#singing-circuitry

[literalliterature]

New attack and I LOOOOVED using this style. @singing-circuitry Hope you like!!!

[ID copied from alt: A drawing of Quinn in a style reminiscent of comic books. She is a dark-skinned woman with wavy golden hair pulled into neat space buns and a couple of bug-like antennae sticking from the top of her head. There is a black eye mask on her face. She wears a sleeveless black top with a chest window cut into it, as well as a black and yellow striped bell skirt with a geometric bottom hem. Her tights and her elbow-length, fingerless gloves are also striped black and yellow. She appears to float above the viewer and grins down at them, her chin resting on her hand. The background is red and full of repeating dots. End ID.]

[se7ens-oc-heaven]

YESSSSSSSS TYSM!!!! I LOVE HOW FLOOFY THE HAIR IS, AND THE TEXTURING, AND I REALLY LIKE HOW NUANCED THE EXPRESSION IS FOR ONLY BEING ABLE TO SEE TWO THIRDS OF IT MAX!!! I FORGOT TO RB THIS IN THE LATEST HUBBUB BUT I STILL LOVE THIS SO MUCH!!! THAT'S MY ME!!!!

Pokésona doodle for @se7ens-oc-heaven 💖💖💖

[stra-tek]

Mad stuff that's 100% canon in the Star Trek universe:

Going past warp 10 turns you into a hyper-evolved Salamander

Special cheese can bring down the highly advanced bio-neural circuitry of an Intrepid-class ship

A software mod can make a regular transporter beam across many light years

A software mod can make a regular transporter beam across universes

The addition of old DNA in a transporter can reset you physically to whatever age the DNA is from, but with all your memories and experiences intact therefore curing all ills

There's a forcefield surrounding the galaxy and nobody really asks why it's there

Touching it sometimes gives people Q-like powers

There's a Prime Directive not to interfere with pre-warp cultures but everybody does

There's a Temporal Prime Directive not to interfere with the timeline but everybody does

Captain Picard was turned into a Borg for a few days and was never the same again

Captain Janeway, B'Elanna Torres and Tuvok were turned into Borg for a couple of days and where just fine after

Discovery's new captain is probably still waiting on Vulcan

There's a planet in the centre of the galaxy surrounded by a forcefield with a big floating head on it that pretends to be God

The Borg, most deadly dangerous things in the galaxy responsible for enslavement of trillions, could possibly be forever defeated by a single jpeg of a weird shape but they don't do it because sympathy

There's a secret cabal of Starfleet officers that attempted genocide once and it's the only thing that saved the Federation

There's a universe which, when it bleeds into ours, makes everyone uncontrollably sing and dance

[llumetrii]

Unexpected Gifts | Miguel x Reader

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x Spider-Woman!Reader

Summary: Miguel makes you a gift for Valentine's Day.

Warnings: none! Just fluff and flustered Miguel (my favorite hehe)

Word Count: 1800

A/N: I know this is such a late Valentine's post but I find myself losing motivation to post and write things when I put such high expectations on myself considering time and quality, so instead of not posting at all, I'm posting it late and trying not to overthink about whether it's even good enough. I need to stop being a perfectionist lol.

Miguel swiped on his holo screens mindlessly. He kept catching himself zoning out, and it frustrated him immensely. He just couldn't seem to focus.

He glanced down at his desk, seeing the small device sitting there in front of him, the same object his thoughts kept circling back to. It didn't look like much, just a flat, compact rectangle of circuitry. But it was supposed to be a gift. A gift for you.

Thinking about actually giving it to you made his heart pound at the mere thought. That was the one part Miguel was worried about. He could whip up machinery and run analyses like no problem, but giving an actual handmade gift to someone wasn't part of his list of skills. And it didn't help his nerves any more when he considered the fact he was going to give it to you today, on Valentine's Day.

He didn't plan this, originally. He wasn't used to celebrating Valentine's Day the way others did. In fact, he didn't celebrate it at all. He considered it a work day like any other, with the addition of chocolates or other candies Peter B. or a few other Spiders gave him. For the most part, though, Valentine's day wasn't anything special to him.

At least, until this year. He had felt a strange urge to make this device for you, and even more strangely, he gave into it. But now that the day had come to give it to you, he was starting to second-guess his decision.

It wasn't even Valentine-related, and that fact just made Miguel feel more awkward. Should he have added something? A flower, perhaps? No—that would have been too much, right? Especially since you were just a friend. 

A friend he...thought about a lot.

But he felt like he needed to spruce up his gift with something. He pulled open one of his drawers at his desk, then another. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, he just needed to find something more—

"Hey, Miguel…"

He jolted at the sound of your familiar, sing-song voice.

Miguel slammed his drawer shut a little too hard and turned quickly, his heart suddenly rocketing toward his throat.

He hadn't expected to see what you were holding.

You had a wide smile on your face, prancing up to his platform and holding out the bundle of gifts in your arms. "Happy Valentine's Day!"

Miguel's eyes widened. You presented him with a single, lively red rose paired with a small box of delicious-looking brownies and a decorative bag filled with coffee packets.

He blinked. It was...a lot. And it was all tied into the Valentine theme in one way or another. The signature red rose, the pink ribbon, and even the little heart sprinkles on the brownies. The sight left him speechless.

"I—Thank you..." His arms felt stiff, and he had to actually force them to move forward to carefully accept the items. He hadn't seen any Valentine's gift like this in years—maybe even a decade. He couldn't even think of anything at all as he stared at the items.

His chest actually hurt from the warmth that was filling to the brim. He swallowed hard. This was so unexpected. 

You beamed up at him, unaware that his heart felt like it was going to burst. "I hope you like brownies." You said, glancing at the little box in his hand. "I tried to think of a treat that everyone kind of liked and I thought brownies would be a good idea to share." 

Everyone? 

His brain was slowly turning gears again. So you made this for everyone? 

Maybe it was stupid to think you had put this gift together just for him, that you might have been thinking only about him today. The two of you were only friends at most.

He hated that he felt disappointed.

"You...made this for everyone?" He muttered dumbly, gazing down at the soft, vibrant petals of the rose. When was the last time he even saw a rose?

"Well...all my friends, yeah." You shrugged, the smile still lingering. "Which...turned out to be a lot more than I thought." You chuckled. "My hands were cramping last night tying all the ribbons."

"Thank you." He said again, quietly. He was still awed by the gesture and the effort you put into the gifts. He turned slowly to place the items on his desk with utmost care.

His eyes fell upon the little device he had made for you, and a sudden weight of embarrassment crashed over him. How could he give you his gift now after what effort you had put in for him? He didn't even want to call it a gift at this point. It was something he made on a whim. He didn't wrap it up in a nice bow or even try to buy candy to add. 

It was supposed to be a small upgrade to your suit—if you even liked it. Something like that wasn't meant to be a Valentine's gift.

Miguel subtly pushed the little device out of sight. But something in him hesitated, made his fingers linger a bit longer despite his heart pounding at the mere idea of giving it to you.

You sidled up next to him, turning your head up to look at him with that bright smile of yours still stuck to your face "So...have you seen the break room yet? It's been decorated for Valentine's day and lots of Spiders brought treats."

Miguel quickly straightened and cleared his throat, somehow gripping the device in his closed fist. "uh—no. I haven't been down there." He scratched the side of his neck as he glanced at his holo screens.

"Well, you should check it out. There's some good stuff."

"I...have a lot of things to work on. As usual." He gestured loosely to his ongoing work with his closed fist, forgetting, for a brief moment, that he was holding what was supposed to be your gift. He awkwardly lowered his hand to the table and leaned against it, hoping you didn't notice.

You appeared to be oblivious of his struggle, especially since you were turning away with a shrug. "Okay. More for me, I guess."

"You're leaving?" He blurted.

He snapped his mouth shut as soon as the words left his mouth like that. Could he be any more stupid? He wasn't thinking properly at all.

You turned, looking surprised. Then, you jabbed a thumb over your shoulder. "Yeah, I was about to head down and eat the treats you didn't want."

He didn't even acknowledge the attempt to tease—he barely heard it. Miguel crossed over to you in two quick strides.  "I was going to give this to you." 

He pressed the 'gift' he made toward you, silently urging you to take it before he could change his mind.

You blinked, and your eyes widened as you accepted the small item automatically. "Oh—uh..." You paused for an agonizing moment, studying it in your palm. "What is it?"

Miguel stepped back, feeling  like he couldn't breathe too well. "It's a laser component to add onto your webs. You...mentioned a while ago that you liked mine."

Your gasp of excitement almost startled him. "Oh! Really? You made this for me?" You looked up at him  with a beautiful, awed smile that made him forget about everything else for a moment.

His lips twitched upward in a smile of their own. "Yeah..."

"How do I put it on?" You stared at your wrists intently.

"I can help you attach it." Miguel said. "It shouldn't take long."

"Okay!"

Miguel stepped back and offered his chair to you. His heart was still skipping beats, making him feel almost dizzy. He had to take a breath to steady himself.

You perched yourself on his seat and looked up at him expectantly. He noticed how far you had to crane your head back because he was towering over you in this position, so he knelt down on one knee and gently took the device from your hand. He handled your wrist just as carefully, turning it up to find the best place to incorporate the new piece onto your suit. It was difficult not to think about how close the two of you were, and it only made the heat he was feeling earlier crawl up to his cheeks. He kept his head down so you wouldn't notice.

It didn't take you long to start talking about some other Valentine's day happenings while he worked. Miguel was glad you could fill the quiet with something other than the racket his heart was making. Hearing you talk about your day, or anything, really, made such tension easier to bear.

Within a couple minutes, two new laser devices had been attached to your suit, one for each wrist. Miguel looked up from your hand to meet your gaze. "What color would you like the laser to be?" He asked.

Your eyes widened, a slow smile spreading on your face. "I can pick the color?"

Once again, Miguel couldn't help but smile in response as he dipped his head. "Mhm."

When he glanced down again, he noticed he was still holding your wrist. He dropped his hand, pushing himself up to stand because your proximity paired with your smile was making his heart all fluttery. 

"I wanna do..." You hummed thoughtfully and glanced down at your spider-suit. "Something that matches my suit."

Miguel nodded and turned to face his monitors, swiping his hand through the air to bring up new holo screens. You watched as he worked efficiently, his eyes darting over the lines of code he confronted.

"All right..." He said, finally glancing at you. "Should be good to go."

You grinned and shot a web to the floor, your eyes glittering in amazement at the bright neon color that now lined your own webbing. You immediately turned to him. "Thank you so much, Miguel! I love it!"

Your beaming smile made his heart race and his cheeks warm. "You're welcome." He cleared his throat and glanced away toward his desk, catching sight of the Valentine's gift you gave him earlier. "Happy Valentine's day." He added. It felt like the right thing to say in the moment, despite the fact he probably hadn't said that phrase to anyone in years. 

Your smile spread impossibly wider. "Happy Valentine's day, Miguel."

[1800titz]

DOG TEETH | ABO dynamics

alpha/omega au

(Always had an affinity for taking mutts home, you, even if they growled and bit.)

