#instead of the gas chamber

[ohkate]

Just so you know, I shall hold you all to this standard tagging minimum going forward.

@iangallagherisadeadman, you crazy bitch, i fucking love ya.

[lorynna]

In World War II, Nazi Germany established brothels in the concentration camps (Lagerbordell, Sonderbauten or Freudenabteilungen "Joy Divisions") to increase productivity among male inmates.

In the end, the camp brothels did not produce any noticeable increase in the prisoners' productivity levels, but instead, created a market for coupons among the camp VIPs.

Here's a few of the locations where this happened:

Mauthausen/Gusen, Auschwitz, Buchenwald, Neuengamme, Dachau, Dora-Mittelbau, Sachsenhausen, Flossenbürg and others

The women forced into these brothels came mainly from the women-only Ravensbrück concentration camp, except for Auschwitz, which "employed" its own prisoners.

In combination with the German military brothels in World War II, it is estimated that at least 34,140 female inmates were forced into sexual slavery during the Third Reich.

The brothels form the subject of "Das KZ Bordell" (The Concentration Camp Brothel) by Robert Sommer, a book that has been hailed as the first comprehensive account of a little known chapter of Nazi oppression in World War Two.

It explores the origins, structure and impact of the "Sonderbauten" (special buildings) run by Heinrich Himmler's SS in Germany and Nazi-occupied Europe.

"In the collective memory and written history of World War Two, the camp brothels were for a long time taboo," the 35-year-old Berliner told Reuters. "The former prisoners didn't want to talk about it: it was a difficult subject to handle."

"It didn't fit so easily into the postwar image of the concentration camps as monuments to suffering."

According to concentration camp survivors the women in those brothels were replaced every 6 months and the women who got replaced were killed in gas chambers.

It is important to note that we distinctively speak of sexual slavery here and of rape.

I wanted to point this out especially because I have been seeing liberal feminists talking about this topic, calling it "forced sex-work", "forced sex-labour" etc.

It is beyond disrespectful to call these female victims "sex-workers" or "employees" when their sexuality was brutally exploited, their diginities taken, their health was sacrificed, they were raped repeatedly and then executed after 6 months, even though they were promised to be released after those months. But those promises of course were never honored.

Liberal feminism and radical feminism differ a lot when it comes to views on the topic of prostitution but this does NOT excuse labeling victims of abuse and rape as "sex-workers" or calling their suffering "forced sex-labour."

[wonderlandwalker]

Developments pt. II: Exposure | Steve Harrington x reader

𝐩𝐭. 𝐈 / ���𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 / 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 / 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱

summary: what happens when everything and nothing changes, when your world is at the edge of annihilation, and Steve is studying the phenomenon.

word count: 5.6k

tags / content warnings: more cockblocking I can't help myself, hurt/comfort if you squint, mdni, smut, my limited vocabulary trying its hardest to not sound repetitive, Dutch expressions that probably don't actually exist in English but do now

a/n: my life may be falling apart but at least there's still fictional men and reblog reactions that make me smile, hopefully this lives up to its precursor I fear I might be losing braincells

The past few days have been... strange. Not in any dramatic, earth-shattering way, but in the quiet, unsettling manner of a clock suddenly ticking out of rhythm—the kind of change you feel in your bones before your mind can articulate it.

Not bad.

Not heart-breaking.

Not even awkward, really—no stilted conversations filled with painful pauses, no forced laughter ringing hollow between you.

No, this was something quieter.

Something more unnerving in its subtlety.

Diffidence.

Which was ridiculous. Infuriating. A cosmic joke of the cruellest variety.

Because just seventy-two hours earlier, Steve Harrington had pressed you into his mattress with the reverence of a worshipper at an altar, his confessions spilling against your throat like secrets too sacred for this world. And you’d kissed him back with equal desperation, nails scraping down his spine as he moved over you, his name leaving your lips over and over and over like a mockingbird discovering its new favourite melody. The morning after, he’d made you pancakes—slightly charred, just the way you liked them—and watched you eat with this soft, dazed expression, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

It had been effortless. Natural. Like you'd been doing this for years instead of hours. And then—

Nothing.

No lingering touches in the hall—no casual brush of fingers that lingered just a heartbeat too long. No warm palm settling against the small of your back to guide you through doorways. No stolen kisses behind the Family Video counter, breathless moments between the VHS racks where he'd crowd you against the shelves, his lips finding yours in the shadows between customers.

Just... Steve.

The same Steve who still drove you home without being asked, even when it was twenty minutes out of his way. Steve, who still passed you the last slice of pizza without hesitation, who still remembered to grab your favourite candy bar when he stopped for gas. Steve, who still looked at you like you'd hung the goddamn stars—only now there was something newly cautious in his gaze, something fragile and measured, like he was afraid of being crushed beneath their celestial weight.

The Waterloo of it existed in the way you understood. Able to read the fractures in his composure like Braille beneath your fingertips—how his confidence splinters under pressure like thin ice trying to bear an ever-growing weight. His smirk just a fraction too tight when he was worried and his jokes landing a beat too quick when he deflects. Because for all his effortless charm, all that golden-boy popularity that came so naturally to him, Steve Harrington approached love like a penitent approaching communion, all-consuming, self-immolating, giving until he was hollowed out—like it was something to be earned through blood and sacrifice, something he had to deserve. 

And now? Now he looked at you like you were both the salvation and the executioner. Like loving you was a game of Russian roulette where he'd already spun the chamber five times and survived, and this last shot awaits. You could see the calculation in his eyes—the gambler's dilemma. Go all in; sign his soul over without reservation? Or fold now, walking away while he can still pretend his heart is intact? You knew it from the way his hands hovered near yours but never quite touched, fingers twitching with the ghost of a caress he wouldn’t allow himself. You saw it in the careful distance he maintained, the space between you measured like a man navigating a minefield—every step a potential detonation. He’d chosen to love you; that much was undeniable. But you also knew the gambit had already been made, that he didn’t know how to let himself be loved in return. Not when every instinct in him screamed that good things were borrowed, not kept, and that happiness was just the prelude to loss.

So he waited.

And you waited.

The two of you balanced on the knife’s edge between the leap of faith and the fall.

This wasn’t rejection.

This wasn’t regret.

This was Beckettian limbo. Waiting for Godot in a mall parking lot, watching shadows lengthen as hope curdled into something bittersweet. The agony wasn't in the absence of answers but in the infinite possibilities each unanswered question contained—was he giving you space or creating distance? Was this patience or retreat?

Was he waiting for you to run?

Was he waiting for some invisible string to be pulled?

Was he already running himself?

You were this close to convincing yourself it had all been in your head—that the tension between you was just another ghost you’d conjured out of want and wishful thinking. You’d almost swallowed the lie whole.

Until Eddie Munson—bedlam incarnate, meddler of divine proportions—reached between you like a thief in the night and yanked the pin from your stalemate grenade.

It happened like this:

Robin, in her infinite wisdom (or more accurately, in her current state of sugar-deprived hysteria that has her vibrating in place like a hummingbird on espresso), practically launches Eddie toward the back room of Family Video with a desperate whine that borders on ultrasonic. Her fingers twitching toward the empty candy wrapper on the counter like a junkie eyeing their last hit. "I know he stashed candy bars back there. Find it, Munson, or so help me God—” The threat loses impact when she punctuates it by nearly face-planting into the counter. And Eddie, ever the chaotic neutral force in your lives, obliges, sweeping toward the employee area with all the gravitas of a man marching to the gallows.

The locker is... depressingly empty, because Steve Harrington has the organisational skills of a concussed squirrel. The interior looks like a tornado swept through a TJ Maxx clearance aisle—a single spare vest (slightly wrinkled, probably from that time he used it as a pillow during his lunch break—"It’s ergonomic!" he’d insisted, as if that made any sense at all), a half-empty bottle of cologne he no longer wore (”I needed to test drive it!” He’d argued when confronted, as if his "signature scent" was a goddamn Camaro he could take for a spin around the block), and—aha— the coveted candy bar. A king-sized Snickers slightly melted from being forgotten in the summer heat, wedged behind a mint condition (clearly unread) copy of "Employee Conduct Guidelines". Eddie’s about to declare victory and return to Robin’s good graces (or at least avoid another plastic fork ambush—seriously, that shit stings) when a small, glossy rectangle flutters to the ground. It drifts down with all the grace of a falling feather, spinning lazily like it’s got nowhere urgent to be (which would be poetic, if it wasn’t about to detonate his life like a stray missile in a china shop)

His stupid monkey brain—always curious, never helpful—screams at him to pick it up. Logic, self-preservation, and approximately three seconds of common sense lose the battle to sheer, self-destructive instinct.

So he does.

And—

Oh.

Eddie’s higher brain functions short-circuit, neurones firing and fizzling out behind his eyes like a busted string of Christmas lights.

Shit.

It’s one of those Polaroids.

The kind you’d been strategically hiding for Steve, who, for all his alleged detective skills, somehow hadn’t managed to uncover this particular landmine.

And there it is, staring up at him in damning, saturated colour: a snapshot of bare skin bathed in low light, the smooth curve of your waist disappearing under rumpled sheets that Eddie suddenly, violently, wishes he could shred with his teeth. And your eyes—Christ, that look—something so utterly foreign to him that his pulse stutters like a misfiring engine. It’s the kind of look that makes him think, for one delirious second, about dropping to his knees and taking up religion—because surely this is divine retribution.

Maybe he’d been a war criminal in a past life.

Maybe this was karma for swiping that pack of gum when he was eight.

Or maybe God was just an arsehole with a particularly fucked-up sense of humour, sitting up there on his cloud and cackling as Eddie’s soul left his body in slow motion.

He should burn it.

He should eat it.

He should—

But then—because this mystery deity apparently finds his suffering hilarious—the break room door groans open with a creak so nerve-shreddingly ominous it sounds like nails dragged across a chalkboard. You and Steve walk in mid-conversation, shoulders brushing, laughing about something undoubtedly stupid—completely unaware that Eddie's world has just tilted on its goddamn axis like a bored kid shaking a snow globe. The kind of violent, nauseating tilt that sends all his internal organs sloshing against his ribs. He should shove the photo back in the locker. He should pretend he never saw it. He should let Steve find it himself later—preferably when Eddie is at minimum three state lines away, maybe starting a new life as a goat farmer in Vermont.

But he doesn't. Because while Eddie's charisma stat might be maxed out, his wisdom score has always hovered somewhere between "questionable" and "actively self-destructive". So he stands there, frozen like a bug in amber, a bee drowning in golden honey—Polaroid welded to his stupid, traitorous fingers—as you finally register his presence. Steve follows your line of sight a beat later, and oh fuck, this is bad.

In all the time you've known each other, Eddie's been rudimentarily brash, crude, and gloriously callow. Now? Every single shred of his DNA seems to have been rewritten overnight. Someone's taken the Eddie Munson operating manual and hit select all → delete.

"Uh," he says, brilliantly eloquent. His eyes perform a frantic tennis match between the incriminating photo in his hand, the dangerous twitch of curiosity at the corner of your mouth, the frankly unfair amount of exposed skin your summer clothes display (making his fingers spasm like wanting to reach for the forbidden fruit of Eden itself), and Steve's expression, which has gone so arctic that Eddie can actually feel the frost forming on his own eyelashes from across the room.

Here's the thing: Steve genuinely couldn't give less of a shit about Eddie rifling through his locker. Hell, he uses the thing so sporadically he'd be shocked if there was anything in there worth stealing. But the way Eddie's looking at that photo? The way his breathing's gone all jagged, like he's been sucker-punched by lust and forgot to be ashamed about it? Like he'd been struck by lightning and sent the storm a thank-you note?

Yeah.

That gets his attention.

Because Steve knows that feeling. Knows it in the way his own pulse jumps when you look at him. Knows—with sudden, violent clarity—that the Polaroid currently burning a hole in Eddie's hand is one of yours. One of the ones you'd tucked away. One of the ones he hadn't found.

The air in the room curdles. Three heartbeats stretch into eternity. Somewhere, the universe is taking notes for its next comedy special. Steve’s posture locks—the calm before the storm, every muscle coiled tight beneath his skin. The carbonated fizz of the soda in his hand is the only sound in the crushing silence, bubbles popping like distant gunfire. Then the storm breaks: his jaw clenches, and his eyes sweep through Eddie’s foundation like a wrecking ball.

Something raw crawls across Steve’s face. Not anger. Not alarm. Assertion. A silent, seething mine that blows through the room. You’ve seen Steve in many moods—smug, pissed, reckless—but this? This is something new. An undiscovered decimal that changes the entire equation. Something hot and primal, that same flicker of virtue twisted into vice that made him spend hours between your thighs, savouring your undoing like Judas betraying Christ with a kiss.

Eddie’s expression snitches on him instantly, darkening as his gaze drifts back to you. It lingers—too obvious, too long—on the hitch of your breath, the teeth digging into your bottom lip, like he’s already imagining things he has no right to. “Munson—” Steve’s voice drops into a register that would send most sane men sprinting for the hills, the kind of tone that prophesies bloodshed. “Eyes are up here.” 

Eddie’s hands fly up in surrender, the Polaroid fluttering to the floor like the first leaf of autumn—ominous, inevitable. But there’s a new cadence in his voice, something reckless and intrigued, the curiosity of a starving animal in a trap debating whether to chew its own leg off. “Hey man, no hard feelings. Just—uh—didn’t exactly expect that to be lying around like some kind of—” Steve takes a step forward. Eddie takes two steps back, knocking into the table hard enough to send a mug catapulting to the ground. “—highly classified erotic artefact,” Eddie finishes, voice pitched higher than usual, flashing a grin that’s all nerves and zero bravado.

You can feel it in the air—the shift from a fleeting southbound breeze teasing through the open window to the suffocating vacuum of withheld dares and arsonist heat. The change is tectonic, the kind that splits the earth between before and after. It should frighten you, this dissolution of restraint, reluctance disintegrating like cotton candy in the rain, leaving behind only the sickly-sweet residue of possibility. It would frighten you—if you didn’t know it. If you hadn’t heard that same voice murmuring filth against your stomach, dripping with devotional ruin. If it didn’t send an electric current racing from your membrane straight to your marrow.

Across the room, Eddie’s smirk falters. He’d looked the gift horse of Steve’s restraint square in the mouth—and now finds himself staring down the barrel of a loaded gun as the reality of his miscalculation hits. Then—

The dam bursts.

Eddie scrambles backwards so fast he nearly trips over his own shadow in his haste to escape the flood. The tension solidifies into something palpable as Steve turns to face you. For a moment, he simply stares—an apex predator amused by the detritivore that dared trespass in his territory, calculating whether to devour you whole or savour you slowly. It’s the same razor-edged focus he’d worn that night when he pinned you to his sweat-damp sheets, when he’d growled "again" against your throat and insisted, asserted, stipulated that he needed to feel you clenching around him even as his own spend leaked down your thighs between thrusts. That look that said mine and more and never enough, the one that turned your blood to gasoline and your nerves to lit fuses.

Your fingers twist in the fabric of your top—contemplating tearing it off yourself to feel his skin against yours faster—but the thought disintegrates when his knee nudges your thighs apart, pressing his body flush against yours. Jealousy rolls off him in waves, thick enough to choke on, and God help you, you revel in it. The phantom of his touch lingers in every hot breath that skates over your skin, in the way his hips slot against yours like a key turning in a lock. His mouth crashes into yours, hands bruising into your waist as he lifts you onto the break room table with the practised ease of a man who’s been praying for this. The wood creaks beneath you, a feeble protest swallowed by the groan that tears from his throat. And you—Christ—you realise with dizzying clarity that you’re already addicted to this side of him. To the way his control shatters when it comes to you. The way he needs to brand the truth into your skin: you’re his. He’s yours. His hands dig into you, urgent as a sinner’s grip on salvation. His lips brush your temple, soft as a benediction. You melt into him like a sacrifice on an altar, pliant and willing when his palms glide over your chest; it’s with a reverence that borders on fear—hesitant, hungry, as if touching you might unravel him instead.

This isn’t fealty.

It’s revelation.

Steve kisses like he’s composing his last confession—every sigh you give him a psalm he’ll spend eternity trying to recite to perfection. His mouth drifts lower, a crusade down your body, pausing to worship at the inside of your thigh. His nose nudges the sensitive skin there, lips parted against your pulse as if tasting divinity. Not demanding. Surrendering. A disciple on his knees, ready to die for the privilege of dedication. "Steve—"  Your voice shatters, cracking not from desperation but from something far more forceful—love, molten and thick. He answers with a low hum, the vibration travelling straight to your core.

Warm.

Approving. 

Devouring.

But still, he doesn't rush, doesn’t take.

Moving over you with the precision of a scholar deciphering sacred texts, each touch a deliberate translation of supplication. When his knuckle tilts your chin up, the eye contact is nearly unbearable—his gaze burns with the intensity of staring at the sun without blinking. "Tell me this is real," he murmurs, the pad of his thumb tracing your swollen lips. His voice cracks on the plea: I can't lose you. Tell me what to do, how to keep you—every word is another wingbeat higher, another reckless ascent toward combustion. You can almost see the wax dripping from his shoulders as he flies ever closer to it—the heat between your bodies threatening to melt both your hearts.

His mouth finds yours before you can answer, stealing the breath you'd gathered to reassure him. It's a claiming, last-ditch effort to brand himself into your memory should the Gods tear you apart tomorrow. His hands map your body, fingers pressing into your flesh hard enough to leave tomorrow's bruises. The irony isn't lost on you—this man who fought against every chain now begging to be bound, this once-carefree Icarus who sees the wax melting from his wings and chooses to keep flying, because his tragedy lies not in the fall but in the willing surrender to the innate burn, to this delicious damnation.

He’s almost come full circle—so close to acceptance, yet still hovering at the precipice, one flutter away. His skin scorches where you touch him, eyes burning with the effort of maintaining control when every atom in his body screams to dissolve the last fragile boundary between yours and mine until there’s no distinction left. The last of the shreds of doubt melting beneath your fingers as they tighten in his hair. The heat of you is irresistible, a gravitational pull dragging him deeper into orbit. His hand slides under your skirt, calloused palm skating up your thigh to discover the truth he already knows: you’re falling apart just as fast as he is.

A broken sound escapes you as you arch into his touch, your body ablaze against him. Your own hands map his skin with starving intent, drifting lower, lower, tracing the hard planes of his abdomen before dipping beneath the waistband. His fingers brush higher, hot and slick with your arousal, drawing a ragged groan from his throat that you swallow like communion. The sound vibrates against your lips—pure animal triumph—as his thumb circles with devastating precision. Fuck, how does he always know? That sweet spot that makes your thighs tremble, that perfect pressure as two fingers sink deep, curling just right, and a silent scream tears through you. "Fuck, baby," Steve pants against your mouth, his voice wrecked. "You’re so fucking perfect." The praise liquefies your spine, but you still manage to slide your hand under his jeans, grasping him through the strained fabric. The second your fingertips graze that velvet heat, he jerks forward with a gasp, teeth scraping your earlobe in retaliation—

The door flies open like a gunshot. "Jesus Christ!" Robin’s voice slices through the haze. Steve’s body slams over yours in a protective arch, his forearm braced against the table as he glares over his shoulder with venom. "Buckley," he snarls, voice dripping with murderous intent. She covers her eyes with a sigh so dramatic it would make Shakespeare weep. "In my defence—" she yelps, "your shift started ten minutes ago, and there’s this very persistent customer asking about the horror section you organised like a psychopath!" Steve doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. You can feel the furious pound of his heartbeat where his chest presses against yours, a wild counter-rhythm to your own.

"Robin", you drawl, sweet as poisoned honey, "if you don’t turn around and walk out right now, I will tell Vickie about the time you—" "GOING!" she shrieks, already backpedalling. The door slams hard enough to rattle the framed employee-of-the-month certificates.

The silence that follows is worse.

The momentum’s gone, but the wreckage remains. His forehead drops to your shoulder with a thud, his breath coming in ragged bursts against your collarbone. You can feel the restraint vibrating through him—every muscle coiled tight enough to snap.

You can’t help it—you laugh, the sound shaky with adrenaline and lingering lust. His head snaps up so fast you hear his neck crack, eyes blazing with unfiltered heat. "Oh, you think this is funny?" he growls, nipping at your jaw with sharp teeth before soothing the sting with a swipe of his tongue. His hands slide back under your thighs, hauling you flush against him in one motion. The hard line of him pressed insistently between your legs wipes the smirk right off your face—along with every coherent thought in your head.

"Keep laughing, sweetheart," he murmurs against your throat, lips dragging a searing path down to your pulse point. "See what happens when my shift ends."

The hour that follows—after Steve had hesitantly detached himself from you with a plea in his eyes and your lipstick smeared across his jaw like war paint—stretches into eternity.

It’s longer than the time you got drenched by a speeding car ploughing through a frozen puddle on your way to school, icy water seeping into your socks until you squelched with every step. Longer than Aunt Margie’s infamous "Bridge Club Confidential" lecture, where she’d waxed poetic about the "sensual strategy" of trump cards while you stared into your punch glass praying for spontaneous combustion. Longer even than Eddie’s dare at Rick’s party, when you’d sat statue-still for sixty minutes while Dustin balanced a Dorito on your nose and Steve—unhelpful bastard—kept making you laugh just to watch you fail.

Because Steve Harrington doesn’t make idle threats.

He feasts on them.

Every excruciating minute carves a new circle of hell into your sanity. Steve moves through the store like a man possessed, his brain reduced to binary code: 1. You’re the one. 0. Everything else is noise. His pacing is a slow-burn torture—languid and deliberate, letting the heat of his chest sear into your back as he reaches for a misplaced copy of The Terminator, his biceps flexing just enough to make your throat go dry. He makes sure his lips graze your jaw when he slots returned tapes onto the shelf exactly where you’re standing, his exhale hot against your ear. Then he’s gone again in a heartbeat, leaving only the phantom imprint of his promise throbbing under your skin.

And you’re no martyr. Not when every stolen glance from Steve—heavy-lidded and determined—pours fuel on the fire in your gut. Not when the brush of his fingers against yours as he "accidentally" hands you the wrong receipt makes your pulse stutter like a bad VHS tape.

Until Robin, bless her deadpan soul, reaches her limit.

"That’s it." She slams a stack of returns onto the counter hard enough to make the Jawbreakers jump in their display, rattling like tiny, panicked witnesses. "Eddie’s covering Steve’s shift."

Eddie opens his mouth— "No." Robin jabs a finger between his eyebrows. "I don’t care that he doesn’t work here; it’s not that hard to say ‘Be kind, rewind’ and take people’s money. What is hard is watching you two orbit each other like horny vultures waiting to dive in." She shoves Steve’s keys into his chest. "Do humanity a favour and go home. Fuck it out. Write each other sonnets. Carve your initials into a tree. I don’t care. Just end this before I drown us all in holy water."

And well.

You don’t need to be told twice.

The store’s entrance barely shuts before Steve's crowding you against the scorching hood of his car, his body pinning yours to metal that burns through your skin. You gasp at the dual sensation—the sear of the sun-baked steel beneath your thighs and the far more dangerous heat of Steve's palm cradling the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair, hips grinding against yours in a way that makes your vision blur. The parking lot's empty, but you'd barely care if it wasn't—not when he kisses like he's trying to carve his name between your ribs.

But then—the cruel, calculated tease that he is—he steps back. Lets you sway there for one dizzy second before guiding you into the passenger seat with a hand low on your back.

The silence during the drive isn't uncomfortable—it's charged, vibrating with everything left unsaid and undone. You can practically hear the filthy refrain looping in Steve's head, matching the pulse pounding between your thighs: not yet. Not here.

Your fingers creep toward his thigh like a separate entity, drawn by magnetic need. The muscle tenses beneath your touch before you even make contact. When your nails scrape up the inseam of his jeans, his grip on the steering wheel turns white. "Don't," he warns, voice gone dark. But his dick twitches traitorously beneath your wandering palm, the thick line of him already straining against denim. The hypocrisy would be laughable if you weren't so busy revelling in the power thrumming through your veins.

His hand closes over yours — not to stop you, but to press your palm harder against his erection. The groan it wrenches from him vibrates through your entire body, your own breath catching in time with the stutter of the speedometer as his foot slips on the gas. "Keep doing that," he grits out between clenched teeth, "and you're going to regret that."

As the car takes another turn, you realise you've miscalculated.

Badly.

The math had been simple—fifteen minutes to his place, ten if he sped—but you hadn't accounted for the way his jaw would clench every time you shifted in your seat. The engine had roared like a living thing as he took corners too fast, and now the tires screech their protest as he slams into his parking spot.

The ignition cuts.

One heartbeat of silence.

Then he's on you, pressing you into the window with enough force to fog the glass, his mouth hot and demanding against yours. There's nothing gentle in it—just hunger, raw and unchecked. His teeth catch your lower lip as his hand slides up. When his mouth closes over your nipple through your shirt, tongue circling just hard enough to make you arch, you're half-ready to drag him into the backseat and fuck him right there. But before you can so much as gasp his name, he's gone—door flung open, his footsteps sharp on the pavement.

Your door swings open next, his hand extended.

It might look chivalrous to anyone watching, but you know better. That grip on yours as he tugs you out is a demand, not an offer. The walk to his front door is a blur, his arm locked around your waist like he thinks you'll bolt. The lock clicks shut behind you, and then—

Déjà vu hits like a sucker punch. This is exactly what you haven't been able to stop thinking about. And yet—

Completely different.

Last time, he'd been a man on a mission, determined to show you every filthy fantasy you'd ever pulled from him. Methodical. Precise. A slow unravelling that left you begging. Now?

Now he doesn't wait for begging.

Now he hauls you onto the kitchen island with a roughness that sends a bowl clattering to the floor, his hands already pushing your thighs apart. There's no patience in him—just certainty and something darker, something that curls low when his gaze drags over you like he's already deciding where to start. His palm splays across your stomach, pressing you against the cold granite as he leans in, and the revelation hits you — he doesn't just want to worship at your altar. He wants to be the architect of your canonisation, the hand that lifts you to sainthood even as he drags you through the exquisite torture of your own destruction.

If you had one wish in this crumbling world—it wouldn't be fame, wouldn't be fortune, not even the hollow promise of world peace—you would ask for this. The devastating press of his body, the sinful cadence of his voice whispering filth and vows. You'd take it until your lungs forgot how to expand, until your heartbeat stuttered into arrhythmia, until the last frayed thread of your consciousness could only comprehend the grip of his arms and the sweet poison of his words. Even then, especially then, you’d ask for more of this.

You're already ruined beyond salvation—a ship dashed against the rocks, hull splintering on unforgiving shores, yet somehow grateful for the carnage that means you've found land at last. His name spills from your lips in a ceaseless litany, your thighs clamping around his hips in wordless supplication, speaking in the sacred tongue of want, your body offering its final surrender at the temple of his undoing. The light at the end of this tunnel isn't absolution—it's hellfire, and you're so consumed by its gravitational pull that reality has dissolved at the edges. The world narrows to the sweat-slick press of his skin against yours, to the animalistic sounds tearing from his throat, to the obscene stretch as he sheaths himself inside you in one devastating thrust, a broken sob caught between your teeth—until his mouth crashes over yours, swallowing the sound as he buries himself to the hilt. You feel him tremble—not from restraint, but from the way your body takes him in frantic, greedy pulses, as if trying to draw him deeper still.

The fat of your ass shifts under his punishing grip as you grind down, chasing that perfect angle until he swears he can feel your heartbeat through the slick walls clenching around him. Your shared sweat makes a mess of everything—the slide of his abdomen against your clit, the way your thighs stick to his hips, the obscene squelch as he moves through your dripping cunt like he was carved from the same divine stone that shaped you. Every convulsive ripple of your inner muscles seems designed to ruin him, to reduce this beautiful, dangerous man to nothing but base instinct and desperate thrusts. Then—just when you think he's wrung every possible reaction from your body—he does something that steals what little breath you have left. With agonising slowness, he withdraws until only the flushed, leaking head of his cock remains seated inside you, that unbearable stretch reduced to the barest teasing pressure. Your hips jerk uselessly, chasing that delicious fullness, but he pins you in place with one broad hand splayed across your ass while the other yanks open the nearby drawer in search of something. You open your mouth—to tease, to protest, to beg with words so filthy they'd make a sinner blush—but he gives you no chance. In one brutal snap of his hips, he's buried inside you again, the force of it driving you up the surface until his forearm bands around your waist to keep you still. The punched-out moan that escapes you sounds broken even to your own ears.

The rhythm he sets is punishing, each thrust calculated to make your vision whiten at the edges. Your tits bounce obscenely against his hungry mouth, nipples pebbled and oversensitive from his teeth scraping urgently against them. Tears bead at the corners of your scrunched-shut eyes as you bite your lip—until his command slices through the haze: "Open your eyes.”

When you obey—when your bleary vision finally focuses through the haze of pleasure to see the obscene glisten between your thighs, your own arousal painting his cock in irrefutable evidence of your desperation—a shutter clicks, echoeing as the bullet going through the church, the camera flash immortilizing everything as your body arches in perfect, ruined ecstasy.

He's not just fucking you. He's curating it—assembling irrefutable proof of your complete surrender to his arbitration. Cataloguing how beautifully you come apart beneath him. Documenting how even when reduced to a shuddering, tear-streaked wreck, all your broken pleas still ask for the same thing: him. Only him. He captures it all—the flutter of your lashes when his thumb swipes through the streaks on your cheek, the way your throat works around silent screams when he angles deeper. His next words are the final nail in the coffin of your consecration, divulged against the column of your throat: "Let me show you how pretty you look when you cum on my cock."

[maddymoreau]

Garten of Banban 0 Discussion:

To understand Chapter 0, first we have to go over Banban's backstory. Mind you everything in it happened to this little guy:

Longer Analysis on Banban: Click Here

Summarizing the reports:

Banban, Case #6, was created. He is able to recall memories and events belonging to his original genome donor, Dr. Uthman Adam. He also has an identical level of intelligence and is capable of speaking as fluently as the original genome donor.

However, Banban doesn't recognize himself as a non-human. When addressed as a non-human, he is confused. Even when presented with a mirror, Banban still sees himself as Dr. Uthman Adam.

A meeting between Banban and his human genome donor is arranged. During this, Banban became extremely agitated and attempted to attack Dr. Uthman Adam.

After this Banban refused to communicate with anyone outside Dr. Weverly Mason. However, this request was denied.

From there, Banban's mental state became unstable. He was placed in solitary since he'd attack anyone and anything that attempted to approach him. Along with not respond to any instructions delivered through speakers.

Whenever released from solitary, he'd stay huddled in the corner of his chamber, pacing around his room, and whispering to himself "Givanium", "Pancreas", "Weverly", and "Uthman".

To help Banban, Case #7 Banbaleena, was created to encourage cooperation. Although not hostile towards Banbaleena, Banban's rebellious behavior remained unchanged.

So they used a newly-modified Givanium solution on Banban which was engineered to lower the functions of self-thinking. The results weren't what they expected, and instead, it caused Banban to fall victim to his primitive instincts, AKA his Devil Form. This Devil Form would be referred to as Case #6B.

At the start of Chapter 0 there's a vote. All the scientists, excluding Syringeon, voted to have Banban repurposed for parts and replaced. This was primarily due to Banban's inability to control himself.

However, since Banban the mascot, is such a crucial role in Banban's Kindergarten, instead of completely getting rid of the character, they planned to remake Banban.

Which would be Case #6C, Flumbo.

Syringeon and Banban didn't want that to happen.

So, during Chapter 0, while waiting for the results of the voting Banban gained Flumbo's trust: More detailed explanation here.

After the voting results came in and revealed Banban would be replaced. Syringeon came up with the plan for Flumbo to "accidentally" be killed by the Experiment Ramamba.

It's somewhat implied that the Ramamba was (partially) made using the Givanium blob that Syringeon took:

Syringeon informs Banban of his plan however Syringeon can't be there during it. So Banban later lures Flumbo to where he'll be killed lying that he has a surprise for him. Things don't go according to the plan since Nabnab sacrifices himself to save Flumbo.

Ramamba eats Kittysaurus, Bittergiggle, and Nabnab.

Before this, all the human Scientists were evacuated from the area. This was due to earthquakes causing something to break making the tranquilizing gas leak. The earthquakes were most likely caused by Ramamba due to its large size.

It was important to make sure no Scientists were around since the Experiments aren't supposed to be out:

The Scientists care so little about the Experiments that they left a baby Bittergiggle to die when evacuating, who Flumbo saves.

(BITTERGIGGLE'S FACE IS KILING ME 😂😭 I LOVE IT!!!!)

Banban later transforms into his Devil Form which helps him kill Ramamba and save everyone (including those eaten).

Afterwards, Banban thinks that maybe the scientists are right about him needing to be repurposed, but changes his mind. Banban desperately wants to live so he does something horrible . . .

Banban, who considers himself the group's leader, suggests another game of hide and seek. Banban takes Flumbo to his best hiding spot, tricks Flumbo, and locks him in a closet.

Banban makes the decision to focus on moving forward instead of fixating on what he's done to Flumbo:

Banban: "Best not to dwell on the past and only focus on the future."

Here no one will be able to find Flumbo, resulting in him being LOCKED UP THIS ENTIRE TIME!!!! Which is extra devastating when you consider Flumbo viewed Banban as his friend!!!

With Flumbo gone, they HAVE to use and keep Banban around. Especially with all the money invested into Banban and the Kindergarten's release date quickly approaching.

Hence, why a lot of the decorations in the Kindergarten have Flumbo's name, but Banban's face.

In the meantime Syringeon is secretly working on creating a cure for Banban's issue with controlling his primitive instincts.

Fun detail: Banban repeats Syringeon's words in Chapter 4:

It's unclear WHY but Syringeon is heavily invested in Banban.

Throughout Chapter 0 it's shown Syringeon has secretly been working with Banban. While the other Experiments like Banbaleena are scared of Syringeon. Since he takes away their friends and are afraid they're going to be next.

Banban plays this middle man roll "scaring" Syringeon off and saying:

Banban: "I've managed to scare him away this time, as I'm sure you saw. And as long as I am around, I always will."

Banbaleena: "How many more of us will he snatch and take away?! It's only a matter of time before it's my turn!"

Banban: "I'll make sure that never happens."

There's also a secret area where Flumbo can meet a baby Slow Seline!! Who talks about seeing visions of the future featuring the Player and Flumbo together. Along with unknowingly predicting that he'd be locked away by Banban.

Other fun details: Tarta Bird is Case #21, Syringeon helped create Banban, Flumbo gave Banbaleena her bow, NABNAB HUGGING FLUMBO, Banban calls Nabnab his best friend, Banban gave Banbaleena flowers (they were plastic mushrooms lol), Banban says Truffletoot is one of the few cases that he truly considers a friend, AND TRUFFLETOOT WAS SO CUTE!!!!

Banban's little nubs ARE HIS EARS??!!!

[lil-bitty-lubdubs]

The Basement Series- Freya Pt.4

Just then the bell rang. Though the room was soundproof, Cal had installed a fixture for the deaf that flickered the lights instead of ringing in the basement. He knew who it would be at the door. Rolling his eyes, he dethatched himself from his beauty, Freya, and went for the door.

He opened it and sure enough, it was as he feared.

“Bastian “Baas” Conroe.” He greeted the fair skinned dark haired man.

“Well if it isn’t the tri-state killer…��� Bastian joked pushing past Cal.

“You do know you’re just as guilty and of far more than I right?”

“Details.” Baas shrugged. “So I heard a woman is missing in the area, for a few days now. What’s she like?”

Cal had to smile. Baas knew him so well. “Her name is Freya. She is lots of fun and a beauty. You wanna join in on the fun? I was about to go in for another resus.”

Bas’s eyes lit up. “Definitely.”

“Come and meet her.” Cal unbolted the door to the basement and led him down the stairs. “You’ll be smitten”.

Freya lay on the bed, AED still attached to her chest, eyes closed. She was breathing rhythmically and softly, the rise of fall of her bare chest, steady. Baas came up and placed his hand over her heart. It pumped softly underneath his fingers setting his nerves on fire. “Oh, you’re right. She is definitely a gorgeous specimen.

What have you exhausted so far, Cal?”

“Potassium. Heroin. And straight up defib. I’m thinking about going with gas now. Paralyzing agent and then anesthesia.”

Baas whistled. “Where’d you get your hands on those? You got to introduced me to your supplier.”

Cal laughed. “You wanna do the honors?” Cal handed him a mask attached to a bag.

“Thank you”. Baas took the mask but placed it by Freya’s head. “But first lets see those eyes.” He patted her cheek trying to wake her. “Come on babydoll wake up,”  he shook her a bit and she started moaning but her eyes remained closed. He put his knuckles into her sternum and gave her a rub. “Come on baby let me see those eyes.” he rubbed as he opened one eyelid. Freya finally came around the pain stimulus awakening her senses; startled to see a face she did not know.

“There you go. Hello Freya baby.” he smiled at her as he stoked her cheek. “You were right Cal, those eyes are to die for.”

The mention of Cal brought Freya back to reality. She started to cry. “Please…..” she moaned.

“Hush now babydoll,” Baas comforted her as the hissing mask descended over her nose and mouth. “It’s ok. Breathe in.” He urged her.

“NO!” Freya screamed.  She tried moving her head do he wouldn’t be able to put the mask on her but he easily managed.  She held her breath but it was only a matter of time. Baas however didn’t wait. He squeezed the bag, filling her lungs with the gas.

She cried louder but he kept bagging her rhythmically. “Take it into your lungs beautiful. . Just relax. I’m going to be taking over your breathing for you in just a minute when you go into respiratory arrest. Freya noticed she was becoming still. She wanted to fight and thrash but her body was slowly going to sleep. Her heartbeat went up dramatically on the AED screen. “That’s it babydoll! That’s right.”

“Yes sweetheart!” Cal poked his head in to her line of sight. “Good girl. We’re gonna show Baas here how much fun we have. yeah. You’re taking in a paralytic right now, you will be conscious and unable to move or breathe until we administer your anesthesia.”

It was already working. Drool began dripping out of the corner of her mouth as all movement left her. Baas smiled. She felt dread rising in her loins. Her bowels released. “Yes, there you go babydoll. just relax into paralysis”  Baas coached her along, sticking a gloved finger into her anus. Fear was rustling in the chambers of her heart. The monitor sounded accordingly with an alarm as her stats rose dramatically. She couldn’t inhale, talk, move. Not even an inch. Adrenalin coursed into her blood.

Baas took the mask off her and leaned in and kissed the saliva off her face. Then he closed her nose and gave her a deep breath. “Mmmm….” he moaned. “you are indeed luscious.” he grinned playing with her nipple, looking intently in her fear filled eyes. He bent down slow, one hand sliding right the center of her sternum. He blew into her chest cavity again this time slow, deep, sensual, savoring every moment of the feel of her mouth, the rise of her chest against his hot palm. He broke away and just stood watching her, watching her rhythm on the AED screen. He was in no hurry.

Freya, on the other hand, already felt the need to breathe, her mind was running at light speed, the need for air leading  her to panic. Baas took his time as Cal fumbled with the switches to another tank. No doubt this one the anesthetic. He finally placed the mask on her face again and squeezed air and gas into her with the bag. He continued, Freya laying conscious but utterly helpless at his mercy. Cal changed the tubes and a new smell filled the mask. Baas leaned in closer watching her wide open eyes intently, enjoying the control he had over her. He held the ambu bag sealed over her mouth and nose with one hand, while stroking her face with the other a few times.

“I got you babydoll” his hand moved to squeeze the bag. A flood of oxygen filled Freya. It felt good. cold. Satisfying. Infuriating. Cruel. So many things she felt.

Now her heart began acting up. She could feel it writhe out of rhythm inside her chest. the anesthetic causing an overdose in her system. Higher and higher her pulse climbed until at 255 her useless quiver gave out its wonderings and left her lifefeless.

“Cardiac arrest” Cal announced as he set up a series of needles filled to the brim with cardiac inducing drugs. Baas placed his head on Frey’s chest. Finding no beat he lost control and came hard in his briefs.

‘You enjoyed that huh?” Cal smiled at him when he was done.

“Most definitely. She is a most worthy specimen.”

“Lets resus shall we ?”

“Can I be the one to pump her heart?” he asked.

Cal nodded and injected her IV with adrenaline. He waved at Baas to begin.

 Baas interlaced his knuckles together over her dead heart. Cal came in and closed her nose, filling her with more air. He could tell she hated when he breathed into her mouth, which made her helplessness all the more potent.

Baas thrust into her over and over. “Come on sweetie,” he willed her back as he worked her heart ferociously, harder than Cal had done previously. “You ain’t got no choices here babydoll.” he paused for Cal to insert air into her then continued. “I got my hands right here between your nipples pumping your little heart. I know the adrenalin burns like hell, so don’t make us give you another one. We’ll work your heart all fucking night if that’s what it takes.” he pumped, her ribs cracking under the strain.

“Come on sweetheart” Cal coaxed her, sliding two fingers into her carotid as Baas worked her muscle without mercy. Cal handed him another syringe, this one massive for intracardiac use. “Another one.” Baas ordered as he found the space between her ribs and jammed the needle into her heart. He thrust its entire contends into her ventricle and grabbed the other from Cal, doing the same. The men paused to watch the effects on the monitor. A tiny blip appeared. 5  seconds later another and another.

“’She’s back..” Baas announced. “Good girl.” he felt for a femoral pulse.

“Its too slow.” Cal told Baas.

“Much too slow “he agreed and placed his hands back between Freya’s breasts. He continued compressions helping her heart to find sinus rhythm while Cal inserted drugs into her IV and watched as Baas gently monitored the pulse in her neck, “Give her some  air Baas” he instructed. “I got to get a fresh 02 tank from the garage.”

 Baas obliged pinching her narrow nostrils and sealing his mouth on hers. He thrust. Her chest shot up. Again and again he breathed into her, keeping one eye on the AED reading. Just as Cal returned with he tank, she gasped deep and hard.

Baas shivered and let another wave of pleasure roll over him. He had his member out in his hand, Freya opened her eyes though still unable to move much, at that moment Baas he straddled her placing his tip right on her lower lips. She groaned as he spilled onto her, an orgasm raging in her loins as well. Tears flowed out of her eyes as she felt betrayed by her own body. When Baas was done he got onto the bed with her, cleaning up her bowl movement, and propping her up against his chest, her head bent back onto his shoulder. He continued to breathe for her, keeping his hand smack over her heart, its pumping absolutely hypnotizing. As she regained her facilities she started fighting his breath but he quickly put both his hands into her diagram Heimlich style and emptied her lungs of air. ‘Don’t fight me Freya. Just take my breathe into your lungs babydoll. “

Inadvertently she tried to breathe once more. Again he emptied her diaphragm and held the pressure.

She had no choice but to comply, she relaxed. Letting him breathe her up. He filled her with his own breath as she lay against him, his other hand feeling the beats of her heart between her breasts. she prayed for death until her call was answered.

[respect-the-locals]

🐙 Daily Cephalopod Fact: 🐙

Flamboyant Cuttlefish: Cuttlefish have a specialized, hollow feature called a cuttlebone that helps the animal maintain buoyancy by adjusting the levels of gas and liquid in its chambers.1 Because the flamboyant cuttlefish’s cuttlebone is relatively small, this species can only float and swim for short amounts of time. Instead of swimming, flamboyant cuttlefish “walk” along the ocean floor using their arms. They also have a highly developed sensory system that helps them respond and adjust to their surroundings.

[nanamineedstherapy]

Why yo JJK Daddy won't fuck you in his domain

or

Questions We Were Too Afraid to Ask About Gojo's Domain Mid-Fiuck

Q.) Would a normal human suffocate in Gojo’s Infinite Void? Is it a slow death by asphyxiation, or something worse?

Ans.) Okay, picture this: you’re trapped in a space where time, reality, and the very fabric of your sanity start glitching out like a Windows XP error screen. Now ask yourself—would you be thinking about oxygen, or would your brain already be deep-fried beyond recognition? Let’s break it down:

Instant Incapacitation: The moment Infinite Void activates, your brain is force-fed an infinite stream of information. It’s like trying to read every Wikipedia article at once while someone screams quantum physics into your ear. You don’t even get the chance to feel yourself suffocate—because you’re already mentally done before your lungs even remember they exist.

Infinity’s Environmental Control: Gojo controls space at an atomic level, right? If he can stop physical objects but still let oxygen in when fighting, then he’s probably not sealing his Domain like a vacuum chamber. Your lungs might be fine, but your brain? Completely bricked.

Domain Mechanics: Domains are spiritual barriers, not physical ones. While they trap targets, they don’t inherently cut off external airflow unless the user explicitly designs them to (e.g., a water-based Domain). Gojo’s focus is on information overload, not environmental sabotage.

Verdict: You’re not suffocating. You’re getting an eternal brain freeze while Gojo stands there looking pretty. If death had a blue screen of death, this would be it.

TDLR: You die, but not from lack of air. You die because your brain is sent to the fifth dimension against its will long before suffocating can become an issue.

Q.) What if he's like having sexy times with his wife and he like you know…. arrives at the station and accidently activates it then would she suffocate????

Ans.) Picture the surreal horror of an intimate moment shattered by cosmic miscalculation. Even in this absurd scenario, suffocation remains unlikely. Here’s why:

Activation Demands Total Focus: Gojo’s Infinite Void requires hand signs and chanting. If he’s “arriving at the station” mid-sexy-time, his brain is probably focused on… other priorities. Domain Expansions demand intense concentration—hard to pull off when you’re, uh, distracted. Or, Infinite Void isn’t a button you can hit by accident. It requires precise hand signs and an unwavering focus—a mental state that’s nearly impossible to maintain when you're caught in a passionate embrace. Your mind is split between desire and duty, and the latter simply can’t be achieved halfway. Or, Infinite Void isn’t a sneeze; it’s a full-on hand-sign-chanting-mind-focus event. If he’s “arriving at the station,” his brain is, let’s just say… preoccupied. And last I checked, you need at least some mental bandwidth to activate a Domain Expansion.

Even If It Happens (Somehow, Someway)-Infinity’s Autopilot: Even if he somehow activated it, his Limitless technique subconsciously filters threats. Air molecules = allowed. Suffocation = blocked. The Domain’s true purpose is to flood the target’s consciousness with overwhelming data, not to create a suffocating prison. His wife would still get oxygen—just also get a front-row seat to the cosmos screaming into her brain. Or, Gojo’s Infinity is basically his body's automatic firewall. If it filters poison gas, it sure as hell filters air molecules. His wife isn’t suffocating—she’s just getting front-row seats to cosmic horror at 4K resolution. Imagine mid-sex and suddenly, BAM—the entire universe starts whispering forbidden knowledge into your skull.

The Real Danger-Instant Neural Shutdown: Instead of a slow demise by lack of air, the person caught in the void would experience a rapid collapse of their mental faculties. Imagine an instantaneous, existential blue-screen of death—where your brain is the system crashing, not your lungs giving out. Or, she wouldn’t be gasping for air. She’d be locked in place, her mind thrown into a spiraling existential meltdown while Gojo panics, like, “Oh shit, wrong expansion—”

Gojo Would Shut That Shit Down IMMEDIATELY: Domains burn a ton of energy—he’d collapse it within seconds, realizing his mistake (and probably screaming in horror). Then he’d spend the next 72 hours groveling with limited-edition crepes and emergency foot rubs.

Verdict: So, while the headcanon is as wild as it is darkly humorous, the outcome isn’t a suffocation scenario. It’s a catastrophic, instantaneous mental overload—a cosmic “oops” that leaves you with nothing but a shattered psyche. So just trauma and a very awkward conversation with Shoko later.

TDLR: You know how you need to focus to get the optimal velocity in bed? It’s the same for him. He’s either focusing on the sex or the Domain—he can’t do both. (I know all men do is lie. SMH. Men right.)

And for this reason alone, NONE of your JJK Dads/Moms are fucking you in their Domains.

…Except maybe Takaba. But only if you’re funny enough. And even then, you’ll never know if he’s laughing with you or at you.

PS: These deductions are based on watching everything way too closely. If you disagree, let’s argue—after all, the void is infinite, and so are our headcanons.

Double PS, read comments. There's more deep discussion going on.

[incorrect-green-lantern-quotes]

A Brief Introduction to Planet Oa

Nestled in the very heart of the cosmos, at the center of Sector 0, the planet of Oa serves as both the homeworld of the Green Lantern Corps and a symbol of order for the universe at large.

Oa is one of the oldest planets in existence. Its parent star, Sto-Oa ("Light of Oa" in the Maltusian language) is a red hypergiant that formed shortly after the Big Bang. There are eleven planets in the star system (five terrestrial, three gas giants and four ice giants) most of which serve as farmland and resource mines.

Oa is the fourth closest to the star, and it takes approximately 574 Earth days to complete one revolution around its star. The planet is actually tidally locked in its orbit, meaning that it does not have a natural day-night cycle.

However, the Guardians of the Universe have constructed a massive ring of solar arrays that slowly revolves around the planet. The shadow cast by this megastructure simulates "night" by blocking out Oa's parent star from the hemisphere that it shines upon, while simultaneously refracting Sto-Oa's light to the far side to create an artificial "day."

(Would it have been more practical to simply force Oa to spin in its orbit? The Guardians are certainly powerful enough to induce planetary rotation. When asked why they chose this as a solution instead, they declined to comment.)

The Guardians chose to set the length of Oa's "day" equal to their ancestral home's, exactly twenty-and-a-half Earth hours. There are no seasons or months, as the planet does not have any natural moons and only has an axial tilt of about 3°, so the Oan year's subdivisions are almost entirely arbitrary and exist purely for the purpose of timekeeping.

It takes 672 Oan days for the planet to complete one orbit around Sto-Oa. The Oan year is based off the old Maltusian calendar and consists of eight months, each of which is twelve weeks long. Coincidentally, the Maltusians also had seven days in a week.

(That the Oan/Maltusian week has the same number of days as Earth's does is merely coincidence, not an indication of any shared cultural history.)

Oa was a barren rock before the Guardians came and terraformed it into a lush oasis with four oceans and nine continents that host a variety of biomes, ranging from polar to tropical to downright toxic for most life-forms. It has the most varied environments of any world, again thanks to the Guardians’ technology. They engineered Oa's biosphere in this way because the planet also serves as a safe haven for species from all across the universe.

(The Green Lanterns seek to preserve every inhabited world, or failing that, evacuate the populations to safety. But they do not always succeed.)

This myriad of environments on Oa is what allowed Appa Ali Apsa to create the Mosaic World. Even in the throes of his insanity, he was able to utilize the extant biomes to house the cities he kidnapped. In most cases however, those who are brought to Oa are refugees who only live on the planet temporarily until the Green Lanterns find a new home for them.

Consequently, the only permanent settlement on Oa is the Emerald Citadel, which is located directly at the center of the starside hemisphere. It's a grand city consisting of enormous skyscrapers that are built to varying scales to accommodate the many body shapes and sizes of the Green Lanterns- as well as any diplomats who come to seek an audience with the Corps or the Guardians. The Central Battery of the Green Lantern Corps and the Guardians' Council Chambers are located here.

Oa has been attacked and even destroyed on multiple occasions. The Green Lantern Corps and the Guardians of the Universe have had many powerful enemies over the centuries, such as the Empire of Tears, the Reach, and various other Lantern groups. Some have questioned the wisdom of maintaining a static headquarters in a known location, even with all the power that the Guardians can bring to bear.

But the value of Oa extends beyond the mere strategic. It is not the nature of the Green Lanterns to hide in the shadows. Their light is as symbolic as it is functional. For all that the Guardians have their skeletons in the closet, the Green Lanterns are the defenders of justice and peace for the universe at large. No evil shall escape their sight, and in turn they will not hide themselves from the sight of those they protect.

Of course their homeworld is the shining jewel at the center of the cosmos.

[etz-ashashiyot]

Quotes from "Executed Jews" I want to especially highlight:

Two distinct patterns of antisemitism can be identified by the Jewish holidays that celebrate triumphs over them: Purim and Hanukkah. In the Purim version of antisemitism, exemplified by the Persian genocidal decrees in the biblical Book of Esther, the goal is openly stated and unambiguous: Kill all the Jews. In the Hanukkah version of antisemitism, whose appearances range from the Spanish Inquisition to the Soviet regime, the goal is still to eliminate Jewish civilization. But in the Hanukkah version, this goal could theoretically be accomplished simply by destroying Jewish civilization, while leaving the warm, de-Jewed bodies of its former practitioners intact.

For this reason, the Hanukkah version of antisemitism often employs Jews as its agents. It requires not dead Jews but cool Jews: those willing to give up whatever specific aspect of Jewish civilization is currently uncool. Of course, Judaism has always been uncool, going back to its origins as the planet's only monotheism, featuring a bossy and unsexy invisible God. Uncoolness is pretty much Judaism's brand, which is why cool people find it so threatening — and why Jews who are willing to become cool are absolutely necessary to Hanukkah antisemitism's success. These "converted" Jews are used to demonstrate the good intentions of the regime — which of course isn't antisemitic but merely requires that its Jews publicly flush thousands of years of Jewish civilization down the toilet in exchange for the worthy prize of not being treated like dirt, or not being murdered. For a few years. Maybe.

I wish I could tell the story of Ala's father concisely, compellingly, the way everyone prefers to hear about dead Jews. I regret to say that Benjamin Zuskin wasn't minding his own business and then randomly stuffed into a gas chamber, that his thirteen-year-old daughter did not sit in a closet writing an uplifting diary about the inherent goodness of humanity, that he did not leave behind sad-but-beautiful aphorisms pondering the absence of God while conveniently letting his fellow humans off the hook. He didn't even get crucified for his beliefs. Instead, he and his fellow Soviet Jewish artists — extraordinarily intelligent, creative, talented, and empathetic adults — were played for fools, falling into a slow-motion psychological horror story brimming with suspense and twisted self-blame. They were lured into a long game of appeasing and accommodating, giving up one inch after another of who they were in order to win that grand prize of being allowed to live.

Spoiler alert: they lost.

[...]

But Soviet support for Jewish culture was part of a larger plan to brainwash and coerce national minorities into submitting to the Soviet regime — and for Jews, it came at a very specific price. From the beginning, the regime eliminated anything that celebrated Jewish "nationality" that didn't suit its needs. Jews were awesome, provided they weren't practicing Jewish religion, studying traditional Jewish texts, using Hebrew, or supporting Zionism. The Soviet Union thus pioneered a versatile gaslighting slogan, which it later spread through its client states in the developing world and which remains popular today: it was not antisemitic, merely anti-Zionist. (In the process of not being antisemitic and merely being anti-Zionist, the regime managed to persecute, imprison, torture, and murder thousands of Jews.) What's left of Jewish culture once you surgically remove religious practice, traditional texts, Hebrew, and Zionism? In the Soviet Empire, one answer was Yiddish, but Yiddish was also suspect for its supposedly backwards elements. Nearly 15 percent of its words came directly from biblical and rabbinic Hebrew, so Soviet Yiddish schools and publishers, under the guise of "simplifying" spelling, implemented a new and quite literally antisemitic spelling system that eliminated those words' Near Eastern roots. Another answer was "folklore" — music, visual art, theater, and other creative work reflecting Jewish life — but of course most of that cultural material was also deeply rooted in biblical and rabbinic sources, or reflected common religious practices like Jewish holidays and customs, so that was treacherous too.

No, what the regime required were Yiddish stories that showed how horrible traditional Jewish practice was, stories in which happy, enlightened Yiddish-speaking heroes rejected both religion and Zionism (which, aside from its modern political form, is also a fundamental feature of ancient Jewish texts and prayers traditionally recited at least three times daily). This de-Jewing process is clear from the repertoire of the government-sponsored Moscow State Yiddish Theater, which could only present or adapt Yiddish plays that denounced traditional Judaism as backward, bourgeois, corrupt, or even more explicitly — as in the many productions involving ghosts or graveyard scenes — as dead. As its actors would be, soon enough.

The Soviet Union's destruction of Jewish culture commenced, in a calculated move, with Jews positioned as the destroyers. It began with the Yevsektsiya, committees of Jewish Bolsheviks whose paid government jobs from 1918 through 1930 were to persecute, imprison, and occasionally murder Jews who participated in religious or Zionist institutions — categories that included everything from synagogues to sports clubs, all of which were shut down and their leaders either exiled or "purged." This went on, of course, until the regime purged the Yevsektsiya members themselves.

The pattern repeated in the 1940s. As sordid as the Yeveksiya chapter was, I found myself more intrigued by the undoing of the Jewish Antifascist Committee, a board of prominent Soviet Jewish artists and intellectuals established by Joseph Stalin in 1942 to drum up financial support from Jews overseas for the Soviet war effort. Two of the more prominent names on the JAC's roster of talent were Solomon Mikhoels, the director of the Moscow State Yiddish Theater, and Ala's father Benjamin Zuskin, the theater's leading actor. After promoting these people during the war, Stalin decided these loyal Soviet Jews were no longer useful, and charged them all with treason. He had decided that this committee he himself created was in fact a secret Zionist cabal, designed to bring down the Soviet state. Mikhoels was murdered first, in a 1948 hit staged to look like a traffic accident. Nearly all the others — Zuskin and twelve more Jewish luminaries, including the novelist Dovid Bergelson, who had proclaimed Moscow as the center of the Yiddish future — were executed by firing squad on August 1952.

Just as the regime accused these Jewish artists and intellectuals of being too "nationalist" (read: Jewish), today's long hindsight makes it strangely tempting to read this history and accuse them of not being "nationalist" enough — that is, of being so foolishly committed to the Soviet regime that they were unable to see the writing on the wall. Many works on this subject have said as much. In Stalin's Secret Pogrom, the indispensable English translation of transcripts from the JAC "trial," Russia scholar Joshua Rubenstein concludes his lengthy introduction with the following:

As for the defendants at the trial, it is not clear what they believed about the system they each served. Their lives darkly embodied the tragedy of Soviet Jewry. A combination of revolutionary commitment and naive idealism had tied them to a system they could not renounce. Whatever doubts or misgivings they had, they kept to themselves, and served the Kremlin with the required enthusiasm. They were not dissidents. They were Jewish martyrs. They were also Soviet patriots. Stalin repaid their loyalty by destroying them.

This is completely true, and also completely unfair. The tragedy — even the term seems unjust, with its implied blaming of the victim — was not that these Soviet Jews sold their souls to the devil, though many clearly did. The tragedy was that integrity was never an option in the first place.

[...]

In Jerusalem that morning, Ala told me, in a sudden private moment of anger and candor, that the Soviet Union's treatment of the Jews was worse than Nazi Germany's. I tried to argue, but she shut me up. Obviously the Nazi atrocities against Jews were incomparable, a fact Ala later acknowledged in a calmer mood. But over four generations, the Soviet regime forced Jews to participate in and internalize their own humiliation - and in that way, Ala suggested, they destroyed far more souls. And they never, ever, paid for it.

"They never had a Nuremberg," Ala told me that day, with a quiet fury. "They never acknowledged the evil of what they did. The Nazis were open about what they were doing, but the Soviets pretended. They lured the Jews in, they baited them with support and recognition, they used them, they tricked them, and then they killed them. It was a trap. And no one knows about it, even now. People know about the Holocaust, but not this. Even here in Israel, people don't know. How did you know?"

— Excerpted from "Executed Jews," Chapter 4 of People Love Dead Jews by Dara Horn

(All emphasis mine)

Read the full chapter here.

[fipindustries]

the thing that i just cannot agree with when it comes to people that oppose factory farming and slaughterhouses and thinks eating animals is wrong is when they go all, well im just one individual, if i were to stop eating meat my self nothing much would change, what we need is systemic change.

but the problem here is that the evil is not just on the system, IT IS ON THE INDIVIDUAL AS WELL.

imagine instead of cows it was black people. goberments are ok with corraling black people, putting them on factories, torture them, mutilate them, kill them in gas chambers and then sell their meat.

there would be no "larger system" or "voicott effectiveness" to think of here. if you as an individual went to a market and bought that meat and ate it, the very act of doing that, as an individual, would be considered abominable, regardless of wether it contributes to the system or wether it makes a difference or not.

the argument of "individual responsaility is irrelevant when considering its effect on larger systems" would not fly, to eat that meat would be axiomatically evil, as evil as it would be to rape or kill someone, would it not?

unless animals just fundamentally dont matter. that is the only exit, you have to admit that, yeah, at the end of the day, you DONT actually care about animal suffering, otherwise your moral intuitions would just not allow you to do it. and if your moral intuitions allow you to then you have to admit you dont actually care.

