#surgical strike today

[destinysquared]

A Present for Me, YEEESSSS

While Megs here prepares his 'surgical strike' I'll be chillin' today as it's mah birthday. So here's art of my favorite Megatron <3  Commission Prices/Info Here

[txttletale]

You've spoken at length about how the Lancer setting is just wildly incongruent with what the authors think it is at length, and I agree wholeheartedly. My question is, largely for the purpose of if I ever want to run a game of it again, how would you make the setting carry that tone the authors think it has without too terribly much rewriting? Say, from the point of 'there was a revolution to overthrow seccom'? I love the 'gallant warriors of liberation in giant robots' and would like it if the game actually was that.

But the more the bureaucratic apparatus is “redistributed” among the various bourgeois and petty-bourgeois parties , the more keenly aware the oppressed classes, and the proletariat at their head, become of their irreconcilable hostility to the whole of bourgeois society. Hence the need for all bourgeois parties, even for the most democratic and "revolutionary-democratic" among them, to intensify repressive measures against the revolutionary proletariat, to strengthen the apparatus of coercion, i.e., the state machine. This course of events compels the revolution "to concentrate all its forces of destruction" against the state power, and to set itself the aim, not of improving the state machine, but of smashing and destroying it.

-- Vladimir Lenin, The State & Revolution

In the heady days after the revolution, the air buzzed with potential. The future was today. Hazy, gaseous dreams of liberation patiently awaited their turn to be forged into something you could touch. But those days didn't last for long. The coalition was already a fragile thing during the revolution, and now that it was faced with the levers of Union's imperial machine each hairline crack became a chasm. The corporate armies, who had marched under the banner of the enormous profits locked away behind Harrison Armory's legal monopolies, had reached their personal horizons and refused to move an inch further. The moderates and high-class intellectuals saw the wealth that Union funneled from its edges being distributed generously to the citizens of the Core Worlds and declared a new economic paradigm of post-scarcity and mutual wealth. The anarchist cells with their mysterious reality-hacking mechs were the first to come to the only inevitable conclusion: the revolution was not over.

Now that the old order had been surgically deposed, the new order was finding itself fitting comfortably in its throne. Humbled and stripped of its previous privileges, Harrison Armory was welcomed back into the halls of power under the smiling auspices of free enterprise. Groundbreaking legislation was still being written in the halls of ThirdComm--guaranteeing the right of worlds to self-determination, the rights of clones to live freely, even radical and heretofore-unthinkable proposals laying the groundwork for an end to NHP-shackling. But the old revolutionaries had grown weary and cautious (and, of course, had begun to personally experience the economic benefits of Union's vast hegemony). To enforce this legislation, they argued, would be a de facto redeclaration of war against the corpostates, a disaster for the trade networks on which our wealth depends. To those who still harboued the hopes of revolutionary change, this was a loud and clear signal: the war had not ended. The revolution was not over.

The All-Galaxy Revolutionary Front as it exists now is a set of strange bedfellows. The disciplined combat battalions of the Communist Party fly in perfect harmony, distinguishable by their red battle flags, mass-produced in collectivized forges with reverse-engineered corpo tech. The motley individual oddities that the anarchists call their mechs, their open-source physics-bending HORUS peculiarities, strike unpredictably, in and out of ThirdComm's sight. But the one thing which binds them all, as they fight for the liberation of the peripheral worlds, for the wealth of mines and factories to enrich the people of the planets they're built on instead of fueling ever-replenishing consumption in the distant Core, is that they still have those old revolutionary dreams.

This is what it means to be a Lancer: to be willing to struggle. To acknowledge that the revolution is not over.

[moomeecore]

Here's part two of that last fundraiser post. Sorry it took so long... Remember, we've got two months until trump goes into office, and so those two months are extra important for people in Palestine. So right now is an important time to donate! If you were planning to donate and haven't gotten around to it, please consider doing so now! Here's some fundraisers I've donated to today - Please try and match at least one of my donations!

Maria and family - vetted - Maria's family of six was displaced last year on October 13th, and since then they have been displaced multiple times as well. Their family business and source of income was destroyed, and Maria's education as a pharmacy student was halted. Her mother cartilage patient who suffers from pressure in the vertebrae of the spine, and is in need of medical treatment. Her account(s) include @maria-gaza1, @maria-gaza4. They have $19,110 CAD raised out of their $30,000 goal

Lama and Mohammed - vetted - (not a super thorough vetting but I did some image reverse searching by myself and personally I think they are real) Lama and Mohammed are a couple who have been displaced after their house was bombed. Lama is currently pregnant and needs funds to help prepare for and support the unborn baby. They have $15,378 raised out of their $20,000 goal. Their account is @lamahourani14 (+ variants of this) for more information.

Eslam Gheelan and family - vetted - The fundraiser is for Eslam, her husband, and their two children (who are 10 months old & 5 years old respectively). Their house and places of work were destroyed and they became displaced, with no source of income. Their children are repeatedly struggling from disease due to pollution and malnutrition. They are raising money to support their cost of living, and to evacuate to Egypt. Eslam's accounts for more info: @eslamfa3 @eslamfamily06 - Right now they have $32,814 raised of their $50,000 goal

Ghazal Naseer and family + Fayez Al-Kafarna and family - vetted (#355) - Ghazal Naseer is 16 years old, and she and her siblings were seperated from their parents. She and her 5 year old brother are under the care of their 26 year old brother, Samar. The three of them then found the Al-Kafarna family, who had also been displaced from Northern Gaza, and the two groups are now travelling together. The Al-Kafarna family includes a Fayez Al-Kafarna, his wife, Amal, and their three children (7 years old, 4 years old + their baby daughter who is not even a year old yet). After the two families met, Fayez was injured in an Israeli missile strike, having taken a shrapnel to the head. He survived but had to get surgical treatment, and is still undergoing treatment and suffering greatly. Later on, Fayez and Amal's 4 year old was shot, and while he also lived, he is suffering as well, and in need of more medical treatment. For more information, @fay1z0-blog is run by Fayez. They have £11,301 raised out of their £25,000 goal

I accidently donated twice to that last one... that's £10 to match, I guess

Previous fundraiser posts: Post 1, post 2, post 3, post 4

[goblinhoursinsomniaramblings]

me last week: jesus i am bad at the task i have set out to do. what am i thinking, trying to write mpreg of the type i like. i'm just not good enough to pull this off so other people would like it--

me today: *jams out an entire part 1 in one evening after five drafts just out of queer spite and self-indulgence* be queer do thoughtcrimes

Part 1 of the Clone Gestation AU. expect other parts to have more characters, plots and dialogue, but I need the setup out or I'll feel weird about the other completely self-indulgent scenes percolating in my head.

Also: do not go into this expecting real science, you're getting comic book science at most.

In Vlad’s defense, the theory had been sound.

Every ghost had a… he had heard many terms, but in his research he had gone with ‘ectonucleus’ rather than the more colloquial ‘core’. Even his Plasmius form was no different, a shell of ectoplasm projected from an organ simple enough to barely count as such. Vlad’s human mind drove it, but many ghosts lacked a living brain to truly take advantage of their power. One of the many reasons he kept pulling off so many of his schemes plans in full. Ghosts seemed to be all emotion and obsession, no thought or patience.

The ectonucleus had many ectobiological functions. It processed ectoplasm, functioned as a rudimentary nervous system in response to stimuli, and most importantly for his current project, it stored what passed for genetic information–except instead of copying it into trillions of individually specialized cells, it took the information as a whole and shaped raw ectoplasm around it. Ghosts could even use it reproductively, something Vlad had decided to skip past with the cloning.

Though, admittedly, some of the early readings on the control subject’s cohesion had been… worrying. Which shouldn’t have been possible. The cloning tank was full of ectoplasm that had been subjected to so many layers of filtration he could legitimately label it as surgical-grade. There shouldn’t have been a problem making a stable filtration barrier between the ectonucleus and the surrounding ectoplasm.

He hissed as he felt a painful lurching from his ghost half, leaning against the occupied cloning tank with one arm. This had been occurring with regularity since he had first seen the decline in the results, and it really was not helping him solve the problem! His Plasmius side, as powerful as it made him, was maddeningly psychoreactive–it wasn’t the first time it had thrown one of these tantrums, and if it kept this up he would dig out those schematics for–

He felt it, before he saw it. A probe of something too aimless and unformed to be curiosity. He looked up to see the little ectonucleus up against the wall of the tank, barely outlined by a little firefly glow, as though it could tell he was there.

It couldn’t, obviously. It was only reacting in response to stimuli, extending feelers of presence, for lack of a better term, to decide if the way ahead was safe. There was no way it could fumble blindly to him unless–

A somewhat less painful lurch in his chest answered his thought. Ah. Of course. Ghost ‘biology’ strikes again.

No. He knew what this was now, absolutely not. He was already too emotionally invested in the outcome of this project, and the control subject was already showing signs of eventual non-viability–

And the smaller proto-presence flickered away. He felt a jolt as he tried to figure out what happened, but his eyes soon caught the faint glimmer of the cloned ectonucleus, on the far side of the tank.

Alright. This was… ideal. It was better to keep some distance while the process was still unstable.

And if his ghost half was unhappy about it, it would be so much worse if he let himself get too attached close.

***

Years later, when Vlad discovers what, exactly, ghosts are powered by, he will think back on this and laugh for far, far too long.

***

The ectonucleus doesn’t seem to notice him if he’s far enough away, even when Plasmius tries to signal it. Still, inevitably he will brush by the tank, or work near to it, taking readings on the purity of the medical ectoplasm or checking the integrity of the tank, and when he looks up–

“Again? Really?!”

