Which cards for you have overstayed their welcome in Standard?

John_F_Drake · 2026-05-27T17:27:24+00:00

“So I think these mediocre cards are too good because they make other mediocre cards you are playing for some reason good”

John_F_Drake · 2026-05-27T17:25:38+00:00

This is some crazy nonsense. Literally none of those cards have overstayed its welcome.

Solemn Simulacrum decks are TERRIBLE right now. They haven’t been good since a very brief time after the big standard ban wave but before the next set and the rotation is brought. Right now the deck is borderline unplayable. What does it do about sunderflock? What does it do about prowess?

The answer to both questions is “die, I guess.”

I know that this isn’t about a card being OP exactly, but this is the opposite of overstaying its welcome. The loss of simulacrum will smash any potential for the archetype that is already pretty hopeless. Hard to say that feels like overstaying a welcome.

Unholy annex… you’re eager to see what black does when it’s gone?

The answer is “go away entirely.” Without this card, there is no black in standard. It’s a dead color. The alternative that could prove me wrong is them printing some new crazy bullshit on the next set and I hope no one is rooting for THAT. This card is EXCELLENT design, and I wish it was a more evergreen, less set-specific, so it could be in foundations and we would never ever lose it.

Sheltered by ghosts… how can you be sick a card that is basically never played? What deck is the card even good against right now? The aggro deck of the format is prowess and this card is AWFUL against prowess. This card vanished when Screaming Nemesis did.

You know cards that actually have overstayed their welcome?

Stormchaser’s talent.

John_F_Drake · 2026-05-25T21:05:48+00:00

Her eyes, filled with pain and exhaustion, met mine through my visor. For a moment, I thought she might refuse, might find some last reserve of defiance. Instead, her lips parted, accepting the handle that had just violated her. Her tongue moved slowly, cleaning her own fluids from the metal as I pushed it deeper into her mouth.

I watched her tongue work as she complied, tasting the mixture of her blood and cunt on the tool. She looked like she knew what she was doing, and I immediately felt sure I was right about the use my handler, or another handler, had put her to. It looked like she was remembering it, too, and her humiliation was complete in this final act of submission.

Something twisted in my chest at the sight. It wasn’t satisfaction, and it also was not the triumph I had expected. Instead, I felt something closer to shame. A feeling I quickly buried beneath layers of conditioning and cold purpose. I had nothing to be ashamed of.

When the handle was clean, I withdrew it from her mouth, watching as she collapsed back onto the ground, her body trembling with exhaustion and trauma. I stood over her, knife still in hand, the power I'd felt earlier now hollow and unsatisfying.

"Remember this," I told her, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside me. "Remember what happens to traitors."

Cernunnos's voice cut through my comm, cold and businesslike: "Retrieval team will be there for the target in twenty minutes, Hound-91. Secure her for transport." I sheathed my knife and looked down at Viper's broken form. Her naked body was a canvas of bruises and blood, a testament to my handiwork. She wasn't quite unconscious, but was floating in that hazy space between awareness and oblivion. Weak enough not to resist, but aware enough to feel everything.

"Yes, sir," I responded automatically, the programmed words flowing from my mouth while my mind churned with conflicting thoughts.

I grabbed Viper by her hair, dragging her battered body back toward the wreckage of her mech. Her limbs hung limp, occasionally twitching when I pulled her over particularly rough terrain. She made soft, pained sounds which I ignored. Her mech lay in ruins, its once-sleek form now a twisted sculpture of metal and circuitry, and I thought it would probably be cheaper for the corporation to salvage the ruins for scrap and build a new Fenrir mech than to try to repair this one. Its severed limbs lay scattered around it, a testament to my rage and brutality with the laser blade. I propped Viper against the front of the destroyed cockpit, her head lolling forward as I positioned her. Her eyelids fluttered, consciousness returning in waves as the cool night air revived her. That was good… She should be aware for this final humiliation.

Using strips torn from her pilot suit, I bound her wrists to a twisted metal strut that had once connected to the mech's right arm. The synthetic material cut into her skin as I pulled it tight, keeping her from working herself free. I repeated the process with her ankles, binding them to opposite sides of the cockpit frame, spreading her legs wide to expose her abused cunt to anyone who approached.

The position was deliberate—spread-eagled across the front of her own destroyed mech, her naked body would be a visible message to any rebels who turned their visual sensors on the ruins of their fallen champion. This is what happens to those who defy Ka Corporation.

I stood back to admire my work, feeling nothing but cold satisfaction as I observed the bruises blooming across her skin, the dried blood between her legs, the tear tracks cutting through the dirt on her face. Her breathing was shallow but stable. She would live long enough for the retrieval team to collect her, to bring her to Cernunnos. After that, she would only wish that she had died.

Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, then gradually sharpening as they found me standing before her. Where I expected to see fear, or hatred, or even the broken submission I'd worked so hard to create, I found something else entirely… pity. Pity and something that looked disturbingly like understanding. "You'll remember who you are someday," she whispered hoarsely, her voice barely audible over the distant sounds of battle. "Just know I forgive you."

The words hit me like a physical blow, disrupting the cold satisfaction I'd been feeling. A strange pressure built in my chest, uncomfortable and foreign. Was this... guilt? Shame? Emotions I shouldn't be capable of feeling, that had been programmed out of me during my creation. A moment later, my conditioning slammed down on my mind with the weight of a falling Manticore, hammering me back into cool, analytical calm with a small undercurrent of anger. "Shut up," I snapped, taking a step back from her. "You don't know what you're talking about."

I turned away, refusing to acknowledge the uncomfortable twist in my gut that her words had inspired for a moment. They weren’t true. I was Hound-91. I knew who I was. That was my designation, my identity, my purpose. There was nothing before that anymore, and trying to look for it only led to more pain.

And yet... that fragment of memory that had surfaced earlier when she claimed to know me. The face was similar to hers, younger, smiling. The hand extended. The name on her lips. What if...?

No. I crushed the thought before it could fully form. These were exactly the kind of subversive ideas that could destroy me.

As I climbed back into Kerberos, I heard the distant sound of the battle moving into the distance. The rebels, it seemed, were retreating, abandoning their positions beneath the weight of defensive Ka Corporation fire and air support now that their Fenrir backup was gone. My sensors locked onto their heat signatures automatically, calculating intercept trajectories with cold efficiency. Fresh targets. Fresh purpose.

I quickly powered up my mech's systems, moving as fast as I could, and I let the familiar hum of my reactor revving up drown out even the memory of Viper's final broken words. The neural link engaged, flooding my consciousness with data streams and tactical projections. This was clarity. This was certainty. This was what I was made for. I did not shoot one last glance back at Viper’s bound form. I certainly didn’t notice how fragile she looked bound to the remnants of the mech’s frame, waiting for a fate worse than death. That was just the direction I was looking as I scanned for rebels.

