#pseudoscience cw

[snarp]

Does the Epic medical records system ask a "learning styles" question by default now, or is this just this particular bad hospital system?

Next time they will ask for my MBTI, birth chart, love language, and dominant chakra.

[sxnshxnxxnddxxsxxs]

i really feel like we don’t discuss enough just how deep jkr’s white supremacy goes

like it’s way more than just:

cho chang’s name

almost every black character being tall and sporty

kingley’s name

the goblins

the house elves

the only south asian thing about the patil twins being their names

there’s way more but those are the talking points that are usually discussed in the white supremacy context of jkr’s bigotry.

but there’s something else that i find to be particularly insidious which i don’t see that many conversations about.

so for context when i did my a level i had had to research late 19th century pseudoscience because i was studying gothic literature. and i came across things like phrenology and the criminal mind and honestly it feels like jkr discovered these theories and just ran with them.

as a quick explanation phrenology is the theory that by studying the shape of someone’s skull you can see if they’re predisposed to criminality and lombroso’s criminal mind is the theory that criminality is hereditary and you can tell by observing someone’s physical features. it’s also the general consensus in both these theories that someone with physical ‘defects’ or deformities’ will be predisposed to criminality which also makes them incredibly ableist.

both are incredibly eugenicist and white supremacist theories because they’re essentially saying that you can tell if someone is inherently good or bad and thereby whether they deserve to be alive/within society/treated as equals by looking at their physical features.

they are both complete bullshit pseudoscience with no real basis in fact.

now where this comes into hp and jkr is that the antagonists and the villains of the series are disproportionately described as having these very negative physical characteristics.

like the very obvious one is voldemort with no nose and being snakelike.

but also the way peter pettigrew is described.

“His thin, colourless hair was unkempt and there was a large bald patch on top. He had the shrunken appearance of a plump man who had lost a lot of weight in a short time. His skin looked grubby, almost like Scabbers’s fur, and something of the rat lingered around his pointed nose, his very small, watery eyes.” (poa ch 19)

like the man is literally being compared to an animal (yes i know it’s implied in the lore that the longer one stays in their animagus form the more traits they take on but the point still stands).

then there’s marcus flint who as far as i remember is literally just a minor antagonist.

“Marcus Flint was even larger than Wood. He had a look of trollish cunning on his face as he replied” (cos ch 7)

like she really has a thing for comparing people to animals which is a very common tool in white supremacy for dehumanising people.

and then there’s greyback

“a big, rangy man with matted grey hair and whiskers, whose black Death Eater’s robes looked uncomfortably tight. He had a voice like none that Harry had ever heard: a rasping bark of a voice. Harry could smell a powerful mixture of dirt, sweat and, unmistakeably, of blood coming from him. His filthy hands had long yellowish nails.” (hbp ch 27)

now admittedly it’s slightly different with greyback since jkr is very openly saying in the narrative that he’s less than human and too dangerous for society because jkr only believes in equality for muggleborns and no one else.

but as is stands there are so many examples some big some small of the physical descriptions of villains and antagonists having negative connotations. the reason that it’s so insidious is because this is a children’s book series. and children soak up information like sponges including the implication that the further you are from the beauty standards the worse of a person you are (something that is reinforced by society). then when you place that in the context of the west where hp is most popular then it becomes the further away you are from whiteness (the western beauty standard) the worse of a person you are.

it seems like a really small thing which is why i don’t think it gets discussed nearly as much as the more overt things but even the small pebbles can have large ripple effects. besides i think think it’s incredibly important to discuss every aspect of jkr’s bigotry.

[diosapate]

i personally will never ever forget two years ago when every misogynistic ghoul with a twitch channel live reacted to amber heard testify about being raped and then picked everything she recounted to shreds and made fun of her because it got them views & engagement. truly fucking dystopian

[mercurialbadger]

Want to see something unspeakably horrifying?

[e1dritchqueer]

hello???? I just had someone come up to me at my work and tried to convince me to hand out "UN Sustainability Fliers" which were actually just weird pseudoscience cult fliers????

[weevil-mastermind]

The sun floats above the earth disk, moving in a circle above the equator. The lands beyond the ice wall must either have their own suns or they are locked in perpetual night.

(What force keeps the sun on its path is unclear.

So there's this Flat Earther who said he was traveling to the Ice Wall last September to prove the Earth was flat. He has not posted since.

Here are some theories on his current whereabouts:

He fell off

Too busy partying on the continent of Geminia to post anymore

He discovered a second, bigger ice wall

He died alone in the frigid wastes of Antarctica, aware at last of his folly as he slowly, painfully expired, his body never again to be seen by human eyes

Here be dragons (they ate him)

[localfaecryptid]

Chronic illness rant time

I’m not really the kind of person to get upset at random ads or “alternate health” nonsense. I’m in chronic pain, I’m surrounded by this nonsense alllllll the time, I would burn all of my spoons if I did. However, I just got served an ad on YT that was talking about “all the things doctors aren’t telling you”. Simple things like “take D3 during the winter” and “diet can effect your health”. Your typical nonsense, some of which is helpful but all of are things that your PCP would probably tell you anyways.

And then the wammy, the one that I heard and knew I had to say something:

“If you have high blood pressure, eating grapefruit can help normalize your BP levels”.

If you aren’t aware, eating grapefruit while on certain medications will cause your body not to break down and flush out your medication once it has been absorbed. Which means that you can overtime build up higher and higher levels of the medication in your system until you overdose. Blood pressure medication is particularly notorious for this issue. If you are going on a new medication and you really like grapefruit, or you have been on a medication and want to add grapefruit to your diet, please make sure you chat with your doctor or check the very easily accessible lists of medications that would be effected.

Chronic illness rant time over… for now. Stay safe out there y’all.

[dracota]

so... that uhmmm... hot guy tossing out the ideas about that pseudoscience i mentioned idk in the last week or so? It led me down a short rabbit hole that was so, so much worse then that. And then it got even worse.

First, i thought i had finally found the ad again. i clicked the link thinking i would just send it from the IG app to my email. curiosity got me to click it for background noise and... it was so awful. I grew up watching infomercials and this wasn’t that. It was just mindless droning on with lots of “you think this” every change they could.

The danger flags went off before I really registered what it was he was saying that was causing it. Once I started paying attention was when I noticed how my of what he was saying reminded me of someone trying to gaslight me.

Then i noticed that the particular pseudoscience had not been mentioned once, so this was probably the wrong guy also.... but i decided to google the horrible ad for a review... and as soon as i had the name typed in

There was a video that caught my eye and it was a reaction video to another video. I watched both and I have the reaction one down under the cut. He goes into a few things from the other video but the most interesting is his dissection about the fake or bought subscribers. That part was super interesting. Especially since it is so obvious that google should be tanking the frauds exposure and not rewarding it.

