#Flow Computers Market

[delightfullyatomiccollector-blog]

Flow Computer Market Share, Share and Analysis To 2028

The flow computer market share in oil & gas is projected to grow from USD 798 million in 2023 to USD 1,067 million in 2028; it is expected to grow at a CAGR of 6.0% from 2023 to 2028. The growth of the market is attributed to the technological advancements in oil & gas industry and suitability in many functions of the oil & gas industry.

[peachdues]

WISH

Compass one-shot • bad boy!Sanemi Shinazugawa x f!Reader

A tooth-rottingly sweet one-shot honoring my sweet boy’s birthday.

This takes place a few months into Sanemi x Reader’s relationship in Compass — the main story is still in the hot, sticky summer. So think of this like a flash-forward. Don’t worry if you’re not fully caught up — no real spoilers here!

CW: 6k • MDNI • the cozy comfort winter oneshot of your dreams • mostly sickeningly sweet fluff but enough allusions/references to these horny idiots’ very active sex life • some references to gang violence (not descriptive) • swearing • abuse of cake

COMPASS MASTERLIST

Good birthday?

The two words sit on his home screen, a notification labeled with Genya’s name.

It takes Sanemi a moment to make sense of his brother’s text, until he spies the date reflected in the upper corner of his phone.

It’s November 29th.

For someone like Sanemi, dates are only important as far as they signal when something is due — and when something is late. The only dates that matter to him are the ones he’s told to care about; those hard deadlines that go unmet and require Sanemi to strap his crowbar to his back and his gun to his hip, so he can pay some poor bastard a visit.

Today is one of those deadlines, and Sanemi has a list of obligations to follow through on. But Genya’s text is a glaring reminder of the other thing today represents.

It’s his birthday.

Every year, his brother asks him the same thing — though, admittedly, Sanemi thinks the text is more a reminder rather than a happy wish of another year’s passing. Without Genya’s annual good birthday? Sanemi is fairly certain he’d forget November 29th held any significance to him at all.

I’ll be damned, Sanemi thinks, walking up the back entrance to an old computer parts shop — his first stop of the morning. Made it another year.

As unenthused Sanemi is about his birthday, he usually answered his brother with some pithy little acknowledgement. A biting Still alive, ain’t I? or, if he was feeling particularly festive, he’d simply send a thumb’s up, one that signaled his brother that Sanemi was working and didn’t want to risk smearing more blood and sweat across his phone screen than absolutely necessary.

This year, though — his twenty-second, he realizes after doing a quick bit of math — Sanemi’s not in any position to reply to his brother. Not yet, at least. So for now, his phone will have to sit in his pocket; his hands are about to be busy.

He’s got debts to collect.

—

Two hours later, Sanemi sits on his bike in an empty alleyway spliced between Market and Eastern Avenue.

In the last week or so, a strong front of arctic air had swept through the City, plunging it deep into the throes of winter. For a moment, Sanemi was grateful for the chill of the air; he always gets worked up after a collection, his limbs abuzz with hot blood and adrenaline. Cold air helped him settle down faster, cleared his mind so he could approach the next job with the same, violent precision.

Except, it’s now colder than he likes, but that itch still burns hot inside him. Hence, why Sanemi remains here, tucked away in this dark, forgotten alley, huddled over his bike. He’s got nothing to keep warm with but his worn leather jacket and the cigarette perched his lips, its end flowing a faint orange.

Tobacco-tinged smoke curls around his head, mixing with condensation of his breath as he exhales long and slow. The rush of nicotine is both a welcome distraction and extra sedative and finally, Sanemi feels his shoulders relax.

He’s only halfway through his cigarette, but he flicks it to the ground anyway. He’s not sure whether the burning in his throat is from the cold air or this particular bad habit of his, but it’s enough to kill his desire for anything more now that his edge has been sufficiently dulled. Still, he considers whittling himself down to the occasional cigarette is a marked improvement from the daily half pack he blazed through in his youth, before he discovered other outlets for his stress. Maybe he’ll be able to kick the habit all together by this time next year.

Assuming he lives long enough to see his next birthday, that is.

Sanemi’s in the middle of stuffing his lighter back inside his jacket pocket when he feels his phone buzz. He shouldn’t check it, not when his to do list still has one more name to cross off, but he’s already indulged in one bad habit this afternoon. Might as well go two-for-two.

And boy, is he glad he does when he spies the notification bearing your name.

Tell me you’re coming over tonight.

Sanemi’s lips twitch up with a smile he hasn’t been able to muster in days. Leave it to you to brighten his day in so few words.

What time you want me, sweetness?

A cutting gust of wind tears down the alley, whipping and tearing through the layers of his clothes. Any other time, Sanemi would simply hunch over the clutch of his bike and speed off, thinking only of someplace that wasn’t outside.

Now, he’s got you to look forward to.

Your reply arrives a few seconds later. Got a few errands to run so I’m closing up early. Owner can suck it. It’s cold.

It is, Sanemi mentally agrees, and he feels a rush of relief that closing nearly means you’ll be home — or close enough to it — before dark. The uptick in violence through the City has crept too close to your neighborhood for his comfort, and Sanemi already hates you walking home in the dark without him as it is. The season’s shortened days only makes that particular anxiety of his worse.

Thank the fucking stars you’re less inclined to weather the arrival of winter than he is.

It’s a date, beautiful. He texts back before pocketing his phone. He cups his hands around his mouth and huffs, willing his breath to unfreeze his fingers enough to grip his bike’s clutch.

Another torrent of wind rips through the alley, but this time, it brings with it the first snow of winter, pelting his face with fat, cold flakes.

Sanemi tilts his face up toward the sky and grins. It is a sharp, feral thing, full of teeth and challenge. Good. Let it snow as hard as it wants; let it suffocate the City under a thick blanket of white. He wouldn’t care; Sanemi can’t think of a way better to warm up than by crawling under the covers with you. Maybe he’ll even treat himself and convince you to sleep in with him tomorrow. It’s been a few days since he last had the chance to see you. While he knows better than to be a betting man, he’d wager his odds of keeping you in bed were pretty good.

Huffing nice, twice more on his hands and Sanemi starts his bike, its motor roaring to life underneath him. His fingers are still stiff, but he can at least grip his clutch enough to steer it. No doubt the icy sting of the wind will freeze his hands in place, but he’ll worry about how to unstick himself later.

For now, he still has work to do.

In the northwest corridor of the City is a port marina that harbors a smattering of small house boats. It’s inside one of these drafty little boats where his next target hides, no doubt relying on the sudden arrival of winter to trick his creditors into looking for him elsewhere.

That ruse might have worked if anyone else other than Sanemi had been tasked with hunting him down. Unfortunately for him, his name fell in Sanemi’s lap, and now he’s going to have to play host to some very unpleasant company.

Slowly, Sanemi treads his bike to the end of the alley, eyes squinted against the wind and the snow, sweeping the street for any unsuspecting travelers. Finding nothing but the odd plastic bag being whipped and tossed down the sidewalk, Sanemi kicks his bike into gear.

As soon as he gets this job over with, he’ll get to see you.

The engine revs, and then Sanemi is thundering down the street, a renewed warmth spreading through his chest that even the biting cold of November can’t dampen.

—

It’s just after dark when Sanemi pulls up to your apartment, quickly killing the motor on his bike. He scans the dark alleyway behind your complex once, twice, before he glances up at the series of windows. Once satisfied that there are no unwanted eyes tracking his movements, Sanemi makes his way to the building’s side entrance, and begins his steady climb up the stairs.

He twirls his key to your place around his finger. God, he can’t wait to get kick his boots off, strip down to his sweater, and climb into bed with you. Maybe you’ll let him poach off your neighbor’s cable satellite again, and that way, he can find you a movie to half-pay attention to. Or, maybe you’ve snuck away another handful of advanced release copies from work, and the two of you can get to work reading and reviewing them. Either way, Sanemi is ready for the calm he only feels when he’s with you; he’s ready to relax.

The first thing he notices when he steps into your apartment is the smell of something burning.

“Motherfucker —“ he hears your vicious snarl from the kitchen right as something clatters to the floor. “One more fucking thing go wrong, I dare you —“

Calm is not on the agenda, it seems.

The air inside your studio is hazy with smoke, enough that it tickles the back of his throat. Hastily, Sanemi pushes your door shut before it can spill into the hallway and tempt one of the building’s ancient fire alarms. The last thing he wants is to summon the City’s finest and tip them off that a high profile gang member likes frequenting this neighborhood. Or the reason why.

“It’s me.” He calls out, crossing through your living room to crank open one of the arched windows behind your bed. Cold air floods your apartment, the winter wind chasing out the thickest of the smoke into night. “Baby?”

No answer; only more furious clanging and a particularly fierce “oh, fuck you.”

Cautious, Sanemi pokes his head into your small kitchenette. “Y/N?”

He’s not sure what he expected, but he can’t say he’s prepared for the sight of you, standing in front of your oven, hands on your hips and your foot tapping irritably on the floor. A cooling tray lays by your feet, and you don’t seem to be in any hurry to collect it; not when you’re too busy glowering down at your stove.

Sanemi’s eyes follow yours, and he finds what he presumes is the source of the stench. The worst of the smoke rolls off something sitting on your stove, though it’s too black for Sanemi to even guess what it’s supposed to be.

You whirl around and Sanemi has to bite his tongue to keep from laughing.

There’s flour on your cheek and dusted all down your front, along with other smears and stains of beige — batter of some sort, if he had to guess, given the cluttered mess on your counter of used mixing bowls and measuring cups. Your hair is a mess, puffed up and frizzed out from the smoke, framing a face scrunched up in pinched fury.

All things considered, you look pretty damn adorable, but he isn’t about to tell you that. The block of kitchen knives you rarely touch are too close within your reach for his comfort.

So, Sanemi takes the pragmatic approach and casually folds his arms across his chest. He offers with a measured nod of his head toward your oven. “I thought we talked about you cookin’ without supervision.”

For all the grief he’d given you about your inability to make anything more substantive than cereal, Sanemi learned rather quickly it was the most you could be trusted with. Once, you’d tried to show off your culinary skills by making him ramen, only for you to stick the dried noodles in your microwave without water. You hadn’t even noticed the acrid smell of something burning until he pointed it out, and by then, it was too late. It was only after he’d thrown the smoking bowl of scorched, blackened noodles into your sink that he hotly declared you were not to use any appliance in your kitchen while by yourself.

He’d thought you’d agreed to that ban but, as he peers over your shoulder to inspect whatever it is that’s about to set off your fire alarm, Sanemi grimly realizes the two of you are not on the same page.

“I wasn’t cooking, I was baking.” You snap, as though the distinction matters. You yank an oven mitt off one hand and snatch a loose fork from the counter, jamming it right into the smoldering center of whatever the hell it is you’ve tried to make. It pops and sags beneath the stab of the fork, more steam hissing out of the wound you’ve opened in its surface.

You hold the fork up for inspection and your eyes widen with outrage. “How is it burnt on the outside and fucking raw on the inside —?”

Sanemi glances at your oven settings and raises an eyebrow. “‘Cuz you have it set to five hundred — didn’t even know ovens could go that high.”

You chuck the fork into the kitchen sink with more force than necessary. “I was trying to get your stupid cake done before you got here. I wanted you to be surprised!”

He blinks. “What cake?”

“Your birthday cake!” You rip the other oven mitt from your hands scrunching it up before throwing it to the counter in defeat. “It’s your birthday, and I didn’t leave the store ‘til late, so I had to rush to get it done because I couldn’t swing a present other than this stupid cake!” You jab a finger toward the blackened pan still smoking on the stove. “And I couldn’t even do that!”

Sanemi’s eyes widen and for a moment, he can’t remember to blink.

All he can do is stare.

As much as he’s tried to forget them, there were a handful of November 29ths that had stuck with him over the years; a wad of chewing gum cemented to his memory that he couldn’t get rid of no matter how hard he tried scraping it away.

His fifth birthday was spent clinging to his mother’s arm, begging her not to leave him alone in that dinky, unheated shoebox where they lived. His eyes had been teary, and he hated that he was acting like a crybaby, but he didn’t want his Ma to go — didn’t want to be left alone. He wanted her to scoop him up in her arms, to hum fragments of lullabies into his hair as she curled over him beneath their threadbare blankets, desperate for her body heat to sink into her son and keep him warm.

But it was winter, and Sanemi needed something to eat, so Shizu, heavily pregnant, had to go work.

She returned the next day with a lukewarm fast food hamburger Sanemi couldn’t stomach eating. Not when his mother came home sporting a new black eye, so dark and purple that not even her paper thin smile could dull her obvious wince, or the shadowy bruises peppered along her too-thin arms.

He spent his eighth birthday scavenging for spare coins dropped between the sagging, stained cushions of the old man’s broken down furniture.

Genya was nearly three and crying, his belly aching with a hunger he didn’t understand. Their mother was dead, and no one knew how to care for them except for Sanemi, and he’d been desperate; enough so that he’d clawed at the broken wooden couch slats until his numb fingers turned raw; bloody.

Because it was snowing and cold and Kyogo had left his sons at home in the dark, unheated apartment with nothing to eat.

He’d found enough loose change to justify running down to his neighbor’s place, and the old man had been kind enough to give him a packet of stale instant noodles. No seasoning packets, but the Shinazugawa boys had been too hungry to mind.

The only candles he had to mark the day were the mismatched stumps scrounged out of some cluttered drawer. His birthday wish — the very first one he’d ever made — a feeble plea that come December, Kyogo wouldn’t waste the month’s electric bill on booze his sons couldn’t even drink to keep warm. Winter in the Silo was harsh enough.

But December came and went, heralding in harsh winds and thick sheets of ice, and the apartment never once turned warm.

Sanemi never made another birthday wish again.

When he turned ten, Genya brought him home a tiny green race car, no doubt swiped from the basket of loose toys that sat next to the cashier at the nearby corner store. The paint was chipped, and one of the wheels had a tendency to stick whenever Sanemi skated it over the kitchen’s cracked linoleum, but it was a toy, and Sanemi hadn’t had one of those before. So, he ruffled his brother’s hair and the two spent the night rolling the car back and forth to one another across the floor, giddy with that childlike innocence they never got to keep come sunrise.

The corner store it came from closed not long after his birthday, its owner having been dragged out sometime in the night by hooded men, face too swollen and mouth too bloodied to scream.

Not that anyone would’ve helped, anyway. Not here.

Sanemi still has the car, though. It’s since lost a wheel, and the paint has nearly faded away, but it sits in his window sill; a prized token of the boy he’d never been.

For his fifteenth birthday, Sanemi’s lucky ass got not one, but two presents: a broken rib and a black eye. Courtesy of Kyogai, a sleazy had-been in the Corps’ ranks, whose penchant for downers meant he never had enough money to pay his dues to the Corps. Sanemi, a junior at the time, had been sent to collect money Kyogai refused to cough up, and in his youthful arrogance, thought he could simply strong-arm the Corps’ payment back.

That was when he learned never to get between a junkie and their fix — especially once withdrawal set in.

Sanemi returned the birthday generosity on a cold day in January, with his crowbar to Kyogai’s kneecaps. Rumor was he still couldn’t walk without a cane. But he never tried his bullshit with Sanemi again, and he thought that was probably the best gift of all.

So no, Sanemi can’t say he expects much out of his birthdays.

“No one’s ever made me a birthday cake before.”

It’s a breathless sort of admission, one that he’d probably be embarrassed about making if he wasn’t so caught off guard.

His admission monetarily stuns you into silence, and he almost feels ashamed. But you quickly recover and instead offer only a brittle laugh. “Yeah, well. Fucked that up for you, I guess.”

You finally look at him and Sanemi is startled by the tears rapidly lining your eyes.

“It’s just a cake, baby,” Sanemi soothes, hands reaching for you. “And today’s just a day. ‘S no big deal.”

Another great sniff. “It is a big deal!”

Sanemi is all too used to never having and not being allowed to want, so accepting what others want or try to give doesn’t exactly come easy to him. But the sight of you, nearly reduced to tears over the scorched disaster you’d tried desperately to make into something worth marking the day with has him reevaluating twenty-two years’ worth of trained indifference.

Beneath your frustration is clear upset with the situation. Because, you tried.

Sure, Sanemi’s birthdays passed without the usual triumvirate of cake-ice cream-presents he supposes other kids got. Frankly, he didn’t quite see the appeal of it anyway, but that may have been because Sanemi hadn’t known to miss what he never had. November 29th was just a day, after all; the mark of another year gone by without him taking a bullet to the head or having his body dumped in some faraway hole. The watery sun that rose that morning was no different all the others he’d managed to cheat his way into seeing. To him, it’s insignificant.

But not to you. For some reason, you don’t think you’ve given him enough.

Months of being together, and he still hasn’t figured out how to make you understand that he doesn’t need any grand gestures from you. It’s enough that you continue allowing him into your home, your bed, your life; that you soothe his fragmented heart, and chase away the cloud of numbness always lurking over his shoulder with one of your sweet smiles.

He doesn’t want for anything because he already has everything in you.

But you still want to give him more.

God, he doesn’t deserve you. And he certainly doesn’t deserve the tears swimming in your eyes or the frustration that weighs down your shoulders.

Sure, he doesn’t really give a damn about his birthday, but he sure as hell gives several about you, and your defeat is not something he’ll tolerate.

Sanemi fishes his set of keys from his pocket. “C’mon,” he nods toward the door. “We’re going to the store.”

—

“It’s not right,” you sniff an hour later as you hand him an oven mitt. “You shouldn’t be making your own birthday cake.”

“We’re making,” Sanemi corrects, seamlessly pulling the hot pan from your oven and placing it atop your stove to cool. “The present ain’t the cake, anyway.”

He tosses the mitt to your counter and turns to you, eyeing the can of frosting in your hand, one you absently stir a butter knife into, unsure of how else to help.

With a faint smile, Sanemi swipes his finger through the top layer of sprinkled sugar, dolloping it right on the tip of your nose. “You are.”

You roll your eyes, swiping your finger through the small blob of icing and bringing it to your mouth. As you suck the tip of your finger clean, you peer over his arm, nose wrinkling as you as you look down at the golden brown surface of the very much baked-through cake. “Still, box cake mix?”

“A cake’s a cake.”

The kitchen is teeming with the warm, comforting scent of sweet vanilla, one that spreads through the rest of your studio, chasing away the last remnants of burnt confectionary which lingered after your earlier baking fiasco. Boxed mix or not, you have to know that plan b smells leagues better than plan a, even if that means your ego has to take the hit.

“If you say so,” you grumble, shouldering him out of the way as you scoop out a glob of frosting, ready to slap it across the cake’s surface.

“Not yet,” Sanemi corrects, gently catching your wrist before your knife can make contact. “It’s gotta cool first, or else that’s just gonna melt all over the place.”

Your mouth twists into an annoyed grimace. “That seems stupid.” You gripe, stabbing the knife back into the canister of icing, right in its center.

“Chemistry, sweetheart. Didn’t you pay attention?”

“I slept through most of chem back in the day.”

That surprises him. “Weren’t you a goody two shoes?”

You snort. “Not when it came to science. Or math, for that matter. Always got my lowest grades in science and math.”

Sanemi rolls his eyes. “And a low grade for you would’ve been —?”

This time, you drop your head, suddenly sheepish. “Anything below an A.”

Of course. “Damn, wish I’d known.” Sanemi smirks. “Maybe I could’ve made bank tutoring instead of runnin’ around, bein’ a delinquent.” At the skeptical raise of your brow, he scoffs. “What? You think a blossoming criminal couldn’t also score a few As?”

Math had always come easily to him, though that may have been out of necessity than raw talent. Knowing numbers meant he could tally up debts quickly in his head and calculate the exact interest owed, which meant less time wasted wherein his target might be able to get one over on him. Not once had he ever finished a job short-changed. That’s what made him so valuable to the Corps, even back then.

His academic success across the various fields of mathematics and science (which was math with more words thrown in), was just an added bonus.

“Still, though — tutoring?” You laugh. “Sorry — for some reason I can’t picture you meeting some poor kid in the library to go over formulas and equations. I can’t even imagine someone willing to ask you — I mean —“ you gesture to him, and Sanemi knows that’s explanation enough.

“I might’ve. Especially if a certain pretty girl had batted her lashes and asked me all nice and sweet.” Gently, he pushes your hair back over your shoulder, his eyes watching your breath hitch in your throat; the goosebumps that spread over your skin. Smirking, he leans in and presses his lips right below your ear. “Kinda like how you did last week — ‘cept, you were asking me to give you something then, weren’t you?”

The way your cheeks darken tell him you know exactly what he’s talking about.

It was him. Specifically, his cum; you’d begged for it, actually, your recurring chant of fill me up, fill me up, baby, please! sweeter than music to his fucking ears.

You turn to grab the can of icing, defiantly putting your back to him, if only to avoid having to look at the cocky set of his mouth.

Sanemi’s gloating isn’t over. It’s his birthday, after all. “You know I’m right.”

“Oh, shut up before I make you decorate your damn cake.”

Still grinning, he lets you shoo him from the kitchen. Sanemi plops himself onto your sofa and fishes your tv remote from between the cushions. He busies himself flipping through the handful of channels you get, finally landing on some pro baseball game he only watches with half-interest.

“Ready!” You call a few moments later, and Sanemi tosses the remote aside, the game, forgotten.

You hover in front of your counter, hands together twisting nervously. The moment he appears in the kitchen’s small entryway, you step aside, revealing the fruit of your shared labor.

“Happy Birthday, Sanemi.”

The cake is small and its edges are a little lopsided. The icing looks like it was applied the same way as wallpaper paste. A lone, green candle sits lit in the cake’s center, its flame bright and merry.

Sanemi’s never seen anything more appealing in his life.

“You have to make your wish,” you sternly remind him as he leans over the cake, his eyes glued to the candle. “And you can’t say it out loud.”

A birthday cake; his very own birthday cake.

There’s a part of him that hesitates to blow out the candle, too entranced by the way the little flame dances and bends around the wick. After all, the last time he’d made a wish, it hadn’t come true.

And yet, another part of him — that silly, hopelessly optimistic part he knows better than to indulge — wonders if perhaps his eight-year-old self’s wish hadn’t worked because he’d lit the candles for light and feeble warmth. They hadn’t been intended for celebration, and he certainly hadn’t had a cake to hold them.

Maybe that was part of the magic; the spell’s missing ingredients.

This time, maybe things will be different.

His wish is simple, if not a little selfish. But Sanemi thinks that birthdays might be the chance to be selfish, and he’s not making his wish out loud anyways, so maybe he can get away with this.

Sanemi closes his eyes and he wishes for time. Time with you. Time with Genya. As much as the universe will let him have.