The little proto-ghost seems to press itself against the tank at the sound of his voice. He knows it is just responding because it isn’t exposed constantly to his voice, making him new, worth investigation. But Plasmius seemed to respond like it was cute, and oh, he had no idea his ghost half had that particular set of feelings.

(‘Sublimation’ would become a very familiar word to him one day.)

He could reinforce the tank. Make it impossible for the unformed, barely-there clone to notice him. Maybe, in another life, he does exactly that.

Instead, he heaves a sigh, and decides he will simply have to make his voice less novel. Didn’t he hear somewhere, once, that speaking to still-forming humans was necessary for development? The ectonucleus had yet to project a human body, but it was a clone of a halfa, so perhaps–

He would have to keep an eye on the medical readings to see if this was pop science (pointless, in other words) or was worth doing, but… how badly could he compromise himself, talking to something with all the personality of an amoeba?

***

“... and that is why I even bothered to show up! Honestly, Jack should count his lucky stars he’s worth more to me alive than dead right now!”

The proto-clone glimmered at the steady flow of Vlad’s voice. It truly didn’t seem to matter what he spoke of, it just… wanted to be near his voice. Even when Plasmius didn’t overtly signal it.

It was heartwarming distressing how much he loved her already for that craved even that level of attention. How lonely he felt every time he visited Jack and Maddie, and came back with nothing to show for it but more envy fury over what he never had the chance to have.

Originally, the plan had been to introduce a combination of subliminal training, organic nutrients, and a rapid growth solution to the tank to get the clone close to Daniel’s age and development. But…

“Jack kept blathering on about old stories of Jasmine and Daniel. Showed me pictures. Showed me baby pictures.”

He had realized just how much he would be skipping. How much he would still feel had been taken from him.

He had quietly struck that stage from the planning before sitting with the tank for the proto-clone’s regular enrichment session. Not only would it have made him thoroughly depressed angry to falsify an entire childhood for the clone he wouldn’t actually get to experience… he had the feeling doing the full accelerated growth regimen would have irreversibly worsened the cohesion damage.

It hadn’t exactly improved, but regular stimulation had greatly lessened the rate of damage over time. The problem came down to the filtration barrier. It was the equivalent to a cell wall, and ghosts usually had a much stronger one around their ectonuclei than his the control subject was capable of forming.

He hunched forward a little when Plasmius again made his chest lurch unpleasantly, hand rising unbidden to his sternum. Oh yes, he was fully aware of his ghost half’s input on the subject. Instincts were a powerful driving force.

When a ghost reproduced, there was a stage where the unformed proto-ghost would parasitize the parent’s core, and siphon ectoplasm to produce a stable filtration barrier. From there, they could generally be removed and placed somewhere safe so the parent could get back to their usual life as it finished developing, filtering the ambient atmosphere of the ghost zone until it had enough power to project a body. Even into maturation, a ghost could generally fend off destabilization by placing their essence into something, or even someone, formed of ectoplasm until they could reform on their own, a reflex honed at that very early stage.

Vlad was beginning to believe his instincts were responding to a ghost too underdeveloped to form its own barrier. Something it might only be able to learn by example.

Vlad leaned his head back against the tank. He had not wanted this step to even be on the table. The control subject was still damaged, with no guarantee he could reverse it. He had sworn to himself he wouldn’t get attached without a guarantee of viability and this…

He let himself finally address it. This may not have been the same as the human equivalent, but it was so close it was impossible not to draw a parallel. It was essentially a ghost pregnancy, and the intensity of his ghost self’s psychoreactive nature practically guaranteed he would be thoroughly attached to this adorable awful little amoeba.

Perhaps he could do this in stages. Yes. Just a little at a time, until it could form its own barrier. Then, back in the tank.

“You are entirely too demanding. This is how children end up spoiled rotten, you know,” he scolded the single-celled nuisance.

It had the nerve to just glitter back at him. Such an attitude already.

He wondered if it was too late to go back to that tank-insulation plan.

It absolutely was.

***

He changed into Plasmius for the extraction. It seemed more conducive to holding something crafted purely from ectoplasm. He had barely placed his hand in the tank when the ephemeral little thing swam to him, settling in his palm snugly. He went intangible, and it hesitantly sank into his hand, then poked around, gradually finding its way to his own ectonucleus.

The effect was nearly instantaneous. A strand of pink energy wound around the little proto-ghost, and it let itself be cradled as the energy gently wove around it, flashes of light from within signaling a repeating cycle of weave, dispel, weave. Teaching it the ghost equivalent to homeostasis.

Now, however, came the real test. He transformed back to human…

And he still felt the new dimension to his so-called ‘core’, almost equivalent to a heartbeat. It was capable of existing flush with Plasmius, wherever his ghostly side rested when he was human again.

This felt promising. He didn’t exactly trust that.

He was so very tired of broken promises.

***

He still spoke to it. It had become a bonding exercise habit by this point. He would be sending email, or reading, or combing through footage from his many invasive discreet hidden cameras, and find himself talking as though it were listening. He listened back, as well, for the steady pulse of energy in, energy scattered, outlining the gradually strengthening core ectonucleus of his child control subject.

The only step left was to remove it as a ghost would and see if it learned to make a barrier on its own.

***

He may have put off the removal too long.

Those early reports of cohesion damage may have swayed his decision a little more than he wanted to admit. It was just easier… not knowing, until he was certain it could do this very basic thing. He would be staring at the tank, having gone to his lab specifically to see if it could function away from him like it would as a developing ghost and some new variable would come to him.

He should do a full cycling of the medical ectoplasm, just to be sure it’s as clean as possible for reintroduction.

He should make sure he has some emergency supplies on hand for his ghost side, just in case Plasmius fights him on this subconsciously and damages something.

He should go over lab security just in case, check the footage.

Really, it’s been too long since the tanks had a full maintenance cycle.

He had felt his ectonucleus shifting position a little. He needs to wait until it settles for a while.

(He really should have paid attention to where, exactly, his core was traveling to.)

On, and on, just him and the pulse of ectoplasm signaling all was, currently well. Although it did catch his attention that his ghost self seemed to be siphoning off some ectoplasm somewhere, even when he was human, that wasn’t accounted for in the energy transfer of barrier formation. It seemed to be evenly distributed over his entire body, some odd ectoplasmic underpinning to his circulatory system.

Initially, he just wrote it off as some sort of mapping of his human body. After all, the proto-clone was a halfa. It would need some extra education for when it projected a human body. There were some ‘vessels’ that terminated abruptly, but he couldn’t see to what purpose. Maybe it was waiting for something else to be finished, once it got enough of a boost.

He would have plenty of time to get the child control subject back in the tank, given the rate of growth.

***

He hadn’t been expecting a flare-up of his ecto-acne. He certainly wasn’t expecting it to behave extremely differently from every time previously. Truthfully, he only guessed what it was because on examination in the mirror, his eyes were glowing and spots appeared on his face. Itchy, awful, conspicuous spots.

No ectoplasm in them, however. Odd.

Almost like something was siphoning it off before it could–

***

By the time the Fentons helped him confirm his suspicion–and was that ever an awkward encounter–it was far too late to correct course. Well, technically, he could have worked something out. If anyone could have, he could.

‘Would’ was another matter entirely, though. Blame loneliness, a long-thwarted desire for family, age, loneliness, sentimentality, loneliness.

If going from a ghost pregnancy to an actual pregnancy was the price to pay for finally feeling connected to someone?

He had finally gone long enough without to do anything for that feeling. Up to and including planning the murder of anyone stupid brave enough to tell him otherwise.

Though he would have appreciated a warning about the word ‘clone’ no longer applying.

***

@vladdyissues I DID THE FUCKING THING i have no idea if you'll find introspective yet still in denial vlad being tsundere about wanting to be pregnant and getting hopelessly attached to as yet unnamed Dani nearly as appealing as I do but I still thank you for prodding me to do this fucker regardless

-manifesting a complete lack of fucks for the gender binary through a cis male character who would willingly be pregnant to have a kid ain't the usual way but fuck it, that's my coping method right now

[opluffys]

Mentor + Mentee-

-second part-

somethin quick, this was posted to my archive first as usual. pls let me know if there are any errors or if it copied weird. enjoy!!! :)

tags- thigh riding, vaginal sex, creampie, rough sex, toxic relationship, fem reader.

3.5k words.

-Ghost x Reader-

-nsfw/smut-

Hanging up and tossing the heavy wired phone onto your desk, you groaned in pure exasperation. The paperwork on your desk seemed endless, the monotonous and drab of black ink on bright white paper burning your irises, enforcing a migraine on you.

You've just gotten off the phone with, whoever the fuck, discussing the possibility of getting an assistant to help you with the excess of paperwork you've been filling out as of late. You were a doctor, your main job consisted of ensuring your patients didn't bleed out under your steady and careful hand. It was already hard enough, and now you had the added stress of the sneering stack of papers mocking you.

You clicked the ballpoint pen, bouncing your leg as the tip of the pen hit the paper, dark ink pooling and bleeding through the thin material. Your grip tightened just then, the bouncing of your leg increasing tenfold as your thoughts ran wild.

And as you continued to think, you remembered a crucial detail.

The Task Force, fuck, they're coming back today. From some mission, and you're sure Gaz told you all about it while you gave him a routine checkup, but for the life of you, you couldn't remember the main gist of it.

You didn't want to face them, face him.

•

Biting back a wail of pain as you removed the intravenous line from Soap's arm, you heard Gaz howl in laughter from the spare cot he rested on. Which had garnered him an angered stare by Soap.

"You're such a baby," Gaz laughed, turning on his side to stare right at both you and Soap.

"Fuck off." Soap gritted, hissing in agony as you continued to stitch up his lesion.

