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orellazalonia · 27 days ago

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Unexpected Outlook

Summary: The Avengers launch a mission to raid a known base of the organization you now work with and discuss over what they found.

Word Count: 1.7k+

A/N: A little shorter since it’s Father’s Day, but I also wanted to add more weight to the previous chapter and progress the story.

Main Masterlist | The One You Don’t See Masterlist

Preparations moved fast. Too fast, maybe.

Steve didn’t like that they were running with incomplete information, but the longer they waited, the deeper this organization could dig itself into global systems. And the more time you had to assist them, whether willingly or not.

Still, it didn’t sit right. None of it did.

Bruce pulled the files. Natasha studied known locations. Sam monitored chatter. Bucky cleaned his weapons with a look in his eyes like he wanted answers he didn’t have the right to ask.

Yet no one brought up your name again. At least, not directly. But it hovered beneath everything.

The way Bucky checked each plan twice. The way Natasha’s jaw twitched when she reviewed footage. Even the way Steve hesitated before calling it an official mission.

The woman Bucky liked didn’t voice objections anymore. She simply kept a kind, quiet distance, like someone watching friends argue over a lost cause.

And within a week, the op was set.

Steve gave the greenlight with his jaw tight and eyes harder than usual. The mission was clear: infiltrate a suspected communications hub. A nondescript, rural compound masked as a grain storage facility. Satellite data showed encrypted signals routing through it over the last month, signals that matched ones the Avengers used internally.

Which meant either someone was watching. Or someone had been taught how.

They went in with a small team. Just Steve, Sam, Natasha, and Bucky. No need for Hulk or Thor; this wasn’t a battering ram job. It was a retrieval and disrupt operation. Quiet and clean.

Or so they thought.

The quinjet landed half a mile out, under cover of dense fog rolling over the hills. The forest beyond the compound was eerily still like it had been holding its breath since before dawn.

“They want us to find this,” Natasha muttered, brushing a branch aside as they crept through the trees.

Steve didn’t argue. His shield was strapped to his arm, but he hadn’t raised it once.

They reached the clearing. The compound was just as expected. Gray concrete, flat roof, minimal security fencing, and a gravel path leading to two entrances. No guards. No movement. Even the air felt… hollow.

Sam scanned the building with a handheld sensor. “No heat signatures. Not even a rat.”

“Too clean,” Bucky said, voice low.

They breached the back door.

Inside, it was dark but not ruined. Every surface was wiped. Consoles powered down. Not destroyed, removed. Carefully like a move-out rather than an attack. Upon investigating further, files had been cleared, drawers emptied, and chairs pushed in with bland desks.

Whoever had been here knew exactly when to leave.

Steve turned in a slow circle, taking it in.

“This was active,” He said. “Days ago.”

“Hours, maybe,” Natasha said, crouching beside a desk. She tapped the edge, there was a faint spot where something electronic had been sitting. Someone had worked here… and then vanished.

Sam stepped into the central control room. There was only one thing left behind: a monitor left switched on, flickering a soft blue light in the dimness.

A single message scrolled across the screen.

Too late, Captain.

That was it. There wasn’t any long monologues. No other mocking comments. Not even a signature or sign-off present. Just a cold fact. Steve stared at it like he could will it to change. Bucky stood a step behind him, arms folded, expression unreadable.

“I don’t like this,” Sam muttered.

Natasha approached a wall panel and pried it open effortlessly. Inside, wires had been sliced. Intentionally. However, there were no explosives. No traps could be seen anywhere either. It was all just… closure.

“They stripped this place surgically,” She said. “No fingerprints, no traces. It’s like they wanted us to know they were here… but not who they are.”

Steve closed the monitor with a clenched jaw. “This wasn’t a base. It was a decoy.”

“No,” Bucky said suddenly. His voice was soft but steady. “It was a base. It just outlived its usefulness.”

They all turned toward him. He looked at the empty room, the missing equipment, and the quiet hallways. Then, to the message. And for a moment, something shifted in his eyes. Guilt, maybe or something deeper.

“They planned for this,” He murmured. “Someone told them exactly how we’d come.”

No one responded, but no one needed to. Because they were all thinking it.

The debrief room was thick with a heavy silence, the kind that pressed down harder than shouting. Ghost-blue blueprints and photos of the abandoned compound still flickered on the monitors, reminders of how quickly their plan had unraveled. Notes about the missing equipment and the chilling message on the screen scrolled slowly, marking everything they should have anticipated.

Steve hadn’t sat once since they returned. He stood rigid at the head of the table, hands braced on his hips, and a deep furrow like it was etched there permanently. Sam had stopped pacing but his leg bounced nervously, jaw clenched tight. Natasha’s fingers tapped against her thigh in a rhythm so steady it barely seemed voluntary.

Only Bucky remained perfectly still, arms crossed, and eyes locked on the screen across the room. He said very little since they’d left the empty compound since that message haunted him.

Too late, Captain.

The words weren’t just text; they carried a weight, a deliberate coldness that dug into Bucky’s mind. Whoever had left it knew him. Not just the soldier, but his moves, his instincts. And worse, their enemy had used the knowledge you once held to outmaneuver them.

The memory played on loop in his mind. Not just the words but the feel of them. The calculation in them. Whoever was behind that terminal… knew him. Not just facts. His patterns.

And maybe worse than that, they’d used your knowledge to do it. They probably used you to do it.

The door hissed open.

She stepped in with her usual soft elegance, cradling a fresh cup of tea between her hands like she had no idea anything had gone wrong. Dressed casual, warm, and comfortable. Like she belonged. Like she didn’t feel the same tension that pulled everyone else taut. The one you used to be jealous of had sat out for the mission after all.

“Oh,” She said lightly. “You’re all back already.”

Her tone wasn’t mocking. If anything, it was gently surprised, as if she’d simply walked into a meeting that ended early. Steve didn’t answer right away. Neither did the others.

She blinked, smile sweet and expectant, like someone unaware they were intruding. “Was it a short mission?”

“We were too late,” Steve said flatly, straightening.

Her brows lifted, and she crossed to the table, setting the tea down. “Really? That’s unfortunate. I thought it was just one of those cleanup things. You all make those look so easy.”

Sam looked over, jaw tight. “They cleaned up, alright. Took every last trace of themselves. Left us a polite message, too.”

“They knew how we’d approach,” Natasha added with her arms crossed now. “Like they knew our pattern. Our flow. They stripped the place within hours of our arrival window.”

“Hmm.” She tapped a fingernail against the ceramic. “That’s strange. Maybe they had inside intel?”

“No,” Steve spoke, narrowing his eyes. “Not unless someone studied us long before they left.”

“Oh.” She blinked, tilting her head. “So… do you think your old administrator friend told them?”

Bucky stiffened.

Natasha’s voice was sharper now, eyes narrowing. “She’s not our anything.”

That seemed to amuse her. She let out a light laugh, the kind meant to dissolve tension, not that anyone was asking for it. “Well, you’re not wrong,” She smiled. “ She didn’t really fit in here anyways, did she?”

Bruce, who had been mostly quiet, looked up sharply. “She worked here for over two years.”

She didn’t seem phased. There was no malice on her face actually. Just soft confidence.

“I guess I didn’t think she’d be important,” She sighed simply. “Kind of kept to herself. I always assumed she’d move on.”

Sam stood, voice tight. “She did. Straight into the hands of the people trying to tear us apart.”

Her smile faltered just a touch. “I didn’t mean—look, I’m sure she was… sweet. I just don’t see how it helps to chase after someone who clearly didn’t want to be here. Don’t you think she made her choice?”

Steve’s eyes narrowed. “We don’t know that yet.”

“I mean, sure,” She said gently, “But if she’s really that dangerous, wouldn’t you have noticed before she left? You didn’t even realize she was gone until weeks later, right?”

Bucky shifted slightly. The burn in his chest deepened. Not from her words exactly, but from how true they rang.

They hadn’t noticed. They hadn’t looked.

The woman moved closer to Bucky, noticing his subtle distress as she rested her hand lightly on Bucky’s shoulder.

“I just worry about you,” She confessed softly, smiling up at him. “You’re all stretched so thin already. I’d hate to see you waste energy chasing ghosts.”

Her hand lingered. But Bucky’s jaw clenched, and for once, he didn’t lean into her touch.

“She’s not a ghost,” He muttered. “She’s a mirror. Of everything we missed.”

Her expression flickered for barely a moment. Then the sweet smile returned.

“Well, if you have to go after her,” She brushed her hand away, her expression turning more solemn. A hint of pity evident, “I hope you’re prepared for what you find. Sometimes people change… and not always in ways you can fix. I don’t want you to be hurt.”

She reached for her tea again, her fingers wrapping around the cup like it was an anchor.

“And if you do decide to keep going after her, well.” She gave a gentle little laugh, looking around with open, innocent eyes. “I hope it goes well. I really mean that. And if you need my help at all… just let me know. I’m always happy to support the team.”

The door hissed softly behind her as she walked out, quiet heels tapping against the floor in steady, graceful rhythm.

The rest of the team stood in silence for a few long seconds, each lost in their own storm of thoughts.

Steve broke it first.

“We move forward. We stop that organization before it spreads deeper.”

“And if she’s helping them willingly?” Sam asked, his voice low.

Steve hesitated.

So, Bucky answered instead.

“Then we stop her, too.”

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#The One You Don’t See #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #marvel x reader #marvel fic #bucky barnes fic #bucky x you #avengers fic #chapter 5

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typewritingyip · 5 months ago

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The Arcturus Missions

Part Twenty Six - Feelings

Part Twenty Five

———

Pilots seem to come from all walks of life, it really depends on how or who recruited them. As the death tolls rose, they started scouring the Earth for compatibility in every place that was reachable by both government agency and private industry.

Compatibility testing is not standardized across the planet, across agencies, or private companies.

Those first few years a significant portion of pilots were underage, found more compatible than older people, the youngest pilot back in the start of the program was registered at thirteen years old. After years of regulation, it was made mandatory that pilots must be of the same age to enlist to become a pilot.

As the number of attacks increased and the number of pilots was rapidly decreasing, many of those regulations were repealed in certain countries; namely the US.

It is legally viable to become a mech suit pilot as young as fifteen in the United States if they are found compatible. One private company accepts people that young for compatibility testing, while the written test is now given with the selective service paperwork to boys once they turn eighteen.

The written test is offered with voter registration, but not required.

—

Archa Three was in a system with two nearby stars, the one the planets actively orbited around and one of an extremely close system. At night the sky would shine with the distant planets and stars, Bluestreak was enjoying the night sky in the quiet. Arm around Sunstreaker’s shoulders, staring at the stars reflecting in the water.

It had only been a few minutes from when Bluestreak went quiet to Sunstreaker falling asleep, the suit slumping just enough to alert him. Ex-venting slowly, he kept his arm comfortably around Sunstreaker, staring at the horizon.

Until his comm buzzed and he nearly growled. Answering silently, “What?” The bite in his voice would have been enough to scare most people, but the voice on the other side of the comm laughed.

Though he was still laughing, it took Prowl a moment to clear his voice, “I apologize, I didn’t realize you were so invested with your overnight watch.” Bluestreak’s face burned, “Oh just shut up, fragger.” Prowl chuckled lightly again, shaking his head a bit.