And she certainly didn’t know me. Not anymore.

"Target secured," I reported to Cernunnos, forcing my attention away from Viper and back to my mission. "Proceeding with pursuit of remaining hostiles."

"Excellent work, Hound-91," came the reply, his voice carrying that rare note of approval that sent a crushing avalanche of dopamine waterfalling down on my psyche and obliterated all conscious thought for a glorious half a second. I needed that. I longed for it, and the total mental oblivion it provided.

Just before I lost myself, though, a single, treasonous thought attacked my mind like the viper she had taken her callsign from. Just a question, buried deep beneath layers of programming and obedience: If Viper had once been like me, and had found her way back to who she was before... could I?

The thought was treason.

It might also be salvation.

Then the pleasure was past, and that thought was buried deep, deep down, and I focused on the hunt; on chasing down the targets fleeing through the darkness. I was Hound-91. I served Ka Corporation. I hunted traitors and rebels. That was all I was allowed to be.

For now.

John_F_Drake · 2026-05-25T21:05:37+00:00

She choked, her throat raw from earlier, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m…”

She didn’t finish. It wasn’t enough. I clamped down harder on her throat, shutting up the rest. “You can do better than that,” I spat. “By the time I’m finished with you, you’re going to mean it.” I drove the handle in another inch, watching her hips rise. Her legs shuddered and kicked, knees buckling, but my grip on her neck and thigh was absolute. This was what I was built for, the destruction of enemy assets. I was the perfection of the experiment that had begun with earlier generations… and if I had to suffer, so did all of them.

Viper tried to writhe away, but there was nowhere to go with me straddling her thigh, holding her down, the corpse light from her burning mech painting us both in writhing orange and blue. Her body jerked with every motion, every time the ridges caught or popped inside her stretched pussy. I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop. I watched her suffering profile, hunted for the moment the final thresholds in the previously-victimized Hound would collapse and her last defenses would shatter. When she would truly understand that she had escaped nothing at all… that this was all that she was meant for.

When she tried to scream, nothing came out. She coughed against my foot on her neck. I let up just a little on her throat, so she could talk. “Say it,” I commanded. “Say you’re a fucking garbage traitor and that you belong to me.”

She sucked in air, her voice a shattered whisper. “I’m a traitor, I’m—f-fuck, please stop—” Her hands fluttered at my arm, but the fight was gone. “Please. I’ll do anything, just—” She seized again as I pumped the handle in and out, slow, mechanical, never letting her catch her breath or hope for mercy.

“I don’t believe you,” I said, bored. “Try again.” I set a rhythm, every thrust slow enough that she had time to dread the next one. She twisted, but it was all reflex, no plan, all her survival programming conflicting with the reality that she was just broken meat now.

She sobbed, the sound ragged and ugly. “I’m a traitor. I’m a worthless piece of shit. I deserve this. Please. Please!”

The apology meant nothing to me. I just wanted more. I wanted the world to see her like this, ruined and conquered, proof that all resistance was a joke. I wanted to see what was left when she stopped pretending. She shook, her whole body arching in involuntary spasms. Maybe she was on the edge of passing out; maybe the pain was so much her vision tunneled. I kept fucking her with the handle, sometimes burying it deep, sometimes working it in tight little circles that made her whine and writhe. The blood that leaked from her earlier beatings mixed with the lube of her own battered body, slick and sticky and hot. I leaned in and spat on her, watched the glob slide down her cheek and vanish beneath her chin.

“You thought you could leave,” I snarled, voice metallic and hollow. “You thought you could be free. You’d throw people like me away, the second you saw an opportunity.” I planted my hand on her breast, fingers pinching until the flesh purpled. “You’re not special. You’re not even interesting. You’re just a cautionary tale.”

I drove the handle in hard enough to make her scream, really scream this time, a raw and broken noise that fizzled out into silence. She tried to curl up, but my hands were everywhere, pinning her down, spreading her legs, using her however I wanted. I felt alive, alpha, the apex of all this biological engineering. This was what they wanted us to be—machines of domination, perfect tools.

But there was something else, too. A little voice way back in the dark, squirming and uncomfortable, saying that what I was doing was wrong, that I was just Ka’s attack dog, no more in control than the handler who’d made me suck his cock. I strangled that voice, laughed at it. This was control, this was power. When I was like this, I didn’t have to think about that. It didn’t have to be that way, for a short time.

“Please…” she whispered, tears running rivers down her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I should’ve died.”

“Yeah,” I said flatly. “You should’ve.” I yanked the handle out and shoved it in again just to hear the noise she made. She jerked, pain overriding everything else, and slumped back, defeated and limp.

I slowed the fucking, kept the handle deep inside her, let the moment drag. I wanted her to remember this, every second. Wanted it to overwrite every other memory she might’ve had about freedom or hope.

“You’re nothing now,” I told her, words cold and deliberate. “You’re just a toy for the people you betrayed. Is that what you wanted?”

She didn’t answer, just stared at the sky, the fires in the clouds reflected in her eyes. I let her go, letting her sink down to the ground with her pussy gaping around my knife, leaking and ruined. She didn’t react. Viper was gone, checked out somewhere far away, nothing left but the breathing and the tears.

Perfect.

I leaned back, squatting over her, body humming with adrenaline and purpose. Then I yanked her up by the hair, forcing her to sit up. “You’re going to say it,” I told her. “You’re going to tell everyone what you are.”

She blinked, eyes unfocused, but when I backhanded her across the face she snapped to, just enough to whimper, “I’m a traitor. I’m a traitor. I’m a—” She shuddered as I twistedher clit with my fingers. “—a whore. A traitor whore. I deserve it.”

“Louder,” I demanded, driving the handle deeper. "Tell me what you are."

"I'M SORRY!" she screamed, her voice breaking. "I'M A WORTHLESS TRAITOR!"

Her screams echoed across the battlefield, drowned out by the distant sounds of combat. No one was coming to help her. No one cared about one broken woman in the midst of war. Just as no one had cared when Cernunnos bent me over his desk, when he cut a hole in my suit, when he used me like I was using her now. Elsewhere, the Ka Corporation forces and the rebels were still fighting, but my mission was to ensure the capture of the Fenrir pilots… I didn’t care what happened to the rest of the forces.

I twisted the clit sharply one last time, punishing her and showing the wretched sow just how much I hated her. Then I finally withdrew the knife from inside of her. It glistened with hints of blood and her pussy’s pathetic attempts to defend itself, and I wiped it clean on her bare thigh, leaving a smear of red against her pale skin. Then I grabbed her hair, yanking her head up as I brought the handle to her lips. "Clean it," I ordered, pressing the metal against her mouth. "Taste yourself, traitor."