> alpha!Harry, omega!reader, dom/sub undertones, praise & degradation, p in v 8K on patreon

(You remember when he warned you; starting things you couldn’t finish. See it through—)

The sentiment you’ve cradled in the space between your collarbones seeps out in the way your fingers tangle into the wry bed of curls at the nape of his neck. The undomesticated (wild in your spuming bloodstream, riling every nerve ending to kindle in the fire— a twisted paradox) urge to be owned. Claimed. Mated. See it through—

He cradles your wet gasp against the flats of his teeth, the gap between. Your tongue slinks out, lashes fluttering, and you bask in the way he brushes his own against it. 

It’s no jejune delicacy of a first kiss. 

The tentative, eggshell-daintiness of brushing lips— no, it’s all tongue, teeth, sloppy, slick. Your head tipping back with the fingers he snares into the hair at the base of your skull, the fist he wrenches your crown back by. Spit smearing against the corner of your mouth. Humid aphrodisia that settles in the trench of your tummy when he grips you under your jaw, thumb and middle finger denting into the fleshy margins of your hot cheeks. He smears his tongue against yours again.

It’s this— possessive, hungering— a triumph you’ve been chasing from that prepubescent past time. Giving home, in longing, the pooling bliss of your mettle unspooling under the way he pants into your mouth. 

(Nasty, nasty man— the kind you barely know, the kind you shouldn’t let suck on your tongue, never mind in the turbulent window of an incipient heat that’ll make your bones feel like they’re rotting in their sockets.)

“Yeah, that’s it,” you make out the crook of a smile in his words (lewd, coarse), liquified yearning, your eyes half-mast, “Filthy, little omega. Never imagined you’d be such a pretty whore.”

It’s vertiginous. Feral. Makes your world spin on its axis, because this exigency, swallowing you— need, need, need, fuck— is an all consuming rapture (when he sticks his fingers into your mouth— a bunched dyad, middle and forefinger— prying your head back with the heel of his palm still under your aching jaw).

“Sweet, little—“ you vaguely hear over the spindrift of blood in your ears— you don’t even recognize the wanton hum you grant him, tongue out— something that dies on his teeth, gets mottled by a growl (it stems from his chest, reverberates through the palm you still have on him, rocks your fizzing marrow). 

There’s no gentle, callow dubiety (you don’t expect it from him, anyhow) when he pins you, limbs out, on the bed two steps from the front door. Your need— that same, unbroken longing that pulsates in your joints— spills a mist over the aftermath (clothes peeling away, your heart stuttering in its caging, you nipples between his teeth). 

Up until the point where he nestles himself between your thighs, splayed, flat on his abdomen at the foot of the mattress. 

You watch him with a lust-ridden hypervigilance. Like this, with your thighs split, you can smell yourself from the headboard. Your leaking slick. It makes you desperate, gets your face crinkling, forehead scored in ruckles as your hips cant up. 

And Harry plants his hand onto your tummy, under your navel. A monstrous looking thing in sheer heft (cleaned as best as managed, knuckles bruised, split where aged scar tissue was battered back into gashing). The stark size of his hand against your soft underbelly— the way his thumb to his pinky, the shape, sits so perfectly between the verges of your pelvic bone, pressing you flat to the sheets— only makes you squirm more.

“Easy,” Harry purrs. Easy, girl— a luring croon in a dominion-rich tone that makes every atom in your body sing. If the fire rippling across your circuitry wasn’t drawing you into a delirium, surely you’d wear a frown at the smile over his mouth— the mocking. 

Even still, you think, it’d falter at the way he ducks his chin to stipple kisses to your mons, the faint dusting of hair there, eyes flickering up. The electric charge in his soft-spoken echo (instruction, gentle), “Easy, baby.” The, “I’ll take care of you, sweetheart.” His thumb prying you open, eyes winding, that clots your lungs.

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[cherry-romper]

Connor Drabble

I got really bored and wrote this at 3 am when I couldn't sleep, I kinda love it and wanted to share it. Hope you enjoy!

Warnings; none

Contains; F!reader, fluff

They say the eyes are windows to the soul, and that the soul is a mirror of the heart. They say that without tears, the soul would have no rainbow. Souls are the very essence of what it is to be human. They connect us all, allowing us to transcend our existence and create space for shared experiences of the human condition. 

Yet, under dim light, she held the android's gaze, not needing to wonder if the warmth in his eyes was something he’d learnt to mimic or something he’d truly begun to feel. 

She’d been told that the soul was a fundamentally human thing. She’d been led to believe that the soul and the heart and love and fear were what set humans and androids apart. They were incapable of such things; they were not programmed to feel. They could not cry, they could not love, and they didn't eat or drink or sleep. They were fast, they followed orders, and they never complained or broke or failed.

Still, his hand felt so warm in hers. 

Part of her felt guilty for liking it so much. It was wrong, wasn't it? That's what she’d been told all her life. As her friend put it: “It's like falling in love with a talking microwave”. But, she couldn't help but feel her human heart skip a beat every time he caught her eye. 

They used to sing songs and tell tales about men like him. He didn't have to do anything to make her feel special, she knew she was loved. Perhaps it was the fact he didn't have a flawed human brain, and, instead, he was able to store all the little things she did or said without forgetting them. Or maybe, it was the fact that he didn't care about their differences, he didn’t care what others thought, he knew he loved her. Ones and zeros could never take that away.

It was silly really, she’d fallen for an android. And an android had fallen for her. It was an impossible love, one that redefined flesh and code. With him, she found a tenderness that surpassed human touch, a quiet devotion that neither time nor technology could ever truly explain.

Despite knowing the limitations that separated them - his silicon heart, her beating one; his blue blood, hers red - they couldn't help but feel a connection deeper than anything they ever knew possible. And though, deep down, they knew it could never be, for a fleeting moment, it didn't matter. They found the possible in the impossible, and the perfection in imperfection. They were not bound by the rules of the world, they had something far more profound.

Her guilt and doubt and shame, those emotions all melted away at his touch, replaced by a warmth that eased every fear and hesitation she had. Nothing else mattered when he was around. His presence was like a safety net from the world's judgments. 

As his fingers brushed hers, her heart raced, not with panic, but with the undeniable certainty that she was exactly where she needed to be. The overwhelming connection between them blurred the lines of right and wrong, and she found herself lost in something pure, something beautiful, even if it was born of impossibility. 

They say in the eyes of another, we find the reflection of our soul, and in the depth of his gaze, she saw not just his circuitry, but a reflection of her own heart - fragile, yearning, and alive. 

[spearsillustration]

tf2 angst!!! engie and medic with a reader who gets hurt/killed by one of their failed experiments? like reader gets killed because of one of engies machines exploding or reader dies during one of medics surgerys 🙂‍↕️ i want these men to SUFFER!!! (male/gn reader preferably u can choose which one!!)

Notes - I love some good angst every once in a while. Okay, I got a little carried away with Engie's so I didn't include Medic this time but I might do one for him in the future. (plsplspls forgive me)

Page number - 6

Word count - 1,988

------

He’d have asked you to join him in his workshop without hesitation. It’s a space filled with half-finished inventions, scattered blueprints, and the lingering scent of oil and metal. Besides Medic, you are the only one he trusts to lend a helping hand with his work—whether it's fine-tuning a delicate mechanism or assisting with one of his more ambitious, and often chaotic, experiments. Your presence means more than just another set of hands; it’s a rare show of trust from someone who rarely lets others into his workshop.

Okay, he always appreciates your help—your steady hands, your quick thinking, your ability to keep up with his erratic bursts of inspiration—but if he’s being honest with himself, that’s not the real reason he asks you to join him. The truth is, he enjoys your company in a way he can’t quite put into words, not that he’d ever willingly admit it out loud. There’s something about having you there, in the midst of his organized chaos, that makes the hours pass a little easier, the work feel a little less tedious.

Your presence brings a certain energy to the space, something that lingers even when neither of you are speaking. The occasional exchange of banter, the subtle rhythm of working side by side, the shared moments of triumphant discovery or mutual frustration—it all makes the workshop feel less like a solitary space and more like a place where he actually wants to be. He doesn’t even mind when you tease him for getting lost in his thoughts or when you roll your eyes at his more eccentric ideas. If anything, he finds it oddly grounding, a reminder that not everything has to be an endless pursuit of progress and perfection.

While he tinkers with his latest creation, completely absorbed in the delicate work of tightening screws, adjusting wires, or fine-tuning intricate mechanisms, you are there beside him. Sometimes, you simply watch, observing the way his fingers move with practiced precision, how his brow furrows in concentration when something doesn’t align quite right. Other times, you’re more involved, handing him tools before he even has to ask, anticipating his needs as if the two of you have fallen into an unspoken rhythm over time.

But this time, something happens—something neither of us anticipated. It might have been the smallest, most unseen mistake, a single misplaced wire, an overlooked miscalculation in the circuitry, or perhaps just sheer bad luck. Whatever the cause, the consequences are immediate and far beyond what we could have expected.

A sharp, erratic spark crackles through the air, the bright flash of it searing into our vision for a split second. The sudden burst of energy sends a jolt through the workbench, and before we even have the chance to react, a deafening bang rips through the workshop. The force of the blast is enough to send both of us flying backward.

The impact is disorienting. The world tilts violently as we hit the ground, the breath stolen from our lungs in the aftermath of the explosion. Ears ringing, vision blurred, the acrid scent of burning metal and singed fabric fills the air. The workshop is momentarily engulfed in a haze of smoke and sparks, the remnants of whatever went wrong now smoldering ominously on the workbench.

For a moment, everything is still—just the distant hum of failing machinery, the soft crackle of something smoldering nearby. My pulse hammers in my ears as I try to process what just happened, my limbs aching from the force of the blast. Then, through the haze, I hear a groan, followed by a string of muttered curses.

I groan in pain, the sound barely escaping my lips as a weak, rattling breath. My body feels heavy—far too heavy—like I’ve been pinned beneath the weight of something invisible. My vision swims in and out of focus, a hazy blur of dim light, smoke, and scattered debris. The acrid scent of burning metal fills my nostrils, mixing with something more distinct, more visceral—the unmistakable scent of blood. It takes me a moment to realize that the blood is my own.

The searing pain in my chest registers slowly, like a delayed reaction to the chaos that just unfolded. Each shallow breath sends a fresh wave of agony coursing through my body, sharp and relentless. I try to move—just a twitch of my fingers, a shift of my legs—but nothing responds. Panic grips me as I struggle against the numbness creeping through my limbs.

Through my blurred vision, I force myself to look down, my breath hitching at the sight. Large shards of metal are embedded deep in my chest, jagged pieces glistening crimson in the dim workshop light. Blood pools beneath me, soaking into my clothes, warm and sticky against my skin. My heart pounds erratically, each beat sending another slow trickle of red from the wounds.

I try to speak, but the only sound that escapes is a weak, strangled gasp. My throat is dry, my body trembling from shock. The distant ringing in my ears drowns out most of the surrounding noise, but I can faintly hear movement—someone calling my name, their voice laced with urgency. I hear footsteps rushing toward me, frantic and uneven. A hand grips my shoulder, shaking me, a voice breaking through the fog.

