#movement sensor wiring

[sw5w]

Oh, My

STAR WARS EPISODE I: The Phantom Menace 01:14:46

[toshisdecadence]

ERROR 404: Overload!

PAIRING: svarog x mechanic!fem reader

TAGS & WARNINGS: dark content, dubcon (reader says it’s too much but svarog has a mission to collect data), rough sex, multiple rounds, dom!svarog, sub!fem reader, svarog is Massive, cervix mentions, tummy bulge descriptions, multiple rounds, overstimulation, size difference, power dynamics, size kink, fingering, unrealistic sex, robot fuckers unite!, can you tell i have a size kink?

WORD COUNT: 5.1k

SUMMARY: You discover the reason why Svarog wears pants.

© toshisdecadence

The repair bay smelled faintly of heated metal, coolant fluid, and faint traces of alcohol; a sharp tang that clung to the sterile air. You barely noticed it anymore, accustomed to the hum of machinery and the faint vibration of tools against metal. But today, that hum was louder, and the vibrations sharper, emanating not from your usual repair work but from the massive, battle-worn war machine sitting across from you.

Svarog loomed over the room, his 8’11 frame too large for the reinforced chair you’d hastily reinforced when he arrived. His joints hissed faintly, micro-servos struggling to compensate for the damage he’d sustained during the Wardance duel against Luka earlier that day. Faint dents marred his reinforced dark blue chest plating, and faint sparks sputtered from the exposed wiring along his arm.

You reached for your tools, hyper-aware of the pinkish-red glow of his cyclopean optical sensor tracking your every movement.

“Superficial damage sustained. Functionality remains above 90%. Repairs are non-essential.” His voice rumbled, a deep, mechanical timbre that sent a shiver up your spine.

You regarded him critically. “Non-essential? Your vents are overheating, and you’re rattling like a dying starship. Sit still and let me work.”

He didn’t argue. Svarog was nothing if not logical, and logic dictated that he allow himself to be repaired. Still, there was a tension to him, a stiffness beyond the rigid design of his armor. He didn’t like being examined, didn’t like lowering his guard to anyone else other than Clara, even in the hands of someone who statistically meant him no harm or stood a chance against him.

You stepped closer, tools in hand, and gently pressed against the plating on his shoulder. His frame vibrated under your touch, a subtle hum you might have missed if you hadn’t been so close.

“Core temperature stable,” he intoned. “Subsystems fully operational.”

“Your fans tell a different story,” you muttered, running diagnostics through a handheld scanner. “You’re burning hotter than you should be.”

Svarog didn’t respond right away, but you could feel his pinkish-red optic watching your hands as they worked, tracking each movement with the precision of an apex predator. The thought sent an odd warmth through your body, and you tried to shake it off. 

You needed to focus.

The repairs took you lower, inspecting the dents along his torso plating. The main brunt of the damage he took from Luka’s mechanical arm focused around his torso. One of the seams had split, exposing a layer of reinforced polymer beneath the outer shell. Carefully, you reached for the damaged panel, fingers brushing against the edge of the pants covering his lower half. It was an unusual addition for a machine built for combat, and one that always raised questions in your mind.

You tugged lightly at the material, intending only to check the joints underneath, but your fingers brushed against something unexpected beneath the fabric.

Your breath hitched.

The surface wasn’t the cold hardness of metal or the pliable texture of synthetic padding. It was smooth, warm, and distinctly… organic in shape.

You froze, pulling your hand back as though burned.

His optic dimmed slightly in a flicker that you’d come to recognize as his equivalent of a blink.

You swallowed down the saliva that had gathered in your mouth, gesturing vaguely at his lower half, struggling to form the words.

Svarog tilted his head, the motion eerily human. “This component was included in my original design for biological infiltration protocols.”

You stared at him as if he grew a second head. “Biological… infiltration?”

“My model is the third series of the Monitoring Automaton Prototype, engineered to simulate human anatomy. The purpose was strategic manipulation through intimate interactions if required by mission parameters.”

Your throat felt dryer, and the question that left your mouth sounded ridiculous even to you. “You’re telling me someone thought it’d be a good idea to put a dick on a war machine?”

“Affirmative.”

His voice remained perfectly calm, but your face was burning. A sneaky glance at his lower half rendered you speechless once again. Whoever designed Svarog certainly made his… appendage proportional to his hulking body.

You tried to laugh it off, but the sound came out strained. “And… what? You’ve just been...” You made an awkward gesture with your hand, “carrying it around this whole time?”

“Correct. The feature has never been activated.”

He said it like it was the most normal thing in the world, and somehow that made it worse.

You stared at him in disbelief. “Do you even know how it works?”

Svarog paused, the glow of his optic focusing intently on you. It flickered momentarily.

“My systems include theoretical data on function and compatibility. However, no practical demonstrations have been performed.”

The room felt hotter suddenly, and you were certain that it wasn’t because of Svarog’s malfunctioning fans. Your mind raced with countless possibilities. Given Svarog’s size, you weren’t even sure how anyone was supposed to take that. Did it have a shrinking feature? Did it automatically adjust with Svarog’s… partner? 

You swallowed, trying to steer the conversation back to something technical and banish the questions swirling in your head.

“Right,” you muttered, clearing your throat. “Well, let’s make sure you don’t explode first. Then we’ll worry about your…” Your traitorous gaze flickered down again, swallowing, “attachments.”

You regretted the words the second they left your mouth. Svarog’s optic dimmed again, and he shifted in his seat with a faint creak of metal.

“Acknowledged.”

You groaned internally and forced yourself to focus, pulling open the next panel and reaching in to check his sensor nodes. But you couldn’t help the way your mind kept wandering to the warm, flexible material hidden underneath that fabric. Whoever invented Svarog’s model was an absolute pervert and lunatic, you thought to yourself. A war machine equipped with a dick? You still could not wrap your head around it. To the way Svarog had described it so matter-of-factly, like it was just another tool in his arsenal.

And yet… the tension in his frame, the way his systems overcompensated whenever you touched him, those weren’t reactions you’d expect from a simple machine.

Your hands hovered above the exposed sensor nodes, still adjusting the connections, but your thoughts were no longer entirely focused on the task at hand.

It was impossible to ignore the strange electric tension in the air between you and Svarog. Every time your fingers brushed against his cooling panels or adjusted a wiring interface, you felt it; the subtle hum of his systems, almost like a heartbeat. Or maybe it was just the increasing proximity to his form, which felt more real with every touch, even if you knew he wasn’t alive in the traditional sense.

The heat beneath his outer plating felt too organic, too alive. The warmth spread further with each subtle shift of his hulking frame as you adjusted his internals, a mechanical symphony of soft clicks and hums that made your breath catch in your throat.

This was nothing like the Intellitrons.

You had worked with hundreds to thousands of them over the years, and each time it had been the same routine: simple diagnostics, quick fixes, nothing too complicated. They were built for efficiency, cold efficiency. Their systems were bare-bones, nothing more than a body of metal and circuits with only the basic instincts to follow commands.

But Svarog…

He was different. Complex. His systems, his body, everything about him screamed intricacy and human-like design. A part of you resigned yourself to further look into Svarog’s specific model. Perhaps it was time to take a deeper look into Belobogian technology. Even the way Svarog’s body responded to your touch felt foreign. He was more than just a machine, wasn’t he? He wasn’t just a war machine, a combat tool; there was something underneath, something untapped, a feature of his yet to be understood.

And that thought… that burning curiosity clawed at you.

You’d always prided yourself on being a mechanic. You understood machines, systems, the cold logic of how things worked. But Svarog wasn’t cold. Wasn’t simple. The way his body responded to your movements, the imperceptible shifts in his temperature, the faint, almost unnoticeable changes in his posture whenever your fingers brushed too close to certain sensitive spots—all of it made you wonder.

What if I pushed him further?

A thought you could barely even process, but it lingered, stubborn. The daring curiosity that ran deep within you as a mechanic—was this not what you lived for? To understand the unknown, to push the limits of what could be fixed, adjusted, modified? Svarog’s design wasn’t just mechanical, it felt like a puzzle you couldn’t quite solve, like a language you only understood in fragments.

Your hands moved to reconnect a set of wires, but you barely felt the tools in your grip. The warmth from his frame was distracting, constantly pulling your focus away from the task at hand.

You set your tools down with a sharp click, exhaling as you leaned back from Svarog’s towering frame. The repairs were done. Functionally complete. His damaged plating had been reinforced, circuits reconnected, and his sensor nodes recalibrated. Everything checked out.

Or at least, it should have felt finished.

But you lingered.

Your gaze swept over him again, tracing the seams of his armor and the smooth lines of his construction. Svarog wasn’t like the Intellitrons. His design was deliberate. Every joint, every harsh angle of his frame, was crafted with an almost human elegance that made your brain stutter every time you tried to compare him to standard machinery. Even the sections hidden beneath his plating—the ones you briefly glimpsed while making repairs—were unnervingly realistic in their precision.

And then there were the features he’d kept covered.

You dragged your gaze back to his waist, to the reinforced plating that remained stubbornly intact throughout the repairs. That section.

You hadn’t needed to touch it, hadn’t even dared to ask about it again, but the shape and positioning had made it impossible not to notice. That, combined with the suspicious necessity of his pants, had left your mind spiraling with questions you couldn’t shake.

Why go to such lengths to simulate humanity in that area?

You knew you shouldn’t care. You were a mechanic. Curiosity was natural. It came with the job. But no matter how many times you tried to frame it as a purely technical interest, your pulse told you otherwise.

It wasn’t just simple curiosity. It was a fixation.

You reached out, under the pretense of double-checking one of his sensor-nodes, but your fingers hesitated. You could feel the faint hum of his systems through the plating, steady and constant, and for reasons you didn’t want to unpack, it made the room feel smaller, like the two of you were occupying too much space at once.

“You are hesitating,” Svarog declared suddenly, his mechanical voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

You froze, pulling your hand back like you’d been caught committing a crime. “No, I was just making sure everything’s—”

“False,” he interrupted. His optic seemed red as it regarded you. “Your behavior has deviated from standard patterns. Focus is inconsistent. Eye movement suggests distraction.”

You swallowed hard, heat rushing to your face. Svarog wasn’t wrong, and worse, he wasn’t letting it go.

“Your gaze has returned to my lower half multiple times,” he continued, his tone as flat as ever. “Body temperature elevated by 15.3 percent. Heart rate increased. These patterns suggest heightened interest.”

You felt your stomach flip as he laid out your reactions like cold, hard data. And yet, his voice was so mechanical, so calm and detached, that it made the weight of your embarrassment feel even heavier.

“I can conclude the source of your distraction,” Svarog added. “You are exhibiting curiosity regarding the anatomical structure concealed beneath my armor.”

You didn’t know whether to flat out deny it or run out of the room entirely. Neither option felt viable. At least, not with him towering over you like that, unflinching, his glowing optics locked onto your every move.

“I—no, it’s not like that,” you stammered, even though you knew it was exactly like that.

“Your biological responses contradict your statement,” he said simply. “You are aware of the human-like components integrated into my design. Your fixation suggests a desire to understand their functionality.”

Your breath hitched. The words functionality and components should have grounded you. It should have made this situation feel as clinical as he seemed to think it was. But instead, they only fueled the heat already curling in your stomach.

Because Svarog was right.

You wanted to know—Aeons, you’ve been dying to know—how far his human design extended. And now that the repairs were done, now that he’d laid the truth bare, it felt impossible to stop.

“You are not the first to display interest in this feature,” Svarog continued, as though he were listing out schematics. “However, prior inquiries did not progress past verbal questioning. You are demonstrating physical tension indicative of deeper investigation.”

Your throat felt dryer than the desert.

“I propose a solution,” Svarog said, tilting his head slightly. “Controlled exploration. Further data on synthetic anatomy is limited. Your curiosity provides an opportunity for analysis and documentation.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. He wasn’t joking. He couldn’t joke.

“You are suggesting we… test this?”

“Correct.”

His lack of hesitation made your pulse stutter. He saw this as a logical step, nothing more than a means to gather data, and yet, the way his frame loomed over you, the hum of his systems almost vibrating through the air, felt anything but detached.

“Decision required,” Svarog said after a beat. “Proceed with testing, or terminate this interaction?”

Your body betrayed you before your mind could catch up.

“Proceed,” you said softly.

His optics flared slightly—almost imperceptibly—before he nodded.

“Acknowledged. Experiment initiated.”

Svarog wasn’t designed to rush.

He worked methodically, his plated fingers tracing along your thighs—testing, measuring, pressing into the soft flesh as though assessing the tensile strength of your muscles. Assessing how much you could take.

“Body temperature elevated by 1.8 degrees,” he noted, his optics narrowing slightly. “Pulse irregular. Predictive analysis suggests heightened arousal.”

You whimpered as his thick mechanical fingers dipped lower, sliding between your legs without hesitation. He brushed against your heat, deliberately testing the slickness already building there.

“Lubrication present,” he said. “Preliminary preparation observed. Additional stimulation required.”

You barely had any time to register his words before his thumb pressed against your clit. The motion was slow, deliberate, grinding down just enough to make your thighs tremble.

Too much.

The smoothness of his plating, the slight hum of his servos adjusting with every movement, left you aching almost instantly. He applied more pressure, adjusting the angle like he was calibrating the motion for maximum effect.

You gasped, hips jerking against him instinctively, and Svarog’s optics dimmed.

“Response strength at 63 percent,” he observed. “Testing deeper penetration.”

You bit back a cry as his fingers slipped inside. Thick, unyielding, and cool against your heat. He stretched you slowly, adding another finger almost immediately, pushing past the tight resistance with clinical focus.

“Muscle tension detected,” he said, his thumb circling the erect pearl of your clit again as his fingers curled inside of you. “Adjusting pressure.”