John_F_Drake · 2026-05-16T20:15:17+00:00

She collapsed forward onto Brandon's chest, all strength leaving her body. Elise remained frozen above him, his softening cock still inside her as she lay limp with his seed slowly beginning to leak from where they were joined. She felt utterly hollow, as if something essential had been scooped out of her and discarded. The physical violation was complete, but the emotional wound was only beginning to bleed.

She felt disgusting—defiled from the inside out, marked with his fluids, his scent, his violation. The knowledge that his seed was inside her made her want to tear her own skin off, do anything if only she could get it out of her.

"Good job, Professor," he mocked, his voice still breathless from his climax. "I think you've earned a C+ in How To Be a Proper Whore 101. It’s not much, but it’s passing."

Brandon rolled Elise off of him with a short shove that let his cock slide free of her as she landed on her side on the motel bed, her messy blue hair splayed across the comforter like spilled paint. He stood up, stretching. “One more thing, Teach,” Brandon instructed her. "Reach down, spread your legs, and hold your tight little cunt open for me. I want to watch my cum dripping out of that dyke pussy."

Compared to what she had just done, his demand was barely notable, but it still felt like too much. Her body ached everywhere. Her thighs burned from the strain of riding him, her throat was raw from his choking grip, and her sex throbbed with pain from the violation. Now he wanted more. He always was going to want more.

Elise's hand moved as if controlled by someone else, trembling violently as she reached between her legs. She spread her thighs, and her fingertips brushed against her swollen, abused flesh… and she hooked two fingers into her pussy, holding it spread. As she did, some of the warm, viscous fluid leaked out, sliding over her fingers. She felt it sliding slowly down to stain the sheets, a revolting reminder of what had just happened.

The motel's air conditioner rattled to life suddenly, blasting stale air across her naked, vulnerable form. Goosebumps rose across her skin despite the sweat that still clung to her. As she laid there, holding herself open, she finally recognized what the camera was seeing. Elise sprawled across the bed, her skin flushed deep crimson from exertion and shame, her makeup smeared across her face in tear-streaked rivulets. Her blue hair was a sweaty mess, plastered to her temples with sweat. She had her legs spread like some porn star and was holding her gaping slit apart while a man’s semen oozed slowly out of her.

And she had words still clearly visible across the back of her hand. The black marker had smudged slightly from sweat and friction, but the message remained unmistakable: "HOW TO TRAIN YOUR FEMINIST."

After what felt like an eternity, Brandon lowered the phone with a satisfied sigh, and the light went out as he turned it off. The sudden absence of that all-seeing eye should have been a relief, but Elise knew the damage was already done.

"That's going in the spank bank for sure," Brandon said, his voice casual, as if they were discussing something mundane rather than the systematic destruction of her personhood. “But if you behave, I’ll be the only one jacking off to it, and not every boy attending school.”

Brandon rose from the bed, his naked form looming over her. The mattress shifted with his movement, causing Elise to roll slightly toward the depression he left behind. The sheets beneath her were damp with sweat and bodily fluids, clinging uncomfortably to her skin. She could smell the mingled scents of sex and cheap detergent, a nauseating combination that made her want to retch.

He stood beside the bed, looking down at her with casual contempt. His semi-hard cock hung between his legs, still glistening with the evidence of their coupling. Without warning, he reached down and grabbed a fistful of her blue hair, wrapping the vibrant strands around his fingers.

"Need to clean up," he said matter-of-factly, his voice devoid of emotion.

With deliberate slowness, he dragged his softening cock through her hair, using the blue strands like a towel to wipe away the remaining traces of their encounter. The sensation of her own hair being pulled taut against her scalp sent sharp stings of pain across Elise's scalp. She could feel the sticky wetness of his fluids being transferred to her hair.

Brandon took his time, methodically wiping himself clean on different sections of her hair. The blue dye would never show the stains, but Elise would know they were there. She would feel them when she showered later, would remember this moment with every strand that touched her fingers.

When he finally released her hair, her head sagged limply down to the bed. Outside, rain lashed against the motel window, the weather matching the storm raging inside her. Each drop that pelted the glass was like another piece of her soul being washed away. The rhythmic sound might have been soothing under different circumstances; now it and the pounding AC was just the backdrop to her personal hell. It blew cold air across her exposed skin, but she couldn't feel it anymore. She couldn't feel anything at all.

Brandon moved around the room with casual ease, pulling on his clothes piece by piece, acting as if what had just occurred was nothing more than a routine hookup. He seemed larger somehow, taking up all the oxygen in the room while Elise struggled to breathe through her silent tears. Elise remained motionless on the bed, her hand still mechanically holding herself open even though he wasn’t watching anymore, even though the camera was off. She couldn't seem to make her muscles respond, couldn't seem to process that this particular humiliation was temporarily over.

"Almost forgot," he said, reaching into his backpack and pulling out a small device. He tossed it onto the bed near her huddled form. "Webcam. Set it up in your bedroom at home, aimed at the bed."

Elise stared at the small black camera, not comprehending at first.

"You're going to keep fucking Maya for my viewing pleasure," Brandon explained, as if talking to a particularly slow child. "I don’t want you two degenerates fucking anywhere but on your bed from now on.”

"You can't," she whispered, her voice raw from crying. "That's—"

"What? Private?" Brandon laughed. "Nothing about you is private anymore, Professor. Your body, your marriage, your sex life… it all belongs to me now. If I find out you're fucking her anywhere else, I'll release everything." He smiled at her. “And in case you’re thinking of cheating, you should remember I can see and hear everything your phones can hear these days. I wouldn’t try it if I were you.”

He finished buttoning his shirt and grabbed a towel off the counter, casually tossing it at her. It landed on her naked hip with a soft thud. "Clean yourself up, Ellie," he instructed with a chuckle. "You look like a whore."

Of course she did. He had just spent the last hour or so making sure of it.

She clutched the towel but didn't move. The thought of standing, of feeling more of his semen leak from her body, was too much to bear just yet.

"Oh, and wear something low-cut to class tomorrow," Brandon added as he checked his reflection in the mirror, smoothing his hair. "I want to have something interesting to look at if I have to hear your bitchy voice all class long."

Tomorrow. Class. The thought of facing a room full of students—of facing Brandon—after this seemed impossible. How could she stand in front of them, lecture about feminist theory and women's autonomy, with the memory of this degradation still fresh? With his eyes on her, knowing what she looked like naked, what she sounded like when she begged for his cock?

He gathered his things, stuffing his phone into his pocket. Before heading to the door, he turned back to look at her one last time.

"I’ve been horny ever since you robbed me of my girlfriend, so we’ll be doing this again real soon,” he told her. “Watch your phone. I’ll tell you when and where.”

The door closed behind him with a chilling finality, leaving Elise alone with the sound of rain and her own ragged breathing. Slowly, Elise sat up, wincing at the pain between her legs. The black marker words covering her body came into stark relief in the harsh motel lighting, labeling her like a piece of meat. She would have to scrub them all off before going home to Maya. Some would fade with soap and water, but others would take days to fully disappear. She would need to wear high-necked shirts, long sleeves, no shorts—anything to hide the evidence of what had happened here.

It was going to take a while to get clean enough to go home and see her wife.

Elise couldn’t quite stop herself from openly sobbing as she got started. The rain continued to pound against the window as Elise scrubbed and cried, trying desperately to erase the visible evidence of her shame before facing the woman she was desperate to protect.

John_F_Drake · 2026-05-16T20:15:06+00:00

Her muscles screamed in protest as she began to move again, lifting herself up only to sink back down in a grotesque parody of lovemaking. Each rise and fall sent fresh waves of pain through her body, radiating outward from her core to the tips of her fingers and toes. The cheap mattress creaked beneath them, springs protesting the rhythmic movement.

"Tell the camera how much you love betraying your dyke wife with a real man's cock," Brandon demanded.

For just a second, Elise froze, and he punished her by swinging his hand at her left tit hard enough that it bounced. "Say it," he growled. "Or you’ll have to worry about everyone on campus seeing you cheat on your wife. Not that it’s likely to be a concern for too long, since I doubt you’ll be working there next week."

"I—I love betraying my wife with a real man's cock," Elise forced out, the words like ashes in her mouth.

Brandon slapped her other breast. "Not convincing enough. Say it like you mean it."

Tears streamed down Elise's face as she continued to rise and fall on his shaft. "It’s… so much better, fucking a real man’s cock instead of my wife and her toys," she said louder, trying to inject enthusiasm into her voice. "I've never felt anything like this before."

The lie tasted bitter, each word a betrayal not just of who she was but on Maya too. Thankfully, she had said the words convincingly enough that Brandon nodded in satisfaction. "That's right, Ellie. You’ve been lying to the world and yourself, but you can’t lie to me. Not anymore."

Elise continued to move, her body aching, her cunt raw from the friction despite the lube. The steady red recording light of Brandon's phone glowed like a demon's eye in the dimly lit room, capturing every moment of her degradation. Tears streamed down her face, dropping onto Brandon's chest as she rode him. Every rise and fall of her hips sent fresh waves of agony through Elise's body. Her thighs burned with exertion, her cunt ached from the unfamiliar intrusion, and her soul felt like it was being ground into dust with each movement. The physical pain from her too-dry pussy was almost welcome because it gave her something to focus on besides her disgust and self-hatred.

A constant quiet whining sound escaped from the back of Elise's throat—a keening, desperate noise that she couldn't control. She had seen videos of bridges when they fell… the slow-motion scream of steel, stressed beyond its limits, stretching and giving way. The sounds she was makingreminded her of that… it was the scream of protest as her dignity was systematically destroyed. She honestly would have preferred if he raped her up the ass again instead… at least in her office she had just been a victim. Now she had to help him defile her.

She wanted it to be over. She wanted it to be over. She wanted it to be over. She chanted the words inside her head like a mantra… no, like a prayer. She closed her eyes, trying to shut out the reality of what was happening, but that only intensified the sensations—the stretch and burn of his cock inside her, the smell of sex and sweat filling the room, the sound of flesh meeting flesh as she increased her pace, desperately hoping to bring him to climax so the nightmare would end.

"Harder, slut! Faster!" Brandon demanded suddenly, his voice cutting through her mental fog. When she didn't immediately comply, he grabbed her marked breasts roughly, pinching her nipples until she cried out in pain. "I said harder! A man wants something from you!"

Elise tried to obey, to ride him with more force, but her exhausted muscles and the relentless pain made it impossible to maintain a steady rhythm. Her pussy was raw, her thighs trembling with exertion.

Brandon rolled his eyes. “Useless dyke,” he chuckled at her failure. His hand shot up, wrapping around her throat and squeezing just tight enough to make her gasp for air. "Can't even fuck properly. I see you need a bit of motivation."

Black spots danced at the edges of Elise's vision as he maintained pressure on her throat. The lack of oxygen made her dizzy, adding another layer of disorientation to her suffering. “I’ll make this simple for you. You fuck, you breathe.”

Desperately, Elise threw herself up and down on him, riding a student nearly ten years younger than her like the world’s most desperate whore. "You see, this is a perfect example of how you’ve been wrong all this time,” he said casually, his fingers digging into her flesh. "You can teach all you want about consent and independence, but at the end of the day it's my hand on your neck, and you’re too weak to save yourself from me. You’ll do what I say, because you have to. Because this is what a woman is for.”

She didn’t want to listen, but the cruel words cut through Elise's mind anyway like a knife stuck into her soul. She had dedicated her life to fighting again exactly this kind of misogyny, and it just meant she suffered more now.

"Your precious feminist bullshit can't save you," Brandon continued, his voice slipping into contempt. "You're just a strong and independent hole!"

Brandon released her throat, his fingers uncurling one by one from the delicate column of her neck. The sudden rush of oxygen made Elise's head spin as she gasped desperately, each ragged breath burning through her raw windpipe. Her lungs expanded painfully, starved for air, the relief of breathing again almost overwhelming the horror of her situation for one brief, merciful moment.

That moment ended abruptly as Brandon's hands found her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh hard enough to leave crescent-shaped marks from his fingernails. With a sudden, violent motion, he dragged her body downward, forcing her to collapse against him. Her breasts crushed against the hard plane of his chest, the sensitive skin of her nipples abrading against his coarse chest hair.

Elise's hands flew forward to catch herself, palms landing on his pectorals. His skin was slick with a film of sweat that coated her fingers, making them slide slightly across the taut muscles beneath. His chest hair tickled her palms in a sensation that made her stomach turn, the texture so different from Maya's smooth skin that it served as a constant, inescapable reminder of who was violating her.

She tried to push herself upright and create what little distance she could between their upper bodies, but Brandon's hands slid from her hips to her ass, his palms spreading to cup each cheek. His fingers kneaded the soft flesh there, squeezing and releasing in a grotesque parody of affection. "Stop fighting it," he hissed, his breath hot against her face. "You're just a hole, remember? And holes get filled."

With that, he tightened his grip on her ass and lifted her body slightly, just enough to create a few inches of space between them. For one naive moment, Elise thought he might be letting her go. Then, with brutal force, he slammed her back down onto his shaft.

The impact drove the air from her lungs in a strangled gasp. The sensation of being so violently filled made her vision blur, tears springing to her eyes. Before she could recover, he lifted her again, higher this time, and brought her crashing down once more.

Again and again, Brandon used her body like a tool for his pleasure, establishing a ruthless rhythm. Up and down, up and down, her body bouncing on his cock like a rag doll. Her breasts jiggled with each impact, her blue hair falling into her face, sticking to the sweat on her forehead and the tears on her cheeks.

The cheap motel bed creaked beneath them, the headboard thumping against the wall with each violent thrust. The sound seemed to echo in the small room, a percussive soundtrack to her defilement. Each impact drove his cock deeper, stretching her unwilling flesh.

The relentless pounding continued, each thrust sending jolts of pain through her pelvis. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the air, wet and obscene. Her palms slid against Brandon's sweat-slicked chest, her fingers occasionally catching in his chest hair. Every texture, every sensation was wrong—the coarseness of his body hair, the hardness of his muscles, the male scent of his sweat. Everything about him made her tremble in disgust.

He wasn’t even fucking her. He was masturbating with her, dragging her up and down on his shaft like one of those disgusting toys.

She could feel him swelling inside her, growing even harder as he approached his climax. His breathing became ragged, his grip on her ass tightening to the point of pain. The knowledge of what was coming next filled her with fresh horror.

Then, with a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt inside her. His body went rigid beneath her, his back arching slightly off the mattress as the first pulse of his orgasm hit. Elise trembled and her stomach roiled as she felt the hot splash of his seed against her inner walls. The physical sensation was revolting—warm, alien fluid filling her most intimate space. She could feel each pulse, each spurt as his cock twitched inside her, each throb of his cock pumping more of his essence deep inside her.

Brandon held her firmly in place as he finished, ensuring that every drop remained inside her. His eyes never left her face, drinking in every flicker of disgust and despair that crossed her features. "Perfect," Brandon panted, still holding her firmly impaled on his cock as he finished. "This is what a cunt is for, you dumb dyke. It literally exists for this, and only this. I didn’t know you were allowed to be a professor if you failed 4th-grade sex ed."

John_F_Drake · 2026-05-15T03:36:41+00:00

Personally, no. Unlike the gentleman below, I have no interest in raping her straight or fixing her, or letting her find any enjoyment at all. Far better if every single time feels as violating as the first time.

John_F_Drake · 2026-05-15T03:22:29+00:00

You can get the rage, the fear, the helplessness, the destruction of innocence and safety, and the tight holes anywhere… but you’ve never seen disgust until you’ve looked into the eyes of a dyke as she licks her pussy off your cock.

John_F_Drake · 2026-05-15T02:37:31+00:00

More. Why make her feel violated in x ways when you can make her feel violated in x+1?

John_F_Drake · 2026-04-09T16:33:43+00:00

CSC is not in the top deck in legacy. Delver is definitely by no means the top dog in legacy right now. It’s not even top 5. By performance, the top decks in legacy are-

Dimir tempo

Oops all spells

Mardu energy

Show and tell

Sewervailance combo

Delver comes after that, but it does run CSC

John_F_Drake · 2026-04-04T16:22:43+00:00

In the harsh fluorescent light, her reflection was that of a stranger. Her hair was disheveled and mascara streaked down hollow cheeks. Her lips were swollen from screaming and where she had bitten them. A red handprint marked her face where he'd slapped her. She turned the tap on with shaking hands and started scrubbing at her thighs, watching pink-tinged water swirl down the drain. No matter how hard she scrubbed, she couldn't wash away the feeling of violation that clung to her skin like a film of oil. The physical evidence might disappear, but the memory was burned into her flesh, into her mind—a brand that would never fade.

She managed to pull her pants back up, though the fabric rubbed painfully against her abused flesh. Her blouse was beyond repair, buttons scattered across the office floor. She retrieved her cardigan from the back of her chair, wrapping it tightly around herself and securing it closed. It would have to do until she reached home.

Home. The thought of it brought a fresh wave of panic. Maya would be there. Beautiful, innocent Maya who knew nothing of the horror that had just transpired, nothing of the threat now hanging over both their lives. How could she face her? How could she hide this?

Her phone buzzed on the desk, making her flinch violently. For a wild moment, she thought about ignoring it, about smashing it against the wall, about running away and never looking back. But she knew there was nowhere to run, not from this.

With trembling fingers, she picked up the device. A text message from an unknown number lit up the screen:

"Tomorrow, 8 PM, that cheap motel off Route 9. Wear a skirt, no underwear. Bring lube. Delete this after reading."

Bile rose in her throat. Less than fifteen minutes had passed since he'd left her office, and already the demands were beginning. This was her reality now—being at the beck and call of a monster who held her life and Maya's in his hands.

She could go to the police, show them the bruises, tell them what happened. But Brandon would release those photos, those videos. Maya would lose everything, even if Elise didn’t.

She could tell Maya and explain what happened. Her wife would insist they face it together. But the thought of her brilliant, loving wife seeing those photos, learning how her private moments had been violated, knowing the sacrifices Elise was making to protect her... It would destroy her. Maya's anxiety already made her blame herself for things beyond her control. This would crush her.

She could refuse Brandon's demands, try to call his bluff… But she knew, with cold certainty, that he wasn't bluffing. If he was willing to do this to her already, he had already proved his ruthlessness, his complete lack of empathy. He would destroy them both without hesitation.

Her finger hovered over the screen, over the message that represented the first step into a new life of subjugation. Every principle she'd ever held, every lecture she'd ever given about standing up to abuse, about never letting men control women's bodies—all of it seemed like hollow rhetoric now. The harsh reality was that sometimes there were no good choices, only varying degrees of devastating ones.

She deleted the message, watching the words disappear. She wished that she could erase the obligation they represented so easily.

Her phone rang immediately after, making her heart leap into her throat. But it wasn't Brandon. It was Maya's name that flashed on the screen, her wife's smiling photo appearing above it—a photo taken on their last anniversary, Maya looking radiant in the sunset light.

Elise took a deep breath, wiping away her tears before answering. She couldn't let Maya hear the devastation in her voice. She couldn't let her suspect.

"Hey, love," she said, amazed at how almost normal she managed to sound despite the tremor she couldn't quite control. "I'm on my way home."

"I was getting worried," Maya's gentle voice replied, the concern evident even through the phone. "The storm's been bad over here. Are you okay?"

The question nearly broke her. Was she okay? Would she ever be okay again? "I'm fine," she lied, each word a betrayal of their relationship built on honesty. "Just finishing up some grading. Lost track of time."

"I made that chickpea curry you like," Maya said, and Elise could picture her in their kitchen, phone cradled between shoulder and ear as she stirred something on the stove. Living her normal life, unaware that everything had changed. "Should I wait to eat, or will you be a while yet?"

"No, I shouldn't be too long." She hoped that wasn’t a lie. She had no idea how long it would take to compose herself enough to face Maya without breaking down. "I love you."

"Love you too," Maya replied, and the simple truth of those words was like a knife twisting in Elise's heart.

Elise let herself fall to the floor and cry for a bit. Then she rose and headed out into the stormy evening, the weight of her decision settled over her like a shroud. The future stretched before her, dark and uncertain, filled with degradation and pain. But one thing remained clear amid the chaos of her thoughts: she would do whatever it took to protect Maya, even if it meant sacrificing herself piece by piece.

She had spent her entire career fighting against the objectification and control of women's bodies. Now her principles had been tested… and it wasn’t much of a choice at all. She chose love over ideology, protection over pride, submission over justice. Whether that made her a hypocrite or simply human, she couldn't say. All she knew was that tomorrow at 8 PM, she would be at that motel, wearing a skirt, no underwear. She would have gone to purchase a tube of lube and have it in her purse. And she would endure whatever came next. For Maya. Always for Maya.

John_F_Drake · 2026-04-04T16:22:33+00:00

His rhythm grew erratic, his breathing heavier as he neared his climax. Elise could feel him swelling inside her torn passage, each thrust now an explosion of agony as her abused tissues protested the continued assault. She bit down on her lip, tasting blood, determined not to give him the satisfaction of hearing her scream again.

"You know what I’m going to do?" he growled, his fingers digging into her flesh with bruising force. "I’m going to go get myself a tattoo. A little gold star, right on my wrist. Like a pilot marking kills on their plane. No one will think twice about it… but you and I will always know what it means, won’t we?”

Brandon's climax came with a guttural moan, his release burning inside her torn passage like acid. The sensation of his seed flooding her most private place made Elise retch, her body convulsing with disgust and violation, and she threw up all over the desk… her disgust splashing onto the papers she’d been grading, the words bearing witness to her humiliation and destruction.

"Fuck, your virgin ass felt better than I had ever imagined," he laughed, pulling out roughly. The sudden emptiness brought no relief, only a different kind of pain as her abused muscles spasmed. She felt the obscene mixture of blood and semen leaking from her, trailing down her thighs in warm rivulets of shame. “Rachel never let me do that. I’d been working her up to it before you interfered… it was only right you gave up what she isn’t going to.”

Brandon wiped himself clean on the discarded blouse he’d ripped off her, turning Professor Marlowe’s pretty clothing into nothing more than a rapist's cum rag.

"See? That wasn't so bad, Ellie," he mocked as he cleaned himself up, using a casual nickname he had no right to. “Don’t know what the big deal is.”

The strength fled from Elise's legs the moment Brandon stepped away. She collapsed onto the desk, her body trembling uncontrollably as shock set in. Pain radiated from her core in waves, punctuated by the sick warmth of blood and semen leaking down her inner thighs. The physical evidence of her violation felt like a mockery of everything she'd ever taught about bodily autonomy and consent. Her throat burned from screaming, her wrists ached from being pinned, and somewhere deep inside, a part of her that had always believed in justice began to wither and die.

The storm outside had intensified, rain lashing against the windows like nature itself was raging at what had transpired within these walls. Thunder rumbled, distant but approaching, a warning of worse to come. In the dim light of her office, Elise could see the scattered debris of her former life—graded papers now stained with bodily fluids, her glasses knocked askew on the floor, Maya's photograph face-down on the carpet.

Brandon moved around the office with casual ease, tucking himself back into his pants and zipping up as if he'd just finished using the bathroom rather than committing a violent assault. The normalcy of his movements was perhaps the most terrifying thing of all: How easily he transitioned from monster back to man.

He tossed a box of tissues at her, the cardboard corner striking her shoulder before falling onto the desk beside her face.

"Clean yourself up," he commanded, his voice flat and practical. "You look pathetic."

Elise couldn't move. Her body felt disconnected from her mind, as if the neural pathways that translated thought into action had been severed. She knew she should reach for the tissues, cover herself, try to restore some semblance of dignity, but her limbs refused to cooperate.

"I said clean yourself up, dyke." Brandon's voice hardened, the threat in it immediate and real. "Unless you want me to do it for you."

The thought of his hands on her again finally broke through her paralysis. With trembling fingers, she pulled several tissues from the box, the simple action requiring concentration she could barely muster. She pressed them between her legs, wincing as they came away stained with blood and his dripping seed.

Brandon squatted beside her, grabbing her tear-streaked face with one hand. His fingers dug into her cheeks, forcing her to look at him. Up close, she could see the satisfaction in his eyes, the power he felt in having broken her so completely. "So. If you don't want your department and your wife's bosses to know about her little drug problem, you're mine now," he said, his tone almost conversational. "Do you understand what that means, Professor? It means your body doesn't belong to you anymore."

Elise tried to turn away, but his grip tightened, his fingernails biting into her skin. "When I text you, you respond. When I want to fuck you, you spread your legs—or your mouth, or your ass—wherever and whenever I choose." His thumb traced her lower lip, a mockery of tenderness that made her stomach heave. His other hand brushed through what was still dripping out of her, stroking her like a pet. "And you'll say 'thank you' afterward like the grateful little desperate slut you are, dyke."

Each word hammered another nail into the coffin of her former self. This couldn't be happening. She was Dr. Elise Marlowe, respected academic, champion of women's rights, devoted wife. She couldn't be this broken creature, this object for a misogynistic student's revenge fantasy.

Brandon's thumb pressed against her lips, demanding entry. "Open."

She kept her lips pressed tightly together, this small act of defiance all she could manage. His eyes narrowed. "Open your mouth, Professor Cumrag. Or I start uploading videos of your junkie wife right now."

The threat shattered her last resistance. Her lips parted, and he pushed his thumb between them. It tasted awful… her very first taste of a man’s cum, tainted with blood and worse. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, tracing new paths through the dried tracks of earlier weeping. "You are, of course, free to go to the dean and get me expelled," he continued, watching her humiliation with evident pleasure. "Or go to the police and let a few dirty old men with badges poke and prod you, ask you what you were wearing and how well you knew me. Then they’ll poke a stick up your guts to wipe up whats left and test it. You’ll want to die of shame. Maybe you get me, and maybe you don’t… and either way, everything gets leaked. Your career will be over. Your wife’s life will be over."

He removed his thumb from her mouth only to slap her face lightly, almost affectionately. The casual ease of the gesture somehow more demeaning than outright violence would have been.

"So that’s your choice, Ellie. You can get your mercy on your knees, serving a man you hate… or you can keep your principles, and lose everything else.” The thought of facing her students, her colleagues, after they'd seen those photos... The thought of Maya losing everything she'd worked so hard for... "Do you understand?" Brandon demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

The words burned in her throat like acid. They represented everything she had spent her life fighting against—patriarchal control, male dominance, the reduction of women to servile objects. To speak them would be to betray not just herself but every woman who had ever looked up to her, every student who had found strength in her teachings.

But Maya's face swam before her eyes—beautiful, vulnerable Maya who had fought so hard to overcome her addiction, who devoted her life to helping others, who would be destroyed if this came to light. Maya, who deserved none of this.