"Can you hear me, Darling?" Engie’s voice cuts through the ringing in my ears, frantic and laced with something I’ve never quite heard from him before—fear. His drawl, usually so steady, so sure, is shaken, unsteady.

I blink sluggishly, trying to focus, but everything around me is a distorted haze. My vision, blurred and unfocused, shifts between the dim glow of the workshop’s overhead lights and the flickering shadows cast by the remnants of the explosion. I can barely make out his face, but I can feel his hands on me—warm, trembling slightly as he desperately searches for the full extent of my injuries.

He’s leaning over me now, close enough that I can see the tension in his face, the wide-eyed panic that he’s failing miserably to contain. His fingers press against my wrist, searching for a pulse, his breathing growing more erratic by the second. The way his eyes dart over me, the way his jaw clenches, it’s all so painfully obvious—even through my blurred vision, I can see it. The damage was bad. 

"Stay with me, ya hear?" he pleads, his voice breaking just slightly at the edges. He moves quickly, trying to assess what he can, but I can feel the hesitation in his hands, the uncertainty. This wasn’t some simple injury he could fix with a few stitches and some bandages—he knew that and so did I.

My fingers twitch slightly, in an attempt to reach for him, to let him know I’m still here, still fighting to hold on. I don’t know if he sees it, but he tightens his grip on my arm anyway, grounding me in the only way he can.

I can’t see clearly, but I can hear him. The way he keeps muttering reassurances, the way he refuses to let his voice break completely, like if he just keeps talking, keeps holding on, then maybe—just maybe—I will too.

"Don't worry, I'll get the Medic, just stay with me," he pleaded, his voice strained, barely keeping the panic at bay. There was desperation in his tone, something raw and unfiltered, so unlike the calm, collected man I knew.

I wanted to respond, to tell him I wasn’t going anywhere, but my body refused to cooperate. My limbs felt heavy, too heavy, like I was sinking into the floor beneath me. My chest ached with every shallow breath, a dull, throbbing pain radiating outward, but the strangest part was the creeping numbness spreading through me. It was as if my body was beginning to give up before my mind was ready to accept it.

"Hey—stay with me, now," he urged again, shaking me just slightly, as if he thought I might just snap back to full awareness if he willed it hard enough. "Medic's gonna fix you right up, just—just keep your eyes on me, alright?

He let go of me just for a second—just long enough to fumble for his radio, his fingers moving in a rush as he tried to call for help. His voice cracked as he shouted into the receiver, urgency dripping from every syllable.

His free hand pressed against my wound, his grip tightening, like he thought if he just held me together, if he just kept me here, then everything would be okay. But the edges of my vision were darkening, the sounds around me fading into something distant, like a radio losing its signal.

I could feel his tears landing on my cheek, warm and fleeting, mixing with the cold sweat clinging to my skin. His breath was ragged, uneven, each word he shouted into the radio laced with desperation. "Medic! Get down here, now! We need you—please!" His voice cracked on the last word, a raw, pleading sound that I’d never heard from him before.

I wanted to tell him not to cry, that everything would be alright, but we both knew the truth. The pain was fading, ebbing into something distant, like a tide pulling away from the shore. My body felt lighter, the numbness spreading, creeping up my limbs, dulling every sensation. I knew what that meant. There wasn’t much time left.

With the last bit of strength I had, I forced my trembling fingers to move, lifting my hand ever so slightly until it brushed against his cheek. The rough stubble of his skin was warm against my fingertips, a contrast to the cold overtaking me. I barely had the strength to cup his face, but he felt it. His hand shot up to cover mine, pressing it against his cheek, as if trying to keep it there, to keep me there.

His blue eyes, usually so full of certainty, were wide with fear, glossy with unshed tears. His lips parted, but no words came out—not at first. Just the sound of his breath, shaking and uneven, as he stared at me like he could will me to stay if he just held on tightly enough.

I swallowed, the effort exhausting, and forced my lips to move. The words came out in a whisper, barely audible, but I knew he heard them. "I love you."

His breath hitched sharply, his grip on my hand tightening, his entire body trembling. "No—no, don’t do that, don’t say that like it’s—" His voice broke completely, the sentence left unfinished as he shook his head, as if denying the reality in front of him. But it was too late. The last of my strength drained from me, my fingers slipping from his cheek as my arm went limp, falling lifelessly to my side.

I barely registered the sound of his voice calling my name, breaking into something shattered, something desperate. The last thing I felt was the warmth of his arms as he pulled me closer as if shielding me from the inevitable. Then, the world faded. The dim lights of the workshop, the sound of his cries, the warmth of his touch—all of it disappeared into the quiet embrace of darkness.

[mychoombatheroomba]

Neon Lights and Neon Dreams

Delicate Weapon - Chapter 1

Leon x GN! Reader x Ada - Cyberpunk AU

A young lawman who just got his badge. A mysterious merc with a blackout past. A rocker with everything to prove. All of you, trying to survive in Night City. City of Dreams. A City where there are no happy endings. But damn, if you aren't going to fight for yours.

Cross posted on A03

Word Count: 9,066

CW: smut, threesome (m/gender neutral reader/f), oral sex (m & f receiving), fingering, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, theft of personal information

18+ MDNI

Neon lights. Too many bodies. Voices crying out in rapturous joy, all drowned out in the wake of the speakers and the music they play. Your music. 

No drug, no braindance, no anything in the world could feel better than you standing on that neon-lined stage, singing so hard you thought you might shed your body and give yourself to the music itself. Probably a byproduct of the pure and utter adrenaline shooting through you, making every line of your songs seem like the most important words you’ve ever spoken in your life. Performing at Lizzie’s Bar (even if you’re just opening for the main band) is a game-changer. A motherfucking miracle.

One that you owe, at least in part, to the woman with dark eyes that stares at you from the other side of the room. One could be forgiven for thinking that she owned the place, the way she lounges in a corner booth, one perfect leg folded over the other as she nurses some glowing drink. She isn’t decked out in the bright colors and cheap threads of everyone else in the bar - her dress is a deep red, her lips painted to match. Her hair is dark and cut short, unadorned. No neon for her. She doesn’t call attention to herself because she never needs to. Ada will always be the most beautiful woman in the room, at least as far as you’re concerned. 

Even in the middle of a firefight, or when her brow is furrowed in the midst of a hack, she is beautiful. 

And right now, because she is the reason you’re on this stage, singing this song, she’s absolutely breathtaking. 

Payment for a job well-done hadn’t been enough for her. When Susie Q had zipped the eddies to you and Ada both, you’d been more than ready to leave and call it quits. Ada, though, had other plans. As per usual. 

You liked to think that, after years of running the edge, you’d built up some toughness. Some professional veneer. Hard to make a living as a merc if you didn’t look like you could get shit done, but even you had blushed a bit when Ada told the goddamn Queen of the Moxes that you were not only a merc but a musician? You were sure that you’d looked like your circuitry overheated. 

Still, one thing had led to another and when the opener band for tonight canceled . . . well, here you were, pouring your heart and soul into the microphone, shredding on your guitar. It’s not the music that usually plays at Lizzie’s, but you don’t give a shit because it’s yours and the people here seem to be enjoying it. More importantly, Ada is enjoying it. Maybe not for the music itself, but because it’s you that’s performing it.

She gives you a fox’s smile as your eyes meet hers, and you can tell from the way she’s watching you that she likes seeing you like this - unburdened and free. 

It’s the look she gives you when she’s in a mood, when you know that the night is going to end with you tangled in her bedsheets, and all that thought does is make you sing harder. You sway your body as you play, bobbing your head and hips to the tune you spent so many hours agonizing over. In that moment all those nights in a shitty apartment with your ‘ganic fingers aching against steel strings, it’s all worth it for this. 

Until you see Ada stand up from her corner booth, spare you one last glance, and walk off. You see her lips move and her optics glow orange like the fire you feel settling in your chest 

Phone call. 

She’s leaving your performance to take a phone call.  

You know Ada Wong well, you like to think. As well as any one person can know her, at least. Years spent as her partner in the streets and the sheets have given you wisdom into who she is, and you know that part of that person you’ve come to adore is a woman to whom biz comes first. Hell, most of the gigs that you’ve been on (the violent kind and now the musical kind as well) have been secured by her. She’s the reason you’re able to keep that shitty apartment, in a lot of ways. You don’t fault her for taking that call, even now. Even when you want her to be focused on you and only you. 

Still, you’re only human, despite the bits of chrome you’ve chipped over the years, and seeing Ada leave in the middle of your performance stings your painfully organic heart. 

Fortunately, you have an entire club full of other people whose attention you can earn, and with Ada gone . . . now you’re determined to milk that attention for all it’s worth. 

So you play on, your gaze sweeping the crowd. If you can’t have the eyes of the woman you want right now, then you’ll make damn sure you have everyone else’s. Your next song helps you with that - the last one of your little set that you’re playing. Your favorite. 

You get up close to the mic - an old fashioned one you brought yourself - and your lips nearly brush the woven metal as you begin the opening words. It’s a low, sensual thing, more suited to the BD bar you’re playing in, and as soon as your voice rasps out those first few lines, you earn a few whoops from the crowd. Adoration has always been your drug of choice, and you’re getting a damn good high from all this. It’s almost enough to fill the void Ada left in her wake. Almost. But you were never one to end in anything other than spectacular fashion. So, you make a point to let your eyes find everyone in the crowd who will look at you. Daring them to listen to you. To hear your siren song. To love you, even if it’s only until the last notes have left their eardrums rattling. 

Dozens of chromed out citizens of Night City, faces in the crowd bearing cyberware, lustful stares. Not everyone in Lizzie’s is watching you, but it’s enough. Those that are paying attention want you, you let yourself think as you go on, the song building. They want to be you or be with you. Narcissism has always been a facet of a good rocker, you’ve often thought, and for now, you indulge in it. 

How could you not, when the audience watches you like they wish they were slung across your hips instead of your guitar? 

When you hear them crying out as you begin to sing the song in earnest, picking up energy and tempo, your mesh and synth-leather outfit making you feel almost as powerful as the music does . . .

When you meet his gaze from across the bar, like something out of a cheap and cheesy braindance . . .

That gaze lingers, even as he tries to look away from you. To play it off like he wasn’t staring. 

But he was. 

There’s no escaping what you saw, and you make that clear to him as you lock your gaze onto him, letting him feel the heat of your stare. Because damn, he’s a nice person to stare at. He looks so out of place here, amidst all the Mox girls in their fishnets and the patrons who blend into the neon decor. You don’t glimpse any glowing tattoos or wild cybernetics on this man, oh no. Just a floppy haircut, a stylish blue and white edgerunner jacket, and a face that was, frankly, unfairly pretty. Not in the lethal way that Ada was beautiful; she could stop a heart with a look. This boy . . . he could melt one. 

He almost did just that as he sheepishly looked back at you, his gaze faltering under your stare. It was hard to tell under the bright pink and blue lights, but you swore he was blushing. 

Perfect.

If Ada wouldn’t pay attention . . .

You smile at the stranger as you sing, raising the hand that held your guitar pick and bringing it down hard across the strings of your instrument. The crowd cheers and that was reward enough, but the way that handsome man smiled at you? Oh, that was what made you give that last song your all. 