And then i checked out his profile and it turns out he is a joe rogan fan. for fucks sake. and then it just got worse from there because then next video that caught my eye was anti-trans and I wish I could block youtube creators that I don’t ever want to see on my recommended feeds.

It no longer surprises me how fast people can be fed shit like this and yet, shit like this happens.

[pricegouge]

Alone, Together

alone x reader | on AO3

cw: male reader. dubcon/noncon/coercion. pseudo-tentacles, ghost has two (or more, depending on how you count 'em) dicks. ass eating, oral, overstimulation, anal sex, frotting/handjobs, a small smackeral of cbt, slapping, degradation, exhibitionism, breathplay. implied character death. MDNI

if you need a good visual aid for what i have in mind for the cocks situation, see my ramble here

divider by @/cafekitsune

Taglist @pricegouged

You're helping them. You have to remember you're helping them.

There's some method to it, some reason. Pseudoscience and technobabble bullshit that went far over your head even as Reynolds yammered on over the coms. It didn't matter, not really. Not when your entire team is - 

Compromised.

"And how will this help?"

Reynold's voice is croaky in your ear - probably burnt out the long string of five syllable words he'd just thrown at you. It's a struggle to hear him over all the commotion in the room next door, the deep groans of pain and frustration. Confusion. "They way he - it -."

They, you decide, trying to remember that's your team in there, somehow.

"- absorbs people… I think it's a defense mechanism. So you gotta make yourself as inoffensive as possible."

A hard feat, carrying forty kilos of weaponry and tac gear. Removing the most egregious pieces had seemed logical enough when Reynolds suggested it, plates and straps falling away with an odd sense of relief and dread. No one ever relished keeping a full kit on another minute, but to take it off when you knew the next room held a potential hostile went against everything you'd learned since your very first days in basic. Taking it off when you knew the thing in the next room was fuck off big, fuck off angry, and had access to the weaponry of four S.A.S. officers, if not also the capabilities, was downright untenable.

Still, when your boots crunch over the broken glass of the window which separates you from your target, your tread is that much lighter. And when they turn, they do not find you armed to the teeth as they had with all the people who went in before you. It's hard to tell if this pleases them, the whole team having been dressed for a ghost mission meant each head now wore an obfuscating mask. Further, the cold eyes that stare back at you are decidedly not the varied eyes of the men you'd expected to see, each head somehow having adopted Soap's pale gaze. It lends a sense of lifelessness to them, each eye matching the cataract-cloudy irises of the head on the end. They each look like corpses, but the animated way they move toward you reminds you they are something much worse.

They - Simon. The heads - cannot move independently, which renders their necks a bit obsolete. When they turn toward you, their whole, immense chest follows suit. One of the arms toward the back dangles limply, perhaps genuinely dead. You try to clock the equipment which adorns it, hoping against hope it doesn't mean one of them is dead in there. 

"Easy," you try as it barrels closer, stumbling backwards before you can even think it through. 

"Steady," Reynolds warns - must have a good view through the lab cameras - and you cringe when you see he has the right of it, your falter acting as blood in the water. 

Their steps come heavy and hard. Quicker than you'd expect them to move. The rhythm of their steps strike you as odd and when you glance down, you're shocked to find one leg is nearly double the size of the other, an extra shin and foot spliced into the side of their right leg. The boot there has movement, but doesn't quite reach the ground beside the odd tap of thick tread off the tile. Whoever's that was - is -, they're not quite as tall as Simon, it seems.

Despite your backpedaling, it doesn't take long for them to overtake you. Gloved fingers wrap around your wrist, yanking you closer and you can't help the yelp that escapes you, rubbery black tendrils which burst through the seams of your captain's glove brushing against the hair of your forearm unexpectedly. It's sticky, almost, and you can't help but think of this being the end; you've seen how quickly the stuff grows, drags bigger men than you into its collection. If they wanted you, this brief contact would likely be enough and suddenly it doesn't matter that you promised Reynolds you'd be as friendly and approachable as you could manage because this thing has you, and you're going to be taken in, lost amongst them, just another set of useless arms it can hang from its armpits like trophies -

And then the touch is gone, the tendrils with it. You inspect your skin for damage, feel premature relief flood you when you find none. It's not a guarantee that you're safe, ofcourse, but it's further than the others made. 

"Holy shit, it's working," Reynolds breathes, and then his voice is ripped unceremoniously from your ear when another gloved hand lashes out like a viper and yanks the cord that runs up your neck right out.

"Okay! Okay, sorry," you stammer, hands coming up in that oddly placating gesture you know would never work on any of them, least of all from you. "Just you and me, yeah? Is that what you want?"

You're not sure why you don't expect an answer. Perhaps it's the way the visible jaw of the middle head bleeds ominously, lined with more black growth than proper gum tissue at this point. Maybe it's because the one on the left has been eaten away to bone, hanging precariously. Or perhaps it's because the one on the right - somehow the most human of them despite the eye currently trying to escape the confines of its face - looks so twisted in pain and anguish you don't imagine it's capable of thought, much less speech. But they do speak, a low growl which sounds like none of and all of them at once, and the dread you feel when they bend to tilt toward you, talk down at you like your captain was wont to do is a cold, physical thing. 

"No," they drawl, their voice echoing in their own throat like layered vocal tracks, "just want you and us."

***

The jump from one life altering event to the next moves quickly, the way things often do in the field. You'd long ago stopped measuring events in time stamps, the markers ultimately meaningless when they flow like a river, here white water and rapid, there a slow meander. It's usually much more meaningful to chronicle missions by snap decisions - which choices led where, when things started to go pear shaped. When you decided to help your team, and when they decided what that help would look like.

It's all very concise on paper, when viewed as such. They say they need help and you say that's why you're there, sent to take them back to base where a specialized team can start the process of reversing the damage. They scoff, say you all know there will be no recovery. When they say you can help them in another way, you balk. They say they can just absorb you if you refuse and you concede, rationalizing that you are still helping them, in a way. They've already stopped screaming in pain, at least.

So it's not a very wide web of possible outcomes, all told. A concise, logical statement of events you'd feel no shame in returning to your superior at time of debrief. Even if it's landed you here, grinding your ass back onto the skeletal remains of one head's jaw while they work you open with the long, surprisingly prehensile black growth which you had originally mistaken for a vein of sorts running down their thickly corded neck. It seeped through their skin at their jaw, twined and morphed their tongue into something much longer, harder. It still leaked spit like that was its job, soaking your thoroughly in drool as it wedged itself ever deeper.

They had requested comfort, something to take their mind off the pain, but so far you're the only one being touched. Not that you're complaining. As good as the slimy appendage feels inside you, you're not exactly eager to touch them - so much melty, dead-looking flesh triggering the base parts of your lizard brain which still feared things like communicable, flesh eating diseases on a cellular level. There may be some selfish, brazen part of you that wants more of them, but it's the same part of you that can't look away from a car crash or a fallen soldier - a part that revels in the fear and revulsion, mistakes the stomach churn for an excitable swoop. It's not an instinct you want to be listening to now, considering you're riding a razor's edge of being merged forever with this thing but there's no ignoring it, and there's no stopping yourself from thrusting forward into the wet heat of the middle mouth when prompted, your own hardness surprising you when they note it, encouraging you forward with a twined hand at your back. And there's no stopping the whine of frustration when they slacken their tongue, let the base curl back into their mouth to keep you rocking on just the tip. It's no use correcting your movements to compensate, much as you try. The angle's all wrong, your thighs planted above their heads on one side and positioned firmly on their sturdy chest on the other. With your legs spread so wide, you cannot gain enough leverage to thrust properly and even when you do, the black growth moves nimbly with you, never letting you take it any deeper than a few frustrating inches. 

The far head, the only mouth unoccupied, laughs when you groan impatiently. They tell you to beg but you're not far enough gone yet to oblige so instead, a thick arm is propped up behind you, Price's gloved hand sliding up your front to palm your belly. They take over your pace, rocking you back and forth with more speed than you'd been able to manage on your own. But they keep you raised too high above them, your cock barely reaching their tongue no, and when they keep you like that, just there, it would be understimulating enough to let you flag considering the circumstances and the feeling of raw mandible rubbing up against your balls, if not for the free mouth which suddenly won't shut up, prattling on about how good you taste on their tongue, how hot and tight your hole is for them. How much they want you to take their entire length, want you to swallow them whole while they do the same to you.

You tell yourself you're being demanding when you ask why they don't, know you land somewhere closer to whiney. They don't entertain you either way.

"Told you to beg."

And so you do, quiet and shameful, until they stop altogether and suddenly you're calling for them - for their mouth, their strange hot tongue, their fingers, anything. You even beg for their cock when they order you to, a desperate little whore for the hot, wet tendril they slide back into you, so far you nearly convince yourself you can feel it in your diaphragm. This time when they tilt you forward and take you into their mouth all the way to the root, the appendage stays put, rooted deep. And when it begins to pulsate, sliding a knobby bend of itself which may have once been a hyoid bone back and forth against your prostate with a rhythmic series of contractions, the shudder that wracks you nearly knocks their hands from you. 

"Fuck," you hiss, somehow shimmying your hips even lower, reveling in the tight heat which which engulfs you. The unused mouth hums in agreement between gasps for air. When you realize it's probably breathing for all of them in that moment, you lean forward to plant your hands on the ground and fuck into the middle mouth for all you're able, aided by a hand on your hip when your legs go shaky and weak with the work the tendril is putting on you. 

And when they tell you they can feel your pulse in their throat, you cum so hard your vision whites out. They're relentless, the grip on your hip turning iron strong when you try to flinch away from them, the tongue in your hole never once stopping until you're wrung out and crying, too overstimulated to care about the noises you're making other than to worry you're being understood. Small miracle perhaps, given you're too fucked out to grasp the names they call you, or how they tease you for getting off to an abomination like them. If you were present enough to comprehend them, the shame would have overwhelmed you. Good thing your ears are still ringing too hard for that. You're still floaty when they jostle you into position, get you straddling their considerable hips. Two hands hold you high above them while the other works their belt and fly, and you come back to yourself with a cold jolt when their cock springs free, an incomprehensible meld of two genitals which makes you cringe in pain just to behold. 

At the center, Gaz's cock stands high and proud, relatively normal looking all things considered. But around it, split up the center like some kind of perverse flower, a thicker, shorter dicck wraps itself in two branches around the inner stamen, leaking trace amounts of precum from the seams where it clings. 

It makes your stomach roll.

It makes your mouth water.

"Just as ugly as the rest of us, is it?" the middle head growls. They do their best to coordinate a peak down, but the head on the right seems cemented too stiffly to account for the movement. You don't think they can see it at all, though you wonder if that's for the better. You suppose if you saw your cock split up the middle one day, you'd never be able to get it hard again.

For the better? 

"Worse." 

You're surprised when they laugh, though you suppose you shouldn't be. You know the men trapped in there, even if they don't seem very familiar anymore. But then, as if to prove you wrong, an alien hand grips your ass cheek hard while another set of fingers prod your hole to make sure you are indeed stretched enough for them. And then, when they lower you on to their cock, any sense of familiarity leaves you.

The stretch is not unmanageable at first, Kyle's pretty head notching deliciously within you. But the further you sink onto him, the more that second head prods at your hole and you hiss in warning, not trusting the quick preparation you'd received. They tell you to relax, rock you shallowly on the tip until the second head grows wet with precum and when you reach below yourself to spread it over the shaft, you're surprised to find it already slicked. 

They don't stop you when you pull back enough to get a proper look at them, inspecting the shaft and your own hand to find it covered in pre. Curiosity takes over and you drag your fingers along the shaft, ignoring their shiver in favor of tracing the slick back to its source, the seam where the two cocks splice together. The more your fingers explore, the twitchier they get beneath you until you can't help but tease them, ignoring your baseline revulsion in favor of running your thumb over the split head. "Hurt?" you ask, tone indicating you know full well it doesn't.

"Fuckin' -!" This time when they pull you onto them, they do not heed your protests.

You know tensing up will only make it worse but it's an instinct you can't fight, shrieking when they bully their way inside, the flare of the second head becoming soaked when you squeeze against the intrusion. They gasp, throats working around thick swallows while they keep you anchored to them, aborted little thrusts jostling you just enough to keep you  off balance. Keep you from adjusting properly. It fucking hurts, but the surprising amount of pre and spit helps to ease your grip on them eventually, especially when their weak little grinds begin to work the slick into you, their movements coming deeper and quicker the more you let them in.

They know when they've found your sweet spot by the embarrassingly garbled mewl you emit. 

"That's it," one of them growls, the hand on your left hip squeezing impossibly tighter. On the other side, the one in the balaklava calls you a sweetheart, tells you you're taking them so well.

You can't manage much beyond a bobble headed nod in response, but they don't seem to require one, three arms now working to keep you bouncing on their cock at a quick, deep pace which has your breath catching in your throat, embarrassing little punched out sounds bubbling up each time they bottom out. So overwhelmed, you don't even notice your cock stirring back to life until it begins bobbing uselessly, slapping against their marbled belly and leaving pathetic little dribbles of cum to catch in the thatch of hair there. Even the brief touch makes you whine, makes you grab yourself by the base to keep your twitchy length from grinding too hard against the coarse pelt. Except they don't like that, one hand from the seeming never ending supply snaking up to grab your wrist, holding  it behind your back. 

"Useless little thing, ain't you? Can't even properly take us without crying about it."

You don't think that's fair, but you suppose they don't want to hear how this wasn't what you had signed up for, nor would they likely wish to know that no human could probably take them anymore.

But they seem to realize that anyway. "Maybe we should eat you up? Take you in and make you part of something strong for once? They can't expect us to find any real satisfaction in you, can they?"

And something about the way they say it cuts through your addled thoughts, makes your blood run cold. "Reynolds. He said -?"

"Peace offering," middle head clarifies. 

"Not a very good one," righty adds.

The mix of emotions their words bring is concerning, not least because the pre-existing shame you'd felt for even being in this situation now combines with a deeply confusing feeling of being not good enough and the deep seated need to prove yourself to your superiors rears its ugly head. This time, when you work yourself back down onto them, they let you take the lead, dead eyes adopting as near an expression of smugness as they can manage. 

"Better do a good job, sweetheart. Hate to have to merge you with that backstabbing Reynolds just to get a decent play thing."

"Oh, fuck you," you hiss, wires crossing now as you try to figure out if you want their approval or their apology.

You get neither. "That's the plan."

Maybe it's a bad idea. Probably, you'll get your fingers bit off and then you'll sink so far into their chest you'll come out the other side and they'll wear you like a backpack until your cells all melt into an unrecognizable puddle. They'll call you Six despite the fact you'll never watch it for them, just waiting to die every minute.

None of it stops you from sticking your fingers into the offending mouth. "Shut the fuck up."

Your stunt earns you peace for all of three seconds before you remember which mouth you've chosen to take your frustration out on when that same dark, prehensile tongue wraps itself around your wrist, drawing your fingers down its throat eagerly. The shudder it earns isn't entirely disgusted and the other heads laugh at you, insultingly amused. 

You'd almost rather be Six. Especially when the slimy drool begins to coat your wrist, the weird tendril working itself across your skin as if it could wring more pleasure from the appendage while they groan in apparent pleasure, breaths coming slightly quicker.

"Feels so good," one of them confesses, their hips beginning to piston up into you. Sensitive, must be. Fresh new tissue despite its leathery texture. It would explain the way they stroke the skin of your hairy forearm at least. Your frustration grows when you realize that not only have you failed to shut them up, but you've also managed to give them even more satisfaction, somehow. 

Well, maybe they won't kill you at least.

But the hope dies in your chest when they grab your cock in their meaty fist, squeezing until you flinch and cry out in pain. They tut at you condescendingly, continue to work your length with far too much aggression. You're prevented from curling in on yourself by the broad hands at your waist and the hand currently being held hostage by a concerningly strong tongue. All the while they rumble about how useless you are to them, how they'll have to make you into something that suits their needs if you can't please them. It's a bad enough threat, as is, but when they start talking about alpha team like just more meat for the grinder, more limbs with which to combine you, the sob that wracks you isn't solely rooted in pain and overstimulation.

Somewhere, in some base part of your brain which still craves the approval of the men beneath you, you spare a thought for how badly you will have failed your mission if the amalgamation you'd been sent to wrangle, in an attempt to split them back up, ended with you earning the merge of your entire team. Probably, you shouldn't be worried about it right now, but the way they ramble about you being a disappointment to them has already turned you into a needy little thing, so you've just been set up for failure, really. So when they tell you you'll have to do better, you try; and when they prompt you to shove your fingers further down their throat, you do. And when they say you're much too pathetic to please them if you can't even take their smallest cock without crying, you falter, apprehensive.

"Smaller?"

They're mean, your open fear making them shutter beneath you. Their cum is so hot it nearly burns, leaking from you in a frothy ring as they continue to pump into you for a minute longer, working themselves back from the edge before pulling you off their length, Gaz's cock still hard at the center despite the way the split cock still dribbles weakly. They keep you raised high enough you can see when they reach down, one set of thick fingers working their fly looser. In retrospect, you're not entirely certain how you never felt it beneath you. Likely just assumed it was another strange black growth, like the kind that corded him all over, pulsing strangely with angry-looking veins. What he pulls out of his pants next isn't too dissimilar, a thick, angry-looking shaft which splits toward the tip, the pulsing blue vein which runs along the bottom branching into two merged heads, each of which look plenty formidable on its own. The end result is a frankly terrifying behemoth, its head the thickest part except perhaps its belly which looks swollen with whatever that blue vein carries. It leaks in some places, the familiar pearl of precum collecting at its heads and a darker, thinner substance which seems to ooze from the strange veins. It's… pretty, in its own way. At the very least, far more human than the one which now rests against their belly, too heavy to stand tall now that the outer cock is no longer hard. Still…

"That's not gonna fit."

Their laugh is slightly breathless, chest still heaving from their sudden orgasm. "You'd best make it. Told you what would happen if you couldn't please us."

For a moment, you think to call their bluff, your self-preservation instinct finally outweighing your loyalty. Your team isn't here, surely it wouldn't be as easy as they say to turn everyone? But ultimately, they do not need the rest of the team to turn you into something you do not want to be and you decide not to try your luck.

There's no easy way to take the heads all at once so you reach back to stretch yourself on your fingers, surprised at how easily three slip in among the spit and cum. A tendril of shame winds up your spine, the way you've so easily accepted them settling uneasily. Your expression must be telling because they laugh at you, swat your hand away so they can properly assess your stretch. 

"Christ, what a slag. Already dripping with it and wanting more?" The hand they're using is ungloved, but the texture of the skin is all wrong anyway, and the way it twitches and shakes makes it hard to close your eyes and just forget what's working you open on thick, probing fingers, much as you try. It's bad, uncomfortable, makes your skin crawl. Worse even than that, however, is knowing that they're right.

Slick with spend, the noise their fingers make within you is inescapable, a lewd sound you've been conditioned to appreciate since you even knew what getting your dick wet entailed. Despite yourself, it's not long before you're rocking back onto the alien fingers, your head thrown back as they tear breathy little gasps and curses from you. A proper moan when they hook the forefinger of another hand in against your rim and pull.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," you pant, unable to get away from the middle finger which slides in against this new intrusion with little preamble due to the way the remaining arms hold you in place. 

"Shut up and take it," they order, fingers now holding you open like a pair of forceps as they wrangle you into position above their second cock. "Should be thankful we even bothered stretching you out."

But despite their words, sliding down onto the double heads makes it feel like they haven't bothered to at all. Their fingers keep you spread until you're notched over the flare, the stretch of their fingers and their cock bringing tears to your eyes which they quickly wipe away with that long prehensile tongue. You hadn't even noticed when your fingers had slid from their mouth, both hands now braced against their chest as you try to keep yourself from sliding down their length before you've had time to adjust. It's a worthless attempt of course, all hands now gripping your waist, hips, thighs, shoulders, and dragging you down centimeter by relentless centimeter. They chatter all the while, degrading words somehow keeping you grounded if only because it gives you something to focus on other than the unpleasant stretch of your ass.

"Ungrateful, that's what you are. Worked you open on fingers and tongue. Slicked that hole right up when we came in you, didn't we? And all you do is whine -."

The slap to your ass isn't too surprising, but the gloved hand striking hard against your cheek with the strength of the two combined arms that wield it, is.

Barely audible over the ringing in your ears, you hear them demand you thank them and you do so, stuttering. "Th-thank you!"

You're not sure if it's your cry that gets them, or their patience finally snapping. You see the cords of their neck flex beneath a ridden-up balaklava when they groan and then their hips are working up beneath you, burying themselves to the root within you. They lay there panting for a moment, collecting themselves. You take advantage of it as best you can as well, wriggling your hips against theirs in an attempt to adjust, feeling the slick leaking from your hole as you do so. 

Overflowing. Fucking slag, indeed.

They want you to ride them again but you can't, legs too far spread and sore to be much use. They roll you over with minimal complaint after a few failed attempts, their grumbling getting lost in the rush of your ears when they pin one leg to your chest and lean heavily against it. Gravity lets their first cock flop onto yours, hot length sliding against your flagging erection while you try to ignore their comments about how tiny you are beneath them.

It doesn't work, and the fact it only makes you harder makes your shame burn hotter.

"Pretty little thing, though," they mutter, one heavy hand cradling your jaw to keep you looking at them. They're the stuff of nightmares, looming over you as they are, but your cock twitches anyway because you've always been so desperate for their approval.

Another fist finds yours, wraps your hands around your frotting cocks as best it can. Combined like this, your fingers are barely able to encase even half of it, your grip not nearly tight enough to do either of you any good despite the way he tells you to give him something to fuck. He hisses in frustration when you're unable, one hand slapping the back of your thigh as he bullies it off to the side, his own hand twining with yours and squeezing much too hard as he begins to fuck up into you, his slick cock moving against yours as the other notches against your prostate when he withdraws, earning a ragged moan from you.

"There?" he asks, pistoning hard enough into you you'd go shuttling across the ground if not for the grip he still has on your hip, or the immense weight he leans on to you. You nod, throat and tongue working uselessly. One hand remains locked in his grasp but the other scrabbles up his chest, catching on some PALS webbing and holding on for dear life. 

"Fuck yeah, squeeze me just like that, love," he pants. You're unsure if he means the way your walls clamp down around him or your fist, currently gripping too tight to be comfortable. You remain tense in both anyway, suddenly desperate to hear more of his labored breaths. It's an instinct you do not want to analyze. Can't, given how suddenly your every thought is occupied by the way the heads of his cock scrapes against your sweet spot, has your mouth hanging open uselessly. 

The grip on your jaw shifts, palm laying heavy and flat against the column of your throat. They don't squeeze, waiting until you whine in want to duck closer, long tongue sliding against your lips as drool drips down on to you. The middle head hums, pale eyes heavy on your pathetic display. "Still need more, honey? Is that it? Need something to suck on too?"

"Knew 'e was a fuckin' slag," the last head mutters, and the tongue slips into your mouth before you can respond - not that you could've, brain sent skipping by the relentless pace he's set. The tendril in your mouth swells, fills the area between your teeth until your jaw aches with the stretch. It thins out some as it creeps down your throat, the very tip of it a thin little column which it eases past your gag reflex. You'd think they were trying to be nice if not for the way it immediately swelled again, your breaths coming hard through your nose as it continued, threatening to cut off your air from within. 

"Needy," the head on the end gripes, but the one in the middle is nicer. "Deep breath, sweetheart."

But nice as the sentiment is, the tongue in your throat doesn't actually give you enough time to abide, forcing its way deeper as the middle head does nothing more than tut disapprovingly. The hand around your throat flexes, all three heads groaning in unison as you tense up tighter on reflex, panic beginning to climb up your throat - only made worse by the knowledge you can't express it for the intrusion blocking your airways.

Within you, the tendril pulses once. The hand around your throat flexes with it, a pressure from within and without which feels like it might tear your delicate skin apart - and then they both relent, pulling away from you altogether until only their thick heads remain notched within you. They watch you splutter and cough, vaguely sympathetic noises cooing down at you while heavy hands trace over your body, too rough to be soothing. After a moment, one of them asks if you're ready, but again they do not wait for a response before filling you completely, hips bucking into you as they make you gag on their tongue. They stay there longer this time, cock twitching against yours when your throat works around the intrusion. 

"Again," they hiss, but you gag and cough, eyes growing swollen and leaky in your panic and they relent, panting nearly as much as you as they wait for you to collect yourself.

They don't even bother to ask if you're ready this time, their hips fucking up into yours the only warning you get before the hand around your throat tilts your face just so, the slimy tendril slipping down your raw throat nearly familiar. "Breathe," they warn, and this time they give you enough time to comply before slipping past your reflex, their fingers drumming off the column of your neck as they sigh into it, curling around you as their hips keep working. You whimper when their grip tightens around your cocks, but it just comes out as a snotty sound.

"Swallow, sweetheart," the far head whispers, breath hot against your ear even as it's filtered through the mask. You blink a few times, confused as to how you can manage that, and then the tongue in your throat pulses and it's automatic, reflex, the mouth at your ear groaning as the hand against your throat tightens. 

"Can feel ourselves," the middle head admits, flexing their grip again. "Here."

This time, when they grip your throat, their fingers dig into your pulse points and your vision tunnels, sensory input narrowing down to each place they touch you - the way they occupy your throat, control your breathing, your very pulse, the way their cock slides hot and wet against your own, grip so tight it would be painful if not for the way their twin heads keep notching against and framing that spot deep within you on each pass.

They only make it worse when you cum, tongue thickening in your throat as their grip tightens. They relent when you gag, the relief of your first breath only heightening your release until your back arches and you're cumming up to your chin. They hiss at the way you clench around them but their hips work even harder, balls slapping against your ass as they bury themselves into you until they're cumming so deep you think you can feel them in your stomach. 

Panting, you feel them pull out and the flood of cum that follows. You grimace, your leg lowering as you try to regain some semblance of pride. You have no clue how you're ever going to look any of them in the eye again, if they're ever successfully split. Despite your lethargy, your body spent after two rounds with a literal monster, your brain is finally coming back online, conveniently choosing now to remind you that Reynolds definitely saw all that from his end of the security feed. You roll onto your stomach when they pull away from you, desperate to bury your head in the ground while you collect yourself -.

But then a firm grip around each ankle makes your blood run cold, and you yelp when they pull you close again, leaning forward until they hover over you ominously, the length they slide into you slipping past your rim with ease.

The first cock. Gaz's. He still hasn't finished.

"Not going anywhere, are ya luv? Thought you could handle all of us?"

[atmosphericradar]

Perhaps /lgbt/ is dispersing, if this jargon is being seen on Instagram too.

Heads up for those unaware: 4chan trans girls are obsessed with passing, to the point of reviving phrenology. They - and anyone who posts like this - is selfhatredmaxxing and very superficialpilled.

We're getting a strange influx of users unironically talking like this

[carnivorousyandeere]

Alright more thoughts— specifically about Marcus with afab Darling and kegel balls. Please heed the warnings, this one’s fucked up

More Unethical Pelvic Floor Therapy with Marcus

( MDNI, No Age in Bio DNI )

CW: abuse of power, gaslighting, unethical medicine, intentional bad medical advice (leaving kegel balls in for extended periods can actually fatigue your muscles and damage them; any company suggesting you do this instead of actual exercises is working from pseudoscience. If it’s your kink to leave ‘em in a long time go ham or whatever… just know the risks), smut, dubcon, overstimulation, painful fingering, painful sex, mating press but no talk of actual breeding

Info: gn afab reader

Your physical therapists had recommended you start using kegel balls— “it’ll help with your mood and disgestion!” Said one. “It’s a great workout, helps keep you healthy,” nodded the second. The last insinuated it would improve your sex life— as if you’d had sex with anyone but the three of them since you started visiting their office.

None of them had really explained how you were supposed to use them, so you figured your best bet would be to ask Marcus. The other two would insist on “showing you how to use them,” and you’d just end up fucked out in one of their offices again. When you asked, he just laughed a little and pushed up his glasses, typing away at his computer and not sparing a glance, as if you should already know the answer.

“You lube it up, with as little lube as possible, and slide it into the vaginal canal. Then, it should rest rather comfortably near your cervix, much as a tampon might. After that, you just let it stay there for a few hours while you go about your day. Your pelvic floor muscles will contract as you go about your day.”

“Oh…” you feel your face burning. “Is that… it, then?”

“Mm?” Marcus finally glances up at you. “Yeah? You shouldn’t keep them in for longer than eight hours at a time. And if you think the ones we’ll be sending you home with are too big, or you experience any pain or unusual discharge, come back in right away.”

~~~

You made it a few days. The feeling was strange, though not unpleasant— at first. You could feel it inside you as you walked around, though if you ignored it the feeling began to fade. You did notice yourself squirming a bit more, finding it harder to get comfortable. You felt… full in a way you hadn’t before. Eating and drinking made the pressure in your gut all the more noticeable. You tried not to think about it too much, and took it out at the end of your day as instructed, even though the lack of a string to pull it by was a little difficult.

The second day, you had a little trouble inserting the ball, though not too much. You did notice a small ache as the day wore on, and that your underwear felt a little more… wet than usual. At the end of the day, though, you were able to take the ball out and relax.

You woke up hot and wet the third day. You felt a little tight, but the ball slipped in without much trouble. You couldn’t focus on anything, though. Your abdomen felt so tight and hot. You feared you might leak through your underwear, and had to come home early to try and compose yourself. But try as you might when you got home, you couldn’t get the kegel ball out. You’d gotten too tight, painfully so. Embarrassed and needier than you could remember being in a long while, you pulled your clothes back up and make your way to the clinic for Marcus’ help.

~~~

It doesn’t take him long to figure out what’s going on between your panicked expression and the sweat beading at your temples, even as you struggle to tell him what’s wrong. Marcus coaxes you to undress. You lay back on an exam table, and Marcus quickly dawns a sterile mask and a pair of gloves, spreading lube over his gloved fingers. You hiss and flinch away when his fingers ghost over your clit. You see Marcus’ glimmering eyes narrow over his mask.

“You kept that damn thing in for hours a day, didn’t you?”

“Y-yes, you… told me to…”

Marcus’ eyebrows shoot up. “There’s no way… that’s far too long… your poor muscles must be so fatigued.”

He slides a finger inside you, eyebrows raising even a bit further when the tip of his finger meets the kegel ball still lodged inside you. “You couldn’t even get it out again… poor baby.”

He ignores your pained whines as he slides his finger in and out, adding a bit more lube to ease you. He doesn’t want to permanently injure you, after all… You tense and tear up as a second finger begins to slide in. Marcus shushes you, holding your hip with his other hand and brushing his thumb over the skin.

“You’ll be alright, we’ve just gotta open you up enough to pull it out.” He scissors his fingers gently, working you open. His eyes rove hungrily over your form, following the tears that drip from your eyes and devouring your pained expression like it’s a fine dessert. His pants feel much too tight.

Eventually, Marcus is able to grab the small ball and gently wiggle it free. You let out a sigh of relief and slump against the table when his hands leave you, and the ball thumps onto the table then clatters away onto the floor, forgotten as Marcus’ hands come back to spread you open to get a good look. Your folds are wet and puffy, much more than from the lube. Marcus twitches in his pants, fighting back a groan.

You tense again, wet eyes darting to him in surprise when you feel his finger testing your entrance again. “M-Marcus, please, it’s too—“

“Sore?” He interrupts. “Yeah, that’s what happens when you don’t listen to me. And if I don’t massage out these muscles now, it’s only gonna feel worse on down the line.”

You whine, turning your face to the side as Marcus slides that finger deeper inside and slides his mask down with his other hand. He kisses your cheek, tasting the tear tracks there. You shut your eyes and nod. It’s all you can do.

Your muscles are just too tight, clenching painfully around around his thick fingers as he works them inside. He spreads you apart a little bit more, keeping up the pretense of helping to relieve the ache in your core, before his fingers find that sensitive spot inside you. You jolt at the feeling, a lightning bolt of strained pleasure that has you gritting your teeth through the stars in your vision.

Marcus shushes you as you pant and groan at the strange feeling building in your gut, his fingers working that spot ever more harshly. He reassures you that everything’s going to be okay. He kisses your cheek, your forehead, strokes your hip with his free hand. It’s the most painful orgasm you’ve ever felt, but the relief that follows as you gush around his fingers is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before. You go boneless against the exam table, covering your face and willing your heart to calm down.

Marcus’ fingers still, but only for a moment. He curls them again right before you can catch your breath.

“M-Marcus, no, it hurts, I can’t-”

He curls his fingers harder, breathing in your pained whine as his lips ghost over yours.

“I’ll help you feel better, but you need to relax.”

“I can’t,” you sob.

“You can,” he insists. “Be good and let me help you.”

You sob harder, finding yourself nodding again, relinquishing control over yourself as you let him work you over on his fingers again and again. You feel so tired, so achy, the burning pleasure rubbing your nerves raw like sandpaper.

Marcus relishes in your cries, making you cum twice, then thrice, before losing patience and slipping his scrubs down to rub his cock against you. You jolt and cry out even louder as his tip brushes over your clit. Marcus bites his lip, fighting back a groan at the sight. You look so pretty, tear-stained and incoherent.

He can’t help running his hands up the backs of your thighs, slick with sweat, and pressing them firmly against your chest as he slides in. Marcus stays still for a moment, savoring how hot and wet you are. You’re so tight that every twitch of him inside you makes you gasp with the discomfort. He knows you’re only going to be more sore in the morning. The thought of taking care of you, so weak and helpless, only makes him twitch even harder, moaning against the shell of your ear.

[fuck-customers]

Cancer cw? Just in case

Had a regular customer come in, and it started as a pretty standard conversation. I was wearing a bucket hat because I'm ginger and it's sunny and my job has me mostly outside, so she started the conversation with "I didn't recognize you with the hat on!" I laugh and say yeah, can't be too careful--I explain that my grandfather died from a combo of copd and skin cancer complications.

Her: "Did he wear sunscreen?"

Me: "No."

Her: "Good for him!"

I was like...too stunned to even respond. My whole brain was just skipping like a scratched CD from that. Good for him?? For dying?? Partly from skin cancer??? Because he spent over 70 years outside all the time on the planet never once protecting his skin til it was too late and there were parts missing from him?

She goes on a rant about how rise in use of sunscreen is correlated with rise in skin cancer blahblahblah--because as we all know we have records dating back centuries that prove skin cancer didnt exist til those pesky companies started making sunscreen (heavy sarcasm)--vaccines cause autoimmune diseases blahblahblah..she went through a huuuge array of unfounded horseshit. I was so stunned at the pseudoscience/conspiracy theory word soup that started coming out of her crusty mouth, all I remember thinking was if I heard the words "vaccines cause autism" come out, I was going to jail.

Next time I see her (she's here every few days) I'm going to apply my SPF-fucking-100-noncancerous-goddamn-sunscreen while making direct eye contact with her the entire time.

Posted by admin Rodney.

[n1ghteeea]

hi feel free to ignore this but……..do you have any egon/egon-centric polybusters headcanons….perchance………..i absolutely adore your headcanons :)

Ohhh, you asked the right person, buddy 💪

Cw: cheesy at times. Also long. Sorry!!

Sometimes Egon goes days without rest and proper food / water intake due to hyperfocusing on his work and research. The guys obviously worry because he literally exhausts himself, and often isn’t able to tell that he physically needs to stop. So they have no choice but to take on the mission of dragging him out of the lab for his own sake. Words and logic never help because he easily fights them with his own, so they use something he isn’t so good at: affection 💪

They don’t even have to do much: one of them comes to him from the back, hugs him, rests their head on his shoulder and just says nice relaxing things in a soft tone - and it works every single time. He acts like he hates it, but he’s actually very thankful to them for not letting him crash out in the lab. This method might be a bit embarrassing, but hey - if it works, it works!!

Also sometimes Peter abuses it, but what did you expect, it’s Peter 🤷 Egon can never be mad anyway, not really.

Overall, I imagine that Egon isn’t very affectionate. Physical touch is definitely not his love language, but when he does feel like it, soft stuff works best on him. Teasing is fun and all, but gentle hugs, caresses and words melt him on spot (and the others know it all too well).

Another thing (super basic, sorry) is that Egon has low blood pressure and consequently constantly cold hands (projecting? maybe). During winter they get really, really bad, so whenever they have some relaxing group activities, for example, movie nights, Ray or Winston hold his hands in theirs to heat them up (they are human heaters, trust me on this one).

Another vision I have is that Egon is shortsighted and sometimes gets visually overwhelmed, especially after multiple days without proper rest. Basically, his eyes wander around uncontrollably, taking everything in, thinking, analysing and overwhelming his mind. In order to calm him down the guys take off his glasses, forcing him to only see their faces in close proximity, so his mind has no choice but to shut up (Ray came up with that in college when Egon would grade papers throughout the day and then stay in the lab till the dead of night).

Oh yes, college!! Based on an unconfirmed wiki trivia fact, I hc that when Ray, Peter and Egon met in university Egon was a physics instructor, even though they were the same age. Ray and him bonded over their love for supernatural and eventually became friends, starting with doing research together and growing closer with time. Peter, on the other hand, was a dickhead to Egon the entire semester he had to take physics bc he hated the class and was pissed off at the fact that Egon wanted him to study instead of barely passing (who was this guy, same age as him, telling him what to do??)

But with time all of them became friends and eventually roommates, working on their doctorates together 🫶

Some more random ideas:

I hc that Egon uses unscented soap and shampoo, but the others swear it smells like pistachio ice cream. Egon doesn’t believe them, but they genuinely love it.

Egon likes lukewarm showers, though switches to hot ones later in life when his body starts cramping with age. It gets especially bad during cold weather.

The guys almost never see him in the morning because he wakes up first, but sometimes they do get him to sleep in and morning Egon is their favourite sight in the world. They also share morning cuddles ☝️

Egon thinks ufology is a pseudoscience that focuses on something that clearly doesn’t have enough proof to be worth researching, but still watches UFO documentaries for fun with Ray.

He loves Frank Sinatra. Ppl always say he’s a classical music guy, but I think he’d love smooth jazz and even smooth 80’s music, too. Let him be fun!!

Egon is quite sensitive to food texture and whenever someone else cooks dinner they always take that into consideration, and either make something all of them can enjoy, or do a little portion of his safe food so he can be comfortable eating.

All the guys absolutely adore Egon’s science talk even if they have no idea what he’s talking about most of the time. Sometimes he randomly goes on rants and they just sit there and listen to him with lovestruck expressions.

Obligatory EGB hc: the guys ADORE his long hair. And if you’re unfamiliar, it’s LONG long. It reaches his shoulder blades. It’s longer than Janine’s. I imagine it would take him a while to start leaving it down around them just because after so many years of living alone and being a teacher and a mentor he’d mold himself into this ideal always-stoic version of himself , and it would definitely take a lot of time and effort for him to learn to be open and vulnerable again.

