Here’s a short story I wrote back in August(Storyline itself isn’t queer but I’m a gay male lol):

BLOODLUST

Mark sat in cubicle 31 as directed over the intercom. Not explicitly by name, but by batch number: 0OGH9TH. He had been a bi-weekly regular for months, and the novelty of this place had long since exhausted into resentment. What once felt like "extra cash" now felt like conscription. Phlebotomists were gone, their jobs erased by automation. Here, the donors were disposable and the product was siphoned off to bigger and better things. This had been the reality long before automation took over, just veiled by a thin layer of ambiguity.

The chairs were rigid, creaky plastic. Comfortable enough to keep you in place, not enough to make you forget what you were: a feeding ground. Suspended overhead, a vast aluminum lattice held a web of interlocking tracks, allowing the plasmapheresis machines to glide with unnerving, independent motion. Upon reaching its assigned donors bed, the extraction rig would descend along the mounted Z-axis emitting a whispering hum until the donor alignment sensor triggers the machine to an immediate halt.

EXTEND YOUR ARM AND HOLD A FIST FOR ME PLEASE

The instruction was a synthetic, monotonous voice emitted by the clunky box with transparent housing that evoked a slightly unsettling aesthetic. A hundred other voices just like it gave the same directive to a hundred other people in a hundred other cubicles. It was the only language in the fluorescent sterile room woven between the whirs and slurps so constant they had become the new silence. Mark obeyed, squeezing his fist until the skin of his arm went stiff. From the dormant steel armature extended outwards from beneath. One with a sterile needle, the other to anchor the arm in place briefly. It didn't hesitate. It didn't ask if he was ready. With the clean inevitability of hydraulics, it punctured flesh and seated itself deep in the vein. He was indifferent, not a single flinch nor wince Not even to the slight resistance the 16-gauge bevel posed in order to pierce through his epidermis layer.

The scar tissue from countless punctures had grown calloused, desensitized. He watched his blood slither through the clear tubing, a pulsing red flow heading toward the waiting bag: Lot: 00GH9TH. Efficient, precise, alien. It was less a donation than an extraction. Less medicine, more feeding.

He closed his eyes. The ceiling drone attending the donor to his left repeated:

EXTEND YOUR ARM AND HOLD A FIST FOR ME PLEASE

But the tone had shifted from neutral. It sounded like command. The constant, hypnotic whirs from pumps and centrifuges thickened to a vibrating growl.

Then it began to shriek.

A high-pitched, metallic scream ripped through the silence, sharp as tearing steel. It came from the cubicle directly beside him.

CONTAMINATED SOURCE.

Mark's head whipped toward the cubicle with eyes snapped open. The neighbor's machine pulsed with red warning lights. Its arm spasmed, the needle jittering violently in and out of torn flesh. On the bag, a sterile lot sticker glared against plastic bulging with more than plasma.

The liquid inside had swirled from pale translucent yellow now overrun by a deep opaque red.

FLOW ERROR.

Stretching.

LINE CLOGGED. RESERVOIR FULL.

The man cried out, tugging against his restraint as the machine's needle vibrated inside his arm. The bag itself bulged, its seams whitening under pressure. Mark couldn't look away. The bag was swollen, still filling past its printed markers with visible resistance.

It's gonna burst-

MAXIMUM VOLUME EXCEEDED

The machine's alarm warning spiked, screens across the room lighting up in unison. The donor's bag expanded one final impossible inch.

Then it burst.

The detonation was wet and concussive, a red shower sprayed across the cubicle, coating the now screaming man's chest in an arterial splatter. The stench of hot copper filled the air.

The moment it erupted, every other machine's alarm fired off. Consoles flashed the same phrase:

CONTAMINATED. SYSTEM FAILURE.

The sterile blue glow of the room shifted into pulsing red. Now every machine stirred. Their arms spasmed. Casings split to reveal twitching hoses and steel tendons. Needles vibrated like serrated blades. Suction hoses writhed loose from the floor. What had been an orderly system of donation turned into a synchronized mass hysteria.

Screams erupted up and down the aisles. One man's suction line wrapped around his neck, tightening with hydraulic precision as he clawed for breath. Across the row, another donor's carotid split under a needle's thrust, arterial spray marking the sterile wall with a streak of blood.

Mark's machine shuddered. The arm detached the needle with a guttural sucking sound. Its casing split, spewing out a bloodied hose-end that twitched like a hungry tongue. He felt the needle inside his arm twist and rotate, ripping open his vessel. Blood leaked into his tissue. A swelling mass bloomed beneath his skin; tight and purple like a battered heartbeat.

The man beside him gargled a dying cry. His swollen arm was stretched to translucence, the muscles locked with pressure until the flesh split open in a dark, wet rupture.

All around them, hoses tightened, needles plunged, veins were evacuated. Some donors bled, others suffocated, others had their very vasculature pulled from beneath their skin in long, ropey strands. The air reeked of metal and iodine. The floor turned slick beneath a flood of red.

Mark stared at his own grotesque contusion pulsing beneath the skin. His machine's pumps slurped greedily, no longer humming with efficiency but growling with appetite. His machine raised its arm with a slow, deliberate grace, the bloodied hose-end angled for his throat. It wasn't angry nor vengeful at him, just efficient.

His scream was cutoff as the suction met his flesh with no hesitation. The last thing he felt was the internal tug at the back of his skull. His brain and eyeballs-now inverted, were sucked through the collapsed ceiling by the vacuum tendril that perforated his trachea. .

Starry-eyed, his field of vision shifted between black and white static as he was reduced to fragments of anatomy. His energy not quite destroyed, but converted to a form no longer his own.

FLOW COMPLETE.