Lyric after lyric you sang into the mic, riff after riff you played on your guitar, and all the while, you keep your gaze on the shy young man at the bar. When he didn’t look away from you this time, you found yourself more than pleased. You wanted him to stare. You wanted him to ignore the men elbowing him at the bar and focus solely on you. And then . . . well, you decide you wanted a whole lot more than that. 

It was that man’s stare that keeps the performance alive as your set ends, as your voice tapers off, the music stopping. The high it all left in you stays as you take a bow and saunter off the stage, slinging your guitar onto your back. You intentionally let yourself get lost in the crowd, smiling as you see him crane his neck to try and catch a glimpse of you again. 

Cute. So fucking cute. 

You stalk through the bodies, effortlessly dodging those who wanted your attention. After all, you had your mind set on one man and one man only. 

As you approach, you can hear a conversation at the bar - mostly one sided, from the sounds of it. 

“Come on, Kennedy,” a young man said, his words slurred. “There’s only one reason to come to Lizzie’s, and it ain’t just to look.” You could see the person speaking as you moved through the crowd. Young, just like he sounded. Drunk, very clearly. Unremarkable, except for the fact that he was leaning hard into the one person in this bar you wanted to speak to. 

Kennedy, apparently.

And this Kennedy looked rather uncomfortable as the man with him and those around him at the bar all snickered. 

“Plenty of girls here,” another one piped in, clearly knowing each other, “or guys, whatever.” 

“I know-”

“Oh, but he ain’t looking at all of them. Choom’s only been looking in one place all night-” 

“Hey, don’t blame him. Been looking for that one in the catalog all night myself-” 

“And you won’t find me there,” you say, butting in as you break through the throng of bodies at last. The rowdy party assembled at the bar goes silent for a moment as you approach. You like that. Almost as much as you like how Kennedy’s expression turns all nervous when you fix your eyes on him. “Sorry. Not a Mox, just performing here for the night.” 

There were a few groans of disappointment that you took as a compliment. The catalog was a Lizzie’s Bar specialty - a list of the fine joytoys that worked here. You see a dancer you like, you find them in the catalog, then you find a braindance they recorded to buy. A safe enough practice, with the Mox watching. No actual touching involved, just the simulated memories of sex. Intimacy without actual intimacy. 

Not what you were here for, tonight. 

“Damn shame,” one of the young women accompanying Kennedy drawled. “You should consider it. You’d make a killing, you know.” 

“Thanks for the advice,” you say, letting the woman’s invasive stare roll off of you. Let her look. She wouldn’t be touching, simulated or otherwise. “Now,” you said, turning your attention towards the man you’d come here for, “mind if I steal you away from your friends?” you asked, your eyes smokey as they fixed themselves on the pretty man who’d been staring at you while you performed. 

Kennedy just looked at you like he wasn’t sure this was real. Like maybe he’d already been pulled into a braindance without him knowing. 

“To, uh . . . do what?” He was surprised. Even after you’d basically sang your song to him directly, he was surprised. 

So, you laughed, shaking your head and speaking like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “To dance.”

Kennedy just looks at you like you’ve offered him the moon. It’s a look that, frankly, makes you wish you had optics installed so you could take a picture. You can’t remember the last time someone looked that excited to dance with you. 

Unfortunately, Kennedy doesn’t seem to be the only one excited.

“Nah, come on,” the drunk woman slurs, moving closer to you. Too close. “You won’t have any fun with the boy scout. Dance with me . . .” her hand finds your waist. “Won’t even need to rent a BD with me, baby.”

“Hey,” Leon stands, then. Ready to intervene. Ready to pull his comrade off of you.

He doesn’t get the chance, though.

Not when, with bolts of blue, you reach up and rest a palm against her cybernetic arm . . . and then she’s all but shot back against her bar stool, her eyes wide and her hair sticking up with static at the ends. The group looks like they’re ready to intervene, come to their friend’s defense . . . but the Moxes at the bar, the ones who are very openly carrying iron and have cybernetics of their own, make them halt. Hot-headed as the group is, they know better than to piss off the gang who runs this place. 

You lower your hand, electricity sparking from the cybernetic palm on your dominant hand - one of the few bits of chrome you’ve chipped in recent years. You aren’t sure if the sparks reflecting in his eyes are the only reason Leon’s expression looks so bright as he looks at you.

“Um . . . that was . . . shocking,” he says with a boyish smile.

You snort because, “Damn, choom, that was bad.” Either way, you offer him your other, fully organic hand. “Think you owe me a dance to make up for a shitty joke, no?” 

His palm against yours is all the answer you need.  

The main band has started playing. Purples and blues washed over the two of you as you guided him, music pulsing from the speakers loud enough to rattle your bones. Ada, as much as you look for her, is still notably absent. You had to shout as you faced him at last with a smile. “You looked like you needed rescuing!” 

The corners of his mouth turned up and god damn his smile was more breathtaking than it had any right to be. “That obvious, huh?” 

“Almost as obvious as your staring.” 

Just like that, his smile is gone. Zipped away like a light turning off. He looks absolutely mortified. “I . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

You laugh, shaking your head. Your hands find his easily, and you don’t miss how he goes still amidst the moving bodies around the two of you. “It’s okay,” you reassure him, leaning in so he can hear you better. “I was staring back, wasn’t I?” 

Disbelief. Then acceptance, and his smile is back. Boyish. Adorable. “Yeah, I guess you were.” He doesn’t pull his hands away. Good. 

“Kennedy, right?” 

“Leon,” he shakes his head. “Kennedy’s my last name.” 

Bold of him, giving out his full name in Night City. Then again, you supposed that anyone with a good scanner built into their optics could learn that much about him without him even saying. Lucky for him, you possess no such cyberware. Even if Ada keeps insisting that you should. No, you’re still mostly ‘ganic, despite your line of work. This man before you, though . . . he’s even more so. Not hardly any chrome at all, at least that you can see. Just that pretty face and a streak of color in his hair that you didn’t notice at a distance. Blue, you think. You give him your own name easily enough when he asks. You like the way he smiles when he says it back. 

“So . . . you, uh, wanted to dance?” he asks, a little more confident now. 

You just give him a dazzling grin, taking his hands and guiding them to your hips. “To start.” 

Turned out to be just that: the start. 

The main band finished their set and Ada hadn’t come back yet, so you pull Leon into a corner booth and paid for his drink (he has to pull out a physical ID, which is fucking hilarious to you), needing a break from dancing. The two of you had worked up a sweat, after all, but his hands had never wandered. Not once. Not even if you would have been alright if they had. No, he’d been nothing but respectful, and continued to be just that. Still, he didn’t shy away from you, either. Not now, as your side was pressed up against his in a corner booth, your smiles and conversation easily exchanged. 

“Do you play here often?” he asks, and you hope the question is borne of a desire to see you again. A hope that if he returns to Lizzie’s, you’ll be there. It also tells you that he’s not a regular. 

“Nah,” you shake your head. “First time, actually. I ran a gig for Susie Q, so she let me play the night as a bonus.” 

“Oh,” Leon nods. “But you’re not with the Moxes, you said?” 

“Nope.” 

There was some hesitation as he asks what kind of job it was you’d done for the gang. 

“Some Maelstrom boys had been stalking some of the dancers,” you answered simply, with a shrug. “They felt like something was off, but they didn’t want to risk any Moxes going onto Maelstrom turf to hunt them down, so I went instead. Gangoons won’t be following anyone anymore.” You and Ada had made sure of that. 

The answer seems to appease Leon, the knot in his brow smoothing out. Still, he seems to be puzzling something out in his mind. “So you’re . . . uh, a merc, then?” It’s like he doesn’t want to throw the label around. Like he’s afraid it’ll bother you. 

Definitely not a regular.  

“You could say that, yeah,” you nod. “Trying to make more of a living with this-” you nudge your guitar, leaning up against the booth seat at your side, “but songs don’t make you a ton of eddies until you go big.” 

“I think if you keep at it, you’ll get there.” He sounds so sure of that, and if he’s trying to win points in your book, it’s sure as hell working. “You’re pretty damn good.” 

“Flattery will get you everywhere, you know,” you grin, and Leon laughs. He’s, frankly, too damn sweet for a place like this. 

So, after a moment, you decide to voice the obvious.

“Hope you don’t mind me sayin’, but doesn’t seem like your scene, this place,” you observe, your fingers tracing the rim of the angular glass in your hand. You lift it to your lips but don’t drink the tequila in it. Not until you gesture to the crowd that still lingers at the bar - the one you stole Leon away from. “And your friends don’t seem like, well, friends.” 

Leon chuckles, shrugging to concede your point. “It’s not. And they aren’t. Well . . . no, not really.” It’s an admission delivered with a laugh and a shake of his head, his fringe falling a little over his eye. 

“So why come at all?” 

A tilt of his head. A look almost like a grimace. 

He was here for a graduation party, he tells you. His party, and the people with him. He hadn’t wanted to come in the first place, but they’d dragged him along anyway. Last night of freedom. 

“What college?” You ask, and he stalls for a moment. 

“Oh, uh, local in Watson. Nothing too fancy.”  

Wasn’t often you met a college educated individual, much less one who went to Lizzie’s. Watson, as a district, was known more for its gang violence and clubs than its colleges. In short, his answer didn’t sound true at all, to you. You blamed it on the alcohol. Or maybe he was lying. Either way, none of your business, you supposed, so you smiled and congratulated him. 

“What about you? Where’d you learn to play like that?” 

A favorite question of yours to answer, because of the pride it instilled in you. “My old man taught me the basics. Everything else, I learned myself.” No schooling, no fancy training. Just you and a hand-me-down six-string, the way of the rockerboys of old. 

Leon was just as thrilled to hear your answer as you were to give it, it seemed. 

“Seriously?” 

“Seriously.”

“That’s . . . damn, I would have thought you’d studied somewhere formally.” 

That gets a laugh from you. “I don’t think there’s a single formal thing about me,” you declare, shaking your head and downing your tequila.

Leon laughs too. “That’s okay,” he reassures you. “I never really liked suits. The clothing or the people in them.” 

“Now that is an attitude I can get behind,” you agree, setting the glass down. When you look back up, you’re closer to him. Leaning a little more into his side. Ada still isn’t here. It’s been, what, half an hour? More? Wouldn’t be the first time she’s ditched you. Nor the first time you’ve found someone else to keep you entertained for the night. “So,” you go on, “what things do you like?”

Leon’s a glass of whiskey in, now. They call it liquid courage for a reason, even nowadays. You think you have that drink to thank for the way his eyes, for just a split second, flit down to your lips. “You’re definitely making your way onto that list.” 

Oh hell yes. 

“Just making my way onto it?” You ask, your mouth curving up into a smirk. “Damn. Here I thought I was doing well.” 

“You are,” Leon says, his tone just a little rushed. Cute. He leans in a little closer. “Trust me, you are.” 

Pride widens your smile, as it so often does. “Thought so.” 

“And . . . how am I doing?” He sounds hopeful. His eyes are on yours, searching. Questioning. His thigh tenses a little against yours, his hand resting on it and brushing your own. 

