#Precision Fingerprinting

[pyramidlivescanfingerprinting]

Accuracy and reliability are paramount, especially when it comes to fingerprinting. For medical professionals seeking precise verification, the livescan fingerprint in Laurel, Maryland, offers an efficient and accurate solution. This technology ensures clear and detailed fingerprint images, which are essential for background checks and maintaining high standards of professional integrity. Livescan systems streamline the process, making it quicker and more dependable than traditional methods.

[thegreenleavesofspring]

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[janarthanantumbl]

Kapaver Nothing Phone 2a Back Cover Case Astro Warrior Impulse Mobile Back Cover and Phone Case Best

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[flaskoflethe]

I love when you get a bunch of notifications, where very clearly what happened was someone was reading something and saw a reply and went from subject a -> NEW TOPIC 1 for a while.

[p0orbaby]

It’s Called Free Fall

summary: therapy makes you realise a lot of things

warnings: none

a/n: there’s not actually any alexia in this, but she is mentioned

word count: 2.7k

-

The therapist’s office feels like it’s been curated for someone far more refined than you—someone who actually takes their therapy seriously, rather than as an ironic lifestyle choice. The walls are a pale, flat grey that veers perilously close to lifeless, and there’s this overwhelming sense of emptiness, like everything here exists for display rather than use. The chairs, two narrow-backed leather things angled just slightly towards each other, appear less like furniture and more like sculptures. You imagine some recent graduate from a New York art school positioned them just so, meticulously arranging each one to make sure it induced the precise mix of discomfort and luxury.

The table between you and Dr. Vargas is another matter entirely—a sleek slab of polished mahogany, thick enough that you could lean your entire weight on it without even a squeak of protest. Its surface is bare except for a single leather-bound notebook, a fountain pen and a ceramic dish, all aligned to a degree that feels almost militaristic. There’s not a single loose thread in the rug, not a fingerprint on the glass of the one window facing out onto a garden view that’s suspiciously verdant for the middle of winter.

Even the fern, perched in the corner like it’s waiting for its close-up, seems too green, too lush. It’s ridiculous, but it’s all part of the aesthetic, this carefully curated minimalism, the kind of cultivated restraint that says, “We don’t need embellishments. We’re here for the truth.” You’re here, supposedly, for honesty and revelation. But to you, it all feels a bit too staged, like a hotel that boasts a “homely charm” but is actually cold and sterile beneath the surface. You suspect Dr. Vargas might even mist the plant herself in some sacred ritual of maintenance, a sort of last-minute grounding exercise to fill the silence between clients.

You settle back in the chair, draping one leg over the other, and make a mental note to mention it next time you’re in some magazine interview. “Austere,” you’d say, “but in a chic way. I once caught my therapist hand-polishing the leaves of a houseplant.” You let yourself savour the image for a moment, glancing at the fern, which seems to return your gaze with silent judgement.

Dr. Vargas has her pen poised in that infuriatingly neutral way, a half-smile that somehow manages to be both welcoming and utterly unreadable. She’s mastered this look; the expression that says, I’m here for you while also suggesting she’s already a step ahead, already written your entire profile out in her head, neatly categorised into sub-headings like “Avoidant Tendencies” and “Control Issues.”

You begin with a sigh, throwing a glance at the ceiling in mock contemplation. “I’ve been thinking about another place. A chalet, maybe. Something in the mountains this time.” You pause, letting the idea sit, feigning like it’s just occurred to you. “Somewhere remote, where people can’t just… get to me”

You’re fully aware that she sees right through it. This isn’t her first rodeo; you’re sure she’s dealt with hundreds like you before, masters of diversion who fill sessions with banalities rather than facing anything real. But Dr. Vargas, in all her maddening professionalism, gives nothing away. She just tilts her head, the soft scratch of her pen against her notebook barely there as she writes something down.

“A place to escape,” she offers back to you in that maddeningly placid tone.

“Yes. Escape,” you echo, knowing full well the word holds no weight here. Escape from what, exactly? You let your leg bounce a little, as if the rhythm might lend some gravity to your words. “And there’s this new project I’m in talks with—A24, actually. They want me to do something… serious. A proper rebrand. Gritty. Artistic.” You drawl out “artistic” with the faintest of smirks, like you’re amused at the thought of it all. A lifetime of playing these games, and you’re practically a pro by now.

Dr. Vargas’s face betrays not a flicker of interest or amusement. She simply nods, that little encouraging tilt of her head again, like she’s waiting for you to get to the real point, the heart of the matter. But you’re not giving in so easily.

“It could be big, you know,” you continue, lifting your chin a fraction. “And I’ve got Alexia, of course.” The name slips out, deliberately nonchalant, though you feel its weight instantly, like it’s left a mark on the air between you.

Dr. Vargas raises her eyebrows, ever so slightly. “Alexia,” she repeats, not quite a question, not quite a statement. Just… acknowledgment, and yet it still feels as if she’s plucked something out of you without you realising. You don’t like it, the way she turns your own words against you.

“Yeah,” you say, shrugging. “She’s… brilliant. On the field, off it. You know, she’s—” You trail off, allowing a smirk to play on your lips. “Not bad to look at, either”

She gives no reaction, doesn’t even break eye contact. You imagine her poker face would rival that of any seasoned card shark. But it’s her silence that presses at you, coaxing out more than you intend to reveal. It’s a trick she’s used before, and yet here you are, willingly falling into it.

“Honestly,” you continue, almost laughing as if sharing some private joke, “you should see her after a match. There’s this… intensity, this rawness. Shirt off, sweat-drenched, eyes still blazing from the game. It’s… invigorating.” You roll the word around like a fine wine, savouring it as you go. “It’s like the universe threw me a bone, just when I was getting bored”

Dr. Vargas finally moves, a slight shift of her head, her mouth curving up in a near-smile. “And yet, you’re here”

Her words drop between you like a carefully placed stone. You scoff, rolling your eyes, but there’s something in her expression—an almost imperceptible softness that somehow feels like an accusation. “Therapy’s a hobby,” you shrug, leaning back, as if the very idea of anything deeper is laughable. “I’m always in therapy, Doc. News flash”

“Yes,” she agrees smoothly, not missing a beat, “but you don’t usually bring her up”

“Come on,” you counter, with a smirk that’s designed to look careless, “I bring her up all the time”

“Not like this”

Her voice is calm, almost gentle, but her gaze sharpens, pinning you in place. You feel a spike of irritation, or maybe it’s something else. You cast a look towards the fern, now faintly silhouetted by the afternoon sun, its shadow long and narrow across the wall, an unasked-for third party in this strange little dance. The absurdity of the whole scene hits you, but before you can fully detach, she’s speaking again.