That would be enough.

Sanemi blows out the candle.

“C’mere you,” he says roughly, reaching for you. He pulls you into his side and presses a kiss to your temple. “Thank you.”

Your arms wind around his middle. “You did most of the work.”

“You made it a birthday cake, though.” He lays his cheek atop your head. “You turned this whole damn day into somethin’ special. Thank you.”

Without you, Sanemi would never know what it felt like to have his own birthday cake or a candle to wish upon.

Neither of you of bother with plates or cutting slices; instead, you hand him another fork and the two of you dig right in.

At the first bite, Sanemi’s eyes slide shut. Cheap box cake has never tasted so fucking good.

“Not bad,” you say thickly through your own mouthful, leaning over your counter. Another bite is already loaded on your fork. “Wonder what mine would’ve tasted like.”

Sanemi swallows. “Like raw cake batter.”

You turn over your shoulder to stick your tongue out at him, not caring that your mouth is full, or for the crumbs that fall on the counter top.

You’re about to return to the cake when a smear of white catches his eye.

“Hold it.” Sanemi sets his fork down and catches your chin between his thumb and forefinger before you turn away. He tilts your face up, and smirks.

That’s when he leans in, flicks his tongue along your lower lip. He moans at the taste of sugar, the spare bit of icing left on your lip further sweetening the honey of your kiss, his mouth capturing yours.

Your moan rights everything in his world full of wrongs, your fork clattering to the counter.

The hand he keeps on your chin slides to the back of your neck, tilting your head; the other finds purchase at your hip, tugging you closer into him. It only takes a matter of seconds before Sanemi is drunk on your lips, the warmth of the evening liquid honey that pools in his stomach.

Your kiss tastes like cake and home.

He’d stay here all night if he could, but the fervor of your lips moving with his has quickly stolen his breath away. No matter how much he craves your kiss, his body demands air.

With a faint grunt, Sanemi breaks your kiss. The hand on the back of your neck remains firmly in place, keeping you close as Sanemi traces the slope of your nose with the tip of his. “You had icing on your lip. Had to fix it.”

Through his lowered lids, he can see the quickened rise and fall of your chest as you steady your own breathing; the flush in your cheeks. Your eyes are bright, however, illuminated with equal desire and challenge.

Your tongue flicks out to dampen your lower lip and Sanemi’s eyes narrow. “Maybe you should check for more.”

Fuck oxygen. His mouth is back on yours before you can finish your next inhale.

And then, he’s moving.

Though you’re walking backwards, you’re the one guiding him, your fingers hooked through his belt loops as you tug him through your kitchenette and out into the open space of your studio.

His groan vibrates into your mouth. Sanemi doesn’t have to open his eyes to know where you’re leading him; he’s treaded this very path to your bed too many times to count.

Oh, there’s plenty of time for this later, and he’ll happily indulge himself then. Besides, you’re even more sensitive in the mornings, and that means he’s guaranteed to coax two or three orgasms out of you with just his tongue before you both have to go to work in the morning, never mind what he’ll be able to do once he’s actually inside you. It’ll be worth holding off, for now.

But right now, his heart is too full, and tonight has been mending something inside of him he hadn’t known was broken. Something shy and curious, a remnant from the boy who might have secretly longed to know what it felt like to have a birthday mean something; to matter.

Still, he can’t resist fanning the fire a little, the hand on your hip sliding to your ass and squeezing, his fingers dangerously close to the dip in your thighs.

He lets you strip him down to his underwear and you to yours, since that’s how you prefer to sleep when not otherwise naked. Only when he feels your hand sliding down his bare abdomen does he still you, his fingers wrapping delicately around your wrist.

He feels your frown before he sees it. Cautious, your mouth breaks away from his and you lower yourself down from the tips of your toes.

A dent has notched itself between your eyebrows. “You don’t want —?”

Later, he’ll be sure to tell you that he wants you all the time — so much so that it might be a problem. But that’s not what tonight is about — not for him. For now, he can’t risk you discovering that he’s half-hard already; the second your hand finds him, he’ll be too erect to function, let alone think clearly.

He shakes his head. “Actually,” Sanemi hooks his arm around your waist and tugs you back against the bed, falling into your tower of pillows and blankets with you safely encased in his embrace. “I think I just wanna hold you, if that’s cool.”

Confusion flits briefly across your face before your eyes soften. “Of course. Don’t you know that birthdays mean you get whatever you want?”

He didn’t, but that doesn’t matter. Because this is why he loves you: you know, without him ever having to explain. You understand.

With a soft smile, Sanemi rolls to capture you under him, but braces himself above you long enough to allow you to sit up against the headboard. The moment you settle, Sanemi inches up beside you until he can rest his head on your stomach, his arm hugging your waist.

He swears he can hear your smile as you ask, “Happy?”

Exuberantly so; your body is soft in every way his isn’t, and warm. He’s in a heated, dimly lit apartment with no fear of the lights cutting out or the cold outside making his toes turn numb. The girl he loves, loves him back. Everything he hadn’t dared let himself wish for is now his, carding her beautiful fingers through his hair.

it’s almost perfect. Almost.

“Nah, I’ve got one more request.”

He leans over you and pulls a novel from the top of the stack that perpetually sits on your side of the bed, never shrinking. He hands it to you, meeting your inquisitive eyebrow with his smirk. “Read to me.”

He doesn’t care what book it is — whether it’s something he’s read before, or of a genre he isn’t all that into, it doesn’t matter. He just wants to hear you.

“A bedtime story? Really?” You tease, but you’re already flipping to the first page.

Content, Sanemi turns his face further into your stomach, burrowing harder into you. One hand still smoothing through his hair, you begin to read the prologue, pausing for dramatic effect where the passage calls for it. Slowly, the hours unfold as your voice weaves together the story — some high fantasy set in a distant world. Once upon a time, Sanemi would’ve wished he could dive into the pages of his book; anything to escape his reality.

Now, he can’t imagine being any place better than right here, with you.

—

It’s nearly midnight when Sanemi remembers Genya’s unanswered text still sitting in his inbox. Carefully, so as not to disturb you and your faint snoring, he untangles himself from you. One hand pats across the surface of your bedspread, searching for the small rectangle while the other gingerly removes the book still propped between your fingers. You’d made it about five chapters, your thumb still marking the page where you’d dozed off mid-passage.

Book in hand, he turns and tosses it on your threadbare rug, and it lands with a dull thump. He finds his phone near the foot of your bed. His eyes flick to you once to confirm that his gentle movements have not disturbed your well-earned rest.

Your mouth twitches with another light snore, and Sanemi smiles.

He clicks his phone to life, taking care to keep it turned away from you, mindful of the bright little screen. Quietly, he thumbs his answer to his brother. The moment he taps the send arrow, he tosses his phone back to the ground and reaches across the duvet for you once more.

A few hundred miles away inside a sleeping boys’ dormitory, under Zenitsu’s nasally snores and the odd, violent twitch from Inosuke, Genya’s phone buzzes from its place under his pillow.

Yeah. Good birthday.

REBLOGS AND COMMENTS APPRECIATED!!

[lanabuckybarnes]

Might have re-watched Captain America: Winter Soldier again 🫣....and it's just something about the way he says "You're my misson." All I know is this gives off HUGE smutty vibes. I love your written so I just knew I had to ask you!

Ohh nonnie the way he growls it as well (panties soaked)

18+ MINORS DNI, DUB/NON CON THEMES AHEAD

His metal hand pressed against your throat, you should’ve passed out ages ago but he wasn’t squeezing enough to hurt. He was keeping you in place.

You don’t know how you ended up on Hydra’s watchlist. You were a regular person, a security expert who woke up at 6am every morning, showered and got ready for the long hours at the office.

Your boss had some new clientele. They were in the market for top-notch security and they’d chosen the company you worked for, and your boss had chosen you to be part of the team. You learned quickly that they were a very secretive group, you only ever met the messengers and even then they blanked every other word you spoke besides a polite hello.

It was one boring day, completely uneventful, the usual in your office. You were working on the can’t security side of the project when your screen went black, then a logo appeared—an octopus? Weird.

“Hey Jim come look at this” you notified your cubicle neighbour who peaked over the barrier. Just as he did mountains of files filtered onto your screen, many of them in Russian it looked like but one thing was for certain. You definitely shouldn’t have seen it.

That night after packing up and heading downstairs you noticed Jim still at the revolving doors.

“Hey, you alright?” You asked, he looked pale, if you were in an old house you were sure you would’ve mistook him for a ghost.

“T-the—“ he cleared his throat before his brown eyes bore into yours. They looked dead, it shook you to your core. “The logo, on your computer…I searched it up and…”

Your jaw dropped to the floor when you digested the content on his phone. Hydra. Your new clients were Hydra and you’d accidentally seen all their files.

—

You jumped from your dreamless sleep at the sound of your landline. Checking your clock lets you know it was well past midnight, who on earth would be calling at this time?

“H-hello?” You rasped, eyes shutting by the second.

The frantic voice spoke your name. It was Jim and by his tone, he was panicking.

“Jim? Jim, are you alright?” You pressed, holding the phone closer to your ear.

“T-they’re here, listen to me whatever you do, do not open your door. Find a weapon and hide…oh god…Do not op—“ BANG!!

You let out a shriek at the sound, Jim’s side turning eerily quiet. Then your door knocked.

Once.

Twice.

Your door was gone before it could be knocked for a third time. Kicked so hard it hit the opposite wall, you screamed, dropping the phone from your ear and falling to the ground like you were made of jelly.

Tears flowed freely down your face as the huge body stalked forth, his arm glistening under the dim light you kept on at all times. A mask sat upon his face obscuring his emotions from you but you were certain he was enjoying the torture he was putting you through.

His heavy boots stopped just in front of your knees, his metal hand grasped at your throat squeezing until your vision spotted, until you garbled pleas up at him. Only then did he pull you up, your toes pointing to reach the floor, you were trying desperately to relieve some of the pressure around your throat.

You should’ve died a long time ago, his brain screamed at him to fulfil his mission, put a bullet in your skull and be done. But the more he looked at you the more he wanted.

The spaghetti straps of your nightgown had slipped down off your shoulders, catching in the crooks of your elbows but not before giving him a delicious tease of your bust.

He wanted more.

He raised his flesh hand, hooking a long thick index finger into the material before ripping it from your body in one fell swoop. You yelled and struggled against his grasp but a harsh squeeze of your trachea had any fight dying quickly.

He let his knuckles trace the swell of your tits, pinching a nipple in between his fingers, smirking darkly under the mask as you squirmed.

You look cute all scared of him; wide-eyed and chest heaving, your tummy sucking in to get away from his hand as it trailed down to your cotton panties.

A dark chuckle escaped him as he felt along your gusset.

“You’re wet”

You shook your head, eyes darting anywhere but him, your thighs squeezing his hand and keeping it pressed firmly against your mound.

He ripped the panties from your body as well, running two fingers through your folds and bringing them up to your face. Absolutely soaked.

“Wet” he spoke matter-of-factly before pushing his hand back down there; fingers plucking your hard little clit effortlessly until you were crying out.

“W-why are you doing this” you moaned, head hitting off the wall with a bang as you sucked in air greedily.

“You’re my mission” he growled back, fingers stretching you out until your brain turned to mush.

He coaxed four orgasms out of you that night. His mask, thrown to the floor so he could kiss you sloppily before leaving.

He returned night after night, Hydra sending him to complete his task but he’d do the same again, play with you, eat you out until you were a writhing mess—all dumb and thinking of nothing but him.

You were his mission. For days, months, years. You were his.

—

I pulled this outta my ass but I hope it was up to your standard nonnie 🤭🤭

Also thank you so much, it’s nice to know some people enjoy reading the poo I write.

Likes, Reblogs and Asks are always appreciated ❤️❤️

[badomensgoodomens]

BAD DECISIONS

CHAPTER TWO.

Noah Sebastian X reader

cw: emo. and mention of taylor swift. if u have a problem with that please get over it.

taglist at bottom of post.

He stared at the computer in front of him, nothing was working, the lyrics weren’t flowing and he was just a mess. his knee bounced up and down, his thoughts constantly went back to her, it had been a week since she completely shut him out. Blocked him and removed him from everything. All because he couldn't give her what she wanted. 

he jumped out of his skin when he heard a knock on the door. “Come in” he croaked out, Nick's face scrunched up as he entered the studio, wincing at the bags under Noah's eyes. “You look like actual shit man.” he states, setting down a plate of food. He pulls up a chair next to him, grunting at the way it scraped along the wood floors. “Right, you won’t talk to jolly, you won’t talk to nicholas, what's got your knickers in a twist?” he said, resting his hands on his thighs. He came from good intent obviously, but it was painful how the boys wouldn't leave him alone. 

“What are you? The fucking IRS?” Noah grumbled, picking at the food. “Is it a girl?” Nick asked, taking notice of the way Noah tensed. “It is a girl!!! Tell me everything.”

“Dude. you're crazy. If an art hoe is in love with you, you gotta bag her.” Nick said, nudging Noah. He shook his head, sighing. “You know I'm not ready for that.” Nick audibly groaned. “It’s always Natasha bro. You need to get over her.” 

“I am over her! It’s just…” Noah took a deep breath. “You know how I am with commitment after that.” 

Nick sighed,  his shoulders visibly dropping. 

“Lets get you into some therapy, hey?” 

She was gutted, crying to every single Taylor Swift song that was even remotely related to her current situation. It took her a couple days to even leave the house.  No long drive through the city, accompanied by fast food and sad songs, could save her from this. Her sister, Nevada, always told her never to fall too hard for a situationship, but I guess that advice fell on deaf ears. 

‘Us’ played over the radio as she cruised through the bustling city part of florida. 

‘I wonder if you regret, the secret of us’ 

Hearing those words sung was almost laughable, she was a silly girl for ever believing that she was in love. Tears clouded her vision as she drove, rain beating down on her windshield. It was only September, yet the seasons were changing drastically. 

“I just wanted to be yours.”  

The words came out in a broken whisper, almost a plea. Truth be told, she barely knew Noah. Never cared to look into his social status, his music, what he was like other than the feeling of his sex. She had created this false idea of what he was outside of sex. It made her want to tear her hair out.

Eventually, she couldn’t go any farther. She pulled over, her hands shaking as she gripped the steering wheel, tears blurring her vision until the world outside became a hazy mess. She sobbed, gasping for breath, as though trying to expel the weight that had settled deep in her chest. All she could think was that she was waiting—for a sign, for some kind of message, anything that would make sense of the chaos, that would make this unbearable ache stop. A text. A call. A word, just one word to tell her it wasn’t really over, that there was still something left to hold on to.

It was a futile effort, her and Noah meant next to nothing. How is one supposed to build a thriving relationship off of a sex bond? 

After a long phone call with her sister, she came to the conclusion she needed a change of scene. This town had seen too  much of her, from every highschool heartbreak, to coming home at 4am from the club. Her art was never appreciated here either, no success at markets, or even by word of mouth. Her day job was excruciating, a boring cubicle with endless paperwork. Multiple times she’d considered giving up, leaving this boring life to live in a trailer park with some junkies, or move to LA and become a stripper. 

It took awhile, but she packed up her studio, and her small townhouse, and took the long drive across to her sister’s house in California. Nevada had so graciously offered her a job as the barista in the small, quaint coffee shop she and her husband owned. She fell in love with Dawn in senior year, she was a cheerleader and he played in the band. He had successfully set off within the music industry, thus providing financial support to nevadas small coffee shop that probably loses 30k a year.

After a terrible night's sleep in a cheap, shitty motel, she pulled up to her sister's big white house. They both welcomed her with open arms, setting up the guest bedroom to be her temporary home until she got back on her feet. Her paintings being stored in the back shed. 

For a while, things had been good. She was in a better place mentally, her routine steady with a reliable income from the coffee shop. Life in California was finally starting to feel right—like everything was falling into place. But then, as if on cue, her past came rushing back. Her ex from high school walked into the café, his new girlfriend in tow, and just when she thought she had control, disaster struck: the back shed went up in flames.

 Her ex was just taunting, but the shed was gut wrenching. Her past lay scattered like ashes in the wind, each memory a flicker of flame extinguished, leaving only whispers of who she once was. Just as the remnants of a life turned to smoke drift into the afterlife, so too did her former self dissolve into the ether, leaving behind a haunting silence where laughter and light once thrived.

Dawn apologised profusely, explaining that his electrical gardening equipment had spontaneously combusted, turning everything, including the shed exterior, to ash. She brushed him off, it wasn’t his fault whatsoever, it was just daunting that she’d have to put all that behind her. 

It was going to happen inevitably, but a more appropriate exit would have sufficed. She managed to book some therapy sessions. Just barely being able to pay for them. I mean, music in itself was a perfect form of therapy, 

“It only hurts this much right now.” 

Were the words she whispered at the beginning of each session. They were draining, and fried her social battery almost immediately. But they were helpful. Dr Sanchez was able to help her label the fact she allowed herself to fall easily, despite knowing the boundaries of their situationship. 

It was hard, having to deal with the different diagnoses that came with therapy. Especially how Dr Sanchez was able to offer medication for Adhd and anxiety. It made her question a lot about her childhood. Her dad, who was never there, did not believe in mental health, much less not abusing his children. Her mom however was riddled with mental health issues, which definitely contributed to the divorce. Hence why Nevada was so quick to move away.  

9/10 times when she got home from therapy, she would escape to her room. Instead of painting, she opted for drawing, sitting in front of the big window. The sun set, illuminating the soft pout of her lips as she concentrated, and the small dimples in her cheeks. She watched as the cars drove past, taking note of the gradual transition to headlights. Her mind subconsciously drifted back to her old life, having pondered so much of it with Dr Sanchez, it was almost a daily occurrence. 

He had spent the past month drinking himself hopefully into a coma. He was butthurt for no reason, not even about y/n, but about everything, about Natasha. He had a nightmare about her recently, it set him back quite a bit, almost reversing all the therapy it took to get here. It was then that he made the conscious decision to take folios advice, and go back to therapy. 

He kept drinking for a while after that, despite Jolly's constant complaints. Some of his best songs had always come from his drunk thoughts. Right now, they were deep into working on their newest album, fine-tuning each track. It was a shift in direction—blending elements of The Weeknd’s atmospheric style with hints of Bring Me The Horizon’s intensity

At the start of their new album cycle, Noah had 3 demos in production. The songs were oddly personal compared to previous albums, the boys just assumed Noah was finally channelling and dealing with his emotions through song following his return to therapy. 

Not one week goes by where Noah doesn’t ponder about what could’ve been, with both Natasha and y/n. They honestly didn’t live far, Noah even considered visiting them. I’m sure Natasha would’ve been thrilled, y/n not so much. Didn’t stop him though, a whole year after they stopped talking, Noah found himself planted in front of y/n's house. Standing face to face with an empty block of land. 

‘Fuck.’

It invoked something in him, an odd feeling that left him feeling unsettled and kind of woozy. He didn’t love her, he swore up and down he’d never date someone again. But as he slowly pushed his pride and fears aside, maybe she had wormed her way into his heart. With her warm skin and the scent of her perfume, or perhaps the cheeky smile always slung across her face. 

It made him a little suicidal that he had somebody infront of him, that despite the sole purpose of their relationship was to be greedy, and seek sexual pleasure from eachother with no strings attached, was so, so deeply infatuated with him. He felt guilty that he wasn’t ready and in the right place to hand himself over to someone, yet still agreed to be friends with benefits. It was a selfish act, nobody could connect in the way that they did, and not fall in love. 

Nothing has ever felt so wrong. 

Tour had kicked off, something to distract Noah. He wrote and scrapped so many songs in the two years he had between touring. His song writing, and the new album sumerian was egging for, were a losing battle. 

On a particularly windy night, Noah was sitting in the confines of his tiny bunk, hunched over his notebook. Nicholas poked his head in, staring at the tall man, concern lacing his tone. “You look like shit.” his words echo within the bus, earning a grunt of agreement from Joakim. 

Noah rubbed a hand over his face, the words scribbled on the page barely making sense. “I know.” he grunted, crossing out a line. “Look, i get that sumerians on your dick about the new album but-” Noah cut him off, waving his hand in his face. “I don’t have time for a break. I’ve pushed it back far enough.” Noah grumbled out, pulling the black fabric of his curtain along the rod, concealing himself from his concerned bandmates. 

‘I’m taking it slowly, you’d never know’

‘Her skin feels unholy, but I'm still drawn.’

‘No god, no religion. Just bad, bad decisions.’ 

The words made no sense by themselves, but they sounded right. He took a swig of hennessy, the bitterness burning his tongue. it almost made him laugh, thinking back to that night. Their relationship was just one, big bad decision. 

‘Bitter ends to the night’

‘I'm along for the ride.’

‘Out of breath out of time.’ 

‘Everything has a price.’ 

The way everything flowed together made Noah want to tear his own skin. 

‘You can be all ive got, what's the difference?’

‘Hennessy, and a lot of bad decisions.’ 

The song itself made Noah think deeply if perhaps everything that happened had stemmed from his ‘slight’ alcohol problem that had lingered from the stress of last tour. He had managed to polish off a whole bottle of hennessy and a whole new song by 2am. Drunkenly sliding under the covers to fall asleep.

He awoke to Nick and Nicholas standing above him, reading the notebook he had forgotten to stash away. Immediate regret filled his stomach, this is not what he needed.   

“Yooo is this about art hoe? Damn bro she got you messed up,” Nick said, laughing. 

“Who the fuck is art hoe?” Nicholas says, brows furrowed as he read over the lyrics. 

Noah rubbed his hands over his face, groaning internally. He was hungover and not about to deal with their shit today. 

READERS POV

I tied the apron around my waist with a weary sigh. Morning shifts at the café were always tough. It was early November, and winter was starting to creep in, its chill settling in the air. After flicking on the lights, I got to work, preparing the weekly specials with practised ease.

A small interchangeable collection of cakes Nevada and I designed. I’ve taken an interest in design lately, taking short classes at the local uni. I was gradually ticking off the long strenuous list of chores when the bell above the door rang. Looking up, I met the eyes of a happy looking boy. 

“Hey, what can I get you?” I smiled up at him, his dark brown hair was loosely combed back, his nose adorned a silver ring, a grin on his face. 

“I’ve got quite the order, if you don’t mind.” he said, pulling his phone out. I internally groan, peering over the counter to the long message laying out his order. 

“Okay.. perfect. Let me just type that into the system..” I hummed, lip between my teeth as I focused. “Alright, name?” I said, looking up at the boy, taking notice of the casualness, and sweetness radiating off of him. 