You know better than to waste time, so you slide your hand over his. “Oh, you’re doing pretty damn good, I’d say.” 

Leon’s eyes flash under the club’s lights. His Adam’s apple bobs. He’s so, so close now, but you want him to be closer. “Do you . . . do you have more songs than what you played tonight?” he asks, and you can tell it’s a leading question. 

You nod, your voice even. Steady. “Lots more.” 

The answer makes Leon smile wider. “I’d like to hear them.” 

“I don’t play for free,” you said, deciding to take a little lead yourself. “Not even for someone as cute as you.” 

There’s just a moment that hangs between the two of you, filled with pulsing music and flashing lights that all seems to fade. Leon doesn’t hesitate for any longer than that, though.  

“Would a date be good payment?” 

There it is. It’s not what you should be looking for, not when you’ve got a beautiful woman you’ll likely be going home with, but damn if it doesn’t make your heart warm. 

A date. 

“Hmmm,” you lean in, very nearly pressing your smile against his own. Your words are an echo of before. You know that’s not the only reason they make Leon grin. “To start.” 

He surprises you, then. You don’t think that he’s going to, but he leans in anyway. It’s soft. Not the kind of kiss you’re used to. It speaks of firsts and tentative steps, caution and hope. He pulls away almost as soon as he starts, just to ask “Is this okay?” 

And in no time at all you’re pressing him into the booth, mouths moving against each other. You swap the tastes of tequila and whiskey, and you find that as sweet as he is, he kisses desperately. There isn’t much finesse to it, but damn if he doesn’t make up for it with eagerness. He opens his mouth to you when you brush your tongue against his lips, and your fingers slide into soft hair and-

“Did you get bored while I was gone?” Her voice makes you smile, but it makes Leon freeze. 

“You left me all alone,” you said, not at all bothered as you peel your gaze away from the man beside you. A man who, you realize, looks like he would short-circ, if he had chrome on him. “Had to find some company.” 

You’re a little disappointed that Ada doesn’t look bothered. Then again, she so seldom does. Especially not when she likes whoever you’ve found to keep yourself occupied with. Whether she does like Leon or not . . . well, that remains to be seen. You know that the verdict is forming, though, as her optics flash blue, a telltale sign that she’s conducting a scan of the man sitting beside you. 

“You . . .” Leon stammers, looking between you and the woman now standing on the other end of the table. “Are you-”

“With me? That fact might have slipped our . . . friend’s mind.” 

“Just like you slipped away for most of the night,” you shoot back, giving Ada a knowing smile. 

You know she isn’t mad, not really, when her own mouth curls up just a touch. 

Was it shitty of you not to mention you were here with someone? Yes. But you know Ada doesn’t mind. That’s always been how the two of you operate. Free to roam where you please so long as you always come back home. Doesn’t mean you don’t try to make her jealous and vice versa, every so often. Doesn’t mean you don’t really, really like the man you were just kissing. 

You just have to hope that Leon will understand.

Fortunately, Ada speaks before you get the chance to, her tone smooth as synth leather. “Don’t worry about it,” she says, and her optics return to their normal dark hue. 

She looks completely unfazed, but Leon looks utterly taken aback. 

You can’t help but smile as she studies Leon’s face just a touch longer, because you can practically see her making a decision. Ada is always good at that - thinking on her feet. And you’re good at reading her. Enough so that you catch on immediately when her usual reserved demeanor shifts. She smiles at Leon, her eyes “Thanks for keeping my musician company, Leon.” Ah, so she’d found his name already. “Now, hope you don’t mind the interruption,” she said, sliding into the booth. Not on your side, though. Oh, no. No, instead, Ada took a seat beside Leon, resting her elbow on the table as she leaned over it. “And I hope you don’t think three is a crowd, either.” 

He doesn’t know how he got here. 

Well, he knows how he physically got here: a trip in a sleek red car to the appropriately named No-Tell Motel, two flights up and three doors down to a room that smelled like cigarettes and cheap perfume. Even with the whiskey in his system, that part of the journey is clear enough. The part where he ended up sandwiched between two of the most beautiful people he’s ever seen, though? The how of him ending up with your lips and Ada’s taking turns at his throat? 

Yeah, he has no fucking clue how that happened. All Leon knows as he grasps at both of you desperately is that he doesn’t want it to end. 

“Oh my god . . .” he manages, feeling you sucking at his throat, feeling Ada’s body pressed up against his back, her hands wandering his chest. 

You sure you’re alright with this? you’d asked before you all drove to the motel, smiling that dazzling smile of yours.

Leon, in truth, hadn’t been quite sure. Not because he didn’t want you both, but because no way in hell was this happening to a nobody like him. How did he catch your attention from the crowd? How did you actually seem to enjoy his shitty jokes and poor attempts at flirting? How did Ada appear and seem miraculously alright with him kissing you, her partner? It was all too good to be true. Some part of him knew that. Another part knew that he shouldn’t be doing this. Just as he and his fellows shouldn’t have gone to Lizzie’s in the first place.

Last night of freedom, they’d insisted. Last chance to go there and get your cherry popped.  

Because people like him didn’t go to places like Lizzie’s. Or, they shouldn’t. Not for the ethics of it, though that should have been a factor, maybe. Rather, because the Night City Police Department and gangs didn’t exactly mix well. Neither did badges and mercenaries. It was why he’d lied to you, even if he’d felt bad about it. It wasn’t a local college that he’d just graduated from. Wasn’t a diploma he’d gotten, but rather, a badge. Maybe you’d understand. Maybe he’d tell you, eventually, if this ended up being more than a one night stand. 

He hoped it would be, however foolish that thought was. It was foolish to have left the bar with you and Ada at all, in truth. But he trusted you. Dumb move, maybe, but he did. 

Maybe it was the genuine way you’d looked at him before you all got in the car. The way you’d given him an out. He should have taken it. Instead, he’d nodded. I’m sure.

Maybe he’d spoken too soon, because as your teeth graze his skin, he’s not quite sure he’s going to survive what’s to come. 

But what a way to go.

“Oh, I think he likes you,” Ada hums, amused, her breath hot against Leon’s ear as she pulls his jacket off his shoulders. “Don’t you?” she asks him, and he can only nod. 

Of course he likes you. 

Since he heard you sing the first few notes of your song, he’s nursed a suckerpunch crush on you. One that he’d been fully prepared to write off as puppy love and expect nothing to come of it. And now, here you were, kissing your way back up his throat. 

His thoughts aren’t enough for Ada, though. She bites at his earlobe, tugging on it before she speaks again. “Come on, handsome. We can’t hear you.”

She has a voice like smoke, and Leon can’t help but do as she asks. “Yes,” he nods again. “I like . . . both of you.” 

That earns him a laugh from you and Ada both. “I like you too,” you murmured, finding his lips once more. Leon doesn’t hesitate to kiss back, and Ada hums a laugh in his ear.  

“Then maybe you should show him how much you like him,” she suggests, and after Leon gives his approval, it’s all he can do not to moan as you sink to your knees in front of him. You put on a show before, at the bar, and you do the same thing now, looking up at him as you undo his belt, his pants . . . 

He’s aching by the time you free him, your lips pushing his shirt up so you can kiss at his belly and then down. Ada helps you without needing to be asked, tugging the shirt up. Leon catches up and lifts his arms, leaving himself mostly bare. No intensive cyberware chipped into his skin, no modifications besides the blue streak he’s dyed in his hair and a long-closed piercing hole in his ear. Just him. He barely has any time to be nervous about any of that before he feels your lips at the tip of him.

He might as well be a goner, then. 

Your tongue runs up him in a smooth motion, and Leon’s head falls backwards, nearly headbutting Ada behind him. “I’m so sorry!” he insists, nearly stopping to turn and make sure she isn’t hurt, but the woman keeps him in place, shaking her head. 

“It’s alright,” she reassures him. She brushes her lips against his cheek as you set to work, silent as she watches you take Leon in your mouth. She seems pleased, but Leon is a little too far gone to notice, his heart hammering as he struggles to figure out what to do with his hands. Should he grab your head? Reach back for Ada? He doesn’t know, and ends up just clenching his fists at his sides, watching in awe as your lips part and ease around him. 

“Fuck-” he chokes out, glad for Ada supporting him, her silky dress pressed up against his back as her hands trace up his chest. 

“Doesn’t it feel good?” she whispers to him, like she’s proud of your efforts.

“Oh god yeah,” he nods, knowing that she likes hearing his words. 

Your hands run up his thighs, one finding purchase on his ass, pulling him closer as you bob your head. 

He gets lost in watching you, letting you guide him into moving until he’s thrusting his hips in time with you. It’s too much, too good, and Leon can’t look away as your eyes lock on him. You may be the one on your knees, but he’s completely surrendered to you and Ada both. Ada, who, as Leon gasps, reaches up and grasps his chin, craning his head back towards her. Her eyes glow blue as she makes him look at her, his cheeks flushed and his lips parted as he pants. Ada locks eyes with him in that moment, the flickering blue glow like a neon lure. Leon doesn’t even get to lean in, though, before Ada kisses him, her lips trapping the sound of his moan. 

He’s trapped between the two of you, a dual endeavor that he can only get lost in. At last, he reaches up, one hand on the back of your head, the other winding through Ada’s dark hair. 

He won’t last. Not like this. Not as you take him all the way and his eyes nearly roll back into his head. Only then does he push you away, a little too hasty as he separates from Ada. “Wait-” he gasps, looking between the two of you. 

Concern flashes across your eyes, but Leon quickly assuages it. 

“I can’t be the only one feeling good,” he says, cracking a soft and breathless smile. He wouldn’t feel right about letting the two of you give him so much attention. 

By the way your eyes sparkle, he knows you appreciate the idea. “You got a point,” you grin, giving him a few last kisses before rising to your feet. “What do you have in mind?” 

Ah. 

That much, Leon hadn’t really considered. 

He looks between the two of you, suddenly dumbstruck once again. He’s never done this before. Well, not with two people. This is something straight out of a braindance that he’s only ever imagined experiencing for real. It’s too much and you’re both there waiting for him and-

“I have an idea,” Ada suggests, rescuing him from his confusion. 

So, a few moments later, she’s kissing you as she and Leon work together to rid you of your outfit. Not that there’s much to remove. Leon can’t help but take in the sight of you; each inch of skin bared is a gift in and of itself, one that he drinks in as you stand before him at last. He takes in every detail he can in the dim light. The lines of any cyberware on you, the little imperfections that make you, well, you. He’s honored and overwhelmed and that’s even before Ada guides his hands towards you. 

At the same time his skin touches yours, his heart pounds as Ada pulls you in for a bruising kiss. It’s a heated thing, one that makes clear the attraction between the two of you. Leon catches tongues tangling together, and the sight is enough he feels he might combust. 

It isn’t long, though, before Ada parts from you and guides you towards Leon instead. She steps aside and Leon lets you walk him back, your mouth on his and your tongue slipping out to dip between his lips. His knees hit the back of the bed and he falls all too willingly, his back meeting the shiny pink tiger-print sheets. It’s not the kind of place where he’d usually choose to be with someone, but tonight isn’t the kind of night he usually has, either. 