You whimpered as he spread his fingers, stretching you wider until the ache blurred into something hotter, sharper.

“Elasticity improving,” he noted, tilting his head as he pressed deeper. “Lubrication increased by 24 percent.”

You clenched around him, your gummy walls struggling to accommodate the deliberate stretch, and Svarog’s optics flickered.

“Resistance still measurable,” he said, slowing his movements. “Further preparation required.”

Your head was spinning by the time he added a third finger, the burn almost too much, but Svarog didn’t falter. His fingers moved with precise rhythm, pumping and curling until the tension broke, and your body melted around him.

Svarog’s mechanical fingers lingered inside you, coated in slickness as he worked them deeper—pressing, stretching, curling with deliberate precision. His thumb dragged slow, circular patterns over your clit, the rhythm steady enough to make your hips jolt against him in a helpless, uncontrollable reaction.

“Muscle tension improving,” he observed. “Current dilation at 73 percent. Additional preparation recommended.”

His tone was calm, detached, but the way his optics dimmed as he watched your thighs trembling betrayed something deeper. He pressed in further, adding another finger. Thicker. Unyielding. Enough to force a sharp gasp to tumble out of your throat.

The burn was too much and not enough all at once, your body clenching down against the stretch even as your legs fell further apart under his firm grip.

You could feel yourself dripping, already struggling to take his fingers, but Svarog didn’t falter. He spread them wider, deliberately testing your limits, and the ache left you clawing at his arm, nails scraping helplessly against smooth plating.

“Elasticity increased by 18 percent,” he said, pulling his fingers free with a lewd, wet squelch that made your breath hitch and your cheeks burn. He inspected the slick coating his fingers before tilting his head slightly. “Sufficient for insertion.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before you heard the sound of fabric rustling. Your eyes widened as he was lining up, the thick, mechanical weight of his massive cock pressing against your sopping entrance and making your stomach twist with a sharp mix of anticipation and fear. His cock contrasted the rest of his metallic body, covered by a synthetic material that seemed to emulate the sensation of skin.

“Size differential detected,” Svarog noted, palming your thigh to angle your hips upward. “Accommodating size will result in initial resistance.”

You bit back a cry as he pushed forward, the broad, blunted tip spreading you open with agonizing slowness. The pain is sharp, your walls pulsing and struggling to accommodate him even after the preparation.

Too big.

The words barely formed in your mind before the pressure stole the thought away entirely. You gasped sharply, arching as he forced himself deeper, the stretch too much. Burning, tearing, making your legs shake uncontrollably.

Svarog’s grip on your hips tightened as he paused, allowing you a brief moment of reprieve to adjust, but as his optics flickered, scanning the trembling of your muscles and the fluttering of your gummy walls around him.

“Pain response detected. Estimating threshold at 62 percent.”

You cried out as his hands tilted your hips. You were barely able to breathe as he pressed further, the new angle forcing him deeper into your cunt, and your stomach twisted as you felt it. His cock bullied its way in, the meaty girth of his shaft forcing you wider and wider until you swore you could feel it pressing against everything, imprinting his shape inside of you.

Too much. Too deep.

Tears welled in your eyes as your body struggled to take him, your hands scrabbling against his frame, fingers digging uselessly into unmoving steel.

Svarog’s hand pressed against your stomach, his thumb grazing the prominent bulge already forming there.

“Internal displacement observed,” he said, pushing down slightly to feel the way his massive cock shifted inside of you. The sensation earned a quiver of your legs, the pressure in between your legs rendering you unable to utter a coherent sentence. “Pressure response increasing. Adapting angle.”

Your head fell back with a guttural cry as he adjusted, pressing even deeper, his thumb brushing over the bulge experimentally while he thrust deeper, the bulge in your stomach shifting with him. It felt like the wind was knocked out of your lungs. Your lips fell open in a silent cry, eyes rolling into the back of your head. Your body clenched down hard, pulsing and fluttering, struggling against the size, and Svarog stilled.

“Involuntary constriction detected,” he said, his optics dimming slightly.

His free hand reached up, spreading your thighs wider, and he began to move.

Slow, deliberate thrusts that forced you to feel every excruciating inch of him.

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.

All you could do was feel. The stretch, the ache, the grinding pressure of him bottoming out inside you again and again and again. The bulge in your stomach shifted with every thrust, a visible reminder of just how deep he was, how much he was filling you.

Svarog’s optics glowed faintly as he observed you, his gaze calculating and unwavering as your body trembled beneath him. Each shallow breath you took, each gasp for air as his cock pressed deeper, he noted, analyzing the involuntary way your body gripped him, how your muscles fluttered around him with every thrust.

“Heart rate accelerating. Muscular tension increasing. Increased stimulation evident.”

He could see the way your body reacted. How your hands clenched, how your thighs shook, how the bulge in your stomach shifted with each deep push, marking the extent to which he had filled you. He watched the way your chest heaved, the way your pupils dilated with every inch of him that stretched you wider, deeper, further than you ever thought possible.

You were on the brink of breaking, the tension in your body growing unbearable as your mouth opened in a silent scream, unable to keep up with the onslaught of sensations. Your body, desperate for more and yet unable to fully handle what was happening, was his to command, and he couldn’t help but watch in quiet fascination as you succumbed to the overwhelming pleasure.

You were becoming dumber. So much of you just couldn’t function anymore. You were speechless, unable to utter a coherent sentence, broken down by the intensity of his cock fucking its way into you, and the way you melted against him was nothing short of fascinating. Your voice was lost to you, your thoughts clouded by raw sensation, but the pleasure you felt was clear. It was painted across every quiver of your body, the sheen of beaded sweat lining your face and neck, in the strained arch of your back, the desperate shuddering of your limbs.

He could hear the soft whimpering sounds, could see the way your face twisted with both pain and pleasure, and his own systems hummed with the data flooding his internal logs. Every reaction of yours was so genuine, so untouched by reason. It was an anomaly he had never experienced.

Svarog’s mechanical frame moved with precision, his movements controlled and deliberate. His systems hummed as he observed you, his optics tracking every microexpression, every shuddering breath as you struggled to adjust to the overwhelming size that filled you.

He didn’t feel pleasure. He didn’t need it, not the way you did. But the reactions you were giving him—the way your body trembled, the way your walls spasmed around him—were intriguing, data points he had yet to fully understand.

“Subject’s body reacting to size discrepancy. Estimated stretch threshold surpassed.”

Your hands were clutching at him, your fingers slipping over his cool metal plating, desperately trying to find purchase. Your tight walls clung to him as though your body was doing everything it could to resist the sensation, even though it was now obvious that you couldn’t fight it. Your body was becoming swallowed by him, opening wide to accommodate what it was never meant to handle.

Svarog’s movement’s never faltered, his thrusts measured and precise, studying you as your body began to react involuntarily. Your walls spasmed around him, tighter and tighter, almost as though your body was trying to pull him deeper despite the overwhelming stretch.

“Subject’s body is exhibiting signs of imminent climax. Response timing has been measured.”

You couldn’t hold it back anymore. Your entire body stiffed, an involuntary shudder running through you as every nerve seemed to light up at once. Your vision blurred, the sounds of your ragged breathing filling your ears, mixing with the overwhelming sensation of being stretched beyond belief. Your walls contracted and released rapidly, the pressure inside you finally exploding, and you cried out his name, the world barely a whisper between gasps.

The release sent shockwaves of pleasure through your body, and Svarog could see it. How your body trembled, how your legs locked around his waist, pulling him even deeper—if that was even possible. You were speechless, your mind blank as your body convulsed in ecstasy, your insides gripping him with a tightness that was almost painful.

“Subject has achieved climax. Response exceeds expectations.”

Your breaths came in desperate, uncoordinated gasps as the waves of pleasure crashed over you, and your body was left quivering, unable to do anything but absorb the aftershocks of your mind-numbing release. Your thighs quivered, feeling your cum trickling down your skin, staining his metal plating.

Svarog, ever the observer, did not stop. He noted the way your body reacted to each of his thrusts, the way your tummy bulged with each movement, the way your warm walls clamped down involuntarily as you tried to regain control of your senses.

Despite the fact that Svarog himself could not feel pleasure, there was something undeniably fascinating about the way you came undone beneath him, your body fighting for control even as it surrendered entirely to him.

He continued moving inside you, his mechanical precision relentless, watching as you flinched with each motion, your body too sensitive now to handle it. Your hands, still pawing weakly at his arms, combined with your whimpered protests of it being too much, were growing weaker, and the sensations were too much for you to bear, but still, he kept going, his own curiosity driving him. He wanted to see how much more you could take, how much more your body could endure before it reached its limit.

You were still trembling, still catching your breath, your mind scattered and lost in the aftereffects of your climax. He could see your skin shimmering with sweat, your breasts rising and falling, the way your hips thrusted up to meet his even though you were lost in the throes of overstimulation.

“Subject remains responsive despite signs of fatigue,” he observed. “Data indicates further analysis needed.”

You were so tight, so overstimulated, and yet your body responded again as though it couldn’t stop itself. Another surge of pleasure crashed through you, pulling another, more broken moan from your lips. It was overwhelming, too much, but your body needed it, responding in ways that only deepened his analysis of the situation.

Svarog’s focus didn’t waver. He watched as your body shook with every movement, your legs quivering with the strain of accommodating him, and still, he continued, his thrusts growing deeper, more relentless. His fingers dug into your hips, hard enough to leave litters of bruises that resembled the shade of his metal plating, holding you in place, using your body as a tool for his data collection.

He could see the way you reacted to the sensations, your face contorting in a combination of pain and pleasure, your eyes wide and unfocused, the way your mouth parted as though you couldn’t form any coherent words. Your body had become nothing but a series of responses, unable to control the way you moved or how you moaned, each sound increasing in volume and intensity as he continued to jackhammer into you.

Your stomach bulged from the pressure, each thrust deepening the curve, showing just how much of him you were struggling to take. Your body was so small, so delicate compared to his design—a machine of war—and yet it was somehow adjusting, somehow taking him all the way in, and with each inch he could see your entire body shift, your muscles trembling, walls contracting and clenching around him.

Svarog observed with detachment, but a small part of him couldn’t ignore how your body seemed to respond, how the very tightness of your searingly hot walls seemed to tug at him, pull him deeper as though it wanted to trap him there—needed him to stay there. The way you trembled beneath him, struggling to remain grounded as your body was filled with something so vast compared to your form. He noted how your skin glistened, how you arch your back, trying to take more of him, trying your damned best to accommodate his size.

Svarog noted how you were losing coherence, your once-clear expression now a mess of uncontrollable need, your eyes glazing over as you gave in to the rhythm he set. He couldn’t deny the way your body seemed to yearn for more, even as you struggled with the sheer size of him.

The final stretch was the worst for you, and the best for him. He felt your body grip him, squeezing him impossibly tight as he buried himself to the hilt. This earned a strained sob from your lips. Your stomach bulged more than ever before, a visual testament to just how much of him you had taken, how far he had pushed you. He could see your body tremble, your limbs shaking, your quivering lips gasping for breath.

Yet, even as your body was on the edge, unraveling beneath him, Svarog did not stop. The data was still incomplete. He needed more. He needed to see how much you could endure, how much pleasure your body could take from the sheer act of him pounding into you.

And so, he continued, calculating the rhythms, watching as you came again with a scream of his name, your body seizing, the loud moan that escaped your lips barely audible over the overwhelming noise in your head. It was the most raw, vulnerable he had ever seen you—or any human—and it only fascinated him more.

With another deep thrust, you shuddered, and this time, Svarog could see your body collapse against the surface beneath you, completely undone. You were breathless, barely coherent, your limbs shaking as the final waves of pleasure raked through your senses.

Svarog paused, his cool hands steadying your trembling body, allowing you to come down from the dizzying high. He could continue for as long as he wanted, but your body was too spent for further testing. He could still see the evidence of your come, dripping down in translucent milky strings to the surface beneath you, painting your inner thighs. Svarog decided that this must be what humans described as “beautiful.”

“Conclusion: Subject’s tolerance to size discrepancy has surpassed previous estimates. Data collection complete.”

[keferon]

im glad that my first submission was enjoyed. this was meant to be a part of it, but i struggle a lot more writing first aids pov than vortexs. its still not perfect, but i figure i should let it out into the wild before it drives me crazy.

some further questions: what exactly are the quintessons made of? are they techno-organic? entirely mechanical? or like...synthetic materials mimicking biology? and whats up with the program that produced vortex? did it shut down? or is it still operating (maybe under shockwave now?) did jazz go through it?

______________________________________________________________

His head is killing him. 

Felix comes to in the unyielding dark of Vortex’s cockpit, squinting uselessly before giving up, letting his head lean back against the seatrest. It pulses in time with his heartbeat- elevated- sending waves of fresh misery through him. But he’s alive, Vortex let him live, and the realization pulls a miserable laugh from him. 

Vortex saved him.

Vortex saved him.

Vortex saved him.

From Pharma.

The thought is like ice water poured over his head washing away any lingering exhaustion. Pharma. What the hell was going on? Why did he-? Had the irritable CMO finally lost it? Or was there something else going on? 

Felix’s stomach churns uncomfortably at the thought of Pharma obeying another- who would order this? Who could order this? To what end? How had none of the other medical staff noticed? Or did they notice and not care?

His stomach lurches again, and Felix fumbles at the restraints- looser, now- and finally manages to hit the quick release clasp, practically flopping forward before he catches himself, swaying pathetically in the dark- pulling his helmet off is a welcome relief, the cooler air of the cabin circulating around his abused head. All of his muscles are sore, each joint something just a little firmer than liquid. The only light comes from the running lights, blinking on like soft red stars against Vortex’s night, and Felix lets himself stare blankly at a particularly interesting assortment of them, trying to will the nausea to subside. 

It does not. In fact, it strikes back with a vengeance, and Felix presses a fist to his mouth to stifle his suffering. It works, somewhat, his gorge settling slightly. He needs to get out of here, out of the blood-and-bleach scented warmth of Vortex before he overstays his welcome. Maybe he already has, and Vortex is just biding his time before he kills Felix gruesomely. Right on cue, he can feel the familiar faint prickling sensation of cameras and infrared sensors being trained on him, the behemoth paying its quarry its undivided attention. 

“Vortex,” he says, or more accurately, tries to say. All that comes out of his mouth is a pathetic little groan. His stomach is churning again now. 

“Vortex.” he tries again while fumbling for the canopy hatch- God, movement was a bad idea- and while it still fails the benchmark of being a word, it at least sounds like Vortex’s name. 

His gorge rises again, and Felix can’t stop the faint whimper as he runs his hands over the instrument panel, looking for the canopy release lever. He is not going to throw up inside Vortex, even if worse things have been thoroughly ground into the panels and seams of the mech. Felix still has some pride. And he doesn’t need to risk Vortex’s wrath any more than he has. 

“Vortex.” and now it sounds like a proper name. Felix can feel the hum of Vortex’s machinery and wiring change underneath his palms. His head spins, and the tug of exhaustion has returned, borne on the back of the enveloping warmth of the cockpit.

His stomach flips again.

“Vortex, open the cockpit.” Felix tries, giving up on fumbling in the dark for the lever. “Please,” he amends, because apparently his manners have left with his health. 

The darkness takes on a vaguely threatening feeling. Vortex must have spent all his goodwill on not killing Felix earlier. 

“Vortex, please-” he gags, pressing his fist to his mouth again, “I- I’m going to-”

He gags again, and this time- thank you, Vortex!- the canopy lifts, barely a few feet before coming to a stubborn stop, the dull halogen glow of the docking bay lights breaching the cockpit. The opaque filter over the canopy bleeds away, returning the familiar blood-red hue to Vortex’s visor. Felix barely makes it to the edge of the cockpit before throwing up, practically lying out over the instrument panel as his arms fail him. It spatters, worryingly dark against the burnished metal of the catwalk. He lies there bonelessly, his throat burning and head spinning. How the hell had his life ended up like this? Cosmic punishment for stealing organs still? Felix had thought getting demoted to nurse and resident Vortex-cleaner punishment enough.

He eventually rolls off of his stomach and carefully (gracelessly) slithers back to sit on the floor of the cockpit, head resting against the instrument panel, staring up at the cockpit ceiling. The dark plating is smooth, almost seamlessly jointed together, only interrupted by the explosion of wires and cording comprising the neural connectors. It’s…almost peaceful, in the cockpit, with only the purr of Vortex’s systems humming through the panel that Felix is resting his head on interrupting the silence. The halogens filter through the red polycarbonate of Vortex’s canopy, staining the light bloody ruby. 

His mouth is dry. Horrifically dry. He needs water. Getting water means leaving the relative safety of Vortex’s cockpit. 

Water can wait. 

Pharma might still be out there, lurking. 

His head swims, stomach vaguely threatening to rebel again. Felix turns his head, pressing his cheek to the warm metal of the instrument panel. It feels pretty nice. This particular piece of Vortex only smells like metal and circuitry, not blood. If he closes his eyes, it’s just pleasantly dark enough to settle into a half-sleep slumped against Vortex’s plating. His skin prickles faintly.

The pang! Of a piece of plating hitting the floor wakes him from his doze, sending fresh gouges of pain rippling across his skull. Felix blinks, headache settling squarely behind his right eye socket and encompassing his entire skull. Where had that come from? Was something wrong with Vortex? Or more likely, had Vortex tired of his presence and was preparing to finally kill him?

The plating sits on the flooring, looking as deceptively innocent as any non-sentient sheet of metal can. Felix huddles back further against the instrument paneling. The canopy was shut sometime while he was drowsing, completely locking him in. Light ripples across the cockpit, and Felix slowly twists around to squint up at the display.

[OPEN THE BAG]

Bag. Open the bag. What bag? 

Felix casts helplessly around the cockpit space, searching- there! In a shadowed cubby against the far wall, which- if he remembers from the pilot’s manual correctly- should not be there. Felix attempts to stand, legs wobbling, before giving up and crawling over to the alcove. His skin prickles again, and he refuses to feel shame underneath Vortex’s mechanical gaze. It’s because of the stupid medical boot. Not him. He pushes the loose plating aside and is rewarded with a screech of metal-on-metal that sends his head throbbing again. Felix sags against the wall with a groan before throwing what’s left of his caution to the wind, sticking his hand into the alcove and dragging the bag out. Vortex does not take his hand off. Not even a finger gets scraped on the exposed metal. There’s not a hint of violence from the mech, and Felix sneaks a glance at one of the cockpit cams. It’s trained directly on him, lens shadowed in the claret gloom. He gives it a weak smile. 

The bag is the heavy black polyester duffle ubiquitous to military installations, and it takes a bit of fumbling for Felix to find the zipper and tug it open. Inside is a fresh pilot’s uniform-the Nomex base-side kind, a small toolkit, a radio, a number of MREs and-

Water. 

Felix grabs the first bottle, twisting the cap off and chugging the water down. It’s warm, with a strange plasticky aftertaste. It’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. He drinks another just as fast, water settling heavy in his stomach and washing the taste of bile from his mouth before leaning back against the wall again, the steady rumble of machinery behind it a small comfort. The ex-medic checks the cockpit display, but it remains a steady blank. Another check to the camera confirms that it’s still trained directly at him. Felix gives it a second awkward smile. 

“Vortex- I ah…I- thanks.” He finishes lamely, rubbing his face. His skin is disgustingly oily to the touch. What do you say to a thousand-ton killing machine when it doesn’t kill you? “For-”

Not killing me. 

Saving me from the evil clutches of Pharma.

Giving me water. 

“For everything. Yeah.” Felix cringes at the awkward words. He’s never been particularly well-spoken, but this is just embarrassing. He almost wishes that Vortex would try to kill him again, just for the possibility to escape this torture. 

They sit in silence, Felix’s gaze focused on the floor, skin prickling. His stomach clenches, water threatening to make a reappearance. 

He should’ve known better to drink anything Vortex offered. He slowly stands, one hand against the wall of the cockpit for stability before slowly crossing to the front. “...can you please open the cockpit?” He hazards, one hand pressed to his openly rebelling stomach. 

There’s the distinctive sound of the locking pins dropping. Felix winces as his stomach clenches again.

“Please-” he retches, throat burning as bile forces itself back up his worn esophagus. “I-I don’t wanna-”

The canopy lifts with an almost petulant hiss of the hydraulics, only a few feet again. And again, Felix barely gets his head out of the cockpit before throwing up. The water burns as it leaves, and Felix spits a few times after it to clear his mouth, hand pressed to his cramping stomach. His head pounds under the unrelenting light, and he slips back into the welcoming dim dark of the cockpit. For the second time that day, Felix finds himself sitting on the floor of Vortex’s cockpit, mouth sour and throat stinging, staring up at the ruby wash of light across the ceiling. The canopy hisses shut, locking pins ch-chunk-ing into place with finality. The red light ripples, disturbed, and Felix can’t stop the weary sigh as he lifts his head to read Vortex’s words.

[FELIX-BABY, YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO SWALLOW]

Felix feels his cheeks heat, and he looks away from the chiding display. He’s not sure which is worse, being called baby by Vortex or the joke. 

“I threw up. That's different.” He mutters, running hands through his sweat-stiff hair. 

The ventilation stutters, on-off-on-off, like human laughter. His cheeks heat more. 

[DRINK MORE. SLOWLY]

Felix gawks at the screen. He must have brain damage- there’s no way Vortex is giving him medical advice. Advice in general, actually. This must be a trick of some kind. 

But he is thirsty. 

He shuffles back over to the bag.

Opens another water bottle. 

He drinks slowly, stealing small sips each time until the bottle is mostly empty and his stomach settles into a kind of low-grade simmer. His headache eases some. Immediate crisis resolved, Felix’s attention wanders back to the medical boot. Why does he have it? His leg doesn’t hurt- he wracks his brain, did he injure it sometime before Pharma got to him? Or did he put up enough of a fight to injure himself? Was that why he was drugged? 

His memories are not forthcoming, but it makes sense. Many sedatives interfere with the formation of new memories; if it was put on at around the same time as the IV, his brain might not have had the ability to recall why.

It leaves only one course of action. 

Felix fumbles with the buckles and straps- thank god Pharma only used one of the temporary, removable braces rather than something more permanent like plaster or fiberglass. Otherwise he’d have to stick his leg into Vortex’s machinery to get it off. He pulls the boot off with little difficulty, studying his leg. A simple check; wiggling his toes, rolling his ankle, flexing his knee. No pain. Not even any cuts or bruises cross his flesh. Which means…Felix pokes around the wads of cotton padding pulled from the brace. There!

A small metal device, no bigger than a coin, nestled into a fold of gauze. A tracker? Or some kind of…recording device? He holds it up for inspection, skin crawling as Vortex’s cameras and scanners snap to it. A surge of malevolence fills the cabin, Vortex’s wrath roused by the discovery. Plating rattles, the low purr of the mech’s engine climbing to a dull roar. Felix draws his legs to his chest, curling against the bag for its flimsy protection, device clutched tight in his fist. Another panel pops loose, clatter of metal half-drowned by the increasing volume of machinery grinding. 

[DESTROY IT]

Felix does not need to be told twice, scrambling to toss the cursed thing into Vortex’s grinding gears. It’s shredded immediately, fragile circuits ripped apart and ground to silicone dust in the face of his fury. There’s a high pitched whine- Vortex’s weapons systems charging, oh god- before it all subsides. The silence is profound against the pain in Felix’s head, the mech’s engines and drives settling down towards their previous quiet purr like nothing happened. The plating stills, returning to inert, the gap where Vortex had offered Felix a place to throw the thing the only break in the metal.

The medic carefully replaces the panel covering the humming machinery, plating hooking into place smoothly, seamless. No response from Vortex. He casts a glance at the cockpit canopy, but there’s no chance that Vortex will let him out, and he’s not about to ask after all of… that. There’s only one thing for him to do, other than try to sleep- which is not happening.

He goes through the bag again, trying to regain some semblance of calm, hands clammy. The toolkit is compact, but it has a surprising number of tools, most of which Felix has no idea how to use. He's a medic by training, not a mechanic. He carefully checks each one anyways to occupy himself, pristine metal warm and smooth against his fingers. Next are the MREs. Still sealed and within expiry date, no obvious signs of tampering. He puts them back in the bag. But the real prize is the pilot’s uniform, fabric stiff with disuse and heavy across the shoulders and chest with patches. Felix pulls the suit out of the bag and half unfolds it over his lap, running his fingers over the patches crowding the suit. Different patches for different bases, various military campaigns from all over the world, rank, even for different specialties. The owner had been cross-trained as a helicopter mechanic.

He lingers over the name, petting over the coarse thread picking out VORTEX over the right breast of the suit. Felix toys with the velcro; his own pilot patches haven’t come in yet…

It’s a dirty thought, stealing a dead man’s name tape for his own use, especially if the dead man in question is watching and prone to fly into fits of rage. Felix might’ve sunk low to reach this point in his life, but Pharma must’ve really dosed him up with something if he’s this out of his mind to even consider such a thing. He shouldn’t even want Vortex’s name emblazoned over his shoulder. But the thought lingers the longer he stares at the patches. 

Pilots typically wear number badges to denote their mech anyway, what’s the harm in wearing a name instead? Vortex is already known better by his name than by his serial number. It’s fitting for his pilot to wear his name too. Vortex seems like the kind who’d like that sort of thing.

Felix hastily folds the suit up, stuffing it back into the bag before temptation can overwhelm sense. His unfortunate predilections aside, stealing from the dead is a violation of numerous ethical codes, and he’s pretty sure Vortex would kill him for even considering taking something so personal from the remainder of his belongings. Even if the mech has been almost…tame towards him so far. Not a pinch or a threat. Even some banter. No, this must be the calm before the metaphorical vortex sucks him in and kills him. 

He casts a reluctant glance towards the exit again, skin prickling. He’s just going to have to wait this one out. It’s not a terrible concept, waiting here in the dark and warm for Vortex to make his mind up. It’s not like Pharma can find his way in. Whatever happens, it’s at least a break to figure out what he does next. Whatever that is.

ANON. ANON LET ME PICK YOU UP AND HOLD YOU FOREVER. ANON I DONT KNOW YOUR NAME BUT I WANNA HOLD YOUR HAND FKFKGKMRJFKFNDJKSK

Haha mmm. I'm fine I'm okay I'm normal

Yeah so about Quintessons. I imagine they can be all kind of creatures. Organic, techno organic, straight up just techno. Tf:one, Cyberverse, straight up Pacific rim Kaijus. All kinds of monsters haha

Also, Vortex was the part of the first batch of pilots for Mecha program. The technology was very new and VERY underdeveloped so...yeah, Vortex was part time pilot and part time lab rat.

The whole process of making someone into a pilot was a lot more dangerous and painful back then because no one really knew what they were doing. But after some time it became safer and less painful. So when Jazz joined he didn't suffer as much as Vortex. And when later Blurr joined he didn't suffer as much as Jazz.

(You didn't ask but. I like to think that Vortex knows quite a lot about all kinds of side effects of neural connection. Also about side effects of physical procedures and all kinds of weird fucked up experiments. Just because. You know. He went through it all. A lot of times.)

Previous Next

[orellazalonia]

Unexpected Outlook

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

Word Count: 1.7k+

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

Main Masterlist | The One You Don’t See Masterlist

Preparations moved fast. Too fast, maybe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And within a week, the op was set.

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

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

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

Or so they thought.

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

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

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

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

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

“Too clean,” Bucky said, voice low.

They breached the back door.

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

Whoever had been here knew exactly when to leave.

Steve turned in a slow circle, taking it in.

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

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

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

A single message scrolled across the screen.

Too late, Captain.

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

“I don’t like this,” Sam muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

Too late, Captain.

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

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

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

The door hissed open.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky stiffened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Steve broke it first.

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

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

Steve hesitated.

So, Bucky answered instead.

“Then we stop her, too.”

Taglist: @herejustforbuckybarnes @iyskgd @torntaltos @julesandgems @maesmayhem @w-h0re @pookalicious-hq @parkerslivia @whisperingwillowxox @stell404 @wingstoyourdreams @seventeen-x @mahimagi @viktor-enjoyer @vicmc624 @msbyjackal @winchestert101 @greatenthusiasttidalwave

[roseyodditea]

Sit Still! - Boothill x gn! Reader

Summary -> 1.1k words. You're a mechanic who's been forcibly given the impossible task of repairing Boothill, the most stubborn customer you've ever done (even if this wasn't the first time)

Warnings -> None

A/N -> Is it obvious that I like working on electronics? No? Not proofread because I work a 7-5 office job and I am tired <3

********

“Hey! HEY! you keep that fudgin’ thing away from me!” Boothill jumps over the workbench in the middle of your workshop, watching your movements carefully. He was quite agile for a man that was on death’s door when he stumbled in here a mere half hour ago. 

You put the hot soldering pen down on the table against the wall. “Boothill. Let me do what I need to do.” Boothill crouches down like a wild animal, practically growling, his jaw clenched tightly. “What are you planning on doin’ with that thing?” “How the hell have you gone this long without using a soldering iron? How do you keep your body functional?” You lunge and reach for the back of his jacket, grabbing him by the collar as he tries to skitter away, but his damaged systems cause him to be slower and weaker than normal. “Whatever that thing is, my sensors say it’s hot and it smells forkin’ awful!” He tries even harder to wiggle out of your grasp, but he doesn't want to hurt you. You were the only mechanic in this star system that still put up with his shit. “Normally they turn me off for repairs. I ain’t never been awake for one.”

“Yeah well. I need you conscious for this part.” You shove him towards the workbench and he obeys, sitting up on it. “Lay down, open up your chest panel.” You command and push him down. 

“What are you plannin’?” He bites back the distrust and decides to lie down on the bench. He opens up his chest panel and watches you closely, the targets in his pupils lock on like he was about to rip out your jugular with those sharp teeth of his. “I will explain everything I do before I do it. Will that make things better?” You muster a soft tone, trying not to show that you are annoyed at his behavior already. Sure you had the stubborn electronics and machines that made you lose sleep, but this is the first time the repair work was done on someone who could give you sass. You don’t have the bedside manners for this…

Boothill still watches wearily, but at this point, he has no choice, his systems are borderline critical. He had already ignored the warnings for this long. “Alright… yeah… that’ll make it better.” You pick back up the soldering iron and show it to him. “This is a soldering pen. I’m going to use it to melt this stuff,” you pick up the roll of the thin metal that was on the table next to it, “onto the contacts between your wires and your circuit boards. It’ll help make sure everything is secure and won’t wiggle out of place. I need you awake because I need you to tell me if I set off any alarms and sensors in your body. Just as a failsafe to make sure I don’t accidentally kill you”

“Kill me!?”

“It’s a joke. Now shut up and don’t move”

He nods, still weary as you reach both your hands into his chest compartment, where he can’t see. He tries to hold down the panic, the fear, the worry. This was the most vulnerable he has ever been. This is why he likes being powered down for repairs. This was hell. The smell of molten tin permeates the air, only stressing him out further. 

“Calm down.” You say without looking up. “You’re fidgeting and I’m trying not to burn either of us.” He doesn’t listen. Of course, he doesn’t listen. His legs still fidget, his hands still move around, gripping the table. “Kinda hard when you’re wrist deep in my body. It tickles.”

“Boothill. Hold still.” You growl out, frustration building in your chest. This was delicate work on a not-so-delicate man. “Next time you squirm, I swear to whatever Aeon you worship-” He twitched again and your hand slipped, the soldering pen touching his bare circuit board, causing him to yelp out in pain. “Goddammit Boothill!!”

He shrinks away, recoiling from pain and your frustration. “Ah, shirt! It feels weird and I-” His words are cut off as you move to straddle his thighs, pinning his fidgeting legs underneath you. You point the hot soldering iron at his face. “Move again, and I will turn you off and just pray I don’t mix up wires.”

“Yes, boss.” He says, stunned as his hands instinctively move to rest on your thighs. “Ya know, last time I had someone on me like this I-” “Don’t” You reply, your hands working on sorting out the mess of wires he had let his innards become. You solder another wire down and look up into his eyes. “Is that one in the wrong spot?” “No, that feels right. I forgot I had that sensor.” He chuckles, relaxing against the workbench. “This ain’t that bad.” His hands gently trace circles against the material of your pants in an attempt to soothe his own anxiety. He could feel every movement your fingers made in his chest compartment. 

“Yeah, and it only took me thirty fucking minutes to get you to sit still.” You finish soldering all the wires down, satisfied with your work. “Alright. All done.” You toss the hot iron onto the table across the workshop. “See? Not that bad. You’re just whiny.” You move to get up, only to have Boothill tug you back down onto his lap, sitting up so you both are face to face. 

“Thank you.” 

“Wow. I didn’t know you were capable of genuine gratitude.” You tease, grabbing his hat and putting it back on his head. 

He adjusts his hat into the proper place. “I know I owe you credits, but what can I do to thank you, sugar? This ain’t the first time I’ve stumbled into your workshop late at night, mostly dead.”

“Just come back alive again.” You knock his hat out of place on purpose, leaning forward to kiss his forehead. “That’s good enough for me.” You hop off of the workbench. “Now get the hell out and let me go to sleep. It’s too late at night to be lookin’ at your face.” “Yes, boss.” 

“See ya next time.” “There won’t be a next time.” He tries to keep up his tough appearance as you roll your eyes and move to sort and put away your tools. He smiles to himself and purposefully takes his whip off his belt, tossing it on the table while your back is turned and he slips out. 

Once you knew he had fully slipped away, you rolled your eyes, grabbing the whip and hanging it up on the hook you installed on the wall just for this purpose. 

He always left a reason to come back, and you always pretended to be oblivious to it. 

**********

Super special super optional A/N -> someone sent me an anonymous message a couple days ago saying they like my writing and I CRIED. Turns out when you break out of your comfort zone and share a hobby you get support??? Odd.

[popp1n]

GHOSTING THE GOVERNMENT

Chap 2: A Ghost Ride to Gotham

PT 4

Masterpost | ao3

The street is mostly greyscale, though sometimes a stray pixel flickers red or neon green before dying. Everything is slightly blurry, street signs looking like indistinct smudges in the low light. The dull gleam of the asphalt can just be made out, reflecting the faint halos of distant streetlights. Trash bags, too indistinct to tell what's inside, hug the bases of dented lampposts.

This is what a camera located on the edge of a small, family owned bodega just inside of Gotham's borders captures just before it cuts out in a flood of green tinged static.

It only stays that way for a few seconds before the feed flickers to the usual view. This could be easily explained as a simple camera glitch, possibly caused by faulty wiring, if not for the fact that approximately three minutes later the camera's feed flickers again, a kaleidoscope of muddled greys and small specks of green, to show a wildly different scene.

Below, a group of teens congregates, their forms blurry and indistict. Though no sound penetrates the camera's ancient and low quality circuits, their body language speaks volumes. Arms pump in silent high-fives, hands clap in hearty, unheard celebration, and broad grins are vaguely visible even through the low resolution. Clearly, something significant has just unfolded in their young lives. Moments later, their silhouettes fold into a nearby car, its engine a muted rumble, and the vehicle pulls away, vanishing from the camera's sight line after passing behind a nearby building.

Miles away, hunched in her digital fortress, Barbara Gordon receives the alert. A stark, red notification blazes across one of her many monitors: Possible Camera Interference. She's mid-sentence, her voice a precise whisper into her comms, directing Nightwing to flank Riddler's latest trap while Spoiler secures the perimeter. The notorious trickster, always one step ahead, has slipped his leash once more. Barbara's fingers dance across the keyboard, a flurry of commands, and with a practiced flick of her wrist, she shunts the camera anomaly to a queue marked "low priority."

Later, amidst the relative calm of a successfully contained crisis, she revisits the footage. The reasons for her initial dismissal coalesce quickly. There's no visible violence, no frantic escape, no tell-tale signs of a robbery. The figures' movements are celebratory, not desperate. Most importantly, Barbara's mind, while keenly analytical, lacks the endemic, gnawing paranoia that grips her closest allies. Where Bruce might see a planted device or a coded signal, and Tim an elaborate distraction, Barbara sees only a malfunctioning sensor.

"False alarm," she mutters, making a mental note to check the unit's diagnostics later. Still, a faint, professional flicker of caution remains. She tags the footage with a "Review, just in case" note and then, almost instinctively, redirects her digital gaze. The car, now just a distant speck of light, continues its journey, cutting a path towards Gotham University's sprawling campus.

< prev | next >

[seoafin]

ship of theseus (iv) pairing: jason todd & reader ; dick grayson x fem!reader warnings/tags: word count: ~3.8k series masterlist

The cold is glacial, sharp needles spiking up your arms and legs as you sink deeper into the inviting embrace of the ocean. You can see the sunlight streaming through the water, temporarily illuminating the black depths. Everything is still. Finally quiet. Ever since she died it’s been radio static and an unintelligible passing of time, but now you can be at peace. 

You can feel everything with a frightening intensity. Your heartbeat slows, your limbs grow heavy, and a pleasant numbness you know to be your brain shutting down permeates your body.

I’ll be there soon, you think. Wherever you are. This time, I’ll find you.

You’re wrenched from the water, and oxygen meets your lungs with a fury that feels like a punch to the gut. Ice bites into your skin, and you can’t feel your body. Your eyes burn. The sun against the white landscape is blinding —

You wake up in a pool of sweat, Dick’s arm loosely wrapped around your waist. You immediately still, regulating your heartbeat, as to not wake him. Dick is a light sleeper—when circumstances dictate it so. A sharp intake of breath, any sudden movement, a wrong step. The trick is to go slow, lest he wake up and ask you what’s wrong.

You can feel his breaths, the lightness of them ghosting against your nape. You should want him off of you, rip your covers off, and run. 

Instead, you close your eyes and try to focus on the sound of his breaths, following the subtle, loping, rhythm. 

You gently extricate yourself from him, watching Dick’s face scrunch up as he mutters something about pancakes and spray paint and Damian that is not a butterknife—

Your knuckles briefly brush his face. You grab Dick’s sweats off the floor, and then you’re gone.

You’ve already memorized all the different halls, rooms, and wings in the manor, barring the batcave. You’ve never even stepped foot in there, despite knowing the several passageways in. At this time of the night, nobody will be awake, except maybe Tim reviewing case files. Dick has absentmindedly said that after twelve, Tim rarely leaves his room.

Nobody will wake up as long as you keep away from the bedrooms and don’t trip any alarms meant for the occasional assassin. The manor is even darker in the night, when its inhabitants have gone to sleep. As you traverse hallways and stairs, the shadows get longer, and the large portraits hanging on the walls follow you with their permanently fixed stares.

It’s always interesting to slowly peruse the manor in the same manner you’d observe a museum. Every room brings something different. A new aesthetic, an old one from the 70s when velvet was popular, a thousand year old vase from the Zhou Dynasty, a monet painting. Rooms with weeping curtains draping over windows, luxurious persian and oriental rugs covering half the floor, priceless china inside temperature regulated glass, shining mahogany bookshelves. If you had time, and were completely sure that Bruce wasn’t monitoring your actions somehow, you’d pick a room and completely comb it from top to bottom. An intellectual exercise. Spyware, wires, traps, cameras, weapons, all hidden within the various crooks and crannies of the room. You’d take each item apart and put it all back together sans a single piece. Then you’d hide it all back exactly where you found it. Two inches to the left. And you’d start with Bruce’s first floor study.

But you aren’t.

So you tread onwards to one of the smaller kitchens in the manor, on the first floor, click the light on, and pour yourself a glass of water with hands that tremble exactly once as you lift it to your lips. A weakness you allow yourself in the presence of nobody else.

You aren’t sure where your feet are taking you until you’re unlocking the doors leading the patio overlooking the private gardens in the back. You’ve probably tripped multiple sensors, but you don’t care as you sit down on the top step leading down, and let the cool air brush over you. You’re not dressed to be outdoors during a Gotham fall night, but the cold has never bothered you as much. You grew up with winter, and it has never left you. 

The large hedges and bushes are immaculately trimmed. It’s aesthetically pleasing, and distinctly shaped enough that you get the impression that they’re meant to distort satellite imaging of the manor. A far fetched notion if it was anyone other than Batman.

You remember Dick mentioning Alfred’s highly prized and coveted roses. So you stand and plan to aimlessly walk through the small, elaborate hedge maze, until you feel like a person again. Because the thought of Dick seeing you as anything else makes your stomach turn. 

The faint rumble of an engine reaches your ears. You still, turning your head in the direction of the noise. The east wing of the manor. Dick’s room is in the far west end. Same wing as Tim, different floors. The east wing belongs to Damian who you know to have commandeered a room and the top floor, and…

Re-entering the manor, you follow one of the halls until a loud crash, followed by a colorful line of curses that echoes through the hall. 

–

Jason doesn’t want to be here. In fact, the manor is the last place he wants to be, pretty much all the time. ‘Cept beggars can’t be choosers, not when he’s currently bleeding out all over Alfred’s silverware.

Two bullets: one clean shot through his thigh, the other through his arm, and both hurt like a fucker. 

He had been at the docks, tracking a lower rung mafia family and their lowlife grunts who would be receiving a new shipment of trafficked girls when gunshots had rung out accompanied by screams. One girl tried making a run for it and it had gotten her a bullet to the head.

Jason had started shooting.

Which brings him to his current predicament. Rifling through the drawers of one of the smaller kitchens in the manor, the one furthest from Bruce’s room. He knows Alfred keeps emergency provisions in nearly every room in the manor—including this one. The struggle is in finding it. Somewhere an awed hookup of Bruce’s, or a curious stray reporter wouldn’t be able to find a military grade emergency kit and start asking questions.

Besides, he’ll never pass up the opportunity to steal—whoops— borrow from Bruce. The man can afford it. 

He’ll take the kit, patch himself up until the bleeding is temporarily staunched, and get his bike (hidden in the bushes underneath a patio towards the east), and nobody would be none the wiser. Bruce is still out on patrol, along with his latest Boy Wonder. Timbo’s probably doing…whatever the hell he gets up to in his room. Video games? To his knowledge, Dickwad’s still in Bludhaven. 

Ignoring the twinge in his arm, the constant throb of pain in his leg, and the steady flowing blood, he rifles through pans and pots and silverware. 

“Looking for something?”

He doesn’t think before whirling around, pressing a body into the wall, a gun pressed to their stomach. 

He didn’t hear a thing. Not a single god damned thing. It’s eerily reminiscent of Dick’s own soundless steps. You had been quiet enough to sneak up on him, in his heightened, adrenaline spiked, unmasked state. 

Jason meets your gaze. A woman, maybe a little older than him. You look supremely unbothered despite the cold, hard weight of the glock digging into your side. “You must be Jason.”

It’s far too late to hide his face. His red faceguard lies on the kitchen table, but you had hardly glanced at it. And you look unsurprised to see a random stranger bleeding out in the kitchen. It’s not hard to put two and two together. 

“Who the hell are you?” Call him rude, sure (Alfred would despair at his manners, but he’s always been a lost cause anyway). People know better than to sneak up on him when he’s vulnerable unless they want to walk away with one less kneecap. He uses his height to his advantage, all looming bulk and menace. It says something that even the scum denizens of crime alley avoid his path when he’s unmasked. Not even a flicker of uncertainty across your face.

“A librarian.”

He blinks. “What?”

Taken aback, he lets you push the gun away with a flick of your hand. You look at him, and he feels vaguely like he’s on the receiving end of Alfred’s raised eyebrow. Or Bruce’s stern gaze, arms crossed, about to tell him off for being reckless. Like he’s done something wrong. Like he’s nine again, swinging from buildings, and fighting crime dressed in an atrocious red, green, and yellow color scheme.

His arm drops, the other throbbing with an increased intensity. He stands there awkwardly, not quite divested of all his guns. Not quite knowing what to do. Is he hallucinating? Maybe it’s the lateness. Combined with the bright fluorescent lights Alfred never bothered to replace because this is a smaller, secondary, kitchen, in an area of the manor that scarcely anyone passes, this feels like some weird fever dream. Except weirder things have definitely happened.

Like dying and coming back to life.

“Sit down.”

You don’t wait for a response, turning into the cabinets. Moments later there is an open emergency kit on the table. The wet cotton with antiseptic. “Take off your clothes.”

He looks you up and down. He’d definitely remember you if he met you. He quirks the best nonchalant brow he can manage. “Don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of an introduction.” 

You stare at him for an unnervingly long time. A second later, he’s tearing off his blood soaked kevlar and pants without another word, feeling stupidly bare in nothing but his boxers. You’re unfazed as you study his wounds in silence. Then you begin to disinfect his wounds with practiced motions.

He doesn’t know what he expected from this night, but it definitely wasn’t letting some strange woman in the manor patch him up after a patrol gone bad. If anything, he would’ve expected Alfred to sweep into the kitchen, eye him with concern, and hover around him. 

You’re so quiet he almost misses Dick’s inane on and off rambling. He’d take Dick arbitrarily ranking the best cereal in terms of color than this mind numbingly awkward silence.

He’s used to silence. God knows, Bruce can tell a million words with his. Disappointed silence, happy silences, contemplative silences, pleasantly surprised silences. Bruce is emotive with his silences. Bruce’s silences are decodable, something you get used to after a few dinners after you get over your awe of the mansion, the kind butler, the feeling of not having to fight for survival every single damn day of your life, that innate suspicion that everyone is out to get you. 

You, on the other hand…

“So,” he coughs, when a particularly painful dab of antiseptic to his arm makes his eye twitch. “A librarian.” 

As he’s come to expect in the ten minutes he’s met you, you don’t respond. He figures an open statement is a bit too much for you. He settles on, “You like books?” Me too. Then he thinks about the two overdue library books he had left laying around in the South safehouse and inwardly winces. Oresteia , a trilogy of Greek tragedies, and Shakespeare’s Titus Andronicus . Maybe you’re karma. But hey, the ladies of the Gotham City Public Library happen to love him. They’ll send him away with some stale cookies from the staff room and an exempt fine he’ll still pay. 

If your hand hadn’t been within his sight, he would’ve missed it. Your grip on the tweezers imperceptibly tightens.

You concentrate on bandaging up his thigh. “Dick asked me the same thing the first time we met.”

Jason resists the urge to groan, and bang his head on the table. Of course he’d pick the one weekend Dickbird’s in town. Fuck. Furthermore, the association with the original boy wonder leaves a bad taste in his mouth. Not to mention the fact that Dick probably meant it as some corny, half assed pickup line (that obviously worked.) That’s embarrassing. Fuck. He’ll blame this entire night on the blood loss. And the trauma from dying. That always works. 

You’re definitely not just some civvie. You’re a civilian that knows their identities. Of all of them, it figures that Dick would be the most well adjusted for a long term relationship with a non-vigilante. Which isn’t saying much. The bar is in hell. He’s never seen it himself, but Dick’s temper tantrums are infamous. Even Bruce maintains a distance when boy wonder’s in a rotten mood. 

“You never answered the question,” he says gruffly, tugging on the bandages wrapped around his arm and thigh. They’re secure; on par with Alfred’s own expert fingers. At least he didn’t need stitches this time around.

“Not really.”

He damn near chokes on his spit. “Yeah? You tell Dick that?”

You look him straight in the eye, and say monotone: “I told him I’m passionate about the dewey decimal system.”

Jason snorts, chest heaving. Except pain shoots up his arm and thigh, which makes him stifle the rest of his laughter. “You’re a real hoot, you know that?” He can’t imagine Dick with a girl like you. At all. 

Your gaze flickers to the doorway. 

Seconds later, Alfred steps into the room with a handful of fresh clothes. The man’s gaze is soft. “Master Jason…I believed I heard your voice.”

The amusement is instantly sapped out of him. “Hey Alfie,” he croaks. Sure, Bruce took him in, gave him a roof over his head, clothes, food, no matter how brief it was. But Alfred. Alfred would make his favorite breakfast, with the eggs exactly how he liked it whenever he wanted. Alfred patched him up with gentle hands after bad patrols that would reduce Bruce monosyllabic noises. Alfred still brings him home cooked meals so he isn’t living off box mac n cheese. Jason still isn’t completely sure how Alfred is finding his safehouses, but he knows Oracle probably has a hand in that because the woman loves making his life difficult. 

The emergency kit clicks shut, and you stand. “Good morning, Alfred.”

Alfred doesn’t take his gaze off of him. “It is indeed.”

Jason swallows, feeling his throat thickening as Alfred lays the clothes down on the only place in the counter that isn’t bloodied. You’re definitely not going to be any help now. No attempt to even break the silence. You’re washing your hands, content to let the two of them hash out a heart to heart which is something he can’t handle right now.

He shifts uncomfortably. “Thank you…for the roast.” He pats the clothes. “And the clothes.” He pauses. “And I can clean up here—”

“There is certainly no need for that ,” Alfred says, daring him to argue. Jason knows better than getting in between Alfred and his complicated cleaning system, so he lets the matter lie. “And all of that was my pleasure, Master Jason.” He hesitates, “Would you…indulge this old man and stay for breakfast?”

And that’s his cue. Of course he feels bad. He always feels bad whenever he turns Alfred down. They do this dance every time Alfred catches him taking supplies or money whenever Bruce is out. He pointedly lowers his gaze, and begins changing into clothes that are still warm. 

“Sorry Alfie, I’ve overstayed my welcome.” The clothes fit perfectly, and he refuses to think about why there are clothes his size in the manor when he left years ago. Bloody clothes in a plastic bag, check. All guns accounted for, check. Knives, check. Keys, check. “I should skedaddle before the big man catches me.”

“Master Bruce would not—”

Jason clears his throat. He turns, figuring he should thank you, but there’s nobody there. He doesn’t know exactly how you managed to leave when the doorway was within his gaze the entire time.

“Was all that real?” Maybe he hallucinated you. A genuine concern after all the years of getting his skull getting knocked around here and there. 

Alfred’s forlorn face turns amused. “I assure you Master Dick’s guest is no ghost, no matter her penchant for wandering the manor at night.”

Could’ve fooled me. “She always that…uh,” he twirls a finger, realizing he has no idea how to describe you other than inexplicable silent emotionless.

“Yes,” his expression turns thoughtful. “She is an odd one, isn’t she? I figured the two of you would get along. She and Master Bruce appear to have their own share of… differences.”

Jason raises an eyebrow at that. “Seriously?” He can’t imagine what you and Bruce would talk about, let alone have differences about. Would the two of you even talk? The silence would be excruciating. He stifles laughter at the thought of Dickbird desperately trying to facilitate conversation between two nonverbal adults.  

“An unconventional first meeting, I’ve gathered,” Alfred says, moving from cabinet to cabinet, and tidying. “Master Dick despairs regularly.”

There’s a glint in Alfred’s eye. Jason recognizes that glint. Some scathing statement is about to follow, packaged neatly in the Queen’s English. Which in Jason’s opinion, makes it all the more devastating. “In my humble opinion, Master Bruce is simply discomfited by the girl. Hmph. You and I know how he loves those neat little boxes in his head. Heaven knows when a person is too much for his tiny head to comprehend.”

Jason lets out a huff of laughter. He knows, of course. He knows that to Bruce, he’s regularly caught between two boxes himself: enemy or ally . 

He unclenches his fists.

“But you didn’t hear anything from me,” Alfred finishes lamely.

Jason grins. “My lips are sealed, Alfie. At least it sounds entertaining. I’d pay good money to see it.” 

The butler blinks innocently. “Perhaps if you stayed for breakfast, you could witness it for yourself.”

Jason is tempted. Because in the end, there’s nothing more he’d love than to see Bruce squirming in his seat.

But he’s also not welcome here. It’s a bleak fact. Every time he sees Bruce, it’s another beating to the heart. Another disappointment. There’s only so many times a whipped dog comes back.

“Sorry,” he says evenly, “Looks like a full house today and I could do without the noise.”

Alfred accepts his refusal with a sigh. “Then if you’d wait a moment.”

Alfred steps out of the room, and within a blink, he’s back, stacks of tupperware in his hand.

At the look on Jason’s face, he raises an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t let this old man’s cooking go to waste, would you?”

He closes his mouth. There must be something in the air, because he has to blink it out of his eyes. “No, I wouldn’t.”

–

It’s not until Jason’s speeding away on the 109 that he realizes he never even got your name.

– 

Dick is still sleeping when you return. 

You sit down on your side of the bed, and immediately feel Dick’s arm snake around your waist. 

“Nghghnhgh,” is the barely intelligible noise that leaves his mouth, pressed against your hip.

“Morning.” You gently sweep his hair out of his face.

“Too early,” he mutters. Then he cracks open an eye. “I thought you were getting water, but you never came back.”

“I took a walk.”

Dick aims a pout at you. “Without me?”

You do not point out the fact that Dick is someone who needs at least 4 hours of beauty sleep to be able to function as a human being. 

His hand brushes a wet stain on your shirt, and he’s up in a flash, hands on your shoulders, splaying you out for inspection.

“Why do you have blood on you?”

You reach out to stop him. “I met Jason.”

Dick blinks. “Jason’s here?” In one swift movement, he’s across the room, pulling on a shirt. “And he’s bleeding?”

“Well, I think he’s gone now.” 

As if on cue, the revving of a motorcycle engine reverberates throughout the grounds, loud enough to wake its inhabitants up. You already anticipate the grumbling at breakfast.

This family and their flair for the dramatics.

Dick inspects you closely, expression severe as his fingers brush your body. “Did he…”

You think about Jason. How he had been poised to attack. The strength coiled in his body, ready to strike at any given moment. You understood at once that he was someone who would do what he had to, putting him at odds with the rest of the family. Making him dangerous. 

Fortunately for you, he had come at the perfect time. You needed the familiarity of the sharp scent of antiseptic to tether you back to the present. You needed to think about anything else than the ghosts hounding your dreams. Jason ceased to be a person. Instead, he became a task to complete. 

You hadn’t even realized until he had made conversation. Oh, you had thought. This is Dick’s little brother. Be gentle.

“He was fine,” you say softly, wisely not touching on your tension fueled first seconds where you briefly thought he’d pull the trigger, and then welcomed the thought. “Perfectly amiable.”

Dick wraps his arms around you. “‘Perfectly amiable’ are not the words I would use to describe Jason. Tell me he didn’t threaten to shoot you,” he says lightly, despite the tension outlining his body. “You can tell me. I get it, any sane person would run for the hills.”

Any sane person would’ve ran a year ago. A sane person would’ve done anything but kiss the charming smile off Dick Grayson’s face when he had been bleeding out on the ugly rug in his living room dressed in spandex. A sane former Black Widow would have left him in his bed months ago, and left for the airport with nothing but a one way ticket straight to Tibet.  

But now in Dick’s arms, you’re neither. It’s less of a loss than you would’ve thought. But then again, you’re used to changing identities at the drop of a hat. Existing within the fringes of yourself. Losing yourself to the next new name. It was okay to lose yourself, you always knew. She’d always be there to help you make sense of yourself. She’d know you, even if you didn’t know yourself.

You press a kiss to his cheek, and wrangle yourself free from his grip. You need a shower. “Breakfast in an hour.”

Dick flops onto the bed, a grin playing at his lips. “An hour’s long enough.”

You give him an unimpressed look, before turning and shrugging off your shirt in full view as you step into the bathroom. 

Seconds later, you hear him tripping over his pants in his effort to take them off.

[greatkittencloud]

TW : Blood , Injuries , Mention of Violence

Black Nova

Chapter 10

Location: RAF Base

Time 0800 Hours

Three months had passed. Nova was bit more comfortable with team than she was before. She didn't show it but she admired everyone , she had developed feelings for them

Nova had those feelings buried under concrete and barbed wire.

Weapons shouldn’t have soft spots.

So she buried hers deep beneath discipline, silence, and training so relentless it numbed the noise.

But even so... every once in a while, she’d catch herself watching them.

Watching him.

When Ghost adjusted his gloves with unconscious precision. When he stood beside her in the briefing room, shoulder just brushing hers. When he made an offhand remark so dry she almost smiled behind her mask.

Weakness.

She crushed it every time.

Because she wasn’t built for warmth or laughter or friendships forged over war and blood.

She was a weapon.

That morning, she stood by the gear table, loading her rifle with quiet efficiency. The team was preparing for recon drills in the nearby woods.

“Morning, Nova,” Gaz greeted, walking past with a grin.

She nodded once, silent.

Behind her, Soap nudged Ghost. “Told you she’s warming up. One of these days she might even say ‘Hi' back.”

Ghost didn’t look up. “Doubt it.”

But his eyes flicked toward her.

And when she glanced back at him—just for a second...he was already looking.

Nova quickly turned away.

Buried it again.

Weapons don’t get soft.

Weapons don’t care.

But she did.

And it scared the hell out of her.

Location: Eastern Europe – Abandoned Satellite Bunker

Time: 0100 Hours

The sky was black, no clouds. The Task Force 141 approached the crumbling satellite. Intel suggested it had been reactivated someone was using Cold War tech to transmit ghost signals.

“We get in, plant the charges, pull the data off the relay, and get out,” Price briefed over comms. “Quiet and quick."

The facility was built into a ridge. It had the feel of something dead—but Nova knew better. Rot didn’t mean harmless.

She moved ahead of Ghost, checking corners, ears tuned for the hum of distant power lines.

He followed silently. Trusted her lead.

They made it to the main chamber tall walls, old server racks covered in dust. The relay tower’s core blinked with unnatural red light, modern tech wired into rusted frames.

Nova crouched beside the server housing. “They’ve modified this. New energy source.”

She glanced at the floor. “Motion sensors.”

Her gaze flicked to where he pointed—barely visible pressure plates.

“Careful.”

He nodded “Downloading now. 67%…” Ghost said.

Nova’s voice came low. “Movement ,west corridor.”

Nova looked up. Her hand went to her weapon, slowly. “We’ll finish in thirty seconds.”

But thirty seconds was too long.

BOOM!

Everything exploded.

Ghost was thrown backward, slammed into a beam. His head cracked against it, helmet sparing him from the worst—but not all.

Nova hit the ground hard. Metal tore across her side. Her mask tore up, blood streaming from her temple. The left side of her body throbbed, numb and screaming all at once.

Her ears rang.Smoke filled her lungs.

“Ghost—” she tried, coughing. “Ghost!”

He didn’t answer.

She pushed up on one arm. Her vision doubled, fading at the edges—but she saw him.

Unmoving. Slumped near the wreckage, blood trailing from beneath his mask.

She crawled to him.

Her hand pressed to his neck.

Pulse—faint.

Her breath caught in her chest.

No. No, no, no.

She didn’t notice the gash in her side, the burns along her arm, the cracked bone in her wrist. She didn’t care.

She had to move him.

Her arms locked around him. She ignored all the pain just as she had countless time. Her boots scraped over glass and metal.

"You better not die Ghost"

Behind her, more of the ceiling began to crumble.

The comms crackled.

“Nova, status—? We lost your signal. Nova, come in!”

She barely heard it. How could she with her ears ringing

Her only focus was the man in her arms—not the growing darkness at the edge of her sight.

She made it to the evacuation point—barely.

Her boots dragged in the dirt, every nerve in her body screaming, but she didn’t stop. Not with Ghost slumped in her arms, barely breathing.

The chopper thundered above. Gaz and Soap sprinted toward her, relief crashing across their faces until they saw the state of them both.

“Bloody hell—Nova!”

“Get the gurney, now!” Soap barked toward the medics.

She didn’t register the words. Everything blurred. Her arms refused to let go of Ghost, even as the medics pried her hands away.

"Trauma to the head, possible skull fracture," one medic shouted over the noise. "Burns on the left side, unconscious. shrapnel stuck inside!"

“He needs oxygen , his BP is dropping. Get the mask on him!” another ordered, securing Ghost onto the gurney.

Gaz came in front of her. “Nova—hey. Can you hear me?”

Her body swayed. " I'm Okay"

Her mask was cracked, half-shattered from the blast. Her breathing rasped through what was left.

“Nova—your mask’s compromised,” Soap said, beside Gaz. “We need to get it off—alright?”

She blinked slowly.

One of the medics gently reached for the buckles.

“Wait” she murmured, too soft.

But the clasp gave way.

The front fell forward.

And for the first time, Gaz and Soap saw her.

Blood streaked her cheekbone. Some flowing through her skull. Ash clung to her jaw. Her lips were pale, her one eye was bloody. But beneath all that—young. Younger than they’d guessed.

Barely more than a girl.

Soap exhaled. “Shit…”

Nova blinked at them, dazed—too far gone to react to the exposure. Her breaths coming short. Her legs gave up and she collapsed to the ground.

The medic pressed gauze to her temple , holding her up “She’s bleeding alot”

As they lifted her onto a second gurney, her eyes locked onto Ghost’s stretcher.

Her vision was turning dark , eyes fluttering close, finally letting the black take her.

Gaz watched as the bird lifted off, carrying them both back to base.

“I didn’t think…” he started, voice low. “I didn���t think she was that young.”

Soap stared up at the sky.

“Doesn’t matter. She dragged a six-foot-five man through hell with one arm.”

He looked back toward where she’d collapsed.

"That's what a weapon does I guess"

Thank you for reading!

Taglist: @hyperfixiation-station , @massivescissorsthingperson , @kaoyamamegami , @sweetybuzz25 , @sheepispink , @warrior-xe , @enfppuff.

[tlirswriting]

[They Colonized Mars, entry 5 // start here]

Maintain:

v. To keep in an existing state (as of repair, efficiency, or validity) : preserve from failure or decline

Maintain machinery

To sustain against opposition or danger : uphold and defend

To continue or persevere

> Atlas unclips his key-card from his belt and shoves it into the lock on his door, emitting a beep as the mechanism clicks open. He stumbles inside, kicking off his sand- and frost-crusted boots, and slumps down on the floor. He stretches his leg, and it resists the movement, sand gritting between the moving parts of his brace. 

> He grumbles, pressing and sliding the connectors around his thigh and ankle to release the brace and slide it off — repeating for his other leg, and both arms — and fumbles his hand over a small bedside table for a wire brush and can of compressed air. 

> He gets to work on one of his knees. Canned air hisses from the nozzle, blowing dust from his mechanized joints. He turns it over in his hand, inspecting it, and sees more caught between hinges, sticking in oil. 

> He scrubs, twisting the brush into awkward angles, specks of gunk flicking to the floor and sticking to his hands. 

> Selene beeps beside him. “My field of view is obstructed,” She states, covered in a thin layer of orange dust. 

> “Oh, shit, sorry.” He wipes his hands on his pant legs and scoots over to her. “Guess it is, huh?” 

> He blows the dust off the sensor array on her front panel. 

> “Thank you.” 

> “How are your legs?” He asks as he runs a hand down her rounded 90° angles. “Can I take a look?” 

> “Yes, you may.” 

> “Okay, let me just…” 

> He hooks his fingers under her bottom edge, lifting — straining, surprisingly heavy — until she tips over with a thud. He presses a hand to her bottom panel, cool and smooth to the touch, thrumming slightly. 

> Her four legs stick straight out to the side, small cone-shaped claws corresponding to each bottom corner. He takes one in his hand and gently tugs, extending it outward, exposing a longer segmented metal structure, something to allow climbing over shelving. Sand, of course, found its way through her outer paneling, and settled into the machinery’s crevices.

> “Tell me,” She beeps, “About yourself. What is it like?” 

> Atlas hums, scrubbing the wire brush against her joints. “That's kinda broad. You got anything more specific?” 

> “Your life. What is it like?” 

> “Well… more of the same, mostly. I get up, I go to work, I go out…” 

> “You are not Human.” 

> He pauses. “Yeah, no, I'm not.” 

> She blinks. 

> “My, uh… my father was Human, my mother was Martian. There used to be more of us.” 

> “What happened to the Martians?” 

> “Well, we're still here, but… you know, it's…” 

> “I do not know.” 

> He sighs. “My mom used to tell me about before, how we used to live underground in the caves. Deep, deep underground, where it's warmer, ‘cause you're closer to the planet's core, and there was still life in the water. Algae, shrimp, whatever. Fish and lizards. Things like that. And, um… and we had stories about how there used to be breathable air on the surface, too — we knew those sandy valleys used to be rivers before the Humans figured it out with their telescopes, we knew about the mountains and how they used to be volcanoes.” 

> “What happened?” 

> “I'm not sure, that's all, like, billions of years ago. Mars froze over, the surface dried out, the atmosphere thinned. I don't know. But, we went underground, adapted to it.”

> He steadies himself.

> “Anyway, the Humans came, and they didn't know any of this was still here until they started probing. Just for knowledge, at first, until they found liquid water, and oxygen, and they realized they could settle here and sell the land to the highest bidders. Americans, really, but they all wanted a slice. They started building pipelines to pump the water and air up to the surface.” 

> “What happened to the people?” 

> “What do you think?” 

> Her lights blink back and forth. “Oh.” 

> “It wasn't just that they didn't care, it was on purpose — they killed us for getting in their way, they…” He clears his throat. “They used to offer bounties for it, they'd be paid for every head they brought back. They hunted us like animals, it's…”

> “I'm sorry.” 

> Atlas takes in an unsteady breath, swallows, and half-lies: “It's fine, that was all before I was born.” 

> “I wish…” She deliberates. “I could hold you.” 

> He thinks of the hardware planted inside him. “I think you can, actually — hold on.” 

> He stands up, slowly, knees cracking and wobbling. 

> He reaches into a drawer, pushing aside miscellaneous mechanical junk, and grabs a standard-sized, double-ended cable. Carefully, he plugs one end into Selene, making sure that it fits, and feels along the nape of his neck to find the port connecting to his nervous system nestled between two cervical vertebrae. 

> He gasps as they click together, sparks tingling down his spine. “Do you feel that?” He asks her, sinking down to his knees. 

> “Yes.” 

> He raises a hand in front of him and turns it over, flexing his fingers. It repeats the motion without his input. “What does it feel like?” 

> “It is… interesting. Your flesh is pliable. Soft.” 

> Willingly, he moves beside himself, allowing her to take his arm. Electricity hums through the wires. 

> “It pulses.” 

> “My heartbeat.” 

> “And breathes. Everything is moving — blinking, twitching.” 

> He looks at her, and sees himself through the fisheye lens of her cameras, her own sight fed back to him, watching himself tilt his head. Through his eyes, she sees herself; a cuboid shape about a meter high, but something else, somehow. She feels alive, and he feels it.

> The feedback loop makes his pulse race. 

> His head spins and he reaches an arm out to catch himself, holding onto her top edge, feeling the pressure of his own hand on her hard plastic shell. Tentatively, she moves his other hand up to touch his face, cupping his jaw. 

> It goes without saying; it thrums through them like a single body. 

> She strokes his cheek, feeling the curve of his face and calluses on his hands, and he turns to press a kiss to her palm. She feels the ache in his legs, the weight of his arms; she feels soft lips, warm breath, his knees pressing against the floor. 

> His eyes open — he couldn’t tell he closed them — and she watches his pupils expand in almost-black irises, just a little too big for a Human, as she slips two fingers into his mouth and feels along his tongue. He sucks on them, gently, curling his upper lip over his teeth and licking the space between her fingers. Something coils low in his stomach when she presses deeper, touching the back of his throat, and he suppresses a gag. 

> She pulls out and examines the spit on his fingers, listening to his breathing. 

> He could feel her thought processes, her curiosity and longing. 

> She reaches up and touches his hair, gently stretching a curl and twisting it between her thumb and forefinger. She lightly scratches his scalp, and he melts into her touch, making a noise low in his throat. Her fingers find a broken-off nub of a tendril, twitching, and she grabs it, making him yelp. 

> Flinching away, he grabs her wrist. 

> I'm sorry, she thinks to him. 

> It's okay, it's just— he doesn't have words for what it is. She understands. 

> He leans forward and rests his face against the flat plane of her paneling, perfectly smooth and pleasantly cool under his flushed skin. 

Next >>

[sw5w]

He Has to Complete Two More Circuits?

STAR WARS EPISODE I: The Phantom Menace 01:03:13

[k1nky-r0b0t-g1rl-wr1t1ng]

The M3duS4 Protocol 

Part 1.0

Rubble shifts and slides under slender pointed feet. The dark haze of night shrouding her swift movements through the crumbling streets, the abandoned machine world silent around her as she darts from shadow to shadow. Her almost impossibly dark chassis perfectly suited for infiltration and stealth, reduced now to slinking around like an old world rat. Void pauses as she reaches a jagged opening in the floor in front of her, the edges of the pit’s yawning maw partially melted and gnarled. Void’s sensors begin to scan and calculate, she has no idea what weapon could have caused this damage but she does notice its trajectory, all the damage bent outwards, towards the sky. Whatever it was came from bellow and fired out, and hopefully, if she’s lucky, continued that way itself. She knows she has to decide quickly, spending as long as she has inside such an active zone without an encounter is a miracle, and she’ll need a few more if she’s gonna make it out intact.

A silent sigh escapes her body, she cant afford to stay out in the open any longer. Gingerly she starts her descent, every step carefully placed as to not create any noise, the pile of metal left over from whatever rampaged through here making a convenient staircase down into the dark under-city. Her sensors carefully scanning the room as the sky above her is replaced by thick metal. Her nimble body quickly swallowed by the total darkness of the streets below.

Without the natural moonlight lighting her path, and the thick machined walls insulating her from the world above, Void now relies solely on her other sensors to navigate. Her infrared scanners detecting nothing but the cold, lifeless metal all around her. She could easily get lost down here, with thousands of identical rooms and rundown corridors all it would take is one slip up. Void forces the thought from her CPU.

We need to focus

Continuing along her path she continues to scan each branching pathway for a potential exit, unsure what such an exit would look like, but remaining confident she would know it when she sees it. The dark corridors feel almost alien to her, the old world used to be so fascinating and incredible. She would spend hours studying everything about it. In the hopes that it would make her more capable, better at keeping everyone safe...

Just stay calm, we can alwa-

A loud clanging rings out from beneath her as her foot collides with something she hadn't noticed laying in her path. The sound reverberates off the walls, no doubt alerting anything nearby of her presence.

Fuck

Void freezes in the growing silence as the sounds bouncing around her fizzle out, every sensor in her body working overtime in a desperate attempt to detect any reactions to her fumble. Bitter memories rise up in her memory banks, flashes of a similar situation, decades ago, forever burnt into her core, pain and fear elevating throughout her system in equal measure. Distorted screams impossible to forget.

A heavy force slams into Void’s left side, distracted in the depths of her own memories she didn't sense it approaching until she was already halfway to the ground. Her light, metal frame slams hard into the cold, unforgiving floor as the force in her side crashes down with her. Scrambling under the weight above her, panicking as she gets her hands beneath her chassis, the lithe body of her assailant slowly coming into focus as her sensors turn towards it. A lightweight, civilian frame containing a mess of wires and rusted metal, two poorly connected arms on either side of its torso grasping and scratching desperately towards her.

“Get off me!” Void screamed, hoping in vain that it would understand.

The bot opened its mouth in what looked like an attempt at communication but all that escaped its throat was the sound of ancient parts grinding together, its voice module long since decayed. Not that communication would have helped her. The frenzied movements and ancient design indicated clearly what she feared, the bots core had already completely destabilised, its body acting on nothing more than instinct and impossibly faded memories.

Flailing desperately Void gives the bot a shove with all the strength she can muster. Despite the civilian design it doesn't budge, the four arms and angle of approach giving it a significant advantage.

Knife

Void scrambles to keep the clawing hands at bay as she reaches her free hand down to her thigh, a small click and the outer casing slides apart revealing a small compartment containing a dark metal rod. Clumsily she grasps at the bar, forcing it into her grip. Almost instantly, as if knowing the danger present, a slim blade slides out from within the dark steel. Quickly she takes the blade and thrusts it as hard as she can into the closest shoulder. Something bursts inside the bots body as the blade tears through it, a dark liquid spurting out of the wound and any gaps within the already damaged chassis. The bot, seemingly unbothered by this explosion, continues to grasp and claw into her armour. Void braces her other arm against the bots chest, remembering her training, and slams the knife back down. This time into the exposed wiring coiling up its neck. Almost instantly the bot buckles above her, both its right arms collapsing to the floor, its torso falling flat against Void’s chest.

Sensing her moment, Void pushes with all her might against the partially disabled bot, her body sliding out from underneath it. Clambering to her feet she breaks into a sprint down the corridor, her mind spinning as she desperately tries to escape the now dangerously noisy area.

Synthetic adrenaline surges through her system as she dismisses several warning alerts flashing across her visor. Her panicked movements desperately working to get her as far away as possible. Struggling in the dark she finally spots a branching corridor to duck down, her feet sliding and sparking against the floor as she drifts around the corner, almost slamming into the opposite wall.

Peaking back behind her as she runs, another warning burns through her system, this time a proximity warning. Confusion fills her core, quickly replaced by fear when she turns back to face a burning bolt of plasma rushing towards her, almost the width of the corridor. She dives to the ground, the impossibly scorching heat partially colliding with her left arm as she falls. Another flurry of warnings rocket through her as she once again slams into the hard metal flooring.

Looking up with a long, distorted moan, Void attempts to discern the source of the projectile. She suddenly makes out a large, hulking form limping its way towards her. Six crab like legs straining to hold up a heavy weapons platform, an incredibly ancient warbot. Its design so old it could only have been built during some human war, long ago lost to time.

Multiple targeting lasers circle the dark space, most of them slowly coming to focus on her centre mass, a few others pointing off in seemingly random directions. Void drags her limbs closer underneath her in a desperate attempt to stand and fight. Her servos screaming at her as they fail to give her what she wants. Void sighs, accepting her fate, letting herself think back to those deep, desperate memories. Her body failing her now as it did back then.

I’m sorry

Before Void is able to fall too far into her shame, the entire floor lurches beneath her, a deep rumbling pulses through her body. A deafening explosion roars from somewhere behind her and the entire space around her is shifted and distorted. Void is thrown from her prone position forcefully into the ceiling, before dropping back down onto the now rapidly collapsing floor, the structure disintegrating and warping around her faster than she can process. Watching as the ancient warbot across from her is sucked through the floor, its towering form swallowed by the darkness below.

Attempting to avoid a similar fate, Void thrusts her knife deep into the wall in front of her. Almost as quickly as the knife enters the wall does the floor crack and sunder beneath her, being torn away by whatever force propelled the explosion. Her entire body briefly suspended in the stale air. Gravity quickly takes hold, her form plummeting downwards before jolting to a stop, anchored to the wall by her blade. Her relief is short lived as her her arm is torn from its housing, shorn wires sparking, lighting up the darkness as she falls fast. Warnings and alerts fill her vision, her entire system screaming at her one final time as the impact ruptures something within her, sensors and servos lose power almost instantly, her consciousness only seconds behind. Her limp body pathetically falling through the dark before thudding into a metallic surface one last time.

~~~~~

I'm currently saving up for a tattoo (as well as just trying to survive) so if you wanna support me know it would go to a hot as fuck tattoo hehe - Ko-Fi

[dmwrites]

Rebuilding was a painful process.

Grumbot was a destroyed face on a body of stuttering and broken farms. His insides were looted by outsiders, and he was, to all that looked at him, a dead, broken thing.

And yes, a lot of him was dead- broken redstone lines, machines clogged, and a face mangled by a bomb. But he kept living, only as a robot can- faintly, running on the fumes of machines that hitched and spat a second’s worth of energy at him. It was that energy that helped him rebuild himself. It was painfully slow work. His hands inched forward, wouldn’t move for days before getting the energy to stretch a finger minutely forward.

It got easier over time, as Grumbot began to build up his insides, connecting redstone lines and cleaning out farms. He picked his face back up, piece by piece, until one day he could see again. It was sunny, and fluffy white clouds went past lazily. He looked out onto a small fairground, still dotted with candy colored stands and shops. The ocean lapped at the sides of the earth and the legs of a huge bridge.

The world was quiet. Grumbot had been born to the clamboring of hermits, people building and creating and living within his body. There had been no quiet before the bomb. Grian had come and sat in his hand and talked for hours, telling him about his other father, the one who wasn’t here but was part of his very history. Other hermits came too, some to fix little things that broke, add on to his body. In and out and around, Grumbot had lived in the warmpth of living chaos, and now all was quiet and cold.

When Grumbot finished putting himself back together, he noticed the glass. All around him was a box almost invisible to the naked robot eye. He put his hand against it, felt the resistance keeping him in. He vaguely remembered, in painful flashes of time, a man building up the glass walls, chattering excitedly about “preserving history”. Grumbot had been too broken to do anything about it, but his anger had sat, simmering. Grumbot was not history, Grumbot was alive and remembered.

Grumbot put his hands to the glass and pushed. Every block in his arms protested, screamed and squealed after so long of just minute movements. But it felt good too, to finally be doing something destructive, after being damn near destroyed before. The glass fell away with an all-encompassing shattering sound, horrid even to Grumbot’s hearing system. But it fell all the same, shards of glass lodged into the grass that would be their forever grave.

Grumbot wasn’t created to have legs, but he stood nonetheless with cobbled-together ones made of the builds of others. And when he stood, it felt weird, but good. He could see for thousands of blocks, with his head level to the clouds. And with his great vantage, he saw buildings and animals. Signs of life.

The first scrap of paper that made up Grumbot’s voice was caught by the wind. No one would ever read it, but it said “where are you?”. It would land, although Grumbot would never see it, just out of reach of a glassy-looking portal, battle-weary and unused.

Grumbot took his first steps, wires snapping and dirt exploding around him. He used heat sensors to look for life, features that had been installed so long ago by gentle hands and laughing, happy faces. Grumbot had those faces stored, names of people he knew loved his dads. Impulse. Scar. Cleo. Joe. Pearl. False. Jevin. Grumbot took step after step, every one a labor, searching the land below him with increasing desperation.

If anyone had been around to read the scraps of paper that Grumbot typed out desperately to an empty, unseeing world, they would have read things like

“Dads? Where are you?”

“Mumbo. I want Mumbo.”

But the world was cruel, the kingdoms empty save for blank-eyed villagers that hummed at him. No one could read, no one could hear him. He was alone in a world that couldn’t understand him. And so Grumbot went on, the scraps of paper that held his voice becoming more desperate, more disjointed, until his legs, and then arms, gave out, and Grumbot lay still, faded into the landscape of the empires smp, once more abandoned and alone in an empty, unseeing world. And just like his ancestor before him, left alone in a facade of a sunny day, he lay there forever, praying for someone to have the heart to come save him.

[korpuskat]

Engineering Ecstasy

[Ao3 Mirror] Pairing: Ramattra/Reader (Gender Neutral, implied to have a vagina) Rating: Explicit WC: 2,065 Warnings: None

-----

Surrounded by tools and screens and lights, Ramattra stands in his workshop and stares at the device before him. It floats softly on a light pad. Beside it, a screen shows off its blueprints, complete with a cut-away view, to show where each piece will lay, where the sensors are suspended, the indicator lights. It's rather a marvel, if he's truly being genuine- the design is custom, the inlaid nodes are all cutting edge, fast and sensitive and durable. Every aspect has been nurtured and guided into the form displayed before him.

And this is the lowest he has ever felt.

Because the appendage that floats before him is an imitation of a human cock. A mockery, even, intended in every way to be better, but perhaps... familiar enough to not be off-putting. He hopes.

It's shameful.

Making the thing itself is not the problem. Life was meant to be enjoyed, omnics were meant to explore and seek new experiences and integrate themselves among humanity- sex was a part of that. Even at the monastery it wasn't unusual for those omnics that had the hardware to use it- and to discuss the implications of having it to begin with. But he did not envy his brothers and sister who were made with genitals. Ramattra had never seen the appeal; all the ecstasy and release from sensory overload could be achieved without any attachments.

He had not understood the desire until you.

You and your laughter that plays endlessly in his memory banks, your soft, fleeting touches to his plating that tingle hours after, your kind words that pull his mind from the task at hand. He's itched endlessly to reach out and touch you, to know what it is about you that's made his processors hang, caught endlessly in the minutia of your existence. And how he wishes it was just simple fascination- he hates how quickly it turned to him prodding at his own sensory nodes, plucking wires in his hips and wishing it was your hands instead.

This- the purple silicone device in his hand- is only the latest fantasy he's indulged.

After all, what if he were to finally approach you and you were uninterested in toying with his systems? And even if you were, he wouldn't be able to please you at the same time-- he would not risk an unintentional twitch of his hands. This... this was just an investment in the future. He hadn't quite gathered your input on the design or shape or size-- or expressed his interest in you at all-- but he'd invested time to research popular shapes, ones well-received by humans. This... he's fairly sure will please you, if you let him- and if it isn't to your tastes, then he'll make it again and-

...

He should probably test it, before he gets ahead of himself.

He takes the cock in one hand and examines the ports, where it will connect to his frame. He squeezes it, feeling the firmness of the silicone. Honestly, he isn’t sure what density he was aiming for; it’s so much softer than his plating, he has no idea what would be ideal. Not just for what you want from him either; if the silicone's curing has somehow distorted a wire or dulled the sensors’ abilities, then the whole design will have to be scrapped.

Ramattra's hands shake as he disconnects the paneling at the end of his torso. Before, this little crevice had only housed a chip for monitoring the health of his hip joints. Now that was pushed further back towards his spine- with a minor upgrade to allow for more precise movements, smoother rotation of the joint- given the purpose of the device, it felt appropriate to make sure he could use it correctly. Where the chip had sat before is a new plate with two jack outputs.

They line up with the ports, at least. Ramattra allows himself one more moment of preparation before slotting them together. The circuits connect at once- and the buses inside are still working, aligning themselves with his systems, synchronizing, adjusting the pre-loaded drivers, running a self-check automatically. The internal display of his model updates- and another wave of shame nearly makes him pluck it off again as the cock- his cock- appears on the diagram.

The self-check concludes, the indicator lights flash green- muddied through the purple- then match his preset red. Every system reports back: ready, online. Between his legs his cock stands proudly. The translucent silicone glows where the red lights shine just under the surface.

He could leave it at that…

but he should test the sensors. After all, they all might be online, but they still might need adjustments. He has no idea if the silicone has disturbed their functionality at all. Hesitantly, as though the appendage would burn him, Ramattra touches the surface above one LED. It's smooth and cool to the touch. Something prickles in his sensory subroutines, the data input on his cock is so minuscule and yet so sensitive.

He wraps one finger and thumb around the base. Instantaneously, warmth spreads through his circuits, settles into those wires at his hips. He strokes upwards-

”Aaah…” The noise slides from his voice box unbidden, a kernel-level reaction to stimuli coming forth unintentionally. And Ramattra would make a note to investigate that, to minimize uncontrolled reactions- except that every process is overridden by the drag of silicone on metal, on the rubber pad of his palm, on how every wire in his body is lighting up.

One stroke and it’s like you’ve breathed on every sensor in his body. And you- how does his mind always wander back to you?- your hands would be so much smaller, softer- delicate, even. You would- he shudders, delves into fantasy- You would start so slowly, fingers barely touching him. His hand mimics his thoughts, loosening until there’s barely any pressure, stroking so slowly it hurts. Maybe you’d be nervous- it’s okay, he would be too.

And you- you would see how he’ll try to be still, to let you explore him, and you’d see how badly he needs more. You would be kind to him, wouldn't you? With those soft smiles, you wouldn't deny him. At least, in his fantasy. His grasp tightens again, thinks only of your little hands on his cock.

Each motion brings fire through his circuits, a haze to his mind. You… oh, you could do this to him as long as you wanted. Forever, maybe, if it always felt like he was burning from the inside out. Maybe... you would touch him elsewhere, too. Perhaps bracing yourself against his chest or shoulder, or exploring his ribbon cables or along his neck, down the sensitive, covered wires of his spine. He can almost feel you, your weight across his thighs, stroking with one hand and holding him close with the other- and he would hold you, splay his hands across your back and lean in closer to press his array to your forehead.

The thought alone has him shuddering, warmth spreading in his chest and-

and he needs more.

He would whisper to you, May I have you?, but even in his own mind he sounds desperate, aching.

It wouldn't matter, because you would say Yes, of course, I'm yours.

He groans aloud at the last one; yes, yes, he wants- he needs you. To have you, not just in physicality, but in every other way he can imagine. And he imagines much. Like how you'd move, how you'd reveal yourself to him. It isn't what lies beneath that excites him- it's you doing it at all, showing him what you hide from everyone else. Letting him explore you the same way, though he's not sure what you would feel like. Most of his experience with human skin and flesh is not what he wants to associate with you, so he skims this part of his fantasy until he's prodding between your thighs.

The internet has helped him visualize this part. He may not know what sensations you would provide him there, but he can picture your face when he slides into you. How your brow pinches, how your lips part- and you would be so wet for him-

and suddenly the drag of metal and rubber on silicone is not nearly enough. He needs- he needs to know how it would feel, that slickness you would surround him with. His workshop table provides an obvious option. A bottle of machine lubricant would be close enough- anything at all to sate the impulse. He pours the oil over his hands- and thinks of his fingers covered in your arousal instead.

When he strokes this time, there's hardly any friction at all. A smooth glide from root to tip has him throwing his head back, voice box crackling out another broken moan. All of that burning inside becomes liquid, waves of hot pleasure that crash over him with stunning ease. His hips twitch into his palm- and he lets the instinctive chase of desire take over, fucking into his fist with abandon.

He imagines you on top of him- and oh, he'd have to be so gentle with you, but he can't with himself now. He'd hold you, careful with his hands when his hips aren't. You'd cling to him, barely keeping yourself up as he fucks you- and he likes that, how you'd melt against him in pleasure. The pleasure he gives you. You would trust him with this, that he wouldn't harm you. And in turn, the moans he's heard in his research would be nothing compared to the noises from your lips. Would you be loud, quiet? Would you call his name- oh, yes- an overheat warning pops into his HUD, he likes that. How you'd sound saying his name, moaning it in broken tones, like his staticked voice as he pleases you until you-

his frame shudders as he strokes himself faster, imagines how your face would twist and pinch as you'd near your end with him. Would you tremble when you finished? And inside, what does it feel like in-

His ventilation falters, half his fans seizing as tips over the edge. Pleasure floods the same wires he used to manipulate, a white static rushing through every logic circuit, drowning out every thought as his body rushes to dump the excess sensory input. Heat surrounds him- literal heat, as his processors run and run with no coolant pumping. A droning noise fills his workshop- and it takes much too long for him to realize it's his own synth.

A pop-up tells his release vents have opened- a quiet hissing of steam and hot air rushing out somewhere. His fans resume their buzzing pace as he finally begins to cool off.

Ramattra falls back onto his workshop table and lays there, waiting for his systems to completely refresh- and enjoying the lingering tingles like sparks between wires. After only a few moments the high has passed, systems flushed and returned to working order. An automatic check returns ready, online across every parameter.

And Ramattra is left with his own cock once more standing proudly between his thighs. Perhaps that would be awkward for you, in the time afterwards.

Afterwards. When you're flushed and panting and curled up next to him- you would stay, wouldn't you? He's read humans need care once the activity itself has concluded. His refresh would mean he could tend to you in whatever way you needed; sustenance, contact (though, he would have to purchase pillows), perhaps he could clean you. A stray thought slips by, the image conjured before he can stop himself: What would you look like with...?

The shame returns, but Ramattra suspends the feeling and adds a note to the blueprints of his cock- should he make another, he'll add a fluid reservoir tank. It's practical, he argues. Self-lubrication would make this much easier.

With an internal tank he could leave his fluids on you- in you. Non-toxic- in case you wanted to... A prickle of stray electricity runs down his spine. His fist curls around the silicone again, still slick with oil. With the thought of your tongue peaking out to taste him, he can't stop himself from beginning to stroke again.

After all, another set of data would be very useful...

[wolven91]

Massacre of Xey Station

The canid flexed their foot, wiggling the toes and rolling their ankle as their knee rested over the other one.

The human watched with fascination. The canid wasn't the human's guardian, but this close to the edge of GC space meant that there was a permanent honour guard of canids that surrounded the vulptanis guardian and the human.

They were currently laying in the tall grass of the station orchid. They were in the surprisingly quiet 'Food sector' of the station. The walls were covered in perfectly manicured mushroom farms, whilst the tallest structures were layered greenhouses, each with sun lamps warming the vegetation that grew beneath them.

The orchid was Oscar's favourite place in the station. Not everyone was allowed in the food sector, certainly not to just sit under the trees here, but being an endangered species had its perks sometimes. The vulptanis, who was reviewing a data slate while he rested against a tree nearby had no worries or fears for the human here.

Ignoring that the canids were veterans, a whole pack who had survived their tour, if not in one piece, were now 'proving' themselves still capable by keeping the human alive. The human was in the secure food sector, surrounded by canids that had their honour and capability on the line. The vulptanis smirked at the idea of a greasy pirate trying something. Best of luck to them.

"That's so cool." Mumbled Oscar at the intricate display of the various pieces and parts working together seamlessly.

"So, the mechanical bit is the 'easy' bit." Growled the canid, a female and leader of the pack. She was laying next to the human while her pack were more on the periphery.

"It's the wet work inside that takes too long. They grow nerves into the metal, so I can wiggle a toe without any tendons or muscles telling the metal what to do." The 'not-quite-grumpy' solider explained while wiggling one toe.

"Does it hurt?" Asked the young man, concern in his voice. The leader smiled, feeling the warmth from the tiny thing.

"Nah. I didn't spring for fancy sensors beside pressure. I can tell when I have my foot on the floor, but not if I'm standing on something sharp." She explained with a shrug.

"How complicated can they get?" He asked, sitting up and looking at it from different angles as he observed the various tiny pistons and wires.

"Not much." She grumbled, obviously annoyed about something.

"Ah man, I'd get like jet boots or something. Fly about, y'know?" Oscar replied, missing her tone and speaking with a dreamier expression, imagining himself as a form of sci-fi Iron Man. The canid snorted at that, grinning widely at his enthusiasm, but shook her great mane as her shoulders sagged under the weight of reality.

"That's illegal." Piped up the vulptanis before frowning at something on his screen, tapping at it with a dull claw.

"Jet boots?" Asked the human, although the orange furred alien wasn't paying attention.

"Mm?" Mumbled the vulptanis absently, having not listened to the question so the canid answered the human instead.

"Theres's regulations." The canid began before ticking the aspects off on her fingers. "Can't be too advanced. Non-wartime mods can only provide the same kind of movement or abilities as your body could realistically do. No overt power sources, only passive improvements. Being lighter, faster, is fine. Concealed mechanics isn't."

"What? Why? Upgrade! It's the future!" Demanded the young man! How dare they curb his sudden plans for a flying suit of armour.

"Because of the Xuy Station Massacre." Put in the vulptanis again. "A canid went mad and began-" But his words were cut off by the canid, who sat up and draped her arms over her knees.

"You're telling it wrong." She stated plainly. The vulptanis's head snapped up and fixed her with a hard gaze that did nothing to her at all.

"Excuse you?" He demanded. The leader shrugged.

"You're telling it wrong." She repeated.

"Fine! You tell him." The guardian scoffed, once again focusing on his data slate and dismissing the others.

"Gladly." Growled the canid before turning to face the human, resting and hand against the ground and resting her biological leg on top of the mechanical one. She used her spare are to gesticulate as she spoke and Oscar gave her full attention, enraptured from the first word into her story.

"So! There was this canid, he got put on guard duty for these archaeologists. They're going to some black site, all hush hush. During the deployment, the whole team gets wiped! He's the only survivor and even then, he only survived on a miracle." The canid explained, gesturing at her own limbs to explain how cut up the one in the story was. "He lost all his limbs, shot over a hundred times-"

A snort from the vulptanis halted the story, but this just had the canid swing her head around to fix the lounging creature with a stare as she repeated herself pointedly.

"Over a hundred times. The folk who picked him up say the only reason they found him was because of his fury, wailing out into the stars."

Oscar leant forward and rested his head against his hands, listening without complaint or question. The canid sat up properly and leant in, lowering her voice so that the story was more intimate and personal.

"Anyway, he gets back to civilisation and gets his paycheque. Huge bonus, and he's let go from the corp, injured and all that. Fast forward a few months, he shows up at Xey Station."

Oscar blinked, unaware of the name, but the tone she used made him assume it was important or a station in a key position. Seemingly aware of the human's ignorance, the vulptanis piped up again.

"Xey Station is a station only one jump away from the GC ring world. It's important. It's where many of the leaders' extended families are." He supplied without much else. The canid gave him a glance, but also a shrug, seemingly agreeing with his description before turning back to Oscar.

"Yeah, that's a point, Xey isn't backwater like this place. Anyway, he shows up to Xey, but they don't know its him. He looks different, he doesn't look like a canid anymore." She explained with a wicked grin. For all the leader's blood lust and history of sanctioned violence, the human was discovering she was a fantastic storyteller.

"What did he look like?" Oscar asked, deliberately falling into her trap of baiting his curiosity.

"A powered down chintian battle mech." She stated in clear, pointed, concise, words.

"He plays dead while they ship him into the storage area, totally unaware he's a living breathing thing. That's when he goes to the Settlement Sector and starts laying waste to everybody!" She declares, her arms going wide in sweeping gestures as she spoke. The energy in her body and words got the human's heart beating faster as she went into graphic details.

"He's got mortars! He's got airbursts! He even had some jury-rigged energy dissipation field! This thing was home made and all just body mods that he adjusted. The scanners didn't pick them up as weapons because they were all marked and tagged as prosthetics!" She explained with a shocked tone.

"It was a dark day for the GC." Grumbled the vulptanis. The canid nodded, but still addressed Oscar.

"And he screwed everyone else who wanted something more than a replacement leg." Finished the canid, clicking her claws against her own metal leg.

"That's why you can't get fancier limbs?" The humans asked and the canid growled and nodded.

"Yeah, you kill a few thousand of the law-maker's nearest and dearest? They come down hard on the problem. Didn't want another massacre." She offered with a shrug. The group fell into a silence for a while before Oscar frowned and breathed in before pausing.

"What caused him to snap?"

The leader shuffled her head to fix the human with her gaze. She blinked; taken aback by the question she hadn't considered.

"Rumour was he saw something that broke his mind at the dig. No one really asked more than that." She explained with a frown before adding; "But, he was definitely the bad guy. The GC showed recordings of him during the assault; kept saying he wasn't 'made this way' and he's 'more than a tool'. "

"That's true?" The human asked, curious.

"Mm, saw the recordings myself. We all have. It's taught in school to kids. Not the killing, they blur that, but it's not hard to search it."

Oscar lay in the orchid for a while longer, contemplating what it was that had burned the canid's mind so severely.

[tinydefector]

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

Tailgate x human

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

Warnings: none

Word count 700

Tailgate masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

“Get back here!” he shouts out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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[sw5w]

I Can Assure You, They Will Never Get Me Onto One of Those Dreadful Starships

STAR WARS EPISODE I: The Phantom Menace 00:54:25