Prowl and Jazz were on the edge of Paraxus, as Jazz had left Iacon sometime during their hectic day, leaving Sideswipe and Breakdown on effective lockdown in the Iacon apartment. Paraxus though the city was still rebuilding from the war it had become a tactical hub at the start of the battles with the Quintessons, realizing it could not and would not remain neutral to destruction again.

“How is Sunstreaker handling the change in command?” Prowl was keeping his voice down, likely meaning even on internal comm that Jazz was asleep somewhere nearby. Glancing down at the sleeping mech, Bluestreak smiled a bit, “It’s going like you thought it would.” Humming, Prowl fell quiet for a moment.

Bluestreak leaned his cheek against Sunstreaker’s helm, turning up his sensors. Checking the perimeter cameras and sensors with a quick scan, humming then, “He’ll be fine, just has to communicate.” He could almost feel the teasing from the other end of the comm, “That’s why I paired him with you and Ironhide.” Rolling his optics, Blue tucks one servo against Sunny’s side.

“He’s been angry, really angry then so calm. Is that normal or something that’s just Sunny?” Prowl ex-vented slowly, and Blue knew he shifted his weight. One of the mechs few tells, “So, not just Sunny?” Humming again, Prowl shook his helm slowly, “When Jazz went through overuse, it wasn’t this bad. But for him it was fight or die, he couldn’t show who he was. With Sunny and the others, they are out of their suits enough that every time they go back in it’s worse, but this is how they do things on Earth.” Venting shallowly, Blue shifts closer to Sunny, who seemed to move closer and lean more into him.

Looking back out at the ocean, Bluestreak stared, “They're more stubborn than a miner from Tarn.” Prowl’s comm cut out briefly, likely to choke back his own laugher which brought the slightest smile to his face, after a moment Prowl returned, “That is certainly one way of phrasing it, so then, how are things going for your relationship?” It took everything in Blue to not make a sound, gears grinding painfully as he adjusted in his seat.

Prowl just waited, probably wearing his stupid smirk on his faceplates, “It’s fine. Thank you for asking, you slagger.” The chuckle rang through the comm, “These things change and grow, human relationships are different from ours, not horribly so but different enough.” Venting slowly, Prowl stared out the window of the habsuite he was in, Jazz sleeping on his shoulder like Green would, “You have to have meaningful conversation, not just talking at him.” Blue rolled his optics.

The sand was warmed from the suns in this system, but even now away from the heaters it was starting to cool quickly, “We talk.” Prowl hummed, “Sunstreaker is the quietest human I have ever met, versus you.” “Hey!” Trying to hide his grin, Prowl cleared his vocal components briefly, “I am just saying, you two are different. That’s not a bad thing, it just means you both have to have patience.” And Bluestreak’s face burned, glancing down at Sunstreaker.

Though he could see him, he knew the real Sunny was asleep somewhere safe, tucked inside the suit and away from the toxic and corrosive things this planet seemed to be blanketed in, “Yeah, patient.” He vented before looking back out at the ocean, nodding a bit, “I’ve gotta get back to watch, say hi to Jazz for me.” Prowl glanced over at his own companion who was sound asleep, “I will once he wakes up, keep a vigilant optic Bluestreak.” Bluestreak hummed before disconnecting the comm.

He checked over the cameras and sensors, nodding a bit before going back to scanning the horizon. The way Sunstreaker reacted to the Quintesson ship was more than instinct, it was personal anger.

It would be something that they’d have to talk about some cycle, but Blue figured it would be the same one where he explained the so-called inside joke, “Ah, Primus.” he chuckles lightly and shakes his head a bit.

—

Staying connected to the suit while asleep was not smart or safe, but many pilots had done it before and many would do it after Sunstreaker was gone. It exacerbated overuse symptoms and increased the chances of the crash, but sometimes it was easier than dealing with the after effects of disconnecting.

The suit jolted at the same time Sunstreaker did, still connected even in his sleep, and he was gasping for air. He couldn’t see as his cockpit was shrouded in darkness.

A hand collided with his chest and he tried desperately to grab it, “No,” his voice was choked, struggling to get air in and out, the hand on his chest shoved him down, “Relax!” Sunny wasn’t familiar with whatever the muffled voice was saying. Finally, he hits the emergency start up for his visual feed.

Ironhide was over him, pinning him to the sad, practically snarling at him, “Online! Fragging online!” Sunny’s visor brightens just a bit as the rest of his external feeds kick online, sand was spraying all over them, “What the hell?” Ironhide pulls him up and points, “We’ve got company!” He stared for a moment before swearing and online the rest of his suits systems, “Damnit, damnit!” He grabs hold of the controls and adjusts the suit to standing.

The beach was in chaos, it was just shy of morning and there were craters everywhere. It looked so much like the field in Santa Monica. Sunstreaker finally got his head up and stared for a long moment, it was only one ship but it was doing a lot of damage, meaning Sunstreaker had probably pissed them off.

Ironhide still had him by the shoulder and pulls him back behind cover, “When I put you on overnight watch that doesn’t mean give it to Bluestreak so you can recharge!” Hitting the sand again, Sunny groans slightly, “I didn’t mean to fall to sleep! Fuck, alright, just let me handle this.” He slowly rolls and pears over their cover at the ship that was shooting at them.

He could just see Bluestreak tucked in cover, holding his shoulder with his rifle leaned against his side, “Goddamnit, I can’t even get a decent nights sleep.” With a deep sigh, he adjusts the extension for his bracers before going over the cover and towards the gunfire.

—

Sand was still blowing against his suit and it had been hard to sleep, but it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Hound had disconnected from the suit for the most part, but kept a screen up with the external feel along with a hold on Mirage’s arm.

He was sitting on the floor, helmet off and eating while watching the outside for the clearing of the storm. Every few minutes Mirage would shift them both and send him tilting the other direction. If he got motion sick, it would make the experience only mildly unpleasant. Right now, he didn’t mind.

The external audio was turned down, mostly wind noise, but some of it was Mirage’s murmurings. Some of it even sounded like praying. Sighing slowly, Hound leaned against the side of his piloting chair, adjusting again as Mirage’s grip shifted again. Grabbing his helmet, he pulls it on before turning on his comm and pinging Mirage.

It took a second for Mirage to answer, “I thought you were asleep.” Hound smiled a bit and leaned his head back against the arm of his chair, “I slept for a bit, but after a while the wind isn’t just white noise anymore.” With a hum, Mirage shifted again, “Are you comfortable?” He chuckled lightly, “Yes Mirage, I’m alright.” Hound sighed slowly.

The wind was still howling, “How close to sunrise are we?” Hound closed his eyes for a moment, breathing slowly, “Only a few klicks or so, least it should be.” Hound nodded then hummed, realizing his mech wouldn’t move, “And then we find the source of the storm?” Mirage chuckled lightly, “If there is one, yes.” he sighed slowly and held Hound that little bit closer.

Hound slid a bit on the floor and tried not to laugh as he adjusted, “I really am fine Mirage, sandstorms happen on Earth too.” But the mech remains quiet and Hound’s breath caught, “Mirage?” There was a moments pause, “Yes?” Sighing slowly, Hound stood, “Do they have storms like this on Cybertron?” And Mirage sighed shakily, “Not where I’m from, no.” Hound stared at his visual feed for only a moment longer.

Back in his chair, he connected with a bit of a jolt and moved quickly, trying not to hurt Mirage while he moved them both. The wind was trying to shove his suit back to the ground and Mirage wasn’t much help, wiggling and thrashing before finally they had switched places.

Hound was now pinning Mirage to the ground, though not face first in the sand, and Hound’s mech was cradling the poor man’s head, “You should have said something.” He really couldn’t see Mirage, the sand was that dense in the dark, but he had him on infrared, “You were asleep when the storm hit and I couldn’t wake you. I was fine.” Hound scoffs and shakes his head, “You’re insane.” But he continues to hold Mirage’s head away from the ground.

To be fair, Hound knew if he wasn’t in his mech, it would be incredibly awkward to hold any person like this. Watching Mirage’s face get warmer on infrared was proving that fact, but he just held on as still as the suit would allow, “Back home, I’m from essentially a desert. I only lived there a few years but it’s still home.” Mirage’s optics turned towards his visor, though Hound wasn’t sure if he could see him through the storm.

“We didn’t get storms this bad and there wasn’t a ton of sand, but we’d still get them. We’d also get the densest fog you’d ever see.” Hound just hoped that his talking would help keep the poor guy calm, he sighed slowly.

Clearing his throat a bit, Hound lowers his head slightly and closes his eyes, “On Earth, more specifically back home, out in the fields on the really windy days we’d get very weak tornados that would really only move the dust around. They were small and harmless, but they’d still send sand and crap into your eyes. Uh, they were called dust devils, I think. But it could be the most clear and beautiful day and it would be ruined by the fucking sand.” His helm lightly touched the edge of Mirage’s chest plating.

Mirage was staring, just able to see Hound through the sand and to say the least was deeply embarrassed. It was one thing to be frightened by a sand storm, it was another to be comforted by the most oblivious mech in the universe. His own hands had been stiff at his sides, as Hound’s had held his head just above the sand, the poor mech's elbows buried in sand. Slowly, painfully slowly he’d rested his hands back around Hound who just kept rambling on about Earth.

It really was a comfort to listen to him, and Mirage smiled softly, brushing a hand lightly up Hound’s side, “Earth sounds so nice.” Hound looked up, visor brightening, “I miss it, sometimes.” He sighed slowly, shifting slightly in his chair while keeping the suit as still as he could. His implants felt like they were burning and the skin around them was swollen, “But the work is here. I wouldn’t wish to be there, when there’s so much to do here.” He smiled a bit, “Do you feel better?”

Mirage really wanted to punch the oblivious idiot, “Yeah, I do.” Hound smiled, “Good, I’m glad.” He lowered his suit’s head back down, “Get some rest Mirage, I’ve got you till the storm breaks.” Mirage stared at him like Hound had grown a second helm, the mech was insane and oblivious. Rolling his optics a bit, he vents out.

Tapping a few things in the controls, Hound locks up the suit, keeping it in place. He doubted it was the most comfortable thing for Mirage, but it might be the most comforting. Yawning, he removes his helmet and tosses his legs over the arm of his piloting chair, “God, it had to be the middle of the night, didn’t it?” Mirage chuckled in the dark, “That is the way things go.” And Hound smiled, closing his eyes.

—

The room was pleasantly dark and the bed decently comfortable, his arm thrown over his eyes. Since it was just himself and Sideswipe, the apartment was almost pleasantly quiet. It had been hard, the first few days of bed rest but his overuse symptoms had been limited before the concussion and he had yet to be back in the suit since.

Almost all overuse symptoms were gone, though Breakdown had experienced them in the past. His were slightly different from the Americans, as his implants didn’t bleed or drain, as most of the skin around them had been cauterized. It was only once on loan to MECHA did any of his integrated hardware get updated.

Almost all of the new stuff was still in fact new. For the twins, their implants and things were only a few years old, Hound and Jazz had had them for almost or around ten years, as had Breakdown with his original integrations. The ones for the upgrades though, those only came about in the last year or two, they would still itch and burn.

Right now his right arm was burning and he thought about getting up to get some water to put on it, but Sideswipe’s music was being played at unbearable levels in the living room.