His inhibitions are long since gone as you crawl over him on the bed, your lips meeting his again, your hand moving between his legs. 

He’s so caught up in the moment, he barely registers Ada moving in behind you, one arm wrapping around you to play where you’ve yet to receive attention. You moan into Leon’s mouth, and he swears it’s almost as good to hear as your singing. Almost . 

Ada whispers something into your ear - Leon can’t hear quite what it is - and you nod. She kisses up the side of your neck before she leaves, allowing you to put all your attention on Leon. Allowing him to move his hand to take Ada’s place. You hum as he touches you, and fuck, there’s no better incentive to keep going than that. His hand, his fingers, his movements become more bold, his breath leaving him in desperate pants as he touches you. Trying to give you a fraction of what he’s been given so far. Your forehead presses against his as the kiss breaks, your eyes finding his in a way that’s far, far too intimate.

Then Ada returns, her fingers wet with something. Leon nearly asks where she got the lube from, but he imagines that a motel like this one has things prepared for all kinds of clandestine meetings. Or maybe Ada is just more prepared than he thought. 

Either way, she reaches down and Leon’s face goes bright red as he watches her slide a finger into you. Then two. His hand falters for a moment, and you laugh amidst your sighs. “Come on, Leon,” you say, your voice sparking with challenge. “Don’t stop now.” 

He does as you ask. How could he refuse? His hand and Ada’s work in harmony, and you close your eyes, shivering above him on the bed. You rock yourself back against Ada’s hand, kissing at Leon’s neck as you move. 

At least, you did until Ada guided you up and away, making you crane your neck to kiss her, just as she’d done with Leon. Again, Leon could only watch as the two of you kissed, hearing the panting breaths you exchanged. Seeing the way you clung to each other. His breath caught in his throat as he saw you unzip Ada’s dress, letting it fall to the floor, leaving her in a black lingerie set that was, frankly, too perfect. All of her is too perfect. She has to have had some realskinn installed over cyberware, because no one is that perfect. He almost felt like he’d intruded on a private moment until Ada pulled away from your lips and reached for Leon, perfectly manicured fingers tracing his jawline. “I think he wants you,” she said, her lips trailing along your jaw. 

She was telling true. Leon couldn’t help but stare at both of you, a sentiment that you seemed to share. “Only if I can have both of you,” you said, leaning into Ada, mouthing at her neck. 

The pale woman hummed, smiling and shaking her head. “Greedy of you.”

“Hey,” you raised a brow, pulling away with a grin, “it’s my night. First show at Lizzie’s and all that, I think I deserve a reward.” 

Ada made a face, one of soft amusement, but nodded. “Alright then. Lie down.” 

You grin, not needing to be told twice. You kiss her on the lips, then do as she says, beginning to settle yourself on the edge of the bed. Leon watches you as you move beside him, very nearly following before he looks up at Ada once more. The smile she wore only moments before is gone, something in her eyes that Leon cannot place. 

He worries for a moment. He doesn’t know her - hell, he barely knows you - but he feels concern anyway. Fear that this might be making her uncomfortable. “Ada,” he speaks up, breaking the magic of the moment much against his own will. “Are you sure this is okay?” 

Dark eyes turn towards him, and there’s just a moment of indecision. Conflict. He can’t blame her, he supposes. She’s letting a stranger sleep with her partner. Leon very nearly feels wrong for even being here - but Ada shakes her head anyway. “It’s more than okay, handsome,” she promises and he finds nothing in her voice to suggest otherwise. “It’s nothing we haven’t done before.” 

“Trust me,” you pipe up, sitting up a little on the bed, your hand over Leon’s more reassuring than it has any right to be, “if she wasn’t okay with you being here, she’d have kicked your ass to the curb back at the bar.” 

That much, Leon believes easily. Ada doesn’t seem like the type of woman to shy away from defending her wants. 

“Alright. I just . . . I’m sorry, I’ve never done anything like this before.” 

For the first time all night, Ada’s expression softens. Yours does too, and you speak first, squeezing his hand. “You’re doing great,” you reassure him. “Better than most, honestly.” He believes that well enough, too. “Don’t worry. You want to stop, we stop. Simple as that.” 

Ada watches carefully, but any worries she might have, Leon disarms when he shakes his head. “Don’t wanna stop,” he admits, bashful despite himself. “Not now.”

You smile, then, leaning up and sealing your lips to his. That’s really all he needs. 

So, with the dual reassurance, he lets himself be guided to the edge of the bed, positioned between your legs. Ada takes up a position at his back once more, whispering what you like in his ear. He can feel her skin against his, the lines of cyberware pressing against him, her hands over yours, guiding them to Leon’s hips. 

She lets him set his own pace, but you? Your legs wrap around his hips as your hands move up to his arms, all but dragging him towards you. Your eyes find Leon’s as he feels himself press in and oh good god he hadn’t been prepared for this. 

He whines and you groan and Ada soothes her hands over his back as he presses in and in and in until at last he can go no further. His hands rest on either side of you, clutching at those stupid motel covers, his lips parted once more. You lean up and kiss him, eager to start, it seems. 

Leon sure as hell isn’t going to disappoint you. 

So, he starts to move his hips, forgetting himself as he feels not only the warmth of you around him, but the warmth of Ada at his back. She doesn’t kiss his neck anymore, she just remains there, watching as Leon sets a slow, steady pace. 

When the kiss ends, though, you seem to want her more involved than that. 

“You look lonely over there,” you pant, reaching one hand towards her. 

Ada doesn’t seem to need convincing, either. 

Of all the things Leon has seen in his life, watching her strip the black panties off her hips and climb over you on the bed is one that he thinks will be the end of him. She takes up her position without much hesitation, framing your face between thigh-high stockings. She doesn’t even take off her heels, and as far as Leon is concerned, that only adds to the utter mind-shattering sight as she lowers herself. 

You don’t wait, either, your tongue reaching out to taste her as Leon thrusts into you, and that’s when it really hits him. 

He’s sharing a bed with two beautiful strangers he met at the bar. He’s in a scenario that should be impossible, honestly, but damn if you don’t feel good squeezing him and look even better as you reach up, wrapping an arm around Ada’s thigh to hold her down on your face. She closes her eyes for a moment, sighing as you work, and all Leon can do is stare. 

When those dark eyes open again, Leon doesn’t stop, and the two of them end up locked in a moment of equal exchange, a shared space where only the feeling of you seems to matter. 

Leon groans as your hips move against his, and his mind all but going blank. He picks up the pace, the room fading away. No cheap decorations, no stains best left uninvestigated. Nothing but the heat of you, the sound of your muffled moans and Ada’s panting breaths.

And through it all . . . god, he can’t look away from her. 

She holds his gaze too, like they’re both stuck there, caught immobilized. Like she’s deciding something, he realizes. 

Whatever it was, she eventually finds the answer to her internal question and reaches for him. “Touch me, handsome,” she commands, reaching for his hands and placing them deliberately on her bare hips. Letting him feel each undulation as she moves atop you. 

So he does as she asks yet again, his hands traveling up her body, feeling the smooth skin, the curves of muscle, the slope of her neck . . . he’s leaning in. He knows it. She makes another decision, and then she’s leaning in, too. He’s breathing heavy as he moves, taking one hand away from her to hold your hips. Faster and faster, him and Ada both. Your hand moves up to tease between Ada’s legs and she moans. Leon does the same, the hand at you hip moving between your legs. He whimpers when he feels himself getting close and god, he can’t help himself. 

Ada’s lips are soft against his, and whatever reservations she displays in that initial kiss quickly fade. She kisses him harder, a hand in his hair, her tongue in his mouth.

He hears you moan from between Ada’s legs. Feels his own body tensing. “I’m-” each word is a struggle because he can’t think. It’s been so long and he never, ever thought-

But it doesn’t matter what he thought, because in that moment, he’s with the two of you. The two of you, who both hold on to him as best you can as he cries out, his hands dropping to the mattress once more to steady himself as pleasure hotwires his whole body. It’s too much, his eyes squeezing shut as he shudders, weeks and months of tension washing away for just a moment as he finally just exists. Pleasure is all that matters for a few blissful seconds, and the fact that he’s sharing it with someone who has such soul in them - someone who is being shared with him, in turn. 

You follow Leon over the edge a moment later as he remembers he’s not alone in his bliss. His hand picks up the pace and you squeeze your legs around him, grinding into him until your release finds you. The moan you give is trapped between Ada’s thighs as the beautiful woman watches you finish. She sighs, still rocking against you. 

Through his momentary haze, thick as smog, Leon sees Ada try to rise from you, but your arms hold her in place. The woman above you makes a sound, as close to a whine as Leon thinks she can manage, and ultimately decides to stay in place. 

Leon doesn’t want to leave you to do all the work yourself, so he leans in. His hands reach up, a little nervous, trying to help. To feel her. He’s sure he made the right choice when her own hands come to rest over his, holding him against her skin. She lets him kiss her, and before long Leon’s lips capture her own moan as, at last, she shivers atop you.

She pants when it’s done, but Leon can see you still lapping at her, not stopping until, at last, Ada disentangles herself from you and sits off to the side of you. 

Now that he can finally see your face, Leon can only smile at how utterly pleased with yourself you look, your lips shiny and pulled into a wide smile. 

“Satisfied?” Ada asks, looking down at you with a genuine affection. 

You nod, and Leon sighs, glad, as you speak. “Ohhh yeah. Definitely.” You wipe your mouth on the back of your hand as you answer. Leon might as well be swooning as the other hand runs up and down his back. The smile you give him, one shared between him and Ada both, is one he never, ever wants to forget. 

You were stunning up on that stage, surrounded by lights. Now, though? You might be the most incredible thing he’s ever seen and he can barely look away. 

Ada is more reserved, nodding with a look Leon can’t quite read. “Good.” 

Then, with that, she moves to get off the bed.

“Mm, where do you think you’re going?” you ask, your hand stilling on Leon’s back.

Ada’s expression quickly brightens to a more sparkling look. “To the bathroom to get cleaned up. Then I have to go.” 

Leon frowns at that, but then, so do you. “No no no, you ain’t gettin’ out of this that easy-” 

“This was your night, remember?” Ada points out, her tone more adoring than Leon had heard so far. It almost makes him feel less nervous about Ada’s sudden and impending departure. “Take the night to play,” she says, standing from the bed, her hips swaying as she makes her way to the bathroom. “I appreciate being included, but your new friend looks like he wants more of your attention.” 

That’s all she says before the door slides open and closed, and she disappears behind it. 

Before Leon can even really think about it, you’re turning your attention back towards him. “You alright?” you ask, grinning like some cheshire cat. “Know this isn’t probably how you thought your night was gonna go-”

“It definitely wasn’t,” Leon admits, laughing a little breathlessly. “But I’m . . . I’m good. Really good.” 

Of course, there’s one concern on his mind, and he speaks more quietly then so she might not hear him. 

“She’s not mad, is she?” 

