Brother Marcellus meets Cato's eyes for a second, clearly notes his Commander's absolutely stinking mood from a hundred meters off; nods, swallows, takes a step backward—and changes direction to go left rather than pass him.

Cato's too pissed to even linger on the strangeness of the action.

Still, he doesn't rightly blame him.

Cato strides on, back straight, chin up—the red shawl pinned beneath his pauldrons swirling behind him.

His thoughts are eating at him the whole while.

He's sure his Primarch is just trying to innocently divine his sudden change of mind regarding you. There's no way his Father's aware of why. And yet, guilt is a big black wolf nipping at his ankles, making him hasten; and unease clouds about his heart. He's mortified, for lack of a better word.

The full implications of the situation are too enormous to be faced all at once; so he picks the smallest, most banal facet he can think of.

That being, you.

You, who he'll never see again if his Primarch finds out.

You, who's practically damned him without knowing it.

You, who he's now valiantly trying not to imagine in a hundred different circumstances where he gets away with it all. Each one more heretical than the last—it's like it was before he'd managed a hand on you: his body giving in to suffocating delusions, sleepless in his cot; lapping at whatever scant, lust-soaked morsels his mind offers up.

One of his favourites remains you scantily clad beneath a moonlit night sky, on the parapet of his ancestral fortress on the coastal edge of Perusia.

He likes to fantasise you like it there.

He suspects you would.

He knows just about all there is to know about you on paper, and wonders if you know much of Talassar. Or if you've read about Castra Tanagra. He assumes Guilliman would share the tale of that famed old battle with you as a part of your readings.

Each impossible reverie is a new shiny nail in his coffin, or dreadnaut—it depends where and how he dies, and if there's anything scrape up of him when he eventually goes down in a blaze of glory and duty, and honour.

If his Primarch catches him, there's going to be none of that.

He'll be struck from living record, like Titus had been. Cato would be lucky to get a little plaque in the deepest pits of the Fortress of Hera. Reduced to a whispered memory of his achievements passed solemnly between Captains, followed up with words of disappointment. Of waste. Until his memory dies with them and his deeds fade into obscurity, lost to any new brothers.

The fate that awaits you would somehow be worse. Cato was always going to die in war, as was his right—but you—you were not fashioned for such things. Yes, Guilliman enjoys you, but that fact won't save you. Just like it won't save Cato for all his usefulness. You'd be tried as a heretic, as a source of corruption upon the Legiones, and you'd be made to suffer; because torture ever comes before execution. You're so very soft weak in so very many ways. Your life lived in a gilded cage, without pain nor discomfort that extends further than grating professional grievances—he doesn't want to imagine the sound of you screaming, but he does.

He cannot stand the thought.

The sudden urge to barricade you in his chambers for permanent safe keeping is all-consuming.

It's suddenly all he can think about.

He has to find you.

The amount of serfs passing and parting to allow his passage thin out to nothing.

Even from the sterile confines of one of the many winding hallways, Cato abruptly swears he can hear the echoed rush of sandals—your sandals—reverberating off the floor.

He hadn't notice you following behind immediately because, damn it, he's spiralling thinking.

He chances a confrontation, and rounds about-face.

You stand there in the middle of the empty hallway like you've got a bolter aimed at you, frozen.

"Come here," he says, clipped.

You do not.

"Come here."

Again, no compliance.

"Do you pride yourself on being a idiot?" His voice is scathing now, taking a heavy step into your space and being met by you staying stock stiff, still. "Do you have any idea what that stunt of yours earlier might incur?"

"What?" You blink, finally animating. "I didn't do anything—"

"You know what you did," he hisses, accusatory. "You're hollow between the ears, but you're not blind."

Lips pursing tightly in mental deliberation, you make a fey noise of annoyance as a little frown graces your features, apparently not deigning to offer a comment back.

"Do you not understand that... this," he gesticulates between you both and his voice falls to a whisper. "This... is not common allowance?"

"It's not?"

Are you being intentionally dense at this point, or is it just second nature?

Cato raises a hand to knead the crease between his brows, "No."

"That explains a lot, actually," you say, seemingly without any real comprehension on the gravity of the matter. "I couldn't find any notes or references on it."

He's genuinely stunned, "Is that what you were doing when—"

"When I was rudely interrupted," you cut in, the comment is nigh a spat insult.

Cato isn't sure what to say to that sudden display of spine, and grumbles.

He surmises the optimal action is complete disregard.

Therefore, he has no problem turning on the heel of his sabatons and starting his pace on again.

"So... this isn't normal by Astartes standards?"

He's taken aback at your abrupt want for conversation after all that. Namely because it's atypical. You never attempted small talk with him. You never do anything but scurry off when he's accosted you for you flagrant overstepping—wait.

He feels as if the paradigm between you both has shifted again since the last time for some reason. More than last time, actually. More than you just simply having the audacity to backtalk him.

It's like some symptom of a deeper sickness rising to the surface.

It makes him unreasonably curious suspicious.

He wants to see just how much ground you'll give, so he plays along and answers, "Not as far as I am aware, no."

You hum, and immediately are at it again, posturing, "Surely you have heard of cases of it happening?"

"I have not," Cato says, and you hum in consideration.

You're satisfied at that information for a brief while, but then he remembers you cannot shut your mouth for more than five minutes, and purses his lips. He's already tiring of your incessant questioning.

"But you'd done it before?"

And that's just great.

You've expertly found an exposed nerve.

More kindling on the bonfire of him having an aneurysm before the cycle's end.

Cato can feel the hint of pressure behind his eyes as he begins increasing his walking speed. "I don't think that is a relevant question."

You haste to stay in step, "It definitely is."

"You ought to learn a civil fucking tongue when you're addressing me, woman," he bites out, nose crinkling into a sneer.

Unperturbed by his short-tempered comment, another thoughtful little 'hmm' slips out of you.

"So, to conclude... you were as inexperienced as I was at the start, and all those gloating insults back then were just projection?" You suddenly blurt out at rather impressive speed, like a politician possessed—before finishing with, "Sorry, 'all those gloating insults back then were just projection,' Commander Sicarius."

Cato grits his teeth and feels his eye twitch.

He stops, turns to look over his pauldron, and stares bloody murder.

He can't even imagine the idiocy in your brain that gave you the imprimatur to say that aloud.

But Throne, the sly little glint in your pretty eyes suddenly has his face thudding with heat.

Then you smile at him for the second time ever.

Cato bites back the urge to ogle you dumbly, and actually feels himself thicken in his body-glove in real time, because oh, fuck—his hind brain practically pelts him across the jaw with the mental pict of that sweet mouth lathing up the side of his cock.

Mentally unseated for a moment, his brows furrow; and he quickly turns away, applying himself entirely to the task of trudging down the stagings.

The silence is a breath of fresh air.

Even if he can still hear your laboured breathing a few steps back him from him. You're straining to keep up with his pace, and it's an excellent punishment for you. His heavy sabatons clank-clank-clank on the steel decking, and your little shoes practically pitter-patter in contrast. It's a syncopated rhythm that he's absentmindedly trying to match—and when he lingers for a step he manages to even the beat out.

He hangs a left, and scales the wide stairs to the open intersection platform above two at a time; trying not to snort amusedly at the little groan you let out as you hurry up them behind him, heaving.

Cato realises abruptly that you're actually, really, seriously following him—and pretending you're not.

He makes a right at the top and then waits for you to fall in step.

And, pointedly, he then turns and doubles back around.

You stand there stupefied for a moment, before grumbling softly and continuing down the thoroughfare without him.

If his observation skills hold any weight, he heads straight into the nearest open room and waits for you to follow.

He doesn't activate the locking mechanism on the other side on purpose when he strides in, and lets the sliding door close behind him.

This particular room is forgettable in its ubiquitousness, though unusual. He has no idea of it's actual intended purpose. It's fitted with screens and database terminals as if it's for debriefing purposes, but he has no real way of confirming. What he can catalogue is that there's wraparound surfaces littered with candles. A few strips of harsh lighting and scant furniture—a tallish counter and a few long benches. They're thankfully Astartes sized.

Which means he can sit down and pray for you to walk right into the metaphorical snare he's just laid.

Not a minute later, the door's sliding mechanism triggers and you scurry through—only to promptly go stiff.

You stare at him like a rat he's just found by lifting a crate.

The mechanism shuts automatically behind you and it apparently spooks you enough to jump a little.

"You're disgustingly predictable," he harrumphs, unimpressed.

A flush rises to your face as you scowl, "You're disgustingly predictable," you shoot back, echoing his words.

Of course, that audacity of yours leads to a short stalemate.

He huffs out a sigh as he concedes out of sheer frustration and says, "Three-seven-five-eight-eight-two-nine-one."

You blink dumbly at him, "...what?"

"It's my locking code," he growls, and Throne, you must be acting stupid just to grate him; because there's no way your brain is so smooth as to not connect the dots. "It's for the door, moron."

A soft 'ohh' leaves you as you turn and step aside to the key pad fixed into the frame.

"Three-seven-five-eight-eight-two-nine-one," he's agonisingly forced to say once again.

"Three-nine-five-eight-eight-two-seven-one..." you mumble to yourself.

Cato hears an angry beep and suddenly wants to smash his head into a wall repeatedly.

Grinding his molars, he snarls, "Three-seven-five-eight-eight-two-nine-one," and then adds, "If I have to repeat that one more time, I'm going to throw you out of the nearest airlock."

And it seems the threat of violence works wonders, because you don't bungle the input this time.

Cato sighs, exasperated, and leans back against the lip of the table behind the bench.

He ought to start carrying around a correctional stun rod. Just for whenever you annoy him. If it's good enough for a Neophyte to suffer, it's good enough for you, he supposes.

Or it'll send you into a seizing fit.

He's not to sure of the maximum voltage a baseline can take without their singular, puny little heart giving out.

One disciplinary option scratched out, then.

But he can think of many, many more to make a model Ambassador out of you. The wonders of carefully applied violence are plentiful. A little roughing up never hurts, or at least, not for long. And fuck, do you need some lessons on proper manners. He could have you smacked into shape like a show pony in no time—even if it'd be more like teaching a grox to trot lateral movements. Then again, he also believes if he stuck a frag far enough up a Carnifex's ass, he could probably get it to play Regicide.

And then pointedly, he starts thinking about your ass.

Cato is so utterly lost on the tangent of hypotheticals that he's flabbergasted when a small mouth lands on his own.

He hadn't even been paying attention.

He hadn't even noticed you'd neared.

It feels like the breath has been knocked out him at the sheer unexpectedness of it.

The kiss is hasty, your eyes scrunched shut and cheeks flushed, scowling with focus.

All the while, his mind reels because Throne, the contact of his lips to yours doesn't really feel particularly profound aside from how soft your skin is—but the intention of it is the real reward.

Cato's genuinely infuriated when you pull away.

You blink owlishly at him, giving him a cautious look like you're trying to gauge his reaction.

There are a thousand things he wants to ask, to say, but the foremost among them is but one.

"Again," he huffs, lessening the distance between you just enough to invite you back.

And he thinks that perhaps he’s abusing his station over you, but when you tentatively find a hold on his gorget to steady yourself to give him another kiss—those thoughts are all but erased from his mind. It's a curious weight off his shoulders to have you initiate and to show you want him in return, especially since it's as new to you as it is for him.

Nonetheless, he can't even imagine finding a reason to stop you, so he starts blindly mouthing; trying to coordinate around the fact he's so much larger than you.

The angle is difficult, but he's willing to follow your lead. Your body is even more fragile when he's in full armour. The risk of actually hurting you is realer than ever, but he can't help the desire to wrap an gauntlet around your waist and pull you closer to him. Thankfully, you let him when he urges you to, trembling hands flitting across his chestplate like you're unsure of what, exactly, you should be holding—and he catches the tiny line between your brows smoothing out as you risk a peek. Only for you to yelp, nervously wrenching yourself back in flustered surprise upon meeting his unwavering stare.

It's as if you expected something else.

He senses he's made a mistake of some kind.

Then he remembers from the motion-picts he's not supposed to keep glaring at you when kissing.

Regardless, he studies your face, memorising the lingering want still clearly there like his life depends on it.

He pulls you in and kisses you again, just because he can, this time brief and chaste. And then he goes for a third, fourth—fifth, each time slightly longer, until finally he rears back; and when he does you push up on your toes just a little, trying to chase him, but lose the nerve; although to Cato the reason for your faltering is, frankly, irrelevant. Because just like him, you lack the practical capacity to really know what next step you should take. Still, you look down at his armour, as if there's a latch to pull that magically undoes all his wargear.

He knows he's not going to get himself out of his armour in any reasonable way or amount of time.

There's no way he's getting the satisfaction of having you on him right now—but he still wants to keep you near.

He thinks he hears you ask for something, but he's too distracted to catch it in time.

"What?" Cato scowls, "What do you want now?"

It's clear you've been struck by your own embarrassment, strung up somewhere between shy and wanton, "I.. uh..."

"Spit it out," he rumbles.

You wince, hesitant as you mumble, "You, uh... i-in me."

Cato's brain skids to a halt. And it's the gall of that request alone that has him sweeping you up off the ground and spinning you around to sit in his lap.

It's obvious you're overwhelmed at being held to the formidably larger size of himself in full-plate. But as usual, you're yet to actively complain. Using his vambrace as a leg-bar to scoop under your thighs, he folds you in his grasp—your knees pressed to your chest as you're tucked back against his pauldron and chestplate.

The angle forces the hems of your robe aside, and he can see the underside curve of your ass; along with the plump mound of your vulva under the white of your small-clothes.

Cato's suddenly offended by their existence. You didn't wear any last time, so why now? The irritation of there being one more thing between you and him is enough justification to yank at them, tearing them loose—before throwing them aside.

You grumble sourly, which he chooses to ignore.

The palm of his gauntlet smooths across your hip, and you make a small huff as you shiver, goose-bumps suddenly covering your exposed flesh.

Cato lets the pads graze closer and closer to your sex, content to watch you impatiently glare at his armoured fingers from between the gap of your thighs.

With little preamble, he's stuffing his middle in. You're already so wet it's practically a cake-walk. Your cunt swallows down each articulating segment of his armoured finger down to the knuckle. The fact he's going to have to personally scrub your slick out from between the joints, instead of a lowly serf, is infinitely worth the shrill whine he receives as tribute.

"Would that my wargear had a zipper," he breathes, and fuck, he grins behind the obscurity of his gorget at the mournful mewl that remark earns. "I'd have you on your knees sucking for all the cunted trouble you've caused me."

You're making a warp-awful attempt at keeping yourself together, high-strung as you evidently are. Little more than a minute of him pumping his finger in and out of you has you red-faced and panting. All it takes to get those heavy breaths of yours to change into proper whines is his large thumb-pad adjusting to rest on your clit, applying pressure. You jerk, reflexively trying to buck into every motion. Fighting and failing to withhold the stuffy little moans escaping you—trying to stave off the inevitable by scrambling at the thigh plating of his power armour with one hand and tugging at his couter with the other.

Some part of Cato wants to stop solely out of spite for you being so grating earlier, or some other stupid mercurial justification of his; but instead, he simply continues, letting you squirm on his fingers.

And squirm you do.

It's clear to him the tide of it all is becoming too much for you to resist. Your sandal'd feet kick out where he's got your legs secured, joining in on the struggling as it begins anew when his thumb starts circling. It's a good sign, so he adds his pointer into you to bolster the stretch, curling in; before letting his fingers fan out inside you, stretching rather than stabbing. Your hips try to stutter forward in time with the quick thrusting of his digits, broken whimpers resonating off the room's walls. He promptly stuffs down to the knuckle and curls them again—and you all but bleat his surname as you're dragged into a fast and apparently exhausting orgasm. Just knowing he's you got you beat has his erection ache where it's trapped under the suiting and plating of his navel.

Cato can't feel you clenching through all the layers separating his skin from yours, but he knows from experience that you're seizing in fits internally—tight little cunt trying to milk a load out of an Astartes cock that should've been stuffed in you.

Just to allow himself one last bit of smugness, he scissors his fingers; giving a final swirl for good measure.

The shivered sob is worth every possible future disciplinary action he'll receive.

He pulls his gauntlet away slowly, and the wet shlick of it leaving you is almost amusingly alike pulling a blade from sinew. It's a degenerate comparison, he knows, but it's true.

Nonetheless, he splays out his hand and swallows dryly, eyeing the sticky, clear liquid webbing out and thinning between each ridge of his gauntlet'd digits.

Suddenly focused entirely on the fluid on his fingers, he pulls his vambrace barring under your knees up away. Now limp, and without the support, you slide off his lap and onto the floor in a slow slump.

"Nn-ngh," You groan weakly, face-down, legs still juddering a little.

Seeing as you're preoccupied, Cato doesn't even dignify the concept of hesitation, and promptly jams his fingers in his mouth—lathing the aftermath of your orgasm from them. And Throne, the taste of your hormones make him groan. He's absolutely stunned, unsure of how to act. He's so fucking stupid, why didn't he do this earlier? He's practically drugged by the omophagic aftereffect—getting off on your second hand bliss. Some sort of fey feedback loop in his brain catalysing his next decision solely on instinct.

He clambers to the floor and gets to his knees guards, securing a mitt on your bared thigh to roll you onto your back.

Apparently boneless with afterglow, you're easy to manhandle.

You barely have the strength to do much more than crane your head up at him and whine as he arranges your thighs apart, settling on his front between them with a warp-awful clank; before lifting your legs up to rest onto either lip of his gorget.

You try to scud back on your ass suddenly, but are quickly halted when he holds you fast by the hip.

He raises a confused brow.

"I-Isn't—" you start, still gathering the scraps of your brain together so soon post-orgasm, "Isn't y-your saliva acid?"

Cato suddenly wants to cuff you on the ear, "Who the hell told you that?"

"M-Master Calgar," you mumble.

Oh, of course, the gossiping hen.

He's going to have words with the Lord Defender of Greater Ultramar the next time they meet—words like 'for fuck sakes, stop scaring the woman he's trying to eat out with talk of Betcher's gland, Marneus,' come to mind, but then Cato realises that doesn't sound like he's not fucking you, so he quickly settles on: 'stop dignifying the Ambassador's hundred-and-one insane questions.'

"Not Ultramarines," Cato manages not to snarl, "It's a vestigial organ in most of us."

Your voice is shaky as you parrot, "Most of us?"

"Yes," He grunts, and promptly buries his face in your cunt.

The disproportion in size is painfully apparent when he realises his whole damned tongue is able to drag a stripe up the entire splay of you with minimal effort.

The pitched gasp he wins out of you is pure sin, and he's on the brink of swooning; but then you're running your trap again.

"Please, d-don't tell me you're one that can spit acid—" you manage to warble, seemingly still stuck on the topic.

Cato sighs as he's forced to pull away from your vulva, "I think you're forgetting I had my tongue on your tonsils in the library."

"Th-that's different," you stammer. "That's not as sensitive."

A long, unimpressed deadpan paints itself on his face.

"So," he starts with a bated hiss, "And let me be perfectly clear in this—you believe your vagina is more susceptible to burns than your mouth?"

Your face transforms into a strange mix of embarrassed and angry.

"I didn't say that—"

"Yes, you did," Cato grumbles.

"Did not," you huff.

"You—you just fucking did," he snaps, frustrated enough that he can feel one of the veins at his temple bulge. "The implication is obvious, you insufferable little whore."

You snort, but stay silent.

The argument appears, for all intents and purposes, to be finished.

"Did not," you say abruptly once more, pouting.

Cato's eyes roll back in his skull as he grits his teeth.

"Throne of Terra, if you don't drop the subject, acid in your cunt will be the least of your worries," he all but snarls, and that apparently quietens you enough that he can get back to lapping at you—the flat of his tongue running over your clit and earning a jolt.

He wraps his lips around the pink little nub and sucks. And that's all it apparently takes to make up for his amateur career in the practice.

You siphon down a sharp breath and let out a garbled cry, hips canting forward into his mouth—to which he obligingly stuffs his tongue into your slick entrance.

There's a satisfaction well beyond simple pleasure that swamps him at the way your thighs shake either side of his head. His own breath is hot about him, stuffy and dizzying; and the skin pressed against his cheeks is warm and smooth.

You're panting when he goes back to lapping over your clit, perching yourself up on a bent elbow and reaching out a hand.

Your fingers card through the messed brown hair atop his head. And he stiffens without realising—but he realises something: like this, the touch is ecstasy—pure, golden ecstasy. Every bit of higher thought in his head evaporates when you stroke him again.

A long, rumbling subvocal moan tears from him.

The infrasound vibration makes you buck weakly into his mouth again, teary eyed afore him as he adjusts his grip on you and crawls closer.

He's suddenly acutely aware that in this new, much more prone position, he's able to grind his body armour into his groin guard pressed on the floor. And as soon as the action bears results—namely a scorching burr of pleasure racing up his spine—he's deadset on rutting against the ground like a slavering beast.

He's frotting himself at a pace so rabid it'd be cruel to subject your cunt to. It's brutal, and the harsh scraping sound of plasteel on steel only further proves that. It's just frantic lust—he's desperate.

It's complete insanity how close to finishing he is so quickly.

Not as close as you, though.

He can feel how your legs jump with each pass of his tongue; and then you're unraveling in front of his very eyes.

"I-I can't—I can't, S-Sicarius, I-I—" You ramble, dazed, trying to get away as he works you right through it, sobbing and oversensitive while he's rutting himself closer and closer to his own end.

It all comes to a head when your fingers dig into his hair, tugging—and his brain is overrun with static. A drawn out groan scathes from his maw as any sense of rhythm scatters like light through a prism. For a fraction of a second, the pleasure is serene.

Then it's abject agony, he feels—he feels like Roboute Guilliman himself has just taken a running start and kicked him in the balls.

"F-Fuck–ing—gh—" he chokes, vision swimming, straining against the tide of the torment. His back arches up, and he curls inward on himself; white-hot pain clocking his nervous system into overdrive. Every muscle in his abdomen is doused in acid. He's tolerated being shot, stabbed, burnt without so much as blinking—but this is an entirely new and entirely different sort of wound. It's like he's pissing promethium. It's—it's the catheter, he realises. He'd forgotten about the bloody catheter jammed up his cock.

Through the searing ordeal, he manages to force his armour's facilities to finally abide his impulses and dose him with a pain dampener.

And then everything's fine.

He opens eyes he wasn't aware he'd closed and finds your face has suddenly gotten far closer to his.

"S-Sicarius?" You stammer, and there's an honest panic in your voice. "Sicarius, p-please, please—a-are you okay?"

He realises he's on his back, and you're sitting beside him, half draped on his chestplate, frantically trying to figure out what's wrong with him to no avail.

You've leaned in so close he can feel your rushed breathing.

"I'm fine," Cato groans, and you sputter out a sigh.

"I-I don't know what happened, I-I—" you're still wildly confused and raving, and he inhales deeply; only to be greeted by the sour animal stink of fear practically dripping from you.

Cato rolls his tongue around inside his mouth and cringes knowingly at the foaming side-effect of the chem he'd self-administered, the acrid taste mixed with your slick is certainly not an ideal cocktail.

The sincerity of concern behind your reaction is baffling. He's not made of glass, for fuck sakes—and he's a bit pissy about the fact you'd actually fallen victim to the idea of him suffering some grievous injury so easily. But he supposes where there's a will of baseline overreaction, there's a way.

"You're acting like a child, woman. Pull yourself together," he sighs hoarsely, hoping the comment jars you out of your hysteria—or at the very least scares you off.

It does exactly neither, and you sidle in closer and rest your cheek on his jaw.

It’s an action so overwhelmingly horribly affectionate that it would’ve been a crime to not press into it with a lean of his head. Or, at least, that's the half-assed justification he tells himself.

Because he's loving enduring your attention, not seeking it; and therefore only humouring you when he lifts a hand and settles the wide splay of it on your flank as a comfort.

He shouldn't be, but he is.

#warhammer 40k x reader #warhammer 40k #reader insert #warhammer fanfic #cato sicarius #space marine x reader #cato sicarius x reader #writing #ultramarines #cato 'im going to kill the next person i fucking see' sicarius #*squeaky noise*#ambassador 'omg hiiiii'#FUCKKK #anyways #roboute guilliman #i am so fucking sorry you have to deal with this shit baby girl #also LMFAO I DO THINK CALGAR LOOOOVES A GOOD BITCHING SESSION

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allthebrazilianpolitics · 2 months ago

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SOS! SOLIDARITY KITCHEN HIT BY FIRE IN BRAZIL!

In the city of São Carlos in the Brazilian state of São Paulo, a solidarity kitchen by the Homeless Workers' Movement (MTST) that distributed over 200 meals a day for free to people in situations of social vulnerability has been hit by fire on October 8th, 2024. The people who depended on the meals were mainly inhabitants of occupations by the MTST, who are organizing a fundraiser to recover.

The causes of the fire, which has also hit their toy library, are unknown as of yet. But you can already donate!

Pix (Brazil's instant payment system): [email protected]

NEEDED ITEMS:

Freezer

Two refrigerators

Kitchen utensils (pots, cutlery)

Gas hose

Blender

Gas cylinder

Large cabinet

FOOD: – Rice – Beans – Pasta – Oil – Tomato sauce – Mixture – Seasonings

COLLECTION POINTS WHERE TO DONATE IN PERSON:

PROARA (Aparecido da Silva street, 3749- Cidade Aracy 2)

CAASO/USP (Trabalhador São Carlense avenue, 400 – CAASO building)

SINTUFSCar and ADUFSCar (Rod. Washington Luís, s/n – Monjolinho – Buildings near Palquinho/Gymnasium in the south area)

Thanks @fvneral-pyre for bringing this. Let's help them out, folks!

(x, x, x)

#brazil #politics #brazilian politics #homeless workers' movement #mutual aid #brought by followers #fvneral pyre #image description in alt #mod nise da silveira

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streets-in-paradise · 11 months ago

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The Real Deal - Matt Murdock x Witch!Reader

Warnings: I haven't wrote for Daredevil in a long while, so forgive me if i have mistaken details of the show.

Summary: You want to help your lawyers in their most challenging case, but the controversial nature of your skills leaves it up to question.

Tags: @chezagnes

Matt and Foggy meet you as one of their early clients and, in their perspective, you were a simple fortune teller unfortunately caught in a legal issue. Your case was so absurd that it represented easy work for them. Even in the strange times they were living in, it still made no sense. A matter of police profiling through the mass hysteria in the post Loki New York making you suspicious for carrying symbols of norse witchcraft. Runic readings weren't the only service you offered and your practices weren't culturally límited to what then started to be considered an asgardian danger. However, society was still adapting to the discovering and the clueless officers couldn't tell the difference between an asgardian sorceress and the neighborhood's witch. Your lawyers realized of that, and the instant fondness of you that at least half of the firm developed closed the deal for you to get out of trouble.

Unlike most of their clientele, you were managing to pay them in cash. Slow, but consistent payments that also worked as a way to stay in touch. Despite they were highly skeptical of your activity, they did appreciate their owned share of its product. Catholic belief wasn't an obstacle for Matt's flirting and his friend would never miss the chance to tease him for that when you were arround. That precise combination of factors made you be always welcome, but with each visit you noticed they were struggling deeper than just financtially.

They got in serious trouble attempting to legally save the neighborhood from gentrification taking down the lead of the dirty business surrounding it. Even their secretary was involved in the investigation, huge deal that made you feel quite concerned for all of them.

You were relatively new in the city, but that didn't mean you weren't inclined to help. The chain reaction would screw everyone over, except for the top rich.

You weren't an asgardian terrorist, but neither the easy to underestimate facade associated with your business. To some of your clients, the ones coming for meaningless issues or unethical things, you would ocassionally sell advice disguised of bullshit.However, you were a real witch performing unmistakeable results for causes that justified it.

Overhearing the plotting of your favorite lawyers, you found one that was worth all your efforts.

" Let me help you out with Fisk." You interrupted them instead of awaiting for Karen to take your payment. " … A full name, birth date and a personal object is all I need, for a start. "

Foggy couldn't believe what you had just proposed, taking it as absolute nonsense.

" Not in the mood for jokes, Princess Opal. We have a serious situation here, but we will call you to join the search if someone goes missing. "

You didn't let the demeaning comment bring you down, it was exactly what you expected of him.

" Believe it or not, I am a worker of justice just like you." You corrected him ríght away. " When your system fails, some people come to me hoping to rush the action of karma. Others want me to give them the hope in justice that their practicers can't provide. Do you have any idea of how many clients i get that are currently in legal battles, but don't trust the courts to give them what they need for the sake of it? How much work with justice i get demmanded? It's insane! Regardless of what you believe about it, you can't deny it says something. "

Matt was very silent, untill the tease got him snarky.

" We are working to make things better, I hope you will not resent us for winning that hope back. "

You smiled, already struggling to resist his charm. Despite he obviously couldn't see it, you could swear he noticed the effect he had in you.

" On the contrary, I admire you. I know of the kind of hard time you get when trying to do the ríght thing." You admitted, not realizing you were already toying with the tips of your hair. " When an obsessive weirdo comes asking me to magically force someone to love them, or to curse a coworker they envy, I sell them teraphy disguised with self satisfying witchy-sounding talk. Placebos, so they will get someting to come back for and not search for an unethical bastard that could either scam them worse or do the damage they want for the proper price. When worried parents bring a sick child, I do the real healing ritual for free and make up my costs doing readings or charging an asshole tax on the crazy ones. That's who I am, my concience makes me loose money, and i believe we are on the same page when it comes to business models. "

The comparison was strange, but it showed perfect understandment of their situation found in the weirdest of places.

" I was not aware there were ethics in witchcraft. "

" For you only, I'm willing to ignore my code. " You snarked back in a flirtatious tone. " Let me hex Fisk, show him something that would make him regret to mess with the neighborhood. "

Foggy was cautious of your slightly sinister expression at the end and started to think you trully believed in the power on your threat.

" Sounds like a mobster message, clearly not our style. "

" How would that work?" Karen interrupted him. " It won't kill anyone, ríght?"

Her friend stared at her in disbelief.

" You can't be serious. "

" Foggy, gods have fallen from the sky ... I say we let her give it a try. "

" Those were aliens, not gods. " Matt corrected. " I don't believe in curses, it comes with being a catholic. "

He did make you chuckle with that one.

" Well, hipocricy also comes with catholicism. "

" She got you … can't beat the allegations! " Foggy teased him ríght away. " Your fault for making us jump in defense of the beautifull savage for you to play missionary with. "

You both were left in evidence on a matter of seconds.

" Thanks, Foggy! It's the first lovely thing about me you have to say today."

He didn't intend to sound harsh, but he couldn't possibly understand you.

" Try to see things from my perspective: i feel like i'm being mocked. "

" If it eases your concience, the methods are mostly a facade. I'm the real deal, it runs in the blood. " You confessed, wondering if you would regret it later. " Mom thinks i got it from my father. I don't know, I never meet him and at this point i don't think I want to. Don't waste time asking me about that."

" Can you cast the honesty curse from ' Liar, Liar'? That would be really helpfull. " Foggy mocked you once more. " We seek to expose Fisk, get him in jail. Even if we could believe you, I don't see how your offer can be any usefull. "

At least you could say you got him Interested. Weirded, maybe, but attentive.

" I can curse his business. Mysterious incidents will keep happening and he will loose money. Of course, I believe the Devil is doing his part on that, but why not giving him some help? Fisk will be easier for you to legally take down if he has too many things to attend at once. A vigilante and the curse of a real witch should be enough to do the dirty work for you. One problem, he may attempt to solve, but who is going to warn him about me? Even if they would … Do you think he would believe it?"

The next objection came from Matt, but that didn't surprise you as it should.

" Well, for a start we don't work with vigilantes."

" Too late, i think he is working with you." You snarked back. " Sounds like a good plan to me. After all, your church believes witches are the devil's consorts, ríght?"

In that simple comment he obtained all the proof he needed to believe in your gifts, realization that stayed between him and you.

#matt murdock #daredevil #charlie cox #matt murdock x reader #daredevil x reader #charlie cox x reader #netflix daredevil

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hdra77 · 10 months ago

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Ok since this blog is kinda getting alot of attention i'll just make a pinned post about a little bit of myself

----

interested in commissioning me? my art commission page can be found here! (my commissions are closed )

i accept payment through ko-fi or paypal! feel free to dm to inquire or if you have questions! :D

!! DISCLAIMER !!

Btw please read this before following my blog!! There would be gore,body horror,dark themes and even some suggestive themes Sometimes but overall i do not post any explicit nsfw here !! (they can be filtered through tags but just putting this here as a heads up)

tags are usually: #cw body horror, #tw body horror #cw gore, #tw gore, #cw suggestive, #tw suggestive

Heyy! i'm Soren!

He/Him

You can call me zarou or dra

I am bilingual but im more comfortable speaking in english (still bad at it actually)

i really like cybercore,webcore,warcore aesthetic it may not look like it right now but expect a whole bunch of techcore designs soon

Oh and i am also a huge fan of astronomy,space and all of that sort. Along with post apocalyptic settings,body horror elements and eldritch beings.

Using my art as PFPs/Banners is okay! As long as you give proper credit! But reuploading my works without my permission or claiming them as your own is NOT okay. I will find you and i will hunt you down and turn you into a helpless flopping fish gasping for air.

Inspirations is ok too!! But please do not directly copy from the original work.

Commissions: closed

Art trades: friends/mutuals only

My socials:

Twitter - HINDRANCE77 (!! page contains some suggestive themes !!)

Youtube - HINDRANCE77

Tumblr - hdra77 (you are literally here right now)

Ko-fi - HINDRANCE77

Bluesky - HINDRANCE77

My tags:

#hdra7shitposts - yes, shitposts

#fishdoesart - all my art goes here

#fishdoesdoodles - random doodles and some occasional shitposting, mostly on ms paint

#fishdoesrequests - all my art requests goes here

#wips - wips

#fishbites.txt - ramblings

#other's art - gifts/fanarts! with a mix of some reblogs

#asks - all of my responses goes here

AU TAGS:

Metamorphosis AU

(Tag: #nine sols metamorphosis AU)

- AU masterpost(tba)

- metamorphosis Yi design

Disarray/critical system failure AU

(Tag: #rw disarray au)

- AU masterpost (tba)

- designs

Rainsols AU

(Tag: rainsols au)

- AU masterpost

- designs

OC tags:

Mains:

#7c dystopian arbitrary

#oc : Eclipsed Pantheons

#oc : nine burning skies / #BoP : nine burning skies

#oc : frosted paths unwoven

#rw chronomancer

#rw the cryptid

#7c golden life

General oc tags:

#rw ocs

#rw oc

#ocs

my DNI are basically the general DNI: proshippers,homophobes,etc. you know, the general

my interest varies but i currently hyperfixtate on these fandoms so far:

Rainworld

Nine Sols

Marikinonline4

Animator vs Animation/Animation vs Minecraft

Warrior cats

My dms here are also open so feel free to send me a message! (No weird dms or you get instant block)

Im busy and i dont check discord as frequently but i would be happy to talk to you! I would also be glad to make friends im not intimidating i promise i dont bite totally-

My ask box are always open! Ask me anything basically, my aus, ocs, pretty much anything. You can also send some requests but they will take a gajillion years to finish but i promise ill get them done soon!

My other blogs:

@nyaworld-askblog - for the nyaworld au! this blog is story driven but asks for specific characters are always welcome!

My Rainworld AU tags:

#rw voided au - simple AU about iterators called voideds who drains void fluids out of other iterators, theres also some rot infection going on too

#rw disarray au/SYSTEM FAILURE - a virus in Lttm's code had created a fatal error in her system which caused her to slowly spiral into insanity as she would slowly loosen her grip onto reality, claiming that she had found the solution to their problem..but was it really the answer all along?

#rw nyaworld au - joke au about the entire rainworld cast taking place in the 2000's this one is purely just for nostalgia purposes

#into the sigverse - technically considered an au. this is just a silly little askblog about different versions of NSH interacting because for some reason they can now magically interact with different alternate universe versions of themselves. ocs being used to interact is allowed to!! anyone can use this tag however they please you don't have to send me asks to be a part of the sigverse

-- still WIP --

#i finally introduced myself #i should also change my page aesthetic soon #its been really outdated and i never planned on changing it LMAO #also have i mentioned im also really good with procrastinating

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theoretically-questionable · 6 months ago

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Moderation is a Sucker's Game

Longpost time - tl;dr: the concept of moderation is totally beefed on a fundamental level everywhere and recent anti-trans bans indicate Tumblr has only made the problem harder for itself by making bad staff choices. No solution, not absolving Tumblr of responsibility, but also I think it's an interesting systemic issue on top of genuine incompetence.

Tumblr has a running history of screwing up moderation hard enough to either drive entire communities off the site or allow rule-breaking harassment to persist and drive them off.

As such, I think Tumblr will definitely cease at some point, because it is handling the problem of moderation much worse than most other big platforms and this is a major barrier to its financial sustainability - they cannot say "we put our users first and refuse to use relatively profitable Unethical Data-Harvesting Tricks" and expect to pivot to a user-supported financing model if they're widely perceived as repeatedly spurning said userbase.

The prior 'Porn Ban' (and subsequent smug tone of Staff communications) and the 'we had a moderator on staff accepting payments for making anti-trans moderation decisions' reveal stand out, as well as the (iirc) 2016-era peak of racist harassment (not that it ever *stopped*) which went largely unmoderated; instead, black users responding to, pointing out, or sometimes literally just screenshotting the deluge of harassment were permabanned.

There has also, of course, been the whole "over-moderation of queer- and specifically trans-related tags and terms in Search" - something that has also, repeatedly, affected Palestinian and pro-Palestine blogs.

Right now, of course, we have the current wave of anti-transfem "everything you do, selfies and textposts alike, can and will be marked as mature", compounded by instant permabans handed out without notice or appeal, all based on automod decisions from bad-faith reports and bizzarely cursory/biased human reviews.

This is all contrasted by semi-regular waves of fresh kinds of porn-related advertisements and spam blogs, which often go entirely unmoderated, automated or otherwise, for months upon months. Also the explicitly ToS-breaking harassment that gets reported and returned as "fine, actually".

Why is this happening? Beyond the inherent problem of "many Tumblr staff have had and currently have biases and open bigotry" (@photomatt springs to mind), you'd think that boring business sense would come first - diversity is Tumblr's brand, fandom is Tumblr's brand, so "not specifically driving off those groups" should have been an *essential* part of monetization efforts. Right?

Trouble is, even a lawsuit settled not-in-Tumblr's-favour can't solve the core problem, which seems to be the same one every user-generated-content platform faces: reasonable moderation isn't feasible for real-time, user-generated content at scale.

Straight-up, that is the largest problem Tumblr faces. Nobody knows how to do it fairly or reasonably. Content moderation has long been the writhing tar-pit horror sitting at the core of all large-scale social media. Increasingly, this unsolvable problem looks like it might be the reason the entire format is structurally doomed - or at least, doomed to a cycle of new platform -> rise in popularity -> failures in moderation and financing -> user exodus and platform collapse.

Meta (Facebook and Instagram) tackle moderation by being totally opaque and overzealous - often you won't even be told your reach has been limited. Or, if you're told, you might not know *what* post triggered it, or why. If you do, you won't be told what effect being 'limited' has, or how long it will last. There is no reliable appeal process, but that doesn't matter. They are too big to be affected by people being unhappy about moderation on an individual or community level.

Twitter 'solved' the problem by leaning more and more on pure automation - which wasn't working great, sure, but once it was bought and most of those measures scrapped for 'limiting free speech', Twitter got *much, much worse*. It is now a cesspool of unavoidable spams and spam-for-scams. Also, harassment.

Tiktok also does a lot of automated moderation - not as much as people seem to think, but also not as efficiently as other platforms, given that it's video content. They also make heavier use of de-prioritizing content algorithmically rather than just banning or deleting videos. Twitch and YouTube follow along in this bucket, being very willing to use automated systems to suspend, de-rank, and de-monetize hard, early, and arbitrarily.

Mastodon and similar 'decentralised' networks offload the problem onto whoever runs each local server/instance. You set up social.horse.mastodon or whatever? Great - moderation of posts on there is your problem. Some instances are great! Some instances are full of petty tyrants over-moderating their little fiefdoms. Some instances are godawful. Usually, nobody is being paid, which isn't great.

Unfortunately, instance-to-instance communication sometimes means that you can be harassed by a group of people from those godawful servers who are functionally unreportable and who cannot be stopped from spinning up dozens of sockpuppets on said servers to evade your blocks of individual accounts. This is also a problem with the concept of "email", so, you know, not strictly a new problem.

Google can't moderate its search results, and is overtaken by SEO spam and generative misinformation (even prior to their "AI answers" integration).

Amazon, as a storefront, is overrun by scams. Some of them are, functionally, directly run and facilitated by Amazon's own staff, facilities, and even manufacturing processes.

We seethe at Adobe insisting they have the right to moderate (automated or otherwise) the content we put on their cloud services, but chances are they would largely *rather not* - but legal obligations, advertiser/partner dollars, payment processors, and technical requirements are involved, so they're screwed and so are users.

Nobody can "do" content moderation of any kind at scale without being too lax or too overzealous, and probably both at the same time. If the billions of dollars of these corporate giants can't hack the problem, the rinkydink tens of millions of Automattic ain't gonna cut it.

None of this is "working" or "fair" or even "reasonable".

And that's fine by these companies! Their main moderation concern is "not being found liable for horrific and illegal shit users do", followed by "being pleasant *enough* to be used profitably, regardless of actual user experience or sentiment".

Good moderation is hard. Think about the obscenely small teacher–student ratio you need for a good, safe, productive classroom experience. You're not going to push more than a hundred students to one or two lecturers before you lose the ability to meaningfully grade their exams and give feedback, let alone have insight into their real-time behaviour for a dozen hours a week.

Now, imagine that but 24/7. A perpetual whorl of short-form essays being handed in at random times of day, wildly multimedia projects of totally inconsistent sizes from dozens of countries. What sort of ratio of moderators to users would even *plausibly* keep things under control? How do you *pay* for that? How do you have meaningful *oversight* over the mods? Fuck, how do you even *begin* to compensate for the fact that they'll be inevitably be exposed to a subset of your users posting criminally heinous content for laughs?

The answer is that you don't manage to balance it reasonably. You use keywords to auto-filter certain posts so they'll be seen less, lowering the chance of anyone reporting them. You use basic network models to auto-approve or auto-deny some reported content based on what's *probably* in the images or text, and call a 70% success rate an exemplary success, because that's 70% of those reported posts your human moderators will correctly never see and a further 25% fewer posts that are incorrectly ruled on but never get appealed! Huge reduction in workload - fantastic news!

You try your damndest to make sure that advertisers feel like their content is never posted next to or in association with "bad" content, even if it's not ToS-breaking, because that's where the dollars are and without those all you've got are good intentions and that's not a currency you can pay your moderators in. You hope to hell that you fall on the side of "overzealous", because right-wing single-issue ideologues have the ears of payment processors and lawmakers the world over, and they'll cut you the hell off if you get a reputation, fair or otherwise, for being the sort of platform that might "facilitate harm" to kids, or women, or Jesus. Mostly Jesus.