"You gonna make me?" He teased, his stare not faltering on Soap's. He glared at him, about to retaliate with his own quip before you proceeded to wipe his wound clean, the sterile stench of the antiseptic flooding your nostrils. He let out a muted scream, his good arm covering the top half of his face.

"Keep still, Johnny." You huffed, adjusting the surgical mask pulled over your features. Gaz seemed to be having a field-day at watching the scene unfold, a smug smile on his lips.

"Gaz, I can stop the morphine drip, you know." You hummed, a hidden smile of your own forming. He looked at you, a glint of fear striking his honey eyes. You held back the urge to laugh, you enjoyed teasing both of these boys in your office, and you knew the three of you were aware that you'd never do anything to bring them more pain.

"Sorry ma'am."

Now it was Soap's turn to laugh, and you discarded your surgical gloves while hearing the two hurl crude insults at one another. They provided decent white noise, and you'd take that over the deafening silence of your rampant thoughts whilst your pen danced elegantly over the various documents.

The two eventually quieted down, a tranquil silence over them as you watched the pain medication take effect on their bodies. Not even five minutes passed before you heard them snore loudly, all cuddled up into the scratchy hospital blankets.

It'd been a couple of days since the entirety of the Task Force had returned. You've only been treating Gaz and Soap, your full attention on them. Usually, you would treat them all, but you honestly didn't want to face Ghost one on one. So, to take some heat off of you, you asked another medic to tend to both Price and Ghost. Just so he didn't feel like you'd singled him out.

But, your attempts would be in vain.

•

Stretching and hearing your joints and ligaments pop in relief, you slumped over the desk, a heavy sigh leaving your lips as you filed the last group of papers. Both Gaz and Soap had left your office today, thanking you for taking care of them (after raiding your lollipop drawer).

So, you sat alone, the small swooshes of air against your body feeling welcomed, the ceiling fan above creaking with every spin. All you'd have to do now was stamp the final line of the packet, ensuring you've read over the contents carefully, and then you were free. Free to run into the uncomfortable and ill-fitting confines of your bunk.

You were lost in the work, so much so you hadn't even noticed the hulking figure taking up most of the space within your office.

"You're avoidin' me."

You nearly shrieked in terror, almost developing a fatal case of tachycardia as you held your hand over your rapidly beating heart.

"What?" Part of you wasn't really surprised that Ghost had managed to sneak up on you, it was his job, after all.

"You're avoidin' me," He repeated, stepping closer to you in large and fluid strides.

"No, I'm not avoiding you. Don't be ridiculous." Yes, I am.

"Actin' all innocent on me," He was right across from you now, his large hands resting on the cheap and fake wood of your desk, hearing it creak under his weight, "we both know that's not the truth."

"It is." It isn't.

"Get up." He commanded, and you knew that tone, that authoritarian inside of him being twisted and used against you in a way that it shouldn't.

"I'm busy." Liar.

"I won't ask again."

You shuddered lightly, telling yourself that it was just because of the excessive air from the ceiling fan skating across your heated skin. But you knew such a thing was a falsified truth.

"What? What is so important that-"

"Come over here." He hushed you before you could even finish your sentence, seating himself on a sterilised and neatly prepped cot. It was all too familiar, to the point where that same damned familiar throbbing and heat was felt in between your legs.

Your legs shook, hesitating to even take a single step towards Ghost, your mind and body both telling you different things. It was tearing you apart in the most agonising and tortuous way.

Still, you'd made you way towards him, standing idly as you struggled to maintain eye contact with him. A scowl formed on your lips, eyes flickering to his chilled demeanour. You hated how he was always so calm- so tranquil and at ease, like he wasn't feeling the same things you were, maybe because he's not, at least not for you.

"Sit." He spread his massive legs, indicating exactly where he'd wanted you. You listened wordlessly, taking a seat on his muscled thighs, your hands fisting into your scrubs.

"Make it quick," You huffed, now attempting to remove your uniform, "I have a lot to do." You sighed, fingers hooking at your waistband and pulling down, or at least you'd attempted to do so, being stopped by a harsh hand encapsulating both of your wrists.

He held your hip with his lone hand, beginning to slide you over the thick muscle of his thigh, hearing you gasp in shock. His eyes pierced your own, roughly continuing to move you atop him, the material of both your scrubs and panties against your clit overwhelming.

The both of you continued to stare at one another, your breath quickening as you felt that cursed familiarity of your orgasm creeping up on you with silent strides. Your hands were still stuck in Ghost's firm grasp, wanting nothing more than to grab at him, to pull his mask forward and kiss him like you'd perish without it. Without him.

Just thinking of such a scenario had you reeling, your hips jerking as you felt your clit being rubbed just by his thigh alone. The feeling of his as well as your uniform dragging against that sensitive nub making your mind go hazy.

As you felt your release become imminent, he stopped his movements, unshackling your hands from his grip. He hastily tore your uniform, something of which he'd only done when he was particularly angered. With you or his mission, you had no clue.

His cruel stare on you was discomforting, he looked at you like you were a piece of meat- something subhuman. Just a body to warm his cock, and how fitting your thoughts were- because he quickly slipped his own bottoms down, revealing his erect cock for a split second before burying himself inside of you.

Always so rushed, hurried and lacking any control. A crude opposition to him on the field.

You suppressed a high pitched moan, hands itching to touch him, to ground yourself against him and ride him until your thighs would burn akin to hellfire. He let out a deep grunt, his hand slapping the excess flesh at your ass, bouncing you atop him like you had been weightless.

As much as you didn't want to admit it, you were familiar with the fact that you were just Ghost's stress reliever. How he'd prowl into your office during the late hours to bend you over any surface and fuck you until muted screams left your lips.

For a while, you didn't mind it at all.

In actuality, you'd enjoyed such a thing. You felt an odd sense of honour swell in your chest, at the sole fact that he'd chosen you. He chose your body to hold onto, to whisper vile and cruel things in your ear, to grab at your body like that was all you were- a body. Void of a soul, a conscious, anything.

Being his personal fuck-doll had its ups and downs, where he'd make you orgasm more times than you could count, fucking you until you cried. But the polar opposite, of when he'd leave dark purples on your thighs, your hips, neck, fucking everywhere.

Like he was doing now.

You felt his hands roam around your softer body, catching at the fat of your hips, anchoring himself to you and bouncing you atop his thick and girthy cock with fervour. It was as if he didn't know the extent of his raw strength, already biting dark hues of purple into your soft and delicate skin.

Your eyes fluttered shut as your body struggled not to slump forward, flush against his strong chest. You didn't touch him, you swore you wouldn't. He didn't deserve it. A pathetic little thing you told yourself, just so you didn't get attached, because there was nothing more you'd yearned for to hold him like a lover did. To wrap your arms around him and feeling him lovingly piston into you, to kiss your cheek tenderly while your wet insides squeezed him with a vengeful grasp.

It's all too late, anyway.

He stopped, grabbing your chin and watching as your eyes popped open in disillusion.

"Eyes on me," Low, accented tone gravelly as he commanded you.

How dare he, your eyes met his instantaneously. Watching intently as his platinum lashes rested on his zygoma for a millisecond before opening back up to look at you. To look into you, to pick you apart, seemingly, until you turned to nothing. An obedient creature glued to his side, aching knees and jaw being ignored as you served him, like the good little thing you were.

His strained sounds were heard, quiet groans and animalistic sounding grunts as he thrusted upwards, bashing into your womb again and again. It hurt so good and you fucking hated it. You hated how just sole eye contact alone would have you naked and pressed against his clothed chest, fat cock stretching your insides.

Fuck, you loved it.

You absolutely adored it, being stuffed full of him, his mushroom tip pressing flush against your womb. Loved the bruises, the blemishes he's caused. His markings, claiming you as his, his plaything. Like an infants grubby hands over a shiny new toy, slobbering all over it and showing everyone that it was theirs.

No, you'd repeat, whilst being lifted off of him, your hands linked with each other behind your back, before being brought back down to him. Heavy cock twitching inside your tight walls, slick coating his dick, veiny and big, always reaching new spots inside of you. Spots that had searing stars incandescently tug at your vision.

Conflicting emotions, a curse, something that'd have you lay awake at night. Lay in your own cot, or sat next to an ill patient. Thinking about him, wondering, perhaps he was thinking of you, too.

How laughable.

Your eyes wandered, the interminable connection of your irises to his inadmissible. His eyes were always so eloquent, nearly showing what he'd been thinking. You couldn't stand it. You enjoyed the mask, enjoyed not seeing his face, because then, it'd be that much more personal. He wouldn't be Ghost to you anymore, he'd be someone, someone more than just a bed warmer.

Would you, though?

He squeezed your hips, garnering your attention to him once more. His brows furrowed, a thin sheet of sweat encompassing the two of you. He continued to fuck into your slick heat, revelling in how you always took him so well, as he said. Drunk off of you alone, and it was one of those nights.

"Fuckin' made for me,"

Just a slip of the tongue.

But no, you took that and ran with it, lungs burning while your legs continued to sprint. Oh, how you wished that was the case. You were tethered to him for a single purpose, for him to empty himself into you, to lay you across the hospital cot and fuck you from the back, always feeling him so deep. A place where no other man could dare to traverse, could never reach, anyway.

Was it on purpose?

Moulding you to his shape, getting you accustomed (it was always impossible anyways, taking him) to his cock. To spite you when you settled down, found a man who would love you, who would care for you. He wouldn't be enough, because Ghost already left his mark.

You were knocked out of your thoughts, thankfully, when you felt his gloved fingers begin to rub tight circles into your clit. His eyes now studied where the two of you had been joined, watching as your greedy pussy would always desperately pull his girth back in for more, a pathetic beg, don't leave.