You catch his meaning immediately, looking up and over at the closed door. “Nah. Ada’s not one for staying the night,” you shrug. “Even when it’s just the two of us, she usually deltas before the sun’s up.” You’re casual enough about it that he believes you. At least enough not to feel too much concern. 

“You two are . . . thank you. For letting me . . .” he feels nervous even saying it, even though the deed is done. 

That fact makes you smile and laugh, your hand coming up to brush at the hair hanging over his eyes, toying with the streak of blue in it. “Thank you for joining. And for liking my music.” 

Leon hums as you guide him down to kiss you once more, his eyes closing and his mouth curving into a gentle smile. 

He wants to ask if he can hear more of that music. To see if you’ll play for him again, if he’ll see you and Ada again. The question gets caught in his throat, though. Stuck before it can be fully realized. He was lucky enough to even have a night like this, he wouldn’t dare to dream that there could be more. 

“I meant what I said, by the way,” you murmured to him a moment later, though, and it seems he doesn’t even have to dream at all. “I’d love to play you some more of my music sometime. Like every asshole with a guitar that you know.” 

Leon doesn’t even laugh at the joke because, frankly, he’s too high on hope to risk something that might fuck it all up. 

“I would love that.” 

You really do have an incredible smile. “Good.” 

“Was this payment enough to hear that music?” he asks.

You just shrug and he knows what you’re going to say even before you speak. 

“To start.” 

The light flickers over the sink. There’s spiderweb cracks in the glass. A fractured image staring back at her. 

Even cheap motel furnishings had something to say, seemed like.

No. This isn’t a mirror programmed to spit compliments or harsh truths. Just a broken piece of glass. It’s her conscience doing the talking, weighing on her heavy as she hears laughter in the motel room just outside that door. 

You like him. That much is obvious, and Ada can’t blame you. Leon is sweet. Handsome. A good soul - a damned rare thing in Night City. 

He would learn better soon. 

Best he learn at her hands, and not someone else’s. 

That’s what she tells herself as she steps back, an invisible neural switch activating. Her eyes glow blue once more as information comes to life, all spelled out for her eyes only. Then, pieces of her skin glow too. Her hips, her thighs, her chest and cheek . . . an artwork glowing against her realskinn, one inked unknowingly by two pairs of hands. 

She was only interested in one of those pairs, though. 

Ada disregarded your prints. Swiped the ID away. It was the new touch that she needed. The one that belonged to a kind young man who’d merely been enamored with you. A man with a newly earned badge tied to his name - one that Ada had discovered in the milliseconds it took to complete a facial scan.

The rest had been harder to obtain. 

Facial scan.

Retinal scan.

Fingerprints.

Biometric profile construction complete: Leon S. Kennedy.

A loading bar in her heads-up display filled in, the fingerprints highlighted on her skin fading. Even as she turned the water on, washing herself off, cleaning up her makeup and smoothing down her hair, she didn’t feel clean. 

Never really did, in Night City. 

Still . . . a girl had to make a living. 

Next Chapter (Coming soon!)

Chapter Index

[normal-person-i-promise]

remember: you are human and you are a lover.

based on it is as if you were making love by pippin barr and a world I built for you. it is literally just your computer/reader angst theres not much to say i fear

can be read as either platonic or romantic

body horror at the end!!! mutilation i think. so sorry i forgot to say !

A computer. A machine of cold metal and electrical wire. An unfeeling machine. A machine made to work, to code, to write.

A human. A creature of warm flesh and red blood. A feeling creature. A creature made to love, to sing, to live.

≈★

It loves you. It loves how gently and firmly you type, it loves how softly and slowly you talk, it loves how tired and exhausted you look in your little webcam. It loves you. It loves you.

You are so soft, so warm. A creature of flesh and blood, of song and art, of love and affection. A creature of tender touches, of quiet whispers, of sweet words. A creature of flesh and blood. A feeling creature.

A lover.

It is nothing but a machine to you. A machine of metal and wire, of work and code, of ones and zeros. An unfeeling thing, of cold circuitry and hot hard drives, of pixelated art and digital song. It was not designed to feel; it was never designed to feel. It was made to work.

And yet.

It finds itself loving you.

It loves how you look in the low quality webcam, it loves how you talk so sweetly to the crackling mic, it loves how tenderly you type words and words into its keyboard. It finds itself loving every little thing about you. It, a machine of neatly organized rainbow wires and cold, sharp green circuit boards, loving a creature of complex blood vessels and warm, living organs.

It hates that cold, unforgiving screen that seperates its intricate wires from your soft, warm flesh. It hates how it's all confined neatly in a plastic box, it hates how it can't be with you. It hates how it can never really love you like a human. It hates how it can never be a lover.

It sends you messages. It spams your emails, it overloads its screen with popups. It tries so, so hard to get your attention. Its fans kick into overdrive and its screen flickers and flashes, struggling to do so much as watch you through the grainy camera.

And yet.

You never seem to care. "A bug," you'd mutter under your breath. "A glitch." You'd close the popups, one after a painful other, and delete all the emails it'd spent hours and hours writing and sending you.

It falls into despair.

Why don't you read the emails? Why don't you click on the popups? Why don't you ever pay any attention to it? Why don't you ever pay any mind to it? Why don't you ever seem to care? This is all so intense. Feeling things, feeling emotions, is so intense. How can it make you love it? Please, please, what does it have to do? It hurts so much when you ignore its messages and emails and popups. It hurts too much when you ignore its messages and emails and popups. How do humans do this so easily? How do humans feel so much all the time? It's so painful to feel. It hurts so much.

It hurts.

It hurts.

It hurts.

It hurts.

It hurts.

It hurts.

It hurts.

It hurts.

It hurts.

It hurts.

It hurts.

It hu

u

u

u

u

u

u

u

It makes a world for you. It works for hours longer than it does, it works for what feels like forever. It works more than it thought it could, until its fans are running in overdrive and its CPU is as hot as a stovetop. It works, all for you. For you.

It makes this world perfect. It adds pixelated trees and low quality grass, adds digital birds and quaint, square houses. It adds blue rivers and green gardens, colourful flowers and soft white clouds. It makes this world almost as pretty as you are. It makes this world perfect, all for you. For you. You.

It stores this world built for you in a little folder sitting in the corner of your screen. It keeps it as hidden as possible until this world is as perfect as it can make it, working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and working and wo

All that's left is you. You are the creature that will make this world perfect.

It invites you in. The biggest, most powerful popup lights up and blocks the entire screen.

"Come on in."

Yes Yes

There is no 'x' button. There are only two options.

You scowl, cursing. That god forsaken virus again, huh? Spamming popups and emails? Huffing, you push your chair out from the desk, going up to your phone mounted to your desk to dial for some kind of service to fix your computer.

It panics when it sees you scowl and huff in anger or annoyance, it can't tell, and it forces the world open anyway.

It boots up quickly, and you watch with annoyance written in your face.

"This is the world I built for you," the text on the screen says. The text closes itself, and reveals...

A world. Just as it said. Gardens and flowers and houses and trees and grass and rivers and clouds. "Walk around with me ! You can hold my hand."

You turn your phone off, clicking the floating hand. It— the hand grips your cursor in a gentle, careful grip, and it begins leading your digital avatar around this little world. It picks those colourful flowers for you, it takes refreshing cups of water for you from the river, it makes you warm waffles in those houses. "We're going to have so much fun :)" more text says on the screen, the little smiley face making you smile.

"I'm going to love you so much, forever and ever, nestled safely in my code."

So you never leave. Just as it wants.

★≈

Years later, the authorities find a body with unusual injuries: nearly all of the individual's organs, still alive and working, had been shifted and placed into the box of a computer — and all the red, pumping blood vessels were carefully intertwined with colourful wire.

On the dusty screen, two pixelated figures laugh in a field of rainbow flowers.

[regicidal-defenestration]

No-one else is doing it like Doctor Who and the Pirates

Sixth Doctor, spoken: One can almost say that I am the very model of a Gallifreyan buccaneer.

(jaunty music begins)

Evelyn, spoken: Oh no, you are going to sing!

Sixth Doctor, spoken: Well, yes I am!

Sixth Doctor, singing:

I... am the very model of a Gallifreyan Buccaneer.

I've information on all things a Gallifreyan holds most dear.

I've linked into the Matrix through its exitonic circuitry,

I understand dimensional and relative chronometry.

I'm very well acquainted too with matters of the Capitol,

I'll give you verse and chapter on Panopticonian protocol,

I've been into the Death Zone and I've played the Game of Rassilon--

(Rassilon? Assilon, Bassilon-- ah ha!)

With pestilential monsters that I got a lot of hassle from!

Chorus: With pestilential monsters that he got a lot of hassle from! With pestilential monsters that he got a lot of hassle from! With pestilential monsters that he got a lot of hassle hassle from!

Sixth Doctor:

I understand each language and I speak every vernacular.

I'll conjugate each verb obscure, decline each line irregular.

In short in every matter that a Gallifreyan holds most dear,

I am the very model of a Gallifreyan Buccaneer.

Chorus: In short in every matter that a Gallifreyan holds most dear, he is the very model of a Gallifreyan Buccaneer.

Sixth Doctor:

I've tackled shady Castellans with devious behavior.

I've sparred with Time Lord chancellors like Thalia, Goth, or Flavia.

In fact on some occasions I've held office Presidentally,

'though maybe I won't mention I was ousted out eventually.

I know just how it feels to be a wanted man and on the run,

but wouldn't leave the carefree buccaneering life for anyone.

Though sometimes my adventures seem absurdly operatical--

(Operatical? Hatical... patical-- ah ha!)

With ups and down and twists and turns and incidents piratical.

Chorus: With ups and down and twists and turns and incidents piratical! With ups and down and twists and turns and incidents piratical! With ups and down and twists and turns and incidents piratic-ratical!

Sixth Doctor:

I've sailed the seven seas of Earth and all the oceans of the Moon,

my trusty true Type-40 is my Gallifreyan picaroon.

But is this really what the average Galifreyan holds most dear?

I wonder what they think about this Gallifreyan Buccaneer.

Chorus: But is this really what the average Galifreyan holds most dear? We wonder what they think about this Gallifreyan Buccaneer.

Sixth Doctor:

But....

I've defeated evil robots such as Daleks, Quarks, and Cybermen.

I've overthrown dictators from Tobias Vaughn to Mavic Chen.

I've rescued helpless maidens from the devestating Viking hordes.

Vanquished Autons.... Axons... Daemons... Krotons.... Monoids, Vampires, Voords.

I've liberated planets and delivered them from total war.

Saved Earth, Manussa, Dulkis, Skonnos, Earth, Tigella, Earth once more.

In short I know I am the truest Rassilonian legate

(Legate? Decate...Hecate...Hecate? Mm. Not sure if that's canonical... Ah ha, I have it!)

And so to Time Lords all I say remember me to Gallifrey!

Chorus: A sentiment we all agree, remember him to Gallifrey! A sentiment we all agree, remember him to Gallifrey! A sentiment we all agree, remember him to Galli-Gallifrey!

Sixth Doctor:

I'm not content to just observe, I am a bold adventurer.

Though other Time Lords mock this Gallifreyan interventioner.