So, Breakdown just turned over and tried to go back to sleep.

Sideswipe was playing his music while checking through part of the wiring on his suit, nodding along to the few familiar sounds from home that were withstanding. At the end of the week, if Breakdown was cleared by Jazz, he’d be shipping out to join Megatron and Hound while Sideswipe was still wondering who on earth this Elita-One person was.

They couldn’t be that bad, most of who he’d met had been nice enough. Sometimes a little scary but he doubted anyone reached Megatron’s level of intensity.

The little comm on the wall started to ping, which would go ignored until Sideswipe could get his helmet microphone working again, so it would just sit there and ping. He swore loudly as the wires he connected burned his fingers lightly, kicking his assistance suit off the table.

Breakdown covered his ears and turned into his pillow.

—

It wasn’t particularly hard to disable its small shuttle craft, these were run of the mill and more typical back home than they had been in the nearly seven months that they’d been among the Cybertronian’s. Then again, they were fighting an army of these freaks compared to the one or two that was able to topple an Earth city.

Sunstreaker was breathing heavy, mask back on as the air in his tanks was starting to drain with the exertion, “Fall back!” He throws his arm behind him a bit, tangled with the Quintesson, whose ship was above them and still laying down covering fire through the cybertronian camp, “Sunstreaker, don’t be stupid!” Ironhide was behind him, just barely covered by an overturned crate and holding his arm.

It was singed and sparking painfully.

Barely sparing a glance over his shoulder, Sunstreaker drags his blade across one of the tentacles of the Quintesson, splattering his mech in that familiar disgusting green, “Ironhide, fall back and get the others to a safe distance! That ship isn’t going to be able to stay up there if it uses up all its energy on the covering fire!” The Quintesson quickly tugged him back and screamed, trying to pry at his plating.

Someone yelled loudly and several blaster shots came incredibly close to Sunny’s visual feed, one camera cutting out with a flash as he swung around, foot colliding with the beak of the enemy. It shrieked and reeled back, Sunny bringing one of his bladed bracers down on it again, splattering more green across the light sand.

There was no more yelling behind him and he could finally focus on just the fight, Ironhide pinging him to alert him of their retreat location. With a bit of a smile, Sunstreaker dove at the monster again, pulling at its limbs with a horrific squelching noise. Wrapping its limbs around his arms and pulling, tearing them away from the alien and cutting them when they wouldn’t give, it screamed and tried to get hold of his legs again.

He stomped on it and headbutted the thing, though he thought for a second he heard his visor crack, another camera was quick to pop offline, which he doubted was a good thing. Sunstreaker was still able to maintain his entire visual feed, resorting to auxiliary cameras.

This particular specimen had denser skin than other Quints he fought, harder to pull apart and nearly impossible to cleave in two without Sideswipe there, but he was still trying. Spraying the beautiful beach in green as the ship above lets out its final pathetic shots on the distant sand, its menacing hum turning into a pathetic whine.

It started to let out an alarmed sound, which caused the Quintesson to look up and gave Sunny the perfect moment to jump forward, arm going half way deep into its body. It gurgled briefly, spraying the front of his mech greener still, before its tentacles fell from around Sunstreaker and it’s body gave way. It almost dragged Sunny to the sand too.

He hardly had a moment to catch his breath before turning than diving the other way, the absurdly large scout ship crashing onto the beach where it’s energy cells were quick to explode upon impact. Spraying the once beautiful organic paradise in a horrible mix of technological and organic shipwreck. Leaving the beautiful beach on fire.

The concussive wave hit last, slamming into Sunstreaker’s suit like a perfectly placed punch, enough to knock the wind out of him.

Laying in the sand, the water comes up and brushes over parts of his mech and Sunstreaker tried not to laugh. There, on the beach, staring up at the brightening sky, it really did remind him of home for a long moment.

Chuckling and sitting up, he rubbed a hand over his covered face, moving to remove the oxygen mask before stopping. Starting. The hand of his mech had glass sticking in its seams, a light blue glass, “Oh shit.” He didn’t know how bad it would be, but that would be a part that would be incredibly difficult to replace or explain having to replace.

With a shove off the ground, he pulled up the coordinates sent to him by Ironhide and started that way, a few mechs already appearing from around the area to try and start putting out the fire. A few had upgrades that were able to put down extinguishing agents.

Sunstreaker kept walking, even as a few people he knew stopped to gawk at him, which was not a good sign to be able to explain this away.

It got even worse when Flatline came running up to him, the mech was large and intimidating but an incredible medic, “Sunstreaker, you need to stop, just hold still!” His hand lightly grabbed Sunstreaker’s suit, and Sunny pulled back, holding up his hands lightly, “It looks worse than it is, I swear.” Poor Flatline looked horrified, “There are going to be mechs who actually need your help, cause of the explosion and stuff.” Sunny added lamely.

This was not going to help his case, even as he kept backing up, now in the tree line and edging close to where Ironhide had ordered the retreat to. More mecha were gawking at him or even gasping, this was bad, “Sunstreaker, it is more than just appearing incredibly painful, your optics,” “Are fine! I swear, it’s just the visor, I think. I can see.” He tries sidestepping the medic, when sends him colliding with his commanding officer. Today was just turning into the perfect mess.

Ironhide looked ready to yell when Sunstreaker turned to him, before going pale, or cold, Sunny wasn’t entirely sure which to describe it as for a mech, “Sweet primus, how are you still standing?” Sunstreaker winces, “Is it really that bad?” Ironhide gawked at him as someone nearby was sobbing.

”That bad? Kid, your visor is shattered and you’ve got a graze that took out part of your finial.” The sobbing got louder, “Oh Blue, he’s alive! Calm down, for sparks sake.” Ironhide sighs slowly, staring, “Does it hurt?” Sunstreaker could only offer a shrug and the truth, “I don’t feel a thing, but I was designed that way.” Flatline made a strangled noise and Ironhide looked ready to either pass out or murder mankind, he wasn’t sure which at the moment, “Come on kid, sit down, let Flatline at least, at least cover it.” Nodding a bit, Sunstreaker slowly sits.

Flatline filled most of his visual feed in the next second, “I don’t have the parts to replace this,” “I don’t think you could if you wanted to. A lot of your stud won’t integrate with our systems.” Flatline looked to Ironhide, who could only nod, then Flatline swore and started to put god knows what across his suit's visor.

It went quiet for a bit after that, Ironhide disappearing out of Sunny’s field of view and Sunstreaker couldn’t move without being growled at. Intimidating indeed.

It was only once the shattered visor was mostly covered and Sunstreaker had adjusted his cameras did Ironhide reappear, with Bluestreak to his left looking horribly distraught. Sunny smiled and realized that Blue wouldn’t see it before sending him a ping, which opened far faster than would be humanly possible. He still offered a smile, but it didn’t seem to improve Blue’s mood.

Ironhide cleared his throat a bit, “Sunstreaker, I gave an order to Bluestreak here to fire on the Quintesson when he had a clear shot.” He pauses and looks at Blue then back at Sunny.

It honestly looked Sunny way too long to put two and two together, he paused before staring with a slightly slack jaw, “Wait, Blue shot me? In the face?” Bluestreak made a pained noise, “To be fair, he was shooting the tentacle that was trying to wrap itself around your face that you were ignoring. The second shot just hit your face since the first one severed the thing.” Nodding slowly, Sunstreaker goes to rub his face in thought and three mechs were quick to grab his arm.

”Don’t touch it! It’s only a cover till you can get it repaired.” Flatline was glaring now, so Sunstreaker slowly lowered his hands. Ironhide sighed deeply, “This could have been a lot worse, if we were using the weapons from the war.” Nodding for a moment, Sunny looked to Ironhide, “You’re not using the weapons from the war?” “Primus no, those things were designed to kill us. To go through cyber-mater. We only use the new stuff now.” He nods a bit, clearly worried but unwilling to show it.

Bluestreak’s hand lightly covered his mouth, “It’s… It’s only supposed to-to hurt organics.” His voice wavered and rose, but Ironhide’s hand came down, “See? It’s nothing personal, kid. We all get shot by an ally at some point, though it’s usually Mirage as the high caste bastard can turn himself invisible.” Bluestreak looked at Sunstreaker, clearly still distraught and horrified, but Sunny nodded a bit and moves over, taking his hand, “I’m not hurt, I swear.” Ironhide and Flatline shared a look.

With a deep sigh, Ironhide rests a hand on Sunstreaker’s shoulder, “I think it’s fair to say you're off punishment Civi, just, get some rest while we try to recover anything from camp. Try to recall Skyfire and the shuttle to get the pit out of here.” He nodded a bit before going off, barking orders again.

Sunstreaker stared after them, “That Quintesson comms station was at camp.” Bluestreak took his hand and held it tightly, “That doesn’t matter.” Looking at Blue, Sunny shakes his head lightly, “I’m not hurt Blue, it just busted up a camera or two.” But the pain on Bluestreak’s face wouldn’t be going away any time soon, “But you look hurt and I caused it.” Sunstreaker sighed, leaning his head against Bluestreak’s shoulder.

Even though they were in the tree line, the waves were still audible, “I’m human Blue, whether I was hurt or just my suit, we both know this is what I was made to do.” Bluestreak’s grip held tighter, “I hate that you pilots feel the need to live and die for this.” Sunstreaker smiled sadly, “What else would there be to live for? When your world would die if you didn’t at least try.” He sighed slowly, running diagnostics.

They sat there, silently, Bluestreak looking both at the suit and the human in the corner of his visual feed, unable to stop thinking about the fact that his gun was re-designed specifically to kill organics.

———

A/N

So I basically wrote this all tonight, cause I lost track of time and forgot it was Monday after posting an earlier chapter on Ao3. I was busy today anyways.

It’s not likely that I’ll have part 27 for you guys on Friday, just cause I have to write some personal statement for applications this week.

Also also, earlier when I mentioned it being action and fluff? Yeah, I have written up till Sunny was just starting the fight with the Quint, I did not anticipate the later part of this chapter.

Sunny’s visor for his suit has a small chunk taken out of it, right near where his right eye would be, and it had spider webbed the glass. It’s not a pretty picture, plus the tip of his finial thing had been sheered down. I promise if you look at @cosmique-oddity ‘s art for Arcturus you’ll know what I mean.

Uh, anyways. I hope you enjoy this late chapter. P. 25 didn’t do great last week so we’ll see?

Also I have no idea who Flatline is. I know he is a decepticon medic from IDW and I needed a medic that could be on Archa three with them.

TAGS!

@lunarlei68 @whirlywhirlygig @loop-hole-319 @pixillandjester @alek-the-witch @not-a-moose-in-disguise @goddessofwind8water @neurologicalglitch @dersereblogger @pixel-transformers @mrcrayonofdoom @wireplaces @twilightfreefaller @original-blog-name-2 @devilangel657 @robbin-u @childofprimus @miniartistme @starwold @tea-enthusiasm @valeexpris606 @celticdoggo @bird599 @agentsquirrelsgotrobots @aquaioart @dimencreasatlas @thatwandercat @artdagz @seisha974 @starscreamloverfr @halenhusky309 @leethepiper @cat-cassette @blue-wrens @sirassban @cosmique-oddity @garbageenthusiast @osqindaxend @xervias @azulabutterfly @fryseem @spring-mc @echo-circuit @aghostsnail @wooblewooble @ask-glory-haddock-and-others @nonsscarpheap @magichats @iminahole247 @omgflyingderpywhale @pour1tin @thetrexartist @naaaafam @elegantmantaray @emichusai @waterlilykitty @diabolichare

And once again thank you to @keferon for this amazing AU

#transformers #tf mecha universe #tf mecha au #mech pilot jazz au #mecha pilot jazz au #maccadam #the arcturus missions #sunstreaker #jazz #hound #sideswipe #breakdown #ironhide #mirage #bluestreak #flatline

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luciacaminoz · 3 months ago

Note

for the kiss prompt. trail or shoulder pretty, please, if you haven't gotten one of them yet

Cicatrix (2.2k, nsfw)

March 2021

Julian’s always tasted like tonguing a live wire.

The hacienda crouches like a gutshot animal, bones aching, in northern Nuevo León’s Great Plains.

Cracked adobe walls are bleached silver under the new moon, terracotta roof tiles shattered by cartel gunfire, the courtyard trashed and overgrown. A tiny outbuilding is in the process of caving in on itself, periodically huffs rust-colored stucco dust up into the blue night air. Two fountains dry-choke on bougainvillea and sun-baked snakeskin across the way; meters more from that, Elena finishes securing a tarp over the Camaro and Datsun, lit Marlboro dangling between her lips.

Inside the villa smells of moldering drapes, rat piss, bat shit, the cloying rot of marigolds left too long in a crypt, and Kindred barbecue.

There’d been a cell of SI keeping eyes on the US side of the Laredo borderplex, DAAE heavy all up and down on the Mexican—a dragonsbreath round had kissed the meat high on Julian’s left shoulder, shredding tacky guayabera into ashen lace, holy fire cooking flesh to sinew within seconds.

Vitae crusts the gape now, hours later, like molten obsidian. It’s a cratered mess of blackened tissue, bone shards, winking buckshot. Blood bubbles where blisters have peeled back at the edges, muscle fibers knitting and unknitting grotesquely in real time.

Faith’s a bitch when it’s seared into your spine.

Nadia’s voice crackles over the comm:

“Perimeter’s clear, for now. No drones. SI’s still chasing ghosts in Laredo.”

Julian strains to keep his voice steady.

“And the DAAE fuckers? They had to be waiting for someone with a line-up like that. Ping the Denver hub. Tell them we need satellite thermal of—“

“Already done,” she says. “I’m watching the feed. Elena’s going to rig motion sensors at the entrance too. Then—” A pause; mumbling in the background. “Oh. She said you owe her tacos.”

“Put it—fuck, Sol, gentle! Look, if we get to Monterrey in one piece I’ll buy you and Elena a fucking buffet every night we’re there, Nads—each. Just keep me posted if you see anything. Closing comms.”

Sol’s nails—precise, claw-sharp, but not yet fully distended—pluck another phosphorus fragment free. Smoke mixes with the scent of scorched-copper sweat. She works methodically, scraping holy rot from muscle, tendon, the jagged gap where his scapula should be. Julian’s knuckles bleach. Her left hand’s poised infinite with a pair of surgical tweezers, ready once the bulk of the larger debris is finally dislodged.

“Fuck,” Julian hisses. His face presses rigid against the moth-eaten chaise. He’s sweat-slick and shirtless and sickly, lying flat on his stomach, Sol sitting solid on his back. Her thighs bracket his sides, keeping him mostly still as she leans over the wound, penlight between her teeth, but he trembles like a kitten beneath her.

Looming behind are two portraits of a dead hacendado’s family, faces scratched out, one riddled with bullet holes. This room is mostly bare otherwise, apart from a termite-split side table, scattered shell casings, smashed liquor bottles, and the chaise.

A small effigy of Christ crucified, plucked from the chapel, leans crooked at the far wall, thorn rusted to scabs on his brow, plaster ribs cracked open. Chicken wire cradles a fat black kingsnake in His chest. Some fuck sprayed ¡Viva la Muerte! across the talavera wallpaper.

“One more,” she says. It’s mumbled around the plastic in her mouth. It’s also a lie—there’s at least three that she can see, cruel and glittering.

She pries out a dense shard of silver-coated fletchette engraved with Psalm 91; tosses it onto the floor with a plink. Julian’s fingers dig into the guts of the upholstery, tearing at rancid stuffing, fangs punching through his bottom lip to stay quiet.

His skin sizzles like bacon grease.

She winces.

“…Two more.”

“Oh my god, fuck you, Sol.” He’s half-laughing, half-crying, eyes rimmed red.

His muscles twitch and spasm wherever she touches—shock or hunger, probably both. Part of the shoulder continues to blister and knit, blister and knit, over and over, curse fighting consecration. The skin on his back’s fever-hot, thrumming with the effort of Blood-forced regeneration.

Her claws retract with a snickt. She flexes her fingers, then the tweezers, then removes the penlight.

“You’re lucky they couldn’t aim. A few more inches and this would’ve severed your neck. Shit. Can’t grow back a head—especially not one as big as yours.”

He mimics her voice, pitch-perfect:

“Oh Julian, who’ll fuck me through server racks now—”

She flicks his ear.

Next shard’s lodged deep in the posterior deltoid. Sol worms it loose with the tweezers, trying to ignore how his groans hitch. Her free hand braces his hip, thumb brushing the jut of bone.

“Almost.” She says it softer than she intended.

Another short tug and the shard pops free. Julian sags, panting and babbling.

“Fuck the SI,” he rasps. “Fuck their… fucking mall ninja… holy hand grenade bullshit—fuck, Sol, I’m not even Christian—”

“Shh.” She keeps drawing circles on his hip, soothing him a moment between torture.

The snake uncoils, sinuous, tongue flicking when she drops sanctified shrapnel to the saltillo tiles. Sol watches it, then Julian’s wound.

His back gleams moon-pale under the gore—taut, silk-smooth, untouched by time or sun. The rest of him is all soft, milky skin; lean frame, corded muscle, a slight dusting of babyfat that stayed into his mid-twenties. He’s perfectly unscarred, she knows, except for an old dog bite on his right thigh when he was a ten year old in ‘79.

Sol traces the wound’s ridged edges.

Julian turns his head, cheek pressed to grubby velvet.

“You’re shaking. Want me to hold the tweezers?”

She rolls her eyes.

“Cállate,” she snaps.

Julian grins, all teeth, clumsy fangs.

“Say that again.”

“Cállate la boca.”

He closes his eyes and faux-moans theatrically.

“Now say it dirty.”

She doesn’t. Instead, her mouth finds his cheek, his jaw, the strip of neck just under his ear, her nose brushing piercings—trailing featherlight kisses that make him still.

“Last one,” she murmurs.

The final fragment glints near his spine—jagged, thumb-sized. She braces one hand on his lower back.

"Do your worst."

"Bite down, princeso."

"On wha—”

She rips it out.

Julian's snarl shakes dust from the rafters, the chaise, Sol on top of him. His veins stand ropey—the tendons in his hands could cut fucking glass. Then he chokes a gasp, body falling limp, sweat beading at the corners of his jaw.

The kingsnake tenses where it’s begun curling around Christ's neck.

"Fuck. That one was deep.” His voice shakes.

Sol inspects her handiwork, chest flat against his back—up this close, the wound pulses heat like a second mouth. His insides aren��t actively cooking anymore, at least.

Her tongue flicks a swollen vein on impulse. Julian's hips jerk, a wet sound punching out of him.

Sol hesitates—then gouges into her tongue.

Her own vitae oozes syrupy thick onto the crater and she spreads it along, lapping around bitter, burnt edges.

“Sol—” Julian arches, spine bowing.

It isn’t healing, not really, but it clots the worst of what she’s torn out, sealing capillaries, cleaning tissue, puckering skin—a small stop-gap for Blood and Curse stitching meat and flesh stop-motion later, once Julian has properly fed.

Fuck, it tastes like ash and battery acid. Sol gags twice, but she’s spent a decade controlling the compulsion to purge. She spits a wad of black viscera onto the floor. Charred fibers squirm like maggots.

Again, her tongue drags vitae up the seared canyon of his shoulder, tender. Julian's good arm reaches back until he grips her thigh. His hips are grinding into the chaise, cock trapped against velvet, a low whine building in his chest.

"Solona��"

She continues wordlessly; her lips brush a half-healed tendon, but her hand slips beneath his weight, slides under his waistband, snakes between his legs. She palms him in time with her mouth mapping ruin.

Julian’s head drops forward. The noise he makes is obscene, rattling loose in his throat. She tightens her thighs around him.

The kingsnake watches, unblinking.

At the deepest fissure, Sol sucks—gently—until his own blood runs sleek; just vitae, just him; ozone-sharp, monsoon-rush; charged-manic-overclocked.

Julian’s always tasted like tonguing a live wire.

A whimper escapes him when she grasps tighter, strokes faster. His hips stutter, fucking up into her fist with a broken rhythm.

Sol’s mouth doesn’t leave his wound—she laps like something starved.

The kingsnake coils tighter around Christ’s throat, eyes reflecting the glow of the penlight where it’s rolled to the floor. Its tongue flicks, tasting the air.

“Fuck-fuck-fuck—Solona, please—” Julian’s voice cracks, high and desperate. His fingers dig into her thigh. “I can’t—I can’t fucking think—”

Aila’s gone, but the memory of tearing into her—the Elder’s vitae cold, clumped, thick as tar, bitter as bile; the hint of sumac and soaring—

Sol pulls herself back from drinking—barely.

Her fangs are suddenly uncomfortably large. She feels dazed; hand on autopilot as she unlatches and stares down at his shoulder. It’s still a fucking mess—spiderwebbing black—but the edges are angry, glistening, pink—no longer smoking and sloughing away.

Her thumb swipes over the head of his cock, smearing vitae-slick down the shaft. She presses her stained lips to the shell of his ear.

“All this big talk about collapsing the Masquerade, and you’re gonna come in your pants like a fucking teenager?”

Julian’s laugh is half-choked.

“Fuck—you’re evil—”

She twists her wrist, nails scraping lightly along his balls, and his hips slam into the chaise hard enough to splinter the frame.

She can feel his orgasm building—the way his cock jumps, the way his thighs tremble, the strangled whines he’s biting into rotten velvet.

The kingsnake—Chisme, Sol has idly named it—drops from the effigy with a soft thud.

“Sol, wait—wait—”

Her teeth close on his earlobe, sharp but not breaking skin. She sucks—hard.

Julian comes undone hot in her hand with a punched-out moan. She pumps him slow through it, thumb caressing his tip.

The hacienda breathes for them—rotted wood creaking, Chisme’s scales rasping over split saltillo.

When she finally releases him his hips jerk once, sensitive. Sol sits back and licks her fingers.

Julian lies boneless under her weight, face buried in the chaise.

She can’t help herself:

“You’re welcome.”

He huffs, stirring dust motes.

“Oh, for the half-dead hand job? Yeah, gracias mamacita.”

Sol actually laughs, bright and real and unguarded, as she shifts off of him.

Julian rolls onto his good side, sitting up with a wince, then drags a hand down his face. He’s grey-limned, pupils blown black and glassy with pain and hunger, but he’s smiling.

“Worst time and place to do it, too. Fucking… Splinter Cell level.”

“Someone needs to keep you humble these nights.” She holds a lukewarm O-neg against his lips. “Drink.”

He does, greedily, throat bobbing, wild eyes never leaving hers as she stands between his thighs. Her pinky brushes a thin trail of blood at his chin; Julian suppresses a shiver.

Once he drains it, she tosses it aside.

Chisme strikes towards the wrinkled plastic—and Sol immediately changes her mind.

“No,” she snaps, bolting to flick the snake’s snout. It recoils, hissing, and she bares her own fangs until it retreats.

Julian’s grinning while he watches her snatch up the empty bag and shove it back into the kit for decidedly later disposal. He chews his lip, fangs still sharp; looks like he’s about to say something… but then he shakes his head, black hair falling over his eyes.

His hair’s a disaster, by the way.

Sol pulls baby wipes, a change of clothes from the duffel—throws them at him. She takes the gauze and begins wrapping his shoulder in the meantime. Lupine country isn’t the place to heal agg.

His skin’s cooler now. She ignores the relief that brings.

“The safehouse is about an hour away—just inside Monterrey,” he says, more to fill the silence. “Small underground server farm we can run ops from for weeks. Cold storage. Even a jacuzzi.”

“You’re making that up.”

“Nope. Rented an apartment in the city for scouting, too.”

She snorts. Ties off the bandage.

“Monterrey’s got a night market. We could hit it after the bunker. Get churros. Sneak into a lucha libre match.”

“We’re not tourists, Julian.”

“We could pretend.”

Sol pauses.

He catches her wrist, thumb circling the scorpion tattoo.

Elena stomps in.

Julian doesn’t let go.

“Hey, we need—” Elena looks at Julian. “Jesus, put a shirt on, Zuckerberg.” Back to Sol. “We need to get moving—two DAAE SUVs headed this way, ETA forty minutes.”

“Shit. Give us five.”

“I’ll prep the cars. Again. Hurry, fuckers.”

Julian laughs a little, stirring Sol’s baby hairs.

She moves away to start gathering whatever she can find back into the kit—gauze, tweezers, penlight, the most intact piece of shrapnel in a ziploc bag. Julian’s already on the comms ordering Nadia to reroute signals. Sol grabs a baby wipe from his pack and scrubs her face.

Once they’re packed and Julian’s dressed, he shrugs on his go-bag, hissing when the strap bites his wound. Sol steps close, adjusting the weight slightly.

“Thanks,” he says softly. He presses their foreheads together. “And thank you. For… earlier. For being here.”

It hangs between them, frail and awkward. Julian never thanks. Not even after all the bullshit in Tucson. Julian asks: what do you want, kid?—transactional; gratitude deployed like a phishing scam.

She doesn’t respond.

She fists his new shirt, pulling him into a hug—too desperate, grasping. He stiffens, then arms circle her waist. He dips slightly, turns his face against her cheek; lips graze her scar, trailing it mouth to ear. Her nose brushes his ruined shoulder.

She kisses him there, once.

That already says too much.

[ previous prompts ]

#jez writing #vtm #vtm night road #throwing this to the wind now. ty jax <3 #julian sim #oc: soledad #x: exit wounds #st: new game+

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reality-detective · 6 months ago

Text

Are YOU on the DHS’s “Extremist” List?

The DHS has turned against the people. Critical thinkers like YOU are being labeled “extremists.” Surveillance hubs, tools like Albert Sensors, and entities like Fusion Centers are watching your every move. This is NOT about safety—it’s about CONTROL.

If you question authority, challenge mandates, or stand for your freedoms, YOU’RE ALREADY ON THEIR RADAR. And guess what? So am I. Proudly. But this isn’t just about us—it’s about dismantling a corrupt system before it’s too late.

Fusion Centers: The Orwellian Nightmare

They claim to “prevent terrorism,” but Fusion Centers have become surveillance hubs tracking YOU—the average American. These centers may even monitor real-time election data, controlling the very democracy they pretend to protect.

Albert Sensors & Cradlepoint Routers: Trojan Horses

These so-called “cybersecurity tools” funnel data straight to DHS databases. Worse, many Cradlepoint routers come from China, a nation infamous for surveillance. Why are these devices in our critical infrastructure? What backdoors exist? Who’s watching YOU?

CISA: The Silencer of Dissent

Under the guise of “cybersecurity,” CISA flags opinions, controls narratives, and labels truth-seekers as “disinformers.” This isn’t protection—it’s suppression.

DHS’s True Target: YOU

According to internal memos, DHS targets those questioning elections, mandates, and policies. By branding concerned citizens as threats, they spread fear to suppress dissent. But WE WILL NOT BE SILENCED.

The Solution: Revolution, Not Reform

The DHS is beyond repair. Here’s what must happen:

Abolish Fusion Centers, CISA, and CIS—their surveillance and overreach are cancerous.

Eliminate Albert Sensors and Cradlepoint routers—investigate their misuse and secure our systems.

Demand oversight—no program should exist without public scrutiny.

This isn’t reform—it’s a takedown.

America at a Tipping Point

Liberty cannot survive under constant surveillance. If you value freedom, if you dare to think for yourself, wear their labels as a badge of honor. But don’t stop there.

Speak out. Fight back. Take action. The DHS must be dismantled, and its power returned to the people. This is OUR country, not theirs.

The storm is here... Will you rise? 🤔

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fictionfanatic-wren · 1 month ago

Text

The robin games, part 1.

chapter 1/7.

“Who’s the best Robin? Me, obviously,” Dick declared with a grin, arms crossed over his chest. His Nightwing suit gleamed faintly under the Batcave lights. Jason snorted from where he leaned on a couch in the cave, polishing one of his guns. “You’ve been riding that ‘firstborn’ privilege for too long, Grayson.” “Yeah, well, the best Robin doesn’t turn into a walking midlife crisis in red leather, nor does he die by a crowbar,” Tim chimed in, earning a growl from Jason. “Silence,” Damian cut in smoothly. “You’re all delusional. I was bred to be superior. The best Robin is the current Robin. Obviously.” Batman had barely looked up from the Batcomputer. In fact, Bruce had endured this same argument every day for the past month. But today, he’d reached his limit. So, Batman did what any rational man with four hyper-competitive vigilante children would do: he weaponized their nonsense into a peacekeeping strategy. He turned in his chair, cape swishing dramatically behind him and like the diva he was, asked. “You want to know who the best Robin is?” All four stared at him. “Prove it,” Bruce said. “You get one challenge. Break into the Watchtower. Stay hidden. Longest undetected wins.” “Wins what?” Dick asked suspiciously. “Bragging rights,” Bruce answered. Then, after a beat: “And Alfred’s triple-chocolate cookies. The whole batch.” The room went silent. Jason immediately straightened. “I’m in.” “Me too,” said Tim. “Tt. Prepare to be humiliated,” Damian said, already reaching for his sword. Bruce tapped a few keys and turned back to the screen. “You’ll be given a 30 minute window to begin. All at once. Entry clearance for five minutes. After that, the Watchtower security system goes live.” “And you won’t help us?” Dick asked, raising an eyebrow. “Absolutely not,” Bruce replied. “I’ll act like i dont know you’re there, unless the other Leaguers have discovered you.”

And so the game was on. The rules? Winner is whoever stays hidden the longest. sabotaging others is allowed as long as you havent been found. you may mess with the league to your heart's desires. Bruce wont take action or even acknowledge them unless other leaguers do.

Dick POV. The zeta tube opened silently beside the Justice League’s Watchtower, and the robins dropped in, all running off in different directions. The massive space station hummed with quiet power, sensors and monitors blinking in blue and green. They’ve only gotten thirty minutes before the alarms would reactivate. Enough time, Dick thought with a smirk. First order of business: find a secure spot. With years of experience as Nightwing, and a history of infiltrating high-security facilities, Dick moved swiftly, scanning for blind spots in camera feeds and sensor fields. The Watchtower’s security protocols were sophisticated, designed to detect even a single unauthorized microchip, Tim made sure of that. But he wasn’t just any intruder. Batman’s override meant he had limited access and a short window to disable as much as he could before systems rebooted. In a quiet hallway near the Justice League’s common area, Dick found the security hub, a wall of consoles and displays constantly flickering with data streams. Using his wrist computer, he quickly interfaced with the terminal, fingers flying over the virtual keyboard. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with,” he muttered. The Watchtower’s AI security system was impressive, with multi-layered firewalls and encrypted protocols that even Batman respected. But Dick had his own tricks, an amalgam of hacking skills learned from Oracle and Tim. Within minutes, he was rerouting some camera feeds to loop previous footage and injecting false sensor data to mask his movement. “Should keep them guessing for a while,” he said with a grin. Next came the tricky part: setting up camp. The Watchtower wasn’t designed for stealth camping, but Dick was adaptable. He slipped into the ventilation ducts, finding a tight crawlspace above the main observation deck. It was cramped but perfect for hiding and monitoring the activity below. He set up his comms receiver on a low power mode, just enough to listen but not give away his position. Time to wait and watch the chaos unfold. He chuckled quietly. “Let the games begin.”

Jason POV.

Jason Todd’s lips curled into a crooked grin the moment he materialized through the zeta tube. The Watchtower was a fortress of order and high-tech sophistication, but Jason saw it as a playground ripe for chaos. Thirty minutes before the alarms kick back on. Plenty of time to make things interesting. He flexed his fingers, itching to leave his mark. Jason moved like a shadow, his footsteps silent on the sleek floors. The Justice League was out on a mission, leaving the Watchtower eerily empty. Perfect. First order of business? Set some minor traps. He darted to the kitchen, grinning as he eyed the pristine food prep area. With a flick of his wrist, he swapped the labels on some juice containers and scattered a handful of salt where the sugar normally sat. A couple of coffee mugs he rearranged, one just slightly off balance, ready to fall off the counter if nudged, and so much more. Nothing that would cause real damage, but definitely enough to raise eyebrows. Next, he snuck into the common area. He moved some of the furniture just a few inches, chairs slightly askew, cushions flipped upside down, and rigged a small trip wire with a piece of spare cable from the maintenance closet. Nothing lethal, just a mild surprise for whoever wandered through next. Jason smirked. A little chaos goes a long way. But Jason’s favorite bit was saved for last. Wonder Woman’s quarters. He approached the door, heart beating a little faster than usual, not from nerves, but from a strange mix of admiration and excitement. Diana was his favorite hero. Her strength, honor, and no-nonsense attitude always fascinated him. Careful to avoid the pressure sensors, Jason cracked the door open just a sliver and peeked inside. The room was exactly how he imagined, a blend of ancient warrior’s simplicity and modern sophistication. A polished spear rested against the wall, the iconic tiara and bracelets glinting under the soft light. The smell of sandalwood lingered faintly in the air. Jason lingered for a moment, taking it all in. Then, he slipped away without a trace. Now, to find a hiding spot. Jason scouted the upper decks and found a storage bay filled with old League gear and unused supplies. Dark, cluttered, and with multiple exit points, perfect for a quick escape or setting traps if needed. He ducked inside, settling in behind a stack of crates. “Let them come find me,” he whispered, already plotting how to mess with the league andd his brother.

Tim POV. Tim Drake slipped through the zeta tube with barely a sound, landing softly on the metallic floor of the Watchtower’s lower level. A compact bag hung over one shoulder, meticulously packed with everything he’d need: energy drinks, snacks, his trusty toolkit, and, of course, a sleek laptop. “Thirty minutes before security kicks back in. Should be plenty of time,” Tim thought, already running through his plan. Unlike his brothers, Tim wasn’t just relying on stealth or sabotage. He knew the Watchtower’s security system inside and out, after all, he had been the one who helped code many of its protocols. The system was a masterpiece of layered encryption, but no system was perfect. He made his way quickly but cautiously to the maintenance room, tucked deep in a rarely accessed corner of the station. The room was filled with cables, panels, and emergency controls, the perfect hidden spot and a strategic advantage point. As he settled in, Tim pulled out his laptop, fingers flying over the keyboard. Screens popped up as he accessed the Watchtower’s security matrix. “Let’s see... disable the motion sensors in my vicinity, loop camera feeds in adjacent corridors, and set a few false positives to keep them chasing ghosts,” he muttered, systematically dismantling the surveillance around him. The hacking felt like second nature. The familiar rhythms of code and commands were a comforting contrast to the chaos his brothers would be causing elsewhere. Snacking on a protein bar and sipping an energy drink, Tim settled in to monitor the system, ready to respond if anyone got close. “Precision and patience,” he reminded himself. “The best Robin doesn’t just fight, he outthinks.” And with that, Tim vanished into the digital shadows of the Watchtower.

Damian POV.

Damian Wayne didn’t waste time. The zeta tube shimmered around him for only a moment before he was moving, sleek, silent, and purposeful. Unlike his brothers, who probably wasted precious minutes indulging in petty games or nostalgia, Damian had a clear objective. Victory. He slipped into the shadows, immediately identifying the overhead vent grating near the hallway junction. It took him less than six seconds to reach it, unscrew the bolts with a compact tool, and vanish into the ductwork like a phantom. “Only fools camp on the ground,” he thought with disdain. The Watchtower’s ventilation system was extensive, a labyrinthine network that wove above and between every major area of the station. Most importantly, it was outside the range of most biometric sensors and offered clear vantage points for observation and, when needed, sabotage. As he crawled deeper into the vents, Damian passed over the common area and glimpsed a flicker of movement below. Probably Todd, doing something immature. No doubt he'd leave evidence. “Amateur,” Damian muttered, unimpressed. Deeper still, he found what he was looking for: a wide junction above the Watchtower’s central data core. The duct opened up into a cross-section of airways, allowing easy escape in any direction. He unfolded a compact mat, securing it with suction clips inside the metal walls, and arranged his gear in orderly fashion. Smoke pellets, flash bombs, sleeping darts, a wristpad to monitor security feeds, and, more importantly, a small, encrypted communicator linked to the Watchtower’s maintenance channels. He activated a localized white-noise emitter, just strong enough to confuse nearby audio sensors. With everything in place, Damian sat cross-legged in the duct and exhaled slowly. “Let them play their little games. I will simply outlast them all.”

#ao3 #batman #dc comics #justice league #dick grayson #jason todd #tim drake #damian wayne #diana prince #clark kent #arthur curry #oliver queen #hal jordan #barry allen #dinah lance #bruce wayne #fanfic #batfam #dc robin

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emptyroominthevoid · 2 months ago

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Hermit Aquarium AU 4

Skizz was Terrified. His first day on the job meeting his assignment and it had already tried to eat him! Not on his bucket list that was for sure. So much for a “Docile” Sea monster. He finally got away from the singing monster, ending up in a much larger room with a catwalk over a tank of water, a shorter man was looking over the edge and talking to something in the water.

Zed: C’mooooonnnnn It was an accident! I swear I didn’t mean to give you Tuna instead of Salmon, I just grabbed a bucket!!!

A very annoyed looking sea monster swims to the surface and makes a few high pitched trills. Skizz isn’t entirely sure he should be here, but as soon as he starts to back up the sea monster notices him.

Zed: What Is it Tango- Oh! We have a guest! Hello there!

The man skips over.

Skizz: S- Sorry for intruding, I’m new and-

Zed: And you got lost? No big deal! Everyone gets lost on their first day. I’m Zedaph and the fishy guy is Tango.

Skizz: Oh! Well, is he, um, nice?

Zed: Tango is very nice! As long as you don’t feed him the wrong type of fish. He gets really angry if you do that for some reason.

The sea monster, Tango apparently, makes a louder Trill, as if trying to Regain Zed’s attention. It fans out the fins around its ears, a brilliant scarlet fan around its frighteningly pale skin.

Zed: Sorry Tango! Didn't mean to talk like you weren’t in the room! C’mon Mr.new guy! Tango wants to talk!

Skizz anxiously follows Zed further out on the catwalk, Nearly having a heart attack when The Sea monster jumps out of the water and looks him up and down judgmentally. Zed eagerly sneaks up behind it and tackles it, causing the sea monster to let out a single sharp note before falling back into the water, Zed still clinging to its back.

Zed: Wooohoooooo!!!!!!!!

Skizz: Are you okay!?

Zed lets go of Tango, who very happily swims away, and surfaces, swimming over to the catwalk and pulling himself up onto it.

Zed: I’m fine, it’s just a little game we play.

Skizz: oh, okay..

Zed: anyways, you’re assigned to Impulse right?

Skizz: The one without an arm? Yeah.

Zed: Have you met him yet?

Skizz: well, I was walking by his tank and he tried to eat me so…

Zed: Impulse would never! I mean, Doc or Cleo yeah, but Impulse? Nononononono. Impulse is really docile unless- Ohhhhh I think I know what happened! Those little dangling things? Those are like sensors, and if something touches them.. Nom nom nom. Well, as far as my experiments have found out all they do is open his mouth and make him lunge a bit, he decides if he wants to eat the thing-

Skizz: what? That was a lot of info-

Zed: … He wasn’t trying to eat you!

Skizz: Oh, ok, much easier to understand.

Zed: Do you need directions to the hub?

Skizz: the what-now?

Zed: it’s a big pool that the Sea monsters can access from their tanks! It’s a communal area of sorts. The aquarium is closed today so most Sea monsters and on-duty workers should be hanging out there.

Skizz: yeah, instructions would be nice..

#hermitcraft #hermitblr #fanfic #hermitcraft au #hermitcraft fanfic #skizzleman #impulsesv #imp and skizz #zedaph #tangotek #hermitcraft aquarium au #aquarium au #aquarium #mermaid impulsesv #mermay #mermaid tangotek

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whatdoseitmeantobehuman · 3 months ago

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Lens of survival part 4 Trust in small steps

"This is our primary monitoring hub," Cypher explained, gesturing to a wall of screens that made your stomach clench. He must have noticed your reaction because he quickly added, "These only show the facility's entry points and perimeter. No personal quarters, no private spaces."

You forced yourself to step closer, studying the setup. It was sophisticated but transparent - each camera's location clearly marked, its purpose obvious. Nothing hidden, nothing secret.

"The feeds are accessible to all agents," he continued, pulling up a simple interface. "Even you, once you learn the system. No single person controls the information here."

That was different. Your Cypher had kept his surveillance network close, using it like a web with him as the spider at its center. This was more like... a shared shield.

"Show me," you said softly, and his head turned sharply toward you, surprised by your willingness.

For the next few hours, he walked you through everything - the motion sensors, the perimeter alerts, even the simple AI that helped monitor patterns. His teaching style was patient, methodical, so unlike the manipulative half-truths you were used to.

"And this," he said, pulling up a final screen, "is the panic button system. Every room has one, including yours. One press, and help comes running."

You touched the small interface. "Even if... even if it's a false alarm?"

"Especially then," he said firmly. "Better a hundred false alarms than one missed call for help."

A comfortable silence fell between you, broken only by the soft hum of equipment. It felt... safe. Not the suffocating safety of constant surveillance, but the security of understanding and control.

"Thank you," you said finally. "For showing me all this. For making it... different."

He nodded, and you caught a glimpse of his eyes through his mask - warm and concerned, not calculating.

After Cypher finished showing you the security systems, you spent days planning in secret. The facility's kitchen became your sanctuary during off-hours, a place where memories of control couldn't reach you. With Killjoy's help to access supplies, you prepared a feast that would bring everyone together.

You spent hours cooking dishes from around the world:

For Raze: Spicy Brazilian feijoada with extra malagueta peppers and warm pão de queijo

For Sova: Hearty pelmeni in dill-heavy sour cream sauce

For Sage: Delicate dim sum - har gow, siu mai, and lotus leaf sticky rice

For Killjoy: Traditional German rouladen with spätzle

For Phoenix: Jerk chicken with rice and peas, spiced like his mum's

For Viper: A precisely composed salad with grilled chicken and complex vinaigrette

For Brimstone: Classic meatloaf with bourbon glaze

For Omen: Dark chocolate tart with espresso cream

For Jett: Steaming kimchi jjigae with extra tofu

For Breach: Swedish meatballs with lingonberry sauce

For Chamber: Coq au vin with perfectly roasted potatoes

For Astra: Jollof rice with spiced chicken

For Skye: Vegetable pie with herbs from her garden

For KAY/O: A note expressing appreciation

For Yoru: Japanese curry with tonkatsu and umeboshi onigiri

For Cypher: Moroccan pastries and lamb tagine

For Reyna: Authentic Mexican mole poblano with fresh tortillas and Mexican rice (your world's Reyna had once told you it reminded her of family dinners in Mexico, before she lost everything)

For Gekko: Spicy Mexican street tacos with all the fixings (your world's Gekko had sworn by street food)

For Harbor: Butter chicken and fresh naan (his favorite comfort food)

For Iso: Chinese army stew with extra spam (a guilty pleasure he'd admitted to once)

For Fade: Traditional Turkish menemen and börek (foods that reminded her of Istanbul)

You asked Killjoy to help send a facility-wide message: "Dinner in the main hall at 7. Everyone. Please."

Your hands trembled slightly as you arranged everything on the long table. Each dish was labeled, steam rising from the hot foods, everything perfectly timed. You'd even set up different beverage stations - Turkish coffee, Japanese tea, fresh lemonade.

At 7 sharp, they started arriving. You stood nervously by the entrance, watching their faces.

"Holy shit," Gekko breathed, Wingman bobbing excitedly beside him. "Are those real street tacos?"

"Damn," Harbor's eyes widened at the spread. "This is... this is incredible."

Fade approached the Turkish dishes, her expression softening. "This smells like home."

"Everyone," you called out softly, and the room quieted. "I... I wanted to thank you all. For giving me a chance. For showing me what a real family could be." You gestured to the table. "In my world, I knew all of your counterparts. Some better than others. They taught me these recipes, shared their favorites... before everything changed. I hope... I hope you'll share this meal with me."

The reactions came in waves:

Raze whooped at the sight of the feijoada: "THIS SMELLS LIKE MY GRANDMOTHER'S KITCHEN!"

Iso picked up his army stew, eyebrows raised. "How did you know?"

"Lucky guess," you smiled, remembering how your world's Iso would sneak extra portions during late nights.

Gekko was already stuffing his face with tacos: "These are better than the ones in Mexico City!"

The room filled with chatter and movement as everyone found their dishes. Chamber appreciated the wine pairing you'd selected. Fade closed her eyes at the first bite of börek. Harbor couldn't stop praising the butter chicken's authenticity.

Even the more reserved agents showed their appreciation. Viper nodded approvingly at her salad's composition. Omen found a quiet corner but cleaned his plate completely.

Reyna's reaction was particularly striking. She stood over her plate, purple eyes gleaming with an unusual softness. "Mole poblano... mi madre's recipe?" she asked, her usually fierce demeanor gentling as she took in the complex aroma.

"As close as I could get it," you admitted. "The other you... she spent an entire night teaching me how to make it right. Said some recipes carry the souls of those we've lost."

Reyna's hand briefly touched the heart locket she always wore. "Hermana would have loved this," she whispered, so quietly you almost missed it. Then, louder, with her usual confident smile: "Your soul is strong, pequeña. You honor our traditions well."

Yoru tried to maintain his gruff exterior, but you caught him getting seconds of the curry. And thirds of the onigiri.

Cypher... Cypher sat nearby, occasionally glancing your way as he savored each pastry. You pretended not to notice how he'd specifically chosen a seat that let him watch over both you and the room.

You watched as Reyna and Gekko good-naturedly argued over whose Mexican dish was more authentic, while she simultaneously kept refilling everyone's plates with mole, insisting they needed to "put meat on their bones." It was a side of her you'd rarely seen in your world - nurturing, almost maternal.

The evening evolved into something magical. Barriers broke down as agents shared bites of their dishes with others. Stories flowed as freely as the drinks. Even KAY/O joined in, sharing his observations about human bonding rituals over food.

"In my world," you found yourself saying during a lull, "we lost moments like this. The war took away our ability to just... be together. To share meals and stories."

"Well," Skye said firmly, squeezing your shoulder, "you're not losing these moments here."

"Never," agreed Harbor, raising his glass. "To family - across all dimensions."

"To family," they echoed, and you felt tears prick your eyes as every agent - even the most stoic ones - joined the toast.

Later, as people were helping clean up (despite your protests), Cypher approached with an empty pastry plate.

"You made them with pistachios," he noted quietly.

"Your favorite," you replied, then caught yourself. "I mean, his favorite. Sorry, I shouldn't assume-"

"No," he interrupted gently. "They're my favorite too. Some things, it seems, are constant across dimensions."

You looked around at the warm scene - Raze and Gekko arguing playfully over the last taco, Harbor teaching Phoenix the proper way to eat naan, Fade and Omen sharing the last of the Turkish coffee, Yoru pretending he wasn't wrapping up extra onigiri for later.

"Maybe the best things are," you whispered.

For the first time since arriving in this world, you felt truly at home.

#fanfic #valorant fanfiction #valorant x reader #video game #x female reader #x reader fanfiction #valorant fanfic #cypher #cypher valorant #cypher x reader #cypher fanfic #lens of survival

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funnywizard3000 · 6 months ago

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Sleeper oc I concocted for playing in a citizen sleeper cbr+pnk trrpg :) adaptation :)

Loong yap abt them under the cut ↓

This is their backstory LOL I wish that I could condense things better and be more concise but I'm not a writer so bear with me

____

TLDR:

Sopping wet cardboard beast (emotionally). Sleeper hunting sleeper, escaped once, brought back, did hunting contract work under a predatory agreement with essen-arp after their OG body died in stasis, and has decided to run again. Very emotionally torn up about all of it but is dogshit at recognizing that. Stomach ache warrior.

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My idea for them originally came about when we were playing the cs2 demo and I thought that it would be so fucked (and narratively interesting) to have a sleeper that does essen-arp 'asset retrieval' (sleeper hunting) work, and they snowballed from there.

They don't have a name, and they find the subject to be quite a sore spot. They are pretty old for a sleeper, evidenced by the obvious alterations/deterioration/fixes that make up their body.

(assumptions warning: there's a lot that isn't outright stated about the sleeper program or essen-arp so I did act on the assumption that people put into stasis for sleeper-emulation are actually kept alive. But it's not like we ever hear anything about people who have come out on the other side of the program, not that they would willingly admit to that.)

They escaped the first assignment that they were put on as a sleeper, and made it off-world and nearly out of the system. During this first adjournment they were directionless, only aiming to run as far as they needed to. Eventually they took up contract tracking/hunting jobs to make ends meet (they were in a largely corporate-owned system. which severely limited what jobs were available). This is what got them caught.

After working enough mercenary contracts, they gained a reputation. And it's not like essen-arp could ignore a couple echos about a sleeper merc in a corporate railway town (idk what a good scifi term for this would be without sounding stupids. Freight vector system). And so they got caught, while on a job, out on the furthest moon on the most distant planet in the system (they remember the moon's name, Valence, but can't remember any of the other names) and were dragged back to the closest essen-arp hub.

But! Sometime between when they were sent to their original job to the end of their time away, the human that they were an emulation of died in suspension. Instead of immediately terminating them (which, is what the company would have likely done, if there were no outlying circumstances) they were given the choice:

Continue working for essen-arp, but as a hunting contractor, and receive the basics to support themself on successful completion of capture jobs

Forfeit their (second) life.

Obviously they went with the former, and essen-arp kept to their word. They had inadvertently demonstrated their hunting competency, and essen-arp felt that this was a good compromise (they didn't want this sleeper to blackmail them, keeping any word about a death in the sleeper program out of the media and off the airwaves. The company was unsure of the sleeper's connections that they made while away, and didn't want to risk the integrity of their scheme).

As long as they completed jobs in time, they would be in (precariously) good standings with the company, and would receive stabilizer. The threat of termination still loomed over them. They understood that essen-arp had no reason to keep them alive, so they perfected their skills - even installing an augment that allows them to track/locate electronic sources (sleepers and other tech) at the expense of becoming electronically unprotected, identifiable, or even a relay of information between their sensors and essen-arp's surveillance.

All of this weighs heavily on their conscience and emotional well-being, but they figure that throwing themself into their work is the best way to blot out any of that nasty existential regret. Up until the run, they had subconsciously hoped for some sort of allowance - something that would validate their repressed desires of freedom, and desires to stop perpetuating the control of essen-arp.

This accumulated and eventually they found themself at an emotional tipping point, the desire to run again weighing the same as their desire for routine and adherence.

At the current point in their story, they have just successfully completed a run with two others, a human thinking about entering the sleeper program to resolve debts, and a hopeful newly escaped sleeper.

They've decided to run again, but they'll need help. Their years of hunting experience will help them evade capture, but they don't know how to Live (frankly, the concept scares them)

Smile 😁

#SHOUTSSOUT TO THE GM IRLVENUS AND FELLOW PLAYERS STARSCWEAM AND OUJA 😚😚😚😚 hugs and kisses #citizen sleeper #oc #my

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emilianodelacruz · 1 month ago

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(Undisclosed Addres), Beverly Hills, CA 90210

From the outside, Emiliano’s $75 million Beverly Hills home looks like quiet money — all glass, stone, and precision. The kind of place designed by someone who doesn’t need to prove anything. But step inside, and the tone shifts. It’s not just luxury — it’s calculated. Like the house was designed as much for privacy as it was for comfort.

Emiliano actually loves his house. Not just for how it looks, but for what it gives him: privacy, control, and quiet. Perched in Beverly Hills, it’s sleek, modern, and full of sharp edges, but behind the glass and stone is a space that finally feels like his.

The house is fully wired — every room, every entry point. The only way in is by facial recognition and a unique passcode assigned to each person he allows. No surprises. No mistakes. That’s how he likes it.

Inside, the design is clean and cool: dark wood floors, custom lighting, walls that hide speakers, cameras, and motion sensors. He built it to be high-tech and low effort. Lights, music, temperature all controlled from his phone or a quiet command. His dog, Backup, usually follows him from room to room, the only living thing outside of his best friends, he fully lets in his space.

There’s a hidden shooting range downstairs, a full gym, and a basketball court out back. It’s all practical to him; part of the routine, part of staying sharp. His office doubles as a surveillance hub, where he can see almost every angle of the property with a glance, and the perfect place to go Live on Tiktok.

In the garage sits his collection of cars, mostly McLaren's, but a few unique collection cars that were in his favorite movies. Although his most prized car and possession, which he uses almost daily, may be the 1966 red cherry Ford Mustang that once belonged to his father, driven from Mexico to California by Emiliano himself when he was of age.

His bedroom is his favorite space, minimalist but lived-in. The blackout shades open automatically in the morning unless he tells them not to. There’s a shelf lined with memories he’d never admit mean something: old photos, a knife from his uncle, a few things from Sinaloa he never got rid of.

It’s quiet, controlled, and built exactly the way he needs it. A place where Emiliano is the most himself.

#bloodnglory.task #bloodnglory.task002 #( muse ) inspo

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tinydefector · 1 year ago

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God I’d love tailgate and his human in any context for any reason I lovevhim

Tailgate x human

This is a much shorter and sweet little fic so I hope you enjoy it.

Warnings: none

Word count 700

Tailgate masterlist

___________

A collection of giggles and laughter fall from his human ‘s lips as they pepper his faceplate with kisses, the two of them rolling around the floor of the hub, play fighting to see who could get the most kisses in. Tailgate playfully tries to squirm away from their loving assault, attempting to plant his own kisses on their cheek, their nose, and anywhere else he can reach. Each stolen kiss is met with laughter and squeals, their connection growing stronger with each playful touch.

Tailgate's optics sparkle with delight, his circuits humming with happiness. At this moment, nothing else matters. As they finally pause, breathless and grinning, Tailgate gazes into their eyes, a mix of adoration and gratitude shining in his optics.

"I love you," he says, his voice filled with a mixture of awe and affection. He wraps his arms around them, pulling them close in a tight embrace. He presses a gentle kiss against their forehead, his voice filled with an earnest sincerity. "I love you more than I can put into words."

They chuckle softly leaning over him as they press a soft kiss to his helm. " I love you too my handsome mech" they whisper just above his lips. They lean down and lick the side of his face before taking off running, more laughter falling from their lips.

Tailgate's optics widened in surprise, being caught off guard. A contagious laughter bubbles up within Tailgate, his spark swelling with a mix of delight and anticipation. With a mischievous glint in his optics, he quickly springs into action, following them in pursuit.

“Get back here!” he shouts out.

With a burst of speed, Tailgate catches them, wrapping his arms around their waist, his own laughter mingling with theirs. He playfully nuzzles against their cheek, his voice filled with mock indignation. "You can't escape that easily!" he exclaims, "You're not getting away with licking my face without consequence!" Squeals of laughter leave them as Tailgate runs his digits along their ribs tickling them as they squirm and cry out. "Tailgate!" They shout, his optics sparkle mischievously as their squeals of laughter fill the air.

With a playful grin, he tickled them mercilessly. Their squirms and cries for him to stop only fuel his determination, as payback for their earlier antics. He doesn't yield, his fingers dancing along their sides, seeking out their most ticklish spots of their much softer and squishier form.

Laughter, gasp and squeals spill from their lips, along with their pleas for mercy. movements become more desperate, in an attempt to escape his assault, clinging to him for support. Tailgate can't help but chuckle, eventually, he relents, eases up on the tickling, allowing them a moment to catch their breath. He pulls them into a gentle embrace, his optics filled with worry for a moment as they gasp out for air.

"Okay, okay, breath, breath" he says softly while cupping their face and rubbing his thumb against their cheek, his voice filled with amusement. "I think I've had my revenge. You're safe... for now." They lean into his shoulder plating, their breath slightly laboured as they press their face into the wiring of his neck.

They both just lay together on the floor,Tailgate's frame is relaxed, his energon pulsing with contentment. Neither willing to move, it's peaceful, a sort of that neither of them had experienced in a long time. The hub is filled with a serene stillness. Their fingers intertwine playful tapping against knuckles and wired joints.

"Mmm we should probably go and get food soon" Tailgate's optics flicker with amusement as they mumble against his side, their words tickling his audial sensors. He shifts slightly, allowing them to rest their chin on the highest part of his chassis, their gaze meeting his own.

" "Food and energon sounds like a good idea. And then recharge, it's been a long cycle."

He gently brushes his digits against their cheek, his touch tender and full of adoration. As they Lean into his touch. With a final squeeze of their hand, Tailgate slowly sits up, pulling them with his bulk. “ come on sweetspark we can cuddle some more soon once we have both fueled up, ill even grab your favourite movies ”

______________

Let me know if you would like to be added to tag list (tagged for every fic)

Taglist

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@saturnhas82moons

@kgonbeiden

@murkyponds

@autobot79

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@chaihena

#transformers #transformers idw #transformers x reader #transformers x human #transformers lost light #mtmte #mtmte transformers #tf mtmte #transformers mtmte #idw mtmte #idw transformers #tf idw #idw tailgate #tailgate transformers #mtmte tailgate #tailgate #tailgate x reader #tailgate x human

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theink-stainedfolk · 2 months ago

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New WIP!!!

The Etchery

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In a world stitched together from broken stories, where reality bends under unseen laws and every choice rewrites the script, Jurin Mikha is an anomaly—a name missing from the Etched Record, a living manuscript that binds existence. A cunning survivor with a shadowed past, Jurin moves through the fractured realms of The Etchery like a ghost, his smoky grey coat hiding knives and secrets. He doesn’t seek heroism, only survival, but his presence unravels the rules others live by, making him both a savior and a threat.

Eser Pawel, a blade-sharp warrior bound by a bloodied code, hunts Jurin with a vengeance born of betrayal. His crimson-clad figure and ouroboros insignia mark him as a force of order in a chaotic world, but his hatred for Jurin masks a deeper wound—one that bleeds into every clash. When their paths collide in the ruins of a forgotten transit hub, a single moment of mercy sparks a dangerous connection neither can escape.

Joined by a makeshift family of rebels and outcasts—each haunted by their own fragmented fates—Jurin and Eser are drawn into a web of looping narratives, glitching skies, and echoes that whisper of sacrifice and survival. As they navigate realms that shift like pages in a burning book, they must confront a truth more perilous than death: in a world where everyone is written, what does it mean to be real?

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Jurin Mikha

Age: 24

Birthday: November 8

Zodiac Sign: Scorpio

Ethnicity: Unknown, likely from the Folded Layer (a shard of collapsed realities); presents with mixed desert and coastal features

Height: 5'8" (174 cm)

Build: Lean and wiry, built for agility and endurance, with a deceptive fragility that hides his resilience

Eyes: Obsidian with glass-like flecks, sharp and unreadable, like staring into a night sky with hidden cracks

Hair: Black, slightly shaggy, falling into his eyes unless pushed back; often tied loosely or tucked under his coat’s hood

Skin Tone: Warm olive with a faint golden undertone, marked by faint scars

Dominant Hand: Left

Style: Tactical and elusive; smoky grey and deep blue-black palette with iridescent hints. Wears a long, high-collared, asymmetrical black coat with slits for mobility, its midnight-blue lining stitched with subtle, shifting constellations. Fitted, sleeveless turtleneck of unknown tech that ripples faintly. Slim dark trousers with silver-embroidered seams like veins. Soft-soled black boots with misbuckled straps to trip sensors. Accessories include a silver chain earring dangling into his collar and a data-drive ring on his thumb (not of this world).

Moodboard: A cracked desert under a glitching sky, scattered pages burning at the edges, a dagger half-buried in sand, a flickering train station sign, a shadow slipping through ruins, midnight-blue fabric catching starlight, a worn map folded too many times, blood on a white scarf.

Appearance:

Jurin moves like a question mark, always on the edge of vanishing. His delicate features—high cheekbones, thick lashes, and a small beauty mark beneath his right eye (almost tear-like), another below his left lip, and one peeking from his left collarbone—give him a haunting beauty, especially when he smiles with blood in his mouth. A faded burn scar under his ribs hints at a past he never explains. His coat’s loose silhouette hides knives, coded maps, and escape plans, earning the whisper: “The coat moved first.”

Past:

Jurin woke in The Etchery with no memory of how he arrived, only a dislocated shoulder and a page sewn into his coat reading, “Everything is reversible. But not you.” The world rejected him—cities ignored him, magic fizzled near him, clocks slowed in his presence. At 16, he joined The Dagger Chain, an underground network of spies and criminals, earning the title “ghost courier” for his ability to cross war-torn borders unseen. He survived a fall from a collapsing bridge and a poisoned scroll, smiling before blacking out both times, as if expecting death. His bond with Han Hian, forged when Hian bandaged his thigh after a river escape, became his only anchor. Jurin doesn’t fight for justice, only to keep moving toward a place he believes he’ll recognize when he finds it.

Personality & Traits:

✔ Cunning strategist, always five steps ahead but gambling on half-truths

✔ Self-sacrificing to a fault, carrying guilt like a second skin

✔ Emotionally reserved, deflecting with dry humor or silence

✔ Loyal in quiet, unspoken ways—leaves food out, fixes broken things

✔ Observant, noticing details others miss (e.g., Eser’s glove fidgets)

✔ Resilient, surviving what should kill him with a stubborn refusal to stop

✔ Haunted by a sense he doesn’t belong, yet fights to exist

Hobbies:

Sketching maps from memory, often burning them afterward

Collecting small, broken objects (gears, glass shards) to piece together

Listening to ambient sounds (rain, static, distant trains) to calm his mind

Writing coded notes in margins of scavenged books

Quirks:

Twirls his data-drive ring when nervous, never explaining its origin

Always ducks when his skin feels cold, a reflex that’s saved his life

Smiles faintly before danger, unsettling even his closest allies

Adjusts his coat cuffs like preparing for a ritual, even in chaos

Likes & Dislikes:

✅ Likes:

The sound of rain masking his footsteps

Old, worn maps with secrets in the creasesPeople who don’t ask about his scars

The weight of a trusted dagger in his handHan’s terrible jokes, though he’ll never admit it

The fleeting quiet of a realm before it shifts

❌ Dislikes:

Being thanked for saving someone—it feels like a debt

Loud voices in quiet spaces, breaking his focus

Ceremonies or formalities that feel performative

Waking up in unfamiliar places, disoriented

Betrayal disguised as kindness, cutting deeper than knives

The sound of ticking clocks, too much like a countdown

Favorite Food:

Flatbread with honey, simple and grounding

Spiced lentil stew, reminding him of border camps

Dried mango slices, a rare treat he savors slowly

A Line That Defines Him:

“I’m not here to save the world. I’m here to outrun it.”

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Eser Pawel

Age: 21

Birthday: April 17

Zodiac Sign: Aries

Ethnicity: Born to the Stellar Houses (Western aristocracy), raised in war-torn borderlands

Height: 6'0" (182 cm)

Build: Broad-shouldered and athletic, with a soldier’s disciplined strength

Eyes: Ice-blue, piercing and older than his years, like a storm held back

Hair: Pale golden, cropped short

Skin Tone: Fair with a slight tan, marked by faint training scars

Dominant Hand: Right

Style: Militaristic and elegant; warm dark bronze, blood-red, and matte black palette with white accents. Wears an armor-jacket hybrid—long, fitted, high-shouldered, with fang-like clasps across the chest. Crimson shirt buttoned to the neck, often bloodstained without notice. Matte black combat trousers, weathered at the knees, with steel-fastened weapon holsters. Thick, near-armored boots with dark red soles that leave eerie prints. Optional bronze-to-scarlet cape, torn from battles. Black gloves always on, snapped tight when irritated. His ouroboros sword insignia on his left shoulder is a death sentence to those who recognize it.

Moodboard: A blood-red sky over a battlefield, a polished sword half-drawn, a torn cape caught in the wind, a glinting ouroboros etched in stone, a clenched fist in a black glove, a lone figure standing in a burning city, a cracked mirror reflecting nothing, a single candle flickering in a war room.

Appearance:

Eser carries himself like a weapon honed to perfection—tall, sharp-jawed, with high cheekbones and a gaze that cuts through lies. His ice-blue eyes seem to see too much, and his clean-shaven face contrasts the weight of his presence. The ouroboros insignia on his shoulder—a serpent eating its own blade—marks him as a killer, yet his crimson shirt and bronze cape suggest a man who’s seen too many endings. His gloves hide calloused hands that fidget when he’s anxious, a rare crack in his composed facade.

Past:

Born into the Stellar Houses, a faction obsessed with maintaining The Etchery’s order through purging chaos, Eser was raised in war. His mother, a healer, whispered that war made monsters, but his father taught him to kill at 12, when he ended an intruder’s life. At 18, he led a rebel band for borderless survival, only to be betrayed by a man in a white scarf, leaving everyone but Eser dead. He blames himself, carrying the guilt like a blade he can’t sheathe. When he saw Jurin wearing that same scarf, he attacked without question, driven by a personal vendetta, not orders. Eser rejects law, religion, and crowns, believing only in cause-and-effect: “You wrong me, I erase you.”

Personality & Traits:

✔ Disciplined but simmering with controlled rage

✔ Deeply principled, though his principles are fracturing

✔ Protective to a fault, especially of Jurin, despite his hatred

✔ Emotionally stunted, learning to love through conflict

✔ Observant of small details, like Jurin’s flinches or smiles

✔ Stubborn, refusing to let go once he commits

✔ Haunted by guilt, praying quietly each night despite his doubts

Hobbies:

Sharpening his weapons, a meditative ritual

Studying maps of realms, searching for patterns

Writing short, coded notes to himself about Jurin

Staring at the sky, as if it holds answers

Quirks:

Snaps his gloves tight when irritated or anxious

Never removes his gloves, even when alone

Stands by doors, always watching for threats

Mutters prayers under his breath, even in disbelief

Likes & Dislikes:

✅ Likes:

The weight of a sword in his hand, grounding him

Quiet moments before a fight, when everything’s clear

Jurin’s rare, unguarded smiles, though he denies it

The smell of rain, clean and fleeting

People who keep their word, no matter the cost

The sound of a fire crackling in silence

❌ Dislikes:

Betrayal, especially when it’s personal

Jurin’s self-sacrificing tendencies, which terrify him

Empty promises or flattery

Being forced to wait, feeling helpless

The sound of laughter when it feels mockingHis own hesitation, a crack in his resolve

Favorite Food:

Roasted root vegetables with herbs, simple and hearty

Cheese-stuffed pastries, a rare indulgence

Bitter black coffee, keeping him sharp

A Line That Defines Him:

“You can’t outrun me forever, but I’ll chase you until you try.”

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