#Finger Print Sensor

[tinyshyteacup]

• Words of Command •

Tw: Cussing, angst, mentions of blood and grime.

Words of Command - Part 1

The lobby of Stark Tower gleamed with too much glass and not enough warmth for your taste. Sunlight pooled through the towering windows, hitting the polished marble floors and refracting off the chrome detailing of the modern decor.

You sat behind the main reception desk, perched on a tall stool with your legs swinging slightly.

The desk itself was a sleek black curve, embedded with holographic displays and a touchpad that still didn’t always respond when you tapped it with freshly moisturized fingers.

A nameplate identified you only by your first name, the letters tastefully etched in a clean serif font.

At the moment, you were staring at the printer behind you like it had personally offended you. It made a soft whirring noise—then stopped.

A flicker of smoke puffed up from the feeder tray. You yelped.

“J.A.R.V.I.S., I swear, I didn’t even touch it this time!”

"Miss, respectfully, you did attempt to print a double-sided image from an incompatible file format.”

You scowled at the ceiling. “You’re not even here physically. How would you know?”

“I am connected to over 2,000 sensors in this room. Shall I list the ones currently monitoring your error?”

“Rude,” you muttered, grabbing the paper that had jammed mid-print.

You shook it like it was a bad dog chewing your shoes. “This is sabotage. You're trying to make me look bad in front of Mr Stark.”

“Rest assured, Mr. Stark has been made aware of your printer challenges. He found it... 'endearing.’”

Your cheeks flushed.

The sarcasm was biting, but the thought that Tony Stark had discussed you at all—even mockingly—made your stomach flutter in a way you weren’t proud of.

The lobby doors hissed open with that smooth mechanical slide, and you looked up automatically.

When Captain Rogers walked into a room, it was like watching someone pull the '40s into the present. He was tall, and looked slightly rumpled in civilian clothes—a dark blue hoodie stretched over broad shoulders and a plain T-shirt underneath.

He wore jeans like he didn't know what to do with them.

“Hey,” he greeted, voice gentle but somehow carrying in the echoey lobby. “You’re the receptionist, right, the wizz with phones ?”

You nodded quickly and smiled. “Y-Yes, Captain Rogers. Morning.”

He returned the smile, slower, steadier, as if trying to ease your nervous energy. “Please, call me Steve.”

Right. Like that would help.

You stood, still barely reaching his chest, and smoothed down the front of your cardigan. “What can I help you with?”

He stepped up to the desk, pulled something from the pocket of his jeans, and placed it on the counter. A Stark-Phone. One of the newer ones Stark had issued.

You tilted your head, eyebrows lifting.

“I, uh…” Steve scratched the back of his neck, clearly sheepish. “I pressed something and now it’s speaking Korean. I think.”

You gently picked up the phone and pressed the home button. “Oh. You activated the language cycle shortcut. Happens if you triple tap the lock screen.”

You tapped through the settings with practiced ease. “There. Back to English.”

Steve watched you like you were performing magic. “I don’t know how any of you keep up with this tech.”

You smiled softly, meeting his gaze with more courage this time. “Honestly? I mostly argue with the printer. J.A.R.V.I.S. does everything else.”

Steve chuckled, a warm, earnest sound that made your heart thump faster. “Well, you seem to be holding your own.”

As he turned to leave, he paused. “I like your necklace, by the way. It suits you.”

You looked down, brushing a finger across the tiny pendant resting at your collarbone. “Oh. Thank you. It was my grandmother’s.”

He nodded like that meant something to him.

“Thanks,” he says, when you’re done. Then adds, almost sheepishly, “It’s nice to talk to someone who doesn’t look at me like I’m going to throw a shield at them.”

You laugh nervously. “You’re... not that scary.”

His grin is warm, boyish. You find yourself smiling back, unexpectedly grounded.

The elevator dings, and in breezes Tony Stark like a whirlwind in thousand-dollar shoes.

He’s on a call, two steps ahead of his own thoughts, sunglasses on indoors because of course they are.

"Yeah, just tell Fury he can bite me. In Morse code. Bye."

Phone snapped off, sunglasses up, and he zeroes in on you. “Sweetheart. You jammed the printer again.”

“I did not jam the printer,” you say quickly. “Jarvis is just being dramatic.”

“Jarvis is always dramatic, but in this case? He’s right.”

Tony leans on the desk, eyes squinting slightly. “Do you intentionally make the tech hate you? Is this like your rebellion arc Thumbelina? First it's the printer, then you’re reprogramming him to swear in Gaelic.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” you murmur, looking down. Then pause. “Wait... JARVIS can swear?”

Tony smirks. “Atta girl. Knew there was a fire in there somewhere.”

He straightens up, hands in pockets, a half-laugh escaping him as he walks toward the elevator. “Keep her, Rogers!” he shouts over his shoulder. “She’s the only one who’s not afraid to talk back to Jarvis.”

You blink.

Captain Rogers is still standing a few feet away, watching the exchange with something between amusement and... curiosity.

Maybe even admiration.

The city never sleeps, but it sighs in the early hours of morning—hushed traffic, glimmering reflections on wet pavement, a lull between the pulse of nightlife and the rise of commuters.

Neon lights flicker overhead, buzzing faintly, casting long shadows that cling to him like a second skin.

He moves like he’s not sure he’s real.

Each footfall is heavy but hesitant, like the ground might reject him. His hair is a tangled mess, matted and unwashed, sticking to his face and jaw.

The stubble on his cheeks is rough, uneven, and clings to him like dirt. His clothes are soaked in sweat, grime, and old blood—some of it his, some of it not.

His left arm is bare and gleaming beneath a tattered coat sleeve, metal fingers twitching involuntarily, as though searching for a rifle that isn’t there.

He doesn’t remember where he’s been.

Only fragments, screams, commands in harsh syllables, red flashing lights. A corridor. Restraints. Cold.

Oh God that biting cold.

He walks past windows and glass doors, catching glimpses of himself in reflections—a shadow, a haunted smear of what used to be a man.

He doesn’t know his name.

Not truly.

Not right now.

But somewhere, deep under the static in his brain, there’s something.

Maybe he had a name.

And then he looks up.

It rises above him like a monument, gleaming even in the grey blue of pre-dawn. STARK in large, defiant letters. The light at the top pulses. He stops walking, just… stands there.

His breath fogs the cold air, erratic.

His chest heaves, ribs visible through the threadbare shirt beneath the jacket. His boots are worn to the sole.

Everything about him screams survival, but there’s a flicker in his eyes now—recognition.

Stark.

Mission report.

Howard.

December.

Blood.

Sixteen.

Comply.

1991.

Zimniy Soldat.

Soldat.

The words slam into him like gunfire, and he stumbles forward, metal hand clenching hard enough to groan under its own pressure.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing here. He only knows the building is important.

And maybe... maybe someone inside can make the noise stop.

The automatic doors whisper open, parting slowly to let him step into the warmth of Stark Tower’s front lobby. Inside, the polished floors shine, reflecting the subtle glow of the early-morning lighting.

The scent of fresh polish, faint coffee, and recycled air fills the space. It’s clean. Too clean. Sterile like a medical wing, like some place where experiments happened.

He hesitates in the doorway.

The light overhead flickers slightly, casting a quick stutter of shadow across his face—an echo of something dark beneath the skin.

You stand behind the front desk, holding your phone in one hand, uncertain. His body is massive in the entrance, his shoulders squared like a soldier preparing for a threat. That left arm, slick and inhuman, gleams under the overhead light, fingers twitching like they have a mind of their own.

He takes two steps forward.

You don’t move, but your fingers close slowly around the base of your mug—some deep instinct reaching for something solid, something real.

"Hi… I—I don’t think you’re supposed to be in here," you say softly, trying not to let the nervous quiver in your voice show.

He tilts his head.

Not sharply. Not mechanically. Like a man trying to understand.

His lips part. You can tell it’s painful. His throat works around something—speech, maybe, or just the ghost of it. His voice comes like gravel, dry and shredded.

“Pomohgeet-yeh…"  Help.

Your brows knit. You don’t understand the words. But the way he says them makes your chest hurt.

He tries again.

“Gde… eta?"  Where… is this?

The effort it takes him to speak is visible.

He trembles.

Not with fear, but exhaustion. His whole body is strung tight like a stretched wire, ready to snap. One wrong move and he could bolt. Or lash out. Or break down.

You hold both hands up in that gentle, universal please-don’t-run gesture. “I—I don’t know what you’re saying. But I want to help. I can call someone. Or—I can get Mr. Stark if you want, or—”

At the name, something sharp flickers behind his eyes.

Stark.

He flinches like you’ve slapped him.

Suddenly, he shifts—too fast. That metal arm raises slightly, just a fraction. You freeze. Not because you think he’s going to hurt you—but because for a moment, he doesn’t look like a man anymore.

He looks like a ghost wrapped in combat training, forged in violence.

His eyes dart around the lobby—scanning exits, angles, security cameras.

His stance changes subtly, weight shifting onto the balls of his feet, as though he’s ready to take someone down.

And you—you’re just standing there.

He opens his mouth again, lips cracked and barely moving.

“Ne khochu… drat’sya." I don’t want… to fight.

You still don’t understand the words.

But you understand the tone.

Soft. Strained. Pleading.

“uh-huh,” you whisper.

You take a slow step around the desk. Not too close. But enough that he can see your hands, see your face.

You keep your voice low. “You look like you need help. Food? Water?”

He doesn’t answer. But his eyes track your hand as you slowly lift your bottle and offer it to him.

He reaches for it with his metal hand—but stops. There’s shame in the hesitation.

Holy Shit, is that metal ?

The faintest flicker of emotion across his dirt-streaked face. He switches to his right hand and takes it.

He drinks.

Not quickly. Like every swallow might be a mistake. Like he doesn’t trust it not to hurt.

As he drinks, you take him in quietly.

He looks... wrong in this space. The marble floor, the sleek design, the soft hum of Jarvis’ systems in the walls—it makes him look like something out of time. Like a soldier in a museum.

And then it hits you.

There’s something familiar about him. Not just the metal arm. Not just the way he looked at the building. But something in the jawline. The eyes.

You move slowly back to your desk, heart thudding as you open a file of security images.

"Who are you?" you whisper to yourself.

He doesn't answer.

He just watches you.

You move quietly to the comm panel, still keeping one eye on the man sitting stiffly in the chair near the lobby’s edge.

Tony had given you a comms piece to use in emergencies, is this a emergency ?

Stranger, built like a fridge, with a metal arm ?

Definitely.

The stranger in question hasn’t spoken since you gave him the bottle of water. His fingers—bare and bruised on one hand, cold steel on the other—grip it like it might disappear. He hasn’t drunk again. Just stares at the wall like he's trying to make sense of what a wall is.

Your voice is hushed as you speak into the receiver.

“Captain Rogers? I—I’m sorry to bother you. But there’s someone in the lobby. A man. I don’t know who he is, but I think… I think you should come down ... please.”

You don’t say that he’s filthy, trembling, starved.

You don’t say you’re afraid of how quiet he is.

You don’t say that even Jarvis, hasn’t spoken a word since he arrived.

As though the building itself is holding its breath.

You hear him before you see him—the heavy, purposeful footfalls of combat boots against tile. The automatic doors open with a whoosh, and Captain Steve Rogers steps into the lobby like a storm arriving with restraint.

He stops dead in his tracks.

You watch the expression on his face collapse.

From soldier to friend.

From Avenger to broken-hearted brother.

“...Bucky?” he breathes.

The name falls into the room like a thunderclap.

But the man in the chair doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t even look up.

“Bucky,” Steve tries again, stepping forward slowly, cautiously, as though any sudden movement might spook him.

The man’s eyes track Steve—but only briefly. Recognition doesn’t register.

No emotion flickers. Just calculation.

The Winter Soldier, watches Steve Rogers like he’s a possible threat. Like a target.

You step back instinctively, not out of fear, but because the air has changed. Thickened.

Like the moment before a fight. Or before someone remembers something too painful to hold.

Steve is trying. You can see it.

“Bucky, it’s me. It’s Steve. Steve Rogers. Brooklyn. 40s. We grew up together.” His voice cracks.

But there’s nothing behind those eyes. Not the kind of nothing that comes from confusion.

The kind that’s been scraped clean.

Programmed.

Buried.

The man’s body tenses. A tic in the jaw. A breath held too long.

His fingers flex on the water bottle, crack—plastic gives under his grip.

Then, that guttural voice “Ne znayu tebya." I don’t know you.

Steve flinches. Not physically. Not visibly.

But you feel the break.

He kneels in front of him, ignoring the metal arm, the set jaw, the violence in his posture. His voice lowers to a whisper, so raw and aching it doesn't feel meant for anyone else to hear.

“I thought I lost you. I never stopped looking.”

The soldier’s gaze doesn’t soften.

His eyes scan Steve like he’s a file to be decrypted. A puzzle, not a person.

He shifts in the chair.

Not toward Steve—but away. Just a few inches. Enough to feel like a rejection.

The lobby is quiet again. Bucky? Or The soldier?—or the shell of him—sits in the corner like a statue draped in rags. His posture stiff, eyes half-lidded but never soft.

Like a soldier awaiting deployment, tension simmering beneath his skin.

Steve touches your arm gently and gestures toward the hallway off the reception desk. His voice is low, heavy with something that feels like grief soaked in guilt.

“That’s Bucky,” he says. “James Barnes. We grew up together. He enlisted before me.”

You blink up at him, trying to marry the image of the blank, cold-eyed man in the lobby with the idea of someone’s best friend.

Steve swallows hard. “But… that’s not who he is now. Hydra got to him. They—”

He stops. The words taste wrong in his mouth.

“They erased him. Broke him down and rebuilt him into something else. A ghost with a gun. They called him ‘The Winter Soldier.’”

A pause. His jaw tightens.

“They didn’t use his name. They called him Soldat." Steve whispers, making sure only you hear.

You murmur the word aloud without thinking, testing it, you feel disgust claw at your spine at the idea of someone being stripped so bare.

“Soldat…?”

The sound barely leaves your lips. Just a sound.

But across the lobby—the man moves.

Fast.

Sudden.

Mechanical.

The chair clatters backwards as he rises in one sharp, fluid motion. Spine straight, feet planted.

His metal arm clenches, whirring softly. His eyes, once clouded with the fog of confusion, snap into unnatural focus.

Like a trigger has been pulled.

His gaze lands on you.

Not Steve.

You.

Then, in that same guttural, rasping Russian:

“Gotov k vypolneniyu." Ready to comply.

Your heart lurches. You don’t know what he said—but the tone tells you enough.

Cold.

Obedient.

Trained.

Steve steps forward sharply, hand raised. “Bucky—no! She’s not—”

But Bucky isn’t listening. His head turns ever so slightly toward you, chin dipped in rigid respect, but eyes locked like a weapon sighting a command post.

Then, another word in Russian.

“Rukovoditel’" Handler.

Shit. SHIT

You freeze, mouth slightly open, eyes wide as you stare at the man before you.

He’s taller than you by what feels like a foot, broad-shouldered and imposing, hair tangled, blood on his temple not yet dried. But it’s not his appearance that terrifies you.

It’s how still he is now. How controlled. How conditioned.

Like someone flipped a switch inside him.

Steve’s hand is on your shoulder suddenly, protective, grounding.

“He thinks you’re his handler,” Steve says softly. His voice is tight, like he’s struggling to remain calm. “Hydra trained him to respond to words 'Soldat' must have triggered it.”

You glance at the Soldier—and feel a cold chill crawl down your spine.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just waits.

As if he’s expecting you to give him an order.

You whisper, almost afraid of your own voice, “What do I do?”

Steve shakes his head. “Don’t give him commands. Don’t say anything that sounds like one. We’ll get Bruce or Tony down here, maybe they can—”

The sound of polished leather shoes and the hiss of elevator doors heralds Tony Stark’s arrival.

He strides into the lobby like he owns every inch of it—which, of course, he does. A tailored charcoal suit, sunglasses he doesn’t need indoors, and a cup of coffee he’s already bored with. His tone, dry as ever.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the Tin Man himself.”

Tony stops a few paces from the soldier, surveying him like a potential weapon. Or worse, a ticking bomb.

“You gonna sing ‘If I Only Had a Brain,’ or…?”

No response.

The Soldier—still as a statue—doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just stands in that unnatural way. Tense. Straight-backed. Alert. His metal hand twitches faintly at his side, barely noticeable unless you’re watching for it.

And you definitely are now.

You stand just behind Steve, hands clasped nervously in front of you like you’re trying to shrink into the floor. But you feel the weight of his stare. Not Tony’s. Not Steve’s.

His.

The Soldier.

His eyes, dark and unreadable, are pinned on you.

Tony raises an eyebrow and leans toward Steve. “So this is the guy you were willing to punch me in the face over?” He eyes the torn tactical gear and matted hair. “Charming.”

Steve doesn’t rise to the bait. His voice is firm but quiet. “He’s not well. Hydra programmed him. We think he… believes she's his handler”

Tony turns toward you, glancing you up and down, not rudely, just… curious. “She gets winded carrying a bag of flour.”

You open your mouth to protest, but then The Soldier moves.

Not toward Tony.

Not toward Steve.

Just… a slight shift. He angles his body protectively between you and Stark.

And then he speaks. Russian again.

“Rukovoditel"

His voice is hoarse, barely a growl.

Tony snorts. “Let me guess. That means ‘fearless leader’?”

Steve sighs. “It means ‘handler.’ I told you Tony, he thinks she’s his handler.”

Tony takes off his sunglasses, eyes narrowing. “Oh, great. We’ve got a murder machine who’s latched onto Thumbelina.”

He turns back to The Soldier, then tries his best Stark-brand sarcasm. “Hey, RoboCop. You like shawarma? Puppies? The Bee Gees?”

The Soldier doesn’t react.

His gaze stays locked on you. Like Stark isn’t even in the room.

“Gotov k vypolneniyu" Ready to comply.

Tony paces a bit, muttering to himself.

“Okay, okay… Steve brings in a half-feral Hydra brain bomb who only listens to the human equivalent of a cupcake, and I’m just supposed to—what—build him a bunkbed?”

Steve steps between them, voice low and serious. “He’s not dangerous to her. You saw that.”

“Oh yeah, I saw it,” Tony shoots back. “Saw him zero in on her like a guided missile with a crush. Only she’s not trained. She doesn’t even speak Russian. What happens if she says the wrong thing?”

You flinch a little at that, the weight of it finally settling in your chest.

Tony softens for a half-second. Just a breath. His eyes flick to you. “No offense. I’m sure you’re a lovely hostage.”

Then, toward The Soldier again. “You got anything else in that scrambled brain of yours? English? Stark tech? The weather?”

The Soldier’s only movement is the subtle tightening of his jaw. The slight widening of his stance—defensive. Watching Tony too closely now. Like he’s assessing threat levels.

But then… his eyes return to you.

You whisper, half to yourself, “He’s waiting.”

Tony raises a brow. “For what?”

You shrug helplessly. “An order. I think.”

The lobby feels heavier. Like a suspended moment, stretched too tight.

Tony watches the two of you, something calculative slipping into his expression.

“This is a problem,” he murmurs. “Because if she’s his focus, and we can’t get through to him otherwise—he’s not just broken. He’s tethered.”

Steve crosses his arms. “Then we don’t break the tether. We use it. Let her anchor him.”

Tony scoffs. “Oh, sure. Let’s just traumatize a receptionist, make her the sole translator for Hydra’s favorite murder puppet. What could go wrong?”

But even he can’t ignore the truth, the Winter Soldier isn’t reacting to threats, or commands, or charm.

Only you.

Fuck.

[sturnsdarling]

flashing lights

you and matt discover his new LED lights have a clap on/off option, and take full advantage of it.

vibe check: pure smut, back shots, dirty talk, small thing about pain kinda?, hard and fast just how we like it, softdom!matt

1k words

A/N: i saw this tiktok and....... we all know what Matt was thinking. his smirk will be the death of me bro im so serious

love and cigs, merc

Matt was stood behind you, hands gripping your ass tight as he rutted into you, skin slapping on skin, your moans filling the room. You were on all fours, ass up and face down for him, your back arched deep like a cat, putting you on full display.

With every thrust into your leaking pussy, his lights changed colour, the sensors reacting to the slapping sound Matts pelvis made as it hit the bouncy flesh of your ass. His grip on your flesh was bruising, his length near enough splitting you open as he fucked your tight hole relentlessly, lip tucked between his teeth as he groaned over and over again at the feeling, and sight, of you clenching around him.

"y'taking it so well, baby, so fuckin' well" Matt said, his tone rough but his words soft.

All you could do was moan in response, your cheek pressed flat against the soft fabric of his satin sheets, your whole body shifting against the bed as Matt pounded into you. You couldn't help but fuck back into him, needy to chase the feeling of his cock stretching you out despite the merciless pace he was setting into your sopping pussy.

Matt chuckled at your movements, his chest filling with pride at the sight of your ass jiggling against his hips, loving the needy whines that left your mouth as you rutted back against him, desperate for the euphoria he made you feel.

The room was alive, the coloured lights illuminating your fucked out face as it laid to the side, squished against his sheets, your mouth open wide and your eyes periodically rolling to the back of your skull.

"you like it when I split you open like this, huh?" Matt said, his tone faltering with every brutal thrust.

you nodded with a moan, eyes squeezing shut as your toes curled at his words.

"come on, princess...you know the rules" Matt tutted, squeezing your ass impossibly hard in his large hand.

you whimpered at the ache of his bruising fingers in your flesh, your pussy clenching at the pain, "yes, Matt, I love it"

Matt hummed at your obedience, "good girl" he drawled, just before placing a stinging slap on your ass, leaving his hand print over your fleshy cheek, your reward for being so good

He kept his relentless pace, stretching you out completely, dragging you back and forth down his lengthy cock, watching in awe how your sticky juices collected in a ring around his base, the colour of them changing with every slap of skin.

Your legs began to give out, your whole body starting to tingle as you slightly slipped down the bed, shifting away from Matt. He tutted, pulling you back up by your ass with a tug and situating you back, snug against his hips.

"where you runnin' off to, princess?" Matt said, leaning down so his chest was pressed against your back, nipping at your earlobe slightly with a hum.

you whimpered "don't stop", unable to string together a proper sentence in response as Matts hand found its way into your hair, tugging on the roots and pulling your head back taught.

He pressed his cheek to yours, still fucking into you, hitting that perfect spot inside you over and over again, "so fuckin' perfect, aren't ya?" Matt said, lips brushing over yours as his grip on your hair tightened, his tattooed arm straining as he kept himself hovering above your perfectly arched back.

His skin was warm against yours, and you could feel him poking a bulge in your belly as he bottomed out inside of you, rutting into you mercilessly, creating your own personal disco with every loud slap of skin. Your moans were almost drowned out by his, your piercing and begging cries for more being echoed by his deep grunts and groans, both of you unable to silence the noises you made as he fucked you.

The feeling was blissful, Matts plump, wet lips peppering sloppy kisses over your open mouth and rosy cheeks, his breathing staggering as he moved down to your shoulder, pressing your head down into the satin sheets whilst his perfect teeth sunk into the soft skin of your shoulder. His grip on your hair wavered, and in perfect opposition to his sharp teeth and heavy weight on you, he placed loving and tender touches across your head, soothing your messy hair down with a soft hand as he somehow also pressed you further into the sheets.

The warmth of your skin, coupled with the vice grip your pussy had on him, milking his cock as he pounded into you, and the sight of you, pressed against his sheets and taking him so well, made Matts head spin. His movements began to falter, and he knew that he wouldn't last much longer with your perfect pussy sucking him in like it was.

"you want it, baby? you want me to fill you up?" Matt cooed, pressing wet kisses over the bite marks on your shoulder.

"please, please, please" you cried, gripping the sheets beside you as you nodded uncontrollably.

Matt groaned at your begging, standing up right once more to set an unforgiving pace into your spent pussy. He laid slap after slap against your ass, the lights un-able to keep up with the sounds filling the room. You cried out his name, trying your best to fuck back into him but feeling limp under his touch.

With a few fast thrusts and a deep moan of your name, you felt Matts cock twitch inside of you, and he fell, heavy on-top of you, placing his head in the dip between your shoulders, moaning and whimpering as he lazily thrust into you, fucking the final remnants of his ropey cum into your sodden pussy.

You fell flat against the bed with a small, satisfied sigh, and the whole room went dark, the lights giving out just as the both of you did.

taglist: @sturniozalt@mattslolita@shaquilles-0atmeal@blahbel668@sleepysturniolo@le4hsblog @sarosfilms @joemamaaa42069 @2muchofaslvt @seluky10 @cherib3lla @jetaimevous @witchofthehour @sofieeeeex @ncm9696 @lovesturni0l0s @pepsicola-pussy @ifwdominicfike @dani-sturn @stupendousjellyfishpost @aesthetixhoe @sturn-rose @mattsnronebitch @chriscorqutte @elizasturn @ribread03 @st7rnioioss @maggieflms

[chadobi]

Baby Fever and Tech Support

Bayverse Donatello x Fem!Reader

i have a fucking baby fever rn 😭

You weren’t planning on falling in love with a baby today.

But the moment your cousin handed you her newborn — tiny, soft, and swaddled in a blanket with little ducks — it hit you like a freight train of hormones and hope.

His little fingers curled around yours. His eyes blinked open for half a second before fluttering shut again, face scrunching in a yawn so adorable it could melt concrete.

You were done for.

Totally and completely done for.

By the time you got home, your brain was already somewhere in fantasy land. A fantasy land that, unfortunately, involved a big soft turtle in purple goggles and your shared hypothetical future.

You collapsed onto your couch with a sigh, heart still aching from the cuteness.

The window slid open fifteen minutes later, and Donnie poked his head in.

“You texted me four crying emojis, one baby bottle, and a duck,” he said, climbing in. “So either you’re extremely sleep-deprived or emotionally compromised.”

“I met my cousin’s baby today,” you said dreamily.

Donnie blinked. “Ah. So… emotionally compromised.”

You reached into your pocket and showed him a photo. It was blurry, sure, but the little bundle was clearly sleeping on your chest.

“He’s so soft, Don. He made this squeaky noise when he yawned. And he smelled like baby lotion and fresh blankets and literal joy—”

You stopped.

Because Donnie had the face. The processing-too-many-variables-and-also-mildly-panicking face.

You softened, patting the spot next to you. “Relax, genius. I’m not saying I’m ready to pop one out tomorrow.”

He hesitated, then slowly sat beside you. “Okay. Good. Because biologically, I’m not sure how that would even—wait. That came out wrong.”

You laughed, nudging his arm. “It’s not about the logistics, Don. I just… I guess I got hit with a little baby fever. That’s all.”

He tilted his head. “Like… a temporary hormonal longing for nurturing and offspring prompted by exposure to an infant?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Exactly. And leave it to you to make it sound like a science project.”

He adjusted his glasses with a sheepish grin. “Sorry. Coping mechanism.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder, your voice a little softer now. “I just didn’t expect to feel it so hard, you know? Seeing him so tiny… made me think about the future. Our future.”

Donnie went very still.

You felt it — the tension in his frame, the inhale he held a beat too long. But then, instead of pulling away, he slowly wrapped an arm around your shoulders.

“I think about it too,” he admitted quietly.

You blinked. “You do?”

He nodded. “I mean… I don’t exactly know what it would look like. But I know it includes you. That much is clear.”

Your heart squeezed.

“And yeah,” he continued, now fidgeting with the edge of your throw blanket. “The idea of tiny, squishy… half-you people running around kind of fries my brain a little. But also? It doesn’t scare me as much as it used to. Not with you.”

You smiled into his shoulder, tears pricking your eyes. “You’d be a great dad, you know.”

He gave a soft, breathy laugh. “I’d be a paranoid, overly-researched, baby-monitor-hacking, formula-analyzing wreck.”

“Exactly,” you said. “And perfect.”

You both sat in silence for a moment, your head tucked under his chin, his fingers idly tracing patterns on your arm.

“…How small was his hand?” Donnie asked suddenly.

You held up your pinky finger. “Like, this small. Maybe smaller.”

He blinked, amazed. “Incredible. I could probably 3D print a baby bottle one-handed, y’know.”

You chuckled. “Oh, I know. You’d make a baby carrier with built-in UV sensors and bottle warmers.”

Donnie looked pleased with that mental image. “And a nightlight with adjustable circadian rhythm settings.”

“…And goggles that play lullabies.”

“Bluetooth-enabled.”

You laughed again, this time full-bellied, imagining a baby wearing techy purple Donatello goggles.

But then something shifted in the silence. Something warm and real.

Donnie looked down at you with a soft expression. “If you… ever want to talk seriously about it. Someday. I mean, long down the road. I’d like that.”

Your breath caught.

You turned to face him fully, your eyes searching his. “You really mean that?”

“I do.” His voice was steady now. “Whatever the future brings — as long as it includes you — I want to be ready for it.”

You leaned forward and kissed him. It was slow, deep, a little shaky from how full your chest felt.

When you pulled back, you whispered, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he replied, a little breathless.

Then, with a small smirk: “Although if we do eventually have kids, I’m installing motion sensors in the nursery.”

“And I’m naming the baby,” you countered.

“Deal,” he grinned.

[spookyweaselbones]

Waldo 1.0 basically came together in a single shot. Design, laser cut, assemble, flap mouth. It only allowed me to move my thumb and wrist, and it wasn’t very good at letting me isolate motion, but functioned basically immediately.

Getting the Waldo to this stage, on the other hand, where I can articulate more than just the thumb, and minimize unwanted secondary motion (aka move my fingers without the whole head jerking around) required a complete rebuild of the gimbal frame just to start. I then had to learn 3D printing and surface modeling in CAD, and do maybe 40 prints producing about a hundred parts. I had to radically re-evaluate the entire approach to the hand control design, including the basic premise that a Waldo hand control should be shaped like the interior of a puppet head.

The Henson approach is undoubtedly superior but much much more difficult to pull off. It basically involves placing all the rotary sensors at the exact axis of rotation for all the digits of the hand. Pulling this off has benefits in terms of one-to-one control, but I discovered that it requires incredibly precise placement or else tons of secondary motion is created.

Frustrated, I thought about trackball mice and game controllers and musical instruments. All of these things let you isolate motion by enabling the hand to move the way it wants to. The sensor doesn’t have to care where your joints are and how they move, you just have to be able to reach them.

I re-designed the hand controls to be shaped more like an ergonomic mouse instead of like a puppet mouth, and although it has created a new learning curve for controlling the character, it’s immediately obvious that this approach is worth pursuing and may very well be the winning form.

Edit: the character model is a wip by an artist named Cramble who is a genius

[secretsnowclub]

Building a Time Machine to Review Lancer

This article begins with Snow completing a time machine and traveling back to the year 2006. Snow appears in her childhood bedroom with her Fourteen-Year-Old Self [from now referenced as 14].

Snow: I’ve come from the future to ask you some questions. I’m struggling to review this book.

14: I become a girl?

Snow: We don’t have time for that. I’m only here for the book.

Snow holds up Lancer, the 2020 Mecha TTRPG from Massif Press. Funded on kickstarter in 2019 to the tune of $432,029 on the back of a long beta-phase, facilitated by the Lancer subreddit, and the vibrant illustrations of Tom Parkinson Morgan, creator of Kill Six Billion Demons, the wildly successful web comic.

Snow doesn’t tell this to 14 because it would take too long to explain that, in the future, people could have a job like that and make that kind of money. And if 14 knew, then the entire trajectory of her life would change.

14: Makes sense. It’s really big. What’s a Lancer?

Snow: Like 500 pages, but It’s not important. It’s like a Gundam.

14: Like Gundam SD? Zaku Zaku hour?

Snow: No.

14: Like G Gundam? With the horse guy?

Snow: No. I thought you were cooler than this.

14: Shrugs. So it’s just a mecha thing? Mechs are cool. That art’s really sick. Can I be that guy on the front?

Snow: Ideally. It’s like 4th Edition. Has that come out yet? Never mind, you’ll like it. Here. Hands 14 the book. I want you to read through it and tell me what you think.

14 opens the book, flipping a few pages, then cuts the book in half, flipping quickly through the front and middle.