Hence, the uncomfortable tension stretching taut the façade of every major platform - on the one hand, 'shifting moderation burdens to your users' is universally regarded as a shitty and unethical cost-cutting move ripe for exploitation by bad actors. On the other, despite having a surplus of capital and benefitting from the efficiencies of scale (and, arguably, having an unshiftable responsibility to moderate their own platforms), companies aren't managing to wield moderation in a way that works for their users.

In Tumblr's case, it's not profitable. In *Twitter's* case, it's not even profitable.

Obviously, I don't have a solution to this. Tumblr has chosen to fight the dual battles of "moderation is hard" and *ALSO* "some of our staff, including moderators, are inarguably biased/bigoted against core user groups". That's on them. Not going to pretend it isn't, not going to make excuses for it.

The best answer I have is to archive your shit and hop onto smaller networks with staff, communities, and rules that you can vibe with, and hope you will be in a position to help directly and monetarily contribute to their continued existence in a sustainable way.

We're here for the community and a broad set of fairly straightforward features (and lack of other, worse features). Those can, will, and often *do* exist elsewhere. If you stick around and one of these 'elsewhere' platforms finds a size that's sustainable and a moderation approach that actually works for the vast majority of users, then you've hit the jackpot.

If not? Well, archive everything you can and hop ships to new networks. These aren't public institutions designed to last lifetimes - these are passion projects (or cash grabs) bloated beyond initial scope and inevitably riddled with the biases, oversights, and straight-up skill issues of their creators. They were never going to last, and their insistence on pretending they're immortal and behaving in accordance is part of the problem.

Also, you should support laws that would mandate user access to their own data in an exportable and preferably cross-platform-compatible format. Part of what keeps people on networks is lock-in and effort. Making it legally mandatory to make those transitions between networks easy is probably one of the only bits of social media-related law that would actually curb malfeasance (from users and platforms themselves).

#predstrogen #charlottan #covidsafehotties #hammer car explosion #content moderation #bans #trans bans #permabans #longpost

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fandom-trash-xl · 8 days ago

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EPISODE 7: COLLAR

#NotMyGoku

A SINGLE SHOT CHANGED IN THE OPENING. They replaced the minotaur with a bunch of King Kidan's royal entourage.

We tune back in with Team 2- turns out the ship failed because one of its systems required a Demon Realm exclusive element. Luckily, just that very second, Hybis comes by to pick them up. We get a cute little second of Vegebul where Vegeta steps in front of his wife, but, otherwise, they pretty much trust Hybis instantly.

And Bulma's coming along! Don't know what made up her mind this time. Maybe she was kinda curious anyway, but Kibito not coming along gave her space in the ship to tag in. Maybe she wants to pursue that new element for science reasons. Maybe her husband has abandonment issues.

Back in the Demon Realm, Goku discovers magical multimeal rations and we, the audience, discover the writers' barely disguised fetish right as the Gendarmerie pulls them over. Turns out Panzy's collar isn't letting them fly under the radar.

Panzy's also got a sharp eye, at least for spotting the fuzz.

After pulling off some Instant Transmission (which seems to be working just fine) shenanigans to keep Goku out of sight, the demon cops finally decide that Panzy's suspicious after the failed smoke bomb raid- they don't seem to care or even acknowledge that she's the princess.

We get a brief little fight- Shin can actually hold his own, Glorio shows off his lightning techniques with a tactical precision strike (I then proceed to dissolve, help me), and Goku gives the last plane a Team Rocket blast off with a... regular ki blast. No Kamehameha yet?

Unfortunately, broken glass is enough to stop our heroes, so they have to steal one of the Gendarmerie planes. Panzy disables the communicators on the unconscious grunts, but there's still the concern of her collar.

She can't break it, it's made of Katchintite! It's indestructible! Never heard that one before! /s

Proving my point, Shin has some magic that can break it!

Speaking of Shin, turns out he has a true Demon Realm name- Nahare. Still doesn't seem to match up with his siblings' names, unless there's some sort of wordplay I'm not picking up on.

Once they're on the road (in the sky?) again, Panzy gets in touch with her hacker friend (he's giving Kikono vibes, but also frog vibes) to give them a new Warp-Sama passcode. And I sure hope those are headphones he's got on, because if we're breaking the Demon Realm pointy-ear rule already, I swear...

Maybe there are a few round ear folks in the Demon Realm, just more of outcasts.

Goku's too itchy about fighting the Tamagami to hold off and wait for Vegeta and the rest of the gang, so he tells them to just catch up to them just as Hybis is giving his demands for payment in worm pizza. (And he's single, you say?)

Not that we're at the Tamagami site, now's the time to point out that the Dragon Ball Super rot has returned.

Fuel for the ill-informed "Bad Dad Goku" fire: "How did you raise a kid?" "Oh, I wasn't really involved!"

OH SHUT UP RIGHT NOW

On top of that, Goku's backpedaling in his recovery in Fight-holics Anonymous. "Gee, I wonder how strong the Tamagami is! I can't wait to fight the Tamagami! The strong villain couldn't beat them that makes me want to fight them more!" What happened to the goal of, you know, getting the wish to help Dende?

Anyway, let's breathe and go over the next episode preview:

Goku fights the Tamagami as Piccolo, Vegeta, and Bulma get up to some Demon Realm shenanigans, and Glorio continues his shady dealings.

EPISODES WITHOUT KNOWING HANVI'S WHEREABOUTS: 7

The counter seems even sillier now that we're fully in the Demon Realm, but it's about the bit!

#dragon ball #dragon ball daima #dragon ball daima spoilers #daima episode 7 #panzy #dbd panzy #goku

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plain-and-simple-ninja · 8 days ago

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a nice encounter at work today!!!!

>"Good evening, I'd like to buy a ticket to [redacted]. Can I pay with BLIK?" (*it's a Polish payment system that allows making instant payments using only the mobile banking app)

>"You can't, we accept only cash or cards."

>(eyes round with terror, shock and disbelief)

>"...I guess you don't have neither cash nor card?"

>"I don't... Now what?..."

>(deep sigh) Okay, that's what we're gonna do... (quick explanation that he can send the money through BLIK to my personal bank account using my phone number and then I'll pay for him - I don't have to do this for him, but I also use BLIK and I'm a nice person, so why not)

>"Oh wow, that's great, thank you!"

>(I give him my number, he sends me 19 zł, I take out my phone to check if I received the money already)

>(he sees my wallpaper for like 0.25 seconds) OHHHH, DO YOU WATCH WRESTLING?? KENNY OMEGA AND SO ON?