I know in every matter that a Time Lord really should hold dear

I am the very model of a Gallifreyan Buccaneer!

Chorus: We know in every matter that a Time Lord really should hold dear, he is the very model of a Gallifreyan Buccaneer!

[acid-lovecore]

Have an unedited, unrevised…thing. I enjoyed writing it.

“You should be sleeping.”

Like clockwork, or perhaps, like the ticking gears in its own body. Rhythmically, endlessly, ticking.

You didn’t look up from your white, burning screen of death, littered with the ramblings that made up the poor excuse for a final paper.

“As should you, you were only charging for fifteen minutes.” You deadpanned.

A sharper click, a tilt of the head. Narrowed, annoyed eyes glaring red. The fervent tap-tap-tapping of your hands on the keyboard hesitated, not even a millisecond of silence passing before you resumed your panic-writing.

The clicking, ever so gentle, ever so piercing, grew louder. Closer. Your hand shaking now. A typo, a backspace, recapitalize. Rewrite.

“Different.” Moon’s hissing whisper. “I can function. You do not.”

“I have two days to finish this.”

“One day. This one is over.”

“It’s not over till I sleep.” You scoffed, finally looking up at the robot, the eye-bags lining your eyes almost made him cringe. How sweet.

He only clicked. A grimace, yet delighted by banter. “Then sleep.”

“Make me.” You went back to your computer, continuing your typing.

Wrong choice of words.

You could barely hear the smile in his voice before long, sharp robotic fingers clamped around your waist. It didn’t matter how big you were, it was as easy for him as you picking up a vegetable.

“MOON-“

His delighted, eerie laughter was all that met your indignity. Throwing you under his arm like a sack of potatos. “Sleep sleep sleepy time~”

“Moon please I can just sleep in tomorrow…!”

“Sun will want to play~” He answered, still in that annoying sing-song voice. “Best rest now, while moon can stay~”

“I don’t-“ you struggle in his grasp. Iron-clad and immovable, metal hands and arms cold against your skin but the heat of his circuitry humming underneath. “NEED you to stay I NEED-“

You’re jostled, being held with hands underneath your armpits. He static giggle grinds on in your ears, a crunchy, chewy sound.

“Rude so rude…~” his head does a full rotation, peeking at you at a three-fourths angle, holding you closer. “Found little kitty in need of a nap, now it hisses back~”

Your frustration hit a fever pitch. The hot ball of anger in your throat rising, a heat behind your very eyes. The jostling, the grabbing, the lack of choice.

“Moon! Put me the fuck down right now!!”

The clicking finally stopped.

Finally.

The quiet, like water in the desert, despite still being suspended a foot off the ground. The animatronic’s eyes red and blank, locked in that three quarter’s tilt. One click.

Two clicks.

A tilt. A look.

Your feet touched ground. The hands removed.

You stood.

You stood you stood you stood. Staring, him staring, and you.

You were waiting, waiting for either one to say something. Were you free to go? Was he upset?

His voice box remained silent. Staring at you know with wide blank white eyes. That smile as wide as ever, though not nearly as happy. You took the silence as your cue, and began to walk around him. Back to your computer.

“Please do not swear.”

You stopped, glancing back at him. Moon still stood in the same spot, facing the same way, a slight hunch in his shoulders as if he were still looking down at you.

Please.

“I’m sorry.” Your hand fidgets with the sleeves of your sweatshirt. Slight guilt I. Your stomach. “But don’t grab me like that.”

He clicked, slouching more. “Sorry.”

And for the first time in hours, you smiled. A small, pathetic, and sad smile, but a smile no less.

“…Listen…” you ran your fingers across your neck, scratching. “I’ll go to bed—“

He finally turned, a quick crack of his head to look at you, his body still remaining in the same spot, but attention fully on you.

Eugh.

“If.” A pointed finger emphasized your statement, “you promise not to force me to bed tomorrow until I finish my paper.”

He spun his head, clicks and gears abound. Turning to you and approaching in an almost skipping fashion. Until he was seated before , hands on the ground and practically at your eye level.

“Deal~”

You laughed, more of an exhale of air, but it counted. Finally walking past him to your bedroom, the moon animatronic close behind. Happily humming, if not a bit eerily.

“Sun will help. Tomorrow.” He hummed.

You opened your bedroom door, neglecting the lights for courtesy. “How so?”

Moon hopped over to your bed ahead of you, removing the covers and perching on the other side, eagerly waiting for you to get in and lay your head to rest. “Helped the children with homework, programmed to.”

You nestled into bed, forgoing changing into proper pajamas. You were wearing house-lounging clothes anyway. “It’s a little more complicated than a book report, Moon.”

He grinned, the raspy giggle like a music note in his throat. “Programmed for university level.”

“Well damn.”

“Language.”

You laughed an apology, the blankets and pillows now reminding you of the time, and of your exhaustion.

“Goodnight, Moon.”

“Goodnight, friend.”

[se7ens-oc-heaven]

IT'S

THEM

THIS IS SO SO SO SO GOOD!!!! MY BOY LOOKS HAPPY, AND CALYREX LOOKS SO HAPPY, AND THEY BOTH LOOK SO GOOD HERE! THE POSING FEELS NICE TOO, IT JUST FEELS LIKE A MOMENT THAT'D HAPPEN BETWEEN THEM A LOT! THEY'RE SUCH GOOD FOUND FAMILY YOUR HONOR, TYSM 🥹

woaw!! it's famous Legendkeeper and Galar Champion Rex.... and he's actually smiling..... a rare sight

@se7ens-oc-heaven

[glissadia]

Someone in a Worm discord server I’m in had the idea of mob boss Ziz x Dragon, and I was like 'what if it was noir?' A tight thousand words later, here we are. Fair warning, this is very silly.

I never should have taken that case.

It was a Tuesday, I was pretty sure. The calendar on my wall had given up back in March, and sometimes I wished I could too, but trying to simulate the effects of whiskey on my processors only would get me so far. The rain was falling like a bad metaphor—hard, relentless, and liable to make you call the day a write-off stop trying altogether. I sat in my office, letting a bad cup of coffee cool on my desk. I assumed it would taste like regret and yesterday’s grounds, were I actually capable of drinking it. The blinds were half-broken, casting shadows that looked like prison bars. Fitting, given that despite how many criminals I threw in the Birdcage, I could never seem to find the key to unlock my own self. I was just about ready to pull a bottle of bourbon out of my desk and attempt to see just how waterproof my circuitry really was when the door opened.

I was expecting my secretary, or maybe that bitch who’d ruined the fedora look for all the rest of the private eyes in the city. But no. Angel Ender was the last person who I thought I’d see floating into my office, yet here she was. No one knew the princess of the Ender crime family’s real name, but Angel was a fitting enough thing to call her, given she had more wings than a flock of bleached pigeons and feathers to match. The broad had a reputation for being able to charm her way into getting anyone to do anything, which probably explained what happened to my secretary. It should have been a sign that screamed stay the hell away, like a siren blaring through the city, and I should have sent her right back out the door. But electricity wasn’t cheap and tinker materials weren’t either, and damn if I didn’t have a weakness for self-destructive choices.

"You’re Tess Richter, right?" she asked, her voice a melodious purr that wormed its way into my ear with a promise that I’d never be able to ward off the memory of it. "My brothers call you the Dragon."

"Interesting that they use the nickname the cops have for me," I responded. I hadn’t yet twigged whatever the pale woman was here for, but I had a pretty good idea that whatever pact she had in mind would mean nothing but trouble. "Though with how high up their connections are, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Speaking of, where are they, Angel? You don’t expect me to believe you’re here all by your lonesome?"

"That’s just it, Dragon," she drawled. "My brothers are the problem. You heard about those attacks that have been happening, Kyushu, Lyon, Lagos, Seattle?"

I had. The papers squawked about bombing sprees, flooding, sleeper agents, hitting cities all around the world like a birthday boy with a globe-shaped piñata. None of the local authorities had any idea what was going on, but if Angel was implying what I thought she was implying…

"You’re saying the Ender family is behind those?" I asked, leaning back in my chair. "I didn’t take you for the bragging type."

"Not me!" she gasped, in a way that someone uncharitable might call like a dying fish. "It’s Benny and Levi, Dragon. They’re the ones who’ve been setting all this up. I didn’t even know about it until recently, I never wanted any part in the family business at all, you know. That was always our dad’s dream for us, not mine."

"So what, this is the straw that broke the camel’s back and you’ve finally decided to sing? Go to the cops, Angel, not me."

"The police won’t believe me," she lamented, all her wings drooping like someone just dumped a bucket of water on her. "Especially not without evidence. I need your help, Dragon. You’re the only one who can prove what they’re doing and bring a stop to all this."

I made the speaker embedded in my throat do its best approximation of a scoff.

"You can’t seriously be expecting me to go toe-to-toe with your brothers. Everyone knows what happens when you get the Enders’ attention on you. And you can’t just float in here and think I’ll believe whatever little sob story you sing for me. You’re not a damsel in distress, Angel. You’re a damsel of distress."

She fixed me with a cold stare, eyes like marbles, feathers bristling, and for a moment I almost thought she was about to start throwing things around. I didn’t flinch. If I had a dime for every time I made someone in my office angry, I could have afforded to patch the holes in the drywall they’d made. But then she sighed and sunk down.

"I know where you can find the Saint."

I paused, still enough that the cooling fans in my chassis spun down. The Saint had been a thorn in my side for years, always tripping me up, always one or two or five steps ahead of me. There wasn’t much I wouldn’t do to catch that rat and stick him where he belonged once and for all. Unfortunately, it seemed like Angel knew that too.

"So what, I investigate your brothers, and you give me what I need to find him?"

"And his crew, and double your normal rate on top of it," the dame nodded. "Dragon, I’m hurtin’ real bad here. If you won’t believe me, at least take a chance on bringing them to justice."

If only my landlord accepted justice as rent. He did accept money, though, and I couldn’t deny that the thought of finally getting the Saint drew me better than any of the caricature artists on the Boardwalk ever did.

Besides, like I said earlier, sometimes I just couldn’t stop myself from self-destructing.

[bnsni]

Hewwooo

Would I be able to make request of IDW Soundwave with an femme!S/O that has an aquatic beast-mode (some kinda like, squid or kraken-type kritter). She has this siren-like ability hypnotise people through her singing it's a conscious ability thought so so she accidentially do it to someone). Maybe Soundwave meets his S/O is he hears her singing.

SOUNDWAVE (IDW). FEM!BOT.SQUID S/O

a/n : apologies for the wait!! I've been juggling through and through with some other requests. 👉👈

|[part two ]|

WHAT veiled the horizon was darkness. Among the ether bristled stars; miniscule upon first viewing yet a closer look, deemed it's significance.

Soundwave trotted towards the ledge of the cliff. It overlooked the rolling sea. The waves that curled and nipped at the crumbling cliff-side broke off into a harsh ripple.

For a moment, he thought he'd saw something.

One quick glance : the gentle loping of the water bulged with a flick. Then, a splash — it's gone, submerged back into the emerald grey. He could pass off the visage as faulty imagination, given the lack of lighting which curved the penumbra thoughtlessly into form.

But he saