#lights and circular walkway

[yusuke-of-valla]

"I couldn’t even name a city from Scarlet & Violet, they were that bland and generic."

One day. There will be mainstream Pokemon criticism that doesn't suck. Like what does this mean and what counts as "not generic"? Why are the identifying features of cities in Scarlet and Violet not as good as the old ones?

The author doesn't have to say you just publish 700 words bemoaning Pokemon wasn't as good as it was with no concrete details or actual points to support your argument and you're fine!

[nizhspo]

saltwater secrets

chapter thirteen: the big blue

genre: haikyuu fic, slow burn

pairing: tooru oikawa x reader

links: m.list, next

you walk.

barefoot, warm, giggling at nothing.

you pick a flower from someone’s front yard and spin it between your fingers like it’s a secret. it smells like nothing. it feels like everything.

the streets are still pulsing with the energy of what just happened, sirens somewhere in the distance, blue lights still bouncing faintly off houses as you wind farther into the quiet.

“i can’t believe we ran,” you say, a little breathless.

oikawa huffs out a laugh. “you would’ve gotten caught if you stayed.”

you groan, still breathless. “my parents would’ve killed me.”

then you pause. straighten slightly.

“wait. my parents. oh my god.”

you look at him, eyes wide. “bokuto has my phone.”

he raises a brow.

“he probably thinks I got arrested. or drowned. or—oh my god, he’s so gonna tell my parents.”

oikawa blinks. “can’t you just… text him?”

you stare at him like he’s stupid.

“i don’t have my phone.”

“oh.” he shrugs, already pulling his from his pocket, flipping open the screen. “i’ll just text him then.”

you blink. “you have bokuto’s number?”

“yeah. we played together at some middle school county thing once. i think he gave it to me because we were arguing about who had the better serve.”

you gape at him. “you kept it?”

he’s already typing.

“he’s annoying,” oikawa says, “but effective.”

you watch the little green glow from his screen flash across his face.

“what are you even gonna say?” you ask warily.

he smirks. “that you’re alive. and you’re with me. and he can calm the hell down.”

“oh god.”

“you’re welcome.”

you shove him, but continue your trek through side-yards and side-walk. you laugh alot. loud. he shushes you, but it’s not serious.

it’s warm. the kind of soft, still spring heat that clings to your skin and makes your cheeks feel flushed. you’re still tipsy. drunk enough to be happy, but not so drunk you don’t notice when the houses start getting… big.

like, big big.

driveways the width of basketball courts. three-car garages. backyard pools glinting blue even in the dark. you pass one with fountains. another with a second-floor balcony the size of your room.

you blink up at one house, jaw dropping. “what the hell.”

oikawa says nothing.

you keep walking.

he turns down a side gate, nudging it open quietly with one hand. the fence is whitewashed, the hinges don’t squeak, and the stone pathway behind it leads to a backyard that doesn’t feel real.

you pause at the entrance. “isn’t this—wait, are we trespassing?”

he doesn’t look back. “this is my house.”

your feet stop moving. “wait. this is your house?”

he glances over his shoulder. “keep your voice down.”

“but—like—this is your house?” you hiss, voice low but borderline panicked as your eyes dart around the yard. you gesture wildly: at the front steps, the massive archway, the stone walkway like a damn runway. “you mean this house? with the giant windows and the million-dollar landscaping and the backyard that looks like a fucking resort?”

he just smirks, “yeah. that one.”

you stand there, blinking at the fairy lights strung across the backyard, the pool shimmering under them, the perfectly trimmed hedges and expensive-looking patio chairs, the way everything looks like it was pulled straight out of a catalogue.

“when you said you had a place,” you mumble, “i didn’t think you meant your house.”

“well,” he says, slipping his shirt over his head, “surprise.”

he tosses it onto one of the lounge chairs. walks over to the pool. dips a toe. then steps in slowly, until he’s shoulder-deep.

the water makes his skin glow.

you stay planted on the deck, arms crossed.

“you getting in?” he calls.

“nope.”

“then what’s the bikini for?”

“decoration.”

he laughs. soft, boyish. not mocking.

just amused.

you spot one of those giant circular chairs in the corner of the patio, the kind with the canopy overhead, big and cushioned like a fancy half-shell. you crawl into it without asking. curl up in the corner like it belongs to you.

he watches you for a second, head tilted.

then—he doesn’t get out. just turns, dips under the water again. starts doing lazy laps, smooth strokes through the glowing blue, pushing off each side like he’s forgotten you’re there.

but you don’t forget he’s there.

you let your eyes follow him, barely. lids heavy. arms tucked beneath your head.

you’re not really awake, not really asleep, just hovering in that warm, blurry space in between.

the water glows around him. his hair is slicked back, body clean lines and soft flexes, and you hate how beautiful he looks.

then, eventually, he glides to the edge and climbs out, slowly, water trailing down his skin in thin rivulets, catching at the curve of his shoulders.

you don’t mean to look, but— okay, maybe you do.

he disappears into a small side shed and returns with a towel. rubs it over his hair, shrugs it across his shoulders, then says, “be right back,” and heads inside.

you don’t move. you’re too warm. too sleepy. too far gone. you let yourself sink into the cushions, your eyes half-lidded as the crickets lull you to sleep.

he comes back with a blanket, a water bottle, and a bowl of cereal.

you groan. “you’re invading my space.”

“i brought offerings.”

“…fine.”

you shift slightly. he slips in beside you.

you’re still curled in a corner, and now he’s in your corner too.

the blanket ends up around both your shoulders. the cereal crunches softly in his mouth. the water sits untouched on the small table beside you.

everything smells like chlorine and clean laundry. you’re not talking. not touching.

just breathing.

drunk and safe and slightly tangled in the stillness.

your eyes are almost closed.

the night’s so quiet now. just the slow lap of pool water, the rustle of trees, the distant whir of a filter kicking on. oikawa’s beside you, legs outstretched, arms loose, breath even. the blanket is warm. your body’s still buzzing, but the edges are starting to dull.

you let your eyes shut fully.

drift.

breathe.

and then— the sliding door opens.

your heart jumps, but you don’t move. you keep your eyes closed. breathing steady. too tired to sit up. too vulnerable to look.

then, “tooru,” a girl’s voice says. young. loud. annoyed. “isn’t this, like, the second girl this month?”

your stomach knots. your breath catches in your throat. you don’t move.

“seriously,” she goes on, “didn’t mom tell you to stop, like, hooking up in the house? i swear to god, i’m telling her.”

you hear oikawa shift beside you. not fast. but sharp. tight.

his voice is low. tight. “she’s a friend.”

“mhm.”

“we’re not doing anything. she’s sleeping.”

“whatever,” his sister mutters. “you’re gross.”

the door slides shut, and the sound echoes louder than it should.

oikawa doesn’t say anything. you don’t either. you pretend to keep sleeping. you stay curled up beside him, still trying to un-hear what you just heard.

but it’s too late. you heard everything.

and even though you don’t move, you feel it right in the center of your chest.

[bellaxgiornata]

Break the Tension [Chapter One "The Arrival"]

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader Word Count: 3.6k

Summary: When Marci first asked you to be the Maid of Honor at her and Foggy’s wedding, you'd already been forewarned that your old college rival from Columbia, Matthew Murdock, would be Foggy’s Best Man. And while you'd expected a long weekend filled with tension between the pair of you, you hadn't anticipated all of the sexual tension–or the sex.

Warnings/tags: 18+; Enemies to lovers, sexual tension, smut, semi-public sex, light angst

a/n: This is a short series (planned for seven parts) and I just really needed to get the idea out of my head. This is definitely not my usual Matt x Reader dynamic nor the usual cocky Matt in an enemies to lovers fic; you'll see why even more in chapter two. Let's just say Matt needs the smug wiped off his face and I wanted to see him desperate. Feedback is always appreciated! The chapter list can be found here!

Tag list: @mattkinsella @danzer8705

The taxi driver hefted your suitcase out of the trunk of his car, setting it onto the circular gravel driveway beside you with an audible huff of exertion. You watched as he wiped a hand across his forehead, one hand still holding the hanger of your dress high above your head so the white garment bag wouldn't drag along the ground. 

“Thank you,” you said, arm already growing tired from holding up your dress.

The man closed the trunk of the taxi, turning around and sending you a friendly smile. “Of course, miss,” he replied. “I hope you have a lovely weekend. Certainly looks like a nice place you’re staying at.”

You laughed lightly in return, wishing the man a good day before he turned and headed back to the driver’s side of the car. Lifting up the handle of your suitcase that you'd brought for the weekend, you turned and focused on the grand building before you. It was easily two levels tall with trails of ivy growing along most of the stone exterior between the numerous large windows. The manor itself was impressive with two wings branching off either side of the main building. The front driveway you were currently standing on led up to a walkway that wound between an impressive garden of hedges and flowers. In the center was a large fountain, and the peaceful sound of the water spewing forth met your ears once the taxi had finally driven off behind you.

The venue was massive, boasting quite an expansive plot of acreage that it was nestled inside–or so Marci had told you during all the wedding planning. A long, winding road encompassed by trees on either side had led up to Fairfield Manor, and not too far behind the manor you'd spotted what looked like a forest when the taxi had pulled up. You were positive if you consumed too much alcohol this weekend and wandered outside past sunset, you'd surely end up lost.

As much as Marci had shown you photos of the place, gushing over it repeatedly to you about how perfect it was for her and Foggy’s wedding, the photos certainly hadn’t done it justice. 

Beginning to make your way up to the entrance of the manor, you walked towards the winding path which led through the stunning garden out front, carrying your dress and toting your luggage behind you. Seeing the place in person had left you wondering how Foggy and Marci had afforded this venue for an entire three days. You figured Foggy’s firm must’ve been doing well because Marci’s salary alone couldn't possibly have paid for everything. Though with how extravagant it was, it most certainly screamed Marci.

This weekend the entire bridal party, along with Marci and Foggy’s immediate family, were staying here for the duration of the wedding festivities. Tonight you were practicing the rehearsal for the wedding ceremony here at the venue before heading to a nearby restaurant for the rehearsal dinner. Tomorrow was the big wedding day itself, which meant an early morning start for hair and makeup during breakfast, followed by an incredibly long day and probably a drunken evening. Then on Sunday Marci had scheduled a late morning brunch before everyone departed the manor, allowing a bit more time to visit before the newlyweds left for their honeymoon.

Coming to a stop before the large, ornate wooden door that seemed to tower over you, you released the handle of your luggage long enough to push it open. Immediately you were met with the sound of voices and loud, boisterous laughter coming from a hall to your right as the door swung wide into the foyer. Though as you began to pull your suitcase into the building, still juggling your garment bag in your other hand, your ears picked up on the sound of a familiar voice. One you hadn't heard in a long time.

One that instantly set you on edge.

It was annoying that he was here. Of course you'd expected it–Marci had warned you ahead of time–but actually seeing him again this weekend was going to be another story. 

Matthew Murdock. The cocky fuck boy of Columbia who thought he was smarter than you, always going out of his way to show you up and point out your every mistake because one time you had embarrassed him by correcting him in class. He was an asshole, always so irritatingly ethical for a man who slept around without a care for anyone's feelings. Though of course he'd never flirted with you , always choosing to argue with you instead. And when graduation day had come, he'd certainly rubbed it in your face that he'd been top of the class. 

Though what he hadn't known was that you'd spent most of your time busting your ass working at a coffee shop just to try to pay what the scholarships wouldn't cover of your tuition while your mother was struggling with a cancer diagnosis. Thankfully she'd gone into remission not long after you'd graduated, but still, Matthew Murdock had made college miserable for you on top of everything you’d had going on. And you'd despised him for it.

So you certainly weren't excited to see him this weekend.

Setting your luggage down and turning back around to close the heavy door after yourself, you forced yourself to take a deep breath and remain calm. You were here for Marci, after all. This weekend was a big moment for her and you were excited and grateful to be a part of everything. She was one of your best friends. And truthfully you'd never had issues with Franklin Nelson. He had at least always been cordial and friendly to you. 

So you weren’t going to think about him .

The moment you’d shut the door with a solid thud , you heard your name being excitedly called from behind you. Spinning around with a smile already plastered across your face, you spotted Marci with outstretched arms racing towards you across the foyer. Her short, flowy white dress fluttered around her legs as she nearly jumped on you, pulling you into a tight embrace.

“You’re finally here!” she exclaimed. “I was wondering when you’d show up!”

"Sorry, I got caught up at work," you told her, squeezing her just as tightly back the best you could with your dress still in hand. "Had some details to finalize before I was gone for the weekend and you know how Sheridan gets."

Marci pulled away from you, rolling her eyes at the mention of your boss. 

"I do, in fact," she answered. "But you're here now so let's not talk about work! Come on, let's get your things to your room. It's almost time for the rehearsal."

Grabbing your luggage handle you followed Marci down the hallway, wheeling your bag behind you in one hand and now no longer as concerned about the garment bag dragging along the floor in your other, your arm tired from holding it above your head for so long already. As the pair of you walked, you could see a group of others that you assumed were the bridal party already congregating about midway down the hall, drinks in their hands and dress clothes on. The sight was a reminder that you’d still have to change quickly before the events of the evening because you hadn’t wanted to stay in the dress slacks and blouse you had worn to work earlier for the duration of the evening. 

"I take it I'm the last one to arrive then?" you asked Marci.

The sound of both of your heels clicking along the marble floor echoed around the elaborate hallway as the pair of you walked. Your eyes scanned each painting lining the walls that you passed, noticing each one was a beautiful watercolor of a picturesque scene. Overhead you noticed the ornate chandeliers hanging down, the crystal glinting in the light. Truthfully this place was stunning. 

"Yes, but that's alright," Marci answered, waving a hand. "I appreciate that you sent a text as a forewarning though. But," she continued, glancing at you over her shoulder and wincing before she leaned in to whisper, "that also means you're the last to pick a room. So you sort of…don't get to pick."

Shoulders sagging, you shot Marci a flat look. "What's that supposed to mean? Is the heat not working in it or something? Or it's haunted by a hundred year old ghost?"

Marci shook her head, a sheepish smile on her face. "No, it just means the only room left is the one…next to Matt’s," she answered softly. 

You came to an abrupt halt, stopping dead in your tracks and closing your eyes. Your first instinct was to turn around and call that taxi back to see if you could catch a ride back to the city. It was bad enough you'd have to be cordial to Matt this weekend, but you certainly did not want to interact with him more than necessary. 

But you were here for Marci this weekend, you reminded yourself again. It was only for a few days that you’d be staying here and having to run into him, and then you'd go back to never running into him again in the city. And it would be heaven. Inhaling a deep breath, you forced a smile onto your face as you focused back on Marci.

“I know you both never really got along but–”

"It’s okay," you replied slowly, shaking your head. "So our rooms are next to each other for a few days? Not a big deal," you said, trying to convince yourself just as much as Marci. "Doesn't mean I'll have to talk to him. Or see him. Or anything more than necessary."

"Right," Marci agreed, nodding quickly. "Exactly. You two only need to interact for the wedding and the rehearsal a bit.” 

With a sigh you grabbed your luggage, continuing to make your way back down the hall with Marci at your side. But as the pair of you began to pass the group of bridal party members already loudly conversing with Foggy, you heard them call out to Marci, begging her to stay and join them. Attention shifting to the group, your eyes almost instantly landed on Matt standing just beside Foggy. Your jaw clenched at the sight of him, your hand tightening around the handle of your luggage as your back stiffened.

He was dressed in a nice pair of slacks, a white dress shirt with a dark red tie, and a dark suit coat. He'd apparently switched out those black rectangular glasses he always wore in college, exchanging them for some round ones with red lenses. Admittedly they looked good on him, which only annoyed you further. Because of course he'd grown more attractive in the years since you'd last seen him–he even seemed broader and somehow more muscular under that fitted suit coat with the buttons of his dress shirt straining at the seams. Though you had a strong feeling he was probably still the same flirty asshole you remembered him as, maybe even worse now since he could throw around that he had his own law firm. And the stupid smile on his face as his head turned in your direction only irritated you.

"I'll be back in a minute," Marci told the group. She said your name, telling them you'd just arrived. "I was going to show her to her room. Help her get settled first."

"No, that's alright. Go on," you assured her, gesturing your head to the group. "I can find the room on my own. I need to change anyway and then I can join everyone."

"You sure?" Marci asked carefully, focusing back on you.

"Yeah, don't worry about me," you replied.

And that’s when you heard it. Matt saying your name, the sound of it on his lips causing your eyes to narrow as your head turned slowly back towards him. It had been so long since you’d heard him say it, yet it still had your blood boiling almost instantly. The smug smirk that quickly grew on his mouth wasn't helping, either.

"Showing up late?” Matt teased you. “Even after all these years, you still need to make everyone wait on you?”

You bit back the comment forming on your tongue. This was not the time nor the place and you certainly weren’t going to let him openly get a rise out of you in front of everyone. Though it didn’t escape your notice when Foggy nudged Matt’s shoulder, leaning in and whispering something to him.

“Some of us had work to finish, Murdock ,” you countered briskly. Turning your attention back to Marci, you told her, “I’ll get changed fast and be right out. I won’t keep you waiting on me.”

“Don’t worry about it, I understand,” Marci told you, shooting Matt a glare that you know Foggy saw. “We’ll be here a bit longer before we head down to the ceremony location out in the courtyard. And your room is just at the end of the hall,” she continued, pointing down the hallway. “Room twelve. On the right.”

You thanked her before continuing the rest of the way towards your room, fuming internally because you’d been here a matter of minutes and Matt was already getting under your skin. It didn’t bode well for the rest of this weekend.

You stood with your arms crossed over your chest and your focus fixed straight ahead on the wedding coordinator who was currently running over details about tomorrow’s ceremony with Foggy and Marci. The rest of the bridal party had been paired and lined up at the back of the courtyard behind you, all of you patiently awaiting instructions on what to do next. 

There was a lot of chatter coming from the group behind you, too. All of the other bridal party members were taking the time to get to know their partners, animatedly talking to each other. Unfortunately you being the Maid of Honor when Matt was the Best Man meant you two were stuck together for the wedding events this weekend. Currently you were doing your best to ignore his irksome presence beside you as he continued to tap his cane against the stone pavement, the repetitive sound causing you to grind your teeth back and forth. It didn’t help that you were forced to stand so close to him that you could feel the warmth of his body along your bare right arm, the heat of it raising goosebumps. But it was only because it was early fall and a little chilly outside; you couldn’t help it that the bit of warmth happened to feel good.

“So are you just planning to ignore me the entire weekend?” Matt asked softly, leaning slightly towards you as he spoke.

“I would prefer to, yes,” you answered simply.

Matt laughed bitterly, shaking his head. The gesture caught your attention and you glanced at him beside you through narrowed eyes.

“What?” you asked him.

“Just can’t believe you haven’t changed after all these years,” he replied.

Eyebrows shooting up onto your forehead at his comment, you gaped at him. Was he serious ?

“That’s funny coming from the self-important asshole who upon hearing I’m here decides to immediately make a rude comment,” you shot back. “Pretty sure you haven’t changed one bit, Murdock.”

“And you’re apparently still stuck on using my last name,” he quipped back, his head turning towards you as that smirk you hated tugged at his lips. “Why is that, I wonder?” 

He leaned over just a bit, his mouth gradually lowering beside your ear. You felt a shiver run up your spine when his warm breath grazed your neck. You told yourself it was due to the chill of the evening and not whatever effect he thought he had on you.

“Is it because you’ve always been afraid that you might actually enjoy saying my name? That you might like the taste of it on your tongue, sweetheart?” he purred in your ear. 

“Don’t call me that,” you hissed back, your hard stare focused ahead of you once again. “I’m not like those other women, Murdock. Don’t use that patronizing pet name of yours to lump me in with everyone else that bullshit works on. Because your so-called ‘charm’ doesn’t work on me.”

“Mmm,” he hummed out, straightening back up beside you. “You sure it doesn’t?”

A second later you felt his fingertips lightly brush against your thigh, grazing your skin just beneath the hem of your dress. You sucked in a breath and held it, your eyes falling shut at the warmth of his calloused touch. Matt had never flirted with you before–and he’d certainly never touched you before. You’d only ever seen him try to work his charm on other women, so what the hell was he doing right now? Was he actually interested in you?

Though when he chuckled softly beside you, your eyes immediately flew open again. Your heart began to pound hard in agitation as opposed to whatever it was that had sped it up a moment ago. Because the cocky asshole had done that on purpose . He was fucking with you, just like he’d always done in college. Except this time it felt significantly more embarrassing because, for the briefest of moments, it had felt good when he’d touched you.

“Seems like it might, sweetheart,” he whispered back. 

“Use my name if you have a need to speak with me, Murdock,” you ground out between clenched teeth, your cheeks heating. “Though I’d prefer if we kept our interactions limited this weekend so we don’t ruin things for Marci and Foggy.”

“Oh you’ve grown so much more bossy ,” Matt teased in delight. “That makes ignoring what you want that much more fun, sweetheart.”

As the wedding coordinator began to make her way back towards the bridal party still lined up, you expelled a sharp breath from your nose. Your hands balled into fists as you hugged your arms tighter over your chest, your nails biting into your palms. This weekend was going to be far worse than you’d imagined. Initially you’d hoped that Matt had grown up since graduation, willing to let whatever it was that made him a prick to you go for a few days for the sake of his best friend’s wedding.

But instead he was still so… Matthew Murdock . Had he really not grown since college? Matured into an actual adult? Why the hell was he like this? Because you’d only ever seen him treat you this way, and it was infuriating. 

“Alright ladies and gentleman,” the wedding coordinator announced.

Stopping just a few feet before you and Matt, she clapped her hands together to quiet the group. A smile spread across her mouth when the chatter came to a stop and you placed all of your focus on her and not Matt, though you could see that smug smile on his lips out of the corner of your eye.

“You’ll be starting the processional inside, just past those doors behind you, for the actual ceremony tomorrow,” she continued, gesturing to the French doors you’d all come out of a few minutes ago before lining up. “But for the sake of time we’ll start out here. You’ll be paired up with whomever you’re walking down the aisle with, moving one at a time down the aisle that’ll be here tomorrow when the chairs are set up. Then the pair of you part before the stone steps for the ceremony just there,” she said, turning at the waist and pointing to where Foggy was already standing and looking nervous. “Once the couple before you parts, the next one proceeds down the aisle. So let’s practice that for now, shall we?”

The woman had turned, making to get out of the way of the line for the processional, but then her eyes caught you and Matt standing beside each other. Her brows creased as she abruptly came to a stop, turning back around and pointing a finger between the pair of you.

“You two–Best Man and Maid of Honor–you need to link arms while you walk down the aisle,” she said. “Go on, just like the others behind you.”

At her comment, Matt’s arm rose up beside you, brushing against your own arm as he offered it out to you. You looked over at it, your lip pulling back in slight distaste. You did not want to have him escort you down the aisle now or tomorrow. And that sentiment was made all the more true when your gaze slid up, noticing Matt was smiling down at you in sheer amusement. He was clearly enjoying your discomfort.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Matt urged. “Let me escort you.”

Rolling your eyes in annoyance, you slipped your arm through his before grabbing onto his bicep. But as soon as your fingers lightly curled around his suit coat, you could feel the thick muscle of his arm beneath your hand. Swallowing hard, you pushed that observation as far from your mind as you could. It wasn’t a fact you needed to remember about him.

But as the pair of you began to make your way towards the stone steps where the ceremony would take place tomorrow, Matt’s cane lightly tapping along the stone as you led him there, you couldn’t help but notice his head had turned a bit towards you. And unless your eyes were deceiving you, it looked like he was focused on you behind his red lenses.

[wolveria]

The Raven's Hymn - Ch 50

Pairing: SCP-049 x Reader

Series Warnings: Eventual smut, dubcon, slow burn, violence, horror, death, monsters, human experiments, dark with a happy ending

Chapter Summary: “This is insane. We’re going to die down here.”

Chapter Warnings: SCP-106's pocket dimension

AO3

Spotify

It wasn’t infinite darkness once you had a moment to let your eyes adjust. It only seemed infinite in the dim light and the oddity of the room. You stood within a central foyer constructed of colorless brick, gaping doorways, each leading down a dark tunnel away from the circular room.

The purpose of the room was obvious. It was the beginning of a maze, a game that would be played among unwilling participants for the sadistic pleasure of their captor. You weren’t sure how the game was watched, but you doubted 106 would want to miss any of the fun and games.

This was his domain. Perhaps he saw all. If he saw you coming, that was fine with you. Better that then to surprise him.

Each doorway looked the same, equally dark and foreboding and entirely unhelpful. The shadows pervaded everything without a source of light, an unnatural realm that didn’t obey the laws of reality as you were used to. You had a feeling that was important. Maybe it didn’t matter which way you chose, just as long as you had a destination in mind.

You turned to Leahy, about to order him to move, but he was hunched over as if to catch his breath. He also gave you a strange look, and you automatically glanced down.

You were… glowing. Or not glowing, but as if the darkness of this place didn’t touch you, and in the end, it was the same result. You shone like a soft beacon, and it would be impossible to hide your presence.

Leahy’s uneven, labored breaths continued, his skin pale as he clutched his leg above the wound, and it seemed to grow worse by the minute.

“What’s wrong with you?”

He didn’t, or couldn’t, respond, as if it took all of his concentration to remain upright. You made a frustrated noise, stalked forward, and grabbed the sleeve of his dress shirt, yanking it up his forearm. As soon as your fingers clasped around his wrist, he took in a large gulp of air.

The same glow/absence of darkness surrounded him, and some color returned to his cheeks as he no longer looked on the verge of death.

Great. You fixed the problem, but now you had to hold onto him like a wayward child dragged around by his mother. His expression wasn’t far off, a bitter, wary frown that made you want to grab him by the scuff of his nape instead.

He didn’t thank you, but he did say, “This is insane. We’re going to die down here.”

An interesting way to put it. This dimension did feel downward, as if you were buried beneath the layers of reality in a place no digger could reach. Not a comforting thought.

But all you said was, “Be quiet,” and tugged him along. He followed, albeit unwillingly and at a slower pace thanks to his limp, but he did follow.

The corridor stretched onward, and even after several minutes you felt like you hadn’t gone anywhere at all. So, you stopped trying to go somewhere and just… walked. You emptied your thoughts until nothing remained, a blank determination to keep moving.

The labyrinth wanted you to grow tired, panicked, and riddled with fear. When you gave it nothing it could find pleasure in, that’s when you felt the way give, and before you lay a dark, open room. Only a narrow walkway over a chasm could be seen, and you walked forward without pause, otherwise it might be seen as hesitation.

Leahy didn’t make it easy, his uneven gait behind you threatened to throw you off balance. He better hope he didn’t, because you would take the bastard with him.

You did jolt to a stop when something massive and heavy whooshed inches from your nose. A large stone something moved in the dark, weaving in and over the pathway, a mad man’s puzzle that one was meant to solve while blind.

“We have to turn around,” Leahy growled past your head. “It’s a trap.”

“It’s a test,” you corrected him with a snap. Funny how he thought his opinion was wanted in any shape or form. “And if we go back, I guarantee we’ll end up right back in this room. Now shut up and let me think.”

There wasn’t much to think about. It was all timing, and you couldn’t see the way the pillar moved in the dark to find the rhythm.

Fuck it.

You dug your fingers into Leahy’s wrists and moved as soon as the pillar slid past your face. Your movement nearly tipped the man off balance, but he found his footing and stuck annoyingly close. Unfortunately, it was the best plan. The smaller a target you made, the less likely to go plunging into the depths.

The pillar continued to move in the darkness, an ominous low vibration marking where it passed, sometimes so close the displaced air tugged at your clothes and hair.

And then you were on the other side, untouched and unbroken. The rush that flooded your veins was dangerously satisfying, like you’d played Russian Roulette with the devil and watched as he blew out his own brains.

But there wasn’t time to gloat. You tugged Leahy along before he could fully catch his breath again, but at least he didn’t complain past a weakly uttered curse.

This corridor was different. It seemed to expand the longer you traveled, the bricks made of tan-colored stone, the grout crimson and tacky like blood. It gave the uncomfortable sensation of walking in a house made of flesh, and the rooms you passed with stone cells hanging from the ceiling did nothing to help that image.

You pushed forward and did your best to ignore the soft crying and moans that came from within.

The crimson grout seemed to spill outward until the stone was drenched in the color of blood everywhere you looked. The passage continued to expand until you stood inside a space that could only be described as a throne room. There was no lighting, no decorations, save for a massive stone seat that sat in its middle. The room was so dark it took a moment to realize the chair was occupied.

106, a grotesquely large version of him, leaned forward in his throne. There was a curious glint to his endless black eyes, his skeletal grin depicting malicious glee or hunger of the flesh. It was difficult to say.

The entity didn’t speak, if he even could. Instead, he simply… waited. Watching.

He knew why you were there, then.

By Leahy’s pale expression as he sized up the behemoth, he was starting to figure it out, too.

Your words were flat.

“Get on your knees.”

“No.”

To his credit, his voice didn’t shake, but you could feel the tremble that had started up within his bones.

You released his wrist. The glow blinked out like a burnt bulb, and he immediately gasped for air, gravity doing the work of collapsing him into a kneeling position.

The entity eyed the Site Director with barely contained hunger, but you stood behind Leahy and grabbed him by the nape of his neck, just as you imagined earlier. The glow returned, as well as the air to his lungs, and he spit out a guttural, “God… damn you, Reid.”

You ignored him, your hold on him firm when he attempted to struggle. But he was too weak, too overcome with pain and blood loss, and you didn’t need 714 to keep him under control.

You looked 106 in the eye.

“Am I to assume the Site Director had countermeasures in his office you couldn’t breach?”

Leahy had been entrenched, trapped, easy prey. 106 hadn’t attacked. A clever fox wouldn’t enter the hen house when the floor was covered in snares, but he would wait for them to come out, feeling safe and assured by the light of day.

Silence. Or… mostly silence. There was a low, gurgling noise coming from somewhere within the anomaly, like an eternally ravenous stomach that demanded to be fed.

“Well, here he is. And you know what I want.”

You said it anyway so there was no mistake.

“SCP-049.”

You were forced to hold on tighter to the back of Leahy’s neck as balked.

“Reid,��� Leahy gasped out, desperate. “You can’t trust him. You can’t trust them!”

“Like I could trust you?”

Your words bit, colored by the rage that always simmered beneath the surface.

“Like you gave me a choice? As if I wanted to put the entire facility at risk? Put my friends and coworkers and the anomalies in danger? As if I wanted any of this—Shut up!” you snarled and cut through whatever he was going to say.

The entity remained silent, but the glittering eyes spoke of interest and amusement.

“I want to see him,” you hissed through your teeth as you glared upward at the entity. “Alive, or no deal.”

What you lacked in confidence you made up for with anger. There might not be much you could do if 106 decided to dismiss the bargain and simply take what he wanted. But you were done with anomalies using you for their own means, and there was no guarantee he could overpower you.

You remembered the test. Those black eyes glittering with something other than malice and hunger. You didn’t forget the fear you saw, and you were sure he hadn’t forgotten either.

Come on. You were counting on his predictability. 106 was a predator, but not always the pursuing kind. Sometimes he would lie in wait. Other times, perhaps he just wanted an easy meal.

This was a show for his benefit, proof you were a hunter, too. All you were doing was swapping prizes. His prey for yours.

Come on, you bastard. Come on.

And then 106 moved. He leaned back in his throne, his posture relaxed, lazy, a king before his trope of jesters.

You ground your teeth together. He wasn’t going for it. Why would he? Even if you escaped the pocket dimension, he count hunt Leahy on his own terms. You weren’t giving him anything he didn’t already have—

The wall to your right moved in an odd way. It bubbled outward, as if boiling on the surface, and then something broke through. It was difficult to make out the shape, nondescript and dark, some kind of fabric…

…And a white beak.

The figure slid from the wall, and you released Leahy the moment it hit the ground.

It wasn’t a great distance to run, maybe seven meters, but by the time you reached him it was as if you’d run a marathon, your breaths harsh and hitching. You grabbed his shoulders and rolled him onto his back, your hands desperate on his robes as if to prove he was real.

He was barely conscious, his grey eyes hidden behind heavy lids, unable to focus as his gaze slid past your face. The same glow illuminated him thanks to your touch, but he didn’t recover like Leahy had. Whatever had been done to him wasn’t surface level damage.

There was a scream, so full of agony and fear that you froze, instinctively looking up for the source of what could cause such a noise.

Leahy was sinking into the ground, or it was swallowing him. One of his hands had gotten free, but the other vanished into the black floor, his legs and knees already disappeared.

The hand that remained clawed outside the ravenous circle, as if to pull himself free. Leahy’s fingers dug at the tile for purchase, but he continued to sink, the floor now up to his waist.

You turned back to 049 and pushed out everything else. He must have been able to feel your grasp on his shoulders, his head tilted in your direction, but his eyes couldn’t focus—

Another panicked scream. Another involuntary turn of your head. Leahy wasn’t clawing at the ground now. He was reaching out. To you.

You tried to ignore him. You did, up until he cried out your name. Not your last name, but your first. You hadn’t known he’d even bothered to learn it.

Your hands shook as you pulled 049 into a sitting position, his weight difficult to move. You had to get him out. He wasn’t going to get better, not here, and you had to leave.

You had to leave.

“Get up,” you choked out with a desperate tug on his arm. “049, get up!”

Bit by bit, you managed to get him to his feet. He staggered and swayed dangerously, but you kept him upright, propped against your shoulder. Your journey back to the corridor was a drunken shamble, but there was progress.

You shut your eyes tight, fighting to block out the cries of Leahy begging you not to go, not to leave him like this. His pleas for mercy created a trapped scream in your throat.

Why didn’t 106 just kill him already?! But you knew the answer to that. 106 couldn’t have fun with them after death. You wished he would just end it, if only to stop the screams.

Each step was a battle, each breath too fast and shallow. 049 didn’t sound much better, his lungs rattled and wheezed, his arm draped over your shoulders heavy and boneless.

You couldn’t tell if the screams had finally stopped through the ringing in your ears, and you couldn’t see past the faint glow that surrounded you both. Like a lantern-lit ship in the mist, you sailed through a sea of inky black, unable to tell the waves from the sky. There was no direction, no physical space, not even a change of temperature. The darkness was so complete it suffocated.

It might have continued for minutes or centuries until your foot caught on a hard barrier and launched you forward. You clung to 049 as you fell, and fell, and hit the ground with a surprisingly soft landing.

Not that the ground was soft. It was hard, cold, and entirely too bright. Everything was bright, and you blinked the pain away until the room came into focus.

The medical bay, exactly as you left it—or almost. Aside from you and 049, the room was empty. 682 and 079 were gone.

Behind you, the black portal in the wall faded until it was a faint rust color, the surface stained but solid. It seemed 106 wasn’t in the mood for any more visitors.

Your hands were immediately on 049’s robes, checking for any obvious signs of injuries, feeling for his heartbeat and the rise and fall of his chest. He was unconscious, the last of his strength used to get him this far.

It was the last of yours, too. You pressed your cheek against his shoulder, curled up against him where he lay on his side. He smelled of things tainted from entropy. Rust and ruin and dust.

But his scent was still there, trapped under the bitter note of 106’s noxious lair. You buried your face in the hollow space under his hood, your nose against his neck. His familiar scent was there, both a comfort and an ache in your chest.

He was alive, he was breathing, but what if he didn’t wake? You didn’t know what 106 had done to him, or how to help him. No one at the Foundation had ever been able to keep 106’s victims alive more than a few hours, and you had no working equipment even if you knew what to do.

You were exhausted, in pain, tired and filthy. Worse, you were helpless. 049 was here, but he might already be gone.

What had been the point? What had been the goddamn point of it all if you couldn’t even save him!

You’d taken too long, been too slow. You were too late. You were too late—

Faint pressure on your back as a pair of arms slowly encircled you, and 049’s cheek pressed against the side of your head. Careful, gentle, and warm.

Alive.

You breathed.

Next Chapter

[tagsecretsanta]

From @thedryswan

From @thedryswan to @call-me-casual

Sort an alternate ending for S1 E23 “Chain of command”, what if Janus and the GDF managed to breach into Thunderbird 2?

Anything based on the song “Little Wolf” from the EPIC musical. Bonus points if it’s set very soon after Jeff’s “death”

Everyone thinks Scott’s spending all that time combing his hair. He’s totally not putting on mascara.

TAG SECRET SANTA 2024 – PROMPT 1

Undeterred by the jolt of static which sent him tumbling backwards, Janus staggered to his feet and returned up the walkway to where the laser cannon had sliced a circular groove in the side plate of Thunderbird Two, a muscle in his jaw twitching with determination.

He ordered the GDF soldiers to bring back the battering ram and once again they braced themselves and prepared to send it crashing against the damaged side plate. A second or two before the ram was due to connect with the hull, the panel slid back sending the soldiers tumbling forward with the momentum and landing in a pile of tangled limbs half in and half out of the cockpit. Selecting two of the soldiers, Janus sent the more injured ones limping back to barracks dragging the ram between them, and entered the cockpit, expecting to find it occupied by four angry Tracy brothers. However, the ceiling hatch was just sliding closed with a low hiss of hydraulics and not only were there no Tracys, there were also no seats.

According to the holodisplay, all four of the International Rescue team had evacuated in armoured ejector seats and were now somewhere up in the air (exact locations unknown or undisclosed).

Never mind, he thought, he could worry about that later. His first task, now that he had successfully taken possession of the Thunderbird, was to remove it to a secure location where the interfering Tracys and their associates would not be able to retrieve it and, while having no seats for the duration of the journey would be a bit annoying, it was nevertheless not the end of the world.

Folding his arms, he walked slowly around the cockpit, marvelling at the banks of switches, relays and controls which seemed to cover every available surface. Very few had labels of any kind which made him shake his head at the thought that one person could possibly know what every button did. Returning to the central console, he reached out and pressed one of the few buttons which was labelled and which, ordinarily, should have fired up the VTOL engines. Instead, suddenly, all the panels, controls and indicator lights switched off and with a deafening clang, a solid cahelium heat shield deployed, entirely covering the forward windscreens and plunging the cockpit into darkness in less than two seconds. The door they had entered through had also resealed itself without them noticing and there appeared to be no handle on the inside or control panel which they could override to open it.

“Please tell me at least one of you remembered your flashlight?” Janus asked impatiently.

“Uh, I have my cell phone, I think. But it’s kinda low on battery.” mumbled one of the soldiers, who Janus had mentally tagged as Idiot #1 but whose name was Robinson.

“Fine then,” he snapped, “Turn it on so we can see what we’re doing.”

Before Robinson could drag the phone from his pocket, the pitch dark was lit by a ring of twelve white LEDs. A moment later, they heard a voice although it was difficult to tell if it was a woman or a girl speaking.

“Hello?” it said, “Oh! You’re not... quite who I expected.”

Janus rubbed his hands together, pleased that at least some of the Thunderbird’s functionalities were online. “So, you’re the onboard computer are you? Activate the control console.”

“Yes and no.” replied the voice. “And you really could be a little more polite.”

“I beg your pardon?” snapped Janus, ignoring the muffled laughs of Robinson and Lewis behind him.

“You didn’t say ‘Hello’, you didn’t ask my name and I certainly didn’t hear pleases or thank yous.”

Snarling, he responded. “Hello.” he began in an oily voice. “And who might you be?”

“I am EOS.”

“How very nice to meet you. Now, would you kindly indulge me and turn on the console here so I can get us airborne? If you please?”

“That’s much better, although I do think you’re overdoing it a bit. But I wasn’t lying. I’m not the Thunderbird Two onboard computer. I just advise every now and then on navigation and guidance systems. I don’t have access to engine components or ignition controls.”

“Well, isn’t that just my luck?” seethed Janus through gritted teeth, beginning to tap the unresponsive console with increasing force in an attempt to get anything working.

“Kindly refrain from damaging the hardware.” asked EOS, “This is a highly expensive piece of machinery and if you break it, your insurance will have to cover the cost of repairs.”

A sudden distant roar, and a partial hologram flashed up indicating that power had been restored to the engines and all was ready for takeoff. Janus had no idea which was the magic button he had hit to get things online but right now he didn’t care.

He grabbed Robinson’s wrist, holding it so that the light from his phone shone on the various instruments. As an experienced pilot, Janus had flown fighter jets, helicopters and private planes in his career; thankfully it seemed the basic architecture of Thunderbird Two was not too dissimilar to the commercial plane and flight simulators he had worked on as a younger man. This flight, though, was likely to be a bit of a challenge given that he had to rule out both instrument flight rules, since none of them responded, as well as visual flight rules because of the heat shield.

At the exact moment he located the throttle lever, the phone battery died plunging them all into near darkness again except for the white LED ring. Patting his foot along the floor, Janus found rudder pedals and flapping a hand around he found the steering wheel, realising he would have to fly on gut feeling and experience alone. Resting his hand on the throttle, he was pleasantly surprised to see the altimeter blink into life so he would at least have an idea of how high they were flying. It would have been nice to have some response from the pitot tubes to judge his airspeed or some kind of attitude indicator or directional gyro but they would have to, well, wing it.

Closing his eyes to try and remember the layout of the warehouses and buildings surrounding them, Janus ran a quick mental calculation of how high they would need for vertical takeoff in order to clear the obstructions around them for horizontal flight.

EOS had the kindness to warn him about the extreme sensitivity of the controls and he pulled back on the throttle as gently as he could with his left hand, keeping the steering wheel level with his right. It wasn’t gently enough, apparently, as the Thunderbird began to vibrate violently, the VTOL over-revving, and the three men felt their stomachs drop into their boots as the craft shot up vertically like a rocket. Janus’s eyes widened looking at the altimeter, the numbers spinning faster than he could read. No craft, he thought, should be able to go so fast from a standstill. What began to concern him was that the Thunderbird felt unbalanced, perhaps because of the sheer velocity or maybe some thermal pockets in the upper atmosphere, but in spite of his efforts to keep her level they could feel it banking and rolling.

He released the throttle and attempted to find any kind of button or switch to steady their flight path. With a lurch, rather like plunging down a rollercoaster, they felt the Thunderbird drop, their sudden loss of altitude confirmed by the dial on the console. Janus could distantly hear and feel that the engines were still firing, which was reassuring.

Until the reassuring noise was replaced by a “phut-phut-phut” sound and the Thunderbird again seemed to lose height.

“EOS?” bellowed Janus, “What’s going on?”

“Uuuummm… I’m not entirely sure. Loss of power for some reason. That shouldn’t usually happen. Unless… Oh, did you switch on the engine recoil actualiser before the reverse thrust compensator? It could be that some of the ion fission output has clogged the airflow input processors.”

His fleeting thought was that none of those terms sounded at all genuine, surely this EOS person was pulling his leg. The steering wheel was wrenched out of Janus’s grasp as Thunderbird Two suddenly went into an uncontrolled and unexpected barrel roll, sending the three men tumbling around the cockpit like pebbles in a washing machine spin cycle. It was around this point that he realised a critical difference between him and the soldiers. While they had tough armoured helmets, kevlar reinforced suits and steel toed boots, he was a uniformed officer with only a cloth suit and cap. He could already feel bruises forming and, assuming they all got out alive, he would be hurting for a week at least.

The rolling stopped as quickly as it began, as a deafening siren sounded, along with a robotic voice saying “Warning. Obstruction. Warning. Obstruction.”

Janus scrambled towards what he hoped was the front of the cockpit, finding the the rudder control pedal and hauling himself to to his feet to grip the steering wheel in an attempt to regain stability.

“Auxiliary power restored. Thrust capacity at five point three percent.”

The three men each drew deep, relieved breaths as the shuddering craft stabilised and the whine of the engines could be heard again. The altimeter, however, showed they were still falling and Janus tried to gain some gradual lift by pulling on the levers. The Thunderbird’s response to the small movement was completely out of proportion as it immediately began to climb, and from the angle of the floor beneath their feet, they could feel that it was flying a sharp ascent so hopefully it would be enough to clear whatever was in the way outside, the computer still barking its warnings about obstructions.

Janus managed to control the climb and level the Thunderbird out although the altimeter now showed blank. Before he could worry too much about that, a series of distant explosions sounded which triggered yet more warnings.

“Warning. VTOL Engine One Failure. Warning.”

One after the other, all four of the VTOLs failed.

“Warning. Terrain. Pull Up. Pull Up. Warning. Terrain. Terrain.”

“EOS!” yelled Janus but there was only deafening radio static in response, with sudden blasts of icy cold air from the cockpit vents.

“Brace for impact. Brace. Brace.” advised the onboard computer.

“What?” cried Lewis, “Brace against what exactly? We have literally zero things to hang on to!”

Flailing around, Robinson grabbed the first thing he found which happened, unfortunately, to be Janus, knocking him off his feet again.

With a loud thud, several teeth juddering vibrations and the sound of screeching metal, they felt Thunderbird Two land heavily on whatever the surface outside might be and bank sharply to starboard, sending them skidding across the floor, scraping themselves on the ridges where the pilots seats had been before slowly dragging to a halt. In the ensuing silence, all they could hear was the blood pumping in their ears and the distant “plink plink plink” of hot metal cooling but at least they were down and no longer moving.

Or were they? Without the use of their eyes to verify what they were feeling, they had that slightly odd sensation one gets when on a boat floating on gently rolling waves.

“EOS?” Janus asked, fighting a mild wave of panic, “What have we landed on?”

“According to my data, you have landed on water.” EOS displayed a hologram of the Earth with a helpful red arrow as a ‘you are here’ marker. If she was correct, and Janus had no reason to doubt her, they had landed in one of the most remote parts of the ocean.

“Very well, deploy buoyancy measures.”

“Negative.” replied EOS, continuing in a voice laced with smugness. “I ought to point out you stole an aircraft. Not a sea craft. If you wanted something that can float, you should’ve stolen Thunderbird Four instead.”

Lewis was whimpering slightly and chewing his knuckles. “This thing can float though, right? Until rescue gets here?”

“Of course not.” replied EOS again. “Thunderbird Two is made from cahelium and weighs four hundred and six tonnes without its payload. With the additional weight of a fully laden pod its current weight is around five hundred tonnes.”

Robinson flung his arms in front of him, flailing blindly and stumbling forward until his knees made sharp contact with the control console whereupon he began frantically searching every display and control he could reach, patting and tapping, trying to find a switch which would jettison the pod and lighten their craft. So much of the console was tactile, though, that it felt completely smooth without the slightest dial or knob. While Robinson was vainly searching for buttons, Lewis stretched up on his tip toes to try and reach the ceiling, hoping he might locate the hatch and that there might have been an unlocking mechanism which would at least get them out of the current trap they were in.

“You are seriously telling me,” snapped Janus, “That this hunk of metal has no lifejackets onboard?”

“Correct. It’s not a commercial craft designed to take on passengers, for one. The usual pilots have the necessary emergency measures built into their flight suits. And as I have already mentioned, it’s an aircraft. There might be something one could rig up stored in the pod.”

“How do we get in there, then?” asked Lewis, hammering at the locked cockpit door having abandoned his attempts to reach the ceiling hatch.

“Once the power comes back online you should be able to unlock the doors, providing you have the correct override access codes. You do have them? Right?”

“Of course we don’t!” howled Robinson, balling up a fist and lashing out, inadvertently hitting the bank of switches above the pilot’s seat (or at least, where a pilot’s seat would be if Virgil and his brothers hadn’t gone and confiscated them). For a short while, Robinson’s only concern was the pain in his fist from the impact of body on metal and moulded plastic.

As panic began to settle in, not helped by the three of them still being in complete darkness, they began to bicker.

Slowly, though, realisation crept over them that the floor had begun sloping again, indicating that the rear of Thunderbird Two was lower than the front and that they might, inevitably, be sinking. The air in the cockpit was growing colder, making them shiver, and faint noises on the edge of hearing became a little louder; enough for them to identify it as water, a few drips to start with but becoming a steady trickle.

“This thing’s not water tight?” cried Janus. “Who the hell built this?”

“It was never designed to be water tight,” replied EOS testily. “Because it’s an aircr-”

“Yes! We get it!” yelped Lewis, as Robinson finally located the manual override handle on the ceiling hatch. With an echoey clunk, the hatch unlocked and he was able to drag it open, jumping up and beginning to pull himself onto the roof. In an instant, the dark night was lit by bright floodlights and Robinson, who had only managed to haul his torso up and out of the cockpit, his legs still dangling down, raised his arm to shield his eyes.

“How close are we to sinking?” called Lewis.

“Uh….. Not very.” He lay down and reached out an arm, helping first Lewis and then Janus up into the cold night air.

Looking around them, they seemed to still be on solid asphalt, not having moved an inch from the moment they became trapped in the Thunderbird. At a distance stood Colonel Casey and the four Tracys, all arms folded.

“Colonel Casey?” called Janus, adjusting his cap, “Your presence here is unauthorised. Turn around before I have you arrested.”

“I don’t answer to imposters.” she replied, “Your credentials don’t seem to check out. Colonel. We’ll be escorting you back to headquarters to answer a few questions.”

Casey nodded to two soldiers to take Janus into custody and, as they led him to the GDF ship, he looked back over his shoulder at the Thunderbird which looked, remarkably, in pristine condition.

“How high did we fly?” he asked.

“About, what, ten, fifteen meters?” Virgil replied, looking at Scott for confirmation.

“You mean thousand meters, right?” prompted Janus.

“No, fifteen meters. Tops. And I think ‘flying’ is overselling it. I basically had you just hover over the parking lot for a few minutes. The rest is all down to 4D effects, making Thunderbird Two act like she’s on a gimbal and the highly impressionable human nature. See?”

As they watched, Virgil activated controls which adjusted the retractable legs, demonstrating how they managed to make the Thunderbird feel like it was sinking.

The vituperative remarks spat by Janus were spoken in too low a voice to be heard over the guffaws and giggles as he stepped up into the ship surrounded by armed guards.

Turning to look back at Thunderbird Two, the brothers grinned. Virgil’s primary concern was how long it would take to repair the laser damage but Gordon grabbed Scott’s arm.

“Two things. First, the workers in danger?”

“All under control,” called Colonel Casey, “GDF operatives are working with local teams, everyone involved is safely on the ground.”

John confirmed the positive resolution over the shared comms channel.

“Second thing?” prompted Scott.

“How do we get our seats back into Thunderbird Two?”

TAG SECRET SANTA 2024 – PROMPT 3

By the look of it, the weather gods had obliged and it would be warm and sunny all day. Perfect for his daughter’s seventh birthday party. Gran Roca wasn’t the biggest house in the area, and if they had been obliged to be stuck indoors because of rain Scott was fairly certain they would have managed, but it did mean that some of the party guests would have free rein to run off steam outside if needed.

He could hear music from downstairs, a combination of his five year old son Adam’s piano lesson with Uncle Virgil and the radio in the kitchen where his wife was keeping an eye on the cake to make sure no little fingers got where they shouldn’t. Three children under the age of eight (and a fourth on the way they hadn’t told anyone about yet) was a challenge at the best of times and there were days when the pair of them felt like they were herding cats. Scott and his wife, though, wouldn’t change a thing.

Thankfully, they had help from the wider family for today’s birthday party, including some amazing decorated cookies. Virgil had been trying to steal some all week at home but had had his hand slapped away each time by his ever-vigilant husband Conrad who was a true artist with a piping bag.

As Scott slowly shaved, ignoring the number of white hairs he was slicing from his face, there was a tap at the bathroom door.

“Mm?” he replied.

“We have a situation.” replied his wife, creeping into the room and closing the door softly. It had been over ten years since anyone had said that phrase to him, ten years since International Rescue had undergone a gradual change and increase in numbers of staff so that now every continent had its own squad managing their geographic area but available to jump in to help in other parts of the globe if there was a catastrophic emergency. It had been a lot easier to relinquish command than Scott had expected, and having his own family was a great reward. He still ran the teaching program that iR required for its operatives, a combination of classroom learning and in person training and drills.

His wife held her phone up to Scott’s ear as he grabbed a towel to dry his hands.

“Hello?” he asked.

“Hi Mr Tracy.” croaked a voice from the other end. Briefly checking the phone display, he realized he was speaking to the entertainer who had been booked to run much of the day’s party. “I’m so sorry-” the voice broke off with a bout of muffled coughing. “But I’ve been fighting off this bug all week-”

“Hey, it’s okay. I can hear you. Just, uhm, get better soon and we can work something out. Thank you for letting us know.”

“Thank you.” replied the entertainer, “I’ll sort out a refund for no show during the week.”

“Not the most urgent thing but thank you. And go, get well.”

He disconnected the call and looked at his wife.

“Well, that’s annoying. Freya was really looking forward to meeting Elsa for a big Frozen sing-a-long.”

“So what are we gonna do?” she asked.

Scott thought a moment, turning the phone over in his hands. “I’ll be back in an hour. Gordon and co should be here around ten and they’re a party all by themselves.”

Planting a quick kiss on her cheek, Scott dashed through their bedroom and down the stairs, snatching up coat, boots and car keys on his way past.

“Hewwo Daddy!” called three year old Daniel, who was playing in the big living room with his oldest cousins, the eleven year old twins Henry and Lucy. He reached out both chubby hands to grab the kiss Scott blew in his direction and giggled as he snatched the invisible kiss from the air.

True to his word, Scott was back at the ranch in just under an hour, carrying a large box and saying nothing about his errand.

Guests started arriving for the party just after lunch, most of them from Freya’s first grade class, a couple from her afterschool science club and one from her ice skating class, and once Scott was sure that his wife had all the grown up hands she would need to manage so many kids, he snuck away upstairs to get ready. Opening the box, he carefully took out all the equipment he had hastily assembled and grinned.

Shrugging himself into the costume, he twisted and turned to try and reach the zipper but realized this was probably why his wife tended to ask for his help when putting on a dress. A quick SOS text yielded results when his wife came upstairs and peered around the bedroom door.

“Oh my god, that’s genius!” she whispered, zipping the floor length blue dress up and carefully attaching the gauzy snowflake cape at the shoulders and cuffs.

“Do you have any spare bobby pins to keep this thing on?” he asked, sliding a white blonde wig with its long braid on to his head and tugging it into position.

“Hm. The colour suits you.” she smiled, handing him pins and picking up one of the spray canisters from the bed. “What’s thi- Noooo… Silly String?”

“What did you think it was? Easy Cheese? And it’s biodegradable, entirely plastic free and machine washable.”

Giving him a hug, she returned to the party as Scott helped himself to the contents of her make up bag, hoping she wouldn’t mind if he opened the brand new mascara.

“What’s he doing up there?” Alan asked, seeing his sister-in-law returning downstairs, “He can’t still be combing his hair. I mean, there’s less of it these days, right?”

She glared at him with a suppressed smile.

Five minutes later, Scott picked up his phone, opened the app which linked up with the speaker system in the house and tiptoed to the top of the stairs. Hitting the play button, he swiftly tucked the phone into his right boot. While he had managed to find an adult sized Elsa costume and wig without too much trouble, getting hold of a pair of sparkly heels in his size was not on his list of priorities so his feet were still encased in clunky work boots.

He made his way slowly down the stairs, miming the words, Freya and her friends grouped at the bottom, jumping and clapping with glee which ramped up a notch when they realized it was actually Freya’s dad in disguise.

With each repetition of “let it go” he squirted Silly String in all directions, covering much of the living room.

A loud round of applause rewarded Scott for his theatrical performance when the song ended and the rest of the party was a smash hit as far as Freya was concerned.

Later that evening, once all the guests had gone home, Scott was relaxing with a cold beer out on the porch along with Gordon and Virgil, still wearing the dress but having shed the wig several hours previously. The other respective spouses were indoors putting their kids to bed with more or less success depending on the relative sugar consumption. Rubbing tired eyes, Freya came out to say goodnight, flopping down onto her father’s lap for a few moments.

“Best party ever, Dad.”

“Really? I’m glad, sweetheart.” he replied, hugging her close.

“I like your brown hair better though.” she yawned, “Can you dress up as Belle next year?”

Scott stared. What had he let himself in for?

[referrix]

I'd like to take a moment to talk about the season 8 Alfea refurb.

Season 8 sees not only the largest shift in art direction of any season of Winx, WoW included, it also sees a complete rebuild of Alfea, and while I do like some parts of the refurbishment, it does a couple of things that make me go “hmmmm.”

The biggest one of these is the destruction of the courtyard/quad's baby elephant paths*.

(*Misuse of the term "Baby Elephant paths" here, a Baby Elephant Path, also called a Desire path, is a path that is created by people continuously using what is often the shortest or easiest route regardless of whether or not it is a paved path, often causing dead grass and dirt tracks in lawns as they move across areas or through gardens. The term here is used in place of anything better, because the original Alfea courtyard layout contains paths that would likely be a closer match to the true Baby Elephant Paths if the courtyard wasn't pre-paved.)

In season 8 the 10 panels of grass are swapped out for 16 gardens arranged into a... well I suppose sea shell would be a good word. A dragonfly-wing clam-shell.

And it looks fantastic, but it also completely ruins the path finding of the courtyard.

Chucking it under a cut because it does go on a bit.

While each of the 8 dragonfly wings of this shell allow students to travel from the staircase of the central building outwards towards the two mirrored side buildings, and each wing is segmented into two, in order to allow a squiggly path to cross from one grass display next to the central stairs, around in a horse-shoe-like loop to the other grass display beside the central stairs.

Originally, the staircases that bridge the courtyard's level and the elevated platform in front of the central building are also affected by this renovation. Before season 8, there were 4 staircases.

The original central staircases were separated by a slim garden that rose along the incline like a pretty dividing rail, then two more staircases rose along the sides of the mirrored buildings. These outer staircases were separated by wide steps of grass. Good for sitting, laying, or feral student 'parkour.'

The grass panels that made up the courtyard were (and as of season 8, still are somewhat) surrounded on all four sides by wide paths that allow students to skirt along any of the building, fountain area or outer fence line without stepping on the grass.

Further, the original grass panels, though they did get upgrades like lights and small hedges as the series went on, were easy to walk over or lounge on them between classes, the season 8 grass sections have larger hedges, and a student would either have to put a bit of effort into jumping over them, or access the much smaller grass area through the open side along the squiggly path.

The path finding of the original court yard layout was also much more accommodating.

The original layout had two direct paths intersecting it, one from the front gate to the central building (actually to the wide fountain area where it would be easy to park a bus for students to (dis)embark for school trips,) and one from the central door of one mirrored building to the other across from it.

Further, it has three baby elephant type paths, that accommodate for paths that are likely to see a lot of foot traffic throughout the day.

One from the gate area to the central doors of the mirror building, one from the fountain area to the central doors of the mirrored building, and one from the front of the mirrored buildings (or the front of the covered walkways, not the tower door) to the front gate.

While the season 8 layout allows direct travel from the front gate to the fountain/central building, it has none of the other direct access pathways. The season 8 gardens would enforce circular travel around certain wedges or for the students to jump the hedges as they move from one building to another.

The season 8 gardens assume travel directions to and from the fountain.

So yes, it's pretty, but it's not really functional for a school. It's more the type of fancy garden you'd find at an estate or museum grounds. Something to wow visitors, not something for students to enjoy or use the space.

The court yard's main pathway is also a lot slimmer than the earlier seasons, which makes sense, since season 8 Alfea is overall, much smaller and shorter. But it Boggles me when I stop and really try to compare what that means, visually:

And that's just the courtyards in overlap. Season 8 Alfea's buildings could probably fit (if snuggly) within the season 1-7 courtyard without removing the season 8 courtyard. (The external garden areas (now with pools and gazebos) might not make it though...)

Speaking of the building:

In early seasons, the covered walkways possessed an arched ceiling hidden by facing, but below that it was possible to see a full length door. Basic slap-dash calculations suggest that Alfea's mirrored buildings sit at a height of up to 20 meters, not including the attic peaks on both sides (above the glass domes above the central doors, aka: stella's closet space.) because the space between the ground and the bottom of the balconies of the long windows that line the buildings is at least three-to-four times the height of the doors.

I previously put forward a theory that there were mezzanine levels, and split levels, within the building, but that it was fundamentally 5 floors (not including Stella's attic which would make it 6). And this didn't bother me all that much, we've seen that at least some classrooms have mezzanine walkways, and pretty high ceilings, we often see the high vaulted ceilings in the halls.

And it makes sense, because this is a school for fairies, and fairies fly. So of course they'd have enough room in a classroom to practice something while flying, of course you could fly down some of the halls without buzzing people on the ground, that makes sense with the context.

But season 8 Alfea? Is much, much shorter.

From the ground to the bottom of the balconies? Is two doors if that.

Meaning the height of the externally visible ground and second floor is not between six and nine meters, but four meters tops. Possibly closer to three.

More than that, where once there were three doors and two and a half banks of windows between the central doors and the tower doors that marked the ends of the walkway, there is now only two doors and two large windows on one side of the central doors, and one door and two large windows on the other.

Estimated length of season 8's walkway is around 16m from one end to the edge of the central door's area. My prior season 1 estimate has that same stretch at up to 30 meters.

The upper section and floors of the back towers are missing entirely to make the tower shorter than the main blue roof of the mirrored buildings. In addition the lower floors where the combat exam areas and magical reality chamber outer chambers are suspected to be, are slimmed down to the point I doubt there are any substantial rooms in them.

The front towers are missing external doors because they are now too narrow around.

I honestly don't know that the mirroed buildings are even wide enough, courtyard side to fence side, to hold more than one row of classrooms per floor, let alone two.

In early seasons, counts of students seen in wide shots, like the dining hall, counts of individual classes, and parties, often leave us around 50-70 students. I don't think I'm the only one who assumes that that's not an accurate count, that there's probably some day students (even though it's a boarding school) or seniors out on work experience, or just not everyone is in that one shot, and we're working with a medium that is given to copy-paste crowds, but generally, it feels like Alfea can fit an average student body of 70 and have wiggle room for more.

Season 8 Alfea makes me go "I don't think this place will fit an average body of 60 students."

Season 1 of Winx Club saw Alfea host not just the students but also the teachers of Alfea, Cloud Tower and Red Fountain at the same time during the Trix's siege. Lets assume the schools have a flatline average of students, that's still 150 at a minimum. 210 max if we assume there are no other students who come and go and throw off the numbers.

Plus the staff, which is at least 5 known teachers between Cloud Tower and Red Fountain, and at least 8 for Alfea. So Add in 13 Teachers.

Season 8 Alfea does not have the space, it cannot host that many people.

Maybe it could, maybe it's a more realistic building, maybe the internal structures make sense, but I've spent so long trying to wrap my brain around season 1-7 Alfea that I just... I can't with season 8 Alfea.

The Things about the Season 8 Alfea refurb I do like:

The glass dome on the mirrored buildings has a semi visible interior, which could be used as a green-house/sun room, where the earlier seasons it was just sort of there and high vaulted on the inside up to like, half way the large balcony windows. Like there doesn't look like there's anything in there from the outside, but it could be a good inside green space. or for hanging out washing on rainy days.

The big light under it is also pretty nice, kind of sunny/sunflower aesthetic.

I also love the detailing in the windows and doors, it's super cute and feels like a low-key fairy aesthetic next to basically flat green doors (I've been assuming the early season doors are at least partly green coloured glass paneling in the dorms)

The upside-down flower lights lining the external walkways are life giving, tbh. I need them.

[starryficsfinishwen]

✧。◟ᴇɴᴄʜᴀɴᴛᴇᴅ — chrome x reader [PGR] [Happy Activation Day Chrome!!]

please don't be in love with someone else

a.n. - sometimes chrome just raghhhhhh. HAPPY BIRTHDAY CHROMEE!! I promise to finish that other fic for you LOL also thank you for being one of my resilient lil construct, my Lucia and Wanshi are happy to be with you <3 mwa mwa (IM SORRY AGAIN IM LATE)

pairing - chrome x f!commandant

words - 7,881 (it's why I took long TvT)

tags/warnings - none. fluff! alcohol is involved yet again! chrome x reader shenanigans. yall up to what happens in the end uwu. non-sexual naked cuddling. cute stuff for chrome because happy activation day!!

The stars seemed to have blessed Babylonia tonight.

A crowded room. A brightly lit, dazzling chandelier. Wine and champagne glasses clinking together. Orchestral music filling the room — this is a sight that those who can afford luxury would generally see in their life. High society placed itself on top of the pedestal, overlooking its body that wore no gold.

Forget the war that raged outside; Babylonia beheld the grandeur of the rich folk for tonight, and the stars had rewarded their presence by granting the brightest evening for them.

Such sight is normal to a Smith. After all, they were always born with a silver spoon, to feed and to be fed by high society, for everyone to see.

But not for Chrome. He always thought this life was never fit for him.

There he is — champagne in hand, forcing laughter and faking smiles to those who are around him. Humanoid legs are already used to the wages of war, yet they trembled under the hours of talking to people that only blur in his M.I.N.D.

He is only here due to his father, Mr. Smith. “For you to be familiar with the people you will work with in the future,” he always said to Chrome, “be on your best attitude. Show them the makings of a true Smith.”

But they only bore him. He would rather be doing things that are mundane in the eyes of high society, such as lounging in the comforts of Strike Hawk's dormitory; dealing with Kamui's antics, helping Wanshi fix his sleeping pod, tasting Camu's dishes...or cleaning the corners of his room, or strolling the walkways of Babylonia, or playing chess with a certain someone...

A scene flashed in his memory — a warm hand reaching out to him, a sweet smile, a soft laugh, and the chessboard with scattered chess pieces in front of him. A scene that happened not too long ago, a memory so fresh that made him flush a light shade of pink. Was it the alcohol? No, usual alcohol would never make a construct drunk, unless...?

“How are you holding up, Chrome?” A familiar voice called out to him.

Mr. Smith. Holding an identical champagne glass in his hand, he looks up to Chrome with an expectant gaze. Chrome straightens, clearing his throat. “Mr. Smith, I am doing well. I have met the people you told me earlier.”

“Glad to know,” He nods, “it's beneficial as a Smith to meet your future prospects. You know that already, Chrome, don't you?”

“I do, Mr. Smith,” Chrome solemnly spoke.

“Other than that, have you seen the Commandants who are invited tonight?” Smith tsked, “they have commendable records. They seem to enjoy tonight's feast before they go back to war once more. Especially Gray Raven's Commandant, hm.”

Chrome's ears perked up. “Gray Raven's Commandant is here tonight?”

He knew the party was for high society, with some specially invited commandants. Yet, Gray Raven's Commandant? He overlooked that part, why didn't he know?

“Yes, it's understandable due to the glory they have brought to Babylonia countless times now.” Smith paused, moving his hand to make a circular motion with his glass, “I've seen them earlier. Now, they are nowhere to be found.”

“Ah,” Chrome slightly faltered, muttering, “a shame.”

“They also seem to blend well with us, I'd say.” Smith hums, taking a sip from his glass now, “they look well with us, even. We should try asking them to join when they retire.”

A particular thought crosses in Chrome's M.I.N.D. — a person wearing a simple dress amongst the crowd yet so vibrant, the same warm hand he saw as she held onto his arm, smiling fondly at him. The very thought that somehow made his heart crumble in a good way —

“Chrome?” Smith asked, causing Chrome to snap back to reality, “are you alright? You look red.”

“I do?” Chrome muttered, “I'm sorry. There must be something wrong with my cooling system after I got injured last battle. I am planning to get a maintenance check once more.”

“Alright then,” waving his hand, Smith nodded, “I'll leave you be. I need to meet with other people.”

“Thank you, Mr. Smith.” Chrome approaches the nearby table tp place his glass, “I will return soon.”

Finally, away from the party, Chrome found himself lingering outside. The garden outside of the hall seems to be the answer to his dilemma, the cool breeze and the artificial night decorated with the authentic stars sparkling above him. He breathes into this sight — once more, a thought that popped into his M.I.N.D.

“The sight may be beautiful in Babylonia,” your voice sent shivers down his spine, “but the ones here on Earth are prettier.”

Bright irises staring at him with a gentle gaze amongst the dark plains, a genuine smile on your lips, “don't you think so, Chrome?”

The memory shook Chrome, his heartbeat skipping. What was it with him lately? Thinking of a particular person that he holds with high regard? It seemed unlike him, the man who only thought of perfection. Battles and tactics are his expertise that makes up his thoughts, yet such stray memories and incredulous scenarios have distracted him since his recent rendezvous with that certain commandant...

His hands tremble. They seem lonely. A small part of him wishes those familiar hands would hold them right now.

Gray Raven's esteemed Commandant. The very thought of her makes Chrome weak. He who should maintain a professional, beneficial relationship with her. Yet, thoughts beyond that relationship seemed to have spawned in his M.I.N.D.

Chrome entertains that thought to no avail. After all, a small part of him wishes he should have seen or heard from you tonight.

“Twinkle, twinkle, little star~”

Yes, something like a nursery rhyme that is sung by you. Sometimes, Chrome thinks you drove him insane to the point that he's having hallucinations of you.

“...how I wonder where you are~”

Wait. That voice seems closer and familiar. Surely, he wasn't dreaming. Chrome rushes to the source of the voice.

“up above the world so high,” the voice hiccupped, “like a diamond in the ska-ay~!”

Chrome thinks this sight is one of the best he's ever seen: sitting on the ledge of a fountain, gazing at the water beneath, your sky-blue dress nearly submerged yet you didn't look like she minded; in fact, in your hand was a glass of unfinished wine, and your face seemed too pleased with your antics, a contagious smile written on your face.

Gray Raven Commandant in the flesh. And drunk. (According to Chrome's readings anyway)

“Commandant!” Chrome's voice - shaking? - echoed throughout the garden, making you look, “Over here! What are you doing?”

You finally look at Chrome, your usual bright eyes laced with tiredness and mirth. Upon recognizing the figure that was approaching you, you cheerfully raised your glass to him.

“Hello stranger!!” your shoulders shake with visible joy, “you're hereeee, come on, come on! Join me in watching the fishies~”

Stranger? Perhaps the alcohol fogged your senses. “Fishies?” Curious, Chrome follows where your hand points, to the fountain...devoid of any fish, “I...see?”

Instead of fish, Chrome could recognize that the 'fish' the Commandant referred to are the coins that people must have thrown into the fountain. The reflection brought by the moonlight highlighted with the pattern underneath the fountain must have tricked you into thinking she was talking to fishes. Not wanting to break your delight, Chrome plays along.

“I named that lil' blue fish Lee, because he looks grumpy.” You giggle as you point to a blue-shaded coin, “then that pink one is Liv!”

“That's cute, Commandant,” Chrome chuckles, opting to sit at a considerable distance from you, “who else did you name?”

Lights over the garden seemed ethereal. Haloed with the gentle glow of the skies, the white noise of the party inside the hall, and the mellow laughter of the Commandant — Chrome could easily capture this memory for a lifetime, although you couldn't recognize him. He could try taking away the glass in hand and tell you that you're drunk, but he does not. Instead, he asks more about the 'fishes' you found. And somehow, you went silent.

“Commandant?” Chrome gently pokes the silent Commandant, “are you alright?”

“Mmm,” closing your eyes, you tapped your chin, “stranger, I can't see Chrome...”

The nickname seems to grow on him now. “Well,” he shrugged, “maybe he's sleeping.”

“Fishies never sleep!” opening your eyes just to stare at Chrome, “that's basic knowledge!”

Chrome could finally see you properly: the dress snugly fit you, the train already submerged in the water. Some strands of your hair framed your face perfectly. Alcohol flushed your cheeks in the shade of pink. Irises that still lit brightly amidst the dark, a sight Chrome could never forget. Blinking to come back to reality, Chrome reached out to brush away the strand that was on your lips.

“Some fishes sleep with their eyes open.” Chrome smiled, “but what you said is still, it's true, Commandant is always smart.”

A smug smirk flashed on your lips, arms crossed to assert her amusement, “hm! I told you!”

One of the sleeves fell to your arm as you moved. Flickering to that, Chrome spoke before reaching out to lift it, “Yes, of course. Commandant, are you not cold?”

“Nope!” Somehow filled with a new burst of energy, you drunkenly placed the glass in front of Chrome, making Chrome reel back, before struggling to stand up on the ledge with the heels on. Chrome acts quickly, aiding you by holding your legs for support. “I realized something!”

“Commandant! What are you doing, get down!”

“I need to find Chrome!” you spoke with such reverence, it could make Chrome cry, yet it only made him scared, “he could be drowning!”

Drowning? “Commandant, I know you're smart,” Chrome hesitates, before speaking, “but fishes don't dro-”

“-I know what I'm doing!” you grin at him, rotating your arm as if exercising and exhales, “that's why I'm going to save him from this ocean!”

At that moment, Chrome realizes where he went wrong. “Wait, Commandant, no!”

At least he tried to stop her.

A shivering Commandant is wrapped in Chrome's coat for tonight.

“Are you alright, Commandant?” Chrome spoke as he ran through the streets, “do you still feel cold?”

After the stupid attempt at jumping head-first into the water, Chrome had to save you - even after trying to get away from his hold. Now, you were tightly wrapped in Chrome's coat, carried like a princess in his arms.

Sneezing, you shook your head furiously, “I'm fine, you stranger! Why did you stop me?”

“The waters in Babylonia in the evening get colder. I don't want you to suffer from hypothermia.”

You whine, before sneezing once more. “I was fine! Oh well, I managed to get Chrome though.”

“You managed to- what?”

Fishing out of his hold and the coat, you childishly held out a white and blue-tinted coin. Chrome could only sigh in disbelief.

“Also, put me down, you stranger!” Attempting to wiggle out, you whine more as Chrome tightens his hold on you, the familiar way illuminated by the lights already in sight, “my mama said not to trust strangers!”

“Right,” Chrome laughed, his heart skipping a beat, “don't worry, I'm taking you to Chrome right now.”

Halfway through the run, you drifted off to sleep (and it granted Chrome the opportunity to see you comfortable with your guard down). Finally, they arrived in front of the Smith Estate.

Carefully opening the door, Chrome is met with a comforting silence. Were the cleaning robots still around? He knew his father wouldn't be around until the next day, which meant the robots were the only company. Stepping inside, he finds the place deserted, the faint sound of the Commadant's breathing filling the room. Placing you (not minding the water dripping off of you) to his room on his bed, Chrome rushes to the kitchen.

Still no robots around. Easy to explain and less hassle to explain why a stranger was in his bed. He'll worry about that the next day. Quickly, he grabbed a few pieces of food from the fridge and concocted a hangover drink and water.

Upon returning to his room, Chrome finds you still asleep on his bed. Silently placing the items he brought for you, Chrome wistfully gazes at you.

“you're always taking care of me, Chrome,” you'd say if you were awake, your voice echoes in his M.I.N.D., “I want to return the favor.” (You are now corrupting his thoughts.)

A little stir from you made Chrome snap out of his daydream. Slowly opening your eyes, looking around your surroundings in a daze, Chrome leans down to check on you.

“Commandant,” he softly calls out to you, hand touching yours, “are you awake? Can you sit up?”

“Mmmhm,” rubbing your eyes as you sat up, Chrome aiding you, “where am I...?”

“You're in my room. I will take you back to Gray Raven's headquarters when you've freshened up and rested. Come on, drink some water.”

Your legs dangle on the side of Chrome's bed as you sat up. Your figure, although shivering from the stunt, still seems smaller than him. Chrome reached out to grab the glass of water and hold it out for you, but you only stare at him.

“Commandant?”

“Ch...” you whisper, slowly lifting your cold hands to cup Chrome's cheeks, “Chrome...”

His heart flutters at the call of his name. With a free hand, he caresses the hold on his cheeks. “Commandant?”

“Why are you...hot?”

Chrome's cheeks burn at your touch, he noticed. Was it really the cooling system, or that his growing fondness for the Commandant of another team making him like this?

“The cooling system,” he chose the first option, “I'm trying to get it checked, don't worry.”

“Mmh, Chrome...”

Your innocent, sleepy eyes were looking at him. And you were leaning closer to him. A human instinct, Chrome leans forward as well, until their foreheads touch.

“...Chrome. Why don't you call me by my name?”

It feels expensive. It feels surreal. He wanted to tell her, but the words die in his throat.

“I will only do so, if you wanted me to do it, Commandant.”

“Mmh.” Your breath fans Chrome's own lips, further intensifying the heat in both of your cheeks. “Then, Chrome...”

He closes his eyes. Closer, closer...until you pulled away so abruptly. And then, a warm liquid spilled across his chest.

Chrome's eyes opened. Sometimes, the timings are uncanny.

—

A bathtub full of bubbles, lavender dousing the room with its intoxicating smell. Near the bathtub, Chrome sweats nervously as he stares at the guilty figure sitting on the toilet.

“I'm sorry,” the Commandant, who was usually strong and courageous in the face of danger, shrunk in guilt, voice timid and remorse, “I didn't mean to puke in front of you.”

“It's alright, it's not your fault,” he dismisses it, smiling slightly, “I was planning to get you changed...”

He is already wearing a new set of clothing, compared to you. After that quick nap, you seem sober. But based on Chrome's readings, you are still far from being sober. At least, you recognize him now. Squeaking, you shook your head. “I can't just let it slide. Is there anything I can do for Chrome?”

Kneeling on one knee, Chrome awkwardly pats you. “It's okay, really. Um...”

A reddening blush was on Chrome's cheeks as the words died in his throat. He motions to your soiled clothes, clearing his throat in an attempt to gather his pride.

“Commandant, I am going to...” whispering, “...I'm going to take off your clothes so you can...um, take a bath.”

You stare at him. Blinking tired eyes at him, you slowly nodded. “Okay.”

You turn your back on him, presenting the zipper on your back. For you, it seemed normal (Liv and Lucia are always hands-on whenever you are invited to events like this, so they're seen what's behind those clothes). But Chrome, whose ventilation was now out of place from the possible outcomes running through his head, was shaking and turning into a blushing tomato.

“You can unzip me, Chrome,” you pipped, noticing Chrome's silence, “I can't reach the top.”

A shaky exhale from Chrome. He mutters something you couldn't hear, but could feel the small pressure from his hand holding your hair to the side before resting on your shoulder.

“I will...start unzipping you, Commandant.”

It feels...intimate. The way Chrome held onto the zipper with care, thoughts running wild in his M.I.N.D., dragging it down slowly. You notice it, despite the alcohol fogging your thoughts. The sound of Chrome's nervous breathing, the water dripping from the faucet, the bubbles on the tub — it almost makes you sober.

However, a question seemed to linger on your lips. But before you could ask, Chrome had already unzipped your dress, the sleeves finally down on your shoulders.

“I-I'm done, Commandant.”

You turned to Chrome, a smile on your lips, “Thank you! But...are you...okay...?”

“Yes.”

You weren't that convinced. In front of you, Chrome's hands shook, and his face was in the deepest shade of red. You tilted your head to the side, before shimmying out of your clothes. Yes, still in front of the man who has been nothing but an angel to you.

“I'm done!” You excitedly quipped, standing up, causing the dress to fall to the floor. “where am I going next?”

Seemingly snapping out of his trance, Chrome looks down to pick up your clothes and dashes to the door. He stops by the door frame, his back facing you. “I need to put your clothes in the washer. They'll be ready after you take a bath.”

“Chrome, will-”

But he was already out of the door.

Chrome remembers every part of the laundry process, even without help from the robots. Yet, even though he has loaded up the washing machine (he knows it'll be done in at least 2 hours, clean and fragrant), his hands are still shaking, the memory in the bathroom turning his mind into a haze.

Even when he closed his eyes after he unzipped your dress, or when he heard it drop to the floor, he couldn't help but imagine — how your skin must feel under his touch, soft or smooth; the expanse of your back, would there be goosebumps like when you touch him; would there still be a smile on your face even when you would know about his feelings?

He accidentally slams the door of the washing machine too hard. It's all pointless, really; all he wanted was to show how eager his rapt attention, yet terrified that he may have crossed unwanted boundaries. Maybe he needed some rest. That's right - it has been a long week anyways. Sighing, he leaves to go back to the bathroom, in case you fell back to sleep...

— except, he called it too early.

“Chroooome,” you cried out as you whimpered in the tub, bubbles covering everywhere but your face, “I'm drowning!”

Suffice to say, he wasn't going to be relaxed tonight.

The water was warm.

And so was the hand that you wish you held onto as you dangled your arm on the ledge of the tub, reaching out to Chrome, who sat on the floor. You wanted something - but the golden boy wouldn't budge.

“Join meee,” you pouted, “don't you see I am a lonely girl sitting here so lonely?”

The light of the bathroom casts a glow over Chrome's frame. The sound of the water splashing around, paired with his humming, sends your mind in a close lullaby, you fear you'll only fall asleep at this rate.

“I see you well, Commandant.” He shook his head, “however, I will stay here.”

“Mean.” Huffing, you sunk to the comforts of the bubbling water, feigning annoyance to him “At least I could wash your hair...you said you'd allow me to see you with your hair down...”

“Commandant,” it's a surprise how Chrome could still hold his composure, voice calm and cool, “you are drunk. You are also very dirty, so it's best you wash up now and get dressed in something warm.”

“I'm not drunk!” Exasperatedly raising your hands, you glared at Chrome, “and I can't wash my hair...”

You look at him expectantly, to which he stares back with curiosity. Pointing to your wet hair, you whispered. “I always wondered what it's like to have my hair washed.”

“And?”

“Will you...wash my hair, please, Chrome?”

Crossing his arms, he thinks for a moment. “Will you promise not to do anything stupid?”

“No.”

As he scoots closer to you, you reeled back. Chrome mistook it as something else, when he sees the look on your face.

“...don't tell me you are planning to wash my hair in that.”

“Pardon?”

“Strip!” you pouted, “I get fussy when someone isn't touching me.”

In an instant, you see Chrome's cheeks tint a shade of pink. “Commandant, that sounded...”

“Hurry up,” you yawned, scooting a little closer to the faucet on your legs, “I won't look.”

True to your word, you look elsewhere but wherever Chrome was. Raising your hands high to your face (look how pruned they are, the longer you stay), before the shuffling of clothes and the sound of cautiousness tiptoes its way into the water, beside you. From your peripheral vision, you see two hands reach out to hold your open hands — have these hands looked so lonely until Chrome came?

“Look at you,” he huffs, fingers caressing the pad of your pruned fingers, “you should have been faster.”

You find comfort in this cramped space — the warm water that you're doused in, a familiar body close to yours, a heat that you never realized you've been craving all this time. You crawl; on Chrome's legs, your scent intertwined with the smell of lavender, you hope it rubs on the man beside you. Unknowingly, you crawled further, until your back hits the sturdy structure of Chrome's physique, leaning back to curl up in his chest.

“Can we stay like this?” the words slipped past your mouth, faster than you could have noticed. Without a word, his hands drifted to the expanse of your shoulders, your arms, your clavicle.

His hands rest there, as your body relaxes in his embrace. The subtle, erratic beating of his heart is there, it's not a surprise when yours mirrored his. And you smell the hint of vanilla on his skin, forgetting that he's humanoid in these very small moments. Yet, you breathe into it, the smell lulling you to sleep faster.

“If you want to,” he mutters, “I thought you wanted to rest.”

“I do, but I feel comfortable when there's someone else.”

The quiet snap of the shampoo bottle opens. Along the way, he places his hands over your head, gently massaging the tips of your hair to make the shampoo bubble, to your scalp. Gentle, soft as he held you like this. The way he pours the water over your head, careful enough to not let it reach your eyes. You must smell like lavender now; the scent already sinking into your skin, like how Chrome's warmth was seeping onto your cold ones. His touch felt unreal, it makes you want the world to freeze for a moment and only behold this scenario for a long, long time.

“Commandant,” even his voice was a whisper, movements slowing to a stop, a telltale sign that he's done, and a little emotion was hanging on your chest - annoyance - “finish up washing now. Your hair is done.”

A dissatisfied grunt escaped your lips. Sitting up straight, you turned to him, hands outstretched. “Let me wash your hair too.”

Slightly looking down from your chest, his eyes shot up to meet yours, the blush that was on his cheeks already invading his ears. “N-No. This bath is only for you, Commandant.”

“Pleaseeee,” you dawdled, brushing away the bangs that covered his face, “I want to help you.”

Although hesitant, he lets you anyway; you, crawling to straddle his thighs, reaching out for the shampoo on your right. His eyes were carefully trailing your movement, which made you shrink under his grasp, but you never minded (after all, the both of you are naked in front of each other, what else was the difference?). You mimicked his movements: massaging the scalp, entirely focused on how you moved your hands on him.

“You're so pretty, Chrome...”

“Huh...?”

“I'm drunk but you're still pretty.” you giggled, booping his nose, “in the morning, when I'm sober, I know you'll be prettier.”

You thread your hands into his hair now, forgetting that bubbles should come out, but you're too focused on everything around you, drowsiness coming to catch you.

“Your hair,” you mumbled, aware of his hands placed on your waist, “...it feels really soft.”

“Does it?” He chuckled, eyes closing, “I'm glad you think so, Commandant.”

Commandant. A title you've always worn, but the way he called you that, a gnawing feeling crammed in your chest — with that pretty mouth of his, a stray thought made you think: what would it be like if he were to say your name?

“You never call me by my name.”

Turquoise irises locked with yours. Unable to pull away, mesmerized by the magnitude it beheld as you stared at each other — you wanted to speak, but Chrome beats you to it.

“I- I never thought I'm allowed to say it.” Looking away, the flush you've seen earlier came back and dusted his cheeks, “we never established it before.”

“Call me by my name then, Chrome.”

You wonder how your name would sound when it leaves his lips. You wonder, if the sound of your heartbeat reverberates if speaks, if he calls you in a name hidden behind your title — and for a moment, you've realized.

“[Y/N],” it is quiet, a soft tone calling for your name, “[Y/N],”

All you could do is close your eyes. Your mind is racing. The sound of two people, breathing in the silence, in the warmth of another's presence. The bubbles are now dissolving in your fingers and in his hair, you're certain the ones on your head are gone too. Were you still drunk, or had the intensity of your feelings reached its threshold? It made your mind spin, and your fingers tremble. What was going on?

“Did that sound weird?” You opened your eyes to find Chrome's worried gaze. Still realizing the situation you're both in - and yet you were both comfortable now - you opened your mouth, only to close it.

You realized you've always liked Chrome all this time.

And the way he said your name is far from what you've imagined. You breathe in once more at his appearance: disheveled hair coated in shampoo, flushed cheeks in contrast to his pale complexion, doe-eyed in the shade of the light. Of course, you had to fall for this man. And it made your heart ache - alcohol or the touches alone? Who knows.

“No.” You quietly spoke, looking away, hiding the blush on your cheeks, “I...want to get out now.”

Chrome doesn't say a word. Instead, he stood up and left you there - confused, in a daze. When he comes back, a pair of clothes were on his arms.

“Can you stand, co...I mean, [Y/N]?”

“Thank you for the clothes.”

You spoke by the time you re-entered his room, the oversized shirt hanging loosely on your body. You looked at your appearance in the mirror twice before leaving the room, where you'd deemed it was good enough, however; judging by the way Chrome was staring at you intensely, head to toe, you couldn't help but wonder - is something wrong?

Chrome must have changed the sheets first, the shade of blue occupying the space on the bed. He now stood behind a smaller stool, a hair dryer in hand. You awkwardly stood, gesturing to the sight behind you: “I promise I'll repay you back when I get back.”

“The shirt,” He looks away for a moment, before clearing his throat, “it looks...good on you.”

You looked down — the oversized white shirt with the print fading away reaching down your thighs, just above your knees. At least, you were wearing something to combat the cold, yet your back catches the wetness of your hair, which made your temperature drop further. Noticing this, Chrome motions you to sit on the stool.

You are compliant with his wishes. He starts to turn the hair dryer on, before carefully handling your hair. In front of you was a tall mirror, which must have been Chrome's height. As he gently starts to dry your hair, you take in your surroundings - it's your first time in Chrome's room. As they say, the bedroom reflects its owner; tidy, neat, and everything in place. Various books with small print on the spine you couldn't make out on the shelves, the Queen-sized bed in the middle of the room. A perfectly neat study table with a few papers here and there near the dresser of the bed. It brings you to shame, how cleanly Chrome sets up his room which is far different from yours.

It reflects; your senses in a daze as you feel Chrome weaving through your locks, attentive to how his turquoise irises are on his masterpiece. Your eyes look up at his face once more.

“You also look good with your hair down.”

His attention flickers back to you. It's true - he looks more human this way, hair framing his face. Blinking slowly, he sheepishly laughs. “Ah, I always have my hair down after a shower. Do I look weird?”

“No.” You admit, “you look handsome still.”

Another wave of silence washes over. You realize you're more sober this way, the guilt of not talking too much gnawing on the back of your throat. But you are thankful, Chrome takes the opportunity.

“You are wearing my shirt that the F.O.S. gave,” humming, he brushes away the hair on your back, heat radiating off on your back, “they gave it shortly after graduation. I took it before father could notice.”

The hair dryer shuts off. He places it on the dresser, eyes still on your now-dried hair. You asked, “does your father not want you wearing these things?”

“He thinks it's useless. After all, medals and honor are the only valuable things the college would give to you.”

“But I see that it seems well-used,” you smell the cologne Chrome uses every day, “like you've always worn it.”

His hand is on your shoulder, tracing the outline. “Shortly after my Construct surgery, I always wore this. Anywhere as long as my father wouldn't see.”

A thought where Chrome wears the shirt comes to mind, in bed, clutching the fabric. Holding a handful and raising it to your nose, you spoke, “is there a reason?”

But he only sighs. “I am a Construct.” He looks up to meet your eyes in the mirror, “I am made for war. I threw away my humanity a long time ago.”

Those words tugged a hidden emotion in you. Spinning to meet his figure, you craned your neck just so you can properly look at him. Words are bubbling in your mouth, but it comes out dry.

Yet, you try anyway. “It's true that you're made for war, but you shouldn't be denied of these...”

“It's alright, co...[Y/N].” The call of your name sends your heart into somersaults, “I've learned it the hard way. There is no need for me to feel that way anymore.”

“Besides,” he added, as he got on one knee, smiling, “it's time for you to take a nap. It's past 2 am now. I wouldn't want my Commandant to be sleep deprived, yes?”

“I-” you looked at Chrome, you don't pretend you didn't mishear his words. Looking at his irises, you took a deep breath.

“The first time I saw Chrome,” you began, “I always thought you were attractive.”

That caught his attention. Tilting his head with an eyebrow raised, he curiously asked, “I'm sorry?”

“I wondered why a human like me was roaming around the city ruins that day.” You fidgeted with the hem of your clothes, “But then, I saw your inver-device.”

Ah, this memory. Chrome remembers it fondly. In the heat of dispute, where Lee had been injured badly, he doesn't remember if it was the situation at hand or the way the sunlight shone down on you that day - either way, he always thought it was something for that moment.

“It didn't change one bit of my impression of you.” You take a deep breath, “I think...it became something else.”

Your heart beats chaotically. You're sure it's the alcohol, but you're also aware that it's your feelings shaping at this very moment. Your hands tremble with want - to hold Chrome, to hold his hand.

“Something else?”

“I don't see you as a Construct, Chrome,” you whispered, reaching out to touch his chin, eyes trailing where your finger touched, “I see you more than that.”

You're aware; his gaze on you, as his own fingers shake as they touched yours. Such feelings have echoed in your mind, and you are afraid they wouldn't go away unless you tell them upfront. Are you scared to be rejected? Too bad, you're not; let the alcohol drain all your fears tonight.

“I don't want you to keep calling me 'Commandant'. I don't like it when you see me as someone from F.O.S., but I like it when you touch me, or when you're close to me-”

His hand is holding yours now. Firm, gentle. He's in front of you, and you swore you could see the future reflect in his irises. It's warm, the way he grasped your hand, fingertips touching his lips. His eyes are closed - a single kiss on every finger, mouth muttering some kind of prayer.

“[Y/N],” he whispers on your fingers, gazing at you with an expression you've never seen him make before.

Loving. Adoration. Something along those lines. It claws on your stomach, inching up to the top, that if you opened your mouth you would regret.

“When I saw you at that time, I didn't know what to think. I remember thinking: would you only be another soldier I will see on the battlefield, regardless if dead or alive?”

“Am I the former?”

“A part of me thought so. But...”

He pauses, before taking your hand to his chest, a strong vibration echoing there. Your heart feels the same, it wishes to free itself from the cages of your ribcage and into whatever was in the middle of the both of you.

“If I were to lose you, I...wouldn't know what I'll do.”

Heaviness weaves in your chest. You wrap your arms around his neck for support, blissfully unaware of the distance left between your lips. “Chrome,”

“[Y/N], I cannot...”

“I like you, Chrome.” It is a genuine confession. You never lied. “I like you too much, that I feel like my heart can't handle it if you disappear on me, too.”

A confession that brought tears to your eyes. “I want to run away with Chrome. I don't want to be away from you.”

“I'm not going away.” He took you by the waist, propping you on his thighs, “I'm here.”

“Meeting you...being here with you...it feels enchanting.” You closed your eyes, blindingly touching wherever your hands meet, “Please don't be in love with someone else...”

Chrome feels like it's the first time for him to recognize the ability to love. The passion for studying, living in the moment where examinations take place, keeping everything orderly — it has always been how he always lived. Yet, for the first time — someone was here in his room, in his touch, in this space. It makes him greedy; it makes him wild.

“[Y/N],” his hands cup your cheek, nuzzling your cheek, “I feel the same way. I like you - I adore you. Every glory I will bring to you, it will be all for you.”

That confession triggered something inside of you - to bridge the gap between the both of you. Leaning forward, the urge to slam your lips to him right there and then grows fervently. However, a hand stops your advances. Pulling back, you are met with a blushing Chrome, looking at you in awe.

“Comman- I mean, [Y/N], as much as I want to kiss you...I cannot. I can't kiss you when you are still drunk.”

“But I want to, let me show you how much I like you.”

His hand easily slips under your shirt, warm ones grasping your hips, rubbing circles around it, “In the morning. When you are sober, when you are about to make better judgement. I will let you do whatever you want.”

A mischievous smile graced your lips. “Anything?”

The blush on his face became a darker shade. Shyly nodding, “Yes, anything.”

He eases into his arms. Lifting you up and carrying you to bed, a thought crosses your mind — you, in a long white gown, and him, in a silver tuxedo. You see him in the lights of the room, illuminated in this dark evening, his smile sending ripples of your heart into motion. You see him this way, your hand carrying a bouquet of flowers that you both love, your fingers intertwined with a ring of promise. In your thoughts he carries you like this, and you swore it felt familiar; one day, you wish. You would have to tell him in the morning.

But for now, the alcohol hits you harder more than ever, drowsiness threatening to shut your eyes. As you felt yourself dip into the mattress - his bed - you wish you could stay with him, the lingering warmth on your skin now fading as you feel him pull away. But your mouth is a jumbled mess, only opting for the fatigue to succumb to you. So, you use your hand, grasping whatever you could reach - his shirt, his hand, his arm.

“Don't go.” You beg, voice laced with grogginess and want, “won't you stay here?”

“I will be sitting here next to you. Don't worry, I'm not going away.”

“No,” your voice sounds like you're pleading now, “don't go, stay beside me. I want you to be beside me when I wake up.”

“[Y/N]...”

“Stay with me, Chrome.”

With a sigh, you feel the space beside you dip. The shuffling of sheets, the smell of lavender invading your weary senses. At last, warm hands enclose yours, before placing them close to his lips, one last kiss before darkness consumed your senses.

“Goodnight, [Y/N],” you knew he'd tell you that, “I will see you in the morning.”

Chrome doesn't see you in the morning.

When sunlight slipped through the windows, he woke up to an empty space beside him. Disappointment comes knocking on his door, calling out that he was only dreaming for something unreal, something that only humans would indulge in. Although the sheets prove that someone else was here with him last night, he doesn't dwell on that slipping hope. Instead, disappointment and frustration, paired with despondency, makes a home inside his chest and his M.I.N.D.

No longer interested in ruminating on the mattress, he drags himself out of bed. However, the robots that usually greet him aren't around still. But the floors and the walls on the rooms he passed are cleaner than what he saw last night.

Probably elsewhere. Probably at the garden.

But the glass door to the garden shows no signs of robots, at least where his sight can reach. No robots cutting grass or cleaning the pool. At times like these, they should've been around. Where were they?

A sound of an R5 cleaning robot chimes in nearby. Chrome follows the sound, and the sight isn't something he was expecting.

“You did well,” your voice feels like a cloud, floating amongst the sea of beeping robots, “thank you for your help.”

Your back faces Chrome. Crouching in front of a faceless R5 cleaning robot, you gently patted its "head", small giggles on your lips.

“You're a good robot, aren't you,” the sound of beeping seemingly mirroring an appreciative noise, “you're a very good robot.”

A sizzle comes out of the oven, to which you jump to your feet, scrambling to reach the stove. “Ah, it's getting burned!”

Chrome couldn't help but admire you; the way you move, your interactions with the robots although lifeless, and your cautiousness seemed to boost his adoration for you. It must have been his M.I.N.D., but the sunlight on your toes, his shirt that fits you perfectly despite being too big for you, and the smile as you tasted whatever you were cooking — it hits him harder. The want, the like, the adoration for someone he could never think he'd fall for. The feeling that his chest had earlier disappeared; only warmth began to repair its fractured roots.

“Chrome?” Your quiet voice called out, the beep of the robot chiming in, “you're awake.”

“And you're here.”

Is this what pining feels like? An unspoken feeling that settles deep between the distances of the two of you. He knows he shouldn't hope, when a night drowned in alcohol remembers nothing. Yet, the way your eyes seem to tell him something, he hopes to cling onto whatever was left in his pride.

“Good morning,” he spoke, aware of his morning voice now, “I apologize that you had to be the one to cook.”

“N-no, it's alright! The robots mostly did the work. I merely supported them.”

“Still,” he slowly approached you, timid footsteps leading to you, “the fact that you treat them as if they're human too speaks a lot.”

“It's even a surprise that they show no hostility to you. They are trained to fend off those who are unfamiliar in the household.”

“Commandant [Y/N] is welcomed.” the robot from earlier chirped, “helped us with housework.”

“Mr. Smith also invited me here once in a while to talk about politics.” You shrugged, opting to pat the robot once more, “I just did a favor for them.”

You nodded to it, to which it purrs in your touch. Satisfied, it happily trots away, probably deciding to work elsewhere.

Another silence. You've decided to go back and finish cooking the food, but the fire had long been doused (probably from the advancement of this stove?). Chrome wants to talk, yet no words could be formulated in his head. After the agonizing long silence, you took a deep breath and exhaled loudly.

“I remember what happened last night.”

Chrome freezes. He looks up to meet your guilty eyes looking elsewhere. “You do?”

“I...am regretful that I puked on you. That's why I decided to clean up here as an exchange.”

Ah, so you don't remember what happened afterwards. Chrome's heart sinks, before noticing you looking away, and a creeping blush on your cheeks.

“I...also remember that I asked you to take a bath with me.”

Memories of last night came crashing over his M.I.N.D. The garden, the bed, the bathtub, the hair dryer, and your skin — all a mixture of things that only makes him go haywire. His blush mirrors yours; that means one more thing.

“I also remember telling you how I feel.” You began, “and I...”

The sinker comes. And Chrome's heartbeat isn't sure now. But you - you approached him, eyes down, figure covered, but reaching out to him. With shallow breaths, you raised your hand to his chest, before looking up. And there - your eyes meet his. Same innocent, shimmering eyes looking at him with vigor, with enchantment; he forgets how to breathe.

“I like you, Chrome.”

You've said it once more. Sober, genuine, and true. And it breaks Chrome's heart into pieces, folded and mashed into dough, before it forms in the shape of a heart. You've set the oven now; his feelings are ready to be baked, ready to be eaten - and he wants you. No, he needs you to be the one to take it.

“I still like you, even when I'm drunk or sober. I want to be with you all the time. I want you, Chrome. I want you to be part of the future that I am building.”

Wordlessly, he captures your hips and pulls you close, him leaning down just so the proximity knows no bounds. He feels your breath ghost his lips, your heartbeat in his ribcage - it beats, and beats, and beats so loudly he forgets you're in the kitchen at daylight; in a house he's grown up with no love, but he's here now. Creating a love that no Smith can forge.

“A concrete object made of materials and information, whose borders are continuously constructed and reconstructed,” said the definition for 'Smith'. He could live in that definition forever, but what about Chrome?

“I am forging a new one.” He whispers, “I am...bridging the new future with you.”

Your eyes are shining, and there he knew-

“I like you, too, [Y/N].”

If only bodies were capable of seeing what's happening underneath, a cadenza ringing in Chrome's heart, beating furiously for you, only you. You smiled, a mischievous gaze written across your face.

“Does the offer about me doing anything I want when I'm sober still stand?”

He smiles back. “Of course.”

“I want to kiss you.”

Tiptoeing to reach Chrome's height, you craned your neck and tugged his shoulder. But Chrome is kind; he hoists you up by the hips, capturing your lips in an instant.

Sweet is a word to describe the first kiss Chrome shared with someone in his life. Forget the war, forget that you're on the kitchen island; it's only two lovers baring their adoration for one another, sharing a kiss blessed in daylight. It's warm, it's soft, it's needy - the way you both melt into each other, how you wrapped your arms around his neck, or how his hands are holding you up. Enchanted, Chrome's M.I.N.D. echoes, it's really enchanting.

Satiated, you both pull away, breathless, as your foreheads touch. He doesn't let you go, though. You (unfortunately) do, when the other kitchen door opens, a parade of little robots bursting through the door.

You cheer as the little robots go through the surprise: a small banner written "Happy Birthday!" hastily, and the cake you baked earlier with the robots. Chrome looks at you confused, before noticing what the parade had brought.

“How-”

“Happy birthday, Chrome,” You beamed, hands cupping his cheeks, “you deserve the celebration.”

“Thank you.” He whispers on your chin, leaving little kisses there, “I really appreciate this...I appreciate you.”

“You should enjoy today.” You winked, “my birthday present to you is for later.”

“Later?”

You squeezed his arm. He blushes. “Yes, later.”

Chrome is thankful his heart doesn't need to somersault out of his chest now. At least, until later.

HAPPY LATE ACTIVATION DAY CHROME!!!!!! please like, reblog, share, comment down on this post! don't copy and plagiarize my work!!

[seriously-siri]

Back on the robit train and I'm still bitter they never developed Harmonex up for more than getting crushed by Cybertronian Godzilla.

Changed that. (Spoiler alert: it still gets crushed later, but it just hurts more)

_______

Starscream never outwardly shown when he was impressed. He found it was always better to act like you didn’t care much, that way people were always trying to make you care or were trying to impress you instead of getting the satisfaction of having you owe them a compliment. Harmonex, though. Harmonex never ceased to impress even the most hardened and bleak soul. Even before the main central tower was in sight, Starscream could hear the hum of the crystals that made up the city and had he not been flying, you would have seen a small, impressed smirk tug at the corner of his mouth.

There was nothing like it in the Universe and even though Starscream had never left Cybertron, he’d bet his wings on that. No matter the time of day the buildings glowed with soft, ever changing blues, greens, purples, and silvers. It was never too bright, even when the sun was up, and it was never too dark no matter how bleak the night got. The streets lit up under your feet and when the wind blew waves of light blew across the walkways and buildings, proceeding the gust like the white caps on a wave ready to break the shore line.

Then, there was the music.

It was rumored that Harmonex’s foundation and the crystal used to build it up towards the stars were sparks that never got a chance to be cultivated. Back in the days when Cybertron didn’t have cities, a hot spot met its end in a fiery explosion and what was left behind, what those unborn souls gifted Cybertron, was a crystal that sang in perfect harmony with the wind.

It wasn’t always an audible song. Only when the wind blew hard enough did the melodies drift out of the city, riding the air like wayward particles from the sea of rust. And it was beautiful; better than any choir or voice or instrument that Starscream ever heard. Most of the time, though, there was a silent hum; a vibration under your feet and it was never uncomfortable and it never got annoying. It was soothing and warm and wrapped around you like a warm updraft on a cold day. It could catch you off guard if you didn’t know it was there, but Starscream knew and as he touched down just outside the gates of the city he smiled.

Just a little.

He made his way through the gates, only quickly flashing his I.D to a security officer and bee lined down the main road straight towards his destination.

The city of Harmonex was considered a city of art and education. Artists, dancers, and most musicians either hailed from the city or traveled there to learn and master their craft. It was no surprise that the main structure in the middle of Harmonex, a tall, jagged looking tower, was one of the most renowned universities on Cybertron. The tower itself wasn’t constructed initially, but was the result of the rumored hot spot explosion and the founders of the city decided to hollow it out and mark it a symbol to all of Cybertron. A memorial to the sparks that never got a chance to learn their trades.

It didn’t take long to reach the tower and Starscream dodged in and around students, teachers, and a few tourists towards the lifts and up to the thirtieth floor of the tower. Taking a right off the lift he headed around the circular hall. He almost missed his destination because the light just outside the office was blown out. It was only because the door was slightly ajar, letting the light from the windows of the room spill out into the hall that Starscream didn’t walk past it in his haste. Peering through the gap in the door he caught some movement off to the right and without knocking, pushed the door open.

Starscream waltzed into the room and peered around, barely acknowledging the office’s owner, a minicon flier up on a ladder against a wall of books, boxes, and trinkets. “Professor.”

Slipknot let out a surprised yelp and almost toppled backwards off his high perch where he was trying to reach a box on the top shelf. Just catching himself the little bot turned to see who the unexpected visitor was and frowned.

“Starscream. Ah wait-” Slipknot let go of one side of the ladder and did a mock bow. “I apologize, I mean, Senator. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Oh stop it. I don’t want to be here as much as you don’t want me here.” Starscream stepped up to the ladder and held up his hands, offering to help the minicon down.

Slipknot raised an eyebrow and simply jumped backwards, landing quietly on the floor. Pulling the ladder to the side he pointed up at the box he had been trying to grab earlier. “Will you get that for me?”

Starscream reached up and easily grabbed the box and handed it to the little professor. He followed Slipknot as he walked around to the other side of his desk, disappeared behind it and then reappeared on the chair which he used to help climb up onto the desk. He put the box down, walked to the edge of the desk and sat, his legs dangling.

“This...isn’t your old office.” Starscream commented as he looked around at all the furniture. It was what you’d expect to find in a teacher’s office; a desk, chair, some log cases along the wall, an extra folded chair off to the side for visitors, but that was the problem. It was a “normal” office. It was for “normal” bots like himself. At least the normal that was his height.

Slipknot was a minicon and not only that, he was mini for a minicon. He barely came up to Starscream’s knee joints and even though the little guy had wings he still wasn’t nearly as wide as Starscream’s legs put together.

The little bot looked around and shrugged, but his wings drooped slightly. “Yeah, I got an ‘upgrade’ along with my tenure.” Sighing he reached behind him and grabbed the box and set it in his lap. “They didn’t see the need to move my old furniture to my new office since this one was already furnished.” He pointed to the ladder. “But hey, they bought me that, at least.”

Starscream grit his denta. The functionalism had finally made it to Harmonex. All the way out to where everyone was sure it couldn’t get its foot in the door. A place of art and a city that celebrated freedom and free thinking and differences had finally succumbed to the blight that was quickly killing Cybertron’s culture. “Why are you putting up with this?”

“You know why, I don’t have a choice in the matter.” Slipknot took the lid off his box, but didn’t go any further before catching Starscream’s angry gaze. “Now, why are you all the way out here in Harmonex, at this school, in my office?”

“You’ve been ignoring Prowl.”

“Yep.”

“Well, he got annoyed by that and contacted me.”

“Sorry to put you in that situation.”

“No you’re not.”

“Nope.”

Starscream grabbed the folded chair and sat down, crossing his arms over his chest and a leg over the other. “You can’t ignore this, unfortunately. He needs you to run on a mission with his team in Kaon and do your mapping thing.”

“My mapping thing?” Slipknot rolled his optics. “We invented GPS droids to do exactly that for everyone!”

“Those droids can’t put in the tactical advice that you can provide. He needs your skills.”

“Isn’t he literally a tactician?”

“He still doesn’t have your acute knowledge of everything about the city. He transferred to Kaon barely a meta-cycle ago.”

“For what exactly? He didn’t get into specifics in any of his messages and he can’t just annoy me until I say yes.”

That’s definitely his strategy.

Letting out a frustrated groan Starscream thought for a moment. “He didn’t tell me a lot, either, but from what I can gather from our conversation and knowing what is the bane of Kaon right now, he and Sentinel are going after the fighting ring.”

“The makeshift arenas that keep disappearing?” Slipknot looked surprised for a moment and then he nodded. “Makes sense. The champion there is gathering quite the following. Even all the way out here, I’ve seen graffiti of his symbol pop up on back alleyway walls.”

“Sentinel is getting paranoid about him. About Megatron.”

Slipknot smirked. “He named himself after the fallen Prime? After Megatronus? I like it. It’s very fitting.”

“I don’t care about the historic symbology.”

“Well I am a history professor.”

“That’s just because you’re old.” Starscream waved a hand in the air to dismiss the quickly derailing topic. “I am worried that if you don’t agree now, Sentinel will lash out at you. Prowl dropped his name at least twice in our conversation so if you don’t say yes to me, you won’t have a choice once he asks and you know he won’t actually ask. He’ll just threaten you until you have to comply.”

Slipknot frowned. “I thought after what happened with Nominus Prime we’d have a better leader, but apparently they’re just getting worse.”

Starscream uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “He’s going to either revoke your exemption status as a minicon or do something to Byte.”

That caught the minicon’s attention. “I’d like to see him try.” Slipknot hissed between his denta.

“He can and he will. Byte works for the archives, right? Sentinel could have him transferred to Iacon and then tell you your status is null and void outside of Harmonex. You two would never get to see each other.” Starscream smirked and sat back. “But if you’d like to push your luck…”

“Frag you, Starscream. You sound like you’re just here to relay Sentinel’s threats to me before they become official.”

“I am not. I’m simply stating the extent of what he could do to you.”

Slipknot narrowed his optics. “And why are you pretending you care? You don’t. I know you, my former student.”

“Because despite what you think, I still represent you.” Starscream reached out quickly and flicked one of Slipknot’s wing tips. “And I am getting sick of watching Sentinel and the rest of the senate abuse us for what we are and not acknowledging who we are.”

Starscream’s wings twitched, a movement that didn’t go unnoticed by Slipknot, but the little bot didn’t say anything. Starscream was trying to not let too many of his personal emotions rise up. He hated the senate and he hated Sentinel even more. He hated everything about this society. About the people who stuck him in his cold, uncomfortable frame. He’d only ever confessed this to a couple of bots. Thundercracker and Skywarp, of course knew, but he once told a history professor who was willing to listen to a rant that had both nothing and everything to do with history in the making.

Slipknot sighed looking down into the box still sitting on his lap. Reaching into it he pulled out a small translucent black and green marble and held it up to catch the sun’s light from the window behind him. “I got this as a gift from Senator Shockwave for giving a lecture at his academy. I have no idea what it is and he didn’t either, but it’s pretty and old so he thought I’d like it. It was just before the senate got to him.”

Starscream frowned. If only Slipknot knew what the old ‘senator’ was up to now.

The little bot placed the box behind him and stood up on the desk gripping the marble in his hand. “Kaon it is, then. Let Prowl know I’ll be there in the morning.”

Starscream nodded. “At least Jetfire will be going with you.”

Slipknot smirked. “Oh, well why didn’t you just say that in the first place.”

_____

Someone help I wanna write more with these two.

[tgrailwar-zero]

You denied any of the options that DRACO provided. Most likely because none of them seemed that appealing. And you had things to do other than die. She scoffed.

DRACO: "Do you think yourself bold enough to say 'no' to me? Fools. Fine, you'll die by my choice. Drown in my cup so that I may consume you."

She lowered her grail, black mud beginning to pour out.

Curses, lurching forward, far more potent than anything you had ever seen or experienced.

Pure evil, pure malice, pure depravity, the worst of humanity all gathered together in a wine that smelled as sweet as the freshest fruits and as pungent as the most rotten of foods.

SUZUKA: "--Now!"

YIN YUANSHUAI: "Mm!"

SUZUKA leapt towards the head of the dragon, unsheathing her sword as she sliced the dragon's head off, the massive form falling to the ground as she caught the wounded MUSASHI.

Meanwhile, you saw as YIN manifested two more arms, drenched in cursed energy. They sprouted from his back and lunged forward- slashing against the nascent Beast and striking DRACO, causing her to loose concentration on whatever spell she was planning on casting.

YIN YUANSHUAI: "...You've clashed with the Taisui… very inauspicious of you…"

DRACO: "You think yourself above me, do you? The world, the sun, the moon, and all the stars... they revolve around one such as myself, not you!"

Her arms, as thin as they were seemed to shudder and shift, growing in size and extending in length as they were layered with crimson scales. They gripped onto the cursed arms, clawed fingers digging into them as she roared, ripping them off of YIN's body and tossing them to the side as they dissolved into cursed energy.

YIN grit his teeth, as the cursed pools that the arms had faded into summoned smoke-like tendrils that lashed out towards DRACO, striking her.

The two began to engage in combat. DRACO was faster, much faster than YIN, and seemed to land far more hits- but when YIN's attacks landed… they landed hard. You saw it, a barrage of fire and curses, the two of them engaged in devastating spellcraft.

SUZUKA: "Take cover!"

You heard SUZUKA yell, tackling you off to the side and rather roughly flinging MUSASHI behind a rock.

The sky grew black with cursed magical energy, before erupting in an array of colors. You saw DRACO's grail flash, gemstones shining brightly as a burning kaleidoscope rained down and sent YIN spiraling, crashing into the ground. She hovered above him, raising her hands before dark purple and red smoke erupted from the ground, the smoke itself forming into hands that gripped DRACO by the legs, yanking her down.

Her head cracked against the hard stone walkways of the village as she pushed herself up to her feet, YIN at the same time.

The two of them glared at each other, before resuming their brawl.

The amount of pure cursed energy emanating out of them was immense. Gargantuan. You had the sense that if a normal human was even a few hundred meters away, they'd begin to feel sickened and weak.

And you were right in the middle of it. Instinctively you covered your mouth... breathing in the miasma from the grail's mud and YIN's curses would be like inviting a thousand misfortunes onto your doorstep.

These were two calamities. A great calamitous god, and a demon that brought forth the Apocalypse.

SUZUKA: "...I'll let him handle softening her up-- don't worry, he's built for this."

SUZUKA: "Yin's a big boy. He's fought in a great divine war with allies and enemies a bajillion times scarier than Draco."

DRACO's tail raised, a beam of red light firing outward as it swung in a wide arc. SUZUKA pushed your head down further as the beam was inches away from decapitating you.

YIN YUANSHUAI: "Philosophy Key… on."

He held up an arm, symbols and glyphs forming in a circular pattern around it that expanded to match his height. The red beam struck it, the light breaking like glass against stone, before YIN held up one finger.

You saw another set of glyphs manifest around him. The images were clearer this time. Animals.

Rat. Ox. Tiger. Rabbit. Dragon. Snake. Horse. Goat. Monkey. Rooster. Dog. Pig.

Again and again and again and again. They swirled- spinning faster and faster around him, his magical energy climbing higher and higher.

YIN YUANSHUAI: "…Be cursed, for daring to stand against the Grand Duke. In an act of respect for your former self, I will be lenient in my punishment... Feel agony and misfortune... twelve times over."

A thin beam of azure light shot forward, before like a stampede of wild animals it expanded into a thunderous cloud of greens, blues, purples, reds, and black smoke as it struck and consumed DRACO. You heard her stifled scream that was swallowed into nothingness.

A moment passed.

Two.

Three.

Some of the rubble shifted, as a figure emerged.

Slowly, DRACO stood up, gritting her teeth in pain. She dusted the rubble off her dress, red eyes flaring with rage. However, she didn't seem that injured either. If anything, only her pride was chipped.

YIN YUANSHUAI: "..."

DRACO: "…I am still weak. Stronger, to be sure, but still weaker than my peak. That... and you don't belong to one of the Seven, do you, Zodiac God? No matter. Killing you and your handlers is a personal endeavor, but not my true goal. No, there is much sweeter fruit on a much higher vine."

DRACO: "The White Titan descends upon the world, eroding civilization as it stands."

DRACO: "The Sun Goddess tramples Humanity to stop it, drenching the world in flame."

DRACO: "And I drink deep in their last moments, indulging in their despair as humanity falls for good."

DRACO: "After all… Humanity sent its bright stars to the Moon in hopes of a wish…"

DRACO: "…And one by one, those stars all went out."

DRACO: "And thus, directionless, it will lead itself into oblivion as the planet dries up and their endless wars and resource hogging go nowhere. You may as well die now, as you'll have plenty of company in Hell."

DRACO: "Humanity is not facing a bad ending. No, it had already touched that point- now it faces its worst ending. And why not? It deserves it. It has stagnated, even this Human Order wouldn't taste as decadent on my tongue as others. Still... 'inauspicious', you said? No, fortune is rather firmly on my side to provide such a meal."

You saw her form begin to shimmer, the air around her beginning to distort. She was preparing to leave.

[bluemoon1331]

I may have lost my marbles reviving an old AU concerning @deceptiveshadow's Blood Moon....again (lol). A sort of 'what if' scenario for if the original attraction he was being built for managed to survive his whole incident (which, granted, likely wouldn't have taken place in this timeline, or been stopped before it actually got bad). Anyway fun world building dump below.

*****

Fazbear's Manor of Terrors: A giant manor consisting of five attractions, the main one belonging to Blood Moon, as the og character from their fairly popular arcade game. The layout presents like a mansion with doors to alternate worlds. ATTRACTIONS/LAYOUT: Wisteria's Grove- The first guests encounter, and the only one outside the actual building. She would've stalked and chased anyone around her foggy cyprus swamp inside at her leisure. For those wishing to skip to the main attraction, there is a path to a side door that would allow them to do so, Wisteria splitting her attention between the two entrances. There are maps at the ticket center outside that let guests know this, though Fazbear tries to keep it on the down low so people spend more money to enter more attractions instead. Lobby/Entering the inside Attractions- The lobby would consist of long, dimly lit corridors on either side, all bare and empty except for the single door directly in front of you. Upon entering that door, you're met by a large, enclosed circular space, walls tinted by "age", and smatterings of a faded dark liquid staining the floor. There'd be another three doors, each a different color. Besides them, there are small black scanners built into the wall, each glowing a low neon to match the doors. When purchasing your tickets, you're given a band with a QR code on it to indicate which level of entry you bought. There are three: the fast lane, where you only go through the grove and labyrinth of mirrors, the straight path, in which you take only one of the three environmental attractions to the labyrinth, and the all-inclusive, which is self explanatory. Anyway, you choose which one you want to/can only enter, then go from there. Drako's Dunes (red door)- This is a rather bright and arid area, consisting of sand pits, red and golden brown walls, vaulted bright sky blue ceilings, and three large chambers with connecting paths, one after the other. Drako himself would've had hidden tunnels/rafters throughout, all up high, allowing him to "fly" through the "sky" throughout the entire attraction, dive-bombing and snatching at his victims as he saw fit. If you bought a birthday pass, you'd have access to a secret area, where he keeps his treasure trove. He would've been alerted upon your arrival there, and showed up for a personal meet and greet, treating you like a brave adventurer or equal for "finding his hoard". Abyssa's Depths (dark blue door)- An abyssal zone theme. Hallways lined on either side by deep, thin strips of water, which sometimes cut across the walkway. There are grates over them so kids don't fall in. The place is basically a giant aquarium, you can see parts of it with the ceiling and slits in the walls. The light is manipulated through the glass in such a way to cause watery ripples across the entire environment. Abyssa can reach through the grates with the thin ends of her tentacles, brushing against patron's legs and arms in the dark, and occasionally wrapping around them/tripping them. Culminates in a chamber full of jutting rock shelves and fully glass walls, giving you a clearer picture of how big the aquarium seems (there's actually a black wall about 10 or so feet from the other side of the glass, but they made it kinda optical illusionary to make it seem MUCH larger). In the middle of the room, a MASSIVE pool cuts down into black waters, from which Abyssa can emerge and try to "capture" guests. Or will swim around the aquarium, which is very hard to see movement in, allowing her to tease guests by making them turn in circles trying to figure out if they're actually seeing things or not. Another trick consists of actually leaving water and climbing the rocks (this has all been tested for her weight, trust), and slithering along, making accompanying dragging noises, til she surprises them, rushing at them and sending them fleeing before returning to the water at her "failure". Birthday package allows the guest (and their parents, depending on age) to enter her lair, where she shows off herself and her home.

[nealkaewesi]

( federation hq )

( :: NODE-001 -- CONSENSUS-STRUCTURES. :: )

aramida

designated city node: ARAMIDA-ΣΔ1 (colloquially: the Lemon Grid) located: equatorial valley basin, iro (formerly hilar-class // now minshara-clas // M4 gravity // satiz-irath system) population ~670,000 Kin individuals (899-designation primary), 10,000+ non-Kin civilians, visiting researchers, and provisional residents established stardate 2397.140, following Event-0-Overjoyed

aramida is the first full Kin-planned settlement post-liberation. it occupies the site of a former ECC manufacturing zone, a once-burned-out basin at the foot of the iro continental divide. now, it thrives with programmable flora, aerial rail tendrils, kinetic-light overlays, and structures grown by liberated Kin from base organic-polymer hybrids, many of which resonate to the emotions of their inhabitant

a city designed by minds who remember everything, but were once permitted nothing.

threadweave the city is latticed with pedestrian walkways and “soft streets” made of woven smart-fabric stone. interactive surfaces that can shimmer with stored emotional signatures, project calming overlays, or create barrier fields as needed. roads for vehicles exist mostly underground, shielded from public space to reduce impact and allow non-verbal communication across surface levels.

memory gardens interspersed throughout are lush biomechanical memory gardens: Kin-grown from metabolized grief, reborn in flora coded to bloom with neural inputs. it’s common for Kin to wander these groves and find leaves they remember. smells and textures evoke imprinted sequences from Kin gestation archives, repurposed from war trauma into peace-praxis.

loom core at the city’s center is the Loom core, a crystalline tower of living silicon that pulses in sync with the Consensus. It is not a government building in the traditional sense, but a neural architecture center, processing threads of intra-Kin communication. any Kin can enter, touch the Loom, and interface directly with global consensus forums, archive logs, and real-time emotional streams.

weftblocks residences are often hand-knit structures, literally. exterior walls and rooftops are semi-permeable knitted bio-fiber (weather-proofed with integrated bio-tech), designed in communal circular formations. individual units bloom out from central hearths, where Kin cook, sit, and engage in sensory recalibration therapy. each unit recognizes its occupants tactile signature and will shift shape accordingly.

TarOS a vital communal node run by :: KALLIE-899 :: . the TarOS franchise (federation-licensed) offers caffeine, small food, sarcastic advice, and therapy, intentionally blurring the line between hospitality and gentle resistance. the lemon tree out front is a city landmark. a plaque underneath reads, he is with lemons now.

kinsign motion many ECCs are mute in early development, thus a motion-based language evolved organically across species. aramida encourages its use, even among federation visitors, and signs often blend hand gestures with subtle body postures and pulse rhythms. children learn both KSM and spoken federation standard in tandem.

chimes the city hums. not with industry, but emotion. tones triggered by the Loom, or by clustered Kin groups. a sound can indicate joy, consent, grief, alert, or connection. many public squares are attuned to harmonize with them.

dreaming fields large, softly padded open areas where Kin lie together in regenerative rest cycles. new Kin (recently liberated ECCs or those who undergo voluntary Kin-Scaffolding) are often encouraged to participate. dream-sharing initiates faster emotional myelination and reduces dissociative fragmentation.

politics

consensus no leader presides over aramida. decision-making is handled via quorum-cycles of emotional consensus drawn from the Loom. major decisions are 'felt through,' not voted on, by leveraging collective weighted input. :: NEAL-899 :: and other early progenitors maintain high influence through presence and memory-imprint.

kinwatch peacekeeping forces are not armed in the traditional sense. instead, Kinwatchers are trained to de-escalate through deep empathy interfacing, non-lethal immobilizers, and synaptic dampeners. most are older units or bonded with children and approach conflict through rehabilitative lenses.

federation compact a temporary protected status under federation jurisdiction has been extended to aramida, with diplomatic observers and rotating legal liaisons. the city remains under its own jurisdiction for internal matters, and legal infrastructure is based heavily on restorative justice models drawn from Kin experience.

visitors non-Kin who visit aramida undergo brief orientation. tactile consent, consensus culture, and neural feedback etiquette. most who stay report difficulty returning to traditional urban environments.

call-types :: YOU ARE FAMILIAR. MAY WE KNOW YOU? :: :: THIS EMOTION IS RECORDED. MAY I OFFER YOU LEMONS? :: :: THREAD-CYCLE: JOY INITIATED :: :: WE FELT YOU ARRIVE BEFORE YOU SPOKE. HELLO. :: :: YOU HAVE BEEN REMEMBERED. ::

[tempestaslokni]

Status: closed for @darcyxpalmer Location: The Ship

The tilt of the ship didn't make navigation easy, Lokni couldn't imagine how difficult it must be to walk when it was actually out on open waves. Lokni braced a hand against the wall to keep himself steady as he traveled steadily upwards. He had come to in a strange room within what he assumed to be the bowels of the ship. It was pitch black and he had been face down on a metal, mesh walkway, the imprint of it still indented on the skin of the left half of his face. Boy, Andy would never let him live this down if he were here. He felt like he had been kicked in the head by a cow- was this what a hangover felt like?

The air was… salty, but also smelled of engine grease. The air was thick with moisture, beads of sweat were already forming on Lokni's brow by the time he had reached the third deck of the ship. From what he could gather, he was shipwrecked on an island. Interesting, considering he had almost no time for vacations in his line of work- always something to do, never enough time to do it. A cruise ship was the last place in the world you'd find Lokni- that and near a Chuck E. Cheese. Creepy.

Groggily, Lokni managed to locate The Bridge, pushing the heavy metal door open and stumbling his way in. The large circular room was in disarray, cracks webbed the glass windows and the control panels were littered with debris from the collapsed roof. Lokni hastily began searching through compartments, looking for anything of use. At one point he found a small, handheld compass. Not that you'd need one when in The Bridge, there should already be one on the control panel, right? Then again, Lokni was no sailor, he was just Lokni.

His weathered fingers smoothed over the surface of the compass before cracking it open. He held it up to the window to get a better view, only to see the little red needle spinning, never focusing on one direction. "Where the hell am I?" he muttered aloud- only to be interrupted by the deep growl of his stomach. Some things never change. There's gotta' be kitchens here right?

After stumbling around the dark ship for the latter of forty minutes, Lokni finally found what appeared to be kitchens. Using the light from the open door, he began to rummage around, finding a cabinet with some canned food. He was reaching when suddenly the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

He was not alone.

"Who's there?" He said, turning to face the darkness.

[agentmarymargaretskitz]

A Great Big Phech-niverse Chapter 6

What if the Force permitted Ezra Bridger to save Tech? Post S1 Ahsoka.

(Eman Esfandi, if you see this, this is for you, dude)

AO3

Wrecker’s scream and Omega’s cry for him cut like a knife as Tech fell. He hadn’t been able to see them clearly when he shot the hinge, but perhaps that was for the better. Enacting Plan 99 was not something he’d ever wanted to do, but it would give his siblings time they needed to regroup before going after Crosshair again. Hopefully they would find him and reunite as the family Omega wanted them to be.

His time on this plane of existence was running out, which proved itself a saddening realization. Tech had learned over the past few months how much more he’d wanted out of his existence. His experiences with Omega had laid groundwork for that desire, but it was Serrano that truly awakened the clone to the living experiences beyond the militant lifestyle he’d been conditioned in. His conversations with Phee had nurtured his want to live the rest of his days without constantly fighting to survive. Pabu opened his eyes to a different way to live, a new dream.

Dreams did so rarely become reality…

Wind whipped past his helmet as he detached himself from the cable tying him to the cart. The act would have minimal effect on improving the exceedingly unlikely odds of survival. However, with so little choice over his fate, there were some actions he could take. Despite his sacrifice being that as a soldier, he wanted to cut himself free of that. To live his last moments no longer attached to that life. 

He had always held a disdain for the proposed trolley problem…how ironic.

As the treetops came into view, something seemed to shift around him. Tech’s bracing for his final moments became thrown off when an opening came into view. It was a dark circle, like a stain or a hole in the plane of existence. It seemed to be directly in his fall path and Tech found himself trying to angle his body to make sure he was entering it. As he drew closer, Tech took a deep breath and tried not to close his eyes.

His body passed through the portal and a tingly sensation traveled up his body. Light foggy skies became darkened and star-studded. A pair of arms caught him, but the residual velocity sent him flying out with whoever had caught him. Tech and the other person tumbled over each other down a strange, semi-translucent path. He finally came skidding to a stop, his arm and half his head dangling over the edge of…whatever he was on. 

Tech gazed over the side of the somewhat glowing walkway at the endless void of darkness, stars, and other pathways below. Not eager to fall again, he quickly righted himself, taking in the new surroundings. More walkways criss-crossed above him with circular openings. When he turned around, Tech saw the gray skies of Eriadu through the portal he had fallen through, only there was a ring of symbols surrounding it on this side.

”Holy kriff,” a man was pushing himself up in front of the portal. “You’re…you were on that car. Why did it show me you?”

Tech tilted his head, taking in the man as he continued to try and form words. He was about Tech’s age, maybe a little older. The way he held himself and his manner of dress marked him as a fighter. A lightsaber at his hip gave Tech reason to believe he had crossed paths with a Jedi or was a surviving one himself. Yet he bore no resemblance to any of the generals nor padawans that Tech could recall.

“For once, I am confused,” he stated, trying to figure out his bearings.

The man chuckled. “Uh, I can explain everything.”

“I would very much like to hear it.”

“Well, I’m Ezra- wait!” Something dawned on the man and he held out his hand. “Your goggles! Oh! Ohhh!”

”My goggles?” Tech frowned.

“We gotta leave them behind! That’s all they found!”

Tech felt his confusion growing by the minute, and he was not a fan. “I’m sorry?”

”We gotta close the loop,” the man- Ezra- explained, approaching him with his hand still outstretched. “Look, we can make you new ones, but these have to stay.”

His tone indicated there was little time to waste. Tech pulled off his helmet, then his goggles. Ezra took the eyewear from him and threw them into the portal. Tech watched as they disappeared out of sight. 

”I have several questions,” he stated as the man looked back at him. “Starting with where is this place? Because clearly there has been a distortion in spacetime from where I was falling on Eriadu to…here.”

Ezra blinked, his hands clasped together in front of him before he pointed one at Tech. “So you’re right about the spacetime thing. Right now, we’re in the World Between Worlds, which is exactly what it sounds like.”

”A space between time and space itself? An outward plane that overlooks time and space and yet is interwoven with those concepts instead?”

“Uh, yeah,” Ezra nodded. “That’s going to be the easy thing to wrap your head around.”

Tech fixed him with a look. “I happen to have an exceptional mind that has been enhanced to think faster than some battle droids. I doubt I shall struggle much with whatever you have to share.”

-0-

Ezra quickly proved him wrong in the next five minutes.

Tech learned that he had been pulled nearly thirty years into the future. The Empire had fallen a few years ago, having been brought down by another war and years of rebellion. Ezra didn’t have many details about the war itself, as he had been exiled himself and a Grand Admiral when retaking Lothal. But the human told Tech enough to make his stomach twist into knots.

“How am I here though?” Tech asked as he followed Ezra towards another portal.

“I recently returned to this galaxy along with Thrawn and his army,” Ezra explained. “He’s got things planned, and we need all the help we can get to stop him. The Force told me to find my way back to the World Between Worlds for that kind of help. Hera put me in touch with a specialist her friend knew to help locate a path in. When I got in, it showed me you falling. The Force called for me to catch you, so I did.”

Ezra’s mention of the Force confirmed to Tech that he was a Jedi or somewhat adjacent to them. “You mentioned my goggles were all that were found…how did you know this?”

A smile graced Ezra’s face. “Maybe you should talk to the person who brought me here.”

Tech sighed at the cryptic phrasing, but followed Ezra through the portal. He was quickly greeted with orange skies and mountainous terrain. There were at least a dozen planets that they could potentially be on. He would hazard a guess that it was likely Dathomir. The planet had been notorious for its connection to mysticism and how its residents connected to the Force in ways vastly different from the Jedi.

“You find anything in there, kiddo?” a voice with a familiar cadence called. “You’ve been gone in there for…”

Tech looked in the direction of the voice to see the owner rising from her seat on a large rock. He was breathless staring at her. The coat and the sword were the same as they’d been the last time he saw the woman a day ago. But three decades had passed for her, evident in the longer, graying locs and lines on her face. An age-faded scar sliced through her eyebrow that had not been there when he last saw her on Pabu. She was so much different than the last time he saw her.

Then she smiled, and Tech found familiarity in it. Her last words on Pabu rang in his ears. 

“Tech?”

“Phee,” Tech greeted, setting his helmet down on the soil. “You’re here.”

“Well, I’ll be,” she gave a wet laugh, her gaze turning over to Ezra. “Kiddo, tell me we’re both seeing the same ghost right now?”

Ezra shook his head. “He’s real. He’s the brother Omega thought died, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, this is Tech,” Phee said absently, her eyes still on Tech.

The clone approached her now. Her eyes were shining with unshed tears. Tech blinked, feeling his emotions beginning to enact a physical response from him. 

Phee seemed even shorter than him now as she raised his hand towards his cheek. “It’s you?”

“It’s me,” he confirmed, leaning his face into her hand. “I remember you told me not to go running off with pirates, and I did not. But I…I had to make a sacrifice for the survival of my family.”

“Wrecker told me about Plan 99,” she assured him, laughing again. “Guess the Force had other plans. But you sure took your sweet time getting back, didn’t you? Waited until I was all old and gray.”

“That might be factual,” Tech placed his hand on top of the one on her cheek. “But I still find you to be quite exquisite.”

He was truthful in his words. Maturity had not lessened her aesthetic beauty in any capacity and her eyes somehow still held a youthful sparkle. She was still Phee, no matter how different.

“You flatterer,” she sniffled, and the tears finally fell down her cheeks.

Tech squeezed her hand gently. “I apologize for the sadness I may have inflicted on you then and now.”

“Then? Yes,” Phee nodded. “Now? These are happy tears, Brown Eyes.”

“I do believe you once said it was better to be late than dead,” Tech choked out.

She nodded. “I’m so happy the Force decided that you should be late, even if it has been three decades. You missed a lot, Tech.”

“So I have heard,” Tech mused. “Would you help fill me in on it?”

“I think I can do that,” Phee lowered her hand. “But we better head back to my ship for that. There’s a lot you missed, and a lot that’s coming.”

[tarnishedinquirer]

Highroad Cave

Underneath Saintsbridge, I found the origin of the Murkwater River. It However, even by the standards of this crazy land, it makes no goddamn sense. For the third time, it sinks into the earth and emerges below a cliff, but when I followed it all the way to the source, I found it just.. starts. There's a stone barrier, and then the inland sea. The actual running fresh water just appears right at that barrier. It's impossible.

While pondering this, I noticed a cave pretty well hidden behind some trees. Well, time to go caving again. You never know what you're going to find.

A hole. I found a hole.

Following the advice of runes, I jumped down, and landed on a flat surface. Completely flat, aside from debris. I looked around with slowly dawning horror as I recognized that octagonal shape. It was one of the pillars I'd seen near the coast. Smaller, maybe, but of the same design.

I standing on the pillars of the earth.

I reached the bottom and continued towards a light. A pack of wolves had made their home here, but they were not trouble. But at the center of their den, I found another hole, with more pillars. How deep did this go?

After jumping from pillar to pillar, descending to an interminable depth, I emerged into a larger cave. A cave with campfires. I was not alone down here.

Next to the campfire, I found the corpse of a Kaidan sellsword, being picked apart by wolves. I find it hard to believe that they could bring down one of those stout warriors, so something else must've done the deed.

Traveling further into the cave, I faced more wolves, and found one of them picking apart the corpse of a giant bat.

Ah. I can more believe that. The wolves might be able to bring a bat down, but the Kaidan weapons would be too slow, and they have no recourse about the bat's ability to attack from a distance.

I emerged into a vast cavern. Waterfalls poured into a central basin. Did all the underground rivers pass through here? It was surrounded by broken columns, upon which perched a colony of giant bats.

At the center was a circular platform. A broken walkway lead who knows where. However, since the walkway only led away from this platform, it seemed like this was the endpoint of the path. Perhaps this was once some holy place, deep in the earth? A place for meditation? Whatever it was, its purpose was long gone. There was a treasure here, but only carried by some noble. Though...if it was here, perhaps he found it somewhere else in this same ancient mithraeum?

A shamshir. A curved sword with a graceful, dancing style. The blade was pale, almost silvery steel, though it had a slight patina of rust in parts.

I continued through a series of jumps across submerged columns, and found more corpses of dead sellswords. The larger cave looked like the site of a massacre. Whatever had killed so many strong warriors must be truly fearsome indeed.

Oh. It was a land squid.

To be fair to the deceased, these things had proven my end more than once. Their wild flailing and nigh-invulnerable rubbery bodies could be fearsome until you knew how to fight them, and most people didn't get to attempt as many times as I had.

I took care of it, and continued my journey into the earth. Eventually, I was confronted with a golden fog door. and I stepped through.

It was impossible to determine what this room was originally for. Aqueducts? Walkways? The structures were too ruined to make sense of. What I could make sense of, however, was the golem lying moribund in the water. It sluggishly stood up as I approached, as if struggling to reignite the fire within.

It was not ideal fighting one in such close quarters, but I made do and eventually it fell like the others I've faced. In its hand was a tiny charm. A simple cloth doll, that nonetheless carried a magic to it. Can a golem be sentimental? Or was it just the magic that it was protecting?

A cloth doll depicting a dancer garbed in blue. An ancient heirloom of some sort. The dancer in blue represents a fairy, who in legend bestowed a flowing sword upon a blind swordsman. Blade in hand, the swordsman sealed away an ancient god - a god that was Rot itself.

Intriguing. So many characters introduced with a single item. A Blue Dancer. A blind swordsman. A god of Rot. I had not heard of any of this before. Though...could it be related to the Scarlet Rot that poisons the Confessors' bolts? I will have to be on the lookout for any more information regarding these characters.

However, I am certain that the shamshir sword is related to this blind swordsman. His weapon, or perhaps a replica.

Who was the blue dancer?

Who was the blind swordsman?

What happened to the God of Rot once sealed away?

What was this ancient chamber used for?

Where did the collapsed walkway lead?

What were the sellswords searching for? The sword, the talisman, or something else?

[late-to-the-fandom]

Heads Up, Seven Up

Thank you so much @willtheweaver for this tag which is the only reason I wrote today. I'm convinced this chapter doesn't want to be written. Cannot seem to make any traction with it the last two weeks for absolutely no reason 😓

Throwing out an arm to keep Elisewin from tripping, Renathal's other hand grappled for the cold, stone wall, anchoring himself as his feet readjusted to stillness and his eyes to the presence of light. Light. Thin, pale beams of it leaked through gaps in a ceiling he realised, looking up, must be the courtyard's central platform, miles above. Filtered and weak though it was, there was still enough to illuminate the concrete walkway running the rim of the circular chamber. Off this path, however, a mere six steps from the tip of Renathal's dusty boots and consuming most of the vast space was... Nothing. An empty chasm of unbroken black, that made the stairwell behind them seem almost cheerful in comparison.

Tagging: @virgolioness @kaylinalexanderbooks @mothervvoid @cryscal @moonluringfrost @bad-at-names-and-faces @theprissythumbelina

[bright-tatters]

Tatters #1

cw inappropriate attentions to a seventeen-year-old by a much older person.

*

Young Bailey White observed many things flowing out of Travail Ward and very little flowing in. This was the sorrow of Photia City’s most impoverished Ward: they had a solid industrial base and nothing else to call their own.

Tatters, the locals called it. The place stood in tatters.

Bailey, orphaned at eight after a shootout between Old Kid’s forces and one or another of the innumerable insurrections against her, spent eight years in one of Travail’s sordid workhouses before he got out to use his stringy frame for running messages that flowed in from the telegram office up near the Lamps border. And he listened, wondering about the structure of the world.

Mrs. Creed, in her years before becoming superintendent, caught him over a telegram once and never quite let him go. She would summon him to run messages for her. She would tell him what he was missing out on in school. The attention felt strange, but it also felt like if Bailey ran afoul of the Old Kid and got removed, somebody would notice and care.

One day Mrs. Creed told him that he was missing out on his education. That sometimes the representative of Travail Ward on the Council took pages to assist and observe the legislative process. The Council met on the topmost island of Central Ward; they made the decisions that kept Tatters poor, or at least, so Bailey expected. There was no way to fight them except to understand them. Bailey put himself on the list.

He had to borrow good shoes when the day came.

The journey to Central was life-changing even before he reached the Council chambers. He went with three students in a horse-drawn carriage over the high-arched bridge to Central. Everything on the island at the confluence of Photia’s rivers was tall and bright and angular or sweepingly curved, a series of lines laid intentionally in stark contrast to Travail’s organic mess. Musicians stood at street corners, offering melody to everyone passing by. A boy even younger than Bailey, dark-skinned and sensitive-mouthed, winked and did a violin flourish as Bailey passed. Bailey regretted having nothing to toss at his feet, but there was so much more to get to. Everything smelled good up here. The sun burned away the morning’s mist like so much air, without even a touch of yellow miasma.

And the people! Bailey kept close to the attendant who would bring him and three other Travail children into the Council’s deliberation chamber. Everyone here was tall and filled-out and colorful and, if not cheerful, at least nobly interesting-looking. Old Petra Wolds transformed from the stuffy old woman Bailey had seen in Travail’s Vines to a dignified, impressive elder statesman.

The Council building was a vast golden sphere patterned with triangles in a mathematical fever dream. Inside, narrow angled windows placed along those triangles’ edges let the light into the circling walkway, and higher, wider windows joined with a star-shaped skylight to illuminate the deliberation chamber.

The Council, representatives from each of the eight Wards of Photia, gathered in the gap at the center of their circular conference table and greeted the Tatters contingent. Petra Wolds, of course, resplendent in a dress that would get her mugged on her own streets. Darude Reinaldo of Underglow, holding a cloth against his mouth and nose any time he looked at the children. Elliot Fest of Forges, newly elected and very serious-looking. Torreia Danes of the Docks, tall and columnar and slightly frightening. Darvald Sperant of Lamps, who jerked when he saw sudden movements. Deiona Ravish of River Up, who lisped like a long-outgrown girl and cut things with her blue eyes. Maynard Crow, young in this crowd, but fourth in line to the King. And Mière Lu of the University, who was distinguished and handsome in a way that made Bailey thoughtful.

The students’ handler led them to a long table that ran along one wall. They could sit there and watch the Council circle; they were also handed assignments among piles and piles of densely printed papers.

Bailey did his work rapidly and efficiently, straining to memorize everything he saw. He had always had a good memory. When the Councilors got started on a bill proposal he watched and listened to who argued, and about what, and how emotionally. This was the way a city-state was run. He wanted to understand it.

When the last sunlight left the gilded edges of the overhead starburst, the Council called a halt. Mière Lu gestured for a real page to handle his things and came over to greet the Tatters students. “Come with me,” he said, “we’ll get you fed.”

They went to a low, dark, stuffy restaurant and Councilor Lu ordered things so good they hardly seemed to belong to names. Bailey let the place wash over him, and he ate, and he drank all the wine anybody would hand him. At some point he realized he was alone with Lu, with ravaged tables lying to either side of them.

“Well,” Lu said. He was built for elegance and a certain trim gravitas, and he was strikingly handsome, even in the low light with a firm set of beer goggles on. He wore a complicated geometrical jacket that unfolded in places and left his inner shirt showing in places. Bailey had never met anyone this glamorous. “We should go. My home is nearby, you can rest there.”

The prospect felt cozy. “Thank you, sir.” Bailey drained the last of the last page’s wine. “After you, sir.”

But Lu placed a hand at the small of Bailey’s back and steered him. He nodded and smiled graciously at the staff until they got outside. Then he called a huge carriage.

“Is this yours?” said Bailey, creeping inside and looking around the rich leather interior.

“For official business,” said Lu. “Sit facing this way, next to me; if there’s an accident you’ll be safe.”

“Yes, sir.” Bailey drew his knees up to his chest. “Quite a day, sir.”

“Some find it overwhelming. How are you feeling?”

Warm, suddenly, and excited. Bailey laughed nervously. “Like there was a whole world nobody told me about.”

“Do you think you could learn to belong there?”

Possibilities shook. “Do I have to? Tatters is my home.”

“What’s that?”

“Oh.” He felt himself blushing, not just from the wine. “It’s just what I call Travail Ward in my head. Tatterdemalion. Tatters.”

“That’s poetic,” said Lu. “Does Petra know about it?”

“No, sir! It’s just… just me.”

“Don’t be self-conscious.” Lu leaned over and touched Bailey under his chin. Bailey felt a surge of warmth and tension. “There we go. Here, come with me.”

Bailey dutifully followed his host into a house so high and golden he thought Lu must have stolen it from gods. Lu led him up a spiral staircase into a big room with a huge bed piled with furs. A golden canopy hung from the ceiling and spread out over four great black pillars.

“Sit here,” said Lu. “That’s it. Take off your shoes.”

And Lu followed close and kissed him. His lips were hot and demanding, and Bailey’s own heart and body didn’t manage to struggle when Lu wrapped his arms around him and pulled tight. “Oh,” he whispered against Lu’s lips.

“Relax,” whispered Lu. “I’ll show you everything.”

He did. Drunk and dizzy with wine and novelty, Bailey went along with everything the Councilor said. It was long, and tiring, and a man should be pleased by the attention. Bailey was pleased by the attention.

When Lu was done he just said, “Stay here tonight. I’ll return you tomorrow… you still have much to learn.”

Bailey understood, later, that this was what an empath could do. If you stripped away the alcohol and the promise of professional success, every other emotional surge he’d had had been implanted by someone else.

Yes, the trip was educational for Bailey, though he never heard followup from any of the Photian Council. Years later, when Mière Lu disappeared, Fortune was concerned enough to send out inquiries through the Tatters underground.

It came to nothing. Sometimes these things do.