[lemon-russ]

Sometimes I just want to take care of Mortarion, cook for him, give him a nice bath, with a massage and take care of his skin with soft lotions, so I can get my hands all over him. And then wrap him in a soft fuzzy bathrobe and tuck him into a freshly made bed. That boy needs someone to take care of him, and he sure as fuck isn't going to do it himself

I got carried away, partially because @moodymisty won't stop talking about the stinky nasty man and I NEEDED to wash him.

Get cleaned, idiot.

Tags: @sleepyfan-blog @undeaddream @scriberye @lisikk,

and thank you for dividers @squishyowl

Mortarion x F!Reader

(Actually i dont think there's any reference to the reader actually being fem?)

CW: kinda gross Mortarion stuff, vague suggestiveness

Word count: ~2000

Mortarion trudges through the threshold to your shared chambers. You gasp and shoot up from your seat where you had been reading. He'd been gone for months on a mission, and you weren't expecting him home for a month still.

“Mortarion!” you say, rushing to his side. He blinks slowly, turning his tired gaze onto you. He takes a moment to fulky process you're there.

“I… return.” He rasps through his mask.

You frown, seeing the grey circles gathered under his eyes, his gaunt cheeks. He always looked ill, but today he looked a foot in the grave.

“You look exhausted, my love.” You say gently, leading him to a chair. He sits with a soft groan, slumping back and letting his head roll back. His robes are dirty and stiff from being worn so long, and you wrinkle your nose. You're glas the serfs brought fresh laundry today.

“It was a long, long ordeal…” he rasps again. You sit on the arm of the chair and push back his hood from his face. His grey hair, greasy and dust caked, falls around his face to his shoulders. You ran a hand along his cheek and he looked up at you tiredly with his cloudy green eyes.

“Here-” you say softly, standing, “you must have not had a decent meal in weeks, let me get you something-”

He blinks, scrunching his brow and raising a pallid hand a bit as you scurry away from the chair.

“You don't have- come, we have serfs for that-” he weakly protests, but you're already out the door.

You return quickly with a spread of cheeses, fruits, meats, and some wine. Mortarion couldn't get drunk, but he sometimes enjoyed the taste. You place it on the sidetable nearby, hopping back next to him. This time he places an arm around your side, but carefully as not to touch you.

His pale eyes soften at the plate. “…thank you. That is… very kind.” He says, reaching for his respirator.

You watch him take the gas infusing mask off, and wince when he starts gasping rattling sounds. You hand him a cloth to cough into, and rub his wide back as he hacks and wheezes while his lungs struggle to rebuild themselves enough to breathe unaltered air. When he's able to breath mostly uninhibited, he swallows a few times and looks up at you again, a thin sweat on his brow.

“You don't have to… always stay with me, when I take off the mask…” he croaks weakly. You smile and give a soft sigh.

“It's alright. I can handle it.” You say gently. You bring him over the tray, and he scrunches his nose and coughs when a tart fruit hits his tongue. He instead gulps some wine, then sighs.

“Tastes… awful, at first.” He mumbles in his hoarse voice.

“I know, my love.” You soothe, rubbing his shoulder and ignoring the dust and blood caked robes. “But your taste will kick back in soon like always.”

You slide off the chair again, and his dry, paled lips give a small frown. You smile back. “I'm going to run you a bath while you snack.” You say, flittering over to some cabinets. You start gathering scented herbs and oils and soaps.

Mortarion gives a resignated sigh. “Very well, then… I have… learned better than to fight with you on this. Go make your soup.” He gruffs, halfheartedly waving a hand your way.

You giggle. He may give you attitude about it, but you suspect some part of him liked the comfort and attention, as antithetical to his personality as it was. But he had to keep up appearances.

You leave him to his food, hearing him occasionally cough over a bite, and head to your bathroom. You asked Mortarion to build a spacious bathroom when he asked how you wanted your chambers. He delivered, a large heated bath pool set into the floor, big enough that he could sit fully submerged. You turn on the water and throw in the oils and herbs.

Ginger, because he looked like his muscles were sore, and it helps his throat and cough. Lavender and chamomile, to help with the stress you could see in his tense shoulders. And some jasmine scented epsom salt for- well, everything else going on with his cracking, healing skin. Plus, you like the smell.

When the pool was sufficiently full, you return to him, now resting with his head back and an empty tray. You smile, content that he has real food in him, and gently take one of his hands in both of yours. You purse your lips at how bony his knuckles feel.

He cracks a red rimmed eye at you. “Is there something you'd like?” He asks, voice sounding a tad clearer.

You pout. “Come, before the water cools.”

He lets out a deep, rattling sigh, but seems too tired to argue. He rises with a groan, and dredges after you as you lead him to the bathroom.

His clothes are… well. They're going in the burn pile. Mortarion doesn't do laundry, so much as replace clothes. The serfs enjoy the lack of washing, but the tailors don't love the constant sewing of huge outfits.

He watches you, expression unreadable as you start undoing his various belts and ties. You free his hooded robe, and he helps you slide it off his shoulders, leaving him bare armed in a loose, sleeveless tunic. You undo the belt to that, fumbling with the knot around his hips, and glance up at him when you notice he's staring.

His face looks taught, and your brow knits. “My love…?”

He squeezes his tired eyes shut, making a small noise. “Its- nothing.” He hisses, turning his head away.

You frown, but shrug and go back to fiddling with the tied fabric. The dirt seems to have made the knot hard to loosen, but you manage to free it, and toss it aside and start tugging at his soiled tunic. He groans a little, but leans to help you tug it off. He kicks off his boots himself, and when you reach for his pants, he gently grabs your wrist, dwarfing it in his hands.

“I can manage the rest.” He says, voice strained. You smile and step back, watching as he peels the pants off. He gives you a look, before sighing and peeling his loincloth off as well. You don't know why he makes a spectacle of getting undressed. You've seen it all before. And more.

You giggle, but move a stool over for him. He sits, and lets you take buckets from the bath to rinse off the more offensive dust and grime. You'd prefer his bath not immediately turn black when he touches it.

When he's rinsed, he trudges tiredly over to the pool and lowers himself in. He hisses through his teeth as the water hits his cracked skin, but lowers in anyway, leaning so only his head is unsubmerged. His grey hair- brighter now without so much filth- splays across the tiles. You smile and sit behind him cross-legged on the floor.

You drizzle some flowery scented shampoo on his hair, and start massaging your fingers into his scalp as it lathers. He sighs a deep breath, sinking into the pool a little more. It takes a few rinses and lathers before you're confident his hair is actually clean, but his dull gray hair is now shiny silver once again.

You undress yourself next, and he tilts his head up to peek at you as you do. You giggle. Again, he acts like you aren't getting in the bath lole this. You slip in with him, his eyes never leaving you.

“What?” You chuckle softly.

His eyes roam your body, and he almost smiles the tiniest bit. “Nothing. Please, continue with the frivolities.” He replies, settling back again.

You do just that, using a loufa to gentley exfoliate the skin that was cracking and shedding as his body recovered from the gas.

He makes a small groan now and then, moving every so slightly to give you better access to him as you scrub sweet soaps into his skin. You make him roll over, and he does so, propping arms on the side of the pool as you nearly climb his back to scrub and exfoliate.

He looks half asleep by the time you're done, and his shoulders are slouched in a much less tense way. The red around his eyes is now pink, and his pallid skin is starting to look less translucent and waxy as the heat and healing slowly brings a hint of blood to his face. And, apparently, other places as well, you chuckle to yourself.

You run a comb through his hair, detangling it with scneted oils. He watches with half lidded eyes as you sit in his lap, gently tugging out knots.

“Why….?” He mumbles, letting one of his hands splay across your small back.

You smile up at his tired, soft face. “Why what, my love?”

He sighs and rubs his thumb over your spine. “Why… this? Me…?” he murmurs.

Your face softens, and you set the comb aside so you can cradle his face between your hands.

“Because you're you.” You say gently.

He sighs and lets his cheek rest in your small palm, eyes fluttering closed. You stay like that a moment, stroking his cheek and cuddling in the warm waters.

When the water starts to chill, he sighs and pulls you up with him as he stands.

“You'll catch a cough if we stay.” He says quietly.

He places you carefully on the tile floor, and you're quick to scurry over and fetch towels- one to wrap around you, and a massive one for him. You hold it up to him with a grin, and he cuckles a rattling sound, coughing slightly from the exertion.

He kneels so you can toss the fluffy towel over his head and dry his hair, then the work it down his shoulders and back.

When you've given him a once over, he plucks off your own towel, making you squeek, and plops ot over your head. You giggle and towel off your own dripping hair, and when you pull it off, you see Mortarion holding your robe out for you.

“Last time you caught a cough,” he says, “you couldn't get up for days. Don't walk around cold and wet, you're too… frail.” He grumbled.

You smile and chuckle as you slip into the robe. “I get sick one time, while you're always sick, and I get lectured…” you huff softly.

He makes a small grunt. “It's different.”

You roll your eyes, but tug him to the bed, and he doesn't protest when you urge him to lay on his front, crawling up to the plush pillows and letting his face flop into them. You smile at the sight, the pale king, face first on a bed, hair fanned over the pillow, looking like a kitten that was fighting off falling asleep right there.

You scoot to the bedside table and take the oatmeal and honey lotion you have made just for him. His only response when you start working it over his broad shoulder muscles is a resigned, tired groan. You follow the contours of his back, working your hands over his fair skin, kneading away at his muscles, down his arms, over his fingers.

You make him roll to repeat the process over his chest, sruggling to push into the firm muscle. You take a break to shake out your tiring hands, and notice mortarions eyes are shut, and his breathing is slow and rythmic.

You smile, returning to massaging the sleeping primarch down his thighs and calves. When you are content that youve worked out at least some of his muscle knots, and lotioned all of him you could reach, you sit back and smile.

Clean, fair but slightly pink toned skin, silvery hair slightly disheveled over his face, the dark circles of his eyes fading already as he slept. The peacefulness of his sleeping face, silvery lashes fluttering as he dreams, lifts a worried weight off your shoulders.

You pull a few covers up over him, slipping in beside him. He automatically hooks an arm around you, holding you to his chest like a stuffed animal without stirring his sleep.

With a heavy, worn and contented sigh, you rest your head on his shoulder, taking in the smell of lavender and honey, and let your own eys fall shut in sleep.

[artechoceneexplorer]

I had a lot of fun with the dryad piece, so I'm making another piece similar to that one, featuring another creature I really like from it, the Kelpie

Full piece view

It's definitely not the most realistic design, as the legs of a horse are not adapted for underwater movement in the slightest, and would create much more drag than the small propulsion force they would generate.

So I chose an approach to make it a bit more realistic. Similarly to a hippo, they have bones so dense they don't float, and instead mainly move by walking on the floor of whatever body of water they are in. Still, its hoofs are flattened to help it move on muddy substrate and to help slightly with propulsion whenever it does swim.

But I also had to make it able to swim, that's what the tail is for, to propel it when swimming, so I used a bit of information from the manga. Its organs are said to be able to be used to make flotation devices, so they must play some role in buoyancy control. Some places where normal horses already produce and keep gases produced by symbiotic bacteria are their fermenting chambers in their intestines, mainly the colon and caecum.

So, since they are no longer mainly herbivorous, they could instead develop a symbiotic relationship specifically with hydrogen producing bacteria (which are a thing and hydrogen is a very light gas that could lift up that much weight in those conditions) and house them in expandable chambers derived from one of these fermenting chambers, that they can control the capacity of by expelling gas via their mouths, or regulating the activity of the bacteria inside the chamber. This would allow it to go up into the water column and swim up to the surface.

I would imagine they would also curl their legs as close to the body as possible to reduce drag and mainly use their tail when swimming, even though the bubbler and hair probably makes them more hydrodynamic than a normal horse.

The skull is probably my favourite part of the original design, I don't know a horse head but with sharp carnivore teeth is just so cool to me, so it was also very fun to design for this piece. For inspiration, apart from the images from the anime and manga themselves, I used not only primitive horses like Palaeotherium, which had teeth much less specialised for herbivory, and the quintessential large hoofed predators of the Cenozoic, the entelodonts, or "hell pigs", mainly Archaeotherium.

Palaeotherium skull | Archaeotherium skull

The frontal incisors, like the original design, are extremely sharp and guillotine-like, which I would imagine would be mainly useful for cutting food, either meat or plants, and passing it down to the rest of the mouth. The canines, long and robust, I would imagine are for holding down and subduing prey as shown by the original design, locking the jaw and lowering its buoyancy to take it under. The premolars could act as a sort of teeth of flexible use, being able to aid in holding onto pret, but also be used for further shredding food inside the mouth. The molars I'd imagine would be robust and blunt, especially towards the back of the mouth, to not only chew plants and other general food stuff, but crush the shells of invertebrates it finds on the substrate or the bones of unlucky terrestrial prey...

Now onto my other favourite feature of the Kelpie, its algae mane. It is specifically said to be kelp, so I didn't change that, but I'd imagine they wouldn't have only kelp growing on that mane, and that other algae would be present, for how this would happen, it's not that difficult to imagine, specially if we consider that Kelpies probably stay still while waiting for prey for a long time, because there's an aquatic mammal that grows algae on top of it, manatees! Sloths are also an example of a mammal that grows algae on top of it, specifically on top of its fur, so I took those as inspiration.

The reason for that horse mane like shape the kelp takes also has a reason I came up with that I think is pretty fun. Since Kelpie are omnivores, they probably can and do eat algae, and they need to keep themselves hydrodynamic enough to kill prey, so they regularly graze on themselves to keep that algae short so it doesn't become a hindrance. But because they self-groom they can't reach their neck and head kelp until it gets long enough for their heads to reach, so it keeps that characteristic horse mane shape.

And because this mane is established algae, and not part of the actual hair, they're not born with it, and develop it over time as they grow, so the foals are completely smooth and seemingly bald (however they are still covered by a short layer of hair).

The scientific name is pretty simple this time. The genus name, Abyssohippus, means "horse (-hippus) of the abyss (Abysso-)", and the species name, fallaciter, is Latin for "deceiver". So its full name means "Deceiving horse of the abyss", which I think is very fitting for this creature...

I Hope you enjoyed this glimpse into the creative process to create this design and see you soon! :>

[littlefireball]

can a yeosang x reader be requested? Where she's been active long before meeting Yeosang but she's never been eaten out or had someone the size of Yeosang so she asks about what each feels like to him and offers to show her instead. After he eats her out he starts to f**k her and makes her squirter. Which she didn't even know what it was or what happened etc

I combined yours with another request as i think they can be merged as a one shot (but i changed the setting a little bit)

Another request: yeosang being obsessed with breeding reader especially the sight of him cum oozing out of her hole.

ʏꜱ|ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟ ᴍʏꜱᴇʟꜰ (ᴍ)

ᴅᴏʙᴇʀᴍᴀɴ ʜʏʙʀɪᴅ ꜱᴏʟᴅɪᴇʀ ʏᴇᴏꜱᴀɴɢ x ᴘᴜᴘᴘʏ ʜʏʙʀɪᴅ ᴠɪᴄᴛɪᴍ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ: ꜱᴍᴜᴛ|ᴜɴᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ ꜱᴇx|ᴏʀᴀʟ|ʙʀᴇᴇᴅɪɴɢ ᴋɪɴᴋ|ᴏᴠᴇʀꜱᴛɪᴍᴜʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 2.3ᴋ

Masterlist

Yeosang and his companion took refuge against the formidable outer wall of the stronghold, their weapons poised in perfect synchrony, anticipating commands. Just yesterday, they had been informed of the human trafficking syndicate's stronghold nestled in the distant west, prompting their swift arrival at the scene. This nefarious organization had been abducting adult female Hybrids, ruthlessly exploiting them for illicit reproductive endeavors. 

The captain signaled with his hands, expertly guiding his team into their designated positions. Despite the gas mask obscuring Yeosang's face, he could still detect a subtle, lingering fragrance in the air. 

Because the stronghold was now teeming with hybrids in heat. 

The criminals had administered powerful substances engineered to trigger estrus, paving the way for effortless conception. This operation was perilously risky; should they inadvertently enter a state of heat, the repercussions would be catastrophic.

The mission teams were distinctly categorized into those composed of women and those of men. The women's teams were tasked with rescuing victims, while the men focused on apprehending the nefarious criminals. 

Everything was meticulously prepared. With a decisive motion, the captain raised his left hand, executing a downward slash, and the entire unit surged into the stronghold in perfect synchrony, igniting a fierce gunfight with the gangsters. The tide quickly turned against the criminals, who fell one by one, leaving behind a grim tableau of lifeless bodies strewn across the hall.

"Find the victims!" The captain's commands were heeded without question as each member dispersed throughout the stronghold in search of their targets. Intense gunfire erupted, yet the gangsters were swiftly overpowered. 

Yeosang ascended to the pinnacle of the stronghold, proceeding with utmost caution. The only sound that pierced the silence was the soft rhythm of moaning emanating from a nearby chamber. A wave of embarrassment washed over him, yet he maintained his composure as he approached the room slowly.

As the door slowly creaked ajar, Yeosang's eyes fell upon the sight of you, bare upon the bed, breathless and alluring. Instinctively, he averted his gaze, scanning the room for any signs of danger. In an instant, a werewolf lunged at him from the shadows, its claws raking fiercely. The unexpected assault left Yeosang no time to evade, and the gas mask he wore was violently shattered in the chaos.

"Fuck!" The intoxicating aroma poured into him, shattering his composure in an instant. Your fragrance was far more potent than that of ordinary hybrids. Perhaps the werewolf's drug had intensified your scent. Yeosang battled fiercely against the werewolf, likely driven by the fervor of his own instincts, as their strikes were directed with lethal intent. Yet, it was clear that the werewolf stood no chance against Yeosang's prowess.

"Go back to hell." With a strong punch on the werewolf's face, Yeosang sent him flying to the wooden table which was broken because of the huge impact. He died, with no doubts. But, it was not over. Yeosang's sanity has faded away since this battle for spouse. And now, it's time to claim you as his. 

He knew he couldn't but there was no way to stop. 

"Goodness, you're beautiful." He discarded his weapon before bending toward you, his face burying itself in the curve of your neck, tasting your skin as if he were a famished man. You found yourself utterly powerless to resist, your body succumbing to a delicious weakness. Any attempt to resist only served to stoke the fire of his insatiable longing. 

He let out a deep, wild growl as his lips moved down to your breast, sucking your left nipple while caressing the other. The struggle no longer existed and you found yourself enjoying the pleasure he brought you. You whimpered when he gave you a hard press on your nipple, making him suck harder. Clear red marks were left on every part of your skin as his lips trailed down from your chest to your stomach, making you hiss when your nipples were exposed to the cold air. 

You couldn't help but tremble when he dropped a kiss on your clit. The sensation was amazing even though that was only a simple kiss. You have never felt this before. You needed more, not just a kiss, but his tongue, his lips, just everything. 

"Please, please. Kiss me one more time." Yeosang lifted up his gaze to meet yours, feeling confused. "You want this?" He once again kissed and licked your clit, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips when you threw your head against the pillow. "Please, ahh, fuck!" "As you wish, girl." 

His face dived into your thighs, his hot breath landed on your clit making your hands fly to his hair to pull him closer. "Be patient, girl." Before he finished his words, his tongue met your fold, licking from the bottom to the top. "God!" "How sweet you are." Shutting your eyes, you gripped the sheet tightly when he sucked hard on your bud. Everything was overwhelming and your chest tightened, leaving you breathless. You could feel something was about to burst out but not sure what that was. 

He pushed your thighs to either side for better licking and sucking, totally lost in your sweetness. "Hm…I'm gonna…" You cried because it was uncomfortable that needed to be released. "Cum, girl. I want to taste you." "Fuck!" You tried to push him away but he gripped your thighs to pull you closer, his tongue was deep inside you. Sucking hard, you couldn't help but cum on his face, dripping onto the sheet. 

"That's the sweetest I ever tasted." A smirk played on his lips as he stood up straight, removing his armor and pants just enough to pull out his cock. You have never seen that size before, making you curious how it felt when he entered you. This erotic fantasy raced your heartbeat, blush creeping up your cheek. "Haven't take this size before?" You shook your head. "Wanna try?Huh?Tell me, little girl." "I want to feel that, please." "Oh gosh, your voice is beautiful. Beg me again, I love it." Yeosang climbed over you while guiding his member to your soaked hole. 

Had he regained his clarity, he would find it utterly inconceivable that he could utter such words or act in this manner towards you. Yet, in that moment, he was powerless to restrain himself. The instant your intoxicating scent reached him, all rational thought vanished, leaving only the untamed and primal yearnings that lay dormant within his soul.

"Please, I want you deep inside me." You too, couldn't believe you begging a stranger to satisfy you. Yet, the substances coursing through your veins continually ignite your longing, plunging you into despair. You crave his presence, yearning for him to satiate the void within you.

Your begging soon died out as he rubbed his tip against you, moving up and down on your clit before eased into you. His size was overwhelming, causing you to throw your head at the pillow and your mouth to form a perfect 'O' shape. "Take it so well, honey." Your cunt squeezed his member from time to time to better adjust. He rolled his hips against you slowly, trying to find out where your sensitive spot was. 

"I may not last long, shit!" Intertwining with your fingers, he tightened the grip and thrusted at a faster pace. His cock rubbed against your velvet wall deliciously, hitting your sweet spot. "Gosh!" You moaned out, the numbness he gave you caused a pleasure to run through your body. 

"You like it?" Again, he collided with your g spot dead on. "Oh, please." He aimed at the same spot and hit it over and over again, the skin slapping sound echoed in the room, combined with your soft whimpers and moans, just like a beautiful melody rang in Yeosang's ears. 

Pushing your thighs to either side once again, he pinned your ankles against the sheet, thrusting so deep and so fast. You have never felt such pleasure during sex, no one could satisfy you but only the man above you—even though you didn't know his name. "You're so deep."  A flush crept across your cheeks, as if an unseen force had seized your throat, rendering you momentarily breathless. 

He lowered himself, guiding your hands to your head, moving in a deliberate rhythm that was both steady and exquisite. Nestling his face into the curve of your neck, he savored your intoxicating fragrance with an insatiable hunger. He could hardly believe how he could lose himself in your scent for an eternity while fucking you. "I'm so close…" he gasped, his breath hitching as his movements grew erratic, a symphony of moans and curses escaping his lips. 

"That feeling…again…" You sobbed, your stomach tightened again but it was stronger than last time. There was something that burst out. Shutting your eyes, your nail dug into his skin and the pain brought him to the peak. "Fuck!!" He hissed at the pain and the pleasure, thrusting so fast without caring about your begging. "Stop…stop!!Ah!" You squirted with a loud, high-pitched moan, wetting his thighs and cock. The warmth and the wetness broke his limit and he came all in your cunt. 

"Goodnes…" He was  supposed to calm down from the heat after withdrawing from you…No, he couldn't. His cum filled you literally, even oozing from your hole. The way of your lower core squeezed for nothing but to suck his cum drove him insane. The most primitive desires in his body once again dominated his thoughts. "You need more, honey. Your pussy is made for breeding, you know?" He left a kiss on your clit, causing you to whine at overstimulation. 

"No…no…I can't take it anymore." Tears welled up in your eyes, head spinned. "You can, just one more time. Take all my cum and breed for me, girl." He slammed back into you again, making you sit up straight and wrap your arms around his neck. "Let my cum be the only thing in your cunt, puppy." Pressing his lips against yours, he pushed upward to make your body move up and down from his movement. 

"Be mine, puppy." 

—----

He came twice more before he calmed down and drifted to a quick nap. After some time, he stirred from a haze of pain, only to find himself and you entwined in a state of undress upon the bed. You had succumbed to slumber long ago, your exhaustion evident.

"What..." Confusion washed over him, but as memories surged forth like a torrential wave, his astonishment rendered him speechless. A profound guilt enveloped his heart, leaving him to ponder how he could be any different from those he despised. His hands trembled, regret gnawing at him for the choices he had made. Yet, he resolved to take responsibility for you. Should you desire him to face the law or meet a more dire fate, he would embrace it without hesitation.

"hehemon…over….Can you hear us?" In that moment, the urgent calls of his comrades echoed from the pager resting on the ground, shattering Yeosang's contemplations and rousing you from your slumber. "Over," he responded, his tone laced with a hint of remorse. "Where have you disappeared to? We are unable to locate you." His gaze fell upon the splintered remnants of the door that obstructed their path. Perhaps this was the reason for their inability to find him. "I am in the attic. I sustained injuries during a confrontation with the enemy moments ago, but I have now regained my mobility..." "That's good to hear. Please come back to the team." "Yes,sir." 

As the last remnants of the calls faded into the ether, he turned to confront you. "Are…are you here to save me?" you asked, your voice tinged with a fragile hope. "I…" he stammered, caught in the web of his own guilt. Yes, he was meant to be your protector, yet the shadows of his actions haunted him. He had indulged in his desires at your expense. 

"I deeply regret my actions. I did something terrible to you, and I know that an apology cannot suffice. I am prepared to do anything you wish, even if it means laying down my life for you." He insisted. Upon absorbing his words, your mind became a tempest of confusion, a cacophony of opposing thoughts swirling within. You ought to despise him, akin to the disdain you hold for those thugs; yet, curiously, you find no animosity towards him at all. Maybe it's because he knot you… Wait…he knot you? 

"Do you want to be irresponsible?" You met his confused gaze and you continued. "You know you knot me…" He took a deep breath, wearing a serious look. "No, I'll take responsibility. I can do anything for you to make up, no matter what. I'm truly sorry." "Then can you bring me to leave this place?" "Of course." He grabbed a blanket to cover your body and dressed himself up. 

"Can you walk?" He asked you softly and you shook your head slightly. Your limbs were still weak, let alone to stand up and walk out yourself. 

"Come." He turned around and knelt down, facing you with his back, posturing his hand to let you climb on him. "It's okay. I promise I won't hurt you." 

You were a little hesitant at first, but you climbed on top of him after a while so he could carry you down the stairs. After all, he was the only man here. 

"All the criminals died. Don't worry." He comforted you, his voice softened. You nodded and whispered in his ears. "What's your name anyway? "Yeosang." "I'm Y/N." "Y/N…" He murmured your name under his breath but you could hear it clearly. To be honest, you liked how he called you so softly. 

"Yeosang." 

Hm?" 

"Would you do anything for me?" 

"Yes, I will." 

"Then can you stay with me after we go back to your camp? I'm scared…" You buried your face in his neck, murmuring. 

"Sure. I'm here for you." 

"No regret?" 

"No regret." 

[girlactionfigure]

(1) The Axis Powers’ concentration camp network extended past the borders of Europe.

The Nazis and the Axis powers created a network of 17 concentration camps in North Africa. Some prisoners were also taken to concentration camps in West Africa. Jews were forced into slave labor, starved, tortured, and murdered. Many died from diseases. Many prisoners in North African labor camps were tasked with the completion of the Trans-Saharan Railroad, a project that was never completed. Though it was a French project, the Nazis were highly supportive of it.

(2) The Mountain Jews of the Caucasus were ultimately saved from extermination because the Nazis considered them “religious,” rather than “racial” Jews.

When the Nazis occupied the North Caucasus in 1942, the Mountain Jews of Na’alchik, Russia, were quick to think on their feet. With the help of their Muslim neighbors, with whom they had good relations, the Mountain Jews promoted the lie that they were ethnic Tat converts to Judaism. 

The Nazis took the issue to the Reich Genealogical Office, which ultimately ruled in their favor, and thus the Mountain Jews were left alone. 

That said, before the Reich Genealogical Office reached their final verdict, the Mountain Jews were treated just as poorly as their Ashkenazi counterparts. On August 19 and September 20, 1942, a total of 850 Jews were executed point-blank with machine guns in Menzhinskoe and Bogdanovka.

(3) The Catholic Church could’ve possibly put an end to the Final Solution. Instead, Pope Pius XII chose silence – and, at times, complicity.

In August of 1941, the Nazis put an end to their Aktion T4 “euthanasia” program – a euphemism for “eugenics” – in response to public uproar. The Catholic Church, in particular, was at the forefront of the protests against the Aktion T4 program. The effect of these protests was enormous, especially within Germany. In Hof, Germany, an angry crowd openly jeered at Hitler over his eugenics policies, the only time this ever happened during 12 years of Nazi rule.

By contrast, the Catholic Church refused to publicly condemn the German persecution of Jews, even after the Nazis’ plans for the Final Solution had long become public knowledge. Claiming “neutrality,” Pope Pius XII rejected the desperate pleas of the Jewish community and even refused meetings with rabbis. This despite the fact that the Vatican was well-aware of the Nazis’ plans for the Final Solution as early as 1942.

(4) The Nazis primarily targeted the Scientific Humanitarian Committee because Magnus Hirschfeld was Jewish.

There’s recently been an attempt to reframe trans individuals as the “first victims” of the Holocaust because the Nazis burnt down the library and archives of the Scientific Humanitarian Committee in 1933. The Scientific Humanitarian Committee provided a plethora of medical services for LGBTQ folks, including contraceptive treatment, gynaecological examinations, treatment for STDs, marital and sexual therapy, and other treatments, such as treatment for alcoholism. Most significantly, the organization pioneered gender-affirming surgeries, including one of the earliest sex-reassignment surgeries in 1931. Other surgical and medical services included facial feminization and masculinization surgery and early forms of body hair removal.

What’s imperative to understand is that the Committee was targeted, above all, both because Hirschfeld, its founder, was Jewish, and because the Nazis associated homosexuality and “sexual deviance” with the “Jewish race.”

(5) The Nazis devised of the gas chambers because Nazi soldiers found it too “psychologically taxing” to execute millions of Jews face-to-face.