To sum up, Egon Spengler is a great guy who loves and is loved!!

[glitterfop]

I worked as a barista for a decade:

Wages were $10 + tips (highly competitive!).

No insurance or benefits of any kind.

Almost all of my coworkers worked 2–3 jobs; the only reason I didn't is because I was literally in high school for much of this time. *No one* was making a living wage.

I know of at least one person who got second degree burns and did not seek medical treatment for it.

I know of one person who injured themself in an incident with a coffee grinder and did not seek medical treatment.

I injured myself when a bowl of nearly boiling soup fell out of the microwave onto my head—and was praised for it because I didn't let any parts of the microwave itself fall or break, even though it would have saved me injury. My coworker was fired on the spot because he was so drunk he literally did not notice me screaming from ten feet away.

I almost got stabbed when someone (the owner/manager) didn't announce a knife coming around a corner.

A large knife fell point-down into a coworker's shoe, about a centimeter away from their toe.

A coworker felt faint and asked to sit down and was soundly mocked for it for months after she stopped working there.

We worked without A/C or proper ventilation and temperatures regularly reached dangerously high levels. I am absolutely certain I and all my coworkers worked through heat exhaustion almost every day of the summer months.

One time bees swarmed our kitchen and we didn't close. I am not kidding.

Normal customer service bullshit such as regular sexual harassment, etc.

This was a health food-focused business (catering to a specific highly controversial pseudoscientific fad diet that I will not name for anonymity reasons), and all employees were required to follow the fad diet in question and heavily restrict what they would eat for the first 30 days of employment as a condition of being hired.

My time as a barista was one of the worst times of my life. It was the decade that would not fucking end. I used to have screaming meltdowns about how trapped I felt, like I was never going to be able to escape that place. The day I got a job in retail—yes! Retail!—was a fucking relief. This is the first time in my working life I feel like I have even a fucking shred of dignity, a shred though it may be.

But yeah, sure, baristas are privileged. Let's go with that.

I don’t understand why people hate baristas so much or especially why we’re often trashed as some kind of “cultural elite” by fashy (including and especially post-left) types.

Anytime there’s a discussion about tipping in the US people crawl out of the woodwork and talk about us like we’re some privileged class of people trying to shake them down for their hard earned salaries and dilute the meaning of real labor (whatever the fuck that means).

Shit like this

Or

Like one of my coworkers is currently homeless and crashing with our manager until he finds a new apartment. Another brings free coffee to the dentists office next door (and comps the Dr.’s espresso drinks) in exchange for affordable dental work. What about this screams privilege?

Just like any physically demanding job we’re facing a high risk of disabling repetitive motion injuries and yet the industry standard is zero health benefits unless your shop is part of a corporate chain and it’s legally required at which point benefits are technically available but functionally near impossible to access.

Don’t get me wrong the coffee industry is fucked from farm to table. The perception of the “not just anyone” that gets to be a barista is accurate to an extent. But that has more to do with the type of person who owns coffee shops. The trope of the Owner/Manager who only hires baristas they would drink with or fuck is not without merit but in what world is the barista benefiting from that? Short shifts and the promise of flexible hours attracts grad students and artists but I assure you the Queer Studies PhD candidate waiting for their big break as an adjunct and the bassist spending their nights playing in a rotation of 5 local punk bands bc they love the scene have no systemic power over you.

People hem and haw about servers and bartenders too but it seems like baristas specifically are the scapegoat of the food service industry and i genuinely do not understand what kind of bath salts these people are smoking.

[mercurialbadger]

Want to see something unspeakably horrifying?

[bat-luun]

(tags via @encryptidarchivist)

YESSSSS i love him very much hes my darling beloved!!! <33

(ramble below cut cuz this got so long oh my god lmao - cw: suicide mention)

The tma oc is actually an au version of 'Pai Rite' (he/she)! He's player character i made while co-DMing a Call of Cthulhu campaign. He's originally from 1982 Chicago and about 28 years old. Her og lore and backstory and what played out in the campaign is rather complicated so imma leave it out. (tho i'd happy to rant about it lol-)

For the tma version: She uses her full name more often than just her nickname/chosen name; Joshua 'Pyrite' Kerr (he/she). She was born in 1978 in LA, moved to England in 1997, and died 2010 at age 32.

She is marked by both The Vast and The Spiral! (in the same way Martin is a mix of The Eye and The Lonely)

Pyrite has a rocky relationship with his parents from the start, his father was killed/taken by The Vast when Pyrite was only 17. His mother was killed by The Spiral, which triggered Pyrites leave to England to study mathematics at the King's Collage in London.

(Idk if it would really work all that well in canon but I've taken The Vast in a less 'real' direction? Like making it less of a place of endless mist or whatever but making it more like a concept?) Pyrite's father was a mathematician and investigating/trying to figure out more of the pi number. The horror of the uncomprehendable powered my the Fear drove him to insanity and eventually suicide, leaving his family suddenly and without a word.

Her mother, turning even more hyper religious than before, turned to pseudoscience as a way to cope with the grief (buying crystals and crafted religious symbols/spells to protect her, and doing other low-key paranoid superstitious stuff).

She eventually got her hands on some colorful (sea)glass shards which she hung by the windows to catch the light and "ward off evil".

The glass is an artifact of The Spiral! It slowly multiplies in numbers in the given location, and starts changing colors/patterns of objects within it's line of sight (though the owner is the only one who can see it's effects).

The longer the artifact is a set location and affecting it's victim, the more intense the distortions get (pottery/dishes "melting" or changing shape, entire rooms becoming mirrored, objects switching places with each other, glass clinking sounds being heard from every room, ...). Eventually it moves from inanimate objects to people in the victims life.

Pyrite's hair got turned a purple/pink as a cause of the artifact. Panicked, Pyrite's mother took a hammer to the glass, breaking it untill there was nothing left but dust. Pyrite found her body later that day as it was being taken away by paramedics. He moved away after that, taking a single glass shard as a keepsake to remember her by, having no idea of it's effects.

He went on to study mathematics in London and found his fathers research notes, going down the same cursed rabbit hole he did.

She did become an avatar for The Spiral later on as the artifact went on to distort any research notes Pyrite made/found beyond recognition, essentially 'winning' and making her a Spiral avatar. Pyrite died in 2010 after Gertrude and Michael stopped the great twisting. Died mad and dazed and out of breath, trying to keep her grip on the only thing that was left of her mother, the destruction of the ritual making her take her own life.

me and my best friend(one of the other co-DMs) did art of Pai Rite and his gay boyfriend Revemine for valentines day!! :D

(also tagging @horrid-mothlegs for if you want more info for when our tma ocs can hang out >:])