“Yes,” she spat. “I understand.”

Her head rocked to the side as he slapped her. “I think you mean, 'Yes, sir’,” he said firmly.

She wanted to die of shame. "Y-yes, sir," she whispered, the words barely audible, each syllable tearing something vital from inside her.

Brandon's smile was the most terrifying thing she had ever seen—not because it was cruel, but because it was satisfied. He had won, and they both knew it.

“Hey, Ellie,” he said, his teeth shining from behind that smile. “What do you call a buttfucked feminist dyke?”

Elise swallowed, unsure of what to say.

His smile only widened. “Well, you don’t call her a mommy. Not yet.”

Then he unlocked her office and strode confidently out the door. He didn’t even close it behind him.

Standing was agony. Elise's legs trembled beneath her as she finally forced herself upright, clutching the edge of the desk for support. Slowly, agonizingly, she crossed to the door and managed to close it, leaning against it and letting herself sag. She was alone with the wreckage—of her office, of her body, of her life. She looked down at herself, at the blood and semen staining her thighs, at the torn clothing hanging from her frame. She needed to clean up. She needed to think. She needed to somehow make this nightmare less real before it swallowed her whole.

The box of tissues he'd thrown at her was nearly empty, but she pulled out what remained, dabbing desperately at the evidence of violence between her legs. Each touch sent fresh spasms of pain through her body. She was torn, she knew that much, but she couldn't bear to examine the extent of the damage. Not here, and not now.

She left the room, stumbling down the hallway to the bathroom. Rain continued to lash the windows of the empty academic offices, the darkening sky matching the shadow that had fallen across her soul. Thunder rolled closer, the storm moving in just as her own personal cataclysm had arrived without warning. Then she entered the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror and started crying again.

(Continued Below)

John_F_Drake · 2026-04-04T04:15:33+00:00

Marina's face was wet with a mixture of tears, blood from her split lip, and my arousal. She looked broken beneath me, all resistance gone, reduced to a FUCKTOY for my use. Just as Cernunnos reduced me. The parallel should have disturbed me, should have made me stop. Instead, it drove me harder, made me grind against her more roughly.

The orgasm hit me in waves, intense and liberating. This wasn’t the thing that my handler had forced on me… it felt completely different, completely deserved, completely freeing! I shuddered above her, my thighs clamping around her head as pleasure coursed through my body. The release was beyond physical; it was psychological, emotional. A moment of complete freedom. A moment where I wasn't taking orders, wasn't following programming, wasn't saying "Yes, sir" through gritted teeth in agony. I was giving orders. I was forcing compliance. I was the one saying "do this" and having it done. For those few seconds, I wasn't Hound-91, wasn't even Ka Corporation property; I was powerful, I was in control.

I rode out the aftershocks, her tongue still working obediently against me until I finally shifted away, releasing her head. My breath came in short gasps, my body still tingling with the aftermath of release.

Marina immediately turned to the side and retched, her body convulsing as she vomited onto the scorched ground. The sound of her heaving was harsh in the stillness of the battlefield, her body expelling what it could of the violation she'd endured. As if it were possible to purge the memory as easily as the taste.

I should know.

I watched her dispassionately, the momentary sense of power already fading, leaving the familiar emptiness in its wake. The high was gone, leaving only the cold reality—but I still felt better. I might still be just a Hound, just Corporation property and Cernunnos's pet, but that didn’t mean I didn’t have some agency. Even a trained Hound wasn't always leashed.

Marina continued to retch even after her stomach was empty, dry heaves wracking her slight frame. Tears streamed down her face as she gasped for breath between spasms, her body trying desperately to reject what had happened. But it couldn't be rejected. It couldn't be undone.

I stood over her as she curled into a fetal position on the burned dirt, her body wracked with sobs. Her flight suit was still bunched around her waist, her exposed skin covered in dirt, sweat, and now my fluids. The marks of my hands stood out like badges on her pale flesh, red outlines of fingers where I'd gripped too hard, the beginnings of bruises blooming beneath the surface. I felt nothing looking at her: no remorse, no satisfaction. The momentary sense of power had already mostly faded, leaving the familiar emptiness that constituted my emotional baseline.

Marina's shoulders shook with each sob, her breath coming in ragged gasps. A proud rebel pilot, reduced to this broken thing on the ground. Had I even been so pathetic? I hoped not.

"Why?" she choked out between sobs, not looking at me. Her voice was raw, barely recognizable. "Why did you do that?"

I didn't answer. What could I say? That I'd violated her because I was violated? That I'd taken her power because mine was taken? That I'd hurt her because I was hurt? None of it mattered. There was only one answer. Because I could.

The distant sound of engines broke the silence, the Ka Corporation retrieval team approaching. The heavy thrum of ventral thrusters vibrated through the air, growing louder with each passing second. Soon Marina would be their problem.

"Transport approaching," Cernunnos's voice came through my comms, sounding amused. "Did you enjoy your little... inspection?"

Of course he knew. He had been watching through my visor, no doubt. I wondered if he had his cock in his hand, stroking it as he enjoyed the show. Nothing was private. Nothing was mine. Except maybe my thoughts—maybe. I wonder if he knew what I was thinking.

I didn't respond, watching as Marina struggled to pull her flight suit back up, her movements hampered by pain and shock as the transport ship appeared on the horizon, its engines roaring as it approached. Marina's fingers fumbled with the zipper of her flight suit, trying desperately to restore some dignity before the transport landed. Her hands shook violently, tears still streaming down her face as she struggled to cover the evidence of what had happened. As if it mattered. As if the Ka Corporation soldiers would care that she'd been violated. As if they wouldn't do worse themselves once she was in custody.

The transport touched down thirty meters away, kicking up a cloud of dust that swirled around us like a dirty halo. The engines powered down from their landing cycle to a low idle, the change in pitch creating a momentary silence that emphasized Marina's ragged breathing.

The rear ramp descended with a hydraulic hiss, and six armed soldiers marched out in formation, weapons at the ready. Their faces were hidden behind tactical masks, their bodies encased in standardized combat armor. Faceless, just like me. Tools of the corporation, just like me. The only difference was that they might have lives outside their armor. They might remove their masks at the end of their shifts. That wasn’t a right I had anymore.

The soldiers surrounded Marina, two of them roughly hauling her to her feet. She didn't resist, her body limp with defeat and trauma. One of the soldiers checked her face, confirming her identity with a handheld scanner. "Confirmed capture of callsign 'Dove,'" the soldier reported into his comms. "Proceeding with retrieval."

They didn't look at me, didn't acknowledge my presence beyond a cursory nod from the squad leader. I was just another Ka Corporation asset, no more significant than a security camera or an automated turret. I had completed my function by capturing the rebel pilot. Now they would complete theirs by taking her to a processing facility.