Early during the Holocaust, Jews were predominantly murdered via machine gun execution. However, the Nazis considered the method too slow and inefficient. Frustrated with the “inefficiency” of shooting Jews, the Reich Security Main Office soon ordered the use of gas vans for murder on a mass scale. The first extermination camp to use gas vans was Chelmno; by June of 1942, there were 20 gas vans in operation, with many more being prepared. Some gas vans could hold up to 60 people, while others held around 30.

Soon the Nazis found that gas vans, too, were not efficient enough. A big problem was that gas van operators experienced high levels of mental distress due to their proximity to the victims. Sometimes gas vans broke down due to bad roads. Ultimately, they simply couldn’t exterminate Jews quickly enough, so the Nazis built permanent gas chambers.

(6) Before the Nazis’ rise to power, Jews in Germany were the best-integrated in continental Europe.

One of the most historically shocking facts about the Holocaust is that it was devised of in Germany as opposed to somewhere like Eastern Europe, where Jews were much less assimilated into general society. Before World War II, Jews elsewhere in Europe often joked that German Jews were “more German than the Germans.”

In 1929, for example, Dr. M. S. Melamed wrote for The Jewish Criterion, “The German antisemites have a much deeper hatred against the Jew than the Russians, but the German antisemites do not pogrom the Jew. They write articles and books to prove that the Jew has no right to live, that he is wicked, that he is dishonest, and that he should not enjoy any rights and privileges but it would not enter his mind to embark upon a policy of murder, loot and rape.”

Yet by 1945, the German antisemite had exterminated 2 out of every 3 Jews in Europe.

(7) The international community did not assign a day for Holocaust remembrance until 2005.

The Jewish community began memorializing the Holocaust yearly as early as 1949. The Israeli Knesset officially observed a Holocaust remembrance day for the first time in 1951; by 1958, the observance of Yom HaShoah had been codified into Israeli law. 

By contrast, the United Nations did not assign a day to Holocaust remembrance until 2005, when it passed Resolution 60/7, establishing International Holocaust Remembrance Day to coincide with the anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz on January 27th.

(8) There was one group of Jewish partisans that sought revenge after the Holocaust.

As the Allies closed in on Germany, the German population listed “Jewish revenge” as their biggest fear, owing largely to over a decade of Nazi antisemitic propaganda about how Jews were a threat to Germany. In reality, Jewish acts of revenge in the aftermath of the Holocaust were extremely rare, especially in comparison to vengeful acts from other groups like Poles and even the Allied forces. Jews were far more concerned with finding family members and rebuilding their lives. 

There was one group of Jewish partisans, however, that did devise a plan for revenge. The group was named “Nakam,” meaning revenge in Hebrew. Their plan? To murder six million Germans. 

In the end, the plan was obviously entirely unsuccessful. Only about 2000 SS members got ill with food poisoning, but none died. Many Nakam members reflected many years later and were thankful their plan failed, calling it “a Satanic concept” and “an utterly lunatic idea.” Simcha Rotem said in hindsight that he guilt of murdering so many children would've driven him to suicide.

For a full bibliography of my sources, please head over to my Instagram and  Patreon. 

rootsmetals

please support my fundraiser for Holocaust survivors living in poverty, especially today as it’s Yom HaShoah 🙏🏼

[beardedmrbean]

Jonathan Joss was killed in a homophobic attack

That wasn't in any of the news articles I'd seen about it, so I looked around and it appears that his husband released a statement on his FB.

This just showed up 10 min ago

The husband of “King of the Hill” star actor Jonathan Joss alleged that the voice actor was murdered by a homophobic neighbor after enduring “years” of violent threats on their street.

Tristan Kern de Gonzales said in a Monday Facebook post that he and Joss had stopped by the site of their Texas home – which burned down in February – to pick up their mail on Sunday when they found the bones of their dead pet dog displayed on the property.

“This caused both of us severe emotional distress. We began yelling and crying in response to the pain of what we saw,” Gonzales wrote in the post. “While we were doing this a man approached us. He started yelling violent homophobic slurs at us. He then raised a gun from his lap and fired.”

Joss was struck in the gunfire and killed, Gonzales said, and died by his side.

A suspect and neighbor who lives doors down from the couple, Sigfredo Alvarez Ceja, was arrested shortly after the shooting.

Gonzales claimed the killing was just the culmination of a long saga of frightening homophobia the couple had endured on their street, claiming neighbors had spent years threatening to burn their home down – but that cops never intervened.

“He was murdered by someone who could not stand the sight of two men loving each other,” Gonzales said. _____________________________________________

It's Texas, so there's a fair chance he's gonna get the needle, or rope, or chair, or gas chamber, whichever they use there.

If it's gas there might be some justice in using clean natural propane to do the job, but that's probably not allowed.

Maybe the inmates are fans of the show and will take care of things instead.

This just compounds the tragedy

[drafthorsemath]

Waking Up and Coming Home

A/N: I wanted to explore what might happen if CX-2 really was Tech, what it's like when he wakes up after being impaled, how he survives, and what it might be like for him to get home and find his own happiness. Includes TechPhee and a reason Omega keeps Tech's goggles.

Warnings: Tech wakes up and realizes he has cybernetic implants, drug withdraw, nausea, being impaled, PTSD, cybernetic surgery, Tech finds Crosshair's hand

Word Count: 5.568k

Tech took a sharp breath. He was vertically pinned to something. He tried breathing through the mask, but something was different. The usual smell and taste that accompanied the mask was gone although it was still on. The fog that plagued him was lifting. He instinctively reached down and found an electrospear just below his sternum, only he felt no pain. He blinked several times and removed the helmet. He had no memory of being given this armor. There was no blood and the electrospear was out of power. He felt a series of wires and tubes around the spear and absent-mindedly kept looking around for someone. All he saw were other bodies of those in armor similar to his own and some regs in what he could only assume was prison garb. One of the tubes in his abdomen appeared to be leaking. Was that oil? It didn’t smell or look like blood. He didn’t have time to think about it. Instead, he grabbed the spear and pulled as hard as he could. It was no good. He decided to observe and allow himself to wake up further from his trance. Was he really going to die hanging in the middle of… this was Tantiss wasn’t it? He remembered fighting someone. He remembered flying a ship. He remembered trying to fight his own mind, but he was so far away from his actions. His mind was still not completely his own, but he noticed the gas around the CX chambers had dissipated. Those prisons. That disgusting concoction. Tears came to his eyes as he shook. His breath caught in his throat when he remembered the smirk on Hemlock’s face as he described how Crosshair suffered. Hemlock had perfected his methods since that failure and Tech worried his brother had perished. It didn’t help that he was still stuck in place. Trapped. Just as he had been when he woke up in the containment chamber with a series of cybernetic implants. Arrogant as always, Hemlock enjoyed explaining how this chamber would shape his mind and how it was an advanced form of the same technology that was used to enhance Crosshair’s chip on that fateful day on Kamino.

Tech took another breath and tried moving. He felt a piece of metal on the floor just high enough he could pull it closer with his foot. He tried using that for a little leverage since his own weight made it harder to remove the metal rod stuck in his torso. As he wiggled around, pulled on the spear, and took some deep breaths, the object dislodged from its location behind him and he was able to carefully remove himself and it. He took more deep breaths and looked around. He checked on the other clones whose bodies lay around the room. CX or prisoner, it didn’t matter. They’d all been prisoners. Each time he felt for a pulse and found none he lost a little more hope. He was the only one alive. How long had he been alone in this room? Judging by the condition of the bodies, it hadn’t been too long. Rigor mortis hadn’t set in yet, so less than eight hours.

He sat down briefly and reminded himself to continue to breathe. He kept trying to tell himself that the air was safe now. He had resisted inhaling Hemlock’s toxins, but when constrained, there was no choice. Now, Tech’s mind hadn’t been this clear since Plan 99. Not only did each CX chamber include a gaseous drug the clones continually inhaled, but Hemlock ensured they received a steady dose of the same electric torture that started the process. Tech tugged at the hole the spear created in his armor and looked at his cybernetic abdomen. Tubes that allowed for blood flow were thankfully working. There was a contraption that served as a diaphragm. He hypothesized that it seized up when the electrospear hit him, but started working again not long after, spurred on by his living body’s own neurons. Other tubes seemed to be used for digestion, but those were empty and at least one appeared torn. He reached for the comm badge on his arm near his shoulder, but it was gone. Why did he think there was a comm badge there? Tech didn’t have that. The CX did. He started putting more pieces together. Hemlock had taken it. Tears came to his eyes again when he realized that he helped bring Omega in. It must have been him. He remembered glimpses, but that was all.

He wandered around the room and picked up a blaster in case he wasn’t alone in the facility. Although it was so quiet he could only hear some hounds howling outside, he didn’t want to take chances. As he made his way through the room and wider facility, he found a hand on the floor. Oh no. He knew that hand and its armor. Crosshair. He dared not touch it. At this point even if Crosshair was there, reattaching the hand wouldn’t work after this amount of time. Had he done that? He searched for the bodies of any of his siblings, but they were nowhere to be found and he felt a little relief even though he wasn’t sure where they were.

Tears came to his eyes as he suddenly thought about the CX chambers. What it meant to be a CX. How they weren’t sent out for long, or the conditioning would surely wear off. Their masks had a small supply of the chemical, but it wouldn’t last forever. It drove each man forward when they were released. It kept him obedient.

He wandered the halls some more before returning to the spot where he woke up earlier and examined the inner workings of his discarded helmet now that his mind was a bit clearer. There was some trapped gas in a small chamber, but it appeared the wiring meant to steadily release the toxin had short-circuited. Tech gasped at the revelation and gingerly held the helmet. In a fit of anger, he threw it as far as he could. The sound of it hitting a distant wall echoed through the facility.

Tech swallowed, closed his eyes, and breathed in the stale but clean air. He pictured the sunset on Pabu with Phee. Where was Phee? Where was he now? He was certain this was Tantiss, but exactly where was Tantiss? And how long would his cybernetics last without some help? He headed down another hallway and searched for some tools but wasn’t quite able to see straight or think straight. Echo could help. Could Echo find him?  Did his family know where Tantiss was yet? Wait. Yes because Crosshair’s hand was wearing his old armor, although Tech noted it was stripped. Or was his mind playing tricks on him? Tears came to his eyes and he reminded himself that he hadn’t found the rest of his brother yet. Or the rest of their squad. He hoped they were long gone. Had they been successful in his absence? He wandered the facility and eventually found a communications array. At this point he was sure the Empire had abandoned this place, but he couldn’t quite punch in the code to get a signal out. What if it was tracked? He cursed his slow mind and lack of clear decision-making ability. He didn’t want to take risks with this.

He found solace in walking. He had a better idea of the layout of the facility and as he kept breathing and moving, his mind cleared further. He wasn’t sure what else to do. He found what must have been living quarters for some TK troopers and pocketed a few small items that were left behind including a piece of jewelry he hoped would be worth something. Anything to buy him passage to a safe location.  That was the plan now. Surely someone else lived on this planet or would visit. His search yielded some clean prison clothes and he decided those would do. He carefully took off his belt and stepped out of the wretched armor. He would rather walk out of this facility naked than wear it any longer. Putting on the new clothes was a bit of a task, but he was in minimal pain compared to how he looked. The belt with pockets was the only part of the armor he put back on. Those would come in handy even if there were fewer pouches than he preferred. Now was not the time to be picky.

Tech wandered down yet another hallway, picked up an abandoned datapad, and scrolled through the downloaded files. They were scientific records of some sort. His mind still foggy, he couldn’t quiet comprehend everything it said, but stuffed it between his body and his belt for later analysis. He noticed there was a broken ship in the hangar, and while his investigation proved it could fly, he didn’t trust that it wouldn’t be tracked. He somehow knew that he had caused more pain than he could remember and didn’t want to risk anything else by leading the enemy to Pabu. He was startled from his thoughts by the sound of another ship landing in the next hangar bay. It wasn’t the Empire. Pirates? It surely seemed so. If they were pirates, then they might give him a ride to a safer location if he had something to trade. The jewelry he pocketed might be enough, but he had a hunch pirates might be more interested in something a little sharper. He wasted no time heading back to the CX chambers. He picked up the unique sniper rifle and all the CX weapons. He sighed as he looked at the other clones. His other brothers. He didn’t even know them, but it didn’t change his feeling toward them. They had all been through some form of hell together yet isolated.

Tech headed back toward the hangar and startled what turned out to be a lone pirate. He found the man lazily looking through crates in the hangar before he spotted Tech.

“I was told this place was abandoned,” the weequay said as he pointed a blaster in Tech’s direction.

“It is,” Tech answered. “I was left for dead.”

“You are not bleeding?” he asked.

“I suppose not,” Tech answered, “although I am unsure of the details. It appears I was drugged and have some sort of cybernetic enhancements.”

The pirate huffed.

“And what do you plan on doing with those interesting looking weapons?” he asked with a grin.

“An exchange,” Tech responded flatly. “I need a ride away from here and you’re my safest bet.”

He tried to think more clearly and took some more breaths while the pirate considered his offer.

“Out of curiosity, how did you find this place?” Tech asked.

The man grinned again and responded, “Lower-level imperials quickly figured out that they will be paid well for information. Abandoned facilities are gold mines. I can sell those blades for a good price. I assume those are one of a kind.”

“To my knowledge, yes,” Tech replied.

The pirate nodded and examined the weapons without moving closer, although he was sure this man had no intention of hurting him.

“I’m afraid time is of the essence,” Tech said, feeling fresh pain in his torso where mechanics now lived.

“If I leave now, I may miss out on something more profitable before the scavengers show up.”

“I’ll give you every weapon here but the blaster on my belt,” Tech said. He was already planning on doing this but framing it as a bonus had an impact on the pirate.

“Very well. How far do you need to go?”

Tech didn’t want to give away his ultimate destination of Pabu, but knew if he could get to Ord Mantell, he could potentially contact one of his brothers or Phee. Cid had left them high and dry last he remembered, so he would be sure to avoid her. The pirate agreed and had Tech shuffle onto the ship with a blaster to his back. This guy was not going to risk Tech turning on him and taking his ship. The pirate put his prize away and Tech sat down. The trip was quick enough, and Tech was sure the weequay would turn around for Tantiss again as soon as he was off the ship.

“You’ve reached your destination,” the pirate said as soon as he landed. “Now, off my ship.”

Tech got up to leave but reached into one of the pouches that remained on his person. He pulled out the necklace he found earlier and stated, “I’ll give you this for a working comm device.”

The man bit his lip and huffed. He should have driven a harder bargain sooner, but he was so enraptured with the vibroblades he got distracted.

“Fine,” he said, snatching the jewelry and hanging Tech a small comm.

Tech nodded and shuffled off the ship. He was met with the smell of mantell mix but stopped himself. He had no money, and he wasn’t sure he could even digest food normally at this point. Instead, he found a quiet location on the outskirts of town and comm’d Echo. It seemed the safest bet and Echo has the most experience with cybernetics should he have an emergency before reaching Pabu.

“Havoc 4? Echo, I need your help.”

Echo picked up immediately upon recognizing the voice.

“Tech?!”

“Affirmative.”

“Where are you? What happened?”