You suddenly wailed, your hands grabbing his broad shoulders for purchase as your body shook. Toes curling, back arching as your eyes etched shut, sparkly tears trailing down your heated cheeks. You came hard against him, your essence coating his cock as he fucked you relentlessly, low and deep growls rumbling through his chest. He cursed, feeling your velvety insides continuing to take him deeper inside, he's already giving it all to you but fuck, you want more, you want it all.

"Such a greedy little thing."

He always knew what you were thinking.

"Love when I fuck you like this, don't you?"

Yes, no, yes, no-

"When I fill you up, fuckin' love it, don't you," He groaned, throwing his head back as he buried himself deep within you, nearly invading the inside of your womb as his warm and thick seed filled you. Marking you so that no other man could ever- would ever, do something striking even to him. Such a cruelty, acting like you'd belonged to him. You didn't know what he'd looked like, only aware of his name from medical records.

"Always so good for me."

And you hated how that had been the unvarnished truth.

•

You stared at your hands, ungloved and bare. Soft, skilled, shaking.

Why?

You'd touched him, in a way you swore you wouldn't ever. You'd expected to be thrown off, to be looked at as scum, worse than such a thing.

It was an accident, you didn't mean to. You weren't thinking straight, it was unfeasible with him splitting you open atop his lap. You just needed to ground yourself against him, for fear of falling, pathetic excuses.

A rueful thing you'd been over the next days, your usual adept hands quivering and trembling as you'd treated some of your patients.

You heard the click of a door open, and your posture snapped up, glossy eyes searching for who entered your space.

A breath of relief as it had just been Price.

You snapped a fresh pair of gloves on, bright blue going well with your dark scrubs. You led him to a cleaned cot, asking him just what the problem had been.

"Nothin' much, love." You loathed yourself for how your heart desired him to call you more pet names. To fill in Ghost's shadow and take care of you, as the natural leader he was. You were sure he'd be excellent at doing so.

"Missed your stitches, though." He huffed, relaxing into the bed as you ran an intravenous line for him just in case.

You looked at him, a quizzical glint in your eye. "My medic didn't take good care of you two?" Just you-

"Oh, no, didn't mean it like that." He looked penitent, kind eyes trailing over you before returning back to your stare. "Just meant that you know me better, sweetheart."

It was the truth, you were the Task Force's doctor, after all. It was just an innocent compliment of how good of a physician you'd been. Yet, you felt dizzy, the room a pirouette as you forced yourself to become calm.

"I'll keep that in mind next time, Price." You smiled, motioning for him to lift his shirt to check his lesions and other deep gashes that required attention. Your medic had done a good job, stitching and sterilising his wounds. But, the stitches were beginning to loosen, and you didn't need the wound becoming infected.

Your touches on him were always solicitous on him, more so than the others. Your gloved fingertips gentle on his muscled body, your stare wrongfully looking at his abs, lower and lower to that mesmerising trail of h-

"Gaz and Soap again?" He questioned, his gruff voice shaking you.

You looked at him confused, before he nodded towards the empty jar of sweets. You hadn't even noticed, they must've done so when you were out of the room, those stealthy bastards.

"Had to be," You laughed, making a mental note to restock the jar, "sorry you didn't get one."

"S'alright love." He hummed, his striking blues closing as you redid the stitches over his abdomen, watching as his stomach twitched in response to your careful and airy touch.

You finished quickly, removing your gloves and tossing them in a spare bin. You questioned if he'd wanted the extra fluids and medication, but he'd declined, thanking you for patching him up.

You motioned to clean your station, grabbing the bag of saline fluid before it had popped open, spilling all over your top. You cursed in vexation, more angry at the lost supplies rather than your soiled uniform.

Price quickly was at your side, spare cloth in hand as he attempted to clean the saline from your scrubs. "It's fine," You said, not used to being so close to him. His scent was intoxicating, that hint of smoke already having you feel utterly addicted to his presence alone.

He brushed you off, offering his services as he continued to dry you off. The cloth caught on the neck of the scrubs, pulling the material just below your clavicle, just where that array of purple lay, unperturbed on your skin. He let out a rushed apology, fixing you to look decent, his demeanour so focused on you.

Normally, it was the other way around.

But it felt nice being the one taken care of, for once.

•

Tossing your uniform into the laundry, you felt nice in a new set of clothes. No longer being confined to scrubs, but instead a comfortable cotton outfit against you. You eyed yourself in the mirror, clicking your tongue in distaste. Dark rings of purple running around the underside of your eyes, looking as if you haven't slept in years. Hell, it felt that way, too.

You'd had a long day, full of monotonous paperwork, sobbing soldiers who had flooded your office, crying for their mothers, and the thoughts of both Ghost and Price so tiring. You were giddy to finally be able to curl up into your bunk, drifting off into a dreamless sleep before your day would repeat at dawn.

And that was exactly what you had planned to do, to forget the days contents and reset and rest for the next.

But there Ghost was, at your door and telling you something, his words lost on you as you stared at him, balaclava pulled securely in place. Your eyes were fixed on his shoulders, right where you'd touched.

He beckoned you on to follow after him, and you wanted to plant your feet to the floor. To tell him no, to tell him that you had better things to do than to get fucked by him tonight.

Of course, you didn't do any of that.

Instead, you followed his lead, not asking a single question the entire way.

[heliopauseentertainments]

Succession

Continuity: IDW1

Rating: Teen

Relationships: Megatron/Ratchet

Characters: Ratchet

Warnings: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Major Character Death, Mourning/Grieving, Established Relationships, Serious Injuries

Summary: In which, years after a peace treaty, Megatron’s death puts Ratchet in an unexpected situation. Part of TFMegaRatch's "Endings" prompt

Crossposting: AO3 | DreamWidth | TFMegaRatch Entry

Fic under cut. See AO3 for complete notes.

“How bad is it this time?”

Ratchet didn’t answer.

He knew what Starscream wanted to know, but he didn’t want to say it. Instead he stared forward, his energon-coated hand still on the closed door to the surgical suite behind him. Flatline remained inside with… the patient.

Soundwave stood silently nearby, watching with his endless patience.

Starscream had probably expected the usual answer, that Megatron was severely injured but that he would pull through. He always did.

Always had.

The silence seemed to be clue enough for Starscream to figure it out. His optics went wide, his face visibly struggling with whatever cascade of emotions were rampaging through his spark at the moment.

Ratchet, however, was just numb. His spark seemed as though it had been put on pause. The detached focus of medical training tried to come to the fore to keep him operating, but it only worked so well.

This had not been any ordinary patient.

The inanimate husk of his conjunx was laid supine on the table while Flatline finished with his notes. The shattered spark chamber inside had gone dark shortly after they had begun operating…

…Shortly after Megatron had whispered his wishes against the side of Ratchet’s head.

Megatron had known that he would not be leaving the operating table, not with his spark chamber being held together solely by gumption and Ratchet’s hands.

The hand not on the door clutched a shard of the green crystal that had once housed his lover’s being to his windshield. The high-pitched screech of glass scratching was easy enough to ignore.

Starscream grabbed him by the shoulders.

“Tell me,” he hissed, “is it true?”

Ratchet opened his mouth.

Nothing came out, much to his own surprise.

Starscream shook him.

Finally, sluggishly, his vocalizer cooperated.

“… Yes.”

Returning to himself, Ratchet slapped Starscream’s hands away, leaving smears of Megatron’s fuel in his wake.

--

Ratchet sat down in Megatron’s throne, his limbs not quite fitting correctly.

Starscream, prone with a broken wing, was splayed out on the ground in front of him. Energon, glowing bright, coated Ratchet’s hands.

His conjunx had been offline for two decacycles. The infighting had begun almost immediately.

The Black Block Consortia had decided to strike their fledgling settlement. As a warning. They had only put down stakes on this uninhabited world a few decades ago… after searching for a place of their own for far longer.

And now Megatron was dead.

Anger had begun to simmer in his chest, bubbling up through the icy numbness and banishing it when he saw Starscream in the throne room fending off the Decepticons who had tried to challenge his seemingly obvious place as next in line.

The anger hadn’t been at Starscream, no, but… a much bigger target.

And he wouldn’t let anyone else take up the chase.

He may have been a medic, a trained healer, but that didn’t erase his combat training as a soldier. When in the field, one had to defend one’s patients, after all. And being a medic, he knew exactly how to make a blow hurt.

“Now, are there any questions?”

There was no answer from the shocked faces that crowded the throne room. Many stared at him. Many stared at Starscream or the others that Starscream already dueled into submission.

Starscream pushed himself up on his elbows, but only scowled at the throne that he had expected would be his.

“No? Good.”

Ratchet paused, letting the reality of the new order sink in. He could hardly believe it himself.

“Today, we’ll clean up and lick our wounds. Tomorrow, we hunt the Black Block Consortia.”

--

“Blaster, please put the call through,” Optimus said, straightening his posture on reflex.

It had been a long time since they had received a communication from the Decepticons.

Several centuries at least, since they had been banished from Cybertron. The communication lines had remained officially open, in case they wanted to trade or anything really. Reconciliation had been too much to hope for, but a small part of Optimus had always nurtured a hope for even the possibility.

Optimus hadn’t wanted to truly cut ties from his wayward brothers, but it had been for the best.

The frequency bore Megatron’s personal signature. Could this be the call he had been hoping all of these years for? Would they want to open lines of exchange? Or… did he dare even pray…. Would they finally want to come home?

The large screen on Optimus’s wall crackled to life.

A familiar face filled the screen, but not… the one that he had expected.

“Ratchet?”

Ratchet had been sent with Megatron—a political marriage—as part of the peace treaty, just like Barricade had been left with the Autobots—with Prowl—in Iacon’s ruins.