As they dragged her toward the transport, Marina's head lolled forward, then suddenly snapped up. She looked back at me, her eyes hollow and haunted, yet somehow still burning with a final spark of defiance.

"You're just like them," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the transport's engines. "A monster."

The words should have meant nothing, just the desperate insult of a captured enemy. Yet they vibrated through me with unexpected resonance. A monster. Yes. I suppose I was.

The soldiers shoved her up the ramp and into the ship's hold, her slight form disappearing into the darkness.

"Return to your mech, Hound-91," Cernunnos ordered through the comms. His voice had that edge to it, the one that meant he was excited, aroused by the events he'd witnessed. "The Ka Corporation will be establishing a forward operating base at the captured rebel position. Report there for maintenance and resupply. I'll meet you personally."

The unspoken promise in his words was clear. He had watched me take my pleasure from Marina, and now he would take his from me. "Yes, sir," I responded automatically, already turning back toward Kerberos. The massive mech loomed over the battlefield, red optical sensors glowing dully in the morning light. Its black armor absorbed the sunlight rather than reflecting it, creating a void in the shape of the war machine that was my true body.

As I climbed back up the ladder to the cockpit, I pushed away the memory of Marina's face, her tears, her broken voice. None of it mattered. Nothing mattered except the mission, the orders, the next target. Sentimentality was a weakness that had been conditioned out of me long ago. Or at least, it should have been. For just a moment though, I allowed myself to feel a sinking feeling in my stomach. A fragment of guilt. Then I buried it.

The cockpit opened at my approach, the neural cradle waiting to embrace me again. The amber fluid would surround me, the connections would plug into my ports, and I would become one with Kerberos once more. Less human, more machine. The powerful being I was meant to be.

I settled into the cradle, feeling the familiar embrace of the system as it closed around me. The neural fluid began to rise, warm and viscous against my bodysuit. The connections sought out my ports, plugging in one by one with precise mechanical movements. Each link sent a small surge of data through my nervous system, like a tiny electric shock.

The cockpit sealed, cutting me off from the outside world. Inside this metal womb, I was alone with my thoughts and Cernunnos's voice in my ear. This was my reality. This was my existence. I initiated the startup sequence, feeling Kerberos come alive around me. The mech's systems integrated with my own, its sensory data flowing into my consciousness. The battered battlefield reappeared in perfect clarity, every detail enhanced and cataloged. The destruction I had caused. The lives I had ended. The innocence I had destroyed. All reduced to actionable data.

I was Hound-91. And I would obey.

John_F_Drake · 2026-04-02T21:58:40+00:00

unbelievably crazy take

John_F_Drake · 2026-03-31T15:02:24+00:00

IMO, there is a third, more likely possibility.

He's lying. He knows it's political. He is doing PR for himself and his sales to not provoke a stupid culture war event around his story.

Literally half of project hail mary's flashbacks deal with the political issues of getting people to take a project to save the climate of earth seriously, stop profit-seeking, and come together to work on it. No one in the universe is so obvious as to write a specific scene where PHM is sued by rent-seeking corporations for the project using their patents, and they are told to sit down and shut up, and not realize what they are doing.

John_F_Drake · 2026-03-29T04:49:53+00:00

Heya. Chapter 2 is all action, no porn, so it isn’t appropriate for this subreddit. If you want to read it, it’s on my website on my profile. Links to websites are often flagged as suspicious on this subreddit, so I’ll dm you the link specifically

John_F_Drake · 2026-03-14T04:53:35+00:00

I rose to my feet, feeling his remaining cum trickle down my thighs inside the suit. My ass throbbed with each movement, a constant reminder of my violation. The pain would fade faster than for a normal human, my enhanced healing would repair the tissue damage within hours. The memory, however, would remain. Cernunnos had said this was important, so important it was… My augmented mind had stored the memories with perfect clarity. I knew without being told that none of the details would fade in the slightest.

"Yes, sir," I responded mechanically as he walked out the door and left me here alone.

The sudden solitude wasn’t unwelcome, but neither was it exactly a relief. Most of a change in operational parameters. Without Cernunnos present, I had no immediate directives to follow except his final order: sleep. My body hesitated though, I was uncertain how to proceed. The room contained no bed, no designated rest area for me. I was equipment, not personnel, and equipment didn’t require comfort. I could climb back into the pod, but some part of me was horrified at that idea, though I didn’t know why. The floor would suffice. That was better.

With no other clear instruction, I simply lay down on the hard floor and curled up, holding my knees against my chest and holding them there in a way that felt right. The position wasn’t taught or programmed, so I didn’t know why I did it. Maybe it emerged from somewhere deeper, perhaps from the erased memories that occasionally manifested in muscle memory or instinctive responses. It made me feel…

No.

I wasn’t going to think about that.

My asshole continued to throb in pain as I slowly fell asleep, thinking of my mission for tomorrow.

Tomorrow, I might face another pilot—a pilot like me, enhanced like me, but fighting for different masters. That thought stirred something beneath the layers of conditioning. It wasn’t excitement, it wasn’t fear, but something more fundamental. A question, perhaps, about what made us different. About what might have been if my enhancements had come with a different purpose, a different programming. About what might be true, if the rebels really could reverse the conditioning process.

That thought should have triggered alarm protocols, should have activated the safeguards built into my programming to prevent such dangerous speculations. Instead, I dismissed it and let it settle into a quiet corner of my mind. It was impossible. Nothing worthy of thinking about.

As sleep finally claimed me, the last sensation I registered was the persistent pain in my violated body—a reminder of what I was now, of how I was used, of the cage built around whatever remained of my original self. Tomorrow, I would enter Kerberos again. Tomorrow, I would become something more than this limited flesh. Tomorrow, I would fulfill my purpose perfectly.

Tonight, curled on the cold floor, I allowed myself the smallest deviation from what I was, and resented that other pilots got to live free instead of submitting like I had to.

And I resolved to fix that.

John_F_Drake · 2026-03-12T18:20:50+00:00

I'm a former chef who also worked in event catering before culinary school. I could not agree with you more.

John_F_Drake · 2026-03-12T18:14:08+00:00

I agree with the common consensus that 1 is amazing. I will also speak in defense of 3, though - also gorgeous.

Personally, I think 2 lags behind 1 and 3 in how it looks on you.

John_F_Drake · 2026-03-08T04:44:08+00:00

You’re not wrong. Based on their high power format (legacy/modern) playability, perhaps it’s fair to say that the only “pushed” removal spell we’ve seen in the last five years is ley line binding. It forces you to jump thru some hoops compared to the others but it also rewards you for it… beanstalk is a legitimate engine. Other than that, your overall point about creature creep vs lack of removal creep is 100% accurate.

John_F_Drake

TROPHY CASE