“Ord Mantell. I will send you coordinates to my location via this comm, but I cannot promise it will be perfectly accurate.”

“Do you need medical attention?” came another voice. It was Gregor.

“I may, but it appears I now have cybernetic implants. I was on Tantiss and woke up in a daze. At least I’m fairly certain that’s where I was.” Echo and Gregor heard him sigh in a way they’d never heard before. “I am certain I’ve done things I regret, although my memory is not great, and I don’t know the extent of my injuries, although I appear stable.”

Echo understood.

“We’re on our way,” replied Echo. “Leaving Pantora. The others are on Pabu. Just keep away from Cid.”

“I have no intention of finding her,” Tech said.

“Good,” Gregor said. “She only got worse.”

Tech didn’t inquire about that right now. He was sure he’d get the full story soon enough. He waited some time and at one point was worried something happened. He tried not to think about it too much. His mind was still blurry and he felt like he was going to be sick. What he didn’t know was that Echo had quickly left Pantora to head back to Pabu and pick up Crosshair. Wrecker, Hunter, and Omega wanted to come too, but Crosshair suggested he go alone with Echo and Gregor. Based on Tech’s message relayed from Echo, he knew at least part of what his brother had been through, and it seemed a good idea to take a little extra time getting to Tech and have Crosshair’s help.

Gregor landed the ship and prepared the one bunk with all the blankets they had. Crosshair insisted they would need it. Echo comm’d Tech again. They were only about one klick from the ship. Despite the intense stress of the last few days, Crosshair and Echo summoned their strength to run. They found Tech sitting with his back to a wall, seemingly dozing but very much alive, and both crouched down in front of him.

“Tech?” Crosshair asked.

Tech opened his eyes and saw his brother for the first time since Kamino. His eyes tracked down to where Crosshair’s hand had been and he froze.

“I did that, didn’t I?” Tech asked. The blood drained out of his face and he started retching.

“It’s not your fault,” Crosshair said as he reached for his brother. He and Echo helped Tech up and the three headed to the ship.

Crosshair sat with him on the bunk. Gregor took off for Pabu while Tech peeled back his clothing to allow Echo to help assess the cybernetic device.

“It looks like two of these tubes were pulled apart,” Echo said. “I can try reattaching them and it looks like then you should be able to eat small amounts until we can replace them.”

“Very well,” Tech replied.

Crosshair helped him lay back and assisted Echo with the procedure. Despite only having two working hands between them, it was more than adequate. The tubes were torn from the impact of the electrospear, but the torn ends were cut and the tubes new flat ends reattached. Tech could feel a tug from the shortened pieces, but it was nothing compared to how bad it could have been. Most of the wiring had simply been pushed aside by the spear.

“Not sure how we can close all this up,” Echo said, referring to the abdominal panel covering the cybernetic.

“That is a problem for another time, I think,” Tech replied. “It’s not affecting life support.”

Crosshair nodded in agreement and Echo returned to the co-pilot’s seat at the front of the ship.

“Here,” Crosshair said, lifting a thermos of warm liquid.

Tech nodded when he smelled the broth. He hadn’t been this hungry in a long time and tried to gulp down any calories he could.

“Take it easy,” Crosshair said. “Don’t make yourself sick. I know what’s coming.”

Tech looked at him and nodded. He slowed his pace and took a deep breath as the vegetable broth settled his belly.

“I believe I am experiencing drug withdraws, Crosshair.”

“Mm.”

“It will get worse, yes?”

Crosshair nodded.

“How long?”

“It was weeks for me. Worse for others. The fastest recovery I saw was ten rotations.” His eyes darted before he added, “Hemlock said he improved the conditioning process. It might be longer for you.”

Tech nodded. He finished the broth and laid back down. Crosshair laid down with him. Tech hadn’t realized just how cold and shaky he was until Crosshair held him. His brother pulled a thick blanket over both of them and did his best to help Tech feel comfortable.

By the time they were on Pabu, Tech felt like his body was full of daggers and fever. He kept calling out for help even though his brothers were helping to the best of their ability. Phee, Hunter, Wrecker, and Omega had prepared the bed that was his prior to Eriadu. Crosshair stayed there after Tech’s fall, but now Wrecker had rearranged the bed situation so there was room for Tech and someone to be at his side the whole time. More than a few tears were shed as Crosshair helped Tech stumble off the ship and into the home. Gregor checked in with Rex and took the ship to rendezvous with the boys, leaving Echo behind for now.

They tried to get Tech in bed so he could rest, but he fought against any blankets put on him, seemingly frightened he was back in Hemlock’s lab and being restrained. While it was upsetting to watch, Crosshair calmly reminded him that he was safe and gently helped his brother take in what was familiar. The sheets felt like Pabu. The air smelled clean. He could hear the ocean. The voices and faces of those around him were real. Tech started to calm just enough to lay in bed. He shook violently and his mind seemed to be in two places.

“Sedative,” Tech managed to get out, looking into his brother’s eyes. Crosshair nodded.

“Are you sure,” Hunter asked.

“It’s what I would want too,” Crosshair replied.

Hunter nodded and got the med kit. Phee had already made sure to stockpile what medication she could find on the island and was already making a list of other things they might need for a supply run. She watched in uncertainty as Hunter gave Tech the injection and it immediately took effect.

“Phee,” Tech managed as his body gave in to the medication.

“Hey Brown Eyes,” she answered softly.

He reached his hand out and she took it as she kneeled next to his bed.

“Everything’s gonna be okay, Tech.” That was all she could say before a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth and he fell asleep.

While he was out, Echo and Hunter had a look at his cybernetics as best they could while the others looked on. The person most qualified to work on these was Tech himself, but he wasn’t in any shape to do so. There was a lot of back and forth about what should be done. His heart was beating. He was breathing. He could eat and digest. There was just some tubing that needed replacing and a giant hole through the front and back of his torso. They decided to wait on any internal fixes for now but weren’t sure how to address the hole through the front and back metal panels in his middle.

“We should cover it up,” Wrecker suggested.

“With what?” Echo asked.

“I dunno,” came the response.

“Can we bend the pieces so they lay flatter against him?” Omega asked.

“I could try that,” Wrecker said. “But I don’t want to break something and hurt him either.”

“Why don’t we cut off the parts that are sticking out, and screw on a panel to each side to at least keep him covered up and protected?” Phee asked.

“Probably our best option,” Hunter replied.

Wrecker picked up his brother and carried him to his workbench. It was the safest spot for removing pieces of metal. Tech was completely out. Echo removed the sharp edges and Phee and Crosshair found some scrap metal in the right size. Echo managed to connect the front piece before Wrecker rolled Tech over and made sure he was as comfortable as could be. Once they were sure every component inside his abdomen was secure, Echo attached the back panel. The largest clone then lifted his brother and carried him back to bed.

The rest of the night was a cycle of Tech sleeping, waking with a start, shaking, and fighting invisible monsters. Crosshair spent the first night sleeping next to him. Whenever Tech would shake or lash out, he would hold him until they both fell asleep again. Crosshair’s heart was heavy. He knew none of this was Tech’s fault. If anything, he felt pangs of guilt for staying in the Empire so long. He took a deep breath as he held his shaking brother. It took work, but he was starting to accept that it wasn’t all his fault, thanks in no small part to his sister constantly reminding him. The Empire kept him prisoner. Hemlock experimented on him and tortured him. He tried escaping multiple times before he and Omega were successful. A yawn hit him and he relaxed further. Tech’s soft snores made him smile. He would do whatever it took to make sure this family was okay.

In the morning, the sedative had worked its way through Tech’s system and he’d slept through the remaining exhaustion. He woke up next to Crosshair and felt the warm sun greet him. His eyes tried to adjust, but he realized that some of his dizziness was the result of the fall damaging his eyes. His pupils kept trying to adjust to take in as much information as possible and he couldn’t find his goggles.

“What is it?” Crosshair asked.

“My goggles,” he said.

“They’re in the Archium,” Phee answered as she appeared in the doorway with some breakfast.

Tech looked up at her and tried to smile. Phee sat next to the bed while the two men ate. Tech continued to have bouts of shakiness, but greedily ate the meal in front of him.

“Take it easy Brown Eyes.”

Tech felt heat creep on his face at hearing the nickname with a clearer mind.

“I don’t remember when I ate last, aside from the broth yesterday.”

“How do you feel?” she asked.

Tech looked down at the mended hole over his torso and moved his limbs a little.

“My eyes are struggling to focus and the shakiness is returning.” Tech swallowed some hot tea and looked at his hands. “I keep having flashbacks.”

“It will get better,” Crosshair reassured him. Tech felt comfort knowing his brother had overcome this conditioning and while Hemlock’s methods on Tech were worse, he was confident he could work through this.

“If I got you some tools and supplies, do you want to try making some new goggles?” Phee asked.

Tech nodded. “I should scan my eyes first to determine the type of lenses, but then yes.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she replied.

Omega and Wrecker overheard the conversation and ran to retrieve the beloved item from the Archium. Tech was shaking and sweating again with Crosshair still by his side and Hunter joining them. Omega silently held out the goggles to Tech. They talked about how they obtained them and how precious they’d become. Tech held them in his hands and stared back at them like looking at a former version of himself.

“Better to start from scratch,” he said, holding the googles out to Omega. “Feel free to throw them out.”

“I’d rather keep them” Omega replied.

“Why?” Tech asked.

“You were wearing them when you taught me to fly,” she answered. “They’re special to me. To us.”

“Very well,” Tech replied with a smile. He tried taking some steadying breaths, but continued to shake. To take his mind off things, he looked at the spot where Crosshair’s hand once was.

“I could make you a cybernetic hand if you are interested.”

“I know you can,” Crosshair replied. “For now, let’s focus on you.”

Tech nodded. He was in no shape to build something as his body continued experiencing withdraws, but he could think about what he wanted to make. He could visualize his new goggles and Crosshair’s new hand. He could picture a life here. He could picture himself being a bit more forward with Phee. He could picture flying with Omega again. Sitting on the beach with Hunter while Wrecker fished. Sitting with Crosshair and talking about something he was researching while Crosshair sat and listened. Now that he thought about it, his often-silent brother hadn’t been this affectionate since they were cadets. War changed them. The Empire changed them. Change was part of life. This was a good change, though.

As the days went on, his withdraw symptoms became easier to handle. He had ups and downs but they were, as he put it, damped oscillations. Batcher also made herself known and curled up with him at least once a day. She had a calming presence just like his siblings. Even when his insides felt like they were vibrating and overheating, every calming presence helped.

Hunter sat with him and when he was ready, got him up to speed on things. He was the one who drew the short straw and had to tell Tech that the Marauder not only blew up, but who blew it up.

“Is Gonky alright?” was the next question out of Tech’s mouth.

“He is,” Hunter assured. “Wrecker got him away just in time.”

“Good.”

Somehow, despite it all, the family made it out of the Empire’s clutches.

Several weeks into his recovery, Tech finished his new goggles and started working on Crosshair’s hand. He was not as efficient as he normally was, but he was still recovering. With each little project he started to feel more like himself.

When he finally felt well enough, he asked Phee and Omega for help to better fix his cybernetic.

“I will do everything in the front, but I need you two to help with the back,” he said.

“What about the others?” Omega asked. “They could help too.”

“Our brothers are busy today helping some new residents move in,” Tech replied. “I am ready, and you are both more than qualified to help, if you would like.”

Phee and Omega shared a look. It was clear that Tech was done waiting now that his withdraw symptoms were finally gone and he had an idea of how he wanted to approach this. They discussed the plan and so ten weeks to the day after he came home, Tech took his shirt off, and sat backwards in a chair next to his workbench so the surgery could begin.

“You sure this won’t hurt?” Omega asked.

“I will inform you if it does, but none of the cybernetics have hurt yet,” he replied. “The only pain occurred in my living tissue.”

Phee looked at Omega and took a breath.

“Alright,” Phee said. “Here we go.”

She removed the plate Echo had hastily applied to Tech’s back all those weeks ago. Most of the work involved better flattening the pierced edges where the spear had torn through. Echo and Hunter had done a good job getting the bulk of the metal frame removed around the hole, but it was still uneven. Phee took her time and Omega wasn’t sure she’d ever seen her work with that level of gentleness and care. Phee was always thorough and precise, but there was something different about this. Omega handed her tools as needed and then took a picture for Tech to see what it looked like before they closed up his back cybernetic plate.

“Well done,” was all he could say about it.

Phee sealed the back plate closed and they helped Tech sit up. It felt much more solid, even without addressing the larger hole in his front. Tech itched to get to work on himself. He sat up and decided that it would be easier to work if he was laying along the workbench at an incline. Phee got him a series of supportive pillows and cushions so he could lay back without being flat. This allowed the cybernetic tubing to relax and give him a bit more room to work. Omega positioned a mirror in front of him so he could watch himself work without straining his neck. Tech didn’t waste any time. He removed the temporary plate, inspected the internal wiring, and secured one piece that was not as well attached as he would like. Phee handed him tools so he could focus on his work. He removed the tube that acted as the bottom of his esophagus and removed it carefully. He secured a slightly longer and wider tube in its place. Once he was pleased with the position, he sat up and moved around to be sure it wasn’t tight like the original had been. Satisfied, he laid back down and widened the hole in his abdomen plate.

“Tech?” Omega asked. “What are you doing?”

“Creating a rectangular opening,” he replied.

Phee smiled. She had a feeling he was going to try something like this. Tech shared a warm look with her before picking up the pieces of plating that had protected him since his return and trying to rearrange them.

“Wait a minute,” Phee said.

Tech and Omega watched her hurry onto her ship, and she quickly returned with a square piece of metal painted in a familiar shade of blue with a bit of orange along the edge.

“I had to replace this piece on my ship. Looks like it might be the right size.”

Tech gladly examined the piece and silently noted the paint job before sharing another smile with her. With a small adjustment, it perfectly fit the rectangular hole in his stomach. Phee retrieved some hinges and watched him determine how to fit it all together. It wasn’t enough for Tech to fix his own cybernetic. He had to enhance it by giving it a door.

“Secure, but easier access in case of an emergency,” he explained.

Omega put his tools back where he liked them while Phee helped him sit up. He twisted his upper body around and looked pleased.

“Comfortable?” Phee asked.

Tech nodded. “I am still getting used to it, but this is an improvement.”

Omega watched a little awkwardly, but decided it was time to make her exit given how Phee looked at her brother while helping him put his shirt back on.

“I’ll see you around!” Omega said before skipping back home.

“Walk with me?” Phee asked.

Tech nodded and they headed down the path meandering through town and down to the water. Tech felt a little unsure, but paused and held out his hand toward her just a little. Phee took it in her own and leaned into him before they continued their jaunt.

“I keep thinking I’ll wake up and you’ll still be gone,” she admitted.

“That is merely your brain trying to process the situation,” he explained. After pausing a moment and considering what he knew of her he added, “I will do my best to remind you that I’m back until you are certain.”

Phee squeezed his hand a little and nodded.

“You want to get some dinner?” she asked.

“I suspect my family is already partially through their meal,” he replied, noting the time.

“I mean just with me, Tech. Would you like to have dinner with me?”

His eyes widened before a smile pulled on the corners of his mouth.

“That sounds wonderful, Phee.”