“Nick” he replied, a small smile on his face. He really was beautiful, ugh. And youthful, how old was this guy? “Alright, that’ll be $63.80” I respond, a little astounded myself at the price. “Fuck, sorry one moment please.” he smiled, pulling his phone out. I make myself busy, cleaning up my mess from before,  managing to catch on briefly to the end of his phone call conversation. 

“Alright, I'll just use the band card-” 

Huh. Maybe this guy is a musician or something. I've definitely dealt with a fareshare of musicians. 

All done?" I asked, smiling at him. He nodded, handing over the payment for the drinks. The bell above the door jingled as Nevada rushes in, offering a flurry of hurried apologies as she quickly tied her apron and hurried behind the counter.

It took a while, but we finally sent Nick off with his seven drinks. The day moved slowly after that—Fridays aren’t exactly prime café days. Most people prefer hitting up bars or catching a gig. I used to enjoy concerts, but these days, I’ve become more of a homebody.

“Yo dude i saw the cutest girl at the coffee shop-” Noah groaned, having heard enough of Nick’s questionable relationship choices while on tour. “No- seriously, she had this long, thick hair. She probably has a boyfriend though. Californian boys snatch the hot ones up real quick-” fuck? This kid was yapping. 

“Do you say that about every girl you see?” Jolly snorted, throwing a pillow in Nick's direction. He scoffed, throwing it back. The smaller boy sits down next to Noah on the bunks, handing him a controller. “You’re all so uptight, come on, play a round of mario kart with me.” 

Nights like these always ended the same, drunk rounds of mario kart followed by play fighting until everyone was too tired to move. The sun set hours ago, yet Noah found himself sitting on the bus roof with his notebook. The creative flair just wasn’t quite there though, the page having been empty for the past hour. He was feeling so many different, violent emotions, yet none at the same time. It was hard to portray these emotions in a controlled way, especially during tour. He tried not to let the boys see him when he was most vulnerable, wanting to maintain the respect they had for him. It was unrealistic, almost like a ticking time bomb. 

When Noah went back inside, Nicholas, his best friend, was the only one still awake. They sat opposite each other on the leather couch, beer in hand. “How’s the missus?” Noah slurred, taking a swig. “Ivy’s good, I really wanna marry her, yaknow?” Nicholas slurred back. The mention of marriage knocks the breath out of Noah’s lungs. “I wanted to marry Natasha.” he drunkenly murmured, slumping back on the couch. “I think she was a porn star.” Nicholas mumbled, his words make Noah laugh.  

She laid staring at her ceiling, the window, which faced the city, was cracked open the slightest. Something so melancholic, yet comforting about laying in the dark, just feeling feelings. 

Not even about anyone in particular, just feelings.

She knew she needed to be awake at 6am for work, but the feeling pooling in her stomach was addicting, overwhelming, and most of all, fucking amazing. It was like a coil, seconds away from laughing, seconds away from crying. 

hi gang!!! see, this one is somewhat better than the first chapter. I understand if you feel that this story is moving too fast but honey... this is just the beginning xoxo.

reply to be added to the taglist x

Tags: @emluvsuxo @Ima1986 @collisionofyourkissmakesitsohard @briefpersonenemy

[c1qfxugcgy0]

adventures in QA

(previous post in this series)

My shop in Advanced Midbody - Carbon Wing (AMCW) at Large Aircraft Manufacturer (LAM) is at the very end of the composite fabrication building. Hundreds of people carefully lay up a hundred foot long slab of carbon fiber, cure it, paint it, and then we totally fuck it up with out of spec holes, scrapes, primer damage, etc. The people who write up our many defects are from the Quality Assurance (QA) department.

Every single screw and rivet on a LAM aircraft can be traced back to the mechanic who installed it. Back when even everything was done in pen and pencil, it was joked that the paper used to produce an aircraft outweighed the plane itself. Now that everything is computer-based, of course, the amount of paperwork is free to grow without limit.

(Haunting the factory is endless media coverage of an emergency exit door plug popping out of an Advanced Smallbody - Upengine (ASU) plane during a routine flight a few months ago. Unlike that airframe's notorious problems with MCAS, this was a straightforward paperwork screwup by a line worker: the bolts were supposed to be tightened, and they weren't.

As a result the higher ups have visited hideous tribulations on non-salaried workers. Endless webinars, structured trainings. Here at the Widebody plant we have received a steady flow of refugees from the Narrowbody factory, hair-raising tales of receiving one hundred percent supervision from the moment they clock in to the second they clock out from FAA inspectors who can recommend actual jail time for any lapse in judgement.)

A single hydraulic bracket Installation Plan (IP) is around four brackets. The team leads generally assign two bracket IPs per mechanic, since each bracket set is something like a foot apart, and while working on the plane is bad enough it's much worse to have another mechanic in your lap.

Let me list the order of operations:

One: Find where you're supposed to install these brackets. This is harder than you might think.

Firstly, it's a hundred foot long plank of carbon fiber composite, with longitudinal stringers bonded to it to add stiffness. The stringers are pilot drilled in the trim and drill center, a truly Brobdingnagian CNC mill that trims off the composite flash at the edges and locates and drills part holes for us. But there's a lot of holes, so you must carefully find your set.

A minor difficulty is that the engineering drawings are laid out with the leading edge pointing up, while the wing panels in our cells hang from the trailing edge. Not so bad, you just rotate the paper 180 when orienteering, then rotate it back up to read the printed labels.

A major difficulty is that the drawings are from the perspective from the outside of the panel. But we work on the inside of the wing (obviously, that's where all the parts are installed) so we also flip the drawings and squint through the back of the paper, to make things line up.

Large Aircraft Manufacturer has a market cap of US$110 billion, and we're walking around the wing jig with sheets of paper rotated 180 and flipped turnways trying to find where to put brackets.

Oh well, we're paid by the hour.

Two: Match drill the aluminum brackets to the carbon fiber composite stringer. I can devote an entire post to the subtleties of drilling carbon fiber, but I can already tell that this post is going to be a miserable slog, so I will merrily skip over this step.

Three: Vacuum up all the carbon dust and aluminum swarf created during this process. This step is not optional, as your team lead will remind you, his screaming mouth clouding your safety glasses with spittle at a distance of four inches. LAM is very serious about FOD. Every jet airliner you've ever ridden in is a wet wing design-- each interstitial space is filled with Jet A. There is no fuel bladder or liner-- the fuel washes right over plane structure and wing hardware. Any dirt we leave behind will merrily float into the fuel and be sucked right into the engines, where it can cause millions in damage. No place for metal shavings!

If you are nervous about flying, avoid considering that all the hydraulic lines and engine control cables dip into a lake of a kerosene on their way from the flight deck to the important machines they command. Especially do not consider that we're paid about as much per hour as a McDonalds fry cook to install flight-critical aviation components.

Four: Neatly lay out your brackets on your cart, fight for a position at a Shared Production Workstation (SPW) (of which we have a total of four (4) for a crew of thirty (30) mechanics) and mark your IP for QA inspection as Ready To Apply Seal.

Four: Twiddle your thumbs. Similarly, we have three QA people for thirty mechanics. This is not enough QA people, as I will make enormously clear in the following steps.

Five: Continue waiting. Remember, you must not do anything until a QA person shows up and checks the box. Skipping a QA step is a “process failure” and a disciplinary offense. From the outside, you can observe the numerous QA whistleblowers and say “golly, why would a mechanic ever cut a corner and ignore QA?” Well...

Six: QA shows up. Theoretically, they could choose to pick up the mahrmax you prepared for them and gauge every single hole you've drilled. But since we're three hours into the shift and they're already twenty jobs behind, they just flick their flashlight across the panel and say “looks good" and then sprint away. Can't imagine why our planes keep falling out of the sky.

Seven: Apply the seal to the bracket. P/S 890 is a thick dark gray goop that adheres well to aluminum, carbon fiber, fabric, hair and skin. Once cured, it is completely immune to any chemical attack short of piranha solution, so if you get any on yourself you had better notice quick, otherwise it'll be with you as long as the layer of epidermis it's bonded to. LAM employees who work with fuel tank sealant very quickly get out of the habit of running their hands through their hair.

Eight: Now you wait again. Ha ha, you dumb asshole, you thought you were done with QA? No no, now you put up the job for QA inspection of how well you put the seal on the bracket. Twiddle your thumbs, but now with some urgency. The minute you took the bottle of seal out of the freezer, you started the clock on its "squeeze-out life." For this type of seal, on this job, it's 120 minutes. If QA doesn't get to you before that time expires, you remove your ticket, wipe off the seal, take another bottle out the freezer, and apply a fresh layer.

Nine: Optimistically, QA shows up in time and signs off on the seal. Well, you're 100 minutes into your 120 minute timer. Quickly, you slap the brackets onto the stringer, air hammer the sleeve bolts into position, thread nuts onto the bolts, then torque them down. Shove through the crowd and mark your IP "ready to inspect squeeze out"

Ten: Let out a long breath and relax. All the time sensitive parts are over. The criteria here is "visible and continuous" squeeze out all along the perimeter of the bracket and the fasteners. It is hard to screw this up, just glop on a wild excess of seal before installing it. If you do fail squeezeout, though, the only remedy is to take everything off, throw away the single-use distorted thread locknuts, clean everything up and try again tomorrow.

Eleven: QA approved squeeze out? Break's over, now we're in a hurry again. By now there's probably only an hour or two left in the shift, and your job now is to clean off all that squeeze out. Here's where you curse your past self for glopping on too much seal. You want to get it off ASAP because if you leave it alone or if it's too late in the shift and your manager does feel like approving overtime it'll cure to a rock hard condition overnight and you'll go through hell chipping it off the next day. You'll go through a hundred or so qtips soaked in MPK cleaning up the bracket and every surface of the panel within three feet.

Twelve: Put it up for final inspection. Put away all your tools. (The large communal toolboxes are lined with kaizen foam precisely cut out to hold each individual tool, which makes it obvious if any tool is missing. When you take a tool out, you stick a tool chit with your name and LAMID printed on it in its place. Lose a tool? Stick your head between your legs and kiss your ass goodbye, pal, because the default assumption is that a lost screwdriver is lurking in a hollow "hat" stringer, waiting to float out and damage some critical component years after the airplane is delivered.)

One tool you'll leave on your cart, however, is the pin protrusion gage. There is a minimum amount of thread that must poke outside of the permanent straight shank fastener's (Hi-Lok) nut, to indicate that the nut is fully engaged. That makes sense. But there's also a maximum protrusion. Why?

Well, it's an airplane. Ounces make pounds. An extra quarter inch of stickout across a thousand fasteners across a 30 year service life means tons of additional fuel burnt. So you can't use a fastener that's too long, because it adds weight.

On aluminum parts, it's hard to mess up. But any given composite part is laid up from many layers of carbon fiber tape. The engineers seemed to have assumed that dimensional variation would be normally distributed. But, unfortunately, we buy miles of carbon fiber at a time, and the size only very gradually changes between lots. When entire batches are several microns oversize, and you're laying up parts from fifty plies and an inch thick, you can have considerable variation of thickness on any given structural component. So you had better hope you had test fit all of your fasteners ahead of time, or else you'll be real sorry!

And, if you're really lucky, QA will show up five minutes before end of shift, pronounce everything within tolerance, then fuck off.

And that's how it takes eight hours to install eight brackets.

[thefugitivesaint]

''The Age of Surveillance Capitalism: The Fight for a Human Future at the New Frontier of Power'' by Shoshana Zuboff, 2018 "I define surveillance capitalism as the unilateral claiming of private human experience as free raw material for translation into behavioral data. These data are then computed and packaged as prediction products and sold into behavioral futures markets — business customers with a commercial interest in knowing what we will do now, soon, and later. It was Google that first learned how to capture surplus behavioral data, more than what they needed for services, and used it to compute prediction products that they could sell to their business customers, in this case advertisers. But I argue that surveillance capitalism is no more restricted to that initial context than, for example, mass production was restricted to the fabrication of Model T’s. Right from the start at Google it was understood that users were unlikely to agree to this unilateral claiming of their experience and its translation into behavioral data. It was understood that these methods had to be undetectable. So from the start the logic reflected the social relations of the one-way mirror. They were able to see and to take — and to do this in a way that we could not contest because we had no way to know what was happening. We rushed to the internet expecting empowerment, the democratization of knowledge, and help with real problems, but surveillance capitalism really was just too lucrative to resist. This economic logic has now spread beyond the tech companies to new surveillance–based ecosystems in virtually every economic sector, from insurance to automobiles to health, education, finance, to every product described as “smart” and every service described as “personalized.” By now it’s very difficult to participate effectively in society without interfacing with these same channels that are supply chains for surveillance capitalism’s data flows." from an interview with Shoshana Zuboff in the Harvard Gazette in March of 2019. It's an interesting interview that I suggest you peruse.

[angelesca]

over and over, you read the sign outside a small agency, rolling the name in your head and flipping it up and down: teyvat's sleuth operatives, sleuth operatives... sounds tacky and lame...

it is only when a brown-haired someone approaches you, that your doubts are erased. their uniform neat, mastering the archetype of a professional private investigator, amber eyes unexpecting your early arrival. “you must be the new recruit, why don’t you come inside?”

edit: i think my tumblr is finally working again, hopefully this post works(-ω-、) w.c. ~3.5k / content: modern au! private investigators (PI) au! [not canon, slight ooc?] bulletpoints and scenarios, writing out of my arse again, lil' crack, another gang of idiots, total braincells: 8.88 (a high score!!), surprisingly they co-exist pretty well, zhongli doesn't know what a waffle maker is, you and childe watch a traumatic talent show, alhaitham's love lang is bickering with you, and wrio has a depressing backstory👍, tldr; working with 4 very fun guys / boss!zhongli / rival!childe / childhood friend!alhaitham / colleague!wriothesley / x gnreader

𝐳𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐢 as your boss!

✦ oldest member, worked in the profession for many years. however, when you ask about that, he is suspiciously evasive. zhongli seems to have lived a long life, though his appearance does not tell it

✦ out of touch with the new generation and technology. asks alhaitham to fix his computer and the kettle (bro just needed to plug it in) or asks you what the newest trendy slang means. it is a wonder how he manages the workplace

✦ tea buddies with wriothesley. hosts tea parties in the local retirement home to discuss and rate tea (power scaling tea real). there's enough boxes to last a lifetime in the breakroom. oh, zhongli is pointing at the clock. it’s… tea time… again

✦ talks your ear off about philosophical questions such as what happens after death, or whether a hotdog is a sandwich

✦ you and childe share a joint role as zhongli’s personal wallet. as to what your boss spends his paycheck on… maybe the countless snacks he leaves at your desk. and tea. more tea. poosssiibly those trinkets he has gifted you too

✦ glasses wearer. appears when zhongli is in deep concentration, due to an unexpected influx of cases so he's staring at the computer often, or during an intense reading session

ᯓ★

you flick through the papers detailing the information you recorded from your client. you and zhongli are out on a scouting mission to obtain clues that could point the case in the right direction. “are you listening?”

“mhm,” zhongli claims, but you can see your words are flowing in one ear and out the other with the way he is plucking free food samples as if they were flowers, bunched together in his hand like a bouquet, offered to him by the fawning ladies at the market stalls. the foreboding premonition of another unproductive day is brimming to the surface.

“where should we start?” you clear your throat, keeping the task on track.

“we should entertain any threads and trace it back, even if it proves to be a dead end. there is no such thing as a bad clue,” zhongli pauses in front of a shop. “for starters, what’s this?”

you raise an eyebrow. “a waffle maker.”

“interesting. what about this?”

“a robot vacuum cleaner. would be good for the office.”

“indeed,” zhongli’s eyes shift. “and this? such a profound colour, this corrosive yellow that erodes my vision is quite unpleasant. could it be…? is this a weapon of mass destruction?”

“zhongli, sir, that’s a banana.“ you shake your head. “is this important?”

zhongli nods. “could be. is it really a banana? a true investigator must question even the simplest of theories.” he points a finger at your pocket. “and this?”

“... that’s my wallet.” 

zhongli has a penchant for being attracted to your money, if he can trace the imprint of your wallet against your pocket. 

zhongli nods, closing his eyes. “a sacred item indeed,” he opens one eye which looks at you expectantly. “i suspect you have quite a formidable sum of mora on your person. and mora is an imperative factor that may save the day, or destroy the world. after all, we still do not know if the banana is deceiving us in its testimony, hm?” 

you give up, handing the money over to the shopkeeper.

his philosophy remains a cryptic language to you. perhaps it’s the gap in experience that makes it hard to connect a bridge to whatever planet zhongli lives on, a divide in universes between you, a disciple, and a master. sometimes, you do believe that there’s a rip in time and space with how zhongli’s senses lag behind as if stuck in the past.

you hand one over to your side. “here—huh?” where did he go?

one look behind you and you find zhongli by a lamp post. a young girl, scratching the ground with a sharp branch with a pout, gazes at zhongli. “who are you?”

zhongli slowly crouches down. “someone who listens to everyone’s troubles. would you mind telling me yours?”

no response. then, a small stomach growls.

zhongli motions at you. immediately, you walk over. “may i take one of the bananas?” you hand him one. “why don’t you take this?”

despite her embarrassed expression, the girl grabs it. she hesitates. “... mama, gone.”

your lips part in realisation.

“come now, we’ll help find your parents.” zhongli offers a hand but the girl extends his invitation, taking his whole arm instead, hugging it. he chuckles, picking her up, her arms naturally cradling his neck as if he is family.

you observe the warm scene, smiling. “you’d make a pretty good parent.” 

zhongli watches you, quiet for a moment. “why don't we raise one together?”

“oh, i’m not—”

“alhaitham can be the teacher; wriothesley will do the cleaning. i can do the cooking, and childe can do all the shopping. you can play the toys with the child.”

“ah. of course,” teyvat’s sleuth operatives is one big family, after all. you have to ask, “also, that banana, how did you know to buy it?”

“well, who knows?” zhongli pats the girl’s back, helping her fall asleep. there’s a glint in his eyes when he looks at you, asking you to work out the mystery. to chase after the clues he left.

another cryptic answer. the master really does live in another world—one that you want to keep learning about.

𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐞 as your rival!

✦ works for the rival agency which, unfortunately, is much more popular. when watching cat videos, their adverts often pop up with childe’s annoying face plastered on it, winking at you

✦ tags along when you are on a case. doesn’t he have anything else to do? at least he buys your fav drink from the vending machines. although he trails around you like baggage, you hate to say that he is good at what he does.

✦ … a bit too good at his job. you’ve spotted him slinking into dark alleys occasionally. what’s he doing there? one day you will know.

✦ trained under zhongli before. therefore, he is lowkey in competition with you. any task is met with the following question: who’s the better apprentice? so far, the score is even, but you’ll get him next time

✦ never enters your agency through the front door. opts to crawl in through the window (no idea why, maybe it's the challenge). comes bearing gifts such as expensive fruit baskets, bouquets, and medicinal roots like ginseng. you’d think he’s meeting his in-laws or something. rare, but may bring his younger brother teucer as well. on these days, teyvat’s sleuth operatives becomes half private agency and half daycare. 

✦ for uniform, the red shirt from his birthday art is nice. maybe a leather jacket that hangs on the shoulder. wears accessories: earrings, rings, bracelets, watches, gloves. bro is something of a fashion icon, tbf he’s rich so might as well

ᯓ★

desolation unwraps itself before you, beckoning its finger at you to sink into the drab swamps. you saw a tuft of ginger hair disappear into this alley, submerged by its fog. it is inevitable; you need to know the truth behind the mystery to quell the ‘investigator’ in you. 

as soon as you think that, your face hits against, according to your common sense, a wall—if the wall defined was actually an amalgamation of flesh and muscle. 

“need our help?” 

a voice irritates your ears. you frown, looking up at the culprit. “you can’t steal our catchphrase like that, childe.” 

childe—your rival, your nemesis, the guy who childishly filled a ketchup bottle with strawberry jam so that he could chug it in front of you, without flinching, solely to disgust you, and counted it as a victory—that childe, shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly.

“boss, who’s dat?” a voice calls from the darkness.

your ears perk up. boss? childe? a responsible leader? no way. you push childe aside. “... who are you guys?”

a whole lot of people are uncomfortably staring at you. “us?” one man stands out from the crowd. “the fatui, duh. have ya not heard of us, newbie?” the man proudly puffs his chest out.

childe rubs his forehead. “you doofus.”

bells were ringing in your head, red alarms were sounding. “the fatui? aren’t you guys wanted?”

before you can reach for your phone, childe catches your hand. “don’t,” his tone is rigid. it takes you by surprise. “look,” childe sighs. “they’re not bad people, promise.” he lets go.

a fatui agent is dancing. “yup, we have many talents, like stealing lunch money.” that is literally illegal. “say, why don’t we host a talent show?”

“oooooh!!” a chorus of easily amused delight.

“me! me!” a burly man wearing a tank top and shorts, holds up a jar of hotdogs. he twists open the lid.

you and childe exchange glances. the next sequence of events you witness are really unfortunate. “oh– please don’t shove that up your– well, okay then.” the sky looks especially wonderful today.

these guys should be in prison after all. 

“ahaha, okay, okay,” childe gestures with his hands, asking everyone to quiet down. “alas, this should be enough–”

“but i can break into people’s houses without triggering the alarm system!”

“i can use my anemo vision to amplify my fart!”

“aha…” the light in childe’s face falters. suddenly, he grabs your hand. “run!”

“—!” in an instant, your legs suddenly burst into strides, finding the right pace to keep up with childe. “where are we going?!”

“anywhere! anywhere is good!” under the sky, the breeze carries his airy laughter. in his eyes, the blue sea parts, a brightness coruscating on its horizon. it is refreshing, brilliant, childish. and vulnerable. 

you can’t help getting carried along by the waves.

.

“i should report you… for almost getting me killed by an anemo-amplified fart,” hands on your knees, the words struggle out of your mouth.

“sorry about that, they’re just really friendly.” he laughs. you notice, the way childe expresses himself towards the fatui, it is a delicate artistry woven with heartfelt tenderness. it’s the same fragileness as when he talks about his family and home. “how about i buy you a drink?” 

you contemplate his offer. after taking a few more breaths, you stand up. “even though i know you meddle with the fatui? how does a vending machine drink suffice?” childe tilts his head, encouraging you to speak. “for a week straight at least. there’s a new cafe opening, but the prices are too steep for my wallet.”

“okay, okay,” his gentle, tender voice extends to you, lifted by a smile. the blue sea parts, and behind it is childe, offering you a place in his home. “you win this time.”

𝐚𝐥𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐦 as your childhood friend!

✦ more like estranged childhood friend. you left teyvat at a young age, leaving your childhood friend, alhaitham, behind. you only returned recently, surprised to find that little alhaitham grew up well 

✦ does not concern himself with anything that doesn't yield results, keeps conversations succinct, conveying what needs to be said for the job with as little words as possible. only interjects if something intrigues him, or when anyone makes a clueless comment that needs correcting

✦ favours are not regarded well. one time, you asked him to grab you some coffee if he was going out for lunch break. alhaitham sighed, listing the side effects of overconsumption on caffeine and how a sufficient amount of sleep will do you better. although, when you came back to the office after an outing, you found a mysterious cup of coffee on your desk. must be the wind

✦ dislikes outputting energy where it’s not needed. when finished with his tasks, he will head to the breakroom or the corner with the bookshelf to relax until zhongli’s next order. rarely seen at his desk

✦ went to uni for a comp sci degree but it wasn't challenging enough. dropped out, but zhongli, a guest lecturer, managed to recruit him after witnessing his talent. has rejected prestigious titles and positions in favour of a peaceful life. but with you in the picture, he wonders how long this peace would last

✦ wears strapped pouches and harnesses… around the chest... and biceps... straps around the thighs... (;´༎ຶٹ༎ຶ`) for utility ofc. equipped with useful items for the job, like a gps tracker, voice recorders, spy cameras, and his music player. 

ᯓ★

“can you afford to be slacking off right now?” the silence breaks, and you are forced to speak.

“i’m not.” you quickly glance at the time on your screen. “besides, i should start heading home before the last train runs—”

“the last train has already gone.”

“... great.” you sigh. “how come you didn’t tell me earlier?”

“the sharp possibility that you’d insist on finishing your work is comparable to chasing after a dead end, and ultimately, a waste of time.”

a trained oracle, predicting every branching future based on your rooted disposition. it is difficult to debate against that which has inputted all your details, computing every possible output.

you rest your chin on your palm. “what are you even doing here? shouldn’t you be getting your healthy eight hours of sleep?” 

“and in the time that has spanned since you’ve sat at your desk, shouldn’t you be done already?”

you object, “you can’t deflect me with a question.”

“which principle asserts otherwise? i can.”

“you can’t.”

“can.”

“can’t.”

“can–”

you sigh frustratedly, knowing that you’re talking to a wall. throw your words at it and it bounces right back, a ball hitting at you squarely. 

with purpose, you blurt out, “little haitham was so much cuter, you used to follow me everywhere.”

and finally, alhaitham looks at you for the first time today. and for the first time today, you get a good look at him too. his posture manages to be effortlessly upright, not a lick of exhaustion burdened on his face.

“why are you bringing that up?” alhaitham returns to his monitor.

the buzzing of the ceiling light fills the silence. you blink. once. “we promised to the stars that we’d be the best detective duo in teyvat.” the mechanical clicking of keyboards clogs your ears. blink. you tug at the cuffs of your sleeve. “to solve all the mysteries, crimes, and beat up the bad people hiding in the world.” 

sounds of the mouse clicking. a pause builds. alhaitham glances at you. “and? we’re doing that pretty well, aren’t we?” you can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic.

“i thought you’ve forgotten about that,” you admit.

“it was you who forgot.”

you sit up. “come again?” your eyes twinkle, watching alhaitham, your childhood friend. the hope that swells on your face, and alhaitham notices it; the stars in your eyes, he’s tracing the constellations in them. 

"why do you think i'm here in the first place?" his voice dips, as if hoping you didn't hear that.

a promise embedded in the stars, and one of them was waiting for the fated reunion. then, in a split second, you see a younger haitham tugging at your sleeve, following your footsteps. you hide the smile behind your hand. “you’ve been waiting for me all this time?”

“don’t flatter yourself.” alhaitham quickly extinguishes. ouch. another pause washes over before he speaks up, “come over.”

your eyes widen. “over? where?”

“to mine.”

“mine? yours?”

“my apartment. it’s close by.”

“your place?”

“yes,” alhaitham glares at you. “do i happen to be speaking in another language?”

“i mean, how come?” 

“i do not want to be investigating a missing person’s case anytime soon,” alhaitham stands up, packing his belongings, leaving you no choice but to swiftly follow suit. “and our photo albums,” he stops moving. “i've kept them.” 

your heart skips, touched by the rare sincerity. you tease, “so you do care about me.”

alhaitham scoffs. “it's only a sensible suggestion. i don’t.”

“you do.”

“don’t.”

“oh, come on.”

𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐲 as your colleague!

✦ was classmates with you at a police academy. by the academy was an arcade where you two played too many games. after graduation, you two silently seperated. wriothesley worked in enforcement for some years before gaining his investigators licence, moved to teyvat, and eventually settled at teyvat’s sleuth operatives

✦ your current hangout place with wriothesley is still an arcade, the one by the agency - it reminds you two of the past. favourite games include money-grubbing claw machines, boxing machines, and “dancing dance rev rev” (i dont wanna get sued–). that, or you end up chatting the day away about whatever new complaints you received from alhaitham, not realising the sun has set and the owner ends up shooing you two out

✦ owns a red motorbike. will take you on rides for fun, watching sunsets on the highway feeling the breeze. will take you home whenever you need—just give him a call. he insists that the best place to hold onto is around his waist

✦ the tea connoisseur of all time. drinks a minimum of 5 cups a day, and you worry he might drop dead one day. you’ve tried to get him onto different drinks, like the popular boba tea, but plain old tea always triumphs in the end. tea is life and zhongli agrees

✦ good at subduing any targets. prefers not to shed blood, but will deescalate confrontations, usually by submission rather than violence

✦ messy uniform. shirt not buttoned all the way up, rolled sleeves, fingerless gloves, dark colours. often seen with bandages along his arm. wears a choker. like a werewolf, rugged

ᯓ★

years back, before you returned to teyvat, you attended a police academy to aid in the preparation and experience needed for your investigators licence.

you always frequented the desolate arcade by the academy. there was no door, the arcade was impartial to any of its visitors, like an open hug.

time and time again, you blew your stress off after a long day. the boxing machine was particularly satisfying in that regard. you and that machine watched the early evening resign, and the night shift taking over everyday. 

the tedium was so easily penetrated by soaking crimson, the liquid leaked vividly dripping down from the forehead. a moment was needed for you to process it. 

a dark-haired person sat languidly against an arcade machine, in a uniform you recognise. half bent-over, head tilting. the sanctity of life departing through hurried breaths. 

“h-hey,” you crouched next to him, hands outstretched but were waiting for a coherent command. “shit.” the lectures slipped by you, running past but never handing the baton. it felt useless.

suddenly, your hand was flicked away by the person. behind his fringe, it was frozen, crystallised, icicles shot past his dark strands piercing you. “don’t bother. it’s nothing.”

eyebrows furrowed. “you’re insane,” you brushed the hair out of his face, finding splotches of bruising. his lip, busted red. injuries walked all over his skin, trampling the delicate layer. his complexion ghastly pale, you weren't sure if it was his skull peeking through his skin. “i need to call you an ambulan–”

“i’m serious,” he reiterated, “i… i just need a moment, some quiet. please. i don’t want them to find…” his sentence trailed off. 

you gulped, hands trembling. “you’re sure you don’t need me to call?”

he nodded.

he reassured you, but you can’t help but feel weighed by the fact that an injured person was right next to you. you made a mental note to ensure he visits a doctor by the end of this. sighing, you slowly sat next to him.

“... i’m just stressed. tired.” his words hung heavy in the blank air.

a familiar word. a sentiment that resonated. all too familiar. 

if there was a way to cheer him up... there was only one thing you knew about feeling burdened. you point a thumb at the boxing machine. “wanna blow off some of that stress?” 

.

“do you think that the arcade by the academy is still open?”

“i hope so. i wanna know if we’re still first on all those machines. and if my bloodstain still frightens people when they walk in,” a snicker. “remember when we played ’dancing dance rev rev’ for six hours straight? those were good days.”

you and wriothesley watch the boxing machine, your joint high scores blinking on the leaderboard in excited colours. 

“do you still have those old plushies i gave you from the claw machine?” you ask.

“of course,” wriothesley searches his pockets and pulls out his keys. a miniature wolf plush keychain hangs, bobbing up and down. “like this one. named it after you, how adorable they are.” he playfully pokes "mini you", cracking a grin.

you smile at the gesture. after all these years, you never forgot each other. “hey, no bullying.” you pause. “... weren’t we supposed to be tracking a suspect? i think they have already left this arcade.”

“oh, yeah. oops.”

a pair of fraternal twins stand outside outside a small agency, reading the sign over and over: teyvat's sleuth operatives… sounds tacky and lame... they think in unison. 

it is only when you approach them, that they stop hesitating. your uniform tidy, almost mastering the archetype of a professional private investigator, smiling at your newfound clients. you are no longer the new recruit. “need our help?”

a/n: i havent played genshin seriously since inazuma so i missed out on many events ( ; ω ; ) sorry alhaitham and wrio i tried my best⭐ lemme know if my reserach sucks bc my references were ace attorney and google (ﾉД`) also i wanted to draw their uniforms but got lazy, so i drew the banner instead (･ω<)☆ anw im off to read more manhwa (great start to the year), ill be back when the motivation finally whacks me hard again. if anyone wants to request ideas, feel free! my inbox is open 24/7! happy new year!!!! 🎆🎆🎆2025 will also be the year of the snake, so shoutout to all my snakes😎

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Freewriting

Freewriting - the practice of writing without a prescribed structure, which means no outlines, cards, notes, or editorial oversight.

In freewriting, the writer follows the impulses of their own mind, allowing thoughts and inspiration to appear to them without premeditation.

Benefits of Freewriting

CREATIVE EXPRESSION

Many writers embrace freewriting as a way to find unexpected inspiration.

Outlines and notes can be wonderful for the purpose of staying on task, but they can sometimes stifle the creativity that comes from free association.

This is where freewriting comes in.

By starting with a rough idea, but without pre-planned details, a writer opens themself up to discovery and new found inspiration.

WRITER'S BLOCK

Writers who feel in a style rut, or who actively experience writer’s block, may benefit from a freewriting exercise as part of their formal writing process.

By forcing themselves to put words on a page, a writer may be able to alleviate their anxiety about writing and allow them to be more creative.

SPEED

Freewriting is typically faster than other forms of draft writing or outlining.

Because you are simply writing without a strict form to follow and without organizing your thoughts.

5 Tips and Techniques for Freewriting

JUST WRITE

Any writing coach or writing teacher will tell you that you must segregate your writing process from your editing process.

When it comes to freewriting, first drafts are repositories for every idea that comes to mind, however vague or tangential.

Don’t worry about word count, don’t worry about market viability, don’t worry about sentence structure, don’t even worry about spelling.

Unleash your creativity, let the ideas flow, and trust that there will be time for editing later.

This rule applies whether you wish to write a novel, a play, a short story, or a poem.

GATHER TOPICS BEFOREHAND

Freewriting doesn’t mean you write without having an idea about your topic/story.

Even the most committed freewriters tend to have some degree of a prewriting technique - they ruminate on their subject matter in a broad, general sense.

You don’t have to pre-plan details before you start writing, but it helps to know in the broadest sense what it is you think you’ll write about.

TIME YOURSELF

If you are experiencing writer’s block, commit to getting words down on the page within the first 60 seconds of writing.

Perhaps those first words will not yield anything, but think of them metaphorically as the first drops you put into the five gallon bucket that is your novel.

There is nothing to be gained by staring at a page or computer screen for any great period of time.

COMBINE FREEWRITING WITH TRADITIONAL OUTLINES OR NOTES

While it can be quite satisfying to say that one wrote an entire novel using freewriting techniques (as Jack Kerouac is said to have done with On the Road) what readers care about most is the quality of your writing.

With this in mind, start a project with a substantive freewriting session.

Depending on what you produce, you may want to use that content as fodder for a formal process that more closely conforms to the traditional rules of writing (outlines, notes, etc.).

Let that outline or set of notes guide the remainder of your writing on the project.

Remember, too, that you can always toggle back to freewriting at any point.

BRING IDEAS TO YOUR SESSIONS

Some writers, particularly poets, begin sessions with no ideas or themes they plan to tackle—they simply begin writing with the first word or phrase that comes to mind, and then they let the process unfold from there.

While you can work toward this point, if you’re new to the medium of writing and are seeking to unleash the writer within, plan your freewriting sessions when you have a strong idea of your story or theme.

The most effective writing has thematic or narrative consistency, and starting with a small germ of an idea may help you achieve that consistency.

Source ⚜ Writing Notes & References

[soulprompts]

hello it is i, your local tumblrarian, here to drink tea from her pumpkin mug and tell u the following important announcement: being on tumblr every single day is possibly not a great idea. let's use a metaphor here. it's like squeezing a lemon every day, but it's only got so much juice, you'll only end up getting frustrated and upset that the juice is no longer flowing. and then it's building up this habit of squeezing lemons every day, but then one day you're not around and you're worried, because what if the lemon had juice today? what if we missed the juicing opportunity?

but now let's sprinkle in the following notion: every once in a while, we step outside of the lemon juicer, and we go to the market to buy more lemons. the next day, we wake up, we go back to the juicer, and what do you know! the juice is flowing again!

gonna step back from the metaphor here to just explain a few things. we have all been in the situation of staring wretchedly at the computer screen, begging for a drop of inspiration. most of us are online each and every day. and that's okay! i'm the same! but maybe we need to refresh the cycle here, because i took a day to myself today, i consciously refused to go online until 6PM, and even that 24 hour break was enough to get some very exciting ideas going! and tomorrow i'll be writing more than i have in weeks!

we put too much pressure on ourselves to be here 24/7, and it's time that we just knocked that out and started treating writing as what it always was: a hobby. so go take a break. go out for a walk, go get lunch in a nice cafe, step away from the computer and just let yourself do something that isn't absorbed in writing or in your education/career.

[delightfullyatomiccollector-blog]

Flow Computer Market Size, Share and Analysis To 2028

The flow computer market in oil & gas is projected to grow from USD 798 million in 2023 to USD 1,067 million in 2028; it is expected to grow at a CAGR of 6.0% from 2023 to 2028 according to a new report by MarketsandMarkets™. The growth of the market is attributed to the technological advancements in oil & gas industry and suitability in many functions of the oil & gas industry. 

[commodorez]

If the Commodore 64 is great, where is the Commodore 65?

It sits in the pile with the rest of history's pre-production computers that never made it. It's been awhile since I went on a Commodore 65 rant...

The successor to the C64 is the C128, arguably the pinnacle of 8-bit computers. It has 3 modes: native C128 mode with 2MHz 8502, backwards compatible C64 mode, and CP/M mode using a 4MHz Z80. Dual video output in 40-column mode with sprites plus a second output in 80-column mode. Feature-rich BASIC, built in ROM monitor, numpad, 128K of RAM, and of course a SID chip. For 1985, it was one of the last hurrahs of 8-bit computing that wasn't meant to be a budget/bargain bin option.

For the Amiga was taking center stage at Commodore -- the 16-bit age is here! And its initial market performance wasn't great, they were having a hard time selling its advanced capabilities. The Amiga platform took time to really build up momentum square in the face of the rising dominance of the IBM PC compatible. And the Amiga lost (don't tell the hardcore Amiga fanboys, they're still in denial).

However, before Commodore went bankrupt in '94, someone planned and designed another successor to the C64. It was supposed to be backwards compatible with C64, while also evolving on that lineage, moving to a CSG 4510 R3 at 3.54MHz (a fancy CMOS 6502 variant based on a subprocessor out of an Amiga serial port card). 128K of RAM (again) supposedly expandable to 1MB, 256X more colors, higher resolution, integrated 3½" floppy not unlike the 1581. Bitplane modes, DAT modes, Blitter modes -- all stuff that at one time was a big deal for rapid graphics operations, but nothing that an Amiga couldn't already do (if you're a C65 expert who isn't mad at me yet, feel free to correct me here).

The problem is that nobody wanted this.

Sure, Apple had released the IIgs in 1986, but that had both the backwards compatibility of an Apple II and a 16-bit 65C816 processor -- not some half-baked 6502 on gas station pills. Plus, by the time the C65 was in heavy development it was 1991. Way too late for the rapidly evolving landscape of the consumer computer market. It would be cancelled later that same year.

I realize that Commodore was also still selling the C64 well into 1994 when they closed up shop, but that was more of a desperation measure to keep cash flowing, even if it was way behind the curve by that point (remember, when the C64 was new it was a powerful, affordable machine for 1982). It was free money on an established product that was cheap to make, whereas the C65 would have been this new and expensive machine to produce and sell that would have been obsolete from the first day it hit store shelves. Never mind the dismal state of Commodore's marketing team post-Tramiel.

Internally, the guy working on the C65 was someone off in the corner who didn't work well with others while 3rd generation Amiga development was underway. The other engineers didn't have much faith in the idea.

The C65 has acquired a hype of "the machine that totally would have saved Commodore, guise!!!!1!11!!!111" -- saved nothing. If you want better what-if's from Commodore, you need to look to the C900 series UNIX machine, or the CLCD. Unlike those machines which only have a handful of surviving examples (like 3 or 4 CLCDs?), the C65 had several hundred, possibly as many as 2000 pre-production units made and sent out to software development houses. However many got out there, no software appears to have surfaced, and only a handful of complete examples of a C65 have entered the hands of collectors. Meaning if you have one, it's probably buggy and you have no software to run on it. Thus, what experience are you recapturing? Vaporware?

The myth of the C65 and what could have been persists nonetheless. I'm aware of 3 modern projects that have tried to take the throne from the Commodore 64, doing many things that sound similar to the Commodore 65.

The Foenix Retro Systems F256K:

The 8-Bit Guy's Commander X16

The MEGA65 (not my picture)

The last of which is an incredibly faithful open-source visual copy of the C65, where as the other projects are one-off's by dedicated individuals (and when referring to the X16, I don't mean David Murray as he's not the one doing the major design work).

I don't mean to belittle the effort people have put forth into such complicated projects, it's just not what I would have built. In 2019, I had the opportunity to meet the 8-Bit Guy and see the early X16 prototype. I didn't really see the appeal, and neither did David see the appeal of my homebrew, the Cactus.

Build your own computer, build a replica computer. I encourage you to build what you want, it can be a rewarding experience. Just remember that the C65 was probably never going to dig Commodore out of the financial hole they had dug for themselves.

[viking-raider]

Sy's Therapy Barn

Summary: Austin Syverson is newly retired from the Army and struggling to cope with his PTSD. Until he decides to take a chance on a hobby, most wouldn't think could help, and the person there to help teach him how to do it.

Pairing: Syverson/Reader

Word Count: 5k

Rating: M - Quick-Burn, Language, Angst, Fluff, Mentions of PTSD, Combat Fatigue, Trauma, Wine drinking, Flirting, Support System, Movie Quotes, Leap of Faith, Mentions (but no depictions) of Mental Illness, Domestic Violence, Alcoholism, SMUT - Light, P in V

Inspiration: I saw this Instagram video of a handsome, buff gentleman that ran a pottery business and promoted it on the site.

Author’s Note: I hope you enjoyed it. I am so sorry to any Pottery people for butchering it.

Syverson wouldn't lie, even though he had thought the hobby was stupid, the first time he thought about it. But, upon seeing a poster at an outdoor market he had decided to attend one, warm Dallas weekend, to get out of the house. Something inside of Sy had urged him to save the number in his phone, before finding the ale stand.

It wasn't until almost a month later, after waking up in the dead of night. He laid curled up in a ball, hugging his knees and struggling to breath. With the blankets and pillows thrown off the king-sized bed, and the black fitted sheet beneath him drenched in his sweat. Aika pressed against his back and whimpering at her owner's distress. It was then that Sy knew he needed something more, other than just denial, the gun range and booze to deal with his PTSD and Combat Fatigue.

He wasn't about to go sit down on some squeaky metal, folding chair, in the basement of some random religious church, listening to other Vets talk about their combat experience. Everyone nodding their heads and offering sympathy and the Word of God. Sy had stopped believing in God over a decade ago. Because, how could some magical man in the sky, with some grand plan for you, before and after you died, allow such bullshit evil into the world.

He didn't want sympathy, far from it.

Austin Syverson, also didn't do sympathy.

So, he pulled up the number from the outdoor market and gave the business a call.

“Mini's Pottery Haven, how can I help you?” A cheery voice chimed on the other end.

Sy let out a hard breath. “Hi, I saw your poster at a market, a couple weeks ago, for a pottery class.” He said, rubbing a palm over his buzzed head, feeling stupid for calling a pottery business, thinking it would help him, in any way, with his trauma. “I was wondering, if you're still doing classes?”

“Yes, we are!” She confirmed, happily. “We have one tonight, with two spots left, if you'd like to join it.”

“Oh!” Sy started, surprised, not expecting one so soon, hoping for a day to work up the nerve to call her back and cancel. “How much is it?”

“Thirty dollars, for just one person, and sixty dollars for a couple.” She informed him, pressing her phone to her ear and bringing up the planner on her computer. “You can pay when you arrive at the class.” She added, distractedly.

Sy paced his kitchen for a moment, before pausing and straightening his back. “I'll take one of the spots and pay the thirty, when I arrive.”

“Excellent! Can I have your name, please?”

“Syverson.” He answered, out of pure habit.

“All right, we look forward to seeing you tonight, and what you create!” She told him, her voice upbeat and optimistic, like she expected Sy to be the next Michelangelo, before hanging up.

“The boys would lose their shit, if they ever find out I tried pottery.” Sy said, stuffing his phone into the front pocket of his jeans.

Later that night, Sy found himself standing out front of the humble, little pottery shop, the full window front was bright from the lights inside, which was flowing with people, all standing around chatting with each other and holding glasses of wine.

“At least, they have booze.” Sy commented to himself.

“First time?” A soft voice asked, from behind him.

“Huh?” He frowned, turning around to find a gorgeous woman standing behind him, a large bag slung over her shoulder, as she regarded him with a kind expression. “Oh, yeah. You?” He asked, trying to be polite.

“Naw, I've been getting my hands messy with clay for years.” You smiled at him, patting your bag. “I assume you're here for the class.” You asked, motioning towards the shop.

“I am.” Sy nodded, licking his lips. “Just working up the nerve to go inside.” He explained to you.

“Ah, yeah. We pottery nerds can be dangerous.” You teased, smirking up at him. “You make one reference to Ghost in there and they'll turn you into a clay mold. If not, pelt you out of the shop with lumps of it.” You giggled, moving by him to step up onto the curb and grab the door handle.

A laugh rumbled out of Sy's broad chest, a genuine smile spreading across his face. “I'll make sure to keep the Ghost quotes to myself then.” He said, turning his sparkling blue eyes towards you.

“Well, no time like the present.” You told him, pulling the door open and holding it for him.

“That's true.” He nodded, his smile softly fading as he joined you on the sidewalk, stopping beside you for a moment. “Thanks for the pep talk.” He said, giving you a gentle nod, before going inside.

The place was a buzz with voices as he paused by the counter, taking out his wallet to pay for his admission for the night's class. He glanced over his shoulder to see where you'd gone, but you had vanished somewhere into the crowd. Shrugging, figuring you'd paid in advance or had some sort of membership, he handed over his bank card to Mini, the owner of the business, who was a sweet looking, elderly woman, dressed in a loose and colorful, bohemian strap dress. Taking his card and the Hello, My Name Is: sticker she handed back with it, Sy turned away, spotting the small wine station, also surrounded by numerous black sharpies. He headed over, scribbling Sy, on his sticker and poured himself a glass of some kind of red wine, before finding somewhere quiet to stand, to wait for the class to start.

As he stood there, sipping his wine and looking at a wall of finished clay figurines, cups and other knick knacks, he felt a pair of eyes on him. Clearing his throat, he glanced sideways, figuring you were checking him out, which he was more than fine with. But he discovered it was another woman giving him eye-candy. She was tall, with bleach-blonde hair and in a hot-pink tracksuit, she felt out of place for a pottery shop. Though, Sy knew he shouldn't be one to speak, standing there in a Lynyrd Skynyrd t-shirt, that had been to war with him, tight blue jeans, a pair of cowboy boots, with a black stetson cowboy hat.

The way she lifted her wine glass, however, suggested she wanted to jump his bones.

Which only amused the retired Army Captain.

“All right, ladies and gentleman!” Mini called, clapping her hands together and coming around the counter to regard her customers. “If we can all head towards the other end of the shop, where all the potter's wheels and everything are. We can start the class.” She smiled, motioning everyone to the back.

Everyone moved to the back in a messy, single-file line, still sipping the rest of their wine and chatting with each other. The woman in the pink tracksuit lagging back to walk with Sy, fluttering her lashes at him.

“Ma'am.” He acknowledged her, touching the brim of his hat, but didn't give her much else.

“What's a man like you doing in a pottery class?” She asked, biting the corner of her lip.

Sy licked his lips. “I got nothing better to do.” He said, not willing to admit the real reason he was there to her.

“I'm sure a big, strong, handsome man like you could find something to do.” She insinuated, fluttering her lashes at him.

“Pottery is just fine, thanks.” Sy replied, offering her a weak smile.

“Everyone, please find a pottery wheel and it doesn't matter which one.” Mini said, motioning to the dozen or so pottery wheels in a circle, a round lump of clay already waiting on them to be shaped.

Sy waited until almost everyone was seated, not wanting to take the chance of getting stuck sitting next to the woman hitting on him, far from that mood tonight. So, taking up a pottery wheel and grabbing the provided apron, he took off his hat and set it on a shelf behind his wheel, and slipped on the apron. Sy chuckled, sitting down on the comically small stool before the wheel, as he balanced his large, muscular body on it, smirking up at the rest of the group; seeing some of them sit on the stool like they'd done it a million times and others wobble.

“The first thing we're going to do, before we start shaping our clay,” Mini began explaining, sitting at wheel herself, apron on and perched on her stool, like the forty-plus year pottery maker she was. “is to assign our first timers, helpers. I will be giving instructions and so forth, but your helper will be there for you, just in case you need a refresher or get frustrated.” She told the group, looking around at everyone. “But just remember, just like us, human beings, we are all unique and beautiful. It doesn't matter how many times your clay refuses to shape into what your mind's eye thinks it should, or tears apart, or even if it doesn't bake right in the kiln. It is still beautiful! You still brought it into this world with your own two hands, and you should be proud of that. Because it's something no one else in this room did.”

Sy blinked at her, slightly taken aback by her statement. So used to Army instructors drilling into him about, if it's not perfect, you're dead or your buddy next to you, is.

“So, helpers, I'll let you pick your person. You've all worked here before, so you know how to identify them.”

“And how do you do that?” Someone blurted out, making Mini and the helpers chuckle.

“Well, that's one way for us to find you.” One of the helpers quipped in an Australian accent, moving across the room to said person. “But, it's the name tags, mate, or Ryan, I should say.” He smirked, offering out his hand to the newcomer. “I'm Joel.”

“Those of us here that don't have a name tag, are old pros.” Mini smiled, resting her forearms on the edge of her potter's wheel, while the rest of the helpers spread out.

“Good to see you made it all the way into the building.”

Sy looked over his shoulder and grinned up at you. “Yeah, I had a little bit of help.” He replied, glad, and a bit surprised, to see you were one of the helpers.

“Well, you're about to get some more help.” You said, glancing at his name tag. “Sy.”

He felt a lump lodge in his throat as you said his name. “That's great.” He rasped back. “I'm going to need it. These hands have only known how to do one thing, for the last twenty years.” He told you, holding up his calloused mitts.

“Oh, you got good hands for clay shaping.” You said, taking one of them in both of yours. “I'm sure we can teach these pups a new trick or two.”

“Can you teach this ol' pup any?” Sy asked, smiling at you.

“I might.” You nodded, pulling a stool up beside him. “Let's listen to Mini first, then we can find out what you want to make that clay into.” You told him, giving him an encouraging smile, that cracked open the door to a place he had tried to keep shut.

“Everyone have their partner?” Mini asked, looking around, then nodded. “Good! Now, you're going to learn your proper posture for molding.” She began, leaning forward and started her instruction for the next several minutes.

“Christ, I don't know if I can remember all that.” Sy said, blowing out a breath and shaking his head at his mound of clay. “I'm just a simple country boy, fresh out of the Army.”

You giggled beside him, lightly patting him on the back. “That's why you got me.” You reminded him, sweetly. “Now, what do you want to make? And, I swear if you say a dildo, I will get up and leave.” You warned him, seriously.

“Have people actually asked you that?” He frowned, cocking his head at you.

“Yes, more often than you might think.” You huffed, shaking your head. “I'll make anything else though.”

“To be honest with you,” Sy started, frowning down at the clay and shaking his head. “I don't know what to make. I've never been the artistic type. I always failed art class back in school.”

“Well, that's the wonder of art, and clay for that matter, Sy.” You told him, softly. “You can make whatever you want. You don't need to be artsy for it. What's the first thing that comes to your mind? Anything at all.”

“My dog.” He blurted out, biting his lip, feeling silly for it.

“All right, what about a dog bowl?” You suggested, tossing out the first dog related thing that came to your mind.

“Could we make a bowl?” Sy asked, looking over at you.

“Absolutely!” You nodded, grinning. “If you wanna make a bowl for your doggo, then we'll make one. I'll use all ten years of my clay making experience to help.”

“All right, a bowl for Aika, it is.” Sy nodded back, inspired.

“That's a sweet name.” You commented, watching Sy position himself, much as Mini instructed, then drizzle a little bit of water onto the clay and cup it in his large hands, almost hiding it completely in his palms as he started to work the wheel with his foot. “Good, that's a great speed. Keep it up. Little less pressure though.” You reminded him, watching the clay start to pancake a bit.

“Sorry.” He apologized, letting off on it.

“You're all right.” You answered, shaking your head. “So, what made you try out pottery?” You asked, reaching out, instinctively, to add a little more water.

Sy was quiet for a long moment, playing with and shaping his clay, watching the thick residue from it cover his fingers and palms. While trying to find a way to answer. He could give you the same answer he'd given the pink tracksuit lady or he could be honest. Spying you from the corner of his eye, he noticed you weren't waiting for a reply, not being pushy or intrusive. You had simply asked him the question and given him the space to answer it, when and if he wanted to with no hard feelings.

It was a breath of fresh air to him, just like feeling the wet clay in his hands. Knowing he was creating something, not harming it.

“I was hoping it would help me,” He finally answered you, licking his lips, deciding to be honest. “With my combat PTSD.” He added softer, waiting for your reaction.

“It can be quite calming.” You admitted, no ill reaction on your face. “It can also be rather frustrating.” You chuckled, with a smirk. “I about tossed the piece I was working on this morning, when one of the sides collapsed on me. I'd only been working on it for six hours.”

“Six hours!” Sy exclaimed, sitting back to look at you more steadily.

“You suffer for the art sometimes.” You told him, with amusement at his expression. “But, it's well worth it in the end. Most of the time, at least.”

“Christ, I hope this doesn't take that long.” He said, looking down at the weirdly shaped, almost oblong bit of clay on his wheel.

You looked around the room, before leaning close to Sy. “I think you're wonderful, Oda Mae.” You whispered into his ear, so none of your friends could hear you, knowing the complaints they'd give you for the reference after the class.

A huge smile crossed Sy's face and he howled with laughter, catching everyone's attention.

“I crack a good joke, we all know it!” You told them, grinning with guilt.

“I like you.” Sy said, once everyone's attention went back to their own station. “You're the first person that's made me laugh, like that, since I came home on retirement from the Army. A year ago.”

“Oh yeah?” You grinned, feeling a hot rush through your body that wasn't the glass of wine you had earlier. “Well, if you think I can crack a good joke, you'll see how good of a pottery teacher I am.”

“You take any students?” Sy blurted out, before he knew what he was thinking.

You floundered, mouth hanging open. “Um, no.” You admitted, shocked he'd asked, then saw the light start to fade in his blue eyes. “But I could consider it.” You said, quickly. “Especially if it helps you cope with your PTSD.”

“I think it just might.” He proclaimed, finding himself smitten with both pottery and you.

You laughed, throwing up your arm as Sy flicked the wet clay on his fingers at you. “Austin!” You tried to duck the mucky droplets as they splattered all over your apron, the side of your arm, face and hair, still giggling.

“You were looking a bit dry over there!” He guffawed, grinning at you. “What the heck, are you shapin', anyhow?” He asked, balancing himself back on his stool and eyeing your kaolin clay, seeing the strange, cup-like shape you had going.

“I don't really know.” You sighed, shrugging your shoulders at the grayish-yellow clay before you. “I'm just trying to understand it, and make something. That will hopefully not crack in the kiln. If I ever get around to firing it.” You told him, leaning forward again, feeling the soreness in your lower spine and forearms from working in that position for so long. “What about you?” You asked, cocking a brow at Sy, without looking away from what you were starting to consider your Frankenstein.

“Another ceramic grenade cup.” You smirked, curving your thumb into the center of the clay. “Or, what was that tea pot you made?” You asked, giggling as you recalled pulling the craft out of the kiln.

“I don't want to talk about it.” Sy replied, sounding disgruntled.

You laughed, nodding your head. “That's right, it was supposed to be a turt—Austin!” You shrieked, as his big, wet clay covered mitt swiped across your face. “Oh my god!”

“It was nothing, woman.” He huffed at you, with mischievous eyes, as he sat back down. “But I do have a question for you, babe.”

“Oh?” You replied, standing up to wipe the streak off your face before it dried.

“I was thinking,” He paused for a moment, chewing on his bottom lip as he continued to work his clay. “I still have a large chunk of my retirement payment from the Army, just sitting in my bank account.” He said, scowling as one side of the clay started to collapse.

“All right.” You nodded, staring down at him, as you stood between your two pottery wheels in the garage of Sy's house, situated on the ten acres he owned.

“I've been considering,” He licked his lips and sat back, to look up at you, wanting to see your face when he said aloud what had been on his mind for the last year and a half. “I want to open up my own shop.”

You blinked at him a couple times, processing his words. “Your own pottery shop?” You asked for clarification.

“Yeah, I want to open a pottery barn, to help Vets, like myself. Hell, to help anyone with PTSD or trauma. It helped me through so many nights of episodes and flashbacks.” He explained to you, babbling out the idea that had been swirling around him, and looked back up. “You helped me.” He whispered quietly, before shaking his head and squeezing the clay on his wheel.

“It's a stupid idea.”

Watching him destroy the piece he'd just spent the last hour and a half working on, stung you, but it hurt you more to hear him say his idea was stupid. You thought it was incredible. That it was so thoughtful and sweet of him to want to share a hobby that had given him so much in the last two years.

You were flattered to be a part of that journey with him, as well.

Your big bear.

“I think it's a terribly-” You sat down in his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck. “good idea, Austin Syverson.” You declared, kissing him lovingly. “And if I hear anyone say otherwise, I'll pelt them with wet clay, until they think it is.”

A bright smile pulled across Sy's face as he rested his chin on your shoulder. “So, you'll come be my first employee?” He asked, nosing the side of your neck, smelling your perfume mixed with the earthy scents of pottery, tinged with a light sheen of sweat from how warm it was in the garage.

“Oh, I'm going to work for you, am I?” You cooed, amused. “What position, do I get?”

“Hmm.” He hummed, pressing his lips to your skin. “How about the head of pottery?”

“What's your job going to be?” You asked, eyes fluttering shut.

“I'm the boss.” He chuckled, tugging on your ear. “I'll have a bunch of jobs. But there's no one I trust more than you, with all your infinite wisdom of pottery, to run that area.” He told you, his hands pushing under your tank top. “I do only have two years of experience, compared to your thirteen.”

“Oh, laying it on thicker than a glaze, Captain.” You purred, feeling his fingers leave trails of drying clay on the skin of your back. “But I do like the sound of it. Do I get to boss you around during classes?” You asked, cupping the back of his head in your palm and rubbing the short hair there with your thumb, while your other hand dripped to the strings of his camouflage apron.

Sy smirked, giving your neck a sharp bite and making you gasp. “You boss me around already.”

“I do not!” You huffed, with an amused flash in your eyes, pushing his head back to look up at you.

“Whatever you say, my darling.” He replied, blue eyes sparkling.

“That's what I thought.” You smirked, kissing the bridge of his nose.

Pulling his hands from your tank top and gripping you by the hips, Sy pushed you up and pulled your legs across his lap, so you straddled him. You moaned at the straining bulge in his black sweatpants, pressing down against it through your short-shorts, sucking lightly on your bottom lip.

“What are we calling your little pottery business?” You hummed, reaching between your bodies to slip into the waistband of his sweats, finding his thick manhood and gliding your hand along it, drawing out a shivering sigh out from him.

“I don't know.” He rasped, clawing at your hips and the band of your shorts, leaving red marks in their wake. “Maybe, Sy's Therapy Barn or something.” He puffed, losing focus on the idea of running a business and growing more interested in tearing your shorts and underwear off.

“I like it.” You nodded, slipping off his lap, smiling at his hands grabbing to bring you back, but stood and took your shorts and panties off, before straddling his thick thighs again. “Rolls of the tongue and easy to remember.” You told him, taking his burning shaft in your hand, stroking him firmly as you guided him towards your glistening entrance.

“Mmhm.” Sy mumbled, his mouth latching onto your collarbone. “Whatever you say, babe.”

You chuckled, caressing your free hand over his head and gripped his shoulder, using it as leverage to sink down onto him, with a soft sigh and leaning forward to rest your forehead against his.

“I love you, Syverson.”

“Ditto.” He rumbled back, wrapping his arms around you and locking you against him.

“Welcome to Sy's Therapy Barn!” You grinned as a man came through the door, the bell above it chiming through the building, his ripped muscles making the fabric of his Under Armor shirt scream, his tattooed arms showing below the short sleeves. “Are you here for the classes or to look about?” You asked, motioning around the grand shop with beaming pride.

You and Sy had found a thousand square foot warehouse, filling it with all your pottery and therapy needs and dreams. Sy had even decided to go to school and become a licensed therapist, allowing him to help the people coming into the Therapy Barn better. While they got their hands cupped around the little mounds of clay, during your classes, so they could shape it into whatever their minds wanted or needed.

Part of the warehouse was set up with kilns of all sizes and kinds, tall and wide shelves to hold pour molds and drying creations. While another section was where you and Sy held the classes for the therapy groups, either for former or active Combat Service people or, those who Sy referred to as Regulars, members of the public who hadn't served. All of them there to try and remedy their PTSD, trauma, depression, loss, domestic violence or anything else along those lines.

People that didn't require therapy were also welcome, of course.

But the two of you catered to those in need specifically, and so far, business was booming. Sy had gone to the several local Veteran Centers in the Dallas area with fliers promoting the business's program, as well as the VFW Canteens and posting on the internet. Even calling some of his old comrades. Sy had been worried and a bit skeptical with your first pottery class, sure that no one was going to show up to it. However, when the time rolled around, the bell above the front door started dinging with customers, most of them were middle aged or elderly, but there were several your and Sy's age, looking apprehensive.

It made you smile to see that look on their face, it was the exact expression you'd seen on Sy's face, that night you met in the parking lot of Mini's Pottery Barn, before he discovered the magic of forming clay. You always looked forward to seeing it change into the wonder of how amazing it is, to see your brave Captain use his fresh Bachelor's Degree to help them work through the same struggles he had. The struggles you had woken up at one or two in the morning, to find Sy in the garage, in nothing, but the shorts he'd gone to bed in, hunched over his pottery wheel, his muscles tight and teeth gritted, but his hands cupped gently around the piece of clay he was working. Trying to chase away whatever he had been awoken by.

“I'm here for the class, with Dr. Syverson.” He replied, looking around uneasily, like he expected a bomb to go off in one of the teapots you'd crafted and had on sale in the front window of the shop.

“That's great!” You grinned at him, trying to be open and encouraging towards him. “The class will start in ten minutes. You can either take a seat or have a look around. There's coffee, tea and water on the table with some cupcakes and snicker-doodle cookies, so help yourself.”

“No booze.” He mumbled, eyeing the table.

“No,” You answered, giving him an emphatic look. “Some of our potter's are recovering and sober, so we don't offer it.” You explained to him, glancing over at one of your regulars with a nod. “To repress the urge to relapse.”

He looked at you for a moment. “That's—actually, very thoughtful of you.” He said, blinking as it came over him.

“We do our best.” Sy said, appearing from the back. “Pleasure to meet ya.” He offered his hand to the other man. “Captain Syverson, 1st battalion, 3rd SFG(a). Also Dr. Austin Syverson, the co-owner of this here Therapy Barn.” He introduced himself, always giving his classifications to the Vets, knowing how at ease it made them and started that thread of a bond with him.

“Pleasure to meet you, Captain.” He replied, shaking Sy's hand. “Lieutenant Daniel Burton, 3rd recon battalion, for the Marines.”

“Well, it's good to meet you, Lieutenant.” Sy nodded, then smiled over at you, his hand moving to rest on the small of your back. “I'm sure my fiancee has given you the introduction to our business.”

“That she has.” Daniel nodded, giving you a kind smile. “Though, I'll admit, I'm a little apprehensive as to how this is going to help me get straightened out. I watched some videos on pottery on Youtube and it just doesn't seem like much.”

You and Sy looked at each other, a smile and knowing look on each other's faces.

“It seems that way. I thought the same thing, myself, at first.” Sy confessed, a winking at you. “But, all you have to do is take all your emotions. All your pain, all your love, all your passion and all your rage and work it into that bit of clay we give you on that pottery wheel and the rest comes with it.”

You looked at Sy, it had become a thing between the two of you, and in doing so, that line had become his motto. It had become part of the business's motto, and few people actually caught the reference. But that was all right. The two of you still got through to people in the end. Saving them from their dark past through horrible movie quotes, a man that took a chance on a hobby and your skill with moving clay, sculpting a life and a business out of it.

[staytheword]

kind regards

kind regards — one shot [general masterlist]

this series (and this blog) are 18+ !! minors, please do not interact!!

• changbin x female reader; lee know is briefly featured.

• non idol au. workplace au. rivals to lovers (workplace rivalry). some physical description of mc, drinking, explicit language, explicit smut.

•  smut warnings (spoilers ahead) — dom!changbin, switch! reader, unprotected sex, sex in an empty public space, angry sex, elevator sex, use of pet names, lingerie, praising kink, dirty talk, slight degradation kink, dumbification, throatfucking, creampie.

• word count: 10.5k

Seo Changbin. Every time you get an email from me, you feel your blood boil. What a conceited, terrible human being. You have to work together, but it doesn't mean you have to like him. In fact, you only feel hate towards him. So what if you have no idea what he looks like, so what if you have never met him? Nothing could change your mind about him. Right?

• author’s note: Just a silly little one shot to take our mind off things. I wrote this completely for fun so I hope you can have fun reading it as well! Thank you for being here, sending lots of love your way. ♡

You stare at your computer screen, hoping that if you do it long and hard enough, it will magically conjure up the word you’re looking for. It starts with a g, that much you’re sure of, and it’s an adverb. It’s not gradually. It’s not gaudily. You have right there, on the tip of your tongue, but frustratingly out of reach. 

You close your eyes and take a deep breath. You’ll find it. You’ll find it. 

“Y/N?” 

Your eyes flutter open on your coworker, Gahyeon, who gives you an apologetic smile. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Yeah,” you sigh. “Just can’t find my words today.” 

“Hm,” she nods knowingly. “I hate days like that.” 

You slide a hand through your hair and sit up in your chair. 

“What’s up, Gahyeon?” 

“I just wanted your advice on something…” 

She circles your desk and puts a document on it, asking about the revision of a tricky sentence, offering you a welcome distraction. You discuss it for a few minutes before she heads back to her desk, long hair flowing down her back. You turn back to your screen, ready to get a good amount of work done before you head to lunch. Your fingers dance on your keyboard for a few minutes when you get an email notification.

Immediately, your blood grows hot and you stop typing. The notification shows you who the email is from: Seo Changbin, from marketing. 

You haven’t even opened the email yet but you’re already angry. You know his email will be dripping with his usual passive aggressive tone, blaming you for this and that, asking you to make corrections to something that has already been done and approved. You just know it. The guy is never happy with anything, especially not your work. He’s the only one, though. You work well with your colleagues, and your team manager likes you. You always hand in your work on time. You’re always meticulous. You care about what you do, and you make sure it’s well done. 

But this guy. 

Not long ago, one of his emails angered you so much you almost punched your computer screen. You almost took the elevator to his floor to let him hear a piece of your mind. Luckily for him you have some self-control - and you know he is still your senior in the company. You don’t want to lose your job over some loser who clearly has nothing better to do with his time than bring you down to raise himself up. 

It wasn’t always this way. You’ve worked at this company for years as a translator and never had any major issues with anyone, except for some classic bickering and gossip. Then this guy integrated the marketing department as a star talent and proceeded to make your life a living hell because he, too, spoke several languages and didn’t approve of your phrasing or your choice of words. 

It’s not the tone we are aiming for is the sentence you’ve read the most from him. Sometimes you hear it in your nightmares. 

You really don’t want to open the email, but you have to. Then you can treat yourself to a good lunch. You had planned on just grabbing something from the cafeteria, but you will definitely head out outside. A brie and spinach panini from the cafe next door, perhaps? Maybe even some sushi. 

You inhale slowly and click on your inbox. 

The email starts as usual. Dear Y/LN. It also ends as usual. Looking forward to your collaboration. You clench your fists, imagining they land on his nose and break it in a thousand pieces. The guy is polite - too polite. So polite you also want to break his teeth. You can just feel the arrogance oozing from his words. 

You read the content of the email and take a deep breath. It’s not too bad today, considering, but it still puts you in a bad mood. There is something I would like to suggest, he writes. 

Suggest it to my fist, you arrogant fuck. 

You stare at your screen, your face frozen into an expression of disgust. You hate every single word he uses. You hate that he puts his font just a half a point bigger like he has something to compensate for. You hate the little gray icon next to his name at the top that indicates the jerk still hasn’t uploaded his picture like the company requires. Maybe it’s best you don’t know what he looks like, because then your hate would know absolutely no bounds. 

You work for a big company. So big it occupies multiple floors of a sky-high building, and you’ve probably only met about 5% of the totality of your coworkers. That does not include the marketing team, except for a few faces you can recall from a Christmas party. That department is a floor above you, right on top of your head even, and the thought makes you rage. 

I won’t let you step on me, Seo Changbin. You can burn in hell. 

You imagine he’s a sixty-something year old guy with a fancy suit and a big watch, a family he does not know how to show affection for, and probably a mistress although his dick hasn’t worked properly in years. You just know he’s the sort of man to look down on women, to never say thank you to cashiers and to play golf with his buddies on the weekend. Hell, he’s probably a part of a country club of some kind. 

You’re probably taking all of this too far but you don’t care. 

You need to hate the guy. You want to hate him. It makes it easier.

With a sigh, you quickly reply to him, your tone cold and expeditive as always. You sign with your usual kind regards, words you’ve decided during a lonely night in your apartment after four glasses of wine. Just regards would be too easy, best did not convey your feeling and warm was just gross. Kind - that was perfect. Just the perfect amount of passive aggressiveness that could never be read as just that. 

You close your inbox, inhaling slowly. You’re not going to let the guy ruin your day. You are not. 

You get some more work done and ask Gahyeon if she wants to grab lunch with you. Minho yells from his desk that he’s coming too, so the three of you set off downstairs. 

In the elevator, you complain about the email. Gahyeon shakes her head, although smiling amusingly, and Minho lets out a chuckle as you spit out your murderous intents. 

“What are you laughing at?” you pout. 

“I was just imagining the day you’ll come face to face with the guy,” he says, eyes gleaming mischievously. “I need to witness this moment.” 

“Historical moment,” Gahyeon agrees. 

“It would be best for you to be there,” you reply. “I’ll need help getting rid of the body.” 

Once you’re sitting down with your platter of sushi not long later, you let out a sigh and plop one in your mouth. 

“So, are you guys going to the cocktail party Friday night?” Gahyeon asks you both. 

“You mean the thing with free food and booze?” you reply with a chuckle. “Why the hell would I miss it?” 

Minho shakes his head. “I can’t that night, I’m cat-sitting for a friend.” 

You glance at your friend, but then again, for such a sentence to escape his lips is nothing out of the ordinary. 

“You could bring the cat to the cocktail party,” you suggest.

“And what, put the poor thing on a leash?” Minho glares. 

You let out a laugh. “No leash. Just let it roam free. Hopefully my archnemesis will be there and the cat will scratch his face off.” 

You all laugh over your plates, covering your mouths with your hands so as not to be too loud. It’s a tendency you have - you’ve been warned before about making too much noise in this very restaurant. You love their sushi too much to risk being banned, so you do your best to be discreet. 

“Are you going, Gahyeon?” you ask your friend. 

She nods. “Probably.” 

Minho raises his eyebrows at her. “Hoping Mr Finance Department will be there?” 

Gahyeon blushes slightly. “Well…” 

You slap your hand on her arm, gasping loudly. “Oh my God, that’s still a thing?! I thought you were over him!” 

Minho leans towards you. “It was, but he broke up with Sunglass Girl.” 

“He did?!” 

“And he got a haircut,” Gahyeon whimpers. “I didn’t think it would be possible but he looks even more fucking hot.” 

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” you say. 

You put a hand on your friend’s shoulder and look deep inside her hazel eyes. 

“Don’t worry, Gahyeon. I’ll be your wingwoman Friday night.” 

“That’s okay, Y/N…” 

“I promise you to get you close enough to count the beauty marks on his face.” 

“He has two.” 

“I thought just one,” Minho frowns.

“No, two,” Gahyeon assures him. 

“After Friday you can tell us how many he has on his entire body.” 

“Y/N!” Gahyeon cries out, hiding her face.

She can’t stop giggling, though, and neither can you - and as Minho starts to make soft kissing sounds, you all burst out laughing. 

When you settle at your desk for the afternoon, later that day, you’ve almost forgotten about your work nemesis. Almost.

Kind regards.

Changbin lets out a scoff, scrunching his nose in front of his screen. Kind regards. He’s not an idiot. He can read between the lines. He knows exactly what that means, and it’s kindly fuck off. 

He’s not annoyed by it. Changbin knows better than to let things like that get to him. No, he’s definitely not annoyed. 

He just hates your guts. 

Before he closes your answer to his email, he catches a glimpse of your picture, right there, next to your name. It’s so small he can barely trace your features, but in a previous moment of weakness he opened the picture so it would be bigger and saw you almost too well. 

Wide doe eyes. Full lips. Smiling almost cheekily to the camera, wearing a black turtleneck. Wispy bangs grazing your forehead. Simple gold loop earrings. A faint white scar on the right side of your nose, probably from your childhood. 

Yeah. He might have looked at the picture a few times. 

It was just to get to know his enemy better, he swore to himself. That way, he had an advantage over you - he knew what you looked like, but you had no idea who he was. You could meet him in the elevator or the cafeteria and you would have no idea - but he would. It happened once. He saw you in the main hall of the building one morning, holding a coffee and wearing headphones. You were bobbing your head to the music, completely oblivious to the rest of the world. He tried really hard not to stare, but it was beyond him - luckily, you didn’t even notice him. 

Why would you, anyway? Thousands of people work in the company, hundreds of them wearing plain black suits like he does. Once Changbin understood that, he knew one day it would come to his advantage. He’s just waiting for the right moment. It will come. He just has to be patient - which has never been his strength, but for you, he trusts it will be worth it.

He takes the last bite out of his sandwich - homemade - and leans back on his chair. If only he could deal with someone else, if only you weren’t the translator assigned to his projects 90% of the time. At one point it started to feel like a joke, so much he wondered if someone was doing it on purpose. Your pettiness, your rude tone, it all rubbed off on him in all the wrong ways. He doesn’t do well with games and smugness, so you’re really testing his patience. Getting on his last nerve isn’t even covering it. Passive aggressive emails are starting to not be enough to convey his point. The fact that you’re pretty? It makes it even worse. You’re probably just a princess that thinks everything should be handed to her. He’s going to need to make himself very clear.

He just doesn’t know how. 

Of course it’s on his mind all day, and it pisses him off even more that he can’t focus on work because of you. You might be pretty but right now, for Changbin, you’re the devil incarnate and he needs to exorcize you out of his mind. Luckily, he has his gym bag with him so he can head right there after work. Small blessings.

At six o’clock, Changbin stands from his desk, gets his things and heads to the elevator. Many people have already left, which is why he likes to finish his day at six - it’s much quieter in the building and the subway. His briefcase in a hand, his gym bag on his shoulder, he gets in the elevator and sighs. A part of him just wants to get home, and another dreads the silence of his apartment. 

The elevator stops on the 11th floor - your floor. 

The chances for you to step in the elevator are slim, but present, so Changbin tenses a little, just in case. Good thing he does, because there you appear. Wearing a skirt and knee-high boots, your jacket around your arm, clutching your phone. His heartbeat immediately accelerates, and he has to violently remind himself that while he knows exactly who you are, you don’t. 

You step inside the elevator, giving him a small nod, and push the button for the main floor. 

It’s very silent. Changbin can’t help but glance at you - but you do the same at the same time, so both of you quickly look away. Leaning against the back of the elevator, you are pinching your lips, and you keep glancing at him. Changbin is more tense than he has ever been, keeping a solid frown on his face, his joints getting white at how tight he’s holding his briefcase. 

You pull out your phone and start texting frenetically. He keeps his eyes in front of him, hoping that the elevator would just stop to let somebody else in, but it’s well on its way to the main floor without interruption. He glares at you when you snicker at your phone. Are you talking about him? Are you making fun of him? 

He breathes out. Calm the fuck down. 

You have no idea who he is. 

And maybe it’s exactly why you are smiling like you are, stealing a few more glances. You’re not flirting, but he can feel it off you - if the context was different, you might have been. He’s trying very hard not to think about the fact that you smell really good. That your eyeliner is perfectly curved at the corner of your eyes, that he has a soft spot for knee-high boots. 

So as to set his mind right, Changbin recalls to his mind the email you sent him today, and all the ones before. All the arrogance and rudeness, all the times he wanted to punch a wall or yell at you. That makes it easier, just a little bit. 

The elevator finally pings at the main floor and he briskly gestures for you to get out first. You give him a cute smile.

“Thanks,” you say, your voice dripping like honey. “Have a good evening.” 

Changbin clenches his jaw and does not answer. You don’t seem bothered though, as you walk away with a spring in your step. Fortunately, you head towards the street, not the subway, and he lets out a sigh of relief. Truly, small blessings. 

You stare at your closet and let out a long sigh. It’s not that you don’t have anything to wear, of course, but there’s just nothing you want to wear. You don’t care about impressing or seducing anyone, you just want to dress up for yourself, to feel good even just for a little while. 

You hesitate but eventually settle on a simple black cocktail dress you adore because it’s extremely comfortable and has pockets. You slip it on, wearing only your golden hoops as your jewelry, and let your hair down. It would do just fine. 

Gahyeon is waiting for you outside your building, which is only a few minutes walk away from the office. She looks insanely good in a red dress and matching lipstick, and you shower her in compliments. You make it to the building quickly, showing your identification to the security guard. The lobby is already quite busy with people from all departments, who are sipping champagne and catching up.

You and Gahyeon get a drink from the open bar, looking for Mr Finance Department in the crowd. Luckily, your friend has a radar for him and she spots him by the windows standing with his colleagues. He has gotten a haircut, and the short hair gives him an edgier look that really suits him. 

“All right,” you say, holding your friend’s shoulders. “You remember the plan?” 

Gahyeon nods. “Walk up to him, say hello, be myself.” 

“And, what else?” 

“Be direct.” 

You hold up a palm so Gahyeon can high five you, and she sets off towards her crush, nervously playing with the strip of her handbag. You look at her go, trying not to squeal as you watch the guy turn to her and give her a sincere smile. From what you can see, although you can’t hear, they seem to be hitting it off. You feel a rush of pride, like your evening’s work has already been done. Now you can just let Gahyeon enjoy herself, have a few drinks, and go home in peace. 

You head towards a quieter spot, considering going out to the terrace to enjoy the evening breeze when a familiar face stops you in your tracks.

“Oh, Y/N, long time no see.” 

It’s your boss - not the boss boss, but high enough on the company hierarchy so that he is not the kind of person you can’t ignore. You give him a polite smile although you’re not really in the mood for small talk. 

“How are you, sir? It’s good to see you.”

“Likewise, likewise. Now I wanted to mention to you the…” 

He starts talking to you about a recent project that he wants to expand, and you nod at him, listening more or less intently - and that’s when you notice the guy standing next to him. 

His black hair is slightly combed back, small strands falling back on his forehead. He’s dressed all in black, his shirt without a tie, and there’s an elegant, discreet watch on his wrist. He just emanates charisma. 

Sexy Elevator Guy. 

That’s the unoriginal nickname Minho gave him in your group chat when you told your friends about your encounter with a mysterious, brooding stranger in the elevator. 

All week you hoped to see him again, although you never really counted on it. You didn’t even know if he worked at the company - maybe he was just a visitor. But from his attire and the fact that he is standing next to your boss, you can guess he’s your colleague.

How delightful. 

Your boss seems to notice he hasn’t introduced you, and so he points at the guy, who has been staring at you since you appeared. 

“Oh, but you two must know each other, right?” your boss says. “Don’t you work together?” 

You frown. “Hm, I’m not sure..”

“Sure, we do,” the guy answers. 

You look at him in surprise and confusion. This smile - it really does look like he knows you. Is it because of the elevator? You don’t understand. 

“How delightful to finally meet you, Y/LN,” he continues, and your blood gets boiling hot. “Seo Changbin, from Marketing.” 

Oh.

Oh.

Oh, no.

Your heart drops at the bottom of your chest as you stare at him. Does he know who you are? He has to, smiling proudly as he is. You’re too shocked to feel angry, but you know it’s coming. 

“I -” you stutter. “I’m not -”

“Can you believe this, sir?” he laughs. “We’ve been exchanging emails for months but we’ve never met.” 

“Yes,” your boss nods, “well, that’s what happens with such big companies.” 

The two of them keep talking but you completely lose track, your eyes fixated on him. Seo Changbin. He is your nemesis? He is looking forward to your collaboration guy? You can’t believe it.

Yet you have to face it.

That’s him. Seo Changbin.

The guy you’ve been hating and insulting and plotting to murder.

He’s standing in front of you - and he is also Sexy Elevator Guy. 

No fucking way. 

“Excuse me,” you mutter and walk away without another look. 

You don’t care that you’ll come off as rude - you need some air. A lot of it, actually. You head directly to the terrace, stare up at the dark sky and inhale deeply. You feel dizzy, the wine coming up your throat. 

You can’t believe what just happened. It’s one thing to discover his identity - but you can’t get over the fact that he clearly knew who you were. He is playing with you. He’s had the upper hand this entire time. Of course he does, you realize. His picture isn’t on his profile, but yours is. How dumb you are.

Your eyes fixated on the horizon, you let out a bitter laugh. What a fucking dick. What an enormous piece of shit. You clench your fists, ready to go back in and punch him in the balls for humiliating you like that. Your physical idea of him might’ve been completely wrong, but it clearly wasn’t in terms of personality. 

“Here.” 

At the sound of his voice, you spin on your heels, ready to spit venom - but he’s no longer smiling. His eyes are dark, his face serious, and he’s handing you a glass of white wine. 

“Noticed that’s what you were drinking earlier,” he explains. 

You squint your eyes at him. 

“Get the fuck away from me,” you hiss. 

He sighs, looking at you as if he is disappointed. 

“C’mon, now. Now that the cat’s out of the bag, maybe we can be professional adults about this?”

“Excuse me?!” 

“I’m talking about the attitude,” he says, raising an eyebrow nonchalantly. “We don’t like each other, and that’s fine. I don’t care, I don’t need to like you. But I’m tired of working with you feeling like a fight.” 

It’s like you sober up all at once, fixating on him a dark glare. 

“I don’t think I’m the problem here,” you spit out. “You came in and started criticizing my work like I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve been working here longer than you.” 

“I’m still your superior,” he replies, taking a step towards you. “Whatever I say goes.” 

“You don’t have to be a dick about it.” 

“I’ve always been polite.”

“Polite, my ass. You’ve been looking down at me ever since your first email. I’m not stupid, don’t talk to me as if I am.” 

“If only you did what is expected -” 

You bark out a laugh, shaking your head. He stops.

“You did not just say that.” 

He squints his eyes and exhales deeply. “All I mean is, it doesn’t have to be that difficult. Just make the damn changes.”

“I do,” you hiss. “But you could ask for them a little bit more nicely.” 

“What, do you want every single email to come with a bouquet of flowers and a serenade? I have better things to do.” 

“You’re such a patronizing asshole.”

“And all you do is insult me. Why can’t you act like an adult for once?” 

“You know nothing about me.”

“I know enough.”

You take a deep breath. It feels like arguing with a wall - clearly, there is nothing to be done, and really, nothing to say. You just don’t get along, and that will be the end of it. You suddenly feel tired. You take the glass of wine from his hand. 

“Here’s one more insult for the road: fuck you.” 

You just want to go back inside, finish your drink and get home, but Changbin grabs your upper arm as you’re starting to walk away. He doesn’t do it gently, but it’s not rough either - you look up at him with spite. 

Or you try. 

Because Changbin is so very terribly your type, smells wonderful, and has the kind of voice to get anyone weak in the knees. 

Focus, woman.

“What?” you hiss.

“This conversation is not over.” 

“Oh, I think it is,” you laugh with scorn. 

“It isn’t,” he retorts, his eyes focused on you. 

He’s standing a little too close for your liking - you can’t help but glance at his lips. Plump. Inviting. 

“We have to figure out a way to work together. It’s not like we have a choice.” 

You lift your chin slightly. “If you don’t let me go this second, I’ll scream and tell everyone you’re a pervert.” 

He bites his lip, clearly holding back an insult, and you wish he would just say it. He doesn’t, though, and simply lets you go. You shake your hair out of your face. 

“I’m sick of the games,” he chews. “Tell me what you want.” 

You smile at him. “The games.”

He sighs and you chuckle. 

“Don’t think for a second you’ll get away with this trick you just pulled. If you thought I was difficult before, you have no idea what’s coming for you now, Mr. Seo.” 

He looks exhausted and slightly worried, but angry most of all. That delights you, and you finally walk away from him, finishing your glass of wine in one sip.

He can’t let you walk away like this. 

This is all Changbin can think of as he watches you cross the terrace to go back inside. If it ends like this, then it will all be for the worst. You might follow up on your promise to make his life a living hell, or even worse, things might get awkward and even more tense. No, definitely, you and him need to continue this conversation and find some kind of agreement. 

He licks his lips, turning away from the building in annoyance. He never signed up for this when he decided to leave his previous workplace for this one - yes, the salary was better, and so were the benefits, but it was never about that. It was about challenging himself, about growing and learning in his workplace environment, about finding his place. You couldn’t get in the way of that. Nobody could. 

Changbin glances inside to make sure you haven’t left the building - he catches a glimpse of you near the bar, sulking. Good, he thinks, as he finishes his own glass. Let the both of you be miserable and angry, at least. 

The world feels so quiet out on the terrace, but when he steps back inside, his ears are filled once more with the sounds of music and conversation. Since there are a lot of people around, maybe it won’t be as easy for you to start spitting venom at him - but he doesn’t really count on that. He takes a deep breath, tries to settle his anger. Just a conversation. Calm, polite, reasonable. You can do that. 

However, as you lock eyes with him across the room, Changbin knows it won’t be that easy. Your eyes are full of fire, your mouth pinched in spite. It could be unattractive if only that black dress did not perfectly hug your curves and set his mind wandering against his will. 

“For fuck’s sake, can’t you leave me alone?” you whine. 

It would be so easy to fall back into the same energy as you, but Changbin holds on. He breathes in, leaning against the wall next to you. He’s not a difficult person. He doesn’t usually get into conflicts with people. Why he does with you is beyond him. 

“Look,” he says. “I just want to be able to work in peace.” 

“So do I,” you sigh. “But you never let that happen.” 

“How about this,” he snaps, turning to face you. “I hold back on the passive aggressive, but so do you.” 

To his despair, you only give him a smug smile.

“So you admit to the passive aggressiveness.”

“Is this what you pick up on?” 

“Didn’t you hear me earlier?” you say, frowning. “You humiliated me. Made damn sure I’d feel like a fool not knowing your face. I’m not going to let you walk away from that.”

“What the hell do you want from me?” 

You scoff. “You think I’m going to tell you now? No way. I want you to live in fear.” 

It’s entirely against his will, but Changbin laughs. He quickly frowns afterwards, sliding a hand across his face. The look of surprise on your face quickly fades away, though, to a certain revolt. 

“Are you laughing at me?” you ask. 

“No,” he sighs, making sure his face no longer holds any kind of laughter. “You’re just getting on my last nerve.” 

“Well you’ve been on mine for a certain time.” 

“It’s useless to talk to you, isn’t it?” 

“If you wanted to talk, why didn’t you just come and see me? Why did you have to do all that shit with the picture and the boss? Why did you have to mock me like you did?” 

You are so full of fire, Changbin can’t believe his eyes and ears. You’re like a flame he can’t look away from - a flame he desperately wants to extinguish for his own preservation, and yet one he desperately wants to graze with his fingers, even knowing he’ll get burned. 

Your conversation is going nowhere, Changbin is aware of it. Things have gone completely out of hand, so much it all feels like a fever dream. So confused between his different feelings for you, Changbin breathes out, pulling on his suit to replace it on his shoulders. 

“I need another drink,” he mumbles. 

Without him expecting it, tables turn - this time, it’s you grabbing his arm as he is turning away. He looks up at you in surprise.

“I have an idea,” you say.

It might be the booze, or it might just be the adrenaline, but you find yourself dragging Seo Changbin by the wrist across the lobby, all the way to the elevators. To your surprise, he doesn’t even try to shrug you off, and you don’t let him go. 

You both get in the elevator and you push the button for the 12th floor. Changbin waits until the doors have closed and you stand in silence to ask. 

“Where are we going?” 

“Where do you think?” you sigh. “Your office.” 

He turns towards you, eyes dark.

“Why?” 

You do the same, turning to face him. Your index pushes against his chest.

“You’re going to do something for me,” you state. “Even if I have to endure your shit, I’ll make sure nobody else does.” 

“I’m not going to - It’s not even - and how are you going to do that?” 

“Simple,” you grin. “Upload a picture.”

The doors of the elevator open on this perfect timing, and you wave your hand.

“After you.” 

He lets out a long sigh but he still leads you to his office. You’ve never been in this area of the building, but now is not the time for sightseeing. Besides, most floors look the same. 

Changbin opens the door to his office, and you follow him inside. It’s not a very big room, but it’s still wide enough for a large desk and bookshelves. There are two large windows, and the walls facing the rest of the floor are made of glass. Not much for privacy, you think. But then again, your own desk stands in the middle of a wide room, which you share with ten other people. 

You nod towards his chair. “Sit.” 

He rolls his eyes, but he does. You stand next to him, arms crossed, thinking about the fact that this was probably the spot from where he sent most of his day-ruining emails to you. You bite your tongue a little. 

“C’mon. Open the computer and upload the damn picture.” 

“I don’t have one.” 

“One what?” 

“A picture,” he explains. “An official one, I mean.” 

You groan. “I don’t give a shit. Find another one, it’ll have to do.” 

“I was told it had to be -”

“Hey,” you snap. “You’re in no position to argue.” 

He scoffs but he doesn’t answer, although he clearly disagrees. You don’t care you’re being petty, and that he’s being the bigger person - you’ve never had much of a reasonable nature. As Changbin searches through his computer, you walk around the office, staring at the window, staring at him, and then at his screen. You catch a glimpse of a group picture, of him with friends, smiling widely at the camera. 

He shakes his head but reframes the picture and uploads it to his email profile. You squint your eyes. 

“There. You happy?” he lets out. 

“It’ll do for now,” you say. 

He closes the windows on his screen, standing up. His shoulders are wide, his arms too. You remember that gym bag he was carrying.  

“Let’s go, then,” he says.

You chuckle. “Oh, do you think this is over?” 

He blinks at you, chuckling in disbelief. “Isn’t it?”

“Not even close.”

“All right, this is enough,” he growls, taking a step towards you. “I’ve done what you wanted, can’t you move on now?” 

“No, I can’t,” you spit. “You’ve made my life difficult ever since you’ve started working here and -”

“What about my life?” Changbin hisses. “You think your fucking tone and attitude has made my days easier?” 

“At least I’m not a self-righteous asshole!” you cry out.

“God, you’re fucking detestable,” he says. 

He’s standing too close to you now. All you can see, all you can smell, is him, him, him. The tension is so tightly drawn between your two bodies you feel like it can only snap. You desperately hold on to your end, though, because you’re scared of what might happen if you do let go - but it’s out of your control. 

Changbin breathes in, and his eyes linger for a second too long on your lips - and that makes the tightrope snap. 

He doesn’t kiss you first, but neither do you - it just happens at the same time. Your lips crash halfway in a feverish dance, and you can’t understand what is happening to you. It feels like your entire body just caught on fire, like everything makes sense, like every step you’ve taken, every word you’ve uttered, has led you to this moment. 

Changbin’s hand slides behind your head, holding the back of your neck, and your arms circle his waist to sprawl on his back. He kisses you deeply, breathing you in, and you can only collapse in his arms. 

Your hands go against his chest, and then in his hair, as he keeps pushing your head against his lips, as if to deepen your kiss, more and more. Your back hits the desk behind you, but you barely notice. All you can feel are Changbin’s lips devouring yours, his arms holding you close. You open your mouth wider but he’s quicker, sliding his tongue inside before you can do the same. 

A moan escapes your throat, vibrating against his lips, and he draws you in even closer. It seems like forever before you lean back, breathless, just in order to catch your breath. Your lips feel swollen already, but you don’t want to stop kissing him. Still, the slight distance gives you enough perspective to realize what is happening. 

“What the fuck am I doing,” you whisper, shaking your head. 

A part of you wants to slip away, just so you have time to put some order in your thoughts, but as you are about to do so, Changbin’s fingers, which had been resting on your waist, grab your chin tightly. You whimper. 

“Is this a part of your little game?” he says in a low voice, breathing heavily.

“What?” 

“Tell me the truth,” he hisses. “Are you playing with me now?” 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

You angrily grab his wrist, trying to pull his hand away - but he is stronger than you. You struggle against him, gritting your teeth. 

“Answer me,” he insists. 

“Fuck you,” you spit out. 

He relaxes enough for you to push him away, squinting your eyes at him in anger. 

“Way to ruin the moment, asshole.” 

You do the only thing that makes sense for you in that instant - walk away. You’re ashamed and horribly angry at yourself for letting this happen. He’s attractive, yes, but he’s ruined so many of your days, made you feel miserable and worthless at your job. You have to hold on to your anger - and it has to be directed at him. 

Your heels make no sound against the carpet and it’s infuriating. You don’t hear anyone behind you either, so you guess Changbin has decided not to follow you. It’s probably a good thing, although now you feel entirely at a loss as to how your workdays will go. Should you be quiet? You scoff. No - if anyone should, it’s him. 

Your hand smashes the button for the elevator. It takes too long to arrive, but it does. You enter the elevator, push the button for the lobby and cross your arms. 

Fuck, if only he wasn’t such a good kisser. 

The doors are nearly closed when he comes in. He slides between them, stands in front of you. He’s not that much taller than you but someone in his demeanor makes you feel like he’s towering over you by several inches. 

“Just leave me alone, will you?” you hiss. 

He scoffs, shaking his head. There’s a wildness in his eyes, and you can’t look away from him. 

“Can you really blame me for asking?” 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” 

“About playing games,” he says, articulating each syllable. Each sounds angrier than the last. “You told me you’d make me regret what I did.”

You pout. “Aw, are you really that scared? It’s not my fault you made it your job to piss me off.” 

“Look who’s talking.” 

You stare at each other for a second. It’s like the tension has magically reappeared, unresolved. It’s clear you both want the same thing, but can’t bring yourselves to say or show it. You’re so angry at him. 

He takes another step towards you. Your faces are inches from each other - just a nod and his lips would be on yours again. 

“Fine. I’m sorry about the picture thing,” he says, his voice low and deep. 

“Just that?” you ask, arching an eyebrow. 

His smirk only curves half of his mouth, and it’s humorless. “Don’t push it.” 

You are the one to tilt your head forward, just slightly. 

“This does not mean I’m not angry at you,” you breathe in his mouth. 

“And we still need to talk about this,” he adds. 

“Later,” you nod. 

He turns to slam the button to stop the elevator, and as his body comes back to face yours, you pull him in your arms and kiss him. 

It’s even more desperate and angry than before, maybe because neither of you are held back by the surprise and doubt. It’s unsaid, but you hear it from his lips, it doesn’t mean anything. You’ve just both been tense and you need an outlet - what better than each other? 

Changbin pushes you against the wall of the elevator, his hands discovering your body. His warmth and his weight are completely enveloping you, and you push his jacket away. He shrugs it off, and the fabric of his shirt is soft against your skin. 

Changbin kisses you deep, like he’s been waiting to do it, like you’re not on top of each other inside a dark elevator outside of work hours, his tongue tasting of lemon and gin. 

One of his hands traces your hips and slides on your ass, squeezing softly. In a swift move, he lifts one of your legs and wraps it around his. It elicits a moan from you, your nails scratch the back of his neck. He growls in your mouth, biting your lower lip in answer. 

With his body pushed against yours, you can feel his hard cock, and he shifts you so it rubs directly against your wetness. You roll your hips, breathing heavily against his mouth. 

“You like that, huh?” he tells you. “Rubbing yourself against me.” 

“Easy, you’re so fucking hard already,” you retort. 

“Like you aren’t all wet for my dick,” he sighs, kissing your neck. 

You feel yourself clench at his words. When you don’t answer, only grab him tighter, Changbin chuckles.

“You are, aren’t you?” he whispers, his hands moving up your dress, lifting it slowly, warming your thighs. 

“Shut the fuck up.” 

He shakes his head, biting your earlobe hard. You let out a small whimper. 

“I’m gonna fuck that tight little pussy of yours so good you won’t be able to come into work tomorrow.” 

“You wish,” you answer, starting to unbutton his pants. “I’m not gonna let you go a day without getting an email from me. I’m going to fucking torture you.” 

As you mutter the words, you take his cock out of his pants and start to rub your hand around it. Changbin hisses, slightly bucking his hips. 

“You need a fucking lesson,” he sneers, pushing your underwear to the side to touch you. “I’m going to shut you up.” 

He is right - you’re soaked, but it seems to please him. He takes a few seconds to caress you, spreading your wetness, and inserting a finger inside of you. You let out a choked moan, wrapping your arms around his neck for a better hold. 

“That’s right,” he mutters. “That’s what I like to hear.”

He inserts another finger, stretching your walls, and moving his wrist in sharp motions. You breathe out erratically, grabbing onto his suit, his fingers curled inside your cunt. 

“Fuck, you’re so tight. Making me lose my goddamn mind.” 

You don’t want him to stop what he is doing, but you are craving the feel of his cock inside of you, so you tug at his hardness, kissing his jaw. 

“Fuck me already.” 

He doesn’t need you to ask twice, guiding himself against your entrance and penetrating you. You let out a choked moan, grabbing onto the wall of the elevator. He gives you time to adjust to his size, but he’s not being particularly careful either. 

“Holy shit,” you mutter in his ear despite yourself.  

“Fuck, I can feel my cock stretching you,” he grunts.

He thrusts his hips faster and faster, and in a matter of seconds he’s pounding into you. The elevator is silent except for the sounds of your heavy breathing and moans, and the lewd sounds of him fucking you, skin slapping against skin. 

Your nails dig inside the back of his neck again, and he grips your waist so tight you’re sure it will leave a mark. 

“Changbin, don’t stop,” you cry out. 

“So impatient,” he sneers, but he still doesn’t stop, like he can’t, like he’s a man possessed. 

He even accelerates, and you feel yourself coming. Your orgasm ripples through you like lightning. Your body shakes, your thoughts evaporate. Changbin fucks you deep, his breathing heavy in your hair. 

“I can’t -” he hisses. “I’m not -”

“Come inside me,” you surprise yourself whispering. 

You can feel his cock twitch at your words, and he comes inside you, hips bucking sharply, grunts escaping his throat like it’s hurting it. 

You stay like that for a few minutes, panting, recovering your breath. After a few seconds he takes a step back, breathing out. You got back on both feet, feeling dizzy and already sore. You both look like a mess, hair tangled, lips raw from kissing. 

You lean back against the wall, breathing slowly. He does the same on the wall next to you. You’re silent for a few seconds. 

“I have to go to the bathroom,” you say softly. 

Changbin nods. 

“Let’s go back up. There won’t be anyone there.” 

His voice is softer than you’ve ever heard - almost tender. You look at him, giving him a small nod, and he pushes the elevator button so it heads back upstairs. 

He lets you go to the bathroom alone, where you clean up, but he’s waiting for you outside. 

“All good?” he asks with a frown. 

“Yes.” 

You look down at the floor as he does, and then back at him - meeting his eyes in the process. The silence is awkward, but just like that, you find yourself smiling. Him, too. 

And then you start laughing. 

It’s not hysterical laughter, just chuckling. He looks almost shy, and you can’t stop giggling. You might even be blushing. 

“I don’t know about you,” he says, scrunching his nose. “But I feel a lot better.”

You smirk. “Took the words right out of my mouth.” 

He stretches a hand towards you. “Wanna go back to the party?” 

You nod. “Hell yes. I need a drink.” 

“So do I.” 

You head back to the elevator, and you let it head downstairs this time. Smirking to yourselves, you feel like the whole thing is unreal. 

But you do feel better. You don’t force your smile - it stretches on your face, plastered, almost annoyingly so. And Changbin. Fuck. You think he’s cute, with his cheeks still red and his neck a mess from the work of your nails. 

“By the way,” you say. “You look fucking hot in that suit.” 

“Right back at you. When I saw that little black dress I almost bit my fist off.” 

You grin. Changbin turns to you, placing a strand of your hair behind your ear. 

“Something’s not right, though,” he says. 

You frown as he leans towards you, whispering in your ear.

“I didn’t get to do half of the things I want to do to you. So once we’ve had a couple of drinks, I’m taking you to my place, and I’m giving you another lesson. And this one will last.”

You bite your lip as the elevator doors open on the main hall, which is still filled with your chatting coworkers. Nothing has changed - the world has kept on spinning. Changbin gives you a smile, and extends his arm. 

“Shall we?”

Changbin does not bring you to his place. 

You bring him to yours. 

Both of you started to get impatient after just one drink, eyefucking each other over your glasses although you had both just came hard in the elevator. It was like something finally snapped inside him, and he could let his thoughts roam free, unashamed, unbound. 

The way your dress hugged your cleavage. The way your lips curled around the rim of your glass, begging to be kissed, begging to be fucked. All the things he wanted to do to you, that he had never let himself really think about, just proliferated in his mind. He could not stop thinking about how you moaned his name, how hot and humid you felt around him, how he wanted to slide his tongue on every inch of your skin. It made it difficult to focus on small talk with your colleagues. He kept feeling himself getting hard and he knew his pants were too tight for him to be able to hide it. 

So he waited until you finished your drink and stole you away. Your place was just a short walk from the building. You made it there quickly, miraculously able to hold off making out and grinding against each other. 

Now the front door is locked and you are alone. 

Changbin stares at you in the darkness of the hallway. You look so fucking beautiful with your hair still a little dischelved from earlier, your lipstick tinting your lips a shade darker, your heels giving your legs the shape of heaven. 

You take a step towards him and grab his hand, leading him to your bedroom. It’s small and cozy, most of the space occupied by a large bed - how perfect. It is unmade, the sheets tangled, a smell of lavender lingering in the air. 

You aim for a kiss but Changbin shakes his head. 

“Open a light,” he says. “I want to see you.” 

You nod and turn on the lamp on your bedside table. It infuses the room in a soft yellow glow, and Changbin licks his lips. Perfect. 

In a blur you find each other again, kissing passionately, feverishly. Changbin slides his tongue inside your mouth, toying with yours, drawing soft sighs from you. It’s a delightful sound he already likes too much. Eagerly, you remove his jacket, your hands palming his chest over the material of his shirt, and Changbin unbuttons it impatiently. 

“Fuck, you look so fucking good,” you chuckle at the sight of his naked chest, immediately tracing the defined muscles with your finger tips. 

His cock is already hard as a rock, pushing against his pants, but he barely thinks about it - he only sees you. 

He takes a deep breath, because he wants to pace himself, because he wants to take his time with you this time. You made him impatient before, you clenched around his cock too tight, you sounded too good - but he won’t let it happen again. So he tilts your head to the left so he can kiss your neck, slowly unzipping your dress. His fingers brush the skin of your back at the same time, and he feels you shiver against him. 

The dress falls on the ground, and Changbin takes a step back to admire your lingerie, simple black lace that makes the blood rush to his cock so hard he has no choice but to palm it, just to relieve it a little. 

“You like?” you say cheekily.

“I’m trying to decide if I want to keep it on you or rip it off,” he answers, shaking his head. 

You chuckle. “Want me to decide for you?” 

Darkness flashes in Changbin’s eyes, and he closes the distance between you again, staring down at you. 

“Listen, pet,” he growls. “Don’t think you have any control here. I make the decisions and you listen. If you don’t there will be consequences.” 

The smile doesn’t disappear from your face, and Changbin can see that you like it when he speaks to you this way. 

“A dom, huh?” you breathe. “How predictable.” 

“Just as predictable that a brat like you is a sub.” 

You pout. “Just for you tonight, sir.”

You slide a hand in his air and lean against his ear to whisper.

“One day you’ll find yourself handcuffed to the head of this bed and begging me to let you come. But let’s stick to tonight’s narrative.” 

Changbin can’t help but chuckle at your words, feeling something swell in his chest. He likes you a little too much, and it makes no sense. Hours ago the only emotion you created in him was anger. But then again he hadn’t really met you. 

“That’s right, pet,” he nods, taking a fistful of your hair. “Now you lay down on the bed like a good girl before I make you, huh?” 

You nod, and Changbin follows you to the bed, when you lay down. He removes the rest of his clothes, letting his cock spring free, and catches you staring at it, licking your lips. He chuckles. 

“Don’t worry, you’ll get your taste. But I’m having mine first.” 

He pulls your legs so you are laying on the edge of the bed, spreading your legs so can stand between them. He bends forward to kiss you, stroking your hair, and carefully removes your bra. You sigh as he circles his thumb over your sensitive nipples, massaging the other breast in his hand. Slowly, Changbin makes his way down your neck, his tongue drinking in your skin. He leaves a few kisses on your breasts, then on your stomach, and then hovers over your panties. 

“Changbin…” you sigh.

“Still all wet and full of me, are you, pet? Is this sensitive?” 

He pushes his index on the lace material, sending a shiver through your body.

“Y-yes. Fuck, Changbin, stop teasing me.” 

“I don’t think so.” 

He kisses you above the fabric, sliding his tongue over it. Even that way he can taste you, your wetness drenching your panties, and Changbin can feel his cock twitch. Fuck, he cannot wait to be inside of you again - but he has to be patient. 

“So good to me, pet. So good. Let’s remove that.” 

He takes off your panties and pushes your legs apart, taking in the sight of your soaked cunt, all throbbing and waiting for him. He hums appreciatively, unable to stop himself from stroking his cock at the same time. 

“You’re so fucking gorgeous. Now you don’t come without me telling you so, right, pet? You understand the rules?” 

“Yes, sir,” you breathe out.

From your voice and the way you are already heavily breathing, he can sense you are desperate for contact. Changbin finds himself unable to really torture you much longer, and sinks his lips into your cunt. 

You immediately let out a whimper, arching your back against his mouth. Changbin holds your legs apart, swirling his tongue around your clit, slurping you in. Your taste instantly gets him drunk, the feel of your juices coating his chin making him want to possess you right this second. But it feels too good to feel you writhing against his caresses, moaning his name. You grab his hair, pulling it, and it hurts a little but it’s the best kind of pain. 

“Look at that mess, pet,” he smiles against your pussy. “Has anyone ever eaten you out properly before?” 

“Fuck,” you breathe, and he stares at the way your chest moves, your nipples hard. It’s such a beautiful sight he gives your clit a few licks to reward you. “Nothing like you, Changbin. You’re - fuck - you’re making out with my pussy so well…” 

“Good, pet,” he chuckles. “Keep it up with the praise and I’ll let you come.” 

“Changbin, please…” 

He slides his tongue inside of you, teasing your entrance, and he can feel you clenching even this way - you must be close to coming, but you’re holding on, and he’s proud of you. He could edge you like this all night, if only his cock wasn’t starting to hurt him, aching for you. 

“Fuck, your tongue, Changbin - keep licking me like that, please, don’t stop…” 

“You want to come, pet?” 

“Yes, please, c-can I?” 

As he inserts two fingers inside of you and starts pumping them, his tongue pressed against your clit, you cry out in pleasure, pulling his hair. 

“Changbin, fuck, I can’t - I can’t -” 

“Come, pet, come all over my mouth.” 

And just like that you do, your hips bucking under his touch, your pussy throbbing in his mouth. He can feel your walls tighten, your legs trembling, and he doesn’t stop his caresses throughout your orgasm, so you can ride it as long as you can. 

Once you breathe out, your body sinking into the mattress, Changbin steps back, placing a kiss on the inside of your thigh. He wipes your juices off his chin and stands up to push your hair away from your face. You already look fucked out, your skin covered in a thin layer of sweat, your eyes glassy. 

“Holy fuck, that was amazing,” you say softly. 

“It’s not over, pet,” he replies, kissing your pretty lips. 

“Can I suck your cock, now?” 

“You’re asking so nicely, pet. How can I say no?” 

You grin, looking down at his erect cock. Changbin takes a deep breath, letting you smear the pre-cum on the tip and giving it a few tentative strokes. 

“I like your cock a lot, y’know?” you tell him. “So pretty and thick.” 

Changbin slides a hand through his hair, easing his breathing, as you take him in your mouth. You suck him well, bobbing your head up and down, taking the time to wrap your tongue around him. Your hand accompanies your movements, stroking his base, and Changbin groans at the sensation. He would close his eyes and bask in the pleasure you’re giving him if only it wasn’t so intoxicating to keep looking at you. Such a beautiful sight, seeing you suck him off like that after having eaten your sweet cunt. 

“Am I doing good, sir?” you ask, slapping his cock on your tongue. 

Changbin grins. “Doing fantastic, pet. I knew you would look good wrapped around my cock, but it’s even better.” 

“Did you think about it a lot?” you ask. 

He frowns. 

“You saw my picture,” you say, arching an eyebrow. “Did you imagine me with my cock in your mouth before, or did you just hate my guts?” 

Changbin laughs, holding your hair. “I think I spent most of my energy hating you so I wouldn’t think about you sucking me off.” 

“Hm,” you say with a satisfied smirk. “If I’d known what you looked like I would’ve come to give you a blowjob under your desk way before.” 

“Never too late,” he grins. “If you do that for me I might bend you over my desk afterwards.” 

You giggle, and Changbin feels that warmth in his chest again. He’s starting to like you a little too much, and it has nothing to do with the fact that his balls deep inside your mouth right now. You’re funny. Witty. Pretty. Even worse, you’re fun. 

“For now let’s focus, pet, yeah?” he says. “This is good, but I want more from that pretty mouth.” 

He guides you back, gesturing you to lay down on the bed upside down. Your head placed on the edge of it, he towers over you.

“You tell me if this is too much,” he whispers to you, and you nod - but you just open your mouth wide for him. 

He guides his cock back in your mouth, able to move as much as he wants. You gag a little as he goes deep in your throat, but you’re taking him well - and so, Changbin accelerates. He fucks your mouth, perhaps a little too roughly, but it feels so fucking good he can’t stop. 

“Fuck, look at how you swallow my cock, pet,” he says, breathing hard. 

“It’s because you fuck my mouth so good, sir,” you answer. 

He grins, bucking his hips, staring at your gorgeous body as he does. You’re touching yourself at the same time, your fingers pressed against your clit. Your eyes are watering, the saliva around your lips making his thrusts easier, and he’s dangerously close to exploding in your mouth. 

“Such a good little pet,” he groans. “Do you remember when I filled that cunt of yours, earlier?” 

You nod around his cock.

“This time I’ll make you choke on my cum,” he smiles.

You moan, the vibration sending him on the edge, and Changbin has to pull out from your mouth. 

“Don’t move,” he grunts. “I need to fuck you.” 

He climbs on top of you on the bed, making sure your head is against the mattress, and pushes into you without hesitation. It’s like it brings him clarity again, as much as the feel of you around his cock is making him more insane. 

“God, this fucking cunt. I’m never getting tired of it,” he chuckles. 

“Yes, fuck me deep,” you moan. “Make me feel that beautiful cock of yours.” 

He thrusts his hips inside of you, stretching you deeper and deeper. You pant against him, your nails digging into the skin of his back, but Changbin doesn’t care. He pounds into you, feeling sweaty and drunk on the scent and taste of you. 

“C-Changbin, fuck, yes…” 

“Where’s that praise, pet? I need to hear it,” he grunts. 

“I - I’m trying…” 

“Am I fucking you dumb, or what? Keep talking.” 

But he’s fucking so fast and sharp, and it’s difficult for you to find the words. Changbin can only stare at your face, your closed eyes, your parted mouth. Your lips are a little bruised, your hair a mess, your makeup smudged. You look like a dream. 

“F-fucking me so good,” you breathe. “I love your cock inside of me. Please, k-keep fucking me…” 

You’re clenching around him tightly, so close to your orgasm, and so is Changbin - he’s breathing fast, trying to hold off, but it’s getting more and more difficult. Once he’s inside of you he can’t think straight, and he’s getting impatient. 

“Fuck, Y/N,” he slips out, your name feeling smooth on his lips. “I’m going to come. Let’s do it together, yeah?” 

“Y-yes, please…” 

How he wanted to come in your mouth - but his cock does not want to listen, and he explores inside of you instead for the second time tonight. You come as well, shaking around him as he fills you up, moaning his name loudly, the sound echoing in the room. 

Changbin wipes his forehead, staying inside of you for another second. He tries to catch his breath, and opens his eyes to look at you. You are already staring at him, smiling softly. 

“I thought you wanted to come in my mouth?” you tease him. 

He chuckles, shaking his head. “You really get on my last nerve, you know that?” 

You both laugh.

It’s yet another day at work. 

You twirl on your deskchair, typing your translation on a fair rhythm. You’re not particularly fast today, but you’re not slow, either. 

It’s just that your thoughts are a little elsewhere. 

You take a break to take a sip of coffee, and an email notification appears on your screen. 

Seo Changbin. 

You push your tongue against your cheek, smirking devilishly to yourself. You sent him a particularly fiery email a few minutes ago, and you can’t wait to see his answer. You click a little too fast on your inbox. 

Dear Y/LN, 

Your email has come to my attention but I am in a meeting and unfortunately cannot attend to your request. Please rest assured it will be my top priority once I get back to my office. I will make sure to personally attend to these matters. 

Ever yours,

Seo Changbin 

You bite your lip, trying to be discreet as you chuckle. You scroll down to see the email you’d sent him. Just a few meaningless words about asking for clarification about the dress code, and a picture attached. A picture you’ve taken from under your desk, displaying your blatant lack of underwear. 

You’re still playing a dangerous game - it’s just of another kind.

You send him a quick reply, your eyes shining. 

Looking forward to your collaboration.

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. If you had fun, please consider leaving a comment below or reblogging the one shot. Don't hesitate to use the tags. Big hugs and see you next time! ♡

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[hi-sierra]

Biologics, chapter 0.5

Hello, hello! I finally have added a significant amount to my story, Biologics, resulting in a total of ~4400 words. Not a whole ton, I know, but unfortunately life gets to ya. It isn't quite where I want it to be to consider a proper chapter one, but I feel like there's enough written for me to post. General warning that this is intended to heavily lean into the theme of "eroticism of the machine", so if that doesn't appeal to you, you've been warned. It does, however, have many general sci fi worldbuilding elements, so I hope it has a somewhat broad appeal!

So yes, if you already read the first snippet, that's going to be mostly a one to one repeat with some grammatical adjustments. Feel free to scroll down until you get to the new stuff. Flow-wise, there just wasn't a good place to break between the two sections.

Look at me rambling. And I wonder why I can't get any of this stuff done. Anyways, here it is!

Biologics

Pappy always said that manufacturing biological transportation was nothing knew. I mean, shit, humanity's been breeding horses for how long? To him, not much was novel about what was going on in the shipyards way out by Neptune when I was a kid.

But Pappy didn't know a lot of things. And he certainly didn't meet Roseanna.

The Federation Navy had experimented with Biologics for decades. The idea was to create self regenerating ships- organic matter that interfaced with the hull, moving new titanium plates and patches into place down to microscopic precision. If you had a living, growing mass interfacing with steel, a ship didn't have to head all the way back to the yards to patch up after every dogfight.

The first generation... worked. With a full time crew, that is. Full time people on deck jabbin the rigid, chitonous matrix full of growth hormones to get them to set just right. Full time onboard bioengineers to compute what signaling cocktail ya need to hit 'em with to get it to grow back right. Skilled onboard technicians to shave back the chitin when it tried to overgrow the titanium, and slap some new cells in to seed the process in heavily damaged areas. Less input material, less time in the yards, but far more manpower. Great for a Federation cruiser on deep space peacekeeping missions. Far too complex for small craft. Right?

Until some bastard put brains in 'em.

Well. A lotta suits would say that they weren't brains. They were a diffuse network of sensory neurons and ganglia, living inside the body of the ship, integrating signals from a skin of alloyed metal and fibrous protein, calculating power draw too and from various components, integrated with the mechanical and electrical components of the ship to precisely manage the "wound healing" process of the vessel. And of course, it just so happened that one of those ganglia was larger and more complex than the rest of them, and it just so happened that the computer interfaces with this ganglia exhibit complex, thinking behaviors on the level of human cognition, and it just so happens that most pilots and navigators reported them developing their own personalities.....

But of course, the Navy didn't want anyone to have some kind of pesky empathy in the way of their operations. And they certainly didn't want anyone side eyeing the rate at which they disposed of the damn things, just to let them suffer and rot. So as far as the official record was concerned, they weren't brains. But I knew different.

Like most people in the belt, I found Rosie on an... unsponsored field trip to the Neptune scrap yards. She wasn't a ship then. She wasn't much of anything. Not much more than a vat with the central ganglia and just barely enough of the stem cells needed to regrow a network. But I took her all the same. Brains were valuable. Few pilots outside the Navy had them back then. Nowadays, a black market for "brain seeds", a cocktail of neuronal stem cells and enough structural stem cells to grow your own into the chassis of your ship, was thriving. The Navy was pumpin' em out, and leaving them to die. It was cruel. Sometimes, being scavenged and resold was a kinder fate. But more often, some nasty piece of work would pick them up eventually, and treat them like just another goddamn ship. They may be vehicles, but they're a livin' being too.

I digress. I'd never do that to Roseanna. I make sure she gets proper care. And for a good, proper, working ship? That includes some good, proper work.

The asteroid we were docked in was one of my usuals- good bars, nice temp quarters, nice views of the rock's orbiting twin, and a spacious hanger for Rosie to rest in. The chassis I had imprinted Roseanna to was a 40-meter light skipper, with some adjustments for handling deep space trips, as well as some... personal touches. It was pretty much the smallest thing you could actually use to live in and work for long periods of time, but it got the job done. The angular design made the entire ship look like a wedge, or the blade of a bulky dagger. It didn't hurt that each bottom edge was fortified with a sharpened titanium blade, turning the entire sides of the ship into axe-like rams.

Those would probably come in handy today.

I approached Roseanna on the catwalk above her, marveling her alloyed scales. I could almost see her shudder in anticipation as my footsteps vibrated through the air above her. I took the steps down, and hit the trigger to open her top hatch.

When the news got out of the Navy scuffling with a rebelling mining station, an electric air raced across the station. Some went about their day as normal. Some resigned themselves to picking at the leftovers after the dust had settled. And some, like me, knew that they could get the finest pickings.

I slipped into the pilot's seat like it was an old boot.

"Welcome, Captain Victoria."

Rosie could talk, but more often than not, she chose not to. But she understood me just fine. Most of our communication took place using her three prerecorded lines- her welcome statement, affirmative, and negative- as well as a tiny screen showing a small, emoticon face. Many pilots chose to give their ships an elaborate render, but Rosie preferred it this way. It was the first face I gave her, from somewhere out of the scrap heaps, and she refused any offer I made to upgrade. Hell, she even had a hi-res screen for external cameras and comms, but she refused to interface directly with it. Secretly, I was overjoyed. To me, the little pixelated screen was her face. That was her voice. And it was beautiful to see her true self through them.

I brushed my hands across her paneling. Across the switches, the hydraulic controls for the plasma fuel, the steering, the boosts, the comms channels. The thing with Biologics was that you were still the pilot. For whatever reason, they hadn't quite gotten to the point where the brains could take over their own piloting. My personal opinion was just that their personalities lacked the ambition to. Cuz they certainly could take over some ships functions directly, and had the skill to do complex mechanical and electrical tasks. The Navy never let 'em drive, though, and most pilots didn't even know they could give them the ability to control any of the ships functions directly. But with a little help, a little bit of solid engineering, and a pilot that knew their ship... well, you could do a lot. And me and Rosie? We knew each other well. Over the years, I'd added some nice things for her, and she loved using them to help me out.

As my fingers touched the brushed aluminum controls, rimmed with chitinous layers affixing them to the ship, I could feel the walls around me holding their invisible breath. "Do you know what we're doing today, Rosie?"

Her tiny panel flickered on.

[...?]

"We got a scrap run."

[ ^_^]

[ :) ]

[ ^_^ ]

Her panel flicked between various expressions of excitement. My finger quivered on the main power, holding for a moment before flicking it on. The primary electronics of the ship hummed to life, and the parts Rosie controlled pulsed with it. My hands moved across the main functional panels- main hydraulic plasma valve, exhaust ports open, and finally, flicking the switch the start the plasma burner.

My hands gripped the steering. The hanger's airlock doors opened in front of me. My neck length hair started to float as the station's gravity shut off. I hit the switch to unlatch from the supports above. For a moment, we hang there. The dull crackle of the idling plasma burner is the only sound that resonates through Rosie's hull.

Go time. I punch the boost.

The station shakes. Rosie was never a subtle one.

The mechanics are deafened.

The crowd of spectators are deafened.

The other pilots in the hanger are deafened.

But me? The vibrations of Rosie's hull shuddering under me was the sweetest symphony my ears ever had the pleasure of hearing. As we shot out of that hanger, I found myself involuntarily humming a high note, harmonizing with the sweet rumble of my baby's acceleration as we shoot out into the inky, black expanse of space. The twin asteroids shot by us as we disappeared, leaving only the faint blue plasma trail from our engines.

My hand is firm on the boost, weathered hands tightly gripping the bar of the accelerator. I remember installing this thing in her- it was an aftermarket adjustment, not included in the usual light skipper chassis. Gently stripping away the back of her chassis, caressing her insides as I rooted the paneling, firmly attaching the tanks and burners on her insides... these hands had taken great pleasure in that. Bested only, of course, by the first time I had felt the thing roar to life.

And what a feeling it was. Rosie's entire chassis, biological and mechanical, shuddering under my grasp. The grip of my calloused hands on the boost controls, tight and sweaty around the ridged grip of the horizontal bar. The noises she made, as if to shout in glee and wild abandon at being unchained and let loose into the eternal field of space, as she was made to do. The gentle touch of her skin on my back, my body pressed in contact with the small fraction of hers that was my seat. I glanced down at her face panel.

[ :| ]

[ :D ]

[ :| ]

[ :D ]

[ :| ]

[ :D ]

[ :| ]

[ :D ]

My humming gave way to a chuckle, and then a wholehearted, exhilarated laugh. Someone was enjoying herself. The flickering faces on her panel reminded me of the happily panting station dogs back on Mars.

But as much as I would like this to just be a joyride, I had promised Rosie a scrap run. And the pickings were looking good. I glanced down at the nav. I was intentionally headed at a slightly indirect angle- Rosie's boost was her main attractive feature (both as a ship, and as a working partner), and the extra leeway I had in travel time let me strategize a bit more. I doubted we would be the first people there, but I figured we could get in before the main rush. The only trouble was darting in and grabbing something right from under the noses of the first locusts. The scrap field in question included a disabled heavy mining freighter, a goliath of the ship larger than some of the asteroids it made supply runs between. I assumed that most other scavengers would be approaching directly from our station, and the other stations in its proximity. With Rosie's boost, we could overshoot, hook around, and put the freighter in between us and the guns of the more violent craft. Rosie has no long range weapons of any kind- not only would they slow down her miraculous speed, but she didn't like them. I tried installing a small plasma cannon once, and she expressed immense distaste. Maybe they were too brutish for her, or maybe she didn't like the way they felt inside her, burdening her with pressure from the inside that didn't befit the delicate touches I usually graced her with. Rosie loved speed, precision, elegance, and stealth above all else. It's just the kind of ship she was.

That's not to say she was a pacifist, or defenseless. Quite the contrary. She just prefers a more... personal touch.

The navicom beeped at me. We'd reached the point where we needed to make that hook. My bare feet gently swept across the titanium flooring to the steering pedals. My right hand delicately gripped the steering joystick, while my left eased its grip on the boost accelerator.

"Ready for this, darling?"

[ >:) ]

I slammed the steering to the left, and Rosie gleefully complied. The wide bank of the turn as we rotated and soared through the sea of stars twisted my body in its inertia, compressing me further into her. As the angle straightened out to the proper heading, I punched the boost again, and Rosie roared forward.

Slowly, our target came into sight. Damn. This thing had taken some serious damage. Mining freighters typically weren't heavily armored- their only job was to get material from point A to B- but this one had clearly been through some serious modifications. Modifications that now lay in ruin. Titanium plating was scattered in a field around the core of the freighter. I couldn't quite tell what was stuff left behind by the battle, and what was the result of shoddy craftmanship- but it didn't matter. What did matter was that the entire thing had been split almost in half, and the scattered cargo that was leaking out. Cargo that most likely included half the weapon supplies of this little rebel faction. Would fetch a pretty penny, to the right buyer. And hell, if it was just gonna sit here unclaimed...

Ah shit. It wasn't gonna sit here unclaimed. Despite my best efforts, it looks like we weren't the first ones here. A larger scavenger gang had already arrived, and it looks like it was one of the ones I knew- Augustus and his lot. Most likely, they'd be after the weapons intact, one more thing to use to shakedown the scattered independent stations I always flitted between. He would not be happy to see me n Rosie here. What he called his "fleet" was a single, mid-sized carrier ship, about half the size of the freighter we were looting, and the dozen or so scout fighters and strip mining crafts he had looted from the Navy and various corps, and one Biologic that he called his. I respect that part, to be honest. What I don't respect is him immediately turning around and using that charge every goddamn station his ever-increasing "protection fees". Not to mention my personal disdain for the way he treated his ship. Didn't even give her a damn name. I digress. But any chance to loot something from under that slimebag's nose was a win in my book. I knew he wasn't gonna make it easy, though.

Welp. That's what our positioning was for. The side facing us was the main starboard face, and like the rest of the ship, it was peppered in small holes and gashes. Seems like the main damage had happened from the other side, and a few cables and scaffolds on the starboard just barely kept the two rear cargo compartments clinging to the front.

"Alright Rosie, time to creep it in slow. Be quiet, now, don't want them picking up a plasma surge"

[ :| ]

Ha. That was her "my lips are sealed" face. She's having fun with this already.

I cut the booster, coasting closer and closer to the bust open vessel. I eased the reverse thrusters ever so slightly, my fingers gently stroking the dual brake levers, lightly teasing at them to wait until we were as close as I thought we could be without attracted attention.......... before slamming both sides back towards me. For just one, crucial moment.

The goal here was to approximately match the speed and trajectory of a floating piece of titanium plating. Rosie's frontal blades were essentially that, anyways, so all they would see is a somewhat more angular piece of rubble. Hopefully they hadn't seen that same piece of rubble screaming out of travel speed, but I was cautious enough with my distances that I didn't think that was a problem. And they hadn't seen me yet. Once we were close enough to the freighter itself, we were blocked from their raw sightline, and Rosie was running quiet enough to not tip off any of their energy sensors.

But there was still no guarantee. Rosie, however, had no shortage of tricks. Something that she and I had developed together was a nice little bit of snooping. Well cared for and well trained, a Biologic brain had the problem solving of a human, and the computational power of a machine. But them together, and you've got a perfect decoder. And I happened to know that Augustus used an encrypted local frequency to keep his

"Alright Rosie, thinkin you can eavesdrop a little?"

Affirmative.

[...]

[...]

[...]

[...]

[...]

[...]

[..!]

:D

My comms crackled to life. "...7 heavy cannons in center-front portside bay, 3 replacement fighter hatchs...."

The comms crackled back and forth, with each pilot giving updates to what they were finding in their own little segment that they were slicing apart. Occasionally, I saw Augustus or the fighters flick between the slicing ships, overseeing their progress on the port bays. Good. Let them focus on the other side for now. Slowly, the fleet was overshadowed by the freighter. We made it. I released my breath- shit, didn't realize I was holding it- and took a better look at what we were dealing with. It looked as if the scattered debris field had mostly been the remnants of the hull, as well as light weapons for small craft and even infantry. They would fetch some small change, sure, but Rosie's cargo capacity was small. Packing efficiency was the name of the game. I saw the gash that it had all been flooding out of on this side- the entire freighter was covered in them- and peered inside. And ho boy, did my heart flutter.

Heavy cannons.

Jump-graded travel boosters.

Raw, precious metals.

And, hidden in the back corner, seemingly bolted into the wall.... a brain.

We'd hit jackpot, and potentially rescued a poor ship from abandonment, or worse.

"Alright Rosie. Time to get to work."

Affirmative.

And here was another lil something that made Rosie special- her manipulation arms . She always preferred that delicate touch, and wanted to interact with the world in a tactile, real way. So we worked on it. Together. I was tired of taking spacewalks to grab small pieces of scrap, or using the entire goddamn cargo bay on a piece that only had a tiny core, or scraps of precious metals inside. So we needed something that could pluck apart our finds. Do some light disassembly in the field, extract what was valuable, and load it in with the most packing efficiency possible. So I gave her arms- snake like appendages, coiled up in her cargo bay, with thousands of points of articulation. At first, I tried to make some kind of control system that I could use from the cockpit. But Rosie had a different idea. At her urged, I jacked them directly into the same sensory and motor systems that let her grip onto, position, and repair her hull. And by god, it worked.

When I showed her off the first time, no one had ever seen anything like it. Because there was nothing like it. A ship taking real mechanical control, over something so precise and delicate, was something that only a deeply intelligent, deeply skilled ship, with complex decision making and tactile movement could do.

And I was goddamn proud of her.

Every time she deployed them, I watched awe. Rosie gave a face of determination, and sinuous, metallic, tentacle-like appendages slid out in a bundle from the cargo bay opening on her underside. Each one was headed off by a different attachment- a precision laser cutter, a simple three-pointed grabbing claw, a drill, a tiny buzzsaw, camera that let me see what was going on, and more. Each one could be swapped out, depending on the task at hand. With eight of them slithering out from her cargo bay, though, there was usually something for everything. They extended out as a single bouquet, down through the hole of the cargo compartment, and split apart once inside. Each arm got to work.

Her observation monitor flickered on, giving me a view from the camera arm. I would've liked to get the brain out first, but two heavy cannons and a booster blocking the way anyways. We'd cut through that, picking off the energy cores and precious metals in the circuits as we go, and work our way towards the back. Rosie seemed to like the plan as well. My only job was to watch the comms, and watch the sensors.

I watched the camera as the petite tools of the arms excised and picked apart the titanium shell of the first heavy cannon. Her tools- the delicate 'fingers' of her arms- picked, pulled, tugged, and gently gripped every necessary notch, every joined titanium plate that needed to be undone, ever scrap of precious material. Firm, yet precise. Strong, yet never breaking or mishandling a single piece of cargo. As Rosie worked, my eyes darted across the energy sensors. I could see blips firing off as the ships on the other side of the freighter as the slicing ships worked and flitted between their stations from the other side. The comms crackled with their reports to Augustus- they seemed to be moving back and forth to the main carrier to drop off their hauls. It seemed like they had a lot to go through- we'd have plenty of time.

On the camera view, I could see a grabbing claw retracting back through the cargo bay. The first cannon had the back section cleanly excised from the massive barrel and chassis, leaving a path for the tools to get to the booster. The precious energy cell was sliding its way back into Rosie's cargo bay. God damn. She was quick with that. The laser cutter and saw were already making short work of the booster, too. We'd get to the brain in no time.

The chatter on the other line continued. We were still safe, but Augustus' crew had made more progress than I had hoped. Once the slicers had picked apart the port, they'd loop around to the starboard. We had to grab what we could as fast as we can- but I knew neither me or Rosie was gonna leave without that brain. Rosie gracefully sliced the fuel cell and ignition from the plasma burner, leaving the bracketing and vents behind. The second heavy cannon was soon to follow. Each cut through each piece had left a winding path towards the back of the chamber, allowing a physical path to what I had seen just barely poking through: a container for a genuine ship's brain. Rosie slid her camera arm in for a closer look.

The brain was bolted into the chassis of the ship, as well as some containers of growth factor. Seemed like the intent was to grow her in to this freighter. That was certainly an ambitious task, but if they knew what they were doing, it would be well worth it. A self-repairing, intelligent hauler as large as this one would be the heart and soul of resistance movements everywhere, supplying every backwater mining station or moon that longed to be free. Unfortunately, the brave and principled can still be stupid, and these chucklefucks had no idea what they were doing. Slapped in a random cargo bay, desperately trying to get growth out from there with no proper imprinting guidance... shame. If they'd've found me before running into the Navy, I might've helped them out. But at least now, we could give her a better life. I knew a lot of good, caring pilots that would take loving care of a fine ship like her.

From what I could tell, we were still safe from Augustus. Based on what I was hearing on the comms, each slicer was working on its last cargo hold subsection, and after that, they'd be poking around this side. We had to get this brain and get out.

Tenderly, her claw arm gripped the top of the brain's chamber, as her other fingers started working on the rivets. A saw would bust through part of the titanium bracket holding the chamber down, and when it got too close to the container itself, laser cutters took over, delicately slicing off each affixation point one by one. Rosie worked in a clockwise direction, first working down the three riveting points on the right, sawing off the bottom bracket, and then working up the rivets on the left.

C'mon Rosie. You got this. Just need the top plate....

"Finishing up there, slicer 5T?"

Shit. That was Augustus on the comms.

"Sure thing boss. Just gotta get this load to central. Mind if someone takes a peek on the other side for parasites before I get there?"

Shit.

"Sure thing. Fighter 3A, get your ass in gear and make a full pass of the ship."

An energy spike pinged on my sensor panels as the fighter revved up a booster.

"Gotcha boss. Starting at aft segment."

Shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshit

We still had a sliver of time before we were seen. They'd wanna get a good pass everywhere- there were ships far stealthier than us out there. But it was minutes at most. We had to finish up.

"Rosie, how're we doing there? You done?"

Negative.

[ ;( ]

"Fuck. Rosie, we gotta get outta here."

Affirmative. Affirmative. Affirmative. Affirmative.

Rosie-speak for "I know, I know, I know"

My eyes were fixed to the scanner and my cockpit windows for a visual, but I spared one moment to check Rosie's cam. She was finishing sawing through the top bracket. Just a little more....

"Aft clear, moving to starboard cargo bays."

The brain snapped off of the hull, and Rosie's claws were zipping it back to her cargo bay. I revved the engines into standby. The arms tenderly guided it through the path we had cleared, and out through the hole in the hull. We might be able to barely slip away without them knowing.....

I looked up through the cockpit, just as the dinged-up, formerly Navy fighter showed itself from behind a piece of debris. It froze for a moment, and then lined its nose to face me. Cannon ports shifted open, and slowly took aim.

"Well shit, Augustus, you're gonna wanna see this. Get your ass over here, I'm switching to public comms."

I heard slight fuzz as he switched his channel.

"Alright, leech, I'll keep this simple. You have thirty seconds to relinquish your haul before you join the debris."

For a single, cold moment, I swear I made eye contact with him through our cockpits.