“You’re talking about her differently. More… openly.” There’s no edge to her tone, no overt judgment, yet it feels like she’s peeled back a layer, glimpsed a part of you you hadn’t meant to reveal.

In the moments that follow, you stub out your cigarette on the pristine ceramic dish Vargas keeps on the table, the one she’s claimed is “not for smoking” but never actually moved after that one session. You’ve taken it as tacit permission, though you know damn well it irritates her—just another way to test the boundaries in a room that prides itself on having none. That’s half the point of these sessions: see how far you can stretch them. How much she’ll let you say, or not say. And you’ve mastered the art of saying absolutely nothing, all while filling the space with empty words.

Dr. Vargas doesn’t speak, doesn’t press, which is almost worse than if she did. There’s just the persistent softness in her eyes, the quiet implication that she understands more than you’d prefer. You remember Alexia’s eyes looking at you like that once, right after you’d tried to make some grand point about the nature of relationships—one of those pseudo-philosophical tangents you like to go on. She’d just looked at you, with a kind of bemused patience that felt a little too genuine, a little too close to knowing you.

You roll your shoulders, shake off the memory. But it clings.

“Alright,” you say, letting the smoke spill out as you form the words. “Maybe I don’t do ‘love’ like everyone else. I’m not here for a candlelit dinner and a mortgage. I’m not,” you add with a quick laugh, “one of those people who turn into some sap over a nice couple’s holiday in Santorini”

Dr. Vargas gives a small nod, an acknowledgement rather than agreement, her expression neutral but open, giving you room to continue.

“But, yes. Fine.” You take another drag, a deliberate pause. “Maybe I… care about her. I care about her. She’s different, alright?”

“Different how?” she asks gently, with an infuriatingly patient tone.

You groan, shifting in your seat. “Come on, don’t make me quantify it. That’s your thing, not mine.” You know you’re stalling, using your usual deflections, but there’s an itch underneath it, a part of you that feels raw just acknowledging that Alexia is, in fact, ‘different.’

You can feel her eyes on you, waiting for you to take the bait you’ve laid out for yourself.

“Fine, you want specifics?” you sigh, feigning annoyance, though you know you’re the one who’s led the conversation here. “She… laughs at my worst jokes. Like, really laughs. Not in a polite way, but genuinely, like she thinks I’m the funniest person alive, even when I’m barely trying. It’s stupid, really, but it gets me”

“And how does that make you feel?” Vargas leans forward, like she’s zeroing in on something significant.

You chuckle, low and dismissive, waving the question off with your cigarette. “How do you think it makes me feel? It’s… fine. Nice. A bit strange, maybe. I’m not used to being seen like that.” You pause, the weight of that admission lingering in the air between you.

She doesn’t react, doesn’t push; she just lets the moment settle, knowing there’s more.

You sigh, smoke curling up around you, as your mind goes back to other little things—the way she has this weird ritual of picking all the green M&Ms out of the bag and tossing them to you, claiming they’re “bad luck.” How she insists on reading the morning news out loud, in that silly, exaggerated announcer voice, just to make you laugh while you pretend to read emails. Or how she makes you tea at exactly the right temperature, handing you the mug with a grin like she’s just given you a priceless gift. These are things that, on the surface, should be forgettable, the kind of mundane moments that fade. But they don’t, do they? Not with her.

Dr. Vargas’s voice interrupts your reverie, soft but insistent. “You’re smiling”

You realise she’s right; you’re smiling without even meaning to, and it’s a small, stupid smile, the kind that feels too open. You try to erase it, but it’s too late. The vulnerability’s already there, a quiet confession written across your face.

You roll your eyes, more at yourself than at her. “Alright, so what? So she’s… alright, she’s fun. She’s got that energy, you know, that lightness. It’s kind of… refreshing”

The words slip out unbidden, and you feel a pang of something resembling regret. Refreshing. A word that implies something else by omission—that most of your life, most people you’ve known, have been exhausting. The irony isn’t lost on you: someone so completely different from your own brand of detached sarcasm, from your carefully cultivated ennui, has managed to slip under the radar and wedge herself into your carefully controlled life.

Dr. Vargas watches, her silence pressing you forward.

“Look, I don’t think about it too much,” you say, trying to inject a casual note into your tone. “I don’t need to psychoanalyse every smile, every inside joke. I’m not here to have my relationship broken down into neat little psych terms”

“Maybe you should think about it,” Vargas says gently. “Maybe that’s why you’re here”

You scoff, but there’s a softness in the sound, a hint of resignation. Because she’s right, isn’t she? You came here because, as much as you don’t want to admit it, this thing with Alexia has started to matter, in a way that’s both terrifying and strangely compelling. You’ve always prided yourself on staying a step removed, on being a spectator in your own life, observing rather than fully engaging. But with her, you’re finding it harder to keep that distance.

“Fine,” you mutter, leaning back, letting your head rest against the chair, staring up at the ceiling as though the answers might be written there. “Maybe she’s… special”

The words feel strange in your mouth, too vulnerable, too open. You don’t say “special” often, especially not in this context. But there it is, a reluctant admission.

“I mean, it’s not like I’m in love with her,” you continue, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “She’s great—don’t get me wrong. She’s amazing in bed. I can’t remember the last time someone made me cum so much. And she’s got this thing about her, you know? Like this fire, this intensity. It’s like when she looks at me, she’s looking right through me. And yeah, I guess that’s… intoxicating. But that’s all it is. Right?”

Dr. Vargas nods, a small, subtle gesture. “Why does that scare you?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you watch the smoke dancing away from your cigarette, dissipating into the air, leaving nothing behind but a faint, lingering scent. You think about what it is you’re so afraid of—because there’s something there, something you can’t quite name, a sense that if you let this thing with Alexia continue, it might change you in ways you’re not ready for.

“Because I don’t do… attachment,” you say finally, the words coming out sharper than intended. “I’ve built a life that doesn’t depend on anyone else. And she’s… she’s a complication”

You can feel Vargas watching you, sensing the weight of what you’re not saying, the unspoken truth that this isn’t just about Alexia, that it’s about something deeper, a fear of vulnerability, of losing control. She doesn’t push, though; she just waits, letting the silence do the work for her.

After a long pause, you take a breath, letting your gaze drift to the fern by the window, its leaves glossy and perfect, so meticulously maintained it almost looks fake. You wonder if it’s ever felt the strain of trying to keep everything together, to present a flawless exterior while something more fragile lurks beneath the surface.

“You know,” you say, almost to yourself, “it’s funny. For the longest time, I thought love was just a distraction, a temporary fix for people who couldn’t handle being alone.” You take another drag from your cigarette, exhaling slowly. “But with her, it’s… it’s different. It’s like she makes everything brighter, sharper, like she’s tuned into some frequency I didn’t know existed”

Dr. Vargas doesn’t respond, just nods, letting you continue.

“And the worst part?” You chuckle, a self-deprecating sound. “The worst part is that she’s getting to me. She’s in my head, even when she’s not there. I find myself thinking about her in the middle of the day, wondering what she’s up to, if she’s thinking about me too”

There’s a fragility in the admission, a crack in the armour you’ve built around yourself. And it terrifies you, this sense of letting someone in, of letting them get close enough to matter.

You stub out your cigarette, watching the last curl of smoke dissipate into the air. It feels like a metaphor for something, though you’re not sure what.

Dr. Vargas gives you a small, knowing smile. “Maybe falling in love isn’t as bad as you think it will be,” she says gently.

You shrug, trying to play it off, but there’s a part of you that knows she’s right. Because for all your detachment, all your carefully cultivated distance, there’s something about Alexia that feels like home, like she’s a part of you you didn’t realise was missing.

“Maybe,” you say, the words soft, barely audible.

Love. The word lingers like an uninvited guest. You try to dismiss it, try to laugh it off, but it keeps creeping back in.

[unboundprompts]

Idk if you’ve done this yet but ways to describe a dark/scary motel/house? Something straight out of a paranormal horror story to be precise.

Thank you!! 🫶🏼

I love love love horror. If you ever want more horror prompts please let me know :)

Descriptions of Haunted Locations

-> feel free to edit and adjust pronouns as you see fit.

The doors of the motel were identical, nothing differentiating them besides the rusted numbers. They were dirty, as if they had never been cleaned, and the paint had been chipped off over time. Some of the doors looked like they were covered in claw marks-- fingernails digging into the old paint in chilling, desperate lines.

The house was old. It looked like it hadn't been cared for in decades. The grass in the yard was up to her knees and ivy leaves grew on the exteriors of the house and rooted in the gutters. The windows were boarded up, making it look abandoned. The only way to glimpse the inside of the house was through the attic window.

The entry way was filled with dust. It lingered in the air and on every surface. He glanced up at the antique chandelier hanging high overhead, seeing the dirt and grime that dirtied the glass crystals. He tried the light switch, flicking it up and down but to no avail. When he turned on his phone's flashlight, and shone it through the dusty air, a shadow passed in front of him, darting through the entry way and up the stairs.

The motel room was small, the bed made with a comforter that looked like it came from their great-grandmother's house. It was a dirty floral pattern, with yellow pillows that were probably once white. The carpet was stained. Either with blood or dark red wine, they weren't sure. And the window that looked out onto the walkway was covered in fingerprints.

Taxidermy. The lobby of the motel was filled with horrible dead animals mounted to walls and displayed in the corners. She was near certain that their eyes would move. As she checked in, the taxidermy squirrel that sat on the desk stared at her with it's teeth bared.

If you like what I do and want to support me, please consider buying me a coffee! I also offer editing services and other writing advice on my Ko-fi! Become a member to receive exclusive content, early access, and prioritized writing prompt requests.

[sky-kiss]

Imagine Raphael giving you to Haarlep to cycle between edging and overstim for a day + aftercare. The next day Raphael puts you in suspension bondage and occasionally walks up while he is reading to play with your still raw and over sensitive clit/cock.

Plucking, stroking, teasing until your voice breaks. Then he walks away, licking his fingers.

A/N: I MEAN. HERE’S THE THING. Nothing I write is going to be able to touch that. But I will try. Hopefully you like it. Hiding sin under gif.

Raph x Haarlep x Reader (GN): HAHA I'M IN DANGER

___

He gives you to Haarlep to "rest." 

Of course, he smiles as he says it, eyes glittering specks of hellfire. He waves you away with a small smile and a pat on the ass. Raphael's good little toy, obedient and deserving a touch of kindness after hours at the devil's mercy. Every muscle in your body aches in the most delicious way, fingerprints emblazoned across your hips, shallow abrasions across your belly. Your throat is a ruin of kiss-sucked bruises. Precisely how he likes you, his pretty canvas.  

But you're tired. You need the rest. Haarlep coos to you, hands feathering over your hair. They touch and tease, massaging out the aching muscles in your lower back. The incubus always promises you the sweetest things, a whisper of affection as they settle between your thighs. 

It's "rest" only in the loosest sense of the word. You whine, hands clenching in the sheets. Sometimes, it's their mouth on you. It's an irresistible game, building you to a dizzying high only to pull back and leaving you wanting and cold. Up and up until you're left raw, a live wire sparking in the overheated air. You beg them to let you come. 

Haarlep always agrees. But a devil's acquiescence is rarely without cost. They stuff you full of cock, riding you until you're too hoarse to scream. They order you to come for them, laughing, bright, loud, and cruel. A hand fists in your hair, turning your face into the mattress. 

"Oh, my love, you asked for this, no?" He leans over you, licking up your spine. "Begged to come. Called me cruel! Wicked Haarlep!" You whimper. His right-hand snakes around your throat, squeezing and pulling you back against his chest. The incubus nips the shell of your ear, dragging the lobe between his teeth. "Scream for me, won't you? You can still do that much." 

You try. They make sure you try. But Haarlep is an industrious creature capable of making their own entertainment. After they've come, they flip you onto your back, moving you like their little doll. It's back to teeth and tongue, licking his mess clean, stroking you. It's too much. Pleasure and heat, spiraling until you think you'll black out. 

And the sweetest thing is that whenever you awaken, Haarlep is there, still toying with your body—building and breaking, building and breaking, over and over. 

One of them must hang you. You don't remember, blissed out, boneless. Raphael loves to display you like this: hanging near his desk, an art piece to observe at his leisure. The chains chafe a little, but you know that irritation will be dealt with after. For now, you enjoy the reprieve. There are no hands on you for the first time in what feels like days. 

"Did you enjoy your reprieve, mouse?" Raphael smiles at you, almost gentle, almost fond. There are so many possibilities, and your brain is too addled to parse any of them. He leans back in his seat, hands folded over his belly. "Haarlep lamented your performance. Uninspired, they called it." The cambion chuckles at this, humming. "But the results." 

He holds his arms out wide, smirking. Yes, the results- your ruination. Your head sags forward, chin resting on your chest. Raphael crosses the room, hooking a finger under your chin. The devil groans, kissing you deeply. His tongue presses past the seam of your lips, tasting you, dancing but not demanding. 

A contrast to the way he touches you. He doesn't build you to an orgasm; he wrenches it from your exhausted body, the touch stinging against your overstimulated flesh. You whimper into his mouth, twisting to take more, to get closer, to relieve the pressure in your wrists. He tuts. Raphael kisses your nose, your chin, your mouth. 

"Now, now, you know the game, mouse. Be very good, and we'll let you down early. For now…relax. Simple…be yourself." 

He pats your stomach and returns to his reading, brings his fingers to his mouth and licks them clean. 

[ghxstmxchine]

fem-aligned pls dni!!

✧.* Hobie loves makeup

He wears it whenever he wants, onstage and off, just loving how the thick layer of eyeliner looks around his heterochromic eyes and soft sheen of lipstick on his lips, shimmering under the lowlights and making them look all the more enticing

His fingers are constantly smudged with his eyeshadow as he packs it around his eye with careful precision despite never using brushes, leaving little fingerprints on your wrists and hips as he pulls you close, drawling sweetly to you "ain't ya gonna call me pretty, luv?", a dark smirk on his lips, the same dark shade as the ripest cherry

Eyeliner is his favorite, whether it's a rough ring drawn around his eye or the sharpest wing he could manage, accompanied by mascara on his heavy lashes. He likes how it makes him look, even more how it runs down his face, dark and messy streaks streaming down his cheeks as he kneels in front of you, cock stretching his pretty little mouth open

Those fingers stained with makeup digging into your thighs and hipbone, leaving behind faded dark marks as he holds on, tugging your hips forward to slide your cock deeper into his tight throat, gagging lightly as more tears spill over, dragging lines of mascara down his face

He loves the way his lipstick stains your skin, rubbing off as a messy ring around your cock as he bobs his head on your length, practically choking himself on you to slide your cock past the messy benchmark he'd made for himself. He digs his nimble fingers into your plush ass, your cock sliding further down his throat till he's kissing your pelvis, smearing black lipstick on your skin as his throat flutters around your cock And when your orgasm is quickly approaching he pulls off, thick strings of saliva connecting between his shiny lips and your cock covered in his spit, fist frantically stroking you to drive you over the edge. You cum on his face, milky white drops smearing alongside his makeup stained cheeks and Hobie reaches up, swiping a finger through your mess and smudging black lipstick down his chin before smiling up at you and sliding the cum coated finger in his mouth

He looks even prettier like this

[idontknowreallywhy]

Following in his footsteps

Finished this idea off on the commute so apologies for typos, clumsy wording and for inconsistencies in the sounds Brains stutters on…

It’s a bit of a mystery as to why Scott, the first born, was named after the 4th of the Mercury Seven whose flight and piloting decisions were somewhat controversial and left him in conflict with flight control (sound familiar?). Anyway I find myself intrigued by that particular 1960’s flyboy, particularly as to one thing he did 1/3 of the way through his trip with his fuel running low…

✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️

“S-SCOTT C-C-CARPENTER TRACY!!!”

John later confirmed that this was indeed the first time in Tracy history that Brains ever been apoplectic enough to middle name any of them. His ire was usually quiet and dry, with occasional sarcasm. Every so often some non-vital but comfort-providing item might be removed from a Thunderbird for “essential maintenance”… the cushioning of One’s pilot seat, the power supply to Two’s coffee machine…

But generally, after more than a decade living with the Tracys, their long-suffering engineer had cultivated the talent of providing emotionally restrained feedback. Albeit there was good reason MAX was unable to mimic the phrases that were muttered over mangled landing gear, flooded engines, overstrained thrusters and the like.

This Wednesday morning, however, something had clearly pushed him over the edge.

“What did you doooo?” Alan hissed in alarm and was immediately shushed by a heavily frowning Virgil, whose fingers appeared unable to release the unfortunately tense chord he’d just leaned into. John’s hologram popped up looking serious. Even Gordon looked incredibly uncomfortable.

From the guilt-ridden look on Scott’s face, he could think of least three reasons his neck might be on the block this morning.

A tightly wound ball of fury approached the seating area and the speed with which International Rescue’s commander leapt from the couch betrayed his initial instinct to bolt from the room and never stop running. However, decades of experience of facing the music from many and varied sources meant his feet remained firmly rooted to the floor, while the rest of his body sought the security of parade rest.

Brains stood in front of him vibrating with rage. The ends of MAX’s arms were positioned at an approximation of where the robot’s hips might be. The room held its breath. Virgil’s foot remained wedged against the sustain pedal. The melodramatic chord continued reverberating around the lounge.

The engineer suddenly raised a hand and everyone flinched. Had their friend finally resorted to violence?

Scott closed his eyes and awaited whatever engineering justice was deemed merited for… whatever it was he had done.

But the shorter man’s movement as he reached up to Scott’s face was slow, deliberate and with a slight frown of concentration he stuck a 75mm square of blue duct tape precisely in the middle of Scott’s forehead.

Virgil jaw dropped and his foot finally slipped off the pedal. The dampers clunked back into place, allowing an ominous silence to reign for a few moments.

The colour coded rolls of multi-purpose tape included within each baldric was one of Brains’ affectionate little thematic touches but also acted as a crude fingerprint… blue tape could only ever have been used by one person.

The Commander’s eyebrows twitched almost audibly as he tried to puzzle out the strange sensation but his eyes remained screwed shut.

When Brains spoke it was barely more than a whisper and the brothers in the room found themselves leaning in. The brother in space appeared to have located a bucket of popcorn.

“D-do you h-happen, to know how l-long I have spent p-perfecting One’s fuel reserve s-system, S-Scott?”

Scott swallowed, hard, and opened his eyes again.

“Quite a long time?”

“Yes.”

“Ahh, did I ever thank you? I should have, I’m very sorry - thank you for that and for all your work, Brains. It really is appreciated.”

“Is it?”

“Of course!”

“Hmmm.”

Scott opened his mouth again but, accepting that his attempt to divert the conversation had failed, clearly thought better of digging any deeper until the nature of the situation became more clearly defined.

Brains’ hand lifted for a second time, another square of blue tape delicately held between thumb and forefinger. This was placed with some care on the very tip of Scott’s nose.

Alan snorted. Gordon punched him in the arm and was elbowed back. Virgil glared them into silence then nearly lost control himself at the sight of his elder brother going cross eyed in an attempt to establish what on earth he was being decorated with.

Brains spun on his heel to face the rest and they all leaned back hurriedly, feigning casual interest. Nobody wanted to appear to be aware of, to be accidentally associated with whatever crime it was Scott had committed.

“Th-thunderbird One uses t-two fuels but h-has th-th-three fuel tanks. As you all know, th-the balance of fuel t-to achieve m-maximum speed is p-precisely c-calculated and th-the system that g-governs it is h-highly sophisticated.”

Everyone nodded except Scott who was trying and failing to pretend he was unbothered by the additions to his face. His nose twitched compulsively.

“D-due to certain t-tendencies of her p-rimary p-p-pilot, One h-has a reserve t-tank. Th-that blend of fuel w-will not achieve the h-highest speeds b-but will ensure she is able t-to return h-home if a SENSIBLE…” the word was ground out as if it was painful “…speed is m-maintained.”

Brains paused. Every eye in the room shifted to Scott. Max bleeped, judgementally. Brains continued, his voice deadly calm and deeply terrifying for it.

“T-to ensure One’s p-pilot d-does not m-miss the fuel status w-warnings amongst th-the p-p-plethora of information on the h-holographic display I installed th-three LED bulbs t-to m-make it QU-QUITE CLEAR w-when l-levels w-were running low and w-when speed n-needed t-to be m-m-m-moderated in order t-to avoid d-damage t-to her supply p-p-p-p-pipeline a-a-a-and e-en-en-engines!”

Brains’ veneer of calm was cracking and Scott, who had clearly solved the mystery, appeared to be chewing through the inside of his face. Brains spun back to face the object of his wrath. MAX’s mechanical eyes narrowed.

“W-warning l-lights are only effective w-when th-they are v-visible!”

Scott gulped and fell back on the only defence he had left - he gave his old friend a dimpled half-grin and a doomed attempt at mitigation:

“They were a little… distracting?”

“D-distracting.”

The full stop was potent and echoed around them. Brains appeared on the edge of an eruption the like of which Tracy Island had never seen, even when the volcano was active. But he mastered himself and produced a final square of tape which he held in front of Scott’s face for a moment before slapping it down on to the top of his head, rubbing it slightly to ensnare as much perfectly styled hair as possible before storming from the room.

MAX remained just long enough to shake a medium-weight hydro-spanner with extreme prejudice before flouncing impressively and trundling after his master.

Alan and Gordon clung to each other, faces contorted with silent mirth. Virgil caught John’s eye then cleared his throat and appeared about to speak before being forestalled by his Commander’s raised palm.

Lacking a little of his usual gravitas due to the tape fluttering gently in the huffed breath from his nose, Scott still poured every ounce of authority he had left into an order of three short syllables:

“Not. A. Word.”

[yjhariani]

Stealth Mission

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley X GN!Reader Word count: 1100± Warning: Profanity Summary: Annoying your husband in any way possible.

A/N: Still fixated on the idea of crossovering CoD and RE because. Maybe I should branch out and make the reader a part of SCP Foundation MTF.

Ever since you married Simon, you made it your objective to annoy him in any loving way possible. One of the ways to do so, you titled Stealth Mission. Not only because it required stealth, it would end up mostly redacted in the history book of your marriage.

The way you saw it was that both your work was so harsh and full of darkness that you two needed at least occasional light in between. So, you started it.

For example; Simon was getting ready to go to the gym. You scouted the area around his duffle bag. Once making sure that Simon was away from the area and that the area was clear (sometimes you bait him by putting his phone somewhere inside the house and calling it so he went to get it), you made your way in towards the duffle bag.

Eyes on and sharp, you went through his bag. You took out his shirt that was black in colour and replaced it with the package; a bright, pastel pink cropped shirt or a bright yellow tank top, maybe a neon green water bottle or red towel with hearts and flowers or cute little cats or puppies on it. 

You tucked it inside the bag, made sure that it was hidden. Once the package was delivered, you RTB (Return to Base—wherever the hell Simon was not).

A few minutes later, Simon left. In a few hours, he returned home to you waiting for him in the living room with your camera opened. He was wearing the package. Usually, you managed to take a couple of snaps before Simon looked at you disapprovingly.

Mission complete.

Another example; you waited until Simon fell asleep. Once he did, you very carefully removed yourself from the bed. You had direct intel that Simon’s phone was located on the nightstand. You located it precisely where he would usually put it.

You made your way to the other side very quietly and very stealthily. You stayed prone on the ground, but not after getting the target—Simon’s phone.

With a little bit of tech forgery, you unlocked the phone (in actuality, he made sure you could unlock his phone with a fingerprint or even your face as well as giving you the passcode). You connected the phone to a pair of earbuds that you had prepared to ensure that there would be no loud noises accidentally echoing.

From there, you downloaded the most obnoxious song—maybe Crazy Frog or Barbie Girl. Afterwards, you set his alarm with said downloaded song before making sure to disconnect the earbuds from the phone. Following that, you returned the phone to where it was before returning yourself stealthily to your side of the bed.

The next morning, you two were woken up by the most ridiculous song ever. You started the day with Simon calling you little shit.

Mission complete.

If you were not feeling too lazy, after making sure Simon could not catch you doing it, you would intentionally make an effort to pull a chair and put a lot of things on the higher shelves, just out of your reach. Every time you called for him to help you get them it would annoy him because you could simply pull a chair or something.

However, sometimes he was feeling generous and picked you up, letting you take whatever you were reaching for with your own hands. Simon rarely put you down immediately and you two ended up at least making out.

Another mission complete?

One time, you did the same thing throughout the whole week you two were home. You kept asking Simon if he had seen something that was in plain sight.

“Simon, did you see my phone?” you asked whilst holding your phone.

“In your hand, love,” Simon said.

Sometime later, you asked him, “Simon, have you seen that mug I just bought for you?” as you handed him said mug with tea that you brewed for him.

“You’re taking the piss?” Simon replied.

The next day, you just finished showering with only a towel on you and walked to where Simon was, asking, “Simon, I can’t find my towel.”

“Don’t make me rip it off you,” Simon warned.

At some point, you were doing laundry. You held the laundry basket in one hand and shouted Simon’s name.

“Everything alright, darling?” Simon asked.

“I brought the hamper here earlier, I don’t remember where I put it,” you answered.

A little frustrated, Simon was about to say something a little mean, but decided not to. Instead, he put up a finger.

“No,” he said. “I’m not doing this.”

The last one at the end of the week happened while he was lounging in the living room. You walked over, looking under the table, under the pillow, in between the seats.

Simon, at this point, knew what you were doing. He was about to ignore you, but he did not find it in his heart to do so.

“What are you looking for this time?” Simon sighed.

“I’m looking for my husband,” you stated.

There was a second passing of Simon furrowing his eyebrows before he stood up.

Uh-oh.

“Get over here,” Simon requested.

“Why?” you asked, holding back a laugh.

“Just get over here,” Simon replied and started walking towards you.

You stepped aside, around the table.

After another pause where the two of you were mapping the living room and tried to guess each other’s net move, Simon started literally chasing you around the living room. It got weird pretty quickly.

You rolled on the ground to avoid him and Simon started calculating his movement.

Hollowing your hand in front of your mouth, you said, “This is Y/N to HQ, requesting immediate backup.”

“You’re fucking kidding me,” you heard Simon muttered as he continued to chase you around the living room.

“Eyes on armed tango in the up right,” you continued. “Fucking beefy, fucking scary, and fucking handsome.”

“Y/N, stop this!” Simon insisted, but you started to see him smiling a little bit.

Grinning, you tried to make your way out of the living room, getting chased by Simon before getting tackled by him onto the sofa.

“Contact! I’m hit!” you announced. “Going dark!”

“Going dark?” Simon repeated, half chuckling.

“I don’t know why I said that,” you chuckled.

Simon only looked at you for a moment, a thin smile bloomed on his face.

“Remind me why we’re married again?” Simon said.

“Oh, we got our wages raised if we’re married and I got a house,” you said.

“Right,” Simon nodded.

“I also seem to remember that you said that I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you,” you teased.

“I’m changing my mind just this second,” Simon said.

“And you still love me anyway. How’s that making sense?” you replied.

Instead of answering that, Simon started kissing you.

Mission complete.

If you were not feeling too lazy, after making sure Simon could not catch you doing it, you would intentionally make an effort to pull a chair and put a lot of things on the higher shelves, just out of your reach. Every time you called for him to help you get them it would annoy him because you could simply pull a chair or something.

However, sometimes he was feeling generous and picked you up, letting you take whatever you were reaching for with your own hands. Simon rarely put you down immediately and you two ended up at least making out.

Again, these missions would end up being redacted in the history book of your marriage and the only people who would know about these missions were the people involved; you and him.

However, next time, though, you might have to buy some Nerf guns.

[adventuringblind]

Do Androids Have Dicks?

Preview of my latest WIP ahead!

Oscar is a deviant android trying to look human but Max and Lando have a bet going and are ruining the already feeble attempt.

A series of events in which Oscar learns to be human and accidentally falls in love in the process. He also gets a dick... but that's besides the point.

Coming soon to A03

Below the cut: Oscar being bad at being human, blood... but the android kind, talks of dicks and sex and other inuendo

“How long did you think you were going to last before someone figured it out?” Oscar blinks at Mark, attempting to assess how to throw him off but that whole side of his software stopped working since he became sentient. 

“Figured out what?” Note to self: learn how to become a better liar.

~

“Oscar, are you even listening?!” Mark throws his hands up. “Lando is going to be in close proximity to you. He might realize it sooner or later.” The Aussie looks genuinely distressed. Despite the rough beginning, Mark has become oddly protective over Oscar the last couple of years. 

“I’m stalking his online presence at the moment. Same with Max Verstappen since he seems like someone to take inspiration from.” 

“And yet you drive with the precision of a machine and are abnormally calm about everything…” 

“Mark… I am a machine.” 

~

Oscar dashes away before Lando can even say anything else. He grabs Kim by the elbow and drags him away. The older is out of breath and rubbing his arm where there are probably fingerprints left. 

“What was that for?!” 

“You didn’t tell me my temperature is fucked!” 

“I also didn’t teach you how to swear… but here we are.” 

~

“Hey Oscar… Do androids have dicks?” 

It’s probably just one of those things Lando asks without thinking. It just so happens Oscar happens to have the answer. Which, maybe after he’s done blinking at his teammate he’ll be able to answer. 

“I mean… some do.”

Lando eyes Oscar up and down. “So like, do you have a dick?”

He’s so fucked. Oscar has never been so fucked in his entire existance. Not when he became deviant, not when his team was torturing him because they could. Not when Mark almost didn’t help him get to F1. No, he’s fucked because Lando Norris is staring at his crotch looking for an outline of something that isn’t there. 

“Yes?” 

~

“I swear to you Oscar if this is because I blocked that one cat pictures website-” 

Oscar fake gasps. “Rude! But no, this is about my possibly compromised identity because I don’t have a dick.” 

Kim blinks at him, turns to the wall and begins to hit his head on it. “No.” He spins back around, throwing his hands up. “I am not giving you a dick. Absolutely not, never, because you will be insufferable-” 

~

He obliges a concerned sounding Kim. “It’s hard, I’m crying… and I think I'm stupid. Most importantly though - I feel hot and it is hard.”

Mark and Kim exchange a look before they double over in laughter. “That’s what it’s supposed to do! It’s a very human thing to happen when you're aroused.” Kim relaxes into his chair. “What got you so worked up?” 

Mark raises his eyebrows. “Easy question! It was either Lando or Max!” 

“Can it be both?” 

“Remind me not to go looking through your memories…” 

[cdroloisms]

Can we hear more about that theory?

it's less of a theory and more just derangement, and a specific angle of viewing the story. but smth i think that is crucial to how i see the story and something that i think is too-often deemphasized in the fandom, regardless of how much you buy into the derangement lmao, is that c!discduo is not...really a standalone relationship. i mean it is, but in just as many ways it isn't...and the reason why the finale and you know, an actual conversation between the two of them takes so long to get to is precisely because it was overshadowed by the third component of their whole deal. are you following? does this make sense? i dont know.

c!dream + c!tommy are one side of a triangle that supports quite literally everything abt their whole central conflict and narrative, with the third part being, well, c!wilbur. and the c!wilbur-c!tommy-c!dream of it all is quite understandably easy to miss, but it's also what i think leads to some of the most striking differences in c!dream and c!tommy interpretations, not to mention the story as a whole. c!wilbur's relationship with c!dream and c!tommy separately AND together is critical to the ways that the two characters develop and how their conflict evolves--i'd say that that's more just. canon, than a theory. but how far you extend that is where it kinda delves into different interpretations of canon, you know?

but it's just like ... when the whole fucking point of that last stream, the whole damn crux of it is when tommy says "i thought you were just a villain" and dream replies with "i am and i always have been" and the whole damn POINT is that these viewpoints were never true to begin with, when what dream throws to tommyinnit is a picture of lmanburg, when the shit that they have to dismantle to reach out at the end of the fucking world is the hero/villainisms that have DEFINED THEIR STORY independently AND together, it's like. look . when the story is like dismantling the literal source of their conflict and c!wilbur's fingerprints are all over the damn thing, it feels a Little reductive to see the conversation so consistently happen without even invoking his name, you know?

[fayes-fics]

Stress Relief [Drabble]

2k Celebration Masterpost

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader, modern AU

Summary: A surprise hotel room quickie with businessman Anthony

Warnings: 18+smut, minors DNI, quickie vaginal sex, window sex, exhibitionism.

Word Count: 989 (hahah 250 words max, I lie to myself)

Authors Note: the first of my 2k follower celebration drabble request fills. Unbetaed. (ask here). Enjoy! <3

“What are you doing here?” the ask is warm as the door swings open.

He wears custom-fit dark suit trousers and an expensive white shirt with one too many buttons open, a peek of very alluring chest hair visible as he leans casually on the door, whiskey tumbler in hand.

“I heard you were also in New York this weekend. Figured you wouldn’t mind seeing a familiar face,” you shrug, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

“You figured right,” Anthony smirks, “come on in,” he gestures, twisting to give you room to enter his suite.

And what a suite. There are floor-to-ceiling windows with a view over Battery Park and the Statue of Liberty beyond, lit up in dusk. You can't help but float over to them. You are admiring the view when a warm pair of lips land on your neck and muscular arms band around your waist from behind.

“I do so enjoy us being in business together,” he breathes into your ear. “It's so wonderful to bump into you all around the world like this.”

You hum your approval and reach back to delve your fingers into that thick luscious head of hair, scraping your nails over his scalp as he nibbles on your flesh.

“I have about ten minutes before dinner with a business client downstairs,” you warn, pushing your hips back, something warm and hard rubbing against your bottom even though the layers of clothing.

“Same,” he breezes, a hand tracing down your side to your thigh, hitching your dress up over your bottom.

“I needed stress relief,” you state boldly, raising a pointed eyebrow over your shoulder. “It’s an important dinner, and I need to be relaxed.”

“Hmmm. That can be arranged,” he murmurs as his fingers tug the lace of your knickers down, letting them fall to the floor. You moan as his fingers expertly slide into your folds. “Oh, somebody doesn't need any preparation at all, do they?” he gusts, impressed, already toying with your throbbing clit. 

“Just fuck me, please,” you exhale, placing your palms on the cool glass window. “Quickly,” you add crisply, glancing at your watch.

“With pleasure,” he rumbles, and you flex as you hear the sound of his trouser zip.

Wordlessly one hand wraps around your jaw, twisting your face to his, just as the other grabs his cock and guides himself into you with one decisive jolt. You groan into his open mouth, a sloppy, desperate kiss as he starts to move within you, the taste of smokey whiskey strong on his tongue. 

His cock feels so good as he starts to move that your eyes roll. Uncaring who in the world can see you, dress around your waist, his hands now banded around your hipbones,

“Don't fucking stop,” you moan, the words already slurred, just drunk on the sensation.

He laughs a low throaty rumble as he thrusts into you from behind almost ruthlessly, and your fingers scramble for purchase on the glass, smearing fingerprints, trying to counter his pounding rhythm. He is moving with such ferocity you just lean into it, letting him fuck you so hard you know you will feel it later. 

“You want my fingers or your own?” he huffs, bemused, against your cheek.

“Yours please,” you reply, eyes closed, licking your lips as he bites your ear.

Suddenly two deft fingers are circling your clit with an expert precision that makes your eyes fly open and your mouth gape. Every time you forget just how fucking good Anthony is at that.

“Oh fu….” is all you can manage.

He laughs richly and seems to redouble his efforts to the point that you are just hanging on, your internal muscles rippling under his focused attention.

“That's it, give it to me,” he growls in a rich, rounded tone, slamming into you.

And then it's just sheer sensation - your skin prickling hot as all of your muscles tense and you scream his name, pulsing hard around his cock, your mind going entirely offline, floating in bliss as he keeps fucking you so hard and deep. Your head slumps back onto his shoulder as he roars your name, and with one final thrust that throws you up onto your tiptoes, even in your heels, he comes hard, his fingers almost bruising as they dig into your flesh.

“That might be a new speed record,” he offers drolly a few seconds later as he slips from your body.

“That was perfect, exactly what I needed,” you opine sated, letting him pull down and right your dress.

“Mmm, you had better go to your dinner; sorry if I made you late,” he says in mock sincerity, zipping himself back up before bending to pick up your knickers and handing them to you.

“Likewise,” you shoot back, briefly sorting your appearance the best you can in a mirror before letting yourself out of his room with a parting wink.

----

A few minutes later, you watch your client cross the lobby as you wait outside the swanky restaurant.

“Mr Bridgerton, so wonderful to see you again,” you smile, offering your hand to shake.

“Likewise, Ms y/l/n,” Anthony drawls, shaking your hand with a knowing smile. “Always a pleasure to do business with you.”

“Same, Mr Bridgerton,” you answer breezily as you are shown to your table. “Same.”

Just as he chivalrously pulls your chair back for you, he leans in, his breath hot. “Don’t think for one moment it escaped my attention that you didn't put your knickers back on.”

“I always like to keep my clients so very happy, Mr Bridgerton,” you purr quietly as he takes his seat opposite, eyes sparkling.

“I bet you do a wonderful job of it,” he shoots back, his face the picture of sin.

Barely an hour later, you push the emergency stop button in the lift, and he’s inside you again within seconds.

Anthony taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @queenofmean14 @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @sorryallonsy @lilithseve @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @elizah99 @fictionalmenloversblog @debheart @malpalgalz @amanda08319 @panhoeofmanyfandoms

[blackinhistory]

Gladys West

Overcoming racial and gender barriers, she charted a course that led her to become a “hidden figure” behind the ubiquitous Global Positioning System (GPS). West’s work has had a profound impact on how we navigate the world today. Her story illuminates often-overlooked contributions of diverse voices in scientific progress. So, how's her work connected to the present?

Gladys West was born in 1930 in rural Sutherland, Virginia. Her family was an Black farming family and she spent much of her childhood working on the farm, surrounded by sharecroppers. Despite the challenges, she excelled in school and was determined to get an education. West's childhood on a farm instilled in her a deep understanding of precision and calculation. Despite limited resources and societal constraints, she excelled in academics, graduating with a mathematics degree from Virginia State University and went on to earn two master's degrees and a PhD. Her talent propelled her to the Naval Surface Warfare Center, where she embarked on a remarkable 42-year career. It was also there she met her husband, Ira, married in 1957, and had 3 children. She was the 2nd Black woman ever hired, and 1 of 4 Black employees, her husband included.

There, with the backdrop of Cold War tensions and burgeoning space exploration, West tackled complex mathematical problems related to satellite geodesy. This specialized field, equivalent to deciphering Earth's celestial fingerprint, held the key to precisely pinpointing locations in space. West's meticulous calculations, particularly for the groundbreaking Seasat and GEOSAT satellites, became the invisible scaffolding upon which the modern GPS system was built.

For decades, her contributions remained largely unacknowledged due to her race and gender. Yet, the accuracy and efficiency of her work spoke volumes. The precise models she developed for Earth's gravitational field and its subtle variations due to tides and other forces became the bedrock of GPS calculations. Today, whether navigating city streets or pinpointing remote wilderness locations, we unknowingly benefit from West's invisible hand.

Recognition finally arrived later in life. In 2018, the Air Force Space and Missile Pioneers Hall of Fame inducted West, acknowledging her transformative impact. That same year, the BBC included West among its "100 Women," recognizing her groundbreaking contributions. Just three years later, the Royal Academy of Engineering in the UK bestowed upon her their highest individual honor, the Prince Philip Medal, cementing her place as a pioneer in her field. But her legacy extends far beyond accolades. Gladys West stands as a beacon of inspiration, not just for aspiring mathematicians, but for anyone facing systemic barriers. Her story reminds us that the path to groundbreaking discoveries is often paved by those who defy expectations and chart their own unique course.

Photo Source: Wikimedia Source: Wikipedia Source: BBC Source: Britannica Source:  Atlanta Black Star

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

Since today is percy's birthday, can you write something for Xavier's birthday?

This is a bit late considering Percy's birthday was in...October, but since it's Xavier's birthday it doesn't really matter

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

‘’Was the blindfold really necessary?’’ Xavier asked, his voice tinged with curiosity as he let you lead him through the dimly lit corridors of the academy.

‘’Yes.’’ 

The second you tied the blindfold, the birthday boy knew you had planned a surprise and lied about it. He wasn’t mad though. Your surprises were always…surprising. 

‘’If I didn’t know you well enough, I would think you’re going to murder me,’’ he said with a soft chuckle, the sound echoing through the empty corridor.

‘’If I were to murder you, I would not be holding your hand. Only a fool would leave fingerprints on their victim’s body.’’

Guiding him forward, you soon came to a halt as you reached a staircase.

‘’Careful, there’s stairs. Thirty-five of them, to be precise,’’ you cautioned.

‘’Stairs?’’ Xavier repeated, his eyes widening behind the black blindfold. ‘’Now I’m having doubts on the whole murder thing…’’ 

You raised your hands to your lips and kissed the back of his gently. ‘’Hush hush, you know I would never harm you on purpose.’’ 

Once the death trap was over, you pushed a heavy door and a gust of wind hit you straight in the face, making you shiver. You forgot how cold November nights were in Vermont. 

‘’Last I remember, students are not allowed on the rooftop,’’ Xavier pointed out as you removed his blindfold, revealing the view of the forest from above. 

You pulled out a hair pin and Xavier shook his head with a smile, once again impressed. 

‘’Of course you know how to pick a lock…’’ 

‘’Tonight is a full moon,’’ you stated.

Xavier cocked an eyebrow. ‘’Ohh, is it?’’ He lifted his eyes at the sky, seeing the bright moon. ‘’That’s pretty.’’ 

Simple things are often better than grandiose gestures. Which was why you decided to go for something small and intimate — sharing a cupcake on the rooftop under a full moon — instead of a surprise party. You were together and nothing else mattered. 

Xavier dipped his finger in the frosting and, while your attention was on the sky, he smeared it on your cheek. 

‘’Xavier!’’ you gasped, turning your attention to him. 

He was smiling like a mischievous child, not even bothering to deny that he did it. Keeping the childish game going, you wiped some frosting from your cheek and smeared it on his nose, which made the both of you laugh as you tried to dodge his frosting coated finger again.

—

 Wednesday taglist:  @partyfly @hoodforcalum  @achoo---uu @not-leaprvt @xaviersgf  @dragon-chica  @wrldofsage @eddiemunsonsluvrrr @capriaura @officialsaturn  @kelloggs-world @whosljt @ajpanda181 @belovedrey @emerycrt @elizabitchsshit  @lilithlikestoread @est-liber @moonisu @dessxoxsworld  @bellblake121890 @kaldurahms-lover  @nephilimsss  @sweetheartlizzie07 @watermelon-18 @snixx2088 @555stargirl555 @robinscardigan @chumchum19 @lilttblog @aphex2winn @heizenka @mystargirl-interlude @hwrtsiren @babygirljay20  @strangersomeone @charlottelaffin @iheartmaddyperez @starless-starkov @ali-r3n  @ell0ra-br3kk3r

 @rhaenyraswife  @teaganthemorningstar  @oliviah-25 @spenglerslime @wetwilliam02 @yellowcupcakes @haileyismoo  @wrldofsage @manofworm @supersanelyromantic  @toylewestinnyc @meme-queen-1999 @rottenstyx @mxxny-lupin @idli-dosa @silenzju  @sweeterheartxamerica @renaissancewhxre @jordierama @lilppsblog @harrystylesfp  @katsuki420 @ravenssh1t @kenzi-woycehoski @katsukis1wife @momoewn   @hawkegfs   @mommyruuetrue   @lucassinclairsgf  @starrrslove @marissapearle @sshesang @scarxvodka   @illf4iry  @leoluvsur-pappy  @wenvierismycomfort @pedrosprincess @luvvtxinityy @targaryenmoony @icarly23  @red1culous @kattybug  @slytherinambitious @tommysaxes @adaydreamaway08  @lynbubble @pumkinnroses @under-seasoned-pasta

[hypvalsqr]

Combat Dog gets a Demotion

The frame of the mech rippled as its maglocks slammed into place securing it tightly to the maintenance scaffold. As the cockpit hissed open the Handler marched her way towards it. She tossed a clipboard to the ground and cracked her knuckles. Her mane of pink hair trailed behind her like an open flame. Most of the maintenance crew cleared out to give her space. Everyone was wary of pilots of course, but the pit crew was skilled enough now to know that an angry Handler was what you really needed to be scared of.

A shoulder length mop of damp black hair flopped out of the neural harness as the last layer of the cockpit was peeled back. The Handler grabbed a handful of it and wrenched her scrawny pilots head up.

"What the fuck did I tell you?"

"Mmm-...no artillery or rocketry." The pilot sheepishly responded.

"Exactly. I even locked them down. So explain to me how the fuck you fired a full volley on the caravan."

"I hacked them."

"You hacked them. Is that right? Well, thanks to your awe-inspiring technological feats the VIP we were extracting is now dead along with an entire crew of enemy soldiers. So much for the possi-fucking-bility of negotiations. The orders were precision munitions you fucking," she let a punch fly into the pilots gut with the last word, "mutt."

The combat interfacing feedback finally caught up with the dog in the cockpit and she coughed up a small string of black bile which drooled down her chin pathetically.

"Wrenchie," the Handler said to the chief engineer waiting on standby, "Strip this unit of its weaponry and replace the motors with some suited for cargo hauling. We're putting the artillery platform here in time out for a few months."

"Wait," the pilot finally perked its head up, "No! Please! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Nothing like this will happen again I promise just please please-" A hard slap cut her off.

"Should've said that the last two times you did something like this." the Handler slipped her fingers underneath a panel on her pilots chest and it popped open after scanning her fingerprint. Inside was a compartment filled with a tangle of wires, tubes, screws, and in the center of it all a beating mechanical heart. The Handler ripped out a handful of wires before grasping her pilot by its heart, hauling her out of the cockpit, and dragging it out of the hangar thrashing and screaming.

"It's time I did a little reprogramming on this one." The heart pulsed obediently in her hand.