#liquid handling instruments

[microlitseo]

Essential Features to Look for When Buying Micropipettes Online

In the laboratory setting, scientific research, precision, and accuracy which makes them essential. Following its versatility, it is used in operating clinical laboratories, conducting pharmaceutical research, and in an academic environment. 

Overall, micropipettes are considered one of the important instruments in the lab while experimenting. But there are various models and sizes available for micropipettes, which makes you choose the right one. 

This blog is all about the features and the aspects you can consider while getting micropipettes online. We also discuss the tools that can eventually enhance your laboratory work, making it more efficient and accurate.

Features of Micropipettes when buying online

Accuracy and Precision: The Core of Every Micropipette

At the centre of every quality micropipette is its precision and accuracy in delivering liquids. Accuracy is the measure of how close the actual dispensed volume is to the set volume, while precision is the capability to dispense the same volume over and over again.

When purchasing online, make sure the product description or datasheet includes:

Accuracy and precision information at different volume ranges

Calibration certifications (ISO 8655 compliance is best)

Error margin information

A good micropipette must provide consistent performance even after being used hundreds of times. High-end reliability means relying on companies like Microlit, which strictly test their products before shipping.

Ergonomics and Design: Comfort Counts

Pipetting is a repetitive action. Inadequately designed micropipettes may lead to strain injuries like repetitive strain injury (RSI) or carpal tunnel syndrome in the long run. Be on the lookout for:

Lightweight construction

Finger-hook or ergonomic handle

Soft plunger and tip ejector

Low operating force

Comfort means efficiency. Ergonomic design allows researchers to pipette for many hours without getting tired.

Volume Range and Versatility

Micropipettes are available in two broad categories: fixed volume and variable volume.

Fixed volume pipettes are best for repetitive work with a fixed volume.

Variable volume pipettes are versatile and ideal for general laboratory use.

Typical volumes range from 0.1–2 µl, 2–20 µl, 20–200 µl, to 100–1000 µl. The most cost-effective approach is to spend money on a range-covering set or using multichannel pipettes for high-throughput applications.

Tip Compatibility and Ejection System

Nobody prefers to deal with tip-sticking or trouble ejecting tips. Always inspect:

Whether or not the micropipette can be used with universal tips

The convenience of attaching and ejecting tips

Whether the pipette has a tip cone for a secure seal

Newer pipettes also have colour-coded tips and tip cones, which are simpler to identify amidst chaotic workflows.

Calibration and Maintenance Ease

Each micropipette requires periodic calibration to help it continue functioning. Opt for a model that:

Has a readily accessible calibration mechanism

Includes a calibration tool or can be recalibrated electronically

It is supported by post-purchase support and service from the brand or seller

Microlit provides recalibration equipment and internal support, making it easy to use over the long term.

Material Compatibility for Sensitive Experiments

Some chemicals may corrode internal micropipette parts over time. If you handle severe solvents, acids, or biological substances, make sure:

The materials of construction are chemical-resistant and corrosion-proof

The piston and seals are PTFE or FKM coated for added resistance

Durability guarantees that the instrument lasts you longer without compromising accuracy.

Brand Reputation and Warranty

Research instruments have to be from a reliable source. Reputed brands such as Microlit are famous for:

Long-lasting instruments

Effective warranties

ISO and CE certifications

Great customer support and replacement facilities

Keep in mind, a good warranty reflects the manufacturer's faith in the product.

Digital vs Mechanical: Choosing the Right Format

Digital micropipettes are more accurate, contain memory settings, and can be automated, which makes them suitable for sophisticated labs. Mechanical micropipettes, however, are more basic, less expensive, and practical for regular lab work.

When purchasing online, consider the advantages and disadvantages:

Complementary Tools to Maximise Pipetting Efficiency

A laboratory's pipetting requirements do not stop with a micropipette. Add an upgrade to your equipment using complementary liquid handling accessories like:

Bottle top dispenser: Suitable for dispensing reagents from bottles directly, minimising waste and contamination.

Acid dispenser: Tailored to handle corrosive and high-purity acids with precision and safety.

Automatic burette: Helpful for titrations and experiments where gradual and controlled liquid dispensing is needed.

All of these fall into a larger class of liquid handling equipment, and investing in them will greatly enhance your lab's throughput and safety.

Online Buying Tips and Red Flags

When purchasing micropipettes online:

Always read product reviews and ratings

Seek out certification and authenticity stamps

Check that return and replacement policies are customer-oriented

Opt for sites that provide technical support and product demonstrations

Avoid purchasing from unfamiliar vendors or marketplaces with no obvious brand presence

Watch out for counterfeit products being sold at significantly reduced prices

Don't Settle for Less

Micropipettes are not just tools; they are the precision engines of your research. The wrong choice can derail weeks of hard work, while the right one can elevate your lab’s accuracy and speed.

Brands like Microlit have built their reputation on producing world-class pipettes and liquid handling instruments that researchers around the globe trust. When you’re ready to buy, take your time to compare, consult with suppliers, and read specifications carefully.

Invest once, and invest wisely.

Searching for ISO-certified, ergonomically contoured micropipettes and sophisticated liquid handling instruments?Discover Microlit's complete product range of precision instruments today, where trust meets quality.

[liquidhandlingproduct]

What are the various categories of Medical Lab Instruments

Pharmaceutical and scientific research laboratories conduct numerous chemical and biological tests daily. To ensure precise and accurate results, these labs rely on a diverse array of advanced and sophisticated equipment. Let's examine some of the medical lab instruments, including liquid handling instruments, commonly found in a pharmaceutical research lab and explore their applications.

[lindsaynathi0n]

NDA: FERAL. (English is not my native language!!)

the request: been begging for a really dark rafe cameron as my husband. I did my best besties 🙇‍♀️

+18

“Are you a virgin?”

Rafe looked at you with eyes filled with lust, his mouth slightly open as his tongue slid over his lip.

You were the sweetest girl on the island. Kind, affectionate, not very loud, easily manipulated, and quite clingy.

When Rafe started dating you, it was just to see how far he could go to succeed in breaking you.

“Yes…” you replied timidly, clenching your fists.

Rafe looked you over once more. You had made yourself look incredibly cute—your hair was smooth and pulled back over your shoulders, and you wore a nightgown tied with a little black bow in the middle. Your candy-pink panties made him want to take them off with his teeth.

"You've never fingered yourself, touched yourself, or even rubbed yourself?" he asked, looking back into your eyes. You shook your head, and he nodded.

He got down on his knees and looked up at you. He truly wanted this to be special-just so he could break you even more.

Rafe didn't care about your feelings. He just wanted to destroy everything you loved. Why? Because you had become his strange obsession, and he didn't know how to handle it.

His large hands traced along your generous thighs, slipping one hand under your nightgown as he looked at you.

He looked at the small fabric that served as your panties and slid them off, gently pushing you back and softly opening your legs.

When he sees your perfectly shaved, gleaming, and dripping-with-excitement pussy, Rafe utters an exquisite smile.

"So wet for me, princess?" You nod your head and he looks at you disapprovingly. "Use words y/n"

You bite your lip and respond shyly. "Yes, Daddy..." Rafe smiles and kisses your thigh. "Good girl..."

Rafe looks at you and begins massaging your clit, you jump and he caresses your cheek. "Don't worry sweetheart...Daddy's going to make you feel good."

You relax against the plush chair, parting your legs wider as Rafe's touch becomes more insistent. His fingers dance over your slick folds, expertly playing you like an instrument. Your breathing grows heavier.

Rafe slides two fingers into your little hole. You gasp, back arching as he curls them upward to stroke your most sensitive spot.

Rafe adding a third finger. You moan loudly, fingers digging into the plush fabric as he stretches you wide. "That's it, take it all,"

"Rafe...it hurts...!" you stammer, completely lost between the discomfort and the pleasure he's giving you. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as he scissors his fingers, relentlessly stretching your tight hole.

Rafe leans down and growls in your ear, "You can take it, princess. Show Daddy you're a good girl and take all three fingers."

You begin to spasm around Rafe, and he accelerates, his eyes filling with contempt. Yet, despite the fact that he can't believe he's fucking a pogue but, he also loves seeing the pleasure he's giving you. His jaw clenches as he watches your every reaction.

Rafe's hand moves faster, his fingers pumping in and out of you. The sound of wet, squelching noises fills the room, intermingled with your gasps and moans.

"Rafe I’m—...!" You reached your climax, squeezing around him and almost trapping his fingers. His fingers are drenched in your juices. "Oh god, I'm so sorry...”

Your brain is completely fried, you're more sensitive than Rafe thought.  

Rafe laughs cruelly and laboriously removes his fingers. "It's nothing darling."  He brings his glistening fingers to his lips, sucking them clean. "Mmm, you taste divine."

You stare at him, clenching around emptiness. Rafe begins to untie his pajama pants, the outline of his erection visible through his boxers. "Now it's my turn, princess."

He pulls down his boxers, and you gulp at the sight. His member is thick and veined, with a broad, mushroom-shaped head that glistens with a pearly bead of liquid. It curves slightly upward, betraying his eagerness. "Like what you see?" he taunts.

You stare at his erection with wide, apprehensive eyes. "Rafe...it's so big..." You bite your lip, unsure if you can take all of him. He grins wickedly and wraps his hand around the base. "You can take it, princess."

Rafe guides the head of his cock to your entrance and pushes forward slowly, the thick tip parting your lips and stretching your hole. 

You gasp as he sinks in, his length filling you to the brim. "Fuck, you're so tight...I can barely fit."

"Rafe!" You grip the sheets tightly, pursing your lips as he inches deeper. Rafe smirks at your expression. "Relax, sweetheart. Breathe through it."  He grinds his hips forward, filling you completely. "Now it’s all in."

Your eyes widen, and you let out a surprised cry. He doesn't give you time to adjust and begins pounding into you violently. 

His hips slap against yours, the sound of flesh meeting flesh filling the room. He pulls back and slams deep, each thrust harder than the last.

You cry out and hit his arm, begging him to slow down. He leans forward, burying his face in your neck, and continues to pound into you mercilessly. His breath is hot against your skin, and his voice is low and menacing. "Take it, princess."

“Rafe, it really hurts!” The only thing you feel is immense discomfort, you didn't think losing your virginity would hurt this much.

Rafe speeds up, lowering his head to where they're connected. As he suspected, blood is present. You were indeed a virgin. 

A sadistic grin spreads across his face. You beg him to stop, but he's far from finished. "Shh, it'll only hurt for a little longer."

"Rafe, I want you to stop!" You shout. Rafe growls and gives you a menacing glare.

"I didn't waste months wooing a little pogue like you just to hear you complain. Shut your fucking mouth and take it."

With a harsh grip on your thighs, he spreads your legs wider and increases his pace. His hips snap back and forth as he slams into you, each thrust punctuated by a wet, slapping sound. Tears stream down your face as the pain becomes almost unbearable.

You dig your fingers into his arms, scraping at his skin, desperate for him to let you go. He hisses at the sudden pain but doesn't slow down. Instead, he leans back, pushing your legs even farther apart, and increases his brutal rhythm. "Keep scratching, baby."

"That just makes me want to hurt you even more." He grins, his eyes gleaming with sadistic pleasure as he watches you struggle beneath him. 

With a sudden twist of his hips, he hits a particularly rough spot inside you, making you scream in agony. "Look at you, crying and begging."

His voice drips with condescension as he continues to ravage your body. "You're so beautiful when you're in pain." He leans down to kiss your tear-streaked cheeks, licking your salty tears from his lips.

Rafe finds you beautiful, your broken heart only makes him want to lock you away in his home and never let you out. 

His possessiveness surges, the urge to claim you as his own overwhelming. He leans in close, his breath hot against your ear. "I think I love you. And I don’t think it’s normal."

He speeds up, his body starting to tremble inside you as he nears his climax. Unfortunately, your vagina clenches around him involuntarily, prolonging the awful experience. You're nothing more than a sobbing, pleading mess, begging him to stop.

His face contorts in pleasure as he finally finds release. He lets out a guttural grunt, burying his face in your neck once more. 

You can feel his hot seed spilling into you, marking you as his. He collapses on top of you, spent and satisfied. "See?"

"Rafe... stop... I can't take anymore..." You whisper, your voice hoarse from crying. He grumbles and pulls out, the wet sound echoing in the room. He looks down at you, his expression unreadable.

"Pity you were such a pogue. I'd have loved to take your virginity differently." He studies the disheveled sight of you, his gaze lingering on the bloodstained sheets beneath you.

Rafe says nothing more and walks away, leaving you alone and spent. He knows you're in love with him, weak and dependent. He has you right where he wants you.

Though Rafe would never admit it, he's utterly obsessed with you. You're his peculiar addiction, his fascination. He can't get enough, no matter how hard he tries to resist.

MY REQUEST ARE OPEN!!

[calmcoldevening]

Back at it again with a prompt idea!

What if the slasher/s are trying to kill a victim but they are immortal and keep coming back

And the victim keeps following the slasher only to annoy and be a little menace to them >:3

(maybe they fall in love later O.O)

What ever slasher you choose is fine for me ;)

Art the clown x immortal!reader

Tw: blood, murdering, torturing? well, yeah. Art is an ass sometimes

• Art has always been a fan of violent and noisy 'games' that chilled the blood in his veins. That was his sadistic nature, and the whole of Miles County and people for hundreds of miles around had already heard a lot about it. A strange man in a clown costume, who sent at least a dozen unhappy teenagers and adults to the next world. He loved blood and horror, and no one would dare stand in his way, not wanting to become another victim of brutal violence.

• Maybe it was fate's will, or maybe it was just your bad luck or an accident, but one day Art saw you in one of the cafes late at night. He was watching you from a dark alley, so it's unlikely that you would have seen him even if you really wanted to. He clutched his garbage bag in his hands, and a cruel grin appeared on his face. You were a good little thing and you definitely could have brightened up this cold night for him.

• Without thinking for long, Art hit you on the head at the most unexpected moment and took you to one of his 'game rooms', which in fact was just a room of one of the old factories in the city. He wasn't in the mood to hunt you down and catch you in your own house for a long time. This game was supposed to be fast but colorful.

• The clown involuntarily licked his lips, watching you slowly regain consciousness and open your big innocent eyes. He walks around you like some kind of fancy Christmas tree. You're sitting on an old wooden chair, badly scratched and already soaked in blood from past victims. Your limbs are tied in wooden material with strong leather straps, and thick barbed wire with rusty, blunt teeth is wrapped around your neck, chest and abdomen. There was a smell of dampness and fear in the air, which made the Clown giggle noiselessly.

• Finally, Art stopped right in front of you and gestured at the trash bag to your right. Making a playful, almost pretended sweet expression, or reached into the bag as if looking for a Christmas present for a small child. In the flickering light, a long thin tool with a convex handle and a bizarrely curved metal tip appears, more like a sharply sharpened blade. A man comes behind you and caresses your tense shoulders with almost uncharacteristic tenderness. His fingers are rough and rough. The clown's palms slowly descend lower, sliding along your clothed back through the open part of the back of the chair. The movements are slow and measured. Suddenly his movements stop and in the next moment they are replaced by acute pain. Sparks dance in your eyes and you emit a strangled cry, reflexively your body gives way forward, blunt spikes painfully dig into your tender flesh. Art laughs soundlessly, continuing to press the blade deeper into your spine, and then abruptly moves his hand down. With a nasty creak, the fabric of your T-shirt is torn, and at the same time your soft flesh is torn. Art rejoices, seeing how his hands and white gloves are stained with maroon lingonberry liquid, flowing in a thick stream onto the concrete floor. Tears are pouring from your eyes as you desperately bite your lower lip in an attempt to control yourself. Your back, which was once a flawless canvas of pale skin, is now covered with a network of terrible red lines, each of which testifies to the cruelty of Art's tools and his relentless thirst for suffering. There is a pungent smell of iron in the air, mixing with the acrid smell of fear that remains on your sweat-soaked skin.With deliberate slowness, I pick up the razor-sharp instrument again, its sinister curves gleaming in the dim light. Your body is trembling, every muscle is tense with fear, while the man is preparing to inflict even more torment on you.In the flickering shadows, a grotesque smile appears on his painted face, a silent promise of future torment.

• Suddenly, the blade hits the blood-soaked concrete with a ringing thud and bounces off somewhere to the dark wall. Art goes back to his "magic" bag and takes out some kind of leather strap. With a deft movement of his hands, he hooks the clips connected by a strap onto your wet cheeks, the gloves wet with blood rub unpleasantly against your face. Art smiles his creepy smile and gently touches your chin with his fingers. Your eyes were swollen and your cheeks were wet from tears and saliva flowing from your open mouth. But not that you can complain here. All you had to do was mumble something, barely moving your limp tongue.

• An unpleasant crunch filled the half-empty concrete room. With a strong crack, Art broke off a piece of your tooth with pliers, the fragment unpleasantly scratched the already bleeding gum. All you had to do was mumble something indistinctly, to which Art just grinned madly and jokingly grabbed your tongue with the edges of the pliers, watching the despair in your eyes. He broke off tooth after tooth until a dozen teeth had been pulled out in his hand.

• Your throat burned from screaming, and your eyes burned unpleasantly from the tears you shed. You wanted it to be over as soon as possible. Realizing that Art won't get the right reaction from you anymore, noticing your exhaustion, he snorts soundlessly, clearly losing interest. With a graceful movement of his hand, Art deftly takes out an old battered pistol from a trash bag. He slides the edges of the gun over your cheek, drawing uncomplicated patterns. His movements are slow and upward. One. Two. Three. Finally, his hand reaches your head, the muzzle of the gun is pressed against your painfully throbbing temple. You wearily close your eyes, feeling a leaden heaviness in your limbs. His arms and legs were already blue from lack of blood.

• Art blows on the smoke coming from the shower of the gun and throws the weapon back into the bag. The man steps back, admiring his work and your smoking wound on his temple for a couple of moments. After that, he carefully removes the straps from the dead body and puts them in a bag, slowly leaving the building.

• Art pinned a young man to the ground, slowly cutting the meat from his face and putting the skin in his mouth. A soft laugh was heard abruptly behind him, and another pair of hands, softer and softer palms, covered his hands. The man raises his eyebrows questioningly and turns back, meeting your satisfied gaze. Your face still looked tired and tear-stained, and there were bruises and streaks of blood on your neck, but overall you looked almost.. normal?

• Without thinking twice, you grab the scalpel from his hand and with a sharp movement stick the blade into the clown's eye. He screams soundlessly, raising his hands to his face. You step back, watching his agony with a satisfied expression on your face. "You didn't think it would end so easily, did you?" You purred, folding your arms over your chest. The clown frowns, baring his sharp black teeth, and jumps up from the lifeless body. He walks towards you with quick steps and grabs your throat with his cold hands, lifting you off the ground. No matter how thin he looks, the guy has plenty of strength. You giggle, covering his hands with yours. You can already feel the air leaving your lungs, being replaced by an unpleasant burning sensation. Without thinking twice, you reach out your hands, touching the clown's face with your fingers, and scratch his painted face, mixing the paint with the blood from his wounded eye. He presses harder, enjoying the crunch of your airways.

• It quickly turned into a constant game of cat and mouse. Wherever Art was, you were always there. And I was in his way. Art was angry, cursed, and killed you. But you were coming back. Each time, your body was still decorated with old scars, but the man added new ones. He realized that the old scars would disappear. He had to make new ones. It was as if he was celebrating his favorite, best victim in this way. He can't be uninterested in your natural stubbornness and immortality.

• Over time, the clown really begins to look forward to your recovery and return, despite the slight irritation that you cause in him. He feels it in the pleasant piercing of his fingers. His hands crave you, your body, his fingers want to touch your scars and leave new ones.

• Your constant presence in Art's life begins to gradually change his thinking and thoughts, your image has settled in his head like a damn poison.

• Your immortality and lack of fear make you a really worthy partner for Art, he realizes this on an unconscious level. There's something about you. Something that makes his blood boil in his head. He's falling in love with you. Yes, in his own way, but he falls in love. Despite your initial maniac-victim relationship, Art is starting to see you as almost an equal. This is surprising. He loves you in his own twisted way.

• Art and you are in a love-hate relationship, constantly joking and arguing with each other. Despite the constant quarrels, you are united by a deep connection and understanding, which becomes apparent in your communication. You both feel extremely comfortable in such a relationship in your own perverted way (this is especially damn noticeable in sex..)

• Art begins to crave your company and gets annoyed when you are not around. There's something nice about knowing that after a bloody murder, he can properly combine his anger and passion on you. Especially in your intimate moments. Playing with blood, strangulation and other elements of bdsm is an integral part of your pleasure. You are a perfect match for each other, you are feared by all the states in the district.

[lonestarflight]

Cancelled Equipment: Lunar Application of a Spent S-IVB Stage (LASS)

"LASS vehicle landing legs and footpads."

In August 1965, NASA began the Apollo Applications Program (AAP) to develop science-based human spaceflight missions using hardware developed for the Apollo program following the first moon landing. They encouraged and invited proposals for new uses of Apollo hardware then under development. One such proposal came from the Douglas Company (DAC) and International Business Machines (IBM) for a modifying the Saturn S-IVB stage for use as an unmanned lunar logistics vehicle to carrier equipment to the moon to support extended human stays and/or a lunar base.

LASS vehicle launch configuration.

In their proposal, the Saturn IB/V S-IVB Stage would be modified with landing gear and other equipment. The Saturn Instrument Unit (IU), which sat on top of the S-IVB and was the computer system that controlled the entire rocket.

Procedure for LASS vehicle landing leg deployment and separation from the Saturn V S-II stage.

The mission was an unmanned, direct-flight, using an existing lunar beacon to obtain a precise landing location.

"The LASS required either a highly throttleable J-2 type engine (J-2X) or a moderately throttleable J-2S with RL-10 engines added to provide proper landing control.

LASS vehicle engine and plumbing arrangement.

"DAC studied several configurations and recommended a vertical lander with a payload package on top. Landed payloads in the order of 27,300 pounds (12,380 kilograms) were claimed by DAC with the 1965 Saturn V capability. This payload was based on a more optimistic delta-V budget than used in other studies. However, the landed payload would still be substantial (7200 - 8600 kg) using the more conservative values."

"The LASS vehicle just before touchdown on the lunar surface. The illustration displays the position of the IU and, above it, the tapered LASS vehicle payload volume."

"After an unspecified period of time, astronauts would land near the LASS vehicle in an Apollo LM. The Douglas/IBM team provided few details about how the crew would interact with the LASS vehicle. They offered only a few vague suggestions concerning, for example, how astronauts in bulky space suits might ascend the approximately 60 feet (18.3 meters) to the top of the LASS vehicle to reach the payload. Neither did they describe how payload items would be moved from the top of the LASS vehicle to the surface, though they suggested that unspecified 'cargo & handling equipment' with a mass of 3100 pounds (1400 kilograms) would be available. These and other mysteries would no doubt have been addressed if NASA had opted to fund additional LASS studies.

The Douglas/IBM engineers did, however, define five typical LASS payload configurations and mission durations. All would feature lunar exploration hardware under consideration in 1966 for AAP lunar missions and would see IU navigational and communications electronics serve double-duty as experiment data support equipment.

Configuration 1 was most in keeping with the role of the LASS vehicle as a sequel to an S-IVB-derived laboratory in low-Earth orbit. The LASS vehicle's LH2 tank would be lined with 3940 pounds (1785 kilograms) of micrometeoroid shielding and thermal insulation before launch from Earth; this weight would be subtracted from the weight available for payload above the IU.

About 7700 pounds (3490 kilograms) of the payload above the IU would take the form of a two-man shelter similar to the SSESM proposed for the Earth-orbiting S-IVB laboratory. Life support gases and liquids and other expendables would account for 4500 pounds (2040 kilograms) of the payload. Experiment apparatus with a total weight of 500 pounds (227 kilograms), a 1000-pound (454-kilogram) unpressurized Lunar Scientific Survey Module (LSSM) rover, and a one-or-two-person Lunar Flying Unit (LFU) of unspecified weight would make up the balance of the payload.

Configuration 1 would see the two astronauts lower themselves into the LASS vehicle LH2 tank by unspecified means through an airlock in the shelter. The LH2 tank would then serve as either a laboratory or an emergency shelter. The crew would live in the LASS vehicle for up to 14 days before they reactivated their LM and returned to the Apollo CSM waiting in lunar orbit.

The other four LASS payload configurations would not make use of the LH2 tank, so the weight of the shielding and insulation surrounding it in Configuration 1 could be applied to payload above the IU. Configuration 2, with a 30-day lunar surface stay time, would include a 13,000-pound (5900-kilogram) four-man shelter, a 3800-pound (1725-kilogram) small (though possibly pressurized) rover, 4500 pounds (2040 kilograms) of science equipment, and 5700 pounds (2585 kilograms) of expendables. The Douglas/IBM team did not explain how four astronauts could reach the LASS vehicle on the Moon using the three-man CSM and two-man LM.

Configuration 3 would include a four-man shelter, an LSSM, science equipment, and 8500 pounds (3855 kilograms) of expendables. The four-person crew would remain on the Moon for 59 days. Configuration 4 would include a two-person shelter, a small rover, scientific equipment, and 11,000 pounds (4990 kilograms) of expendables. The crew would evenly divide their time during their 120-day lunar surface stay between the shelter and the small rover. Configuration 5 would include a two-person shelter, an LSSM, scientific equipment, and 13,800 pounds (6260 kilograms) of expendables. The crew would evenly divide their time during their 195-day stay between the shelter and the LSSM.

The Douglas/IBM team suggested that the astronauts might tip the roughly 60,000-pound (27,215-kilogram) LASS vehicle on its side to place its payload above the IU — which in this case would not include a shelter — close to the lunar surface. They did not, however, explain how the astronauts might accomplish this feat. They suggested that the crew could live inside their LM while they unloaded equipment from the tipped LASS vehicle and converted its LH2 tank into a shelter.

A LASS vehicle with more extensive modifications — for example, a large rectangular hole cut into its LH2 tank for mounting a telescope — might be tipped on its side and converted into a lunar surface astronomical observatory. Ultimately, multiple upright and tipped LASS vehicles might be dragged together to form a 'LASS Modular Lunar Base.' The Douglas/IBM engineers ended their report by declaring that 'LASS is envisioned to be the vehicle to support all lunar surface programs.'"

Information from Astronautix.com: link

Information from the "No Shortage of Dreams" blog: link

[ninesparrowsoftroy]

For the Mortal and Machine | Viktor | 1.1k | Blurb

Viktor, who, in his pursuit to uncover the secrets of what may lie beneath the metal plates of the Hexcore, disrupts the very equilibrium of the Arcane.

Things to note prior to proceeding: I have absolutely not the slightest of clues if this makes any sense at all, really I just opened a tab and forced myself to keep writing and here we are. I hope this is somewhat even remotely in the realm of his character.

Exposed; paled skin blooming a vicious red where the edge of the scalpel had torn through flesh and muscle, each individual vertebrae aching with the force of a discomforting stretch, lungs pressing against the hollowed bones of a weakened ribcage. Vulnerable; calloused fingers digging the cartilage of chipped nails into the plush of the palm, sunken eyes searching with a feverish desperation through the creased and folded papers on the desk, a dry lip drawn tight into a thinning line, chapped and blushing a violent pink where the skin threatened to crack. Alone; so completely and utterly alone.

Viktor did not resent the isolation brought upon him, nor did he find comfort in its hollow presence, instead he had grown somewhat accustomed to it. The desolation of the four-faced laboratory forced itself to become an inescapable familiarity, the quiet that had once been startling and foreign in the thrumming atmosphere of mechanical discovery and esoteric ambition, was now an instrument of focus not afforded before.

He uncovered in the silence a newfound means of potential, an opportunity to push beyond the limitations of physiological restriction, challenge the notions of scientific sanctity. No longer was anyone who could argue against a hypothesis or dissent to a proposal of experimentation. Now he simply could string out the calculations, weave together the prospects of potential and contrast it against the forces of reality. He could fail over and over and over again and spend however long it took until failure was nothing but a prospect of the past.

It was here in this desolate, haunting lab that the whispers of progress dripped itself into his desperate ears, pushing him further and further down its spiral. A moment longer before the desk, a second more to attune an equation, one step deeper into the labyrinth of something he would claw his way to discover.

Viktor set the metal blade against the cold surface of the desk, bloodied fingers staining the ridges of its handle. The wound stung, the opened nerves unwelcome against the still air of the lab, the muscles within his hand flexing with each drip of the liquid that seeped into the crevices of his palm. His skin itched, hand twitching with a subconscious longing for self-preservation, his fingers instinctively curling inward. It was with a principal force that he willed his muscles to straightened, splaying out his palm and fingers into a flat line, the sting of the stretched wound bitting at his nerves.

For science; for the taming of what has always remained so far out of reach, what has been intangible and arcane.

He let a breath fall from his lips, eyes fixated on the many faced machine that thrummed before him. Its metal plates shifting, clicking into place with a subdued agency, each form of movement accompanied only by a pulse of a cold, muted light. Viktor extended his arm out into the buzzing atmosphere of the core, his palm facing its dancing faces. Faint though it was, the vibrations that encased and coiled around his wrist as he ebbed closer and closer towards the machine were unmistakable. He could feel the buzzing air crawl its way around his forearm, tickling the skin like thousands of minuscule needles all placed onto it at once.

A splotch of red pulled itself from his hand, droplets of red drifting in the air like satellites. He watched with a curious eye as the dots gravitated towards the machine, floating in a slow and meticulous sequence. For a moment they were like stars, a moving constellation of red, outlining vague and unrecognizable shapes in the buzzing air, before they were drawn into a singular line. The metal faces of the core flashed, the specks of red beginning to vibrate as the proximity between them began to wane. They trembled, losing their circular shape as each dot began to bleed into the one behind it, uniform it the way they formed a single line. Then, in the moment it would take to blink, the liquid vanished, sucked into the heart of the machine with a gluttonous voracity.

The reaction was immediate: each of its metal faces jerking with a harrowing uniformity, the buzz of the air growing sharper, what had once pricked at him now pressed with a newfound cruelty into the pale barrier of his body. He drew his shoulder back, attempting to yank his hand away from the machine in an effort of retreat. The open wound of his hand began to burn against the light of the machine. Panic then seized him when he felt the buzzing air lock onto his forearm, his body lurching forward when the core grasped onto the scrunched fabric at his elbow, tugging his body closer. Viktor could feel it pull the blood from his body, coaxing it from beneath the flesh and muscle of his hand.

It spun, breathing with every spark of pain that shot through his body, each runic face trembling as they shifted in and out of place. He bit back the noise within his throat, his lungs withholding any sound or breath as panic gave way to desperation. Its pull grew harsher, tugging at the bone inside his hand, ripping away his skin in search of red and white. Around him the lab grew dark, shadows contorting in the corners behind pillars and beneath desks and equipment. The starless light of the night no longer fell into the room through the window, instead all sources of sight came from the twitching pulse of the core’s glow. It danced between shades of purple and blue, sparks of white garnering black dots in his vision.

Everything buzzed, tilting between horizontal and vertical, spinning as the atmosphere of the machine grew, clawing up his arm until he could it feel it from every limb. His hands, his arms, his neck, his back, his hip, his feet; it was consuming, swallowing him whole. He could feel the weight of its hold against him, the impaling pierce of the needle-like air puncturing into the weakening muscles of his limbs, its low resounding hum pounding itself against the walls of his skull.

The core gave another feral jerk, its mechanical form trembling as it grew unstable, the metal faces colliding and crashing against one another as they began to fall onto the hard surface of the desk. That was when Viktor could feel his eyes roll back, all sound in the room vanishing as a single reverberating shriek splintered through the lab, and all he could do was pray helplessly that he would wake up eventually.

I have given no permission for my writing or work to be posted anywhere else other than this account. I hope you enjoyed. <3

[machine-herald-archive]

House on Emberflit Alley - Rayla Heide

Viktor’s third arm emitted a thin ray of light that welded metal into his left arm with steady precision. The smell of burning flesh no longer bothered him, nor did the sight of his left wrist splayed open, veins and sinewy muscle fused with mechanical augments. He did not wince. Instead, he felt a sense of achievement gazing at the seamless blend of synthetic and organic materials.

The sound of children shouting gave Viktor pause. Rarely did anyone venture down the fog-bound confines of Emberflit Alley. He had chosen this location for that very reason — he preferred not to be interrupted.

Keeping his left arm immobile, Viktor adjusted a silver dial on his iridoscope. The device contained a series of mirrored lenses that angled light to allow him full view of the street outside his laboratory.

Several children were violently shoving a malnourished boy toward Viktor’s wrought iron gates.

“I doubt Naph will last a minute in there,” said a girl with imitation gemstones embedded above her eyes.

“I bet he comes back with a brass head,” said a boy with a shock of red hair. “Maybe then his brain won’t be dull as the Gray.”

“You better return with something we can sell, or we’ll be the ones to give you a new head,” said the largest one, grabbing the small boy by the neck and forcing him forward. The other children backed away, watching.

The young boy trembled as he approached the towering gate, which screeched as he pushed it open. He passed the front door encrusted with interlocking gears and shimmied through an open window. An alarm blared as he fell to the floor.

Viktor sighed and pressed a switch that quieted the ringing.

The skinny boy stared at his new environment. Glass jars, containing organic and metal organs floating in green fluid, lined the walls. A leather gurney stained with blood, upon which lay a mechanized drill, sat in the center of the chamber. Dozens of automatons stood motionless against every wall. To Viktor, his laboratory was a sanctuary for his most creative and vital experiments, but he could imagine it might seem frightening to a child.

The boy’s eyes widened in shock when he saw Viktor at his workbench, arm splayed open on the table. He ducked behind a nearby crate.

“You will not learn anything from that box, child,” said Viktor. “But on top of it, you will find a bone chisel. Hand it to me, please.”

A trembling hand reached to the top of the crate and grasped the handle of the rusted metal tool. The chisel slid across the floor to Viktor, who picked it up.

“Thank you,” said Viktor, who wiped off the instrument and continued work on his arm.

Viktor heard the boy’s rapid breathing.

“I am replacing the twisting flexor tendons — ahem, the broken mechanism in my wrist,” Viktor said, reaching into his arm to adjust a bolt. “Would you like to watch?”

The boy peeked his head around the crate.

“Doesn’t it hurt?” said the boy.

“No,” said Viktor. “When one eliminates the anticipation and fear of pain, it becomes entirely bearable.”

“Oh.”

“It also helps that my arm is almost completely mechanized. See for yourself.”

The boy stepped away from the crate and sat across from Viktor without a word, eyes fixed on his arm.

Viktor resumed welding a new boltdrive onto the tendons beneath his skin. When he had finished, he sealed the flaps of dermis onto his arm. He drew the beam of light across the seam, cauterizing his flesh and fusing the incision.

“Why did you do that?” the boy asked. “Didn’t your arm work fine as it was?”

“Do you know what humanity’s greatest weakness is?”

“No...” said the boy.

“Humans consistently ignore the endless infinity of possibilities in favor of maintaining the status quo.”

The boy gave him a blank stare.

“People fear change,” Viktor said. “They settle with fine when they could have exceptional.”

Viktor walked to his stovetop. He mixed a blend of dark powder and Dunpor cream into a saucepan, heating the liquid with his laser.

“Would you like a glass of sweetmilk?” said Viktor. “A weakness of mine, but I have always enjoyed the anise flavor.”

“Um... you’re not going to saw off my head and replace it with a metal one?”

“Ah. Is that what they think of me now?” Viktor asked.

“Pretty much,” said the boy. “I heard one kid had theirs replaced just because they had a cough.”

“Did you get this information directly?” said Viktor.

“No, it was my neighbor Bherma’s cousin. Or uncle. Or something like that.”

“Ah. Well in that case.”

“Would replacing someone’s head even get rid of a cough?” asked the boy.

“Now you are asking the right questions,” said Viktor. “No, I imagine it would not be much of an upgrade. Coughing stems from the lungs, you see. And to your earlier point, I am not going to saw your head off and replace it with a metal one. Unless, of course, you want that.”

“No thanks,” said the boy.

Viktor poured the thick liquid into two mugs and passed one to the boy, who stared longingly at the hot drink.

“It is not drugged,” said Viktor and took a sip from his own mug. The boy gulped down the sweetmilk.

“Are the others still watching outside?” said the boy through stained teeth.

Viktor glanced through his iridoscope. The three children were still waiting by the front entrance.

“Indeed they are. Do you wish to give them a scare?” Viktor said.

The boy’s eyes lit up, and he nodded.

Viktor handed him a sonophone and said, “Scream as loud as you can into this.”

The boy gave an exaggerated, blood-curdling shriek into the sonophone. It echoed along Emberflit Alley, and the other children jumped in terror, quickly scattering to hide. The boy looked at Viktor and grinned.

“I find that fear is more often than not a limiting emotion,” said Viktor. “Tell me something that scares you, for example.”

“The Chem-Barons.”

“The Chem-Barons are feared because they project an air of dominance and often the threat of violence. If no one feared them, people would stand up to them. And then where would their power go?”

“Uh...”

“Away. Exactly. Think of how many Chem-Barons exist compared to how many people live in Zaun. Fear is used by the powerful few to control the weak because they understand how fear works. If someone can manipulate your emotions, they can control you.”

“I guess that makes sense. But I’m still afraid of them,” said the boy.

“Of course you are. Patterns of fear are carved deep into your very flesh. Steel, however, has no such weakness.”

Viktor retrieved a vial containing miniscule silver beads floating in milky fluid.

“That is where I may be able to assist,” he said. “I have developed an augmentation that eliminates fear altogether. I could let you try it out for a short time.”

“How short?”

“The implant will dissolve in twenty minutes.”

“You’re sure it’s not permanent?”

“It can be, but not this one. You might find that without fear, your friends out there lose their grip. Bullies feed on fear, you see. And without it, they will starve.”

The boy nursed his drink, considering the offer. After a moment he nodded to Viktor, who inserted a thin needle into the vial and injected one of the silver beads into the skin behind his ear.

The boy shuddered for a moment. Then he smiled.

“Do you feel your weakness falling away?” Viktor asked.

“Oh yes,” said the boy.

Viktor walked him to the door and twisted a dial to unlock it before waving him out.

“Remember, you can always return if you wish a more permanent solution.”

A wave of fog created a ghostly silhouette around the boy as he emerged from the laboratory. Viktor returned to his workbench to watch the experiment through his iridoscope.

Emberflit Alley was empty, but as soon as the boy walked out his companions emerged.

“Where’s our souvenir?” asked the red-haired boy.

“Doesn’t seem like little Naph has held up his end of the deal,” said the girl.

“Guess we have to punish him,” added the large boy. “We did promise him a new head today, after all.”

“Don’t you touch me,” said Naph. He raised himself to his tallest height.

The bully reached for Naph’s neck, but Naph turned and punched him square in the face.

Blood streamed from the bully’s nose.

“Grab him!” the bully screamed.

But his companions were no longer interested in grabbing him.

Naph stepped toward the bullies. They stepped back.

“Get away from me,” he said.

The bullies eyed each other, then turned and ran.

Viktor closed his iridoscope and returned to his work. He stretched the fingers of his newly repaired arm and tapped them on his desk in satisfaction.

[scary-grace]

Shigaraki x Reader WIP Poll

I started but didn't finish a bunch of fics for Halloween, and in an effort to distract myself from everything I'd like to get into them! Below are excerpts from four fics I got a decent start on. Once you've read them, vote in the poll at the bottom for which one you think I should finish first!

Necromancer Shigaraki

            Tomura stares at your body, torn. You’re just barely dead. He watched you take your last breaths only seconds ago, and he knows even without touching you that your skin’s still warm, your blood still liquid, your brain still alight with electrical impulses. You’re the perfect candidate for a resurrection, and Tomura needs a perfect candidate, or it’s not going to work. Spirits of the restless dead might be drawn to Tomura like moths to a bug zapper, but the real money in necromancy comes through resurrections, and Tomura’s never done one successfully.

            That was fine while Tomura’s master was still in charge, but when he was captured, his guild disbanded. Tomura and his friends had to find a new home, and their new guildmaster gives zero shits about potential and all the shits about results, which means that Tomura’s inability to manage a complete resurrection has gone from an awkward conversation to a significant problem. Tomura’s friends have made themselves useful to the Hassaikai guild already. If Tomura can’t, he’ll be out on his ear.

            He needs to resurrect somebody, and he needs to do it fast. You’d be the ideal subject if your last words hadn’t been a demand to do the exact opposite.

Demon Shigaraki

In all of Tomura’s depictions, he’s missing something – his index and middle finger off his left hand. Offering him yours should get his attention. You adjust your grip on the handle of the knife and speak. “I conjure you, Shigaraki Tomura, instrument of destruction and symbol of fear. Come to me.”

            The circle hums to life around you. The book said it would do that. The book also said to explain. “Someone took everything away from me. I want to pay him back, but I can’t.” Bitterness fills the back of your throat, stings your eyes. Your hatred for Keigo chokes off your voice for a moment. “Shigaraki Tomura, spirit of entropy, dominion of grief, vengeance is mine. Help me claim it.”

     You set your hand on top of the ninth symbol, spreading your thumb, fourth, and fifth fingers wide, leaving a clear strike at your index and middle fingers. Seeing them there, isolated on the red-chalked concrete floor, turns your stomach. How hard will you have to strike to amputate them? What if you can’t do it? This is insane. You need to move on. Move towns, move countries, dye your hair and change your name, go under and surface again somewhere far from Takami Keigo, where you’ll never hear his name again. Is vengeance against the guy who did you wrong really worth mutilating yourself? Do you really hate him that much?            

Yes. You do.

Crossroads Demon Shigaraki

Tomura doesn’t know how time passes for humans when they’re alive, but he knows how it passes for you because of how you wake up. Most of the souls at Tomura’s crossroads were dead before they knew what hit them, and they wake up slowly, peacefully. They seem to know they’re dead already. They get up fast and walk faster, dissolving into nothingness past the edge of the crossroads before they even realize that Tomura’s there. But you knew what hit you. You know something went wrong. Tomura knows, because when you wake up, you lurch upright, clawing at your chest and struggling to breathe.

You’re dead. You don’t need to breathe. You don’t need to shiver, either, but your spirit’s shaking all over as you press your hands against your chest, touch along your arms and legs, reach up to the back of your head and press down hard. Tomura remembers what your body looked like on the road, and you must remember, too, because with every injury you can’t find, your panic increases. Your hands keep returning to your chest, the back of your head, like you’re trying to hold your body together.

You don’t have a body anymore. There’s nothing there, and Tomura doesn’t like the way watching you makes him feel. “Hey,” he says, and you freeze in place. “Pull it together. You’re dead.”

Cyborg Shigaraki

You work your fingers beneath the net, pulling it up and away from his neck so you can cut it away without getting the knife anywhere near his skin. Once you’ve made the necessary cuts, you get to work unwrapping it, sliding your hand behind his head and lifting it as gently as you can manage as you tug the net free. He’s almost dead weight, but not quite. When you lower his head back to the sand, you take a moment to move his hair out of his face.

            You get a shock from there. His eyes are open, their irises blood-red, and there are scars over his eye and the corner of his mouth. As you watch, he blinks slowly, then focuses on you. The voice that passes through his cracked lips is raspy and quiet, so quiet that you have to lean in to hear. “Leave me.”

            “I can’t do that,” you say. You can’t call for an ambulance – there’s no cell service down here, and in the time it would take you to get back in range, it’ll be too late. “Nobody should be alone when they –”            

“Won’t die.” He coughs, and a spatter of blood exits his mouth. Blood wells up around the driftwood spar, too. “Once I take it out.”

[gurugirl]

This is a Patreon exclusive one shot! If you're interested consider joining my Patreon! xoxo

When your hot waiter offers you a private demo to make a specialty cocktail at his place who are you to say no?

723 word teaser below

“What can I do to help?” You placed your palms onto the kitchen island and watched him.

“Well, let’s see,” he slid the cutting board in front of you before pulling a knife from a magnetized block that hung next to his refrigerator and walked behind you, placing the sharp instrument on the board, “Let’s see how you handle a knife in the kitchen. Can you slice this orange for me? Lengthwise.”

You turned to look at him over your shoulder as he stood close. You laughed through your nose and nodded, “Okay, Harry.” Maybe he really was just going to give you a demonstration.

You picked the knife up and placed the orange steady, slicing through the middle.

“Here,” Harry’s hand wrapped around yours and moved your palm down the handle, adjusting the way you were holding the knife, “Hold it like this, it’s safer.”

He removed his hand from yours, placing his palm on the counter as he kept himself directly behind you.

You sliced through the orange again. A slim cut that flopped to the wooden board and Harry hummed, “Pretty good. Let me see you do it again, this time a bit thicker. We want the slice to be juicy when we bite into it.”

You bit your lip and ran the knife through the flesh of the orange again, cutting a thicker slice and then turning to look up at Harry.

“Very good. You’re easy to train. Do another one for me. Just like this one.”

You could almost feel the heat from his chest he was so close. Part of you wished that he’d just press into you and touch you solidly. Give you a squeeze or something that was a clear signal.

Steadying the orange with your left hand you picked up the knife with your right one and angled it over the rind, slicing down to the board. It felt silly really. You knew how to cut things. You were an adult who’d sliced oranges many times over the years. But even as silly as it felt, there was an aspect to the whole thing that felt like foreplay suddenly when he leaned in closer, his breath cascading down your neck, “Gorgeous. Give me two more just like that.”

You gulped and picked up the other half of the orange and repeated the slices, finding yourself leaning back the slightest in hopes of getting him closer.

“Do you cook a lot?” You spoke when the last bit was sliced and Harry moved away to get the cocktail shaker and a shot glass.

“I do. My father is the main chef. He curated the menu. I help him with it, though. Learned almost everything from him. Now if he’s not there I’m in charge and I run the kitchen. We’ve got a really great chef that we trust who takes our recipes seriously,” he poured the Grand Cru into a shot glass.

“Wow. Are you there a lot? At work?”

He nodded, “Nearly every day. It’s hard work but it’s worth it. I love the job.”

Harry opened up a bottle of red wine, uncorked the top, and poured two servings into the cocktail shaker then added in the Grand Cru, “Stir this for me and I’ll get the glasses ready. We want the liquid inside to be very cold before we pour to serve.”

You took the cocktail spoon and dipped it into the shaker with the liquid and stirred while Harry prepared the glasses with fresh ice and the orange slices and then put the strainer over the shaker, “Pour.”

“This was an easy drink to make, Harry,” you grinned as you emptied the cocktail shaker into both glasses.

“Of course it’s easy.” He took both glasses, handing you yours, and raised his upward to clink, “To private demonstrations,” he winked.

You giggled and took a quick sip, “Thank you. I just thought there would be a lot more to the demonstration.”

Harry moved to stand next to you, and leaned his hip into the island before taking a sip, “Oh yeah? I can give you a more in-depth demonstration. I wasn’t quite done just yet.”

“So there’s more to it?”

Harry licked his lips and you noted the quick glance he gave your cleavage before looking back at you, “I hope there’s more.”

Check out my Patreon masterlist here! xoxo

general tags: @michellekstyles @yousunshineyoutempter @tenaciousperfectionunknown @golden-hoax @luvonstyles @tiaamberxx @lukesaprince @closureesny @justlemmeadoreyou @itsgigikay @angelbabyyy99 @lanadelharry @novasblogofstuff @gills-lounge @damnasstyles @malwtilda @anothermannharry @love-letters-to-uranus @itjustkindahappenedreally @ssaama @onlyangellucifer @harryistheonlyoneforme @butdaddyilovehim-hs @reveriehs @lc-fics @carmenxharry @harrrrystylesslut @elidoho @bananabk9756 @gotdrxnkonu @freedomfireflies @imgonnadreamaboutthewayyoutaaaa @lightsoutstyles @certainlysyko

[microlitseo]

Smart Peristaltic Pumps and IoT Integration in Modern Industries

We are in a fast-paced industry landscape where efficiency, precision, and adaptability are the need of the hour. This can be a more critical process than ever, so including smart peristaltic pumps with the Internet of Things should be a perfect choice. 

Joining this might be crucial in this shift, as their cutting-edge fluid handling system would allow real-time monitoring. Coupled with this, they need predictive maintenance, which might lend itself to energy-efficient operation in various industries.

Smart peristaltic pump uses are versatile in that they can be applied in either pharmaceuticals or food processing. These Internet of Things-enabled pumps are making their space in a new era of fluid management. This blog is all about peristaltic pumps and how its going smart, so let’s catch up with the pace.

What is a Peristaltic Pump and Why is it Going Smart?

Fundamentally, a peristaltic pump is a form of positive displacement pump that conveys fluids in a flexible tube by squeezing the tube using revolving rollers or shoes. The reason it is special is that it operates contamination-free because the fluid only touches the tubing.

Now imagine that same streamlined process with sensors, real-time data, and remote control. That's exactly what IoT integration offers with control, increased security, and smarter decision-making.

Real-Time Monitoring and Remote Control

One of the most intelligent advantages of smart peristaltic pumps is real-time monitoring. Sensors embedded within monitor important parameters like:

Flow rate

Internal pressure

Fluid temperature

Motor speed

Tubing wear

These real-time data streams over IoT networks into dashboards accessible on any device, anywhere. Operators can remotely change flow settings or react to alarms without being there, a godsend for companies with multiple operating locations.

Predictive Maintenance: No Guesswork Needed

Conventional maintenance practices have the potential of being based on periodic servicing or repair. But that's not the case with IoT-enabled pumps.

Sophisticated machine learning algorithms and analytics interpret sensor data to forecast failure prior to occurrence. For instance, once a peristaltic pump dispenser indicates abnormal pressure, the system can provide a choice to alert the operator in advance of its impact on the process.

Predictive approach:

Reduces unplanned downtime

Reduces repair costs

Extends pump life

Enhances safety

Optimising Performance and Energy Consumption

Smart peristaltic pumps respond to changing conditions. Whether setting up a flow rate for delicate biotech materials or boosting throughout a bottling operation, they provide optimal performance with minimal user input.

The systems assist:

Prevent excessive energy usage

Reduce wear on pump components

Balance performance for changing viscosities and materials

Particularly, a peristaltic pump for high viscosity fluids becomes more efficient through intelligent feedback loops and adjustable torque settings.

Industry Use: Where Smart Pumps Shine

Smart peristaltic pumps serve across industries:

Pharmaceutical: Sterile, contamination-free processing of fluids for drug manufacture

Biotechnology: Precise dosing and reagent transfer

Water Treatment: Chlorine or pH adjustment with remote diagnostics

Food and Beverage: Hygienic transfer of syrups, sauces, or dairy

Manufacturing: Faultless dosing in automated assembly lines

Need mobility? An intelligent, portable peristaltic pump is ideal for application in remote locations or on-site measurement. It provides excellent performance without compromising portability.

Sustainable, Scalable, and Future-Ready

Along with control and efficiency, smart pumps are also sustainable. By not wasting, optimising energy use, and saving the application of excessive chemicals, they are also in concordance with the environmental goals of this time.

Intelligent peristaltic systems also provide easy scalability. With changing industries, the addition of additional pumps or adaptation of parameters involves a negligible adjustment of infrastructure from cloud-based interfaces and universal IoT protocols.

Conclusion: Smarter Pumps for Smarter Industries

As the Industrial Age welcomes digitisation, intelligent peristaltic pumps are proving to be an actual valuable gem. Because they can monitor, predict, and optimise, their performance is not only improved, but reliability, cost savings, and eco-efficiency are also fostered.

From sterile labs to sprawling production lines, the impact of IoT integration in peristaltic systems is undeniable, and we’re just scratching the surface.Want to take your fluid handling processes to the next level with intelligent peristaltic technology? Discover Microlit's portfolio of cutting-edge dispensing technologies for the industry of tomorrow. Let's pump smarter, not harder.

[liquidhandlingproduct]

What are the different types of Medical Lab Instruments?

Pharmaceutical and scientific research laboratories conduct numerous chemical and biological tests daily. To ensure precise and accurate results, these labs rely on a diverse array of advanced and sophisticated equipment. Let's examine some of the medical lab instruments commonly found in a pharmaceutical research lab and explore their applications.

[just-an-emily-existing]

Behold, my creepy Pizza Tower giraffe clone who may or may not have a striking resemblance to Gabriel from the Mandela Catalogue lol

Her name is Rose btw

Get to know the clone giraffe!

Birthday: Feb 14, 2024

Age: 1

Zodiac: Aquarius

Chinese Horoscope: Dragon

Spirit Animal: Giraffe

Height: 8'0

Sexuality: Pansexual

Gender: Genderfluid

Pronouns: She/Her

Personality Type: ENFP

IQ: 52

Nicknames: Rosie (PH), Any pet name from Junior

Allergies: None

Disabilities: None

Right or Left Handed: Right

Quirks/Habits: Stomps her feet when mad

Home Town: Wilmington N.C

Nationality: American

Siblings: None

Who is the most important person in her life: Junior

Person she looks up to the most: Emily

Best Friend: Noisette and Emily

Lover: Junior

Rival: PH

If she could have a superpower it would be: To make everyone love her

Dream Job: None

Biggest Fear: None

Biggest Flaw: Her selfishness

Favorite Animal: Giraffe

Favorite Hobby: Drawing with Junior

Favorite Color: Pink

Favorite Food: Any type of vegatable

Favorite Drink: Water

Least Favorite Food: Meat

Favorite Season: Summer

Favorite Movie: Hasn’t seen enough to have a favorite

Favorite Book: She can barley read

Favorite Singer/Artist: Yes

Very skilled at: Sneaking

Least skilled at: Handling customers

Greatest Achievement: She finally got Junior as her boyfriend.

Pet Peeves: When people try to get between her and her family.

Introvert or Extrovert: Extrovert

Organized or Messy: Messy

Is she good at singing: No

Can she bake: No

Can she cook: Kinda

Does she play any sports: No

Instrument: None

Motto: “Take what you want, who’s gonna stop you?”

Theme Songs

Liquid Smooth - Mitski

Washing Machine Heart - Mitski

Voice claim: Me

[apollogeesss]

ONE LAST GOODBYE.

Nolan!Jonathan Crane x fem! reader

summary— When Crane goes out to hunt for a potential victim to test his toxin, finally leaving homeless aside, he finds himself in a bar talking to a mysterious woman who tells him about her melancholy. Crane decides to give it a fitting, warmer ending. To his twisted form.

Warnings— DEAD DOVE— DO NOT-EAT, reader's murder!!!, very short???, chronic sadness, The reader is naive as hell, mention of a bad relationship with family and friends, the reader is 27 years old just like Jonathan, murder, Jonathan being weird, cruel and mean? and killing reader under his own moral principles, btw, I think he's a little out of character 😭 ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE.

Notes— I haven't written much lately, I'm dealing with personal stuff, but I wanted to do Jonathan by 'honoring' the sadistic personality disorder mentioned on the Jonathan of Nolanverse wiki. I think this is really bad, I writes it in a rush and I won't correct anything since I just wanted to do something quick 💔

Jonathan had left work early that morning, not because he was in a hurry or because the job was done, but rather because he was anxious to get to the small apartment he called home. No. Like many nights every now and then, he had prepared to 'go out for a walk' as he called it.

The discreet instrumentation under the second-hand suit that made him look elegant but that he knows didn't quite fill his shoulders, a dispenser hidden under his wristwatch. And finally, his briefcase where he hid the precious burlap mask he used to protect himself from the gas.

Jonathan had tested his toxin on people before, of course, all patients with criminal records or screaming homeless people who knew nothing about his past. Tonight he was beyond excited to find an open mind, someone to share their secrets before he crushed their wings.

That's why he was in that bar, sitting at the counter in silence, looking at people like someone looking at incompetent animals or pond scum. In front of him was a glass of liquor that he hadn't even touched, not wanting the effects of the translucent liquid to affect his enjoyment of the experience. That's when he saw her, in a corner of the bar, sitting like a cornered animal.

She was pretty, sure, like those American magazine girls in her own way, wearing a dress and a coat that he deduced was a cheap attempt to look like a proper woman.

Jonathan took a long, quiet moment to analyze her, as the expression in her barely visible eyes demonstrated distress and the different glasses indicated a delicate state. He stood up, leaving his drink alone and sad.

As Jonathan approached her, his shadow covered the dim light that was barely there for her.

"Excuse me, miss," he said, his tone soft and velvety like someone dealing with a wounded lamb.

She blinked like a lost sheep, her delicate-looking hands rising to the table, and she straightened her back slightly. A small smile tugged at Jonathan's lips.

"I couldn't help but notice you look sad and lonely. Would it be okay if I kept you company?"

She remained silent for a long time, which Jonathan handled patiently, but in the end she nodded and gave him permission to sit opposite her. Any other guy would have taken advantage of the opportunity to flirt, try to take such a pretty sad girl home and spin her around on his cock like a Merry-Go-Round.

But Jonathan, Jonathan would always be better than that. His mind was set on a better purpose.

No one spoke at first, Jonathan stared at her like a wolf waiting for the moment to jump on its prey, and she didn't do much more than look at him, her lips curved in a sign of anguish.

"Why are you here alone so late? A woman like you shouldn't be drinking so much alone in a city like Gotham," Jonathan said, his hand rising slightly on the table and taking the empty bottle of wine nearby.

"I just wanted to go out and clear my head."

She shrugged, her hands sweating while her feet couldn't stay still under the table either. The strange man's gaze was both terrifying and fascinating. A blue as pure as the sky.

"And that's why it's an incompetent decision to go out drinking alone?"

"If it bothers you, you shouldn't have come near. In Gotham, these things aren't your problem."

Jonathan nodded silently and carefully took off his rectangular glasses, sighing as he folded them, leaving them on the table before smiling a little.

"I'm afraid I don't want to leave, Miss...?"

She gave him her name in a murmur.

"Nice, appropriate name. I'm Jonathan, Dr. Jonathan Crane."

"What's a doctor doing in a place like this?" she asked mockingly.

"Just like you, seeking to soothe the sorrows."

They both smiled knowingly. Jonathan had cast the hook effortlessly, and she took it. What happened was Jonathan, they talked for hours, she told how that same day she had been told that her mother had died of a stroke— although Jonathan couldn't help but think that she was just another case of divorced parents where the child is not treated appropriately which generates an eventual rejection by both parents.

A part of him remembered his childhood, one he had tried to bury for years because it only brought anguish and oppression. The woman in front of him spoke of her loneliness, of how she longed for company to soothe that pain, and he saw himself still in shorts and crocodile tears every time his mother changed her opinion about him.

'I'm doing this because I love you, Jonathan,' 'don't touch me, Jonathan,' 'don't talk to anyone, Jonathan.'

He felt sick even when she started rambling about how complicated her relationship with her friends was, how they tried to help her but she always found a way to walk away because she felt a deep sense of distrust towards these people, and she was afraid of being hurt by those who loved her. It was certainly an avoidant attachment.

Jonathan reconsidered why he did this, the less academic part of him didn't enjoy hearing others talk about their troubles with him, he hated it— but he also remembered that he was supposed to be there to see what the toxin was like in the mind of someone ordinary, someone he knew even a little about to guess what he saw in their nightmares.

He interrupted her when he saw his wristwatch read 11:30 at night.

"Would you like to continue the conversation in my apartment?" he said, in a bold move he reached out and took her hand on the table.

"I think you're a wonderful and interesting person. I feel sorry for the distress you've been through, and I understand. And I'd love to keep you company, at least tonight. I promise not to cause any trouble."

His voice sounded low like the caress of a lover dedicated to the well-being of his beloved, the expression on the woman's face seemed to go from confusion to charming surprise with rosy cheeks. Stupid enough to believe that the only man who decided to listen to her complain about her somewhat troubled life in a dive bar turned out to be an angel of comfort.

Jonathan paid her bill like a good gentleman would, offering to let her out first and holding his arm as he walked her to her car. The walk was somewhat long, he excused himself by saying that when he arrived there were a lot of people to which she smiled shyly and nodded.

Zero survival instinct.

He led her to a somewhat damp alley with the excuse of shortening his path, it was there when she finally stopped before entering with an expression that undoubtedly doubted Jonathan's sanctity.

"You didn't say I was so far—" she murmured and took a few steps back, as if the gentle dizziness of the wine in her system was dispersing to bring her senses.

Jonathan turned to look at her and stifled a groan, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose, leaving his briefcase on the floor not far from his reach before approaching her gently. When she tried to move away, he put his hands on her arms and held her close to him, their faces close enough to feel her warm breath.

"I'm so sorry, I just wanted a moment with you. I've never met such a wonderful woman."

He said before staring at her, her eyes moist, poor creature, Jonathan thought. So alone, so desolate, and yearning to be loved despite her fear. Jonathan gently pushed her against the wall, like someone handling a pet, and she let out a soft gasp before Jonathan joined their lips in a short, awkward kiss.

She didn't push him away like he thought she would, her cold hands tried to caress Jonathan's neck but he quickly pulled away, looking at her with a soft expression.

"What a lovely expression you have now, darling... Will you have an equally lovely expression when you see your worst fears?"

She blinked a little, quite confused but still delighted by the intimate closeness with Jonathan. Her eyes followed Jonathan's silhouette as he turned his back on her for a moment to bend down and search for something in his briefcase, she kept her back against the alley wall perhaps waiting for more.

"What are you talking about, Jonathan?"

He didn't respond immediately, standing up, hiding something behind his back like a shy child.

"I'm a man of science, you know, and for a long time I've investigated fear and its power over the mind and body."

He said in a serious tone, then she certainly felt that something was wrong, trying to see if there was a weapon in that hidden hand but the darkness did not allow to see well.

"Hey, I don't know what game this is, but I think I'd better go..." she said and tried to move towards the exit of the alley, but Jonathan got ahead of her and grabbed her forearm tightly, pulling her.

"No, no, where are you going? Why are you afraid?"

He said in a sardonic tone, approaching her and raising his hidden hand. An old-fashioned, worn burlap mask, like the heads of scarecrows.

"Look, it's not a gun, you don't have to be so scared. Although it's common for children to be afraid of familiar human figures, you know?"

"Jonathan, let me go, you're hurting me!"

She said and tried to struggle to what Jonathan could only express his annoyance because they would have to work faster than he would like before she threw a tantrum. With one hand he put on the mask, his blue eyes disappeared leaving the shadow of two black holes for eyes.

"Don't get so worked up! It's your fault for being so stupid. Do you know how many women disappear after blindly trusting men who talk to them in bars and invite them home?"

He didn't think to delay any longer before spraying a good dose of fear toxin in her face, the cloud of gas accumulated in her face and she coughed, trying to move but he pushed her against the wall. For a thin man, he had a remarkable strength.

She screamed almost immediately, like a fox caught in a trap, screaming in pain from its injured paw. A smile spread beneath Jonathan's mask.

Her screams were like applause to him, watching his precious toxin work quickly on her, in seconds, not like the previous prototypes that took minutes to react in the human body. He didn't even have to hold her tighter when in her own panic she fell to the floor on her knees, covering her head between sobs and cries for help.

"What are you afraid of? What's inside your head?" Jonathan said. "Are you thinking about your mommy? About how she died without ever asking for your forgiveness, or about your father who found another family?"

Her voice sounded distorted by the effects of the fear toxin, and she writhed as if gasping for air. God, she did. She was sobbing, she felt as if her skin was burning and as if her lungs were going to explode along with her heart, her body was shaking uncontrollably from the desperate wave of fear that had her paralyzed.

"Help! Someone help me!"

She screamed, but Jonathan just sighed in delight as he looked at her, standing beside her. She was so beautiful like that, with those tears streaming down her face and her mouth open as she screamed. Those beautiful eyes almost bulging with the panic that consumed her.

"Cry and scream all you want, darling, no one is coming to save you. You're alone in this, alone as you've been all your life."

He sneered and ducked down, noticing how she looked at him in complete terror. If only he could see every person he passes on the streets of Gotham like that, he'd be happy. He's so hungry to see them succumb to fear.

But his moment of satisfaction was cut short when the screams of fear and tears changed to an ugly gurgling in her throat and her body began to convulse against the ground. A small line of blood ran down her nose as she shook, her eyes rolling back like a woman possessed.

"What the hell?" Jonathan said and put his hands on her shoulders, trying to keep her in place.

That shouldn't be happening, surely, he was supposed to have perfected the dose and the substance to destroy the mind but without killing the individual. After all, who wants a test subject if you can't see what their mind looked like after the exposure? A total waste!

Clearly helpless, he watched his test subject disintegrate in an ugly way, not the beautiful way fear makes your mind melt. He removed his mask, leaving it on the side of the floor.

He couldn't just leave her there, god, of course not, even if she died from complications he couldn't just leave the body there. He felt so humiliated as if he were reduced to a ruthless killer, it was not his purpose to really kill her, perhaps he would leave her alone and totally destroyed, yes, but not dead.

He couldn't leave her like that. He knelt beside her, trembling with frustration, with disgust — not at her, but at himself.

He had miscalculated. He had failed.

With a trembling hand, he took off his coat, the one he never removed, and gently placed it over her face. Not to hide her from the world, but to hide her eyes from him.

Her breathing was shallow now, just little jerks of life clinging on. Her mouth moved, but there were no words, just blood and air.

He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. He only watched as her body spasmed once more, and then he reached out — steady, almost tender — and did what needed to be done.

It was quick. A correction, nothing more. A cold act of mercy in the form of pressure and silence.

She stopped moving.

He stood up slowly, eyes hollow, and picked up his mask from the floor.

Jonathan remembers the rest of the night as confusing and disappointing, lifting her body in his arms and carrying her to his car, not as he had really planned, he laid her down in the back seat and he drove to the farthest docks of Gotham, where the mob used to hang out.

Jonathan carried her to the seashore, but not before searching through her clothes to find anything that might identify this woman with beautiful eyes. In the darkness barely comforted by the moonlight he could see her face— her expression was horrible, yes, that was the best way to put it, she had those bulging eyes, her mouth and chin covered in dried blood although her body retained its warmth.

He felt sad, he would have loved to see her with an expression of terror, to see her dried tears, her expression frozen in a scream, not in that wild look. Nothing beautiful or proper for a woman like her. He threw her into the water, standing there with a feeling of dissatisfaction, his big mistake when he thought he had succeeded and the price was an unnecessary death.

As he returned to his car and sat in silence, he liked the thought that at least she might be found, and that she would finally receive the attention and love she so longed for, would say goodbye to her fear of loneliness.

She would overcome her worst fear even if it wasn't in life.

[sweetmidnights]

A Tentative Ellipsis (the parting of your lips and the ache in your eyes)-- Chapter 9: Something false that once was true, I no longer revolve around you

Pairing: Agatha Harkness/Rio Vidal

Summary: The last of production prep before the beginning of the tour, with an interlude from our favorite little man.

Word Count: 9k

Warnings: 18+, mentions of addiction

AO3

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Agatha couldn’t remember the last time she was in a recording booth– both figuratively and literally. About a year after the band split up, she tried her hand at producing a solo album, but nothing ever came of it because she couldn’t handle being sober enough to record anything of quality. Back in that first year, Agatha couldn’t leave her house without being swarmed by cameras and screaming paparazzi. Headlines were still ripping her apart, following her every move, cataloguing every single mistake in their pursuit of why she ruined everyone's favorite rock band. 

So, while she knew that going to the studio was logically something she would have done at this time, there was not even a crumb of conscious memory tied to that shoddy attempt at going solo. With memories of the only woman she ever loved burned into the walls of every recording studio, even the ones in New York she had never stepped foot in, Agatha couldn’t face them without a little liquid courage and more than her fair share of fine, white powder and wide, yellow pills. 

Today, they were laying down tracks for the performance material– layered harmonies, click tracks, cues, extra instrumentals, and sounds they couldn’t all perform live. That meant, however, a long day in the studio. 

It started with Agatha, Jen, Lilia, and Alice in neighboring isolation booths recording harmonies that would play as their intro– a haunting melody over bare bones instrumental that would grow and grow until it became something loud, something happy, something bigger than any one of them alone. Billy would come out first, filling in the missing drum track, then Jen on her bass. Lilia would follow with her tambourine, with Alice hot on her heels to slide behind the keyboard. The four would play for a full minute as the backing track pushed them higher and higher into the stratosphere until it broke on a gritty, full power chord struck on Rio’s signature Gibson, her and Agatha rising from under the stage on a lift, back to back. Then, Agatha would say, “Did you miss me?” The crowd would go wild, and they would start The Ballad of the Witches’ Road . 

Hours wound together, and Agatha found herself actually enjoying being back in the studio more than she anticipated. There was idle chatter as they all waited for their turn on various tracks. By the end of the day, Agatha knew that there was only one set of recordings left– the in-ear mix with a click track, and cues. Typically, the studio would hire voice actors or studio cats to do it and send the band home, but none of them seemed ready to leave, so they all stayed huddled in the lounge just down the hall while Agatha, ever the perfectionist, stayed behind to listen. It didn’t take long to get through the tracks for Billy and Lilia, Jen’s taking a bit longer, and Alice’s was already set from an off afternoon she had the week prior and laid it herself. Still, she let her mind wander back to where this all began. 

2011 

The first time that Agatha stepped into a professional recording studio, she was still an undergrad with rose-colored glasses and an idealistic optimism that hadn’t yet been beaten from her body with ruthless kicks and punches. It had been something small– background vocals for a local band who promised her $100 and free tickets to a show on their next tour. She had always known that she wanted to be a musician one day, that she wanted to perform for huge crowds, but that day in the studio, she realized that she couldn’t imagine her life going any other way. The way her mind settled from chaos into a calm control the minute she stepped behind the microphone was near irresistible.  

Agatha would go back to recording studios many times over the years between that first visit and when Stark Records finally picked up Agatha and The Orchids when she was 26. Sometimes, it was to record for others but more often than not, she would scrape together as much money as she could from her waitressing jobs to rent the booth for a day or two, laying down tracks for their EPs and demos to take on their little local tours she booked for the group as it grew. Making music in the studio with feedback thrumming in her ears was Agatha’s happy place.  

So, when the band needed to record performance tracks for the first time, Agatha was absolutely giddy with excitement– and it made Rio happy, too. They walked into Stark Records together, hand-in-hand, chatting relentlessly as Agatha’s mind ran a mile a minute and Rio tucked loose hair behind her girlfriend’s– no, fiancée’s– ear and kissed the crown of her head.  

“Can you believe we are really here?” Agatha asked, letting her hand run along the wall at her side. “I mean, I know we recorded the album, but it’s real now. It’s not just some fantasy where we can only hope for the best. We’ve gotten the best, and now we’re taking it on tour around the country and Europe. It’s surreal.”  

Rio stopped Agatha in her tracks, halting her quick steps to pull her as she rested her back on the wall. Agatha’s hands instinctively lifted to Rio’s shoulders as she felt soft hands wrap around her hips. The distinct sound of Rio’s head thumping against the wall was followed by a light, brilliant laugh that Agatha felt through her entire body.  

“You really did it, huh?” Rio said, looking at Agatha like she hung the stars. “You told me the first day we met that you would climb to the top of the world. I believed you then, but I am still just as stunned today that all of your hard work has gotten us here. You’ve made it, my love. You’ve gotten everything you’ve ever wanted.”  

Agatha’s smile was slow as it spread wider and wider on her cheeks. God, she was right. Here she was, about to record for a headlining tour, held by the woman of her dreams, so deeply in love that she could die.  

“You know you’re part of that, too, right? I said that we could be everything. I couldn’t have done this without you,” Agatha admitted, a rare moment of honest vulnerability. “You’re everything to me, Rio. I can’t wait to marry you.”  

Rio’s cheeks heated at Agatha’s words, and Agatha could tell that she was basking in it, in this sense of joyful love and promise. Over the last three years, Agatha had painstakingly weasled her way into Rio’s soft, gooey center, and that was something she didn’t take lightly. Her fiancée was not someone who let people in. After the way she was raised, Agatha didn’t blame her at all. For all of Evanora’s cold, callous isolating neglect, Rio’s parents were burning fire, relentless and insidious as they broke her heart over and over and over again with their anger, their addiction, their violence. Together, Agatha cooled some of those burns, and Rio, in return, thawed the parts of her she had thought long lost to a never-ending winter.  

So, to give Rio this love? God, Agatha could bloom under her gaze and never question which way to face the sun. She was already right in front of her with a gap in her teeth and freckles across the bridge of her nose, spilling onto her cheeks.  

“October,” Rio replied, the date memorized the moment they had chosen it. “You’ll be mine forever.”  

Agatha stretched to press her lips against Rio’s softly, tenderly. “You already have me, my love.”  

Rio’s front teeth sank into her bottom lip as she bit back another smile. She pushed herself back off the wall and tangled their hands together once again, pulling Agatha down the hallway to their destination.  

“I have an idea,” Rio said to Agatha many hours later, watching as Billy and Alice worked on some percussion tracks.  

“Oh, that’s always dangerous,” Agatha replied, laughing when Rio shoved at her shoulder. “Not going to hurt yourself, are you?”  

“Shut up.” Rio rolled her eyes and shifted in her seat to face Agatha more fully. “What if we record each other’s cues?”  

Agatha pursed her lips and furrowed her brows, already nodding along as her eyes crinkled in delight. “I like the way you think, Vidal.” 

“We’ve never had in-ear mixes like this before, so we might as well take advantage of it,” Rio continued, not realizing that Agatha had already agreed. “Wait, you like the idea?”  

A pale hand slipped across the seats to grab Rio’s. “Why wouldn’t I? Hell, when do I ever hate an idea you’ve had?”  

“You weren’t so fond of that time I–” Rio’s words were cut off by Agatha’s hand pressing firmly over her mouth.  

“Not here, you menace. There are like… four straight men in here. They don’t need to hear that.”  

Rio smiled wickedly under Agatha’s hand and licked it, making Agatha drop it as she cackled.  

“That’s pretty sappy, though, isn’t it? Having my girlfriend’s voice keeping me on track?” Agatha asked, playing with fire. “I didn’t take you for a romantic, Vidal.”  

“That’s fiancée to you, Harkness,” Rio replied without even thinking, the game already well played, even though the rings on their fingers were still shiny and new. “Sappy is my new middle name, you know? Just for you, though. Always for you.”  

Now it was Agatha’s turn to blush. Open, freely-given affection was a foreign language to her, but it was a welcome balm on her bruised ribs all the same. Her heart had always beat too hard in its cage, growing closer and closer to breaking free as it turned itself black and blue to try and keep a vice-like grip on her emotions and the vulnerability that put her in danger. But Rio learned this early on, noticed that while Agatha would brush her off and squirm under the discomfort of being seen, of being loved , her cheeks would always burn a bright pink, and her icy eyes would soften in a way only Rio could see. It had become a norm in their relationship, and Agatha truly couldn’t imagine anything better.  

“Alright, ladies. Have you decided if you want the male or the female voice actor on your cues?” one of the sound engineers asked as Billy and Alice came back into the gathering area.  

“Could we do them ourselves?” Agatha asked, squeezing Rio’s hand. “I would really like to have my fiancée do mine.”  

A distinct gagging sound could be heard from the duo drawing closer. “God, you two, could you not with that for like five minutes? You’re making me sick.”  

“You’re just jealous, Wu-Gulliver,” Rio fired back, sticking her tongue out at her friend. “Let us be in love in peace.”  

The sound engineer sighed deeply through loose lips. “Yeah, that’s fine. You first, Vidal. I’ve already got Agatha’s track script on the stand.”  

Rio jumped to her feet, smiling in that unsettling way at the man, making him take an unconscious step back. Without hesitation, she slid behind the microphone and put the headphones on.  

The booth mic clicked on. “Alright, Rio, mic is live, let’s see how this goes.”  

“Ready, sweetheart?” she asked, looking only at Agatha, unknowingly recording the two words that would play in Agatha’s ears before every show as a mantra, as an oath.  

Agatha could only nod, knowing that this was exactly what she needed.  

When she finally stirred from her thoughts, it was because it was her cues being recorded by the very kind man reading from an iPad. Agatha gripped at her chin with her forefinger and thumb, sucking in a deep breath through her nose. It all sounded so wrong, and she couldn’t put her finger on it. 

“No, we need to do them again, this isn’t right,” she said, twirling a finger to tell the sound engineers to roll it all back. “Let me try.” 

She made her way into the sound booth, taking the headphones from a man whose name she could not remember. His voice was lovely, probably made him lots of good money in voiceover work, but she just couldn’t focus on the very sapphic songs she would be performing with him telling her what to do next. It felt wrong, and she couldn’t quite explain why. 

For the next fifteen minutes, Agatha trial and error tested different variations of “1, 2, 3, 4” and “Go”, not even getting to the fun cues before she growled in frustration. 

“Why isn’t this working?” she barked into the microphone, more frustrated with herself than anything else. She’d spent the last 10 years listening to her own voice more than nearly anyone else’s, so why did it sound like nails on a chalkboard to her today? 

Through the mirror, she could see Alice sitting there with her legs crossed, a thoughtful expression on her face that made Agatha squirm. 

“Because you’ve never done it this way,” she answered simply, though her words clawed deeper. “Do you want to try Ri–”

“Don’t. I can do this on my own,” Agatha bit back, grimacing in apology. “Again.” 

The click track started in her ears, and she closed her eyes, centering herself before recording the count-in for The Ballad of the Witches’ Road . 

“Verse 1… one, two, three, four,” she dictated into the mic, feeling a bit better about it. Agatha Harkness was a completely capable musician, she could make her own click track cues and not be a diva about it. 

But when the recording played back again, her stomach turned, the acrid taste of discomfort crawling up her chest just like it had every time before. It was almost like she had been conditioned against anything but her ex-wife’s voice leading her into her performance. Her shoulders slumped, and she pinched the bridge of her nose in resignation. 

“Fine. Fine. Can someone please call Rio in?” Agatha asked, knowing that she was still with the rest of the band in the lounge, waiting for her turn. 

Without a word, Alice stood up and poked her head out the door, Rio walking through with a blank expression moments later. Agatha hung the headphones on the hook and walked back into the booth. If the discomfort at hearing the wrong voice in her cues was distracting, the way her insides clenched at the thought of asking Rio this made her want to be sick. 

Rio’s face gave nothing away, but Agatha knew that it was a front, a protective barrier to what could possibly be coming next. She didn’t blame her, not one bit. Agatha knew that she wasn’t exactly the easiest person to work with in the studio– she was meticulous and perfectionist with exactly the way each track should be laid on any given song. Agatha could hear everything in her head the way that she wanted it and wouldn’t stop until it was an exact replica of the melodies, of the layering, of the energy that she heard in her head as she wrote their songs. 

“I–” she started, choking a bit on the lump in her throat. “Will you please record my cues? I can’t… It doesn’t… It’s not right.” 

The taller woman relaxed visibly, a small, knowing smile spreading on her lips. “Of course.” 

A gentle hand lay on Agatha’s shoulder, squeezing comfortingly as Rio passed by, and Agatha felt a tingle ripple down to her fingers, and her breath caught. Shaking it off, she dropped back into her seat next to Alice and watched Rio steady herself in front of the microphone. Even after all of these years, Rio still had wisps of that hesitation she had always carried back in the beginning. Being recorded had always been the hardest part of Rio. Performing live was easier because she could feed off the energy of the crowd, absorbing their joy and their enthusiasm as she powered through each verse, each chorus, each crunchy harmony. But here? Behind the glass? It was just her and her mistakes for everyone to pick apart until it was right. 

It was hard for Agatha not to remember all the nights after recording where she would press warm, tender kisses into Rio’s skin, reminding her of just how perfect she was. Praises were interspersed between the lave of her tongue on sweat-slicked skin as she worked Rio to her peak over and over again, as she turned her wife into something boneless, something languid, something that left no room for doubt or insecurity as truth played over and over and over on a loop from Agatha’s lips. 

When Agatha locked eyes with Rio through the window, she could tell that Rio’s mind had wandered back to those nights, too. She gave Rio an encouraging nod, saying everything she never could out loud with one simple motion. It’s okay, you’ve got this, you’re doing great. 

Rio looked sheepish for a second, like she was considering something that she couldn’t quite decide on. But then the sound engineer clicked his mic on, announcing that they were recording, and she stuck her tongue in her cheek in that way Agatha knew so well. 

“Ready, sweetheart?” she cooed into the mic, making Agatha’s chest clench. 

Agatha could feel Alice tense beside her, immediately starting to whisper, “We can cut that out, it’s okay,” but Agatha brushed her off, still looking at Rio, a single tear stinging at the corner of an icy blue eye. 

“Always,” she said, though she knew that Rio couldn’t hear her, nodding as she said it. “It stays in.” 

When she finally looked to Alice, there was a shock of confusion written on her face, but an underlying understanding. “Are you sure you want it?” she asked, reaching out to touch Agatha’s arm, her scars on full display, pinky finger permanently bent. “You shouldn’t torture yourself for tradition, Agatha.” 

The younger woman shook her head. “I want it.”

And it was true, Agatha couldn’t imagine doing this without Rio, no matter how much she hated it or wanted it to be different. Something was shifting within Agatha, slowly but firmly sliding back into a mechanism long rusted over. It felt thick, viscous like honey, sweet and sticky and so, so warm. She didn’t want to let it in, she wasn’t sure she was ready for things to come back together, but she could feel it dripping into all of her cracks, into all of her misplaced and misshapen pieces. 

It felt inevitable.

Once the music was recorded, the click tracks mixed, and rehearsals well under way, the band started to meet with choreographers and stage the show. Most of it had been started before Agatha signed on, which still annoyed her to no end, so the stage design, the schedule, all of the things that took significant amounts of time had all been settled long before she was ever approached. The only thing that kept her from getting truly upset with it all was that she genuinely couldn't care less about those details. Nicky would be with them on the road once his school year was over, so even the scheduling didn’t bother her much. The less she had to deal with the logistics, the better, she figured. That had been part of her downfall initially, hadn’t it? The schmoozing and partying and doing whatever she needed to secure gigs, funding, award nominations, all of it. 

It hadn’t taken long for the band to decide on a setlist once Jen felt like enough of their bass-heavy songs were included and Agatha had successfully championed for there to be a “surprise song” section for deeper cuts, solo songs, unreleased songs, anything that would make a true fan lose their mind. Three albums over two hours was more than enough time to keep everyone happy. So, all that was left was practicing exactly how they would do it. 

“Agatha, tell us about what it’s like to come back to performing after so much time away,” Natasha said as the singer sat in a confessional-style setup, long hair pulled back from her face and dressed in active wear that the wardrobe department had picked for her. “What are you doing to prepare for the physical demands of the show?” 

“Thankfully, I’ve kept in pretty good shape over the last few years,” Agatha replied, fighting against rolling her eyes at the ridiculous questions. “I’m not too worried about the physical demands, but I can’t say I’ve done much dancing in the last decade. Is it possible to forget how?” 

She cracked a smile, making Natasha laugh a little from her place behind the camera. “I’m sure that you will take to it like a fish in water. You were always such a natural on the stage.” 

Agatha knew that she should smile at the compliment, so she did. “It’s going to be interesting to see how we all mesh together after all this time. I’m sure Rio has developed a sense of her own performance style as she headlined her own tours, and the others bring so much to the table with the different endeavors they set upon. There is potential for something really special to happen here.” 

Natasha nodded approvingly, and Agatha knew that she had said all the right things.

“And you’re not worried about Rio’s decade of experience outshining the rest of the band?” Natasha asked, though Agatha could hear the real question– was she worried that Rio would outshine her ?

“No, I’m not,” Agatha answered honestly, challenging Natasha with a smile on her face. “Rio has always been a team player and she’s never been the one to threaten the integrity of our band.”

“So there is someone who has threatened the integrity of the band?” Natasha probed, wanting to bend Agatha, see how close she could get before she snapped. 

Agatha wasn’t going to let her win. “Oh, I would certainly say that in this industry, there is always someone or multiple someones who are making the wrong decisions and asking the wrong questions in pursuit of a bigger profit. It puts any band, any artist in danger of losing sight of the real reason we are all here.” 

“And what is that reason, Agatha?” 

“For the love of the music,” she said simply, waving her hand in front of her face. “Every single one of us on that stage started out as a young person in love with the way music made us feel, with the escape it brought us, with the way it gave us a medium to express ourselves when it felt impossible in any other. Music tells a story, it speaks the language of souls, it reaches inside everyone, no matter who you are or where you came from. That’s why we’re here. That’s why I am here. And that has to be enough.” 

Agatha thought about her sweet, miracle boy as she walked back toward the rest of the band and how close he came to never being able to experience music like she had. It was a small mercy, she thought, that even if one day his hearing worsened or was lost completely, these first years of his life were filled with memories of sharing love in a language so dear to her heart. His life would not end, it would be no less vibrant or full or wonderful, Agatha wouldn’t allow that to happen. Her perfect, beautiful boy would still smile just as brightly, he would laugh just as loudly, he would be the beacon of brilliant light that he always had been. No ifs, ands, or buts. Nicky would always be whole and complete, no exceptions. But to be blessed with sharing this with him now? She didn’t know what she did to deserve it. 

Just as they had planned, Agatha and Rio would lift from under the stage in a blast of lights, backs pressed together as Rio hit each chord and Agatha struck her signature pose, one arm lifted in the air, the other clutching her mic close to her lips. The songs would progress forward, building to highs, sinking to lows, and journeying with the crowd through lust and love and heartache. 

“Agatha, Rio, how do we feel about dancing?” the choreographer asked, hands on her hips as the backing track for one of their hotter hits played in the background. The guitars were heavy with reverb, they keys smoothed into something full and dark, the lyrics burning a fire low in Agatha’s stomach. 

“We’ve been dancing all day, so pretty favorably,” Agatha snarked, making Rio roll her eyes and Jen let out an exasperated sigh. 

“Easy, tiger,” Alice warned, making Agatha freeze in her tracks. This was the first time any of them had been comfortable enough with her to react this way, she got like this. Her jaw dropped ever so slightly as she turned to look at Alice, who only had a look of challenge on her face. 

“Who, me?” Agatha asked, putting on her sugariest voice. “I’m not doing anything wrong.” 

It was part of the game they had always played, a game that was so familiar to Agatha it made her ache. Everything about this week of preparation seemed to make her ache for the days long before. 

“Yes, you, you absolute nightmare,” Alice replied, following the script that had been set all those years before. 

Being called a nightmare should make Agatha see red, it should make her shut down and walk away from the choreography altogether, but it didn’t. The affectionate smile on Alice’s face, the way her kindness seemed to bend around the words in her mouth, all of it was so mind-numbingly comforting that she almost felt her world shift off-balance. When she was so sick, these words, this affectionate teasing had started to feel like personal attacks, the drugs warping everything until she was a victim, like she could do nothing right, like the world was against her for no reason at all. 

But today? Today, the dynamic nestled deep in her chest and broke something wide open– a victory in her recovery that she hadn’t even known to look forward to. Seven years clean, and she was still healing. Seven years sober, and the monsters creeping in the recesses of her mind, waiting to strike, finally were silent. 

Agatha could cry, she was so relieved. She wouldn’t, not here, not with these people. But the joy bubbling forward was something she could handle. 

“Fine, fine, I suppose I can be normal for long enough to get this done,” Agatha acquiesced, making everyone laugh a little at her antics. “What kind of dancing do you have in mind?” 

The choreographer cracked a tiny smile, well aware of what she had walked into with this band, and then joined Agatha and Rio at the center of the stage. 

“This song is one of the ones that skyrocketed you to fame and changed the tide on what it meant for queer lust to be written for the woman’s gaze, yes?” 

Agatha nodded along, as that was exactly what the song was for. It was rich and horny for anyone except for the straight men who had previously held the corner of the market filled with queer women’s sexuality. She wanted a song to dance to, to kiss to, to fuck to, that wasn’t just some rip off of the same old “I kissed a girl, I hope my boyfriend won’t mind it” that had overwhelmed the music scene back in those days. Sapphic love was theirs, and she wanted to take it back. 

“On your old tours, you and Rio would dance together as she played and you sang. I want to bring this back, but I want to expand ,” the choreographer explained, gesturing emphatically and catching Agatha’s attention. 

“Say more,” Agatha probed, intrigued. 

The choreographer brought her over to where Alice was standing at the keyboard. “One of your openers has a song like this, so we need to be careful not to copy, but I want you to dance with Alice before you dance with Rio. Start here on her right, pull her hair over her shoulder like this, and rock your hips with her as you dance together. I want you close enough that you are almost touching skin as you sing. I want your microphone tickling her shoulder.” 

Agatha followed direction, using her left hand to tuck Alice’s long hair behind her ear and then tuck herself over her shoulder. They started to sway together in time, and the choreographer clapped. 

“Yes, you’re seeing my vision,” she praised. “As the tour goes on, feel free to have some fun with this.”

“Fun how?” Agatha asked, stepping back away from Alice, feeling shy. 

The choreographer only quirked an eyebrow. “You’ll know it when you feel it. Now cross back over to center stage for the second verse, strut a little, give the crowd a bit of a show.” 

Long strides brought Agatha back to her mic stand, her hips swaying as she let herself get lost in the motion. 

“Rio, I want you to meet her here. I need it to be tentative at first, like you don’t know whether to approach. The crowd is going to eat this shit up, you’re going to be TikTok sensations,” the choreographer continued, showing her how she wanted Rio to spin with her guitar. 

“And what do I do?” Agatha asked, still bouncing back and forth with the song. 

“You’re going to ignore her for a measure, and then I need to see you being drawn to her against your will. Sidelong glances, then your hips start to mimic what hers are doing. Yes, just like that, ladies, perfect! As the song swells into the prechorus, I need Agatha to circle back behind Rio. You’ll be taller in the heels, yes? I want you to use that height to your advantage and tuck yourself over her shoulder like Alice, but this time I want your hand on her waist.” 

Agatha gulped but followed the direction– it was just choreography, it didn’t mean anything. It didn’t have to be anything more than it was. But when her hand slid along the curve of Rio’s hip, guiding her movements, she heard Rio’s breath catch. No one else could hear it; it was just for her, and she could feel the tension in Rio’s muscles as Rio fought not to freeze under her touch. 

“Are you sure this is okay?” Agatha whispered in her ear, and Rio simply nodded. Despite it, Agatha kept a distance from Rio’s body, enough room for a book to fit in the space between her front and Rio’s back as they danced. 

“Okay, and when the guitar cuts out right here, I want Agatha to move to walk away and Rio to reach out and pull her back. Time it over a count of four so that when Rio’s guitar comes back in, Agatha is magnetized. Hands in her hair, transfixed as Rio pushes into her solo.” 

When Rio’s hand wrapped around Agatha’s wrist, her heart skipped a beat. It was what she had begged for in her dreams– for Rio to reach out and tug her back as she floated away and not let her go. Agatha shook her head, trying to steady her breathing as she reminded herself that this wasn’t real . The choreographer continued to encourage them, but Agatha could tell by the look in Rio’s eyes that she caught it, that Agatha hadn’t slammed her walls down fast enough, and she accidentally gave that piece of herself to the only woman who had ever known her well enough to see . 

Rio’s hand dropped from her wrist, and then she quirked an eyebrow, already moving forward. Agatha could have thanked her for it, but instead she stayed silent. 

“I don’t know if my knees will like it, but I have an idea,” Rio said, looking at the choreographer with a glint in her eyes. Then, she dropped her knees as she noodled through some bare-bones version of the guitar solo. Agatha followed as she dropped with her eyes, heat rising on her cheeks as memories slammed into her at full force. 

Agatha, though, let her body move with Rio’s, reaching down to cup her jaw as her hips kept swaying in delicious circles, like she was feeding Rio on her knees until she, too, was crouched low enough that their faces were aligned. Just a few inches and their noses would be touching, just a few seconds and she could be singing into Rio’s open, glistening lips, but she hung back, kept the distance. 

“Brilliant, Rio,” the choreographer said, causing Agatha to wrench herself back to standing.   “Yes, if your knees can handle it, I want to see that every show. But if not, can we do something similar from standing?” 

Rio nodded. “Yeah, that shouldn’t be too hard.” 

With the guitar leading her steps forward, she crowded in on Agatha just enough to make it seem purposeful, but that same three inches kept them apart. Her body rolled toward Agatha’s, making the same spectacle that it had on her knees, and Agatha tipped her head forward, creating an intimacy that the audience would eat up. 

Agatha could hear her heartbeat in her ears, pulsing wildly as she pulled away, breaking the spell that had wrapped around them, pulling herself as far away from the look in Rio’s eyes as she could. A rush of cold flooded her body as she realized what was happening, as she realized just how dangerous this moment was, of what this could be. 

Even after all of these years, Rio Vidal still could pull her into her orbit.

All this time later, she could see Rio was feeling it, too. 

She shoved that thought as far down as she possibly could. That wasn’t going to happen, they weren’t even friends , let alone anything else. Agatha had spent enough of her life ruining Rio’s, the last thing she wanted was to step back into that mess. But when she looked back across the stage, saw the way that Rio’s chest was heaving, the way her lips were parted as she tasted the tension between them like sugar on the rim, Agatha felt that tug in her chest, that desperate craving for the woman she once knew. 

There was a time in her life when Agatha swore that she would never feel anything but hatred for Rio Vidal. Around the same time, she also harbored a secret, leeching hope that one day Rio would turn back, that she would stop as she walked down the cold hallway and turn for one last look at the woman she loved and would change her mind. But that day, Rio hadn’t looked back, and Agatha knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was for the best that she never would again. 

Heartache slid inside the wide, gaping center that just moments ago had been flooded with warmth, with joy, with the promise of her future. It never ceased to amaze Agatha that even without the drugs, without the booze, without the demon on her shoulder, her mind so easily could take the bait of emotional devastation and ride it all the way to the surface, letting its blistering sun cover her skin with tender, oozing burns that she didn’t know what to do with. 

“Alright, let's go over some basic ideas for the rest of the set, and then we can get out of here,” the choreographer said, ignoring the way that both women standing center stage were free-falling from a moment they had never thought would be theirs again. 

Agatha put on her bravest smile until the music flooded her system once more, pushing out any feeling that wasn’t her overwhelming joy at performing with her band again. And Rio? Agatha watched as she fell right back into line, as she, too, pretended that her skin wasn’t still aching from where Agatha had touched her, that this was just another normal rehearsal like the hundreds she had done over the last decade. 

The band was scheduled for a pap walk on Friday evening, something Agatha couldn’t get out of despite her very valiant efforts. Late enough that the flash would catch against the dark sky, early enough that it seemed like a perfectly normal bonding experience for the reconciling band as they prepared to embark on their tour. Only a week left, now, until opening night, and they would finally be bringing to life this labor of love. Which meant, unfortunately, they needed to get the media stirring with whispers about the band, about their dynamic, rejuvenating those same long-told rumors that fueled the band’s sales even long after they were laid their graves. 

Agatha was already bracing herself for what the media would say about her, for the old skeletons they would inevitably dig out of her closets. And, for that, she had started having conversations with Nicky about fame and what it meant that his Mama was a rockstar. 

“So you have to go out tonight with The Orchids because the cameras need to see you together?” Nicky asked as they waited for Wanda to meet them at the park. It was secluded and private, something still theirs , still untainted by the press. He would be going with her for a sleepover tonight while Agatha worked, something the older woman was more than happy to do. Wanda loved Nicky like he was her own. 

“Yes, which means there will be pictures on the news and on the internet of Mama, too,” she replied, holding his Paw Patrol backpack on her shoulder while she held Nicky’s hand. They were walking toward the swingset, one of Nicky’s favorite places to play, and Agatha wasn’t going to take any chances. Before, she had an easier time giving him the freedom to play, but today, something in her demanded she keep him close. 

“But what I see on the internet isn’t always true, so I should always ask you before I believe something,” Nicky repeated from the mantra they had been working on for weeks. Agatha ruffled the hair on his head affectionately. 

“That’s right, sweet boy.” 

Agatha knew that one day, there would be a larger conversation to have with her son about who she was and who she used to be. It would probably be hard and sad and shake their foundation. But that wasn’t for today. Today, he was six years old and nearly a kindergarten graduate; the burden of his mom’s addiction was not something that he needed to carry. For now, he would be the carefree, bubbly child he had always been. 

Nicky climbed up onto the swing and started to propel himself forward and back, wasting no time at all to climb to heights that made Agatha’s stomach turn. It wasn’t that long ago that he was still begging her to push him higher and higher, giggling wildly every time her hands pressed into his warm back and he soared toward the sky. Her little boy was growing up right before her very eyes. 

When Wanda walked into the park, her security lingered at the entrance like it always had, but this time it seemed to blend in with the guard that Agatha had demanded Stark hire to keep her son safe after the fiasco in front of his school. She was talking on the phone with a stern, frustrated look on her face, but Agatha wasn’t close enough to hear. It was that same look that she recognized from all the times that Wanda had rescued her before, all the times that Wanda had to pick up her pieces when she knew that she shouldn’t have. 

So, when Wanda finally hung up, Agatha beat her to the chase.

“So who do you have to go rescue?” she asked, not letting Wanda even catch her breath. 

A long sigh escaped Wanda, making her lips puff out with the force of it. “No one, not really. But I do have a question to ask you.”

“Me? What could this possibly have to do with me?” Agatha asked, screwing up her face in confusion. 

“The long-short of it is that Rio has Carmen for the weekend unexpectedly and can’t get her babysitter on this short of notice, so they’ve asked if I can watch her, too,” Wanda explained. 

“Isn’t she 12? That’s the legal age to stay home alone in most states.” 

“Sure, but Rio is this close to winning her custody battle with her parents, and she doesn’t want to take any chances. The last thing she wants is to have child neglect put on her file because someone catches Carmen home alone.” 

Agatha nodded, rolling her eyes because she knew that there was only one reasonable answer to Wanda’s unspoken request. 

“Fine, but I don’t trust that kid,” she said under no uncertain terms. “Nicky is too young and innocent to get tied up in all of this.” 

“Have you even met Carmen? She’s perfectly lovely when she’s not participating in one of the many absurdly weird hobbies she picked up from her sister,” Wanda said, eyeing Agatha up and down. 

“Yes, briefly after the photoshoot. She’s not a fan of mine.” 

Wanda hummed, pieces clicking together in her mind. “She gave you a piece of her mind, didn’t she?” 

“You could say that, yes,” Agatha answered, keeping it vague. “I was less than impressed. That girl has a mouth on her.” 

It didn’t escape Agatha that Wanda was talking about Carmen like she had met her before, like she had been part of her life in any meaningful way. Agatha knew that she had won Wanda in the divorce, but she also knew that Billy’s allegiance often fell in more places than one. She wasn’t quite sure what to do with this information, but it stung just the same to know that this was yet another piece of their intricate lives that Agatha hadn’t been invited to. 

“I will have them meet us here, okay? You can watch her interact with Nicky for a while, and we can be a united front about making sure she knows that Nicky is just a baby and needs to be treated with that level of respect.” 

Agatha huffed and waved her hand at Wanda, signalling that she was done with the conversation as the older woman texted an address to Rio. 

They didn’t have to wait long before two eerily-similar-looking sisters came walking into the park, the younger looking dark and sullen while the older grateful and relieved. It took longer, though, for Carmen to look up and catch who exactly they were walking into. 

“Rio, you didn’t say she would be here,” Carmen hissed, not quite quiet enough for Agatha to miss. “I don’t want to be here.” 

The taller woman looked down at her sister with a mix of frustration and seriousness. “Carmen, you cannot be serious right now.” 

“What? Like you have no idea what I’m talking about,” Carmen replied, chewing her gum in one cheek and pulling her lips to match. “She’s awful.” 

“Oh, absolutely not,” Rio reprimanded, sliding effortlessly into the maternal role she had played so often with her baby sister. “You are not going to stand in front of someone and disrespect them like this. You don’t know Agatha, and you certainly do not have the right to speak to her this way. Apologize to her. Now.” 

Carmen looked Agatha up and down before crossing her arms. “And if I don’t want to?” 

Rio touched Carmen’s shoulders gently before turning her to face her. It was an interaction Agatha remembered so well from the nights when she knew sneaking up on Rio would send her into a full-fledged panic. 

“Look at me, Carmen,” Rio started, not caring that they still hadn’t properly greeted the two women still watching the interaction. “There are things in this life that happen that are out of our control. And, there are things that happen that don’t become clear until our brains finish developing because they’re just too complex. You’re a smart girl, we both know that. Don’t diminish that by refusing to look at all the angles. How would you feel if Agatha’s sister walked up to us and started talking down to me like you’re doing right now?” 

“That’s different, you don’t deserve it.” 

Ouch. 

“Maybe to you, from your understanding. You’ve only heard bits and pieces of what happened, entirely from my point of view. Don’t you think that maybe there are things I have left out? You saw what happened when our brother got divorced. It was messy and painful for both of them, wasn’t it? You’re smarter than thinking I was the only one hurting, too.”

Wheels were starting to turn in Carmen’s mind, and Agatha could see it. Certainly, this wasn’t how she would talk to Nicky about this subject, but she could tell that perhaps this was the only way through to a girl who had seen more in her short life than she should have ever had to. 

“Okay, fine, I get what you’re saying,” Carmen replied after a moment of thought, though she still rolled her eyes. “I still don’t trust her.” 

“And I’m not asking you to,” Rio followed smoothly, not skipping a beat. “But I am asking you to treat her with human decency and apologize for being hurtful.” 

Carmen turned to look at Agatha, and the glare in her eyes was entirely that of a twelve-year-old scorned. “I’m sorry for being a jerk.”

She didn’t mean it, not really, but Agatha didn’t care. “Thank you for your apology, Carmen. It means a lot to me.” 

The tween rolled her eyes again and looked back to Rio. “There, happy now?” 

“One more thing,” Wanda chimed in, catching Carmen off guard. “I’m watching Agatha’s son tonight. His name is Nicky and he is six, so you need to be on your best behavior. None of this can come into my home, not while he is around.” 

Carmen furrowed her brow, not quite following what was going on. Rio, thankfully, jumped right in. 

“You can’t be mean to him just because he’s Agatha’s and you can’t say mean things about Agatha to him,” she explained. “He’s just a little kid, and you need to treat him that way.” 

“Why would I be mean to a kid?” Carmen asked, all the venom falling away from her tone. “I don’t– You know I would never do that to someone else.” 

Rio nodded solemnly and pulled Carmen into her side in a quasi-embrace. “I know, hermanita , I know you wouldn’t.” 

Agatha could piece together the conversation the two sisters were having that couldn't be heard. It was obvious that Carmen had a soft spot for kids because of her own childhood, just like Rio always had– and she’d like to believe that it was Rio’s influence on her that made her that way. 

“Speak of the devil,” Wanda said as the crunch of sneakers on mulch came closer and closer. “Nicky, this is my friend Carmen, and she’s going to be staying with us tonight, too.” 

Little hands pressed into the back of Agatha’s thighs as Nicky peered around her hip shyly, though it was unclear if he was hiding from his crush on Rio or the new, scary-looking girl. Agatha cupped the back of his head gently and pulled him around until he was standing in front of her. 

“That’s Miss Rio’s little sister,” Agatha introduced, which made Nicky relax slightly. So it was the scary-looking girl making him nervous, she thought to herself. 

Carmen looked at him for a moment, taking in his long hair pulled into a ponytail and the dirt scuffs on his knees. Then, she dropped to her knees without hesitation and started to move her hands slowly, clumsily. 

“My… friend has those, too,” she started, signing the first two words before floundering and pointing to the hearing aid in his ear. 

Nicky perked up at the gesture, at meeting someone who didn’t see his hearing aids as something weird. Agatha looked to Rio, who only shrugged. 

“Do they look like mine or do they have the circle, too?” Nicky asked, pointing to the spot on his skull where a cochlear implant would connect– something he learned from his friends at the playplace his nanny took him to sometimes to play with other deaf/hard of hearing children. 

Carmen nodded. “She says that it makes the noise for her ears because her ears don’t work right. Is that different from yours?”

“Mine just makes things louder so I can hear them better,” Nicky answered, nodding thoughtfully. “I’m not fully deaf, but the doctors told Mama that they don’t know if that will ever change.” 

“Maybe then you’ll get to wear the same hearing aids as my friend,” Carmen said with a shrug. “Then you can be twins .” 

This made Nicky giggle, which warmed Agatha’s heart. “Yeah, maybe. I don’t know how that works, but I do know that we can’t be twins because we aren’t the same age!” 

Wanda smiled fondly as the two kids seemed to hit it off, still chattering incessantly as she looked to Agatha for her approval. “Think I can handle it, boss?” 

“Yeah, I think they’ll be just fine,” Agatha replied, feeling a bit soothed by the kind, genuine interaction between Carmen and her baby boy. She passed off the backpack on her shoulder to Wanda and watched as the group of them moved further into the playground, Carmen immediately listening to the instructions that Nicky gave about what game they were going to play. 

“Well, I can’t say I expected it to go that smoothly,” Rio said after a moment, breaking the silence and turning to leave. 

Agatha followed along and let the sound of her son’s squeals of laughter fill her cup as they left. “Carmen isn’t much of a people person, I take it?” 

“You could say that again,” Rio snorted. “But she does have a soft spot for things that are lost and overlooked. Maybe she could see a bit of that in Nicky when she saw his hearing aids. I’m sure that he doesn’t always have an easy time making friends, if kids are anything like they were back in our day.” 

Agatha prickled a bit at Rio’s words, but she knew exactly what she was saying. And she was right, Nicky was already dealing with feeling like an outsider sometimes because of his disability but she was so lucky that she had found the right elementary school for a kid like him because they made it part of their curriculum to talk about physical differences and he had said on at least two separate occasions that his teachers and his friends never made him feel bad for being different. 

“Nicky has definitely had his fair share of struggles with adjusting to social settings and other kids,” Agatha answered honestly. “But his school has done a really good job with him, and he’s acclimated pretty well. I assume Carmen has had issues, too?” 

Rio nodded, picking up speed as they fell into line with the security hired to follow them for the evening. “She’s always kept to herself and preferred her own company to that of others. Which I get, I was like that, too, at her age. So I’m glad to see her connecting with Nicky, she needs some kind of friend that isn’t me, even if it’s a six-year-old.” 

“She said she has a friend with a cochlear implant. Are they close?” Agatha asked. 

When they reached the parking garage, there was only one dark SUV, and Agatha could have cursed herself for not calling for Herb to pick her up. Rio opened the door and let Agatha slide in first. 

“Yeah, she has two friends at school that she’s close with, but I don’t know just how close they are. I’m hoping that when she’s with me full time, she will invite them for sleepovers or something like normal middle schoolers,” Rio admitted, shutting the door behind her. “But until then, I’m just letting her do what feels safe. There will be plenty of time for everything else later.” 

It was more than Agatha anticipated hearing from Rio, if she was being honest. Part of her ached to probe, to ask another question, to tell Rio that she could confide in her, but Agatha knew that that wasn’t true. This wasn’t her place anymore, this wasn’t her story to hear. Maybe once upon a time, Agatha would have deserved that right, but instead, she let the car fall into silence as they crossed the city to some venue downtown that would be crawling with paparazzi ready to eat them alive. 

And eat them alive, they did. By the time they reached the end of the journey, they had picked up all of the other band members, shoving them into seats until their body heat could be felt around the cabin. Rio stepped out first, holding a hand for Agatha to take as she climbed out – strategic and getting the attention of the photographers right out of the gate. Their hands fell to their sides nearly immediately, putting space between them, but the screams didn’t stop as fans and journalists alike fought for their attention. 

And, Agatha's palm didn't stop tingling for the rest of the night.

This was the beginning of a circus that Agatha wasn’t sure she would ever be ready for, but at least now she knew that the people walking behind her were her coven, that they wouldn’t let her falter this time. At least, that was her hope. And for some strange reason, Agatha actually wanted to believe them.

divider: @strangergraphics

taglist: @6stolenangel9

[t0ast-ghost]

S3 EP19 (Requiem For Methuselah) let me guess. Kirk is romancing.

Forthwards:

- beaming down together <3

- uh oh a time limit!

- Spock grabs McCoy’s arm to get him out of the way of the fire

- very drawable right here

- Kirk is not fucking around today

- wow. Just wow.

- A SHAKESPEARE FIRST FOLIO?!? This guy is fucking rich holy shit

- She’s just like me when I watch Star Trek

- I like that she wants to talk to Spock about science :))

- “What is loneliness?” “It is a thirst. It is a flower dying in a desert.” Wow

- “Thank you, Doctor. I will have a brandy.” “Do you think the two of us can handle a drunk Vulcan? Once alcohol hits that green blood—” They’re adorable

- fuck off fuck off fuck off (edit: this is probably about them immediately flirting with Rayna)

- Bottles of colourful liquid. You think one of them is ketchup?

- Does Kirk know how to play pool? Is she showing him for no reason? He seems to know what he’s doing…

- I love that Spock likes playing musical instruments

- His boyfriend is dancing with a woman RIGHT THERE. I wonder what a rewrite of this would be like with canonical queer Kirk in a relationship with Spock and McCoy and why he would choose to dance with her. Cause I think he should be able to just enjoy doing stuff like dancing and holding hands without it being romantic. AND THEN MCCOY WALKS INTO THAT OMG THE DRAMA

- Damn Kirk isn’t interested in Spock’s info dump about Brahms. Tragic.

- and they’re kissing

- The way Kirk just pushed her out of the way-

- YEAH SAVE YOUR BOYFRIEND SPOCK!!!

- Flint kinda wishes that the bot killed Kirk

- Yeah it sucks to be home schooled

- This is becoming like Twilight but without the baseball and vampires

- This is a horrible power imbalance between Flint and Rayna

- And they’re kissing (Nichelle nichols futurama clip where she says "I had to kiss Shatner) (edit: here's the clip at 1:26)

- WHY IS HE SHAKING HER LIKE THAT BRO WHAT THE FUCK

- Kirk’s ass damn why is Flint hiding the Ryetalyn

- “(Spock): Captain, I shall get the Ryetalyn.” “(Kirk): Why you?” “(Spock): There may be dangers within.” “(Kirk): Let’s find out.” “(Spock): Let me go alone captain.” “(McCoy): Why? Get to the point, Spock. If there is one.” “(Kirk): We’ll all go.” Kirk and McCoy ARE NOT about to let they’re boyfriend go into a dangerous area alone

- OMG SHES BALD! (She’s bald and she’s torturing people who have hair)

- “Her only flaw, she is not human.” THATS HER FLAW??? First off Spock is RIGHT THERE. Second I'd say the flaw is that she's being controlled by a awful man

- Wait what? this guy is DA VINCI?!? And still no bitches...

- “She is my handiwork, my property.” EW DISGUSTING KILL HIM

- HE JUST BLOOPED THE ENTERPRISE OUT OF EXISTENCE

- I’m giggling

- “Give me back my ship. Your secret is safe with us.” YOU’RE JUST GONNA LEAVE HER?

- “Because you knew I could bring her emotions alive.” Bleh

- Kirk gets absolutely beat the fuck up

- “No. Do not order me. No one can order me.” YES GET IT! YES

- “She’s human. Down to the last blood cell she’s human. Down to the last thought, hope, aspiration, emotion. She’s human. Her human spirit is free. You have no power of ownership! She’s free to do as she wishes.” Kirk’s so happy for her!

- “No man beats me.” “I don’t want to beat you. This is no test of power. Rayna belongs to herself, and she claims the human right of choice. To be, as she wills. To do as she wills. To think as she wills.”

- Okay but she shouldn’t have to choose between two men. There’s so many more out there in the galaxy

- OH NO DHES SEAD

- “What happened?” “She loved you, captain.” Spock just admitted Kirk’s drop dead gorgeous

- This is giving boyfriend vs. father vibes which I hate. I hate that this is how women are treated. As burdens to be thrown from one man to the next. This is reminding me of A Dolls House by Henrik Ibsen it's a pretty short play and the ending is phenomenal for the time

- Kirk is lonely :(

- “If only I could forget.” Spock spends several seconds staring at Kirk and contemplating until McCoy comes in

“Oh thank heavens, sleeping at last.” McCoy just wants Kirk to get a good nights rest

- yeah

- “You see, I feel sorrier for you I do for him…because you’ll never know the things that love can drive a man to. The ecstasies, the miseries. The broken rules, the desperate chances. The glorious failures, and the glorious victories. All of these things you’ll never know, simply because the word ‘love’ isn’t written into your book. Good night, Spock.” “Good night, Doctor.” WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT AND WHY HAVENT I SEEN AN EDIT TO THAT. Also now I REALLY wanna write a mcspirk fanfic based solely on THAT

- “I do wish he could forget her.” BOTH McCoy and Kirk wished for this and so Spock does something crazy for his loves omg omg I’m gonna throw up wtf

- there’s literally romantic music playing in the background as Spock leans down to mind meld and says “forget”

Well

Masterpost

Episode written by Jerome Bixby

[californiaboytoys]

Oooh! Okay, um, how about Harringrove + breakfast?

“Hey no! Don’t you dare-” Billy couldn’t help but bark out a laugh as he wrestled a sticky, dripping syrup wand away from his boyfriend, craning his neck as far back as he physically could to avoid having it smeared across his cheek. Steve grunted, still trying to fight back even as giggles started to crack through his affronted expression. “Then take it back! I am not a bad cook!” Billy side eyed the tray table, gaze darting from the plate of more-than-slightly burnt pancakes to the slightly too wet to be edible scrambled eggs sitting in a milky puddle of unspecified liquid. He slid his eyes back to Steve and raised an eyebrow, lip curled a little into an expression that implored ‘are you sure about that?’.

It had been a sweet offer, really. Breakfast in bed to celebrate their first night as a real, adult couple finally living in their own apartment. But just because they’d been together for a year didn’t mean there weren’t new things to learn about each other, including apparently that Steve was an abominable cook. A righteous squawk preceeded a renewal in Steve’s efforts, with an advantage now as Billy couldn’t stop laughing long enough to really put his full focus into the resistance. It was barely fifteen seconds before Steve managed to win out, Billy’s sugary hand slipping off the handle at last. The blonde definitely didn’t shriek when the instrument rubbed against his cheek, leaving a trail of butter flavored corn syrup from his jaw to the edge of his nose- nor did he grin like a lovesick fool when Steve leaned down to lick the syrup off the stubbled skin of his cheek, perched triumphantly on his lap in their brand new bed.

(Steve would not agree with this version of events when later recalling the tale on the day of their wedding, thirty years from their beginning. It had taken the world a little longer to understand their love than they may have hoped in their youth, but they’d stood the test of time and loved each other through every sticky minute.)