His old friend’s face was dour with new and deeper scratches. His shoulders tensely raised as he sat in… Megatron’s throne. His plating looked more heavily armored—and battered—than Optimus had remembered and the badge on his chest was…. Well, perhaps that was not surprising, given that he had spent hundreds of years among Decepticons. Perhaps he was simply acclimatized to his new home. Even the glass of his windshield had been swapped out with solid plating, which appeared to be long weathered.

“Prime.”

“It’s good to hear from you,” he said, hoping to start this rare conversation off on a positive note. “It’s been a very long time and—”

Ratchet leaned forward in the throne, looking a little like he didn’t quite fit. Megatron was quite a bit larger than Ratchet, after all.

Something green and glassy swung on a chain around Ratchet’s neck, but Optimus couldn’t quite see it in any detail.

“Megatron is dead.”

“What are you talking about?” That just couldn’t true… but why would Ratchet lie? Optimus’s spark sunk in his chest.

“What happened?”

“The Black Block Consortia is also dead.”

“Ratchet, please….”

“I am the Supreme Commander of the Decepticons.”

The call cut abruptly, leaving Optimus with more questions than answers.

[sequs-art-box]

Taken Down a Peg

Inside Out Hitman AU; Chili gets his ass kicked by Marigold

~1200 words

The narrow hallway stretched before them, its darkness broken only by faint lights mounted at irregular intervals. The walls, cold and metallic, echoed with the soft clicks of their footsteps. Chili walked quietly behind Marigold, his senses sharp.

He already sized up every possible threat in the vicinity, now his focus was on the woman ahead of him.

Marigold’s silhouette was sharp and purposeful, her heels tapping a steady rhythm against the hard floor. Without turning back, she began to speak, her voice carrying an authority that demanded attention.

She glanced at the man walking behind her. "Chili, as of today, your life belongs to this organization. You passed your training, and now it’s time to put your skills to good use. Your role is simple: Execute the targets I give you. No questions, no hesitation. Follow my orders to the letter. I’m the voice in your ear, the eyes that see what you can’t see. If I tell you to move, you move. If I tell you to kill, you kill. No exceptions."

Chili didn’t respond immediately. He was used to orders, but there was something different about Marigold. Her words were precise and calculated. She wasn’t just giving instructions; she was laying down her laws, laws that he would have to abide by without fail.

It didn't sit well with him.

“Tsh. You really think you can control me like that?” Chili scoffed, carrying an edge that dared her to challenge him.

His handler didn’t even turn to look at him, nor did she answer him. It's like she was asking, no, begging to get beaten down.

Chili's mind was made up before he even realized he made a decision. Marigold's cool, dismissive demeanor gnawed at him. He wasn't going to let her get the upper hand that easily. Not without a fight.

His body moved before the thought fully formed, muscles coiled like springs as he launched himself forward, swinging a fist at her with the kind of force that had dropped men twice her size. It wasn't a punch; it was a statement, a reminder that he wasn't to be trifled with.

But Marigold was faster than he anticipated. She stepped to the side, her movement smooth, effortless, like water slipping through his fingers. Chili's fist cut the empty air, the force of the missed blow making him stumble forward.

Her eyes darted at the man who just attacked her.

"I guess we're doing this now," Marigold sighed, her voice carrying a sly, almost playful undertone.

Chili's eyes narrowed. A growl of frustration bubbling up from his throat. This wasn't how it was supposed to go- he was the one who dictated the terms of a fight, not the other way around!

He charged at her, his movements powerful, aggressive- every strike meant to overwhelm and conquer.

Marigold, however, was like a shadow, slipping just out of reach after every strike. She didn't block or parry, she just simply wasn't there when his fists aimed for her. She danced around him, watching him with a calculating gaze.

It was infuriating.

Chili snarled, throwing a heavy right hook, hoping to catch her off guard. But Marigold ducked under it. Her movements were surgical. She read him like a book; dissecting his every move with a clinical detachment.

Before he knew what was happening, she struck. Marigold's foot lashed out, connecting with his side in a sharp, controlled motion that sent a radiating pain through his ribs. Chili staggered, but there was no time to recover.

A sharp elbow to the back of his neck sent him to the ground, and before he could react, Marigold was behind him. Her arm snaked around his throat, pulling him into a chokehold. Chili's eyes widened as he felt her grip tighten, her lean muscles far stronger than they looked. He clawed at her arm, trying to pry her off, but it didn't budge- she had him locked down.

Chili's vision began to blur, the edges going dark as he struggled to free himself. But Marigold's hold was unshakeable. He felt his strength slipping away, slowly realizing that she was in complete control.

"Don't make me kill you, Mr. Shaw," Marigold whispered, her voice calm with a slight hint with regret.

"You have so much potential."

He could hear the sincerity in her tone, but it only made him fight harder, even if it was a losing battle. Every movement he made only tightened her grip, bringing him closer to unconsciousness.

"All of my hard work would have been for nothing," she continued, her words tinged with something Chili couldn't quite place. Was it disappointment? Sadness? He couldn't tell.

As the darkness edged closer, Chili felt Marigold’s grip tighten, but she stopped just short of cutting off his breath entirely. She asked,

“Do you yield, Mr. Shaw?”

Chili’s pride screamed at him to resist, to fight until the very end, but his body betrayed him. His strength was slipping away, his vision narrowing to a tunnel. This was it—the moment of truth. He had never backed down from a fight before, but this was life or death. He knew when he was beaten, and for the first time in a long time, he had to accept it.

“.....I yield,” he rasped out, the words burning like acid on his tongue.

Marigold immediately loosened her grip, releasing him from the chokehold. Chili slumped forward, catching himself on his hands as he gasped for air. For a moment, the only sound in the dark hallway was his ragged breathing.

But then, his breathing melted away into something unexpected. Chili started to laugh—a deep, guttural sound that echoed off the cold walls around them. It wasn’t the laugh of a man defeated, but of a man who had just found something he'd been searching for. He couldn’t help it; the situation was too absurd, too perfect.

Marigold’s expression shifted to one of bewilderment, her eyes narrowing slightly as she watched him. “...Why are you laughing?”

Chili pushed himself up to his knees, wiping a bit of blood from the corner of his mouth. He looked up at her and chuckled, his eyes filled with something that hadn’t been there before— respect.

“I haven’t lost a fight in a long time,” Chili said, his voice hoarse but clear. “Hell, I didn’t think I could lose anymore. But you… you gave me exactly what I needed.”

Marigold raised an eyebrow, but she remained silent, waiting for him to continue.

Chili rose to his feet, taking a moment to steady himself. He looked her in the eyes, and then, in a gesture that surprised even himself, he bowed. It wasn’t a deep bow, his head was just low enough to show that he understood his position. It wasn’t submission, but recognition—an acknowledgment of Marigold's strength, skill, and the fact that she had earned his respect in the most undeniable way.

“I was looking for a real reason to follow you,” Chili said as he straightened up, his tone sincere. “And you just gave it to me. Marigold, I’m willing to do whatever you want. I’m all in.”

Marigold watched him for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then, ever so slightly, she nodded, a flicker of approval in her eyes. “Good choice,” she said. “That’s what I needed to hear.”

[aishien-the-aishien]

Bakugan AU ramble

Okay, this might be a long one. Also, it's really only going to be an infodump about alternative Vestal biology, so... yeah, if you're interested, keep reading (also, this idea striked me today at some 1:30am and hasn't left me since lmao if there's any holes or contradictions, I'm sorry! I'll be working on this concept and updating it, so ideas from this post may still change)

GENERAL INFORMATION

[The terms "lowborn/highborn" and "lower class/upper class" are used interchangeably and are to be considered common in the Vestal language. The society is strongly divided into those two groups, and their members hardly ever go round with each other.]

- Vestals are all shapeshifters and have two forms: pre-transformation form and transformation form. Pre-transformation is commonly considered the "base" form, but both are natural to the Vestals. Changing into the transformation form is triggered either by strong emotions (mostly fear or rage) or by the rules of Binding[1], and changing purely at will is exhausting and can give a Vestal unpleasant symptoms, such as a fever or muscle sores. Meanwhile changing into the pre-transformation form is usually effortless, though may take slightly longer. Changing into the transformation form is instant

- highborn are typically Avians, lowborn are Canine/Feline

[a reference example of a female Canine Vestal]

more info undercut!

- Avian features, such as wings and feathers, are associated religiously. Canine/Feline features are considered less sophisticated and more "beast-like", mostly by the highborn

- lower classes are typically more religious than upper classes

- Canine/Feline Vestals tend to be physically stronger than Avian Vestals

- the Avian transformation is less severe, leaving the Vestal semi-humanoid. However, pre-transformation Avian Vestals have clear animal features, such as feathered tails

- Canine/Feline Vestals transform entirely into an animal-like creature, typically resembling a larger form of an Earth wolf, fox, panther or, more rarely, bear. However, pre-transformation Canines/Felines have few typically animal traits

- in other dimensions, Vestals are often confined to a single form. In Vestroia, it's the transformation form, though they were able to retain their shapeshifting abilities during the invasion thanks to the Dimension Controllers. On Earth, it's the pre-transformation form, typically even more human-like than their regular forms, especially when it comes to Avian Vestals. Staying in a forcefully anthropomorphised form is uncomfortable for Vestals, making them tired, irritable, and sometimes even giving them symptoms of a sickness such as a fever. Those are the more severe, the less anthropomorphic their regular form is

Highborn characters in the story:

- King Zenoheld

- Prince Hydron

- Shadow Prove

- Lync Volan

- Klaus von Hertzing (half-human?)

Lowborn characters in the story:

- Baron Leltoy

- Ace Grit

- Volt Luster

- Mylene Farrow

- Gus Grav

The Fermins:

A family who used to be Canine/Feline, but its members have undergone medical procedures to give them Avian features instead. This is not unprecedented among those lowborn who have managed to live among the highborn. Clay Fermin has had surgical operations performed on himself, in order to change his Feline body into an Avian one, and Keith Fermin was given various substances as a young child which caused his body to mutate into a semi-Avian one. Mira Fermin's DNA was altered before she was born, causing her to be a natural Avian, the only one among her family members.

[1]BINDING

A Vestal can bind themselves to a person/item, and they will transform in defence of that to which they're bound. The concept is better understood within the upper classes, which means they know they can, for example, bind themselves to an item, which leads them to a better control of their powers. A common practice among the highborn is to bind oneself to an accessory, such as a necklace, and squish it when one wants to transform - since that is instinctually considered "a danger" and triggers the transformation. A much less common, yet clever way of using this, is binding oneself to a word, which makes one transform whenever that word is spoken around them (or read by them, for that matter). Tricky, as it may easily cause an involuntary transformation, should the word be poorly chosen. Members of lower classes are often unaware of those possibilities of binding, and tend to bind themselves exclusively to other people

- Binding is voluntary and can be broken off at any point. An unbound person, however, is much more prone to involuntary transformations, as they become dependent almost solely on the unbound person's emotions

- it's possible for a person who is bound to another person to transform in response to a request by that whom they're bound to. This, however, requires a deep and emotional bond, and can be connected to physical effort

That's it for now, though I do have more ideas, and I'll share them in the future, if I don't forget! I'm planning to doodle the designs of specific characters in this AU, so more info will be coming along with them :> There, a doodle of my favourite lapdog bound to his power-thirsty master

[washed-octopus]

{@commanders-quarters}

It was a Monday evening like any other.

The incubation tanks, much like the severed sanitized tentacles that drifted absentmindedly within them, were still in their infancy. A fresh project on the cutting board. Such freshness was decidedly only worthy of being maintained by the most delicate pincers of metallic sheen.

Tartar’s inky claws rapped on the rust-kissed surface of the aged wall beside the elevator— a distraction from a recurring annoyance. He’d long since learned how to tune out the litany of chants from the training sanitized soldiers, yes, but he could seldom ignore each mild inadequacy that presented itself; it could be modeled by those who lagged behind in their footwork, or those whose strikes just scarcely missed their mark.

Food for later, it thought to itself offhandedly.

Finally, the elevator arrived, and it lumbered inside, taking care to angle its frame such that its back wouldn’t connect with the peak of the open frame.

The button for the second floor— the one housing the main surgical facilities in addition to the sector containing the incubation tanks— is pressed shortly after.

Idling away the seconds, stood formally as ever, he swears he feels a bump in the elevator’s trajectory, but it’s practically imperceptible. It goes ignored.

Once it stepped out, it halted mid-step to survey the area and recalibrate its internal navigation program, trying to align it with its previously saved layout of this floor. An error occurs. That can’t be right. He glances back towards the wall near the elevator. Instead of the usual identifying sequence that would indicate his metro, J-152291-L, he sees a sequence reading C-1515-L painted vertically along the wall. A different metro. Of course. The threads within the spool must be overlapping again. It should’ve paid closer attention to that disturbance within the elevator.

Tartar was on high alert now as he gazed out across the dark expanse of labyrinthine hospital curtains and stationary carts of medical equipment. It couldn’t hear a pulse for miles, but its radar was still detecting a presence within the area. He doesn’t call out, as he’s certain he’ll find the source soon enough, so for now, he stalks along on his pointed boots in silence.

Searching.

@commanders-quarters Today has been an odd day. Spui had been hard at work just hours ago, but his normal duties had taken a backseat as he had been ordered to keep track of any anomalous happenings. As annoying as it was to have his work messed with, he understood. Time and space had always been strange in the deepsea, but as of recent things had gotten more intense. Patients had been disappearing into thin air when nobody was around. And new ones had been appearing out of the blue as well. Of course, they were treated just like any others. A patient is a patient no matter where they might have come from. Being from a different time and place won’t keep you from being saved. But nevertheless, Spui would have been at work treating patients as he had been all morning, if not for the fact there was no one around. No one but him. Spui sat in an office chair, filling out forms as a creeping anxiety swelled within him. It was much too quiet, he hadn’t heard from anyone in hours, Not even from the Commander. It was unusual. Something was wrong, but he already knew that. Still, it ate away at him. Then he heard something, in the far distance, the ding of an elevator. And then, nothing. He tidied up his papers and got up from his desk. Walking out into the stretching hallways he looked around. Nothing.

[soon-palestine]

@RBatniji is one of the most respected entrepreneurs in Silicon valley. He lost 37 members of his family on 18th Nov by an Israeli airstrike. He recently met with Secretary Blinken and here is what he shared,

"I am Rajaie Batniji. I take no pride and no honor in being here.

I was born in Gaza and immigrated to California as a young child. I am Rajaie Batniji. I take no pride and no honor in being here. Many of my fellow Palestinian Americans discouraged me from speaking with you today, concerned that this discussion was solely performative. I share their concern.

I come here out of a sense of duty, to try – as futile as it may be – to save my family in Gaza from being killed. I was born in Gaza and immigrated to California as a young child. I grew up visiting Gaza often, and those visits shaped me in many ways. I personally experienced some of the violence of occupation.

I studied the history of the region at Stanford, completed my doctorate in international relations at Oxford as a Marshall Scholar – honoring the legacy of one of your predecessors in this office – and became a physician focused on the health of those that have the least privilege. I’m an entrepreneur who builds teams and technologies that improve American health care.

I would rather not be here today. Mr. Secretary, you have provided the weapons and the political cover that enabled the murder of 65 members of my family, mostly women and children, over the past four months. In strikes in mid-November, three generations of my family were killed by missiles as they sought shelter and safety. I carry their memories with me. I see their crushed bodies when I close my eyes.

The survivors in my family are homeless. Some 70% of homes in Gaza have been destroyed, according to an analysis by The Wall Street Journal, along with almost all the schools, all the universities, many of the hospitals, the mosques, the churches, the historical sites and the public records.

My paternal grandparents’ home in Shejaiya had been among the last homes of my family still standing. This is the home where I was born. It collapsed in a “controlled demolition” just before the new year.

According to our own US intelligence agencies, Israel used 29,000 air-to-ground munitions during the first two months of its assault on Gaza. That’s more than were used in the years of the Iraq War – and Gaza is less than one thousandth the size.

No one I know in Gaza has a home, or possessions beyond what they carried as they fled Israeli bombardment.

My family may be better off than most in Gaza and they are still hungry. I spoke with my mom’s brother this week, and he told me he has lost almost 20 kilograms (44 pounds). Despite your promises, food aid has not been able to reach Gaza to come anywhere near meeting the need. It is blocked at every opportunity, including by Israeli protestors at the Kerem Shalom border crossing, and by Israeli inspections and within Gaza by the Israeli military. According to the United Nations, 4 out of 5 of the hungriest people anywhere in the world are in Gaza. You know that the UN agency for Palestinian refugees, UNRWA, provides food for most Gazans and critical infrastructure for other aid organizations. Yet, after Israel made unverified allegations that a handful of UNRWA staff participated in the October 7 attacks, you cut the funding for UNRWA in what I can understand only as an act of collective punishment. I fear this makes you, and me – as an American – party to the use of starvation as a weapon of war.

My cousins in Gaza, who are physicians like me, have no place to practice medicine. Their hospitals have been destroyed or incapacitated. After moving from Shifa to al-Aqsa hospital, only to be evacuated from each by the Israeli military after seeing patients and colleagues killed, they are now living in tents in Rafah and al-Mawasi, using their surgical skills to repair leaks in their tents while the bodies of wounded Palestinians go untreated, and often unretrieved.

I have worked extensively in global health and wrote a series of research papers in 2009 on what we thought then was a Palestinian health crisis. We could never, though, have imagined this – the complete destruction of Gaza’s health care system is unprecedented.

Even the dead among my family were not spared. Satellite images show that Israeli bulldozers and tanks desecrated the graveyards where my grandparents and great grandparents were resting. I hope to bury their remains again one day.

What do you wish to be your legacy, Secretary Blinken? You cannot say you didn’t know. You cannot say that you did not knowingly and materially support these deaths, which a US federal court and the International Court of Justice have both determined plausibly constitute genocide. I am the father of three young children in San Francisco. As adults, I am certain they will reflect on this “genocide” with horror. It will be taught in our classrooms and remembered in our museums as we vow never to repeat it.

I ask you to use the full power of your office and every bit of leverage the US has to allow aid to reach all of Gaza, including in the north, where hundreds of thousands of people remain in desperation. And, to resume the funding for UNRWA, which will be essential to the distribution of any aid. I ask you to uphold a rules-based order – which serves our long-term interests – by calling Israel’s indiscriminate bombing that has largely killed women and children, the attacks on health care and the use of starvation as a weapon of war as the war crimes you and I know they are. Your words matter, Mr. Secretary.

I feel indignity sitting before you in this comfortable conference room while my family desperately awaits word about a ceasefire, in the dark, hungry, and in tents in fear that the Israeli military will kill them at any moment.

In a dignified world, I would be asking for justice, not mercy. That day will come.

I hope that you, and this administration, can act quickly to bring our nation to the right side of history before it is far too late.I ask you to uphold a rules-based order – which serves our long-term interests – by calling Israel’s indiscriminate bombing that has largely killed women and children, the attacks on health care and the use of starvation as a weapon of war as the war crimes you and I know they are. Your words matter, Mr. Secretary.

I feel indignity sitting before you in this comfortable conference room while my family desperately awaits word about a ceasefire, in the dark, hungry, and in tents in fear that the Israeli military will kill them at any moment.

In a dignified world, I would be asking for justice, not mercy. That day will come.

I hope that you, and this administration, can act quickly to bring our nation to the right side of history before it is far too late.

[workersolidarity]

🇮🇱⚔️🇵🇸 🚀🏠💥☠️ 🚨

ISRAELI ATROCITIES CONTINUE WITH MORE AIRSTRIKES ON CIVILIAN HOMES, KILLING DOZENS

📸 Photos from the results of a series of Israeli airstrikes on the Al-Jenenah neighborhood of eastern Rafah, in the southern Gaza Strip.

At the same time, the Israeli occupation launched strikes against several civilian homes in Al-Zaytoun, southeast of Gaza City, in the northern Gaza Strip.

The Israeli occupation targeted the Naim, Khalifa, Shenoura, and Yasin family homes, killing and wounding dozens of civilians.

Most of the victims remain buried under the rubble of their homes at this time, as local civil defense and ambulance crews remain unable to reach the victims as intense airstrikes continue in the area.

The Israeli Occupation Forces are also targeting several neighborhoods with artillery, including in Al-Zaytoun, Al-Sabra, Tel al-Hawa and the outskirts of the Shuja'iyya neighborhood.

Meanwhile, the World Health Organization (WHO) issued a statement today calling the situation in the Gaza Strip, "beyond description".

Local doctoes say they performing surgical procedures without anesthesia and treating festering wounds with limited medical supplies and medicines.

One doctor is quoted as saying, "due to the shortage of anesthesia, we leave patients screaming for hours."

According to the WHO, 23 hospitals in the Gaza Strip are no longer in service, while 12 hospitals are only partially functional, and one is operating at "minimum capacity."

The WHO and other humanitarian organizations say repeated restrictions on the entry of medical supplies and cases of rejection by Israeli authorities have made it nearly impossible for sufficient medical aid to reach the Gaza Strip.

#source1

#source2

#photosource

#videosource

@WorkerSolidarityNews

[the-digital-alchemist]

The Might of Mars — MCRN Heavy Frigate

In the cold void between planets, the MCRN Heavy Frigate glides with silent menace, a fortress of Martian ingenuity and military might. Its angular, armored hull and menacing silhouette exude a sense of purpose—a ship that is designed for one thing: to control the skies of the Expanse. As it hangs in orbit, vast arrays of missile tubes line its frame, each one ready to unleash a barrage of torpedoes. The frigate is more than just a ship; it’s an arsenal, capable of raining fire on anything that dares to challenge the Martian Congressional Republic Navy.

Inside, the crew moves with calculated precision, every member a cog in the larger machine of war. They are trained to live, fight, and, if needed, die aboard this behemoth. The interior is built for function over comfort: bare metal, harsh lights, and narrow passageways that mirror the frigate’s no-nonsense design philosophy. Every system, every weapon, every inch of space serves a purpose.

As the order comes through, the frigate’s torpedo bays hum to life, the ship aligning with surgical accuracy on its target. You can almost feel the anticipation ripple through the hull, a restrained power waiting to be unleashed. The enemy vessel, far in the distance, is unaware of what’s coming—the heavy frigate’s weaponry will strike long before they can even register the threat. It’s a hunt in the silence of space, a testament to Martian engineering and a grim reminder of the iron grip Mars holds over its territory.

In the universe of *The Expanse*, the MCRN Heavy Frigate is a guardian, a symbol of Martian pride and tenacity. Today, it looms over the horizon like a harbinger of destruction, the embodiment of a military force that will not be ignored.

[a-room-of-my-own]

My Tumblr is flushed with pro-Palestine posts and one thing that strikes me is the fact that people seem to be discovering what war is. Soldiers are cruel, innocents are getting killed, there's propaganda... Yeah, it's war. It's utterly violent and crude. It's not new though. It's not genocide either. Why does it seem like the reality of war is only horrifying when Israel is involved ? Especially since most people posting here are american, with all that that entails.

The American war propaganda has always been focused on sanitizing what war really is.

I remember during the war in Iraq the Bush administration was the first to talk about « surgical strikes » and « collateral damage », talking points that were repeated all day long by all American news channels. Also, soldiers were presented like they were all demigods or knights of the round table, who were only fighting for freedom and could do no wrong - only « collateral damage ».

At the same time the Bush administration presented its enemies as « the Axis of evil », Bush even famously called president Chirac, asking for France’s support with the argument that « Gog and Magog » were at the source of what was happening in the Middle East.

So one one hand you shield people from the gritty reality of war with euphemisms and tales of heroism, and on the other hand you force-feed them biblical symbolism.

Now, at the time, the US were still extremely insular so people didn’t really have access to other sources of information than their main TV channels. The difference with today is that young people with barely any knowledge about history outside of their own borders, and close to no critical thinking skills, are being flooded with partial information on social media apps.

They’re finding out about the horrors of war mainly through a Chinese app, and social media that favor conspiracy content. That’s a dangerous mix. Because as they’re traumatized by the content they see they’re manipulated into understanding it a certain way. And since they never developed the ability to decipher messages and identify credible sources, they eat up propaganda. It’s especially effective if said propaganda feeds into bias they were raised with:

- > there’s only Good and Evil and nothing in between. Trying to find nuance in a situation, asking for clarification or proof, means you’re an accomplice to Evil.

It was true during Bush’s time, it’s still true now, the difference being other players control the information.

Also, antisemitism.

It was a taboo after WWII, but now the ties with the war are slowly fading away as witnesses die. The younger generations - again who have very little historical knowledge - don’t feel connected to this history. Antisemitism gives them the Enemy, the Evil, they need to fight. It quite literally gives them a scapegoat to hate and shun.



[todaysdocument]

Memorandum relating to racialized violence at the Alabama Drydock and Shipbuilding Company in Mobile, AL, where some Black workers had recently been promoted to welders. May 25, 1943. 

Record Group 211: Records of the War Manpower Commission

Series: Speeches by Members of Regional Office Staff and Other Material

Transcription: 

FORM OEM-32 [top left side of paper]

(8-7-42) [top left side of paper]

[A date stamp appears on the top right side of the paper.  The stamp is circular with numbers 1 to 12 around the circumference with an arrow pointing to 9. The center part of the stamp says RECEIVED MAY 27 1943 War Manpower Commission Atlanta, Ga.]

[Below the stamp are what appear to be initials, handwritten, with a check mark on top of them. The name Allen is handwritten below.]

EXECUTIVE OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT

OFFICE FOR EMERGENCY MANAGEMENT

————————

OFFICE MEMORANDUM

TO:  Mr. Constangy [left side]

DATE:  5/25/43 [right side]

FROM:  Toulmin G.A.T. [The initials are handwritten to the right of surname] [left side]

5:30 PM [right side]

SUBJECT:  Racial Disturbance - ADDSCO [left side]

Attached are clippings from the afternoon "Mobile Press".

Today, I have had contacts with the following and have obtained what I believe to be reliable information from them.

Lt. Campbell, Naval Intelligence

Arthur Kearney, ADDSCO

Mr. Craven, " [ditto marks below ADDSCO above]

John Boucher, CIO - ADDSCO Union Rep'v.

J. C. Gates, Mgr., USES, Mobile.

Chas Baumhauer, Commissioner, City of Mobile.

Apparently the disturbance came off when the morning shift went on at 7 o'clock.  It is said that the first shift of negro welders went on about 11 o'clock last night and were finishing up their work at 7 this morning.  The whiteworkers [sic] began to collect in groups and it is said that they first threatened to strike.  Later, according to eye witnesses, they began to throw various pieces of steel, etc., at negroes near the work.  One white foreman is said to have been injured when he attempted to make the white men desist.  Mr. Craven said it was understood that one of the men hit him with a 2x4 rail and knocked him out, also a cut necessitated surgical treatment with a number of stitches for the wound.

One of the negroes who saw the trouble came up and [sic] here and said about five negroes were injured.  This seemed to be so, but I was told later that none of the injuries were very serious.  Large numbers of both white and negro workers left the yard and came back to the city.  A group of about 2 hundred negroes went first to the union headquarters and then were persuaded to go home until better order was secured.  The negro who came up to see me said his foreman urged his crew of laborers to leave the yard until order was restored and safety for them assured.

So far as can be ascertained this evening, no further trouble has developed at the yard.  However, instructions have been issued for women and children to remain off the streets and for citizens to be conservative in their talk, being careful not to stir up any further racial feeling.

[Stamp at bottom of page shows a soldier with a rifle and along side are the words FOR VICTORY BUY UNITED STATES WAR BONDS AND STAMPS]

[page 2]

FORM OEM-32 [left side of paper]

(8-7-42) [left side of paper]

EXECUTIVE OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT

OFFICE FOR EMERGENCY MANAGEMENT

—————

OFFICE MEMORANDUM

TO:  [blank] [left side]

DATE: [blank [right side]

FROM:  [blank] [left side]

-  2. - [typed in the middle of this section]

SUBJECT:  [blank]

It seems that the better element at the yard took no part in the demonstration this morning, and I heard from Hugh Cornelius, General Superintendent for Doullut & Ewin, General Contractors, who have an office near where the trouble began, that he felt that the attack on the negroes was without any justification whatever and the action of a bunch of hoodlums.

It is hoped that the Management of ADDSCO will restore order and that the Yard will resume operations tomorrow morning.

The United States Employment Service has been cautioned to be particularly careful in handling releases during the next few days so that as little disruption of labor market conditions will result from this unfortunate incident as may be.

Dr. Morley will return to the office tomorrow morning and will, no doubt, keep you advised of any developments.

Encllsures [sic]

[A stamp appears on the bottom left side of page with a soldier holding a rifle and alongside are the words FOR VICTORY BUY UNITED STATES WAR BONDS AND STAMPS]

[saturdaynightghostclub]

Highway Hypnosis

Chapter 8: Babel

In the gap between Is and Was, there exists the liminality of a thousand uninhabited years. It’s the fall to the Underworld that takes somewhere between ten minutes and seven days, depending on who you ask. Len Is, then Len Was. I Was, now I Am. Stuck between projector slides, trapped in an elevator with the doors half-open. With every shelf I dust, my uncle slips further from Is, and I settle slowly into Am. He’s in a deep, veiled past now. If he speaks, it will be in a tongue I’ve never heard; our tower is crumbling with each day that I work to erase his footprint from the home he gave me. This is the best way I’ve found to describe the feeling of living without him, in his shell: it’s less that he’s gone, and more that there’s an irreconcilable language barrier that now separates us.

Jasper’s been in the library more often than not, dusting shelves and trying to decipher the complex organizational system Len set up. When I suggested that we just alphabetize everything by last name, he recoiled as if I’d invoked Satan in mass. Apparently Len was very particular about the order of the books, which to the untrained eye appears to be roughly genre-based with subcategories I can’t even begin to comprehend. He’s in there again today, kicking up dust and surgically removing and replacing books in the exact order in which he found them while I shove furniture around to get at the rugs underneath. I’ve been trying to wash them, to give them new life since Len’s ancient vacuum cleaner doesn’t seem to be doing the job. Mostly though, I’ve been hanging them over the porch railings to beat the ever-loving daylights out of them with a broom. I’m not sure what exactly I’m accomplishing, but it feels good to use my arms for something other than making coffee.

With each strike, I can feel myself getting lighter. It’s a funny thing to be aware of, the cognitive weight of oneself. When Jasper kissed me the other day (a performance he has yet to repeat, which may have something to do with my abuse of the rugs), I thought I would feel lighter; I thought, when you finally kissed the one person you were always meant to be kissing, you’d walk on air. Instead, I felt completely and beautifully heavy. Not heavy, exactly—grounded, maybe. I settled entirely into myself, solidifying like sand into glass. I was there, fully, inside my body inside his arms inside the cracked dome of the Evergreen sky. He hasn’t kissed me again, and we haven’t talked about it. And I feel like I’m floating.

Strike. Strike. Strike.

“Andie!” Jasper calls from inside the house.

“Coming,” I reply, dropping my broom unceremoniously on the porch before heading in. I round the corner and enter the library to see him standing in the center of the room, holding a small white envelope.

“For you,” he says, holding it out. On the back, in Len’s distinct chicken scratch, is my name. It certainly is for me.

“Where’d you find it?” I ask, trying against instinct to keep the shudder from my voice as I take it from him.

“Top shelf, right-hand side. It was on top of the books, I never would have noticed it,” he says, shifting his weight. “Do you want to open it? I can leave, or—,”

“No, stay,” I say reflexively, “I’m sure it’s nothing heavy.”

Jasper nods. I’m not lying; the envelope is old, covered in dust. If it was anything important, he would have written it recently. That’s what I assume, anyway. It never was any good, trying to read Len.

To my beloved Andie,

I’m sorry, my dear. In lieu of me showing up for you, please accept these books as a peace offering—if you’re still the little girl I raised, I know you’ll love them.

PZ7.R1975 Wh 2017

PZ7.B1135 Tu

PR4567 .A1 1996

Love,

Your uncle Len.

I’m lost. I hand the note to Jasper with a quirked eyebrow, a silent “What do you think?” passing between us. The codes on the page mean nothing to me aside from the fact that they clearly correspond to books in some way.

Jasper’s expression mirrors mine as he takes the note, but morphs into something else entirely as he reads. “Library of Congress,” he murmurs.

“Catch me up,” I say, crossing to stand beside him. So I can look at the note, sure, but what if my shoulder presses against his just so—what then?

He doesn’t notice. “These are Library of Congress call numbers. The letters correspond to subjects and it narrows down from there, see? That must be how he’s organized the books…” he trails off, turning away from me to run a finger along a row of spines along the back wall. “Jesus, of course he would—I don’t even know where to start here.”

“Google, maybe?” I say, pressing a light hand to his back to alert him of my presence before I pluck the note from his hand. I whip my phone out of my pocket—the poor thing barely gets any use since I arrived here—and set to work translating the call numbers to usable titles.

“Let me know when you get a hit, I’ll pull it,” Jasper says. He’s in mission mode. It’s adorable; he should have inherited the library instead of me.

“Okay, the first is—,” I start, squinting at my phone in my stubbornness against wearing glasses, “Where the Red Fern Grows.”

“Got it,” he whirls around, scanning a shelf seemingly at random before pulling a small volume.

“Next one,” I say, furiously typing, “Tuck Everlasting.”

Jasper moves back a few volumes, tapping each one as he passes it. “Done,” he says.

“Okay, last one…Oliver Twist,” I say, sliding my phone back into my pocket triumphantly.

“And…got it!” Says Jasper, pulling a particularly dusty book from a shelf I don’t have a prayer of reaching on my own. He turns to me with a boyish grin, like he’s solved the great mystery of the world by virtue of random library knowledge. I make a mental note of his image, smiling to myself. He passes the stack of books to me, watching me closely for my reaction.

“Huh,” I murmur, examining their cracked spines as I turn them over in my hands, “Wonder what made him choose these.”

“Troublemakers,” he says, “they’re all about kids running around, getting into shit. Sound familiar?”

I laugh, genuinely, and maybe for the first time in a while. “Fair enough,” I grin. Len spoke through him, just now. In my language.

The library mystery solved, Jasper and I take up residence on the beat-down porch of the cabin. Len never bothered with patio furniture, preferring to sprawl out on the splintering wood, so that’s what we do. We’re unnecessarily close on the porch steps, but I won’t acknowledge it if he doesn’t. How juvenile of us both.

“I didn’t think I was going to kiss you the other day,” he says, breaching the uneasy silence, “just so you know. I didn’t know I was going to do it until it was happening.”

So he does want to talk about it. “Do you regret it?” I ask, before I can think better of it.

“No,” he breathes in a near-gasp, turning swiftly to look at me. “Not even for a second, no.”

“Neither do I,” I say, bumping his shoulder lightly with my own. He didn’t ask, but he needs to hear it. Maybe I need to hear it too. He exhales beside me, confirming my suspicion: he was testing the waters. Now it’s my turn. I press forward, just an inch or two—as subtle as to be negligible, unless he’s looking for it. Now, a hand on his knee—the one furthest from me, so that I’m crossing his body with my arm. He understands.

Jasper tilts my face up to his with a finger beneath my chin and kisses me, with the same blissful softness he used before. I don’t think I’ve ever met a gentler man, one whose basic instinct was less “conquer” and more “find out.” I can feel his smile against my lips in the moment before he pulls away, and I answer it with one of my own.

“I can’t believe my luck, honestly,” he says, briefly pressing his forehead to my own before turning back to the horizon.

“What do you mean?”

“Just this. All of it. The fact that you’re here, one of the three transplants we’ve had in five years, and you’re beautiful and smart and charming, and you just happen to be into me. What are the odds?”

I press a kiss to his shoulder. “Better than you might think. You’d be surprised, there’s a real market for bookish introverts like you in college towns. You wouldn’t last three weeks as a single man where I come from.”

“I would,” he insists, “as long as you’re somewhere out there, I don’t stand a chance.”

[houseofthegeneticcarnivals]

The Villains Unleashed: House of 1,000 Corpses and Their Ideal Pets

Hey there, horror aficionados! Today, we delve into the twisted minds of the main villains from House of 1,000 Corpses and explore their diabolical personalities by imagining their ideal pets. Brace yourselves for a journey into the dark and macabre!

1. Dr. Satan:

Dr. Satan, the epitome of mad science and sadistic curiosity, would undoubtedly desire a pet that matches his sinister nature. Picture a loyal, grotesque creation—a hybrid of various species, stitched together with surgical precision. This abomination would be both his laboratory experiment and his faithful companion, always ready to execute his twisted desires.

2. Captain Spaulding:

The devilishly charming Captain Spaulding has a taste for the eccentric and the unpredictable. His ideal pet would be an intelligent, mischievous monkey—a creature capable of mimicking his sly grin and causing chaos wherever it roams. With their agile nature and knack for mischief, this dynamic duo would make quite the unsettling spectacle.

3. Otis Driftwood:

Otis Driftwood, the embodiment of chaos and violence, would gravitate towards a pet that reflects his unyielding intensity. Picture a sleek and predatory black panther, a creature capable of blending into the shadows and striking with calculated precision. This feline companion would match Otis's predatory instincts and become his silent partner in the darkest of endeavors.

4. Baby Firefly:

Baby Firefly, the seductive and volatile femme fatale, requires a pet that mirrors her unpredictable nature. Imagine a venomous serpent with hypnotic eyes, slithering through her fingertips and entwining around her with a lethal grace. This serpentine companion would embody Baby's allure, leaving a trail of danger and temptation wherever they go.

5. Mama Firefly:

Mama Firefly, the twisted matriarch of the family, would find solace in a loyal and devoted pet that echoes her sadistic inclinations. Visualize a pack of ferocious, bloodthirsty Rottweilers—trained to follow her every command and protect her family at all costs. These formidable canines would be her relentless guardians, fiercely obedient to her every whim.

Remember, these headcanons are purely imaginative and meant to delve into the dark and eccentric world of House of 1,000 Corpses. Real-life pet ownership should always prioritize the well-being and ethical treatment of animals. Enjoy these chilling headcanons and let your imagination run wild!

Stay tuned for more unnerving insights and twisted tales from House of the Genetic Carnivals.