.........and so I sold him the ticket and instead of going back to work I spent like 15 minutes talking with him about Japanese wrestling and the fact Kenny Omega will be back in January :P

(if you're somehow reading this, my dear random wrestling fan passenger - you made my day and I hope you have a wonderful evening 😊)

#I think most of my USAmerican wrestling moots might not know this #but wrestling is extremely UNpopular in Poland #Poles sadly prefer MMA and freak fights #to meet a fellow wrestling fan - and a fan who watches something more than WWE! - is EXTREMELY rare #I work as a train conductor btw so I think meeting one so randomly while at work is even rarer XD #THANK GOD my wallpaper is just kenny and ibushi hugging #and not bucks kissing or some other shit XD #personal #wrestling #njpw #aew #kenny omega

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dotlookstired · 5 months ago

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I finally finished the alternate ending for my Armand/Daniel eggpreg fic

Summary:

This is an alternate version of the previous fanfic I wrote where it's vampire mating season. Daniel notices a change in Armand and is worried. Armand explains the cruel joke that is mating season: vampires can’t reproduce by mating, but every century, they feel this deep, instinctual desire to try. Soon, he will feel the need to build a nest, mate with Daniel, and then lay an egg. However, because of the hormones still in his system, he'll still want to care for it and will become very depressed when he finally comes to his senses and realizes it will never hatch. Except in this version, with some help from a fae, the egg does hatch and there is a happy ending. I do plan on adding another chapter to this later that will have them taking care of the baby.

Daniel had let his hunger build enough. He didn’t think so, but Armand refused to let him go hungry any longer. “You are not coming back to your typewriter until you’ve fed properly!” Armand growled before kicking him out of their bedroom, which doubled as Daniel's office. Usually, Armand was gentler with encouraging Daniel to feed, but lately, he’d been in a weird mood. Daniel figured perhaps he had done something to anger his master, or maybe Lestat had done something to piss him off.

As he walked through a shortcut through the woods to get to the city, he heard a muffled cry. He froze and looked around. The moon hung low, casting an eerie feeling into the woods. Daniel didn’t see anything but heard more noises coming from deeper in the woods. He quietly stepped off the beaten path and crept closer to the sounds. He found a group of men surrounding a little girl who looked to be maybe around 11.

“Sorry, kid, but you witnessed a deal that could get us all locked up for life if you snitched. We can’t let you go,” the leader said with a wicked grin as he raised his revolver to her temple.

Daniel's rage flared. In an instant, he was upon them. The first man barely had time to register his presence before Daniel’s fangs sank into his neck. The others tried to flee, but they were no match for his inhuman speed. One by one, they dropped to the forest floor, lifeless and drained.

Daniel expected the girl to be terrified but to his surprise, she was just standing on a tree stump, staring at him with unblinking eyes. He assumed she was in shock or too frightened to move. Slowly, he approached her. He planned on erasing her memory with his mind gift and returning her to her parents after he gave them a stern scolding about keeping better track of their child of course.

“I won't hurt you, Are you okay?” he asked gently. The girl didn't respond or even give any indication she heard him at all.

“Where do you live? What are you doing out in the woods at night?” he tried.

The girl smiled. “Thank you, for intervening,” her voice echoed in his head. Daniel nearly fell over in surprise. “What are you?” He asked his voice trembling.

“I believe the word that mankind has for me is fae” she replied, her voice still echoing in his mind.

“You're a fairy? Are you alright though? I saw them being pretty rough with you.” he replied, still in disbelief.

He heard her giggle in his head as she nodded. “You've just learned you're speaking to a fairy, and the first thing you ask is if I'm injured? You sweet little thing. I think for your kindness, I will reward you with something very special, something that no other of your kind has ever experienced or will likely ever experience,” she said.

“Thank you, but no payment is necessary. I already got an easy dinner out of the situation,” he humbly replied.

“You may not want it now, but trust me with what you are about to experience, you will be very satisfied,” she said before jumping off the back of the tree stump.

‘Hey, wait!” Daniel shouted. He ran around the back of the tree stump but found nobody there.

Perplexed, and well fed Daniel made his way home to his grumpy lover.

He found Armand lying listlessly on the couch watching Phil Swift cut a boat in half with a chainsaw and then fix it with flex tape.

“I’ve had one of the strangest nights ever, I discovered a new creature!” he excitedly announced.

“That’s neat,” Armand said without looking away from the tv.

Armand had felt off for a few days now. The symptoms crept in slowly at first: persistent tiredness, irritability, and a slight fever. His joints ached in a way that was both foreign and alarming, given he is an immortal vampire. The mood swings were the worst, though. One minute he would be calm and collected; the next, an overwhelming sense of anger would wash over him. possessiveness would grip him, making him growl at anyone who came too close to Daniel.

Daniel had noticed the changes but had no idea what could be the issue. He was beginning to think maybe Armand was somehow sick, or angry at him for some unknown reason. The uncertainty gnawed at him until he couldn’t take it anymore. Daniel decided to go into more detail about his weird encounter in the woods later. Right now he was more concerned with getting to the bottom of whatever was the issue. “Armand,” he said softly, sitting beside him and taking his hand, “what’s going on with you? You’ve been acting so strange lately. Are you sick? Or… are you mad at me?”

Armand blinked slowly, the fog in his mind clearing slightly as he focused on Daniel’s concerned face. It took him a moment to process the question, but when he did, a wave of realization washed over him. “Oh,” he murmured, squeezing his hand gently. “It’s not you. It’s… it’s that time of the century again.” he said more to himself than to Daniel

Daniel frowned, confused. “What do you mean? What time of the century?”

Armand sighed and sat up, running a hand through his messy auburn hair. “Vampire mating season. It’s a cruel joke, really. We can’t reproduce by mating, but every century, we still feel this deep, instinctual desire to try. The symptoms you’re seeing… are because of that.”

Daniel’s eyes widened in shock.

Armand took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. “Basically It means that for about a week, I will feel the need to build a nest and have lots of sex. It’s intense, and we become very territorial. Afterward, the vampire who was on the receiving end, in this situation me, feels a painful pressure in their lower abdomen, as if an egg is forming. Eventually, they’ll feel the need to push and… lay the egg. Of course, there will be no baby but the vampire who lays it will still feel a strong need to care for and protect it until they come to their senses. It’s a delusion our bodies force upon us. And then… then we grieve over what can never be.”

Daniel listened in stunned silence, his mind racing to comprehend what Armand was telling him. “Other than the intense sex part that sounds kinda awful, there’s nothing we can do to stop it?”

“No,” Armand replied softly. “But I’ll understand if you don’t want to be here for it. It’s… a lot to handle.”

Daniel shook his head firmly. “I’m not going anywhere. We’re a couple we should both have to suffer.”

As the days passed, Armand’s symptoms grew worse. He became increasingly restless, driven by an uncontrollable urge to gather soft materials and create a nest. Daniel watched as Armand collected blankets, pillows, and even some of Daniel’s worn clothes from the basket in the bathroom. Daniel thought it was kinda gross at first but Armand explained that Daniel's lingering scent on the worn clothes was incredibly comforting to him. Armand meticulously arranged them into a cozy, safe space in their bedroom.

Daniel did his best to help, while out on a hunt one evening he stopped and bought some more blankets. while at the store he started thinking about the clothes thing and wondered what other scents might comfort the little vampire. On his way to the checkout line he stopped by the pharmacy area of the store and picked out some sandalwood fragrance oil, the same scent Marius tends to wear around. He could see how important this was to his vampire lover, even if it was all based on an illusion. The process brought them closer in a strange way, as they shared the labor and the anticipation of what was to come.

Then, the mating desires began. It started one night when Daniel was typing away on his typewriter at his desk in their bedroom. Armand had been staring at him from the nest all night, Dnaiel figured it was just another symptom of the vampire mating season. Armand slowly crept out of his nest and approached Daniel. Daniel looked up at him “You alright boss? Are you still having joint pain” Daniel asked.

The rest can be found on my ao3

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