Snow: What’s that? What’re you doing?

14: I never read the front stuff. I tried with D20 Modern, but it’s all just kinda boring. I wanna make a mech. In the Naruto game we played, making your ninja was the best part.

Snow and 14 sit on the floor with some paper and make their mechs.

Snow: It says here that all new players start with the same basic frame, the Everest.

14 flips to the Everest.

14: There’s no picture for it.

Snow: Well, my guess is that they let you make it look however you want since everyone starts with it.

14: The others have pictures though, and look how cool they are. The Blackbeard, the Drake, the Nelson. I wanna be the Nelson. Look at the cape!

Snow: Can you make sense of the stats and stuff?

14: I mean, it mostly makes sense. I don’t know what Repair Cap is. Or Heat or anything like that. But the traits are cool. Boost is probably an action. Immobilized or Slowed make sense as conditions. And the Skirmisher ability is so cool. I’m like, gliding through the battlefield with a spear, cutting down mechs and backflipping away.

Snow: Okay so…

Snow bookmarks page 140 with a finger and flips back to page 30. She does this several times before reading through to page 36.

14, bored, tries to draw a mech.

Snow: Um, ah, I see. So these things are your stats, like in Star Wars or Pathfinder.

14: What’s Hull?

Snow: That’s like your strength. It says “Roll Hull when smashing through or pulverizing obstacles.” But you won’t know what your Hull bonus is until you make your pilot. They get mech skill points to put into your mech stats. We need more bookmarks if we’re gonna do this..

14: Mom’s got the printer. A lot of books are big and confusing, so I just print off the important pages. You really only need like 20 of them to figure out the game I bet.

Snow: Speed is movement, Evasion is kind of like Armor Class, Sensor is your range to detect enemies and use hacking things on them, and E-Defense is Armor Class for hacking, but Heat is like HP for hacking, and then Stress is like Structure but for hacking, so, like, Structure and Stress are, like, if you drop to 0HP, you lose a Structure and regain all HP and kinda do it all over again, so it’s like extra lives, except you might get a scar or something, same for Stress–

14: Mom’s got the printer.

14 sits at a buzzing Dell computer on the enclosed front porch while the bulky printer spits out some pages in jagged black and white ink.

Snow reads about combat.

Snow: Do you still have the old gundam figurines? I think we put them in the basement. I don’t remember when.

14: I’m not sure, why?

Snow: First of all, don’t let mom throw them away. She’s gonna throw away a lot of your stuff and you’ll wish you still had when you get to where I am. Secondly, we can use them for combat. It’s grid-based, so we’ll have to figure that out. Get a map or something.

14: I hate grids.

Snow ignores 14 and continues to read.

14: Figure all that out yet?

Snow: Yeah, I think so. I think it’s actually really simple, just that everything’s spread out. You’re just rolling a D20-plus-stuff against the static numbers to see if you hit. Then your attachments can raise the static numbers. Accuracy and Difficulty are like additional modifiers that can happen with cover or if you’re affected by a status. It’s just like D&D. But with mechs.

14: It does just kinda give you a buncha numbers.

Snow: We also just flipped to the mechs though, so–

14: But that’s why we’re here though, right? I don’t want to read about all this random stuff. I want to take the mechs and play the game in as little time as possible. If I have to sit and explain all this to the guys, they’re gonna be so bored. They’d rather play Star Wars or something.

Snow: You think it would be better if you opened the book and it was just mechs right up front?

14: It sounds kinda silly when you say it like that. It’s more that, it being a big book you already know it’s going to be boring, right? They always are. I feel like the good version of such a big, mecha book is that it would be filled with mechs. It should be filled with pre-built pilots and just, like, the rules for making your own if you want to. The art is so cool, why would you want to start by building your own mech when you could pick this cool gunslinger one? If I opened this book and it was just like “pick a pilot and pick your mech, here’s a grid so you can fight and here’s the one page with all the basic rules on it,” then I could play it right now and we wouldn’t be sitting here waiting for these pages to print.

The printer stutters.

Snow: Would it make you feel any different if I told you this was made by just two people?

14: What? Really? Why?

Snow: Well, not only two people. Miguel Lopez and Tom Parkinson Morgan wrote and designed the whole thing. Tom and a bunch of others did the art. It was edited by Melody Watson and the layout was done by Minerva McJanda.

14: I don’t know who any of those people are.

Snow: It was a small team, is what I’m trying to say.

The printer whirs to a stop.

14: But look, I just put together the important parts so that we can actually play. And I’m fourteen.

14 and Snow continue talking, sitting at the dining room table.

Snow: What about the GM section? Won’t you need it to run the game?

14: No. I’ve seen Gundam Seed and Patlabor and Appleseed. I’ll just do that but with, like, a Death Star or something.

Snow: Just take a look. I want your opinion on it.

14 skims the section.

14: GM Principles. Facilitate fun, no duh. Renounce control? That’s a no brainer. Just last week the group killed the big bad in the Star Wars campaign in the first session. Funniest shit that’s ever happened.

Snow: Haha, I remember that.

14: Consider your players… I’m sorry, but what is this? Is this book trying to teach me how to be a good friend to my friends?

Snow: Well, maybe you’re not playing with friends?

14: Why would I do that? And why would playing with strangers make me act like a jerk all of a sudden?

Snow: Shrugs. Remember that game at the card shop when that new worker ran a game and was killing everyone’s characters for fun?

14: Yeah…that sucked. But that guy was just a jerk. He got fired for stealing Magic cards or something, I think.

Snow: Well, maybe the idea is that if this is in the book, stuff like that won’t happen or can be stopped. Y’know, like a kid reading this might feel comfortable enough to speak up.

14: The only reason we didn’t speak up was because he was an adult. We knew he was a jerk the whole time, we just wanted it to be over so we could go do something else. Maybe if adults weren’t assholes things would be better.

Snow: I understand.

Beat.

Snow: I kinda like the questions here under Eliciting Responses. Those are actionable and could be nice for awkward pauses.

14: Yeah, those are alright.

14 and Snow sit at the table having just finished making pilots.

Snow: How’d you like that?

14: That was kinda fun. The pilot portraits are really cool. There’s a lot of cool art in here that makes me really want to be those people. The backgrounds remind me of D20 Modern, but they’re actually useful here. I like the Triggers and I want to make a bunch of them. I can’t wait to see what the group ends up making.

Snow: My favorite part is that all skill checks are just trying to beat a 10. I’ve stolen that for some of my own games.

14: Wait, you make games?

Snow: Yeah. It’s sort of why I’m doing this interview with you.

14: Oh, so this is your job?

Snow: Thinks for a moment. No, this is just sort of a compulsion. But my job is making games. I’ve made a few.

14: That’s really cool. I didn’t even know that could be a job.

Snow: You’re gonna like it. It’ll be a while before it happens though. You’ve gotta go through some things first.

14: Ignores her. But yeah, I really like the pilot stuff. I could honestly see us using that for its own game. I don’t know, my mind has like six different ideas for a campaign right now. You could use this as like pilots for fighter planes, or race cars, or like even some kind of Code Lyoko situation.

Snow: Is that important to you? Being able to reuse ideas or think of new ways to use what’s in the book?

14: Well…I think it’s more that the book showed me an easy way to make ideas I already had into a reality. Like, we always wanted to run a zombie game, but with D&D it didn’t feel right. After we read D20 Apocalypse though, it felt more natural.

Snow: That’s a good thought. What about Section 2: Missions and Downtime?

14: I probably won’t use any of it.

Snow: Why not?

14: I don’t know. Like I said before, I’ve seen Gundam. I already know the stories I want to have. I think that’s the easiest part.

Snow: What’s the hard part then?

14: Um, maps, enemies. Cool rival pilots. Things that give me more ideas. I don’t really need it to tell me how to do a mission or whatever. I’ve watched Saving Private Ryan and I’ve played Medal of Honor, so… the only thing missing is the inspiration. Stuff I couldn’t think about by just sitting and watching T.V.

Snow: And what about the downtime actions?

14: I don’t know.

Snow: No opinions?

14: Shrugs. Same answer, I guess.

Snow: Do you think the rest of the book is used well?

14: I don’t really know what you mean by “used well.” But it’s a lot of information to parse. They can’t expect I’ll read this all at once, or even read it all before I play the game. There’s so many templates and different types of NPCs. Tons of symbols for weapons and attacks. It’s just a lot of information that my brain can’t really make sense of right now.

Snow: Do you wish it were simplified?

14: I think we both agree that the game is rather simple, the actual rules are easy to learn, but the way it’s presented makes it hard to grasp.

Snow: Yeah, I agree. But when I actually stop to read any of it, the ideas are pretty good and usable. Like, reading the Sniper NPC gives me an idea for an encounter. But you’re right, it is A LOT. But I don’t think it’s any more or less than, say, what the Monster Manual has, for instance.

14: Yeah, but there’s so many optional things. The Monster Manual really just gives you one instance of a thing, so you can take out, like, a dragon, and just use it right then. You don’t have to build it or be selective about it. I don’t really know if one way of doing it is better, I just know that I feel overwhelmed by the book right now and will probably just make a lot of stuff up on the fly as we play.

Snow: I understand.

Beat.

Snow: I wish mom would take you to the doctor.

14: Huh? Why?

Snow: It’s nothing. There’s so many things I wish I could tell you–so many things you’ll learn between now and when you become me–

14: A girl?

Snow: Unphased. And you’ll wish that maybe someone paid more attention. So many things that would help you make sense of who you are and how your brain works.

14: Wait, are you crying?

Snow: No, no.

14 and Snow run a few rounds of combat, just the two of them. 14 pilots the Nelson, decked out with a Custom Paint Job, Expanded Compartment, and Manipulators. The last of 14’s SP is spent to get the Type-1 Flight System. So now the Nelson counts as flying while it boosts towards enemies, War Pike at the ready. Sides strapped with two pistols and a shotgun in case things get hairy.

Snow builds out Horus’s Pegasus model but doesn’t use it for the combat. Instead, they control a few squads of infantry and an Archer NPC with the Flier Ship Template.

Snow sets the scene: 14 is sent behind enemy lines to take out a ship that holds a nuclear armament. It’s set to leave the atmosphere this evening and must be grounded.

The fight is slow and methodical. They listen to the Halo 2 Movement Suite the entire time.

Snow: That was fun.

14: Yeah, that was epic. I don’t normally like grids, but it kinda makes sense with mechs. It’d be really fun to, like, be the pilot and do Gundam Wing stuff before getting into this big conflict that’s, like, really intense.

Snow: I bet it might get a little monotonous with all the guys here.

14: Naw. They love it when combat takes forever. I think it’ll be even better with more people. You can use strategy and talk to each other about where you’re gonna go and who you’re gonna attack. Coordinate stuff. I’m sure there’s a limit to how many people you can add before it’s too much, but that’s true of everything.

Snow: Good point.

14: I can’t wait to play some more tonight.

14 and Snow sit quietly for a moment.

Snow: Well I should really get back. Do you think I should leave the book with you or take it back with me?

14: If you need it, you can keep it.

Snow: It’s your choice, kid. I came here for you.

14: I’ll definitely keep it then.

Snow hands over the book to 14. They don’t hug or anything. They just stand there as awkward reflections of each other.

Snow: So…you like it after all?

14: Yeah. It’s really cool. I’ll probably read it all some day. Or not. I’ll probably just make up the stuff that makes my brain all fuzzy.

Snow: Good plan.

Snow says goodbye to 14 and steps back through into the present.

When they return, on their desk is a beat-up copy of Lancer. The pages are torn, some removed completely. Spine bent. Water damaged. Notes written in the margins. Black marker crosses out enough to make it look like poetry.

And atop it, a solitary Gundam figurine sits waiting.

You can find lancer on itch.io.

If you enjoy writing like this, consider supporting my patreon and following my substack, where this and many more articles have been available already~

[captain-clandestiny]

Take and Leave

Smooth, steel digits unfurled around her own- easily, and entirely eclipsed under the shadow they cast. Massive artificial joints flexed and retracted with an ease rivaling even that of human capacity. The familiar whirring of pistons underneath armored plates was now near impossible to discern from the cacophony of gunshots and voices echoing off what was left of the west wing rooftops. In her once empty palm rested a small USB stick that almost looked older than she was. Scratches of blue and orange on the long side obscured a logo that had once been printed on there, and a ball chain strand had been woven through a hole on the opposite end of the applicator. No label, no logo, but she had a hint to what it contained. 

“L-Lanning, I…” her voice was hoarse, a couple decibels shy of a wheeze. “...is this…?” 

She kept the hand extended in front of her, neither accepting nor rejecting the responsibility he was preparing to assign her. The chain tied through the device swayed in air that smelled of smoke and death, bursts of gunfire echoing off what was left of the rooftops.

“Listen.” A shudder ran through the floor under her feet, rivaling that of her own shivering as the mech dropped a knee to the ground, setting its single, rounded lens in her direction. He leaned in closer, the glass hovering inches away from her arm before the body completely stilled. But she didn’t waver, not even flinch.

“This is it, didn’t you say? Remember you told me?? There’s–! You’re–! They destroyed everything else!! There’s nothing left! There’s no coming back if you– you–”

On the smooth camera surface, the reflection of the woman standing amidst what was left of the third floor medical studio was not a forgiving one. An ugly frown creased the flesh of her cheeks around a quivering lower lip, filtering her words into a pathetic stutter. Streaks of blood painted her face and uniform. Some patches old, flaky and dry, some fresh, sticky, still wet. 

“I’m not letting you do this. There’s people that need you, Lan… I…”

“No,” his artificial voice overpowered any resistance, leaving silence in its wake.

With a single finger, he pushed the hand holding the drive to her chest before she had the chance to throw it away. He knew just this gesture would be sufficient to express his command, but he still lingered there for a second more. Underneath the angled fingertip, kinetic sensors mapped a signature. Only until he felt bruised, bloodied fingers closing around the drive did he let up.

“Listen,” he repeated. “Not another living soul touches this. Not crew, not your mother, not the leader of the free world.”

“Just give me the fucking nuclear codes at this point! Anything but this!”

In her grip, the USB felt foreign. Flat corners dug into the heel of her palm, but the weathered edges inflicted no pain. She almost wished she’d been tasked to the Nautilean unit instead so she could crush it rather than submit to this decision she had no choice in.

“Please,” she pleaded, a sob hitched in her throat. “We’ve had our disagreements, and you’ve always been right. You’re always right, b-but just once just listen to me!”

It was almost poetic. A stubborn force against a static object. Back and forth until you couldn’t hear the screams any more. But as the booms of artillery intensified, it was clear who the victor would be. She took one second to breathe, struggling to gather her thoughts and hear her own voice with explosions dotting the sky every other second. And one second too much, as that was all it took for the robot to decide she’d lingered long enough. 

“This is not a debate, this is an order. Go. Now.” Ignoring a handful of whitecoats that had paused along their escape route to take in the spectacle, he pinched the length of her tie that had been fluttering freely from the uniform jacket. The artificial voice, amplified by the size of its vessel easily commanded her attention, as well as that of the passing survivors. 

Careful not to rip it straight off her neck, or drag her over the third floor edge, he tugged it closer as he quietly added,”and tuck this stupid thing in before you lose it.” In the vicinity of interested ears, it was unsure whether he was referring directly to the tie, or the USB of interest looped under her collar.

“As far as my detections yield, you are the last ones,” he announced to everyone now, raising his visor as if to affirm it with a final scan. “Endeavour has already departed. Supervisor Evans, I’ve rerouted you to the Pacer.”

Evans made himself known at the far end of the hallways as he fumbled with the tablet in his breast pocket. It bathed his face in a ghostly blue light, undoubtedly the site navigation UI that pretty much every staff had to reference daily. From the angle he held it in the crook of his arm, the path clearly outlined in red, blinking dashes affirmed the directions were received. Satisfied, the mech straightened its posture again, taking a step back to rise to its full height.

“They will not wait long. Run, there is nothing more to be salvaged here.”

HIIII yes im aware of the visual discrepancies between the images... lets just say this took a good week or two to actually finish. "finish." i dont like how it came out, but im glad i could finish it because WOW this has been a scene lingering in my head for a long time. better to draw than do nothing at all right. i could spend all day nitpicking everything i rendered wrong that i don't yet have the skillset to fix, but instead i am going to sleep before 2 am :)

wait!! before i go!! this is not lannings final design btw!!!! please!!!!!! bear with me!!!!!!!!! im still designing the body though i got his head together lolol

[fictionfanatic-wren]

The robin games

chapter 5/7. The Robin Games - Chapter 5 - Fictionfanatic_Wren - Batman - All Media Types [Archive of Our Own]

The small, dimly lit maintenance room was packed wall-to-wall with capes, armor, and confusion. Superman hovered just above the ground, arms crossed. Green Arrow was crouched near the half-eaten protein bar like it was a crime scene. Wonder Woman stood by the door, stone-faced. Hal Jordan paced, while Barry looked like someone had kicked his dog. “Alright,” Dinah said, hands on her hips. “Someone needs to explain why it smells like old coffee, protein bars, and deodorant for teenage boys in here.” “Because someone’s been living here,” Ollie grumbled, holding up the half-unwrapped bar with two fingers. “Look at this. Half-eaten. Not even wrapped properly. There’s coffee residue in the cup holder and prints on the terminal.” “That’s definitely not ours,” Barry added, squinting at the cup. “That’s the mug I’ve been looking for since yesterday. Yesterday, people.” “So someone’s been camping out on the Watchtower without us knowing,” Hal said, turning to Bruce with narrowed eyes. “Care to explain how your billion-dollar security system missed a freeloader living in the walls?” Bruce stood silent, face unreadable. “It didn’t miss them,” he said finally, tone low. “It found them just now.” “That’s not an answer,” Hal shot back. “I’m still processing the data,” Bruce replied smoothly, eyes never leaving the half-powered computer console. Clark floated a little closer, scanning the equipment with his x-ray vision. “There’s a whole tech setup hidden behind the panels,” he reported. “Wires, a motion sensor jammer, even a router spoof. This wasn’t slapped together. This was deliberate.” “So the real question,” Ollie muttered, “is which one of us brought a secret intern onboard.” Barry perked up, hopeful. “Maybe it’s a stowaway from Earth? A well-meaning super-fan?” “With access to League systems?” Diana said, one brow arching. “And the ability to bypass our security and, according to you, eat your pizza?” Barry deflated. “...Yeah, okay, probably not a fan.” “Let’s take stock,” Dinah said, ticking off her fingers. “We’ve had: stolen pizza, missing coffee mugs, glitter bombs in the armory, Green Arrow’s door screaming shame at him, and now someone is nesting in our walls. Someone very skilled.” Hal rubbed his temples. “Okay, real talk. If this is about the laser pointer prank from six months ago, I already apologized, Barry.” “That’s what you want me to think,” Barry snapped, arms flailing. “Maybe this is the long con. The real revenge!” “You are not important enough to sabotage with a long con,” Bruce said flatly, stepping past them to inspect the panel Tim had hastily closed. Everyone froze. “Spooky,” Clark said carefully. “That sounded kinda personal.” “Let’s not fight,” Diana said, sighing. “Let’s focus. Whoever’s here is skilled enough to hide, hack, and infiltrate without being caught for days. We need a plan.” “Oh, I’ve got one,” Ollie muttered. “We burn the whole maintenance wing and flush them out.” “Ollie.” “What? It worked with raccoons.” Bruce straightened from the console. “No fire” he said. “But we lock down non-essential areas. Increase patrols. Motion sensors, heat trackers, and set traps in likely routes.” Everyone nodded, except Barry, who just looked mournfully at his empty mug. “…I miss my coffee.”

Tim Drake moved quickly through the narrow metal duct, his body pressed low and knees aching from the awkward angles. He was running on pure adrenaline now, he’d narrowly escaped being discovered in the maintenance room, but not without losses. His spare toolkit, the laptop charger, and Barry’s coffee mug were all left behind. “Fantastic,” Tim muttered under his breath, the distant hum of voices below fading as he crawled deeper into the Watchtower’s belly. “All because someone decided to trigger an alarm right next to me.” He paused at a junction in the vent, twisting to glance at the corridor below through a slatted grate. Then, Thump. The faintest vibration in the metal above him. He stilled. Every instinct screamed caution. Someone else was in the shaft. Tim slowly reached for a small baton from his belt and turned. From the shadows, a low voice spoke: “You’re incredibly loud for someone who’s supposed to be stealthy.” Tim froze. A small figure crouched just ahead, perched in the shadows like a gargoyle. Damian. The youngest Robin looked perfectly at ease, barely winded, his cloak tucked tightly around his small frame, expression full of judgment. Tim narrowed his eyes. “You tripped the alarm, didn’t you.” Damian tilted his head. “Of course I did. This is a competition. Only the competent deserve to win. You were getting too comfortable.” Tim exhaled sharply, crawling closer so they could talk without echoing. “You little gremlin, I had a whole system running. I was fine until your stunt brought the League breathing down my neck.” Damian’s eyes gleamed in the dim light. “You were growing complacent. And it was funny.” Tim pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know if they’d found my stuff-” “Then you would’ve lost. You should thank me for teaching you the importance of vigilance.” Tim stared at him. “You sound exactly like Bruce when he’s being a hypocrite.” “A compliment.” Tim groaned. “You stole Dick’s gear too, didn’t you?” Damian didn’t answer, but his smug silence spoke volumes. Tim muttered something under his breath that was definitely not appropriate for younger ears. The two stared at each other in silence, crouched in opposite corners of the vent. For a moment, there was a grudging, still tension between them. Then Tim sighed. “Fine. Truce. Just for today. I need a new hiding spot.” Damian raised a brow. “I’m not sharing my camp.” “I don’t want it. Just a direction that isn’t crawling with League members and panic.” Damian considered this. Then he jerked his chin to the left. “Upper deck. Storage vents near the armory. Leaguers don’t patrol there much.” Tim paused, then gave a curt nod. “Thanks.” Damian arched a brow. “Try not to get caught. It would be… disappointing.” Tim rolled his eyes and began crawling away. “Right back at you, gremlin.” Damian smirked as he disappeared into the shadows, already thinking of his next move.

Jason pressed himself against the cool metallic wall, breathing shallowly as he listened to the distant sound of boots echoing through the corridor. Way too many boots. He peeked around the corner. Green Arrow. Black Canary. Flash. All moving in different directions, radios buzzing on their hips. “Maintenance room sweep’s clear,” Dinana’s voice crackled over the comms. “Yeah, but somebody left a thermos of my coffee in there,” Barry hissed. Jason ducked back, swearing under his breath. This was bad. The League was in full lockdown mode now, walking around like a bunch of angry substitute teachers trying to catch kids passing notes. All because of one little triggered alarm and a missing mug. Okay. And maybe the trip wire in the gym. And maybe the slightly rigged training bot that randomly screamed insults at ollie for two hours. And, yeah, okay, a few pranks. He crept backward into a dark corridor that led to the utility crawlspaces. His old hiding spot in the storage bay was now way too risky, at least three League members had passed through in the last hour. Jason muttered to himself as he climbed into an access tunnel. “Could’ve just let Tim or Damian take the fall, but nooo. I had to switch Barry’s toothpaste with marshmallow fluff and now the whole tower’s on DEFCON 1.” He crawled deeper until he found a narrow space behind a ventilation conduit, the metal panels warm against his back. He took off his helmet, wiping sweat from his brow, then pulled a granola bar from his pocket and bit into it like it owed him money. Footsteps passed by again above. Jason closed his eyes, forcing his breathing to slow. This was fine. This was manageable. He’d hide here for a bit, wait for the tension to cool, maybe frame Hal later if things got dire. No one suspected that Red Hood himself was in the watchtower. Yet. But the moment his eyes started to droop, a voice blared from a nearby intercom: “Reminder: motion sensors have been temporarily enhanced in this sector due to recent… incidents. Please report any suspicious movement immediately.” Jason sighed, then shoved the rest of the granola bar into his mouth. “I swear to god, if I find out Tim set this up…”

Watchtower, Sector B1, Personnel Quarters Dick Grayson moved like a shadow, a very annoyed, gearless shadow. His crawlspace hiding spot had been compromised hours ago. And without his tools, he was flying blind in a nest full of superheroes and security systems. Damian had swiped everything from his little rooftop nook, even his emergency chocolate bar. The betrayal stung. "Never trust a ten-year-old with murder training," Dick muttered under his breath as he crept through a dim hallway, every motion smooth but fueled by pure desperation. His Nightwing suit, while flexible, was now a beacon without the signal disruptors. The sleek navy blue made him far too recognizable for someone trying to stay unseen. He needed a disguise. Fast. He turned a corner, and stopped. Room B1-04. The door was heavy, black, and marked only by a biometric scanner and a simple nameplate: RESTRICTED, ACCESS LEVEL 10 Most of the League assumed this room was storage or an unused system control station. But Dick had known the truth since his early Robin years. Batman’s quarters. He hesitated for exactly two seconds. Then: “Desperate times…” Dick bypassed the lock with a quick override Bruce had taught him back when trust between them wasn’t a limited resource, and slipped inside. The room was spartan. Clean. Every corner obsessively organized. A minimalistic bed, a locked trunk, and a closet lined with armor and utility gear. But no personal touches. No photos. No journals. Classic Bruce. Dick moved to the closet. His heart thudded in his ears as he flipped through the suits, mostly standard Bat-armor, backup units, and even one older prototype with an awkward yellow emblem. Finally, he found it: a slimmed-down, stealth-variant Batsuit. Jet black, lightweight. More flexible than the others, probably one Bruce wore for espionage operations. Perfect. Dick stripped off his Nightwing gear in record time and pulled the suit on. It clung to him like a second skin. The cowl, smaller than Bruce’s standard, fit well enough once he adjusted the chin plate. He looked into the darkened windowpane and smirked at the reflection: “Well. I guess I’m Batman now.” He paused. Then shook his head. “Nope. Not saying that out loud again.” Just as he secured the last piece of armor, he heard footsteps outside the hallway.

Dick didn’t expect to be stopped. That was the whole point of wearing the suit. But as soon as he turned the corner, he nearly ran straight into Green Arrow, Canary, and Martian Manhunter, all looking like they’d been mid-conversation until the second he appeared. “Batman,” Ollie said with a nod, stepping aside to let him pass. Dick managed a stiff nod back. “Arrow. Canary. J’onn.” He deepened his voice slightly, not a full growl (he wasn’t going to parody Bruce), but just enough to pass. It seemed to work. At least for a second. Until Green Arrow squinted. “You look… thinner than usual.” “I changed my diet.” Dinah tilted her head. “And you’re walking weird.” “My leg was injured in Gotham. Minor strain. Nothing worth filing.” Martian Manhunter stared. Hard. His glowing eyes narrowed like he was scanning something just off. Dick’s internal panic flared, was the suit giving him away? Heat signature? His height? He subtly adjusted his posture and folded his arms across his chest, classic Bruce. “If there’s nothing else, I need to return to my work.” Canary blinked. “We were going to brief you on the Star City gang forming. You skipped the last two meetings.” “I was busy,” Dick said, already turning to walk past them. “And I read the reports. Proceed without me.” He held his breath as he walked away, back rigid, cape swishing just enough to look dramatic. The moment he turned the next corner and was out of sight, he bolted into the next maintenance shaft like his life depended on it. Inside the vent, he slumped against the wall, yanked off the cowl, and exhaled. “Never again,” he muttered. “I need a double the cookies when i win. And therapy.”

[taintedsoul-if]

Did y’all think I forgot about the Drabble Delight poll? I didn’t 😔 …Okay, maybe I did a little. But today I opened my folder and guess what I found? So, as promised, here’s what you all voted for—an emotional 1,877-word drabble of the MC going through the gut-wrenching realization that they seriously fucked up. Rest assured, the second drabble will be posted sometime this week or early next week. Hope you all enjoy the angst.

《CADMUS × MC × ATTICUS — I want you both.》

A wry smile formed on your lips as you watched the servants of Cadmus' household stack box after box outside the door. Tonight marked the fifth night you had sat outside his gates. Each night, after hours of observing, you would visit Atticus' home. The servant who once greeted you with familiarity now respectfully told you to leave, his master’s orders clear. One was leaving; the other wanted nothing to do with you.

Cadmus hadn’t been at school these past few days, nor had Atticus. A substitute teacher had taken over his class, and rumors swirled through Gledir Academy that Atticus had gone back to his hometown to recuperate from an "old illness." But you knew the truth. You were the one who drove Atticus away, and Cadmus’ absence had been your doing as well. Now, you were trapped at a crossroads, torn between two men, juggling them in your life with lies—day after day, lie after lie. You had tried to keep them apart, keeping them in the dark because you were greedy — you wanted them both, even if it meant having your cake and eating it too.

But now, watching Cadmus’ belongings being packed up, reality settled in. You had thought you’d finally found peace, being with both of them at the same time, each unaware of the other. You had built a home in this strange, foreign world. Yet, because of your own selfishness, your greed had torn it all down. Now, you had nothing. No peace. No home. Just the cold truth that both men were slipping away—one willingly, and the other because you had pushed him too far.

Blinking away the tears that burned the back of your eyes, you finally signaled for Nightingale to open the shuttle doors. The box of trinkets Cadmus had once given you felt like a boulder that wanted to crush you, its contents a reminder of everything you were about to lose. Your hands trembled as you lifted it. "I’ll be back. You can stay here. I won’t take long," you said, forcing a smile onto your lips. Nightingale’s gaze softened, but she didn’t say anything. Her smile—sad, knowing—mirrored the one you wore. She knew, perhaps better than anyone, the turmoil that had been consuming you.

Taking a deep breath, you stepped out of the shuttle, the cold air biting at your skin. The path to the gate seemed longer tonight, each step heavier. You swiped your fingers over the sensors, the familiar beeping sound that followed feeling more like an accusation than a welcoming gesture. The gate clicked open, granting you access. But the comfort of the door unlocking didn’t soothe you. It only made the silence around you feel more suffocating.

He hadn’t removed your prints. But did that even matter anymore? No, it didn't. Not when he was leaving you behind.

The security guard at the junction jumped from his seat when he saw you approach, bowing quickly. His reaction was automatic — but you saw the hesitation in his eyes and the awkwardness in his posture.

“There’s no need for ceremony,” you said, trying to keep your voice under control. You motioned for him to approach, but the action felt heavier than it should have. “I noticed that your young master is leaving.” The words tasted like ash in your mouth, and you looked down at the box in your hands.

The lump in your throat tightened, and for a moment, you couldn’t breathe. You forced yourself to speak, breathless at this point. “These... these are all your master's things. If you could do me a favor and hand them to him before he leaves, it would mean a lot to me.”

The servant’s eyes widened, and he shook his head almost violently. It was as though the request had stunned him, a ripple of disbelief running through him. “No,” he finally said, shifting from foot to foot. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

You felt a bitter twist in your chest. He didn’t need to say anything more. The refusal was everything you feared — a reminder of how far you had fallen from the place where you thought you still belonged.

He wasn’t the only one who was sorry. You were sorry, too. Sorry for dragging this out, for holding on to things that couldn’t be saved. Sorry that you never gave Cadmus the space to leave on his own terms. Sorry for waiting too long to face the truth. You stood there, numb to everything around you, the box feeling light as a feather and your palms sweating.

“Is there a reason you cannot do as I requested?”

The servant hesitated, wringing his hands uncomfortably. “Forgive me, but the young master gave us strict instructions. If you stopped by wanting to deliver anything, we are not to accept it from you.” His voice was cautious, as if fearful of offending you — or maybe of saying the wrong thing. “Young Mx, this job is my lifeline. I simply cannot risk losing it.”

Your grip on the box tightened, fingers pressing deep into the corners.

“We are not allowed to stop you,” the servant continued. “If you wish to enter the premises, you’re free to come and go as you please. But... the Sire hasn’t returned home in five days.”

Five days ago... that was when Cadmus found out. The night you had chosen Atticus over him. The night you had promised to be by his side on his mother’s death anniversary — only to leave him alone because Atticus, too, had needed you on the same night, for the same reason.

A single drop of water slid off your chin, landing on the surface of one of the trinkets in the box. You hadn’t even realized you were crying.

Your vision blurred, the man's form distorting and melding with the surroundings. The box in your hands slipped from your grasp, crashing onto the ground with a thunk. Trinkets scattered across the stone path, rolling down the small slope.

“Sorry for disturbing you,” you murmured, though the words felt distant, empty.

Your body moved on its own, turning away before your mind could catch up. Step by step, you stumbled back toward the shuttle, your chest tight with unsaid words.

Moments spent with Cadmus flittered through your mind—his laughter, the way he would watch you when he thought you weren’t looking, the coolness of his hand against yours. Memories, once so vivid, now slipped like sand through your fingers. And yet, there was no going back.

The water droplets were never-ending, but you couldn't stop them. You were never worthy of their love. Not Cadmus’s. Not Atticus’s. Wasn’t this the same response you had received at Atticus’s estate? The same rejection? The refusal to even come home and face you. They had both disappeared from your world.

Your fingers curled around the two pendants hanging from your neck—one from Atticus, the other from Cadmus. You had never taken them off since the day they were given to you. A promise made between two unknowing souls. But now… now you weren’t even worthy of wearing them.

This would hurt for some time—but it would be alright, wouldn’t it? You would eventually get over these feelings. You would move on with your life.

…Right?

But the reassurance you sought never came. The hollow silence in your chest stretched wider, swallowing every desperate attempt to convince yourself.

With the little strength you had left, your trembling fingers curled around the pendants. And with a tug—the strings burst apart, coming undone in the palms of your hands. You caressed the symbols of a love you had never deserved.

When Cadmus had placed the pendant around your neck, he had pulled you flush against his body from behind. The feeling of his body fitted perfectly against you, like you were made for each other. That night, before making passionate love to you, he had whispered: “MC, I’ve only ever wished for your happiness. Whether you choose me in the end, I’ll never complain. Your feelings, your safety, your happiness... those are what matter most to me. I love you, but I’ll never be a burden to you. So if you ever feel as though you’re unable to return my love, then—”

You hadn’t let him finish. You had kissed him—deep and slow, to let him feel the fire that burned deep within you—then you flicked his forehead and chastised him for speaking such nonsense. He had smiled at that, a rare, genuine smile.

At the time, you hadn’t thought much of it. But now, as the memories pressed in, you saw it clearly—the sadness in his eyes.

Cadmus had his insecurities, the ones he never spoke about. The way he hesitated before holding you, as if afraid your body wouldn’t adapt to his temperature. The way he always kept a careful distance, even when he longed to be close.

Everything you hadn’t said. Everything you hadn’t done. Everything...

Your knees buckled, and you sank onto the gravel path.

And Atticus…

The opposite of everything Cadmus was. He could enjoy meals with you, wrap you in his arms without hesitation, hold you as if you were something precious. But his insecurities were rooted in guilt—a burden he carried so deeply that he built a wall between you, brick by brick, until you could no longer reach him.

Yet despite it all, he had given you a pendant.

When he placed it around your neck, he had whispered only three words: “Sorry, Sólita.”

You’d felt something damp against your shoulder, but he hadn’t let you turn to face him. Hadn’t let you see him in that moment of vulnerability.

You never questioned why.

But now… now everything made sense.

Like a child, you curled your legs against your chest and buried your face in your knees.

And you cried.

Silent at first, then wracking, uncontrollable. The kind of tears that come from a pain too deep to name—a grief that hollowed you out from the inside. Splintered in a way you didn’t know how to fix.

And all that fell from your lips were incoherent apologies, each one slipping out between ragged breaths, each one escaping with a hiccup as the sobs tore through you.

The harder you cried, the more the words tumbled out—desperate, broken, meaningless.

But no one was there to hear them.

[ottopilot-wrote-this]

Generational Trauma

Once more unto the breach of @subliminalbo's Romero Literary Universe. This story references characters from the Obedience by Fleur series. This is also a prequel to Backend Support, though both stories (hopefully) stand on their own.

Thanks again to my friend @subliminalbo (also at @subliminalboarchive) for the art trade and collaboration.

Bailey Castillo set the clippers on the sink counter and rubbed the base of her skull. She was a queer woman, it certainly wasn't her first time getting an undercut. But it was the first time she'd done it to herself.

It made her smirk to herself. Given the grim nature of what she had talked herself into, Bailey could use all the levity she could muster.

She had an undercut when she met Ed. It was a good metaphor, she thought. Under that big head of dark curls, there was an edge. Her fresh face and polite smile were a mask, disguising survival instincts and a pragmatism you could only get by growing up Black, asexual, and female in Romero, Washington.

Bailey rubbed the shaving gel in her wet fingers until it foamed up. Smelling of peaches, she rubbed it on her shaved hair. After rinsing her hands, she rinsed the razor's blade, new and sharp, in the cold water of the faucet.

It seemed a strange offer. What did a lingerie company need with an embedded systems designer? Software devs for e-commerce, sure. But she specialized in hardware, in writing firmware, in the arcane art of assembly code.

Beggars couldn't be choosers, though. Not beggars who had a degree from the local party school, because Mamá got a discount on tuition, and it was what they could afford. Certainly not beggars who would take the first offer they could get that would get them away from this cesspool. Bailey shaved her neck and the undercut area with smooth, careful strokes.

Her first mistake was trusting. Trusting that if she did a good job - and her control array for Obedience by Fleur was, objectively, goddamn genius - she'd be recognized for it.

Bailey rinsed the razor of shaving cream and tiny black hairs. Won't make that mistake again.

She had overestimated Ed King. She bought his Silicon Valley rep, and failed to see he wasn't any different from Romero's traditional power brokers. He was a carnival barker, not a visionary like he thought he was. She was a commodity to him, not a person. If Obedience failed, she would've taken the blame; but since it succeeded, he was more than happy to take all the credit.

Bailey rubbed the smooth wet skin on her neck, checking for missed spots. Elena wasn't any better. She got what she wanted from Bailey, and that made her disposable. It was a blessing, really. Bailey was a natural beauty, but her curvy hips and thighs meant she wasn't model thin, and it also meant she was back at her mother's house in Romero, and not mindlessly, dutifully, licking Elena's designer boots.

Toweling off her neck, Bailey shifted away from the sink toward the 3D printer. She triple-checked her work.

When she first read about needleless tattoos in Wired, at all just clicked into place. A silicon ink payload in dissolvable microneedles. Putting the Obedience tech inside the subject. Permanently. Forget the sensors, pair the array with a fitness tracker or smartwatch. An AI sidecar to increase subject safety. No more brain damage.

Stealing the base software from Ed King? Bailey had no qualms about stealing from a thief. But she needed stake money. It was surprisingly easy to talk the Chinese triads into financing her. But they wanted proof before they pumped more yuan into her operation.

The 3D printer hummed to life as it printed the dissolvable needles, loaded with silicon ink, onto the dermal patch. This was, of course, a fork, custom firmware modified from the base model. Unfortunately, you can't just print a tiny one of these and slap it on a lab rat.

And experimenting on an unwilling human subject… That was something they would do. Bailey wasn't a monster. Not yet.

The array was done. It was a rectangle about the size of deck of cards. The trick had been spacing, making sure the crudely printed lines wouldn't bleed or touch accidentally when applied. Bailey's array was, of course, unique. She'd created a hyperfocus routine that, when enabled, could drown out stimulation and increase cognitive ability temporarily. More importantly, the mind control protocols were blunted, and she wrote an additional protection against mesmerism: the ability to mentally control her hormone levels.

But at the end of the day, this was modified Obedience by Fleur firmware. Bailey knew there was an unknown period where she would have to take Obedience's best punch, enduring and outlasting it, before the AI sidecar would read her biofeedback and adjust the indoctrination protocols lower. She was prepared for it, with a physical anchor.

She took the black choker, her mother's, in her left hand. When Mamá died, shortly after Bailey came back to Romero with her tail between her legs, it was in her jewelry box.

Bailey didn't know how to reconcile that. Mamá never said anything. She didn't have to. When she left the house wearing this choker, all painted up when she should have been in bed, the vacant look told young Bailey everything. But to keep this in an intimate place, where she likely saw it every day - before the early-onset Alzheimer's rotted her from the inside out - what did that mean?

That she missed it?

Bailey gripped the choker tightly, feeling the satin in her delicate fingers. She couldn't guess what went through her mother's mind. Bailey only knew what it meant to her: anger. Abandonment issues. A keepsake of a life she would never, ever lead.

One last check. One last chance to bitch out.

Bailey sat upright in her work stool. She prepared the tattoo array patch, removing it from the printing tray. She looked again at the choker in her left hand, her anchor to reality. She took the patch, and affixed it to the base of her skull.

At first, there was a cold, wet feeling. Like ultrasound gel. And it itched, probably from the microneedles penetrating her skin. Bailey's research indicated there wouldn't be any pain from the actual absorption of the silicon ink into her dermis, just a slight delay.

Immediately, she realized she'd miscalculated.

Bailey had set the weights on the Obedience protocol to fifty percent. She barely had time to process that was too high before she was inundated with sensation. "Oh… Fuck," she moaned breathlessly. It was so hard to think from the pleasure. Warm and comforting, like a blanket. Like a hug, but not a hug from just anyone. From someone precious. From a lover.

Then she felt something new. A flicker, at first. Then a slow burning heat. Then an intense raging inferno, burning between her legs, deep inside her, in her very soul. Bailey instinctively put her hand there, but it was a huge mistake. Immediately she rubbed her engorged clit through her panties, wetness spreading through the dainty cotton fabric.

Lust? But I'm fucking ace, Bailey thought, before the first orgasm hit.

Wave after wave of euphoric gratification pounded her senses like a tempestuous ocean.

Shit! this is- Then another.

Tides of pleasure washed over her.

The choker. Have to- Another.

The powerful undertow eroded her reason and resistance.

Mamá, I-

The blissful sensations overwhelmed Bailey, preventing the formulation of new thoughts, until she just simply stopped trying.

And then she was under. Submerged. Sounds fading. The world oh, so far away.

She was better this way, she saw that. It was better to stop resisting, stop trying to think, and just accept it. As she enthusiastically fingered her soggy cunt, mouth open, her body rewarding her for her compliance, Bailey thought she heard something. It was her own voice, moaning and panting and… giggling. Being dumb, and sexy, and available - it made her happy?

When was the last time she could say that, that she was legitimately happy?

She understood. She could feel like this for the rest of her life, and she only had to do one thing. Let go. Let go of the past, let go of the trauma, let go of the hurt. Let go of herself. The fingers on Bailey's left hand loosened their grip. The choker threatened to fall to the floor. No, not fall. To sink. To sink and drop, deeper and deeper. Her mind was still. Vacant. Empty, except for one thing creeping into her consciousness.

No. Not today.

Bailey's fingers tightened. She could feel the smooth satin, once cold, now hot with her own emanating warmth. She thought of Mamá, looking more like a movie starlet than her tireless, caring mother. Bailey saw her walk out the door, not even turning back to her crying daughter. And she remembered her pledge, to Mamá, to herself: it ain't gonna be me. Not today. Not ever.

Bailey held the choker with a steel grip, as if her life depended on it. It did. The choker was a life preserver in the choppy ocean of arousal flooding her mind and body. She had no idea how anyone could take twice as much of this. It was no wonder Obedience's control was absolute and immediate.

Slowly, she felt it. The constant bombardment of pleasure losing its steam. Waters receding. Her thoughts forming more easily, coherently. Her breathing stabilizing, and the hot flush of her arousal lowering to a simmer. "Set dopamine levels to zero," she gasped. She didn't need to say the words out loud for it to work, but in her disheveled state she needed to hear it. To remind herself she was in control.

She looked in a nearby mirror. Her eyes were a milky solid white, all sclera, no pupils. Her body was flushed with desire. She looked every bit the fucktoy she despised. Bailey knew she was lucky. If she had looked into this mirror a few minutes ago, she would've been lost.

Her hormone levels stabilizing, Bailey blinked, and her eyes returned to an intense chestnut brown. She was still in shock from the ordeal. She opened her palm and looked at the choker, and she placed it on her workbench. Slowly, she took her cell phone in her right hand and sent a message.

"Live test successful. Production is GO."

-------------------

The dream again. The same one. Fuck, I hate this, Bailey thought. And turning off the dopamine wasn't helping.

Bailey got out of bed and turned on a bedside lamp. She drowsily stood up, stumbled to the kitchen for a drink of cold water. It was a hot July night, so she was only wearing panties. Which, of course, were soaked through. Again.

On her back to bed, she stopped at her nightstand. She looked at herself in the vanity mirror. Running a prostitution empire based on mind control hadn't been kind to her, she thought.

Bailey wasn't sure what possessed her. But she reached into her top drawer, and retrieved Rosa's - Mamá's - choker. She hadn't looked at it since she turned on the Obedience array. She'd been too afraid. But here, in the dark, she fastened the choker around her neck. She activated her hormonal controls and raised them - not too much - to maybe 120% of normal. And she looked in the mirror.

Her eyes clouded over until the pupils were gone again, just solid white spheres. Like two blank canvases. She let her mind dull - again, not too much. Just enough to let her thoughts drift. Her full lips parted, on their own, as she watched with interest and arousal. She had always been beautiful, but now? She was a bombshell. All tits and ass and thighs, with a pretty fuckable face. She didn't have a sexual bone in her 29-year-old body, but she would fuck this braindead slut in the mirror.

Bailey's mind cleared as she regained control. She again dampened her pleasure center, and her eyes returned to normal. She took the choker off, and put it back, reverently, in her dresser drawer.

She now understood why Mamá had kept it.

[tinyshyteacup]

Tw: cussing, discussions on moving a captor

Part 7

Novel Attraction - Part 8

The air inside Templo was thick with smoke, sweat, and tension. Dim light from the hanging bulbs above threw long shadows across the room, catching the glint of rings tapping impatiently on the table.

They were all there—Bishop at the head, Taza silent at his side, Hank with his arms crossed, and Angel sitting lower in his chair than usual, eyes tired and lips set in a straight, unreadable line. His kutte hung open, his hands wrapped around a beer he hadn't touched.

Bishop was first to speak.

“Galindo wants her moved across the border. Multiple sites. Real careful shit—she’ll be tampering with both paper trails and digital ones.”

He leaned back in his chair.

“This isn’t a one-time job. Could be weeks. Months. Maybe more.” A heavy pause. “She ain’t a guest. But she’s not disposable either.”

“She ain’t trained for that kinda travel,” Taza said, arms folded. “That girl looks like she’s never even jaywalked.”

There was a low chuckle from Creeper—dry and without humor.

“She’s not the problem,” Bishop cut in. “It’s the cartel. They want her mobile. They want her working dirty. That means we’re her handlers.”

Angel’s knuckles flexed around the bottle, jaw tight. “She’s not property, either.”

Hank raised a brow. “You sure there, hermano? You already let her try to bolt once.”

Angel didn’t flinch. But the sting landed anyway.

Maps were rolled out onto the chapel table. Satellite images of desert scrublands, old cartel supply routes, half-buried sensor towers near the wall.

A line was drawn through the middle—the border.

Taza dragged his finger along a twisting side road. “We take her through here. Two nights off-grid. One by the dried arroyo. One through the tunnel.

He looked across the table. “We’ll need someone she trusts. To keep her from running again.”

Silence.

Bishop lit a cigarette, blew smoke toward the ceiling. As table in the Templo groaned beneath the weight of maps, burner phones, printed dossiers, and oil-stained coffee cups.

Bishop’s hand moved slowly across the map, dragging a finger over the dry jagged terrain.

“We’ll be using the old tunnel. And if she spooks out there, that desert’ll eat her alive.”

There was a pause. Then Bishop added, voice even but deliberate:

“Maybe EZ should ride point on her.”

The room stilled.

Angel’s head lifted, sharply.  “What?”

Bishop didn’t flinch. He met Angel’s eyes like he expected the protest.

"Think about it. She’s scared. She looks at EZ like he’s the one tether to all her nerd shit.”

A few nods circled the room. Taza gave a slow shrug.

"He is the cleaner one between you two.”

Angel stood, suddenly. His chair scraped back across the floor. “She don’t trust him. Not really. She’s just not scared of him yet.”

The room went quiet again. A heavy quiet.

“That ain’t the same thing.” Gilly mumbled.

Angel started pacing. One hand dragging through his hair, the other clenched by his side.

“She talks to me. She’d bolt if it was EZ takin’ her across.”

Bishop tilted his head, unconvinced. “Would she?”

Angel stepped forward, leaning on the edge of the table with both palms flat. Voice low, dangerous.

"I’m the one she runs to, not from.”

The room paused at that. Eyes darted between Angel and Bishop, reading the tension under the surface.

Coco exhaled a slow breath, nodding once toward Angel. “He ain’t wrong, Bish.”

Taza tapped his pencil against the map.  “EZ’s point on her. Angel’s lead on this.”

Bishop looked between them—then gave a single nod.

“Fine. But if she runs again out there—we don’t get another shot.”

His words echoed in the silence.

Angel nodded tightly. No fight left in him now. Just purpose.

“She won’t.”

“Camping,” Coco repeated with a low laugh, shaking his head. “This girl ain’t gonna last ten minutes in the open desert. The second she sees a scorpion or hears a rattler, she’ll bolt.”

He leaned forward on the table, toothpick twitching between his teeth. “You sure you don’t want me with her? I know how to track someone in that kinda terrain. I’ll keep her in line.”

Angel’s jaw tightened.

From across the room, Hank gave Coco a long look. “She’s terrified of you, man.”

Coco raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just sayin’ what nobody else wants to.”

Taza folded his arms across his chest, voice low and matter-of-fact.

“If she runs in the desert, we won’t find her ‘til there’s nothin’ left. We can’t risk that. Not with how valuable she is to Galindo.”

Silence swept through Templo. Everyone knew what came next, but no one wanted to say it.

Until Bishop did.

“Then we don’t let her out of reach.”

He flicked ash off his cigarette, eyes scanning the map, but his words hung like smoke in the air.

“Zip tie her to someone. At the wrist every night, til the job’s done.”

There was a pause—a heavy, shifting kind of silence, like the room itself was holding its breath.

Angel looked up sharply, mouth opening like he wanted to argue, but there was nothing to say. This was cartel business now. Galindo made the rules. The club just enforced them.

Taza glanced toward Angel, then over to the others. “Not Coco,” he said flatly. “She’s already scared of him. That’ll just make her more likely to do something desperate.”

Coco rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath as he leaned back in his chair, folding his arms.

“A'ight. Let her be someone else’s problem.”

Angel’s fingers were curled into fists in his lap, his boot tapping rapidly under the table. You could see the conflict in him—he hated the idea. Of chaining you like an animal. But he also knew they were right.

She runs again, and it could get her killed.

Bishop stood, chair creaking beneath him.

"Move at dawn. One truck. One tunnel. Angel, you keep her quiet, cooperative, and calm. If she bolts again—you do what you gotta.”

He didn’t say what that meant.

He didn’t have to.

Angel gave a slow nod, though it looked like the weight of it added years to his face.

Later, outside the clubhouse, Angel leaned against his bike. Night had fallen. Crickets chirped, dogs barked in the distance, and inside the clubhouse the music had started up again. partying going on like the world hadn’t shifted.

He stayed outside.

Lit a cigarette. Let the silence press against his chest.

In the shadows near the trailer where you were kept, a dim light was on. He could just make out the shape of your silhouette, small and still behind the window, knees tucked to your chest like you were trying to disappear.

“Querida,” he muttered to himself, voice low and broken.

“What the hell did we drag you into?”

He flicked ash into the gravel, then looked toward the dark desert stretching out beyond the lot.

The inside of EZ’s trailer smelled like cheap pine cleaner and cologne, both trying to cover something more metallic underneath—like rust or old blood.

The place was neat, controlled—EZ’s nature in contrast to the chaos that constantly lived outside its thin aluminum walls.

You sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders tight, hands clenched in your lap. You wore one of EZ’s hoodies—your own clothes had started to smell like the warehouse, like fear. The fabric hung off you like armor too big for its soldier.

The door opened behind you with a soft creak.

EZ entered first, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Angel followed—slower, heavier. He looked at you immediately. You didn’t meet his eyes.

"We need to talk, querida,” Angel said gently.

His voice was soft—too soft. Like someone breaking bad news to a child.

You looked up at him, your eyes already glossed with the beginnings of panic.

EZ stayed standing near the small kitchenette. Angel moved to crouch in front of you, close enough to reach out—but he didn’t.

“Galindo wants the work started,” EZ said. “First site’s across the border.”

You blinked. “The border? As in... Mexico?”

EZ nodded once. “There’s an underground tunnel. It’s safe. Or—safer. That's where we're gonna take you.”

Your breath caught. You looked between the brothers, your heartbeat thudding loudly in your ears.

“Why can’t I just... do it here? Why do I have to go there?”

Angel leaned forward a little, hands resting on his knees.

“Because they don’t want just the data changed. They want the documents too. Originals. In places you can’t reach from a laptop, querida.”

Your voice dropped to a whisper. "Jesus fucking christ”

EZ’s expression softened for the first time. He walked over, crouched next to Angel.

“You’re not gonna be alone. You're safe.”

He said it like a promise. Like a man used to being believed.

Your breath eased just slightly.

Angel noticed.

He saw the way your shoulders dropped half an inch. The way your eyes settled on EZ’s face instead of his. His stomach twisted.

He wanted to reach for your hand—but it was folded into EZ’s hoodie sleeve.

After a moment, EZ stood up again, gave Angel a small nod, and stepped outside, giving the illusion of privacy without granting it.

The second the door shut, Angel sighed, quiet and long. He rested his elbows on his thighs, lacing his fingers together.

“I know you trust him,” he said, not bitter—just quiet. "Golden boy's always been good at makin’ people feel safe.”

Your eyes drifted to his and then back to a spot on the wall as you listened.

“You’re not cargo to me, querida,” he added. “I know it feels like you’re being passed around. Moved like product. But I swear... we ain’t gonna let anything happen to you. Not in that desert. Not in Mexico. Not ever.”

You nodded, but you didn't believe him.

After you fell asleep curled up on the bed, EZ re-entered the trailer, finding Angel in the kitchenette, nursing a beer.

He glanced once at your sleeping form, then back at his brother. “She’ll trust you more if you stop trying so hard.”

Angel scoffed softly, not turning around.

EZ leaned against the counter. “Why do you look like someone’s carving your ribs out every time she looks at me?”

Angel finally met his gaze. “Because it ain’t you dreaming of her crying, or her bein' put in that fucking pew bro."

The clock blinked 2:46 AM in faded numbers. Outside was still, blanketed in silence except for the distant howl of wind pushing sand across asphalt.

Inside EZ’s trailer, the shadows moved softly—your figure curled under a borrowed blanket on the bed, knees tucked into your chest, eyes wide open and red-rimmed in the dark.

Sleep hadn’t come. Fear had.

Didn’t know what the air would feel like south of the border. Didn’t know if you’d survive long enough to come back.

The door creaked open gently.

You flinched.

It was Angel.

He stepped inside quietly, boots thudding against the floor with practiced care. No kutte. Just a hoodie and jeans, his hair mussed, eyes tired—but alert. He closed the door behind him, locking it out of habit more than concern.

When he saw you still awake, he paused.

"Couldn’t sleep, huh?” His voice was low, not teasing this time.

You shook your head, slowly, from where you lay.

Angel crossed the trailer without needing the light. He moved like he’d memorized every inch of this place. Instead of sitting beside you, he dropped onto the floor with a groan, back against the bed, stretching his legs out and letting his head lean back.

He turned his head slightly, just enough to see your outline in the dark.

“You ever been to the desert before?”

“No,” you whispered. “I’ve never even... left the country. Never had a passport. I’ve never even camped. And I don’t... I don’t speak Spanish, Angel. What if I mess everything up?”

He let out a soft exhale, running a hand through his hair.

“Querida... messing up would be running into a rattlesnake or pissing off a border patrol agent. But you? You’re gonna be fine.”

He adjusted his position, turning a little so his shoulder brushed your knee through the blanket.

“Mexico’s not as scary as people think. Yeah, there’s cartel shit. But there’s also real people. Good food. Sunsets that make you feel like the sky’s on fire. And if you’re lucky—if you keep your mouth shut and your head down—you get to walk out of there with all your fingers still attached.”

You didn’t laugh. But your lip twitched. Just a little.

You finally spoke, voice barely audible.

“It’s not just Mexico. It’s... everything. I don’t know how to do this shit, Angel.”

He tilted his head up to look at you more clearly now. You weren’t crying, but the tension in your body was clear—shoulders tight, chin drawn in like you were trying to disappear inside yourself.

“You don’t have to know any of it,” he said gently. “You just have to get through it. One day at a time. That’s all we’re doin’,”

You blinked at that. The idea that even they—these rough, dangerous men—were surviving on borrowed time and pieced-together plans.

“I feel like a fucking lamb surrounded by wolves.”

Angel reached up, just resting his hand over your blanket-covered shin, grounding you.

“Maybe. But this wolf ain’t gonna bite you, querida.”

He looked down then, almost bashfully.

"Unless you decide to start snoring out in the damn dessert. Then we got a problem.”

You smiled. Just a little. A tremble of light through the fear.

Angel didn’t say anything. He just leaned back again, adjusted until his shoulder bumped yours gently through the fabric of the blanket, and let the silence fall between you.

Not cold. Not empty.

A silence that wrapped around the two of you like an understanding.

Angel was still on the floor beside the bed, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms, arms resting casually over his knees. You were curled beneath the blanket, head sunk into the pillow, your breath slowing just slightly.

You weren’t asleep. Not yet. But your eyes blinked more slowly now. The panic had loosened its grip—still there, still coiled—but fading in the safety of his voice.

“It’ll be me, EZ, Coco and Gilly takin’ you. That’s the crew,” he said casually, like it was just a road trip. “EZ’ll keep his eye on you like he said. Coco’s got jokes… half of them ain’t funny, but he tries. And Gilly? Big guy. Quiet. But he’s solid.”

You tensed, just a flicker, when he said Coco. He noticed.

“I know,” he said gently. “Coco scared you. But he won’t hurt you, Querida. Not out there. We're be there to keep you safe.”

He paused, letting the silence settle, his words slow and easy like the wind outside.

“It’s not like it’ll be hotels and room service or anything,” he added, lips twitching faintly. “We’ll be camping a bit. Desert stretches for miles... so wide it makes you feel small in a way that’s kinda good. Cleans you out a little.”

You watched him from the edge of your blanket, your fingers curled lightly under your chin. He wasn’t trying to sell it to you. He was just talking, steady and grounded.

“There’s a place, couple miles past the boarder—nothing but red rock and these weird little wildflowers that bloom for like a week, maybe two, after it rains. You ever see a flower push through sand? Like it’s got no business surviving, but it does anyway.”

You breathed out slowly. "You make it sound pretty" The image stuck with you. A flower in the sand. That’s what you felt like.

Angel never reached for you. He just stayed. A constant warmth at the side of your world when everything else was foreign.

His voice dropped a little, like he knew you were starting to fade.

"It’s not all bad, y’know,” he murmured. “They tell dumb jokes. EZ makes coffee strong enough to kill a horse.”

You blinked sleepily, your cheek pressing further into the pillow.

“It's all bad when you don't get a choice Angel” you whispered, the words slipping out.

Angel looked at you then. Really looked. He leaned his head back against the bed then, sighing.

The hum of the fridge was the only sound that filled the small trailer, steady and low like a heartbeat. Moonlight spilled through the crack in the blinds, casting pale stripes across the floor and the couch where you lay, half-draped in that worn blanket EZ had handed you earlier.

Angel stayed on the floor beside you, back pressed to the bedframe, knees drawn up. One arm slung lazily over a bent knee, the other toyed with the frayed hem of his hoodie sleeve. He didn’t try to move closer. Didn’t reach for your hand or offer his touch. Just sat there—his presence quiet, grounding.

You were starting to relax. Your breathing had slowed. But he could see the way your fingers still twitched now and then under the blanket, your mind refusing to let go of its worry completely.

So he spoke, voice low, almost like he was telling a bedtime story.

“You know… the desert’s not just heat and dust. There’s somethin’ about it. The stillness. The way the stars hit the sky with no lights around for miles. Shit’s kinda… beautiful. Even when it shouldn’t be.”

He glanced back at you over his shoulder, saw your eyes were open—soft now, not so wide with fear, but not quite ready to sleep.

He paused, stretching out one leg, letting out a breath as he stared up at the ceiling like he could see through it.

“We know that route. Desert roads, old tunnels, back trails no one uses anymore. It’s not gonna be easy, but… we’ll get you through it.”

You mumbled something—a sleepy hum more than words—but he caught the way your lips curved ever so slightly.

“And when the sun goes down out there?” he continued. “It’s like someone lit the whole world on fire. Orange, pink, purple—all of it bleeds together. Makes you forget for a second that you’re even in danger.”

You let out a soft sigh, shifting under the blanket again, body turning just a bit more toward him—though your eyes remained half-lidded now, heavy.

“You shouldn't be doing this,” you whispered almost absentmindedly, like the tendrils of sleep had you already.

Angel looked at you for a few seconds, before his brows drew together.

“I'm not dumb Angel, I know what this is" you whispered "What happens when they tell you to put a bullet in me?”

Angel’s jaw locked. His eyes flickered with something—grief? Anger? Shame?

"You’re not goin’ out like that,” he said simply, his tone enough for you to drop the topic.

Your hand slipped from under the blanket and dangled off the edge of the bed, fingertips brushing air just a few inches from Angel’s shoulder. He didn’t touch it. Didn’t even move. Just turned his gaze toward your face—watching the way your breathing slowed, the way tension gradually bled from your small frame.

For all your fear, there was a strength in you he admired. Not loud, not stubborn like most people he knew—but quiet. Stubborn in your trust even when it was terrifying.

He leaned his head back against the bedframe, eyes never leaving you, the corners of his mouth tugging into something tired but warm.

“You know, when I was a kid? I used to think the desert was cursed,” he murmured, voice almost lost in the air. “Like it swallowed people whole. But now... I think it just strips everything down. Shows you who you really are.”

A beat passed. Another. Then a soft noise from you—a barely audible sigh—and he knew you were finally slipping under.

He didn’t move. Didn’t dare.

Just sat there.

Watching over you.

“Buenas noches, querida,” he whispered to the dark.

[holderoftheg-r-a-i-l]

giant mechs hc dump under the cut. some are silly, and some are. very sad.

- some times someone will ask Ivy a question and instead of her voice they get a text-to-speech voice because the info is from a data download instead of her reading it

- Jonny sleeps with a weighted blanket. if he is sleeping in the same bed with someone, they will usually roll him up in the weighted blanket because if they do not, they will get kicked in the face from his flailing

- Marius spends a lot of time in the cockpit with Brian. Partially because he's fascinated with the control panels (he only knows what a few of the buttons do) but also because Brian tends to hum while he drives and it's calming.

- Raph keeps a catelogue of plants & substances from every system they visit. Ivy helps her categorize them. when they leave a system often the two of them can be exclusively found in the labs or library for several days as they sort & label plants, drugs, ect

- Tim has spent a lot of time studying whatever notes he can cipher out of Dr Carmilla's works. he spends a lot of time tinkering to try to create more mechanisms. he blames himself for Berties death since he convinced him to enlist, and even though bertie is long dead he still wants to learn to build a Mechanism, just to prove to himself he could have saved him if he had time

- Marius absolutely will hand someone his arm if they ask for a "hand" with something. this has ended in him getting shot more than once

- Jonny enjoys laying his head on Brian and listening to his heart beat, imagining it's his own. He has sworn Brian to secrecy (everyone already knows)

- occasionally ivy's brain will crash and she has to reboot. originally this freaked out the others but they're used to it. they will fuck with her while she's out of it. once a reboot took several hours and she woke up and every inch of her face was covered in stickers

- in order from best cooks to worst- ivy, Nastya, Marius, Raphealla, TS, Brian, Jonny, ashes, Tim.

- ashes & Tim are both natural heaters and are usually in the middle of a cuddle pile on colder planets

- Brian doesn't technically need to breathe and enjoys walking on the bottom of deep bodies of water to see the creatures below. he does have to make sure he gets all of the salt water off so he doesn't rust tho

- no one is letting the toy soldier back into the aurora, it just exists where it believes it should (because it's needed, narratively important, or because it believes it will be funny). only aurora knows this, the others believe they keep accidentally letting it back in. this also means toy solider is *incredibly* good at startling others by just appearing in corners or behind doors.

- Jonny is missing the finger prints on one of his fingers from a bar fight, where he narrowly missed losing the whole finger.

- Tim has some knee damage from living in the tunnels during the moon war and while the mechnaizing has helped some, occasionally uses a cane

- Ashes has nerve damage in thier lower limbs from the flame damage

- Marius sometimes gets phantom pains from his missing arm

- somwtimes Brian turns all of his sensors up because he forgets what feeling actually alive feels like. his processor has limited ability to process things like warmth or pain so they just feel like echos of the real thing. he gets jealous sometimes of the others. everyone else can *feel* thier hugs. he's even jealous of TS. it can't feel like him, but it also doesn't remember what it felt like before. he's even jealous of the others feeling pain because at least it's more than just dull flashes that thier brain attempts to imitate as feeling

- ashes is Brian's favorite to touch/hug/cuddle with purely because they run hotter so it's easier for his sensors to pick up the temperature difference (so it feels the closest to hugging did before mechanizing)

- Brian hates the zero grav zones on the aurora & avoids them if at all possible because they remind him of his time before mechanizing (aurora knows this and will shuffle corridors around if she knows where he is going to avoid low grav areas)

- sometimes Tim will just. turn off the sensors in his eyes for a bit. usually when he's over stimulated. sometimes when he's tinkering on something he knows well and someone keeps bothering him. sometimes it's because someone keeps trying to get his attention and "sorry I didn't see you my eyes were off" is hilarious

[gravitycavity]

[Preview] Sunshine - Chapter 5

Hey guys! Thank you for your patience while I write chapter 5. This chapter might take longer than usual, so I wanted to give you all a longer-than-usual preview to make up for it. I hope you enjoy it!

For context, Pomni and Ragatha are in a ballroom inside of the haunted mansion. They're locked inside and looking for a key to escape, but aren't having very much luck. Having tried everything, they decide to take a break.

Also Ragatha is sitting in a chair. Pomni found her a comfy one :)

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

The long, dusty boxes that Pomni had already sifted through still laid in a messy pile beside the antique chest. Pomni never was very good at putting things back where she found them.

Sighing, she opened the nearest one and cautiously unfurled the bulky scroll stored inside. A series of small, perfectly-cut holes stretched across the yellowed paper. Some existed in isolation, while others were grouped together into long lines — as if a leaf-munching insect had eaten its way through the fragile material.

Pomni’s tonge prodded the inside of her cheek. “Ragatha? You said you played the…” her gaze flicked aside, “...violin, right?”

“Violoncello.” Ragatha deadpanned. “Why?”

“Well, I was just wondering — since you’re a musician, do you have any clue what these weird rolls of paper are for? They seem related to the piano somehow, but…”

“I thought you would never ask!” Ragatha gasped, clasping her hands together. “Those funky bundles of paper are called piano rolls!”

The redhead had responded to Pomni’s question in plain English, but the baffled look on the jester’s face suggested otherwise.  

Ragatha continued. “Back in the day, these were used to play piano tunes without the need for a human performer. Each one plays a different song when loaded into a player piano.”

“Player piano…?”

“Oh, right. Sorry!” Ragatha shuffled her feet, “That’s a special type of piano that plays itself. I’m not quite sure how it works either. But back to the topic at hand — see those little holes cut into the paper? Each one represents one music note. As the roll slowly unfurls, a sensor reads them and tells the machine which keys to strike.”

“Ohh…” Pomni ran her fingers across the parade of perforations that spanned the scroll. Slowly, she nodded. “...So it’s like a music box?”

“Now you’re getting it!” Ragatha beamed. The look on her face as she watched the concept click in Pomnis’ head was a painting of pure joy; was it any wonder that she had worked as a teacher prior to her captivity? 

Pomni sighed. She planted an elbow on the old chest and cradled her cheek against her palm. “Your students must have loved you...” 

“Well, I did receive my fair share of apples.” Ragatha shrugged. “Never had to pack a lunch.”

“Wait, seriously…? That’s a real thing?”

“No. Not really.”

A silly smile teased its way onto Pomni’s lips. Heart stumbling, she turned away, fingers unconsciously fiddling with the old chest’s loosened lock. “S-So, um, is there anything else you can tell me…?” 

“Nah — telling is overrated. In my classroom, I always liked to take a hands-on approach.” Ragatha said. She admired the antique instrument seated on the far end of the stage. “There’s a player piano right there. Why don’t you give it a whirl, Sunshine?”

Pomni felt her whole body melting, all the way down to her soul. Sunshine. She was putty in the ragdoll’s hands. 

“S-Sure thing! I’ll find a good one!” Just about tearing the lid off of the antique chest, she rifled through its tightly-packed contents with purpose, scrutinizing the faded titles printed on each box. She didn’t recognize a single song, much less any of their long-dead composers, so it was anyone's guess as to what the music would actually sound like. She may as well have just swiped a roll at random — and, as a matter of fact, that’s exactly what she did. 

Pomni set the bulky scroll inside the automatic piano after a bit of clumsy fumbling — and more than a little help from Ragatha. With the flip of a switch, the paper started spinning, and the premier notes of a lofty, leisurely tune stirred to life beneath the ballroom’s vaulted ceiling. 

Pomni’s fingers drew circles on the mechanical piano’s smooth, wood grain exterior. For a moment, she forgot where she was, utterly fascinated by the simple elegance of the century-old contraption. 

It was funny. The long-forgotten piece it played, humbly subtitled ‘a ragtime two-step’, had set her up to expect something more peppy and up-tempo. As the piano roll steadily unfurled, however, the melodic constellations impressed upon the paper sang a far different tune. 

It was the type of jaunty music one would expect to accompany a silent film, just…polished. Refined. All of the musical tropes of the era were present — the driving bassline, the active, syncopated melody — but the piece’s dignified pace and finely-crafted harmonies would have sounded out of place in a rowdy saloon. 

Here in the ballroom, though, the old-fashioned tune was right at home — at least, that’s what the haunted furniture seemed to think. 

Looking impressed, Pomni tapped her foot, wholly oblivious to the perplexing scene unfolding behind her. “Hm. Not bad.” She remarked, turning to face Ragatha, “To tell you the truth, I actually kind of ohmygodwhat’sgoingon—”

Pomni stumbled backwards, then forwards, then backwards again into Ragatha’s chair. The ballroom’s inanimate denizens — the one-hundred-odd tables and chairs scattered across its marble floor —  moved all on their own, dancing in time with the mellow melody. A backing band of squeaking wood and clinking plates added a percussive flair to the player piano’s charming, just-slightly-detuned sound. 

Ragatha, for her part, was busy cracking up at Pomni’s complete and utter bewilderment. With a quick breath, she managed to compose herself. “Well, when in Rome…” The ghost of a giggle still lingered in her tone as she offered up her hand to the crumpled heap of a woman at her feet, “Shall we?”

Pomni let out a mousy squeak. “H-Huh?” She flinched, head feeling light, dots flitting across her vision, “But—”

“Come on. Don’t make me beg.” Ragatha batted her eyes, “It’s unladylike.”

Pomni blushed. She couldn’t argue with that. Without a word, she swallowed, shuddering like a frightened animal as she reached for Ragatha’s pretty hand.

Her fingers curled snugly around the ragdoll’s plush, doughy hand. Both women’s palms — one big, one small — fit together perfectly.

Pomni slid her other arm behind Ragatha’s back, powerless to stop the little whimpers sneaking out of her as she lifted the lightweight woman into her arms. For a moment, their faces were close enough to feel each other’s warmth — and it took every ounce of restraint Pomni had to resist asking: ‘Can I please kiss you?’.

With a brief, peppy fanfare, the music transitioned to a new section; the enchanted furniture, as if controlled by a single mind, adapted its routine in perfect sync. 

“I, um…” Pomni’s heart sank at the sight. This stupid furniture was making her look bad. “I don’t really know how to dance…” She winced the thought, and then at the sight of Ragatha’s grave injuries, “And even if I did, how are we supposed to—”

“Shh.” Ragatha’s thumb glided across the back of Pomni’s hand. “Just…hold me. Please.”

Pomni exhaled. 

Holding her dolly close, the jester closed her eyes, synchronizing her trembling breaths with every other downbeat. Her foot matched the two-step’s gentle pulse, and before she knew it, her whole body was swaying to the rhythm.

Ragatha nestled her head against Pomni’s chest; a blissful sigh escaped her shuddering smile. The tension in her body dissipated note-by-note, phrase-by-phrase, as her darling rocked her back and forth, here and there, to and fro. 

[leahrintarou]

☠︎︎ DAY TWO: EDGING FT. KUROO ☠︎︎

☠︎︎ WARNINGS: desperately horny kuroo, sub!kuroo, fem reader, teasing, reverse pleasure, y/n gives, kuroo recieves.

☠︎︎ WORD COUNT: 1.2K

"y/nnnnn!" she groaned at the sound of her boyfriend repeatedly calling her name over and over again. this has been going on for the past seven minutes and each time, she'd adjust the volume of the tv to a higher setting.

slightly rolling her eye's when kurros voice followed after his own footsteps making its way down the staircase, he called her name once again. "y/nnn, i could've been dying and you're just ignoring me"

she only turned a deaf ear to kuroo's pleas, making him lazily slouch onto the empty space of the sofa. he gently grabbed her wrist and placed her relaxed digits over the growing erection hidden under the fabric of his shorts.

he placed his own palm over y/n's hand, applying some kind of pressure. "i'm hard and you've been ignoring me so, now that i've gotten your attention, the least you could do i make me feel good.. right?"

y/n's eye's slightly widened, hesitantly turning her attention towards kuroo. "and you ask for my help by sounding like a stuck record and calling my name every five seconds?" y/n's fingers slightly adjusted against his gradually hardening erection causing a sharp breath to pass through his teeth. "well, it got me what i wanted, didn't it?".

"trust me, you're not gonna want this"

"whatever you say, pretty" y/n hummed to kuroo's words, knowing that his cocky demeanor will soon melt into nothing with a couple of sensitive touches. she suddenly applied an immense amount of pressure onto his print, feeling the grip of kuroo's own palm slightly tighten around her hand.

using her unoccupied hand, she removed kuroo's grip from her occupied one, giving him nothing to actually grasp onto other than the throw pillow that rested next to him. y/n made swift movement's, sitting up and hurdling a leg over his thighs, now straddling his figure.

she heard the staggered sigh leave her boyfriend's lips, signifying his usual impatience. examining his sudden, lust filled expression, y/n decided to shift her position, to rest her clothed core against the length of kuroo's erection. he let out a small whine at the pressure that was suddenly applied, and it only became drawn out when y/n swayed her hips to meet his own.

"you've been louder than this before, you trying to keep your pride?" with her word's, kuroo uncontrollably tightened the muscle in his abdomen, the line between accepting his guilty pleasure and keeping his cocky facade suddenly becoming a blur.

y/n reached beside her, taking the tv's remote into her hold, aiming it at the sensor to adjust the volume to zero. "w-what was that for?" he asked through staggering breaths, his movement suddenly becoming uncontrollable. "i wanna hear you"

she slid her hand under the hem of kurro t-shirt, resting her palm against his waist, feeling satisfaction due to the way he shivered slightly from her touch. she carefully rubbed her thumb against his warm skin, leaning down to place small kisses to his neck.

kuroo only tilted his head a bit, giving y/n more access. with the hand that rested under his shirt, she parted from his skin and assisted kuroo with pulling the restricting fabric over his head. "fuck, this isn't fair, y/n"

"you're the one who wanted my help" y/n smiled before placing chaste pecks onto kuroo's chest, she practically felt his heartbeat quicken against her lips. he whined at her expected response because, afterall, he knew y/n well enough to know that she would never have an intimate moment if it didn't include teasing the living soul out of him.

but today, y/n did feel generous enough to give kuroo at least a small bit of satisfaction. hooking two digits into the hem of his sweat-shorts, she teasingly pulled it down, just enough to expose his v-line. placing small taps to the muscles indention, she let out a hum when she saw his veins become more prominent in his arm when his grip tightened onto the throw pillow.

"you're loving this, aren't you, tetsu?"

"quite the fucking opposite, your teasing feels unbearable when it's anywhere but-" kuroo's words stopped when he felt y/n firmly palm his restrained erection. "here?" she finished his sentence. kuroo couldn't manage to fathom a reply since his voice was occupied with a low moan.

y/n finally pulled down kuroo's shorts, leaving the loose hem to rest on his mid-thighs. when y/n finally looked up at him, she placed a small kiss onto his lips before mumbling a quick apology. "for what?"

"you'll find out soon enough"

y/n focused her gaze to kuroo's now complete erection. she finally realized why he was being so needy and impatient. he was desperately in need of a release and it was evident by the way he stiffened into her fist when she wrapped her hand around his member. he let out a breathy swear, lazily leaning his head back and onto the sofa's perimeter. "more"

y/n made fast and smooth movements with her wrist, jerking kuroo into her tightly wrapped fist. his hips uncontrollably contorted and bucked upwards, making y/n place a firm palm to his pelvis, lessening the intensity of his movements. "y/n-fuck"

small incoherent babbles fell from kuroo's lips, the last set of curses coming out as a silent plea when his erection jerked in y/n's hold. y/n immediately released her grip around kuroo, he let out a whine of frustration at the lost pleasure. his breathing was unsteady and tears were resting on the hem of his bottom lashline when his eyes shut tightly.

the liquid escaped from their place, slowly drifting down his facial structure. y/n leaned forward before placed her lips next to his ear. "i told you, you wouldn't have wanted this" she mumbled. a sharp breath once again passed though his teeth.

"y/n..just- please let me cum"

to be quite honest, y/n did feel a bit bad due to the fact that he'd been actually quite patient despite his words. kuroo didn't touch himself, he let y/n hear all of his pleasure filled noises, and he tried his hardest to keep himself together.

rewrapping her hand around kuroo's painful erection, she used her thumb, swiping it across his tip to spread his precum around the entirety of his member, hips bucking against her palm. "y/n...i'm s-sensitive" he said through hitched breaths. letting out a hum and nodding at kuroos warning, y/n continued her previous movements, wrist moving gracefully to please him.

this time, the pressure of her palm against his pelvis was a bit lighter, causing his hips to visibly buck into y/n's fist. kuroo was practically positive that y/n would only continue the cycle of working him up just to forbid him from releasing but, a sigh of relief left his lips at y/n's next words.

"tetsu, you can cum now"

kuroo's hips repeatdly bucked with every stroke of y/n's hand, she had no choice but to reapply the heavier pressure on his pelvis to keep his bucking hips, slightly steady. letting out whining moans of y/n's name, he felt satisfied when he felt the warm liquid pump from his tip and onto his tensed abdomen.

his watery eye's looked up to y/n. she was focused on the liquid that slowly drooled down the back of her hand, still pumping his softening member til he'd let her know that he was satisfied enough. kuroo lifted a shaky hand to grasp y/n's wrist, stopping her movements so he wouldn't suffer from overstimulation.

"you're no fun" she said through a sigh when her hand was removed from his member.

"and you're too much fun"

[bitchfitch]

Abandoned bunkers were a common sight. The bombs dropped so long ago that even the most paranoid communities had left them to rejoin the larger population on the surface one or two generations ago.

Abandoned bunkers that hadn't been picked clean by scavengers like Lino were a different story entirely.

He crept through the eerily quiet halls looking for whatever might be worth taking. The lights flickered on as he triggered their proximity sensors. The place was finely decorated to look like the homes of the wealthy who lived before the war. Crown molding covered in cobwebs, statues caked with dust, paintings who's varnish was so yellow you could barely see the image beyond it.

Lino pulled the strap of his cross body bag a little tighter. The off white marble floors were pristine. His own muddy boot prints being the only source of filth. The floor cleaning bot must still be functional.

The doors to this place had been wide open. Maybe it was only recently vacated? The air didn't hurt, the circulation and vent systems were still doing their jobs all these years later. It was pleasantly cool with none of the humidity or mildew smell that came from broken climate controllers. It was still serviceable when so few other bunkers were. He'd need to return with tools to strip the mechanisms for parts.

Those might be the only thing worth the effort. Pre war art had value, but everything was so heavy he'd only be able to carry one delicate piece at a time... The math on that effort to return ratio wasn't favorable. There had to be more. Something of actual value he could pay his dues with today.

He stepped into what was once a massive living room. The ancient, rotting, couches were pushed up against the walls, side tables and other bits of decor piled atop them to make more space in the center for the army of... Mannequins? Dolls? Scarecrows?

They were made from torn down tree branches, dried plant matter, and hope. Haphazard creations meant to display the clothes they wore. Beautiful dresses, finely tailored suits, ensembles that blurred the line. Each one constructed as a masterpiece of form with no eye given to the horribly clashing colors found within their materials.

Lino didn't know who they would fit.

No one looked like That anymore. Two arms, two legs, a single head atop a neck connected to a straight back. He was the most 'classic' looking human he had ever seen, but even he wasn't the right shape for so many of these.

It was a shame really.

It meant their only value was in the fabrics they were made from.

Lino pursed his lips, looking from the one garment that Might fit him to the mirrors hung either side of the faux fireplace. Luxury and fine items that exist just to be beautiful weren't unheard of concepts anymore, they just weren't things he had ever had the money to know. His leader had told him he would have been beautiful if he'd been born into one of the higher families who could have afforded to decorate him and sell him for his 'classic' looks. The leader offered him that wealth once. If Lino would just dye his albino white hair and let the surgeon remove his extra arms, the leader would have gladly decorated him themself.

He wasn't going to dismember himself to be pleasing for another. He was fine. Constantly living on edge, scouring the lands for any tiny scrap of value left over after so many other hungry scavengers had done the same before him. He was fine. He didn't need to be beautiful to survive.

The dress was shiny and silky smooth when he brushed his fingers along the stormy grey fabric. The fabric from all the other garments would pay his way for the month probably... He was the only person who knew this dress existed.

He didn't need to be beautiful to survive.

He undid the fastens around the dress form's neck and lifted the piece off, laying it over the form's shoulder before shucking off his own shirt. The dress was meant for someone taller than him, his muddy boots and damp pant cuffs would ruin it. Those went off next, then his discolored socks that he didn't want to see poking out beneath the hem, all were dropped in a messy pile beside him. He pulled the dress on as he stepped away from the filth of his own garments and towards the mirror.

The dress was backless. The side hems brushed the bases of his extra arms. It was too big. It would buy his dinner for weeks. Lino didn't want to look in the mirror, but when he did his gut twisted.

He looked gorgeous, the contours of the bodice following the lines of a body he often felt too scrawny to be anything other than awkward looking. The collar was pleasantly firm against the front of his throat, not tight, but present enough to make him feel it every time he moved to find a new angle. Even his extra arms were made to look right in it. The back of the collar came down in a slight point that fell perfectly between his misshapen shoulder blades. It was too big, but it was clearly intended for a woman who looked like the models of before. His longer torso and flat but broad chest meant he'd only need to take in a bit around his hips for it to look perfect... Even the skirt being meant for someone a foot taller than him wouldn't be a problem, it just looked like a fine train. He couldn't stop smiling. Guilt ate at him. He didn't need to be beautiful. He was wearing so much money. The panels weren't even pieced, the skirt alone had to have more pristine bolts in its gathers than most saw in their lives.

It was just a dress.

He twirled in front of the mirror to make the too long skirt flare out around him. His bare feet padding on the hard stone, his own reflection distracting him, his guilt making him focus in on the price something so beautiful would go for if he could just make himself destroy it.

Lino didn't hear the breathing until it was already too late.

A scrambling form shot around the corner, its growling tearing through the still air as it launched towards Lino with more speed than something so twisted looked like it should be able to.

Lino was so grateful his fear response had always been flight. He bolted to the side, the badly mutated man careened into the mirror, shattering it across its massive shoulders. Lino didn't look back. He could hear the man panting and snarling like an animal as it gave chase. Its hands pounding on the stone as it dragged itself behind him. He could hear it gaining on him. The door was in sight. Would it follow an intruder out of its home? Lino had to hope not. The threshold was under his foot. A harsh tug at his skirt. He came crashing down, his jaw knocking hard against the concrete porch sent his head spinning with painful disorientation.

"Auth Code 1756" The man spat. Lino had thought him too far gone with his mutation to be person enough to speak. The bunker beeped in response, something mechanical thunked. Gears ground.

Lino kicked, his leg was grabbed. He turned to see the featureless face of his assailant for a split second before it was blocked from view by the closing door.

Lino's vision whites out, he heard screaming. The man was still holding him trapped by the leg when the multi ton hunk of metal shut atop it.

[tracing-lines-in-the-infinite]

I just love Provenance.

You get to watch Shaw flirt with a thief and Harold be so proud/amused at getting congratulated for having such a gorgeous date (John).

It is also an episode where they fuck up at first and have to undo their fuck-up which I do appreciate at well.

But also the little things:

Finch gets excited about having a 3d printer.

Christopher Jackson cameo as head of security.

They fool a motion sensor by setting the thermostat to skin temperature.

Shaw has to lick fake fingertips to trick the finger print scanner and is not impressed.

Interpol agent helps thief escape from police custody.

Detective says they could take Fort Knox and guy in charge says diamonds are better than gold... so detective says they should go for the crown jewels

All that to say that this is the most Leverage-esque epsiode of POI I can think of rn

[gumnut-logic]

It started with a bang.

Lots of bad things start with a bang, but this one wasn’t obvious.

A stray meteor hit Five. Wasn’t the first time, doubtful it would be the last, but Brains had built her strong enough to resist the majority of non-dinosaur-extincting rock events.

Most of them.

This one got through.

It was tiny, but it was enough to mess with some critical systems and it had both a worried Scott on the line and Brains jumping up and down as both John and Eos hurried to make repairs.

Virgil asked John to come down, but he chose not to.

Apparently his ‘bird needed nursing and Virgil, if he was honest, could respect that.

He really wished he hadn’t.

Being on the more paranoid end of the spectrum considering International Rescue’s history of getting the not so lucky end of anything, Virgil checked in with his space brother every half hour.

For the next twenty-four.

John was sympathetic until about the eighteen-hour mark. After that, he became snarlier each time Virgil poked him.

“Virgil, the damage has been repaired.”

“Humour me.”

“Why?”

Why? Virgil wasn’t sure, but he was sure that he needed to check on his brother. “Because it is my job.”

“Then maybe you should check your own readings because you are being beyond ridiculous.” And John cut the connection.

Great. He’d pissed John off – never a good thing to do.

But half an hour later, Virgil prodded him again. “John, report.”

“I’m fine, Virgil. Go to bed.”

Virgil peered closer at his brother’s hologram and frowned. “John?”

“What?!”

Virgil’s fingers darted over the sensor readouts from his brother’s spacesuit. “How are you feeling?”

“Annoyed. If you don’t stop this, I’m going to ask Scott to stop you from doing this.”

“Go for it.” He frowned at the oxygen saturation stat. “You sure you are feeling okay? Eos, can you give me an atmospheric reading on Five?” The numbers were all good, but something felt wrong.

Something had his hackles up, but he couldn’t identify what.

“All atmospheric reading are within the expected range, Virgil. John needs his rest, why are you continuing to disturb him?”

He stared at his brother floating far above. “I’m not sure, Eos.”

John rolled his eyes. “Then get back to me when you are.” His brother cut the connection.

Virgil sat back in his father’s chair. Maybe John was right. Maybe he was just edgy because of the meteor collision, a reminder of the brutality of space and his brother’s vulnerability so far above them. Maybe it was time for bed.

He lasted another hour before he commed John again.

“Virgil, whyyyy?”

Again, he ran his fingers over the sensors, again they tried to reassure him everything was okay.

But nothing was okay. Virgil was sure of it.

He just didn’t know what or why.

“I’m coming up.”

John stared at him. “What? Why?”

“Can’t I drop in to see my brother?”

“It’s 3am!”

“I’m a night owl.”

“I’m going to kick your ass, Virg. I’m tired. You’ve been bugging me for hours. Leave me alone!” The comm line cut again.

And Virgil’s hackles hit orbit.

John never called him ‘Virg’.

Ever.

“Eos?”

It took a moment. “Yes, Virgil?”

“Could you please lower the elevator?”

“He doesn’t want to see you.”

“Too bad. I need to check on his health.”

Eos didn’t answer.

“His health is important, Eos.”

Another long moment where Virgil considered waking Alan or Scott.

“Lowering elevator.”

There was no clarity in Eos’ voice as to her opinion but she was doing what he requested and that was all that mattered.

Half an hour and several layers of atmosphere later, Virgil was thankful for whatever sense that set him off.

He found John floating aimlessly in the central hub of Five. Above the vista of the planet, the holographics system was displaying a three-sixty view of family photos.

Scott grinned at him from the east, a baby Allie from the south pole, his father from the north, Gordy dressed in squid-print swimwear to the west and their beloved mother smiled her familiar smile from somewhere near Africa.

Virgil’s own picture took out South America next to Grandma in the South Pacific.

“John?”

His brother startled. “You! What do you want?”

Virgil eyed him. “Eos, can you give me those atmospheric readings again?”

“Yes, Virgil.” She rattled off the necessary numbers.

Unfortunately, they did not match the portable air sensor Virgil held in his hand. “Your readings are incorrect, Eos. Run a diagnostic.”

There was a pause as John continued to frown at him.

“Diagnostic complete. There are no errors in the sensor network, Virgil.”

“There is a contaminant in your air supply, John.”

“So you finally found an excuse for being annoying.” His brother flipped mid-air and stared up at the hologram of their father. “You hear that, Dad? Virgil finally has a reason for driving us all insane!” That last was shouted in Virgil’s direction along with a glare.

Virgil ignored it.

“John, I want you to come down to Tracy Island.”

“Why?” It was belligerence itself.

“Because you aren’t safe up here. And I miss you.”

“How can you miss me when you never leave me alone?!”

Virgil pressed his lips together and hit his comms. “Tracy Island, we have an Alert Gold.” The command would wake Scott and probably the rest of the house. It was an alert designed to help protect their most remote family member.

“You’re kidding.”

“No, John, I’m not.”

And John burst out laughing. “Do you ever hear yourself?”

Virgil didn’t answer.

“Obviously not. Other wise you would be insane by now. Or you would nag yourself to death.”

John didn’t mean it. He was under the influence. At a guess, there might be a leak in the thruster assembly, leaking oxidiser into Five. But why the sensors hadn’t picked it up…

“So are you going to tie me up and strap me to a bed because I don’t meet your standards of what I should be? Trample me until the numbers add up correctly?”

“John, Virgil is trying to help you.” Eos’ voice rang like a bell throughout the station.

John flinched. “So, you’re on his side now?”

“I wasn’t aware Virgil had a side.”

John grunted and glared his brother again. “You’ve infected her with your nagging.”

“We are just concerned about you. You are not yourself.”

His brother closed his eyes and shook his head.

“Thunderbird Five, status?!” Scott’s voice practically screamed a combination of worry and command over comms.

“You told! Dobbed me into big brother so he can nag me, too! Why can’t you all just leave me alone?!” John pushed off from the wall and threw himself towards the exit.

Virgil caught him mid-air.

It was a mistake. John was in his native environment. He flipped and slipped out of Virgil’s grasp. The engineer grabbed at his brother and missed as John used him as a launch point to finally reach the exit.

Before Virgil could regain his equilibrium, John had slammed the airlock shut and sealed him in.

Damnit.

“Eos!”

“Working on it.”

What could be stopping the AI from unsealing an airlock was a growing concern.

Dad glared at him from the ceiling.

“Thunderbird Five, answer me!”

Virgil drew in a breath, thankful for his uniform’s standalone air supply. “There is an atmospheric contaminant present in Five’s life support systems. I’m guessing we have an oxidizer leak from the thruster assembly. John is…not himself. I’m working on it.”

“Do you need Three?” In other words ‘can I come up there and join you before I melt from worry?’

“Give me ten and ask again.” He flicked off comms. “Eos, any luck?”

“I have contained him in his sleeping quarters, but you will need to hurry as he is currently attempting to override my program.” The speaker gave a little squawk and went silent.

“Eos?”

The airlock suddenly hissed open.

Virgil didn’t hesitate. He was through the exit and throwing himself after his brother without a second thought. He grabbed a spare helmet along the way. It was time to end this.

He found John yelling at the ceiling and pulling a control panel out of his shower cubicle. Why he thought that was a productive thing to do, Virgil didn’t know, but since Eos hadn’t said a word since, it was concerning enough.

The airlock to John’s quarters unsealed at his touch and Virgil slipped through, sealing it again behind him.

His brother didn’t look up from what he was doing. “So the brat let you out, did she?”

“John, you need help.”

“What I need is silence. No more nagging from annoying brothers. Didn’t you guys get the hint when I moved up here in the first place? All my life it has been the four of you in my ears, always bugging me. Now I’m in space and I still can’t escape you. Why can’t you leave me alone?!”

Virgil swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. “We care, John.”

“Only enough to satisfy your own concern. Not how I feel having to listen to all your caterwauling.”

He’s not himself. It became a mantra echoing through Virgil’s head, but a little voice asked if it was really the truth.

“I can’t believe that.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” John continued to rip electronics out of the wall of his shower.

“What are you doing?”

“Silencing the dawn.”

“In the shower?”

John finally looked up at him but his smile was eerie. “No better place.”

“Then I’m going to have to stop you.”

His brother snorted. “You can try.”

Virgil didn’t move immediately. Instead, he pulled up a schematic on his HUD and confirmed the wiring behind the shower unit. Most of it was innocuous, but one of the main power distribution relays was nearby and that relay supported the main computer. There was sense in John’s statement, of an extreme kind. Taking out Eos by taking out his Thunderbird.

He had no idea what kind of logic was churning in his little brother’s brain, but he had to stop this. He had to get John’s helmet on his head and his body and brain off the cocktail of whatever was in the air.

Virgil pushed off from the wall and barrelled into him. John saw him coming and leapt ceiling-ward. Virgil anticipated the move and compensated enough to grab his brother around the waist.

Virgil had the brute strength, but John had flexibility. Virgil’s only chance lay in hanging on.

So he did.

And John did not like it.

At all.

“Get off me!”

He struggled, shoving at Virgil’s arms. When that didn’t work, he tried to knee his brother in the gut.

Virgil grit his teeth and in return, wrapped his legs around his slippery space-suited brother and began climbing him inch by inch, to get that damned helmet on his head.

John yelled in his ear. Tried a few moves that Kayo, no doubt, taught him. The bruises were beginning to mount up and yet, Virgil still hung on.

John wasn’t himself.

Not himself.

The proof was in the fact he hadn’t yet really employed the solid and attacker-crippling techniques Virgil knew his brother was fully capable of. Instead, they spun around in a totally uncoordinated tumble hitting walls and furniture until Virgil was able to get enough of a grip on his brother to shove his helmet on his head.

The helmet hung loose as John took the opportunity to jab him in the ribs as a result and for a moment Virgil thought he was going to lose his grip and hence the battle, but he managed an extra push and his brother’s suit engaged, automatically switching to its portable air supply exactly as it was designed to do in an emergency.

Virgil continued to cling to his brother to keep that helmet in place long enough to do its job. It earned him an aching kidney and some creaking ribs, but eventually John stopped struggling and fell quiet. A glance through the plexiglass of his helmet and Virgil found John’s eyes scrunched shut.

“John?” Virgil’s voice was hoarse. His belly had taken a beating, literally. Thank goodness for his baldric and all the equipment that came with it.

“V-Virgil? God, my head.” John groaned, his gloved hand scratching at his helmet.

Virgil let out a breath and drew his brother closer. “It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.” He brought John’s head down to his shoulder and held him safe in his arms. There was a need to grab the medscanner. He…he would do that in a moment. “Tracy Island, can we take you up on that offer of a pick up?”

“Virgil, launching now. What’s your status?” Scott was all worry and clipped syllables.

“We’re okay.” He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on John’s shoulder. “We’re okay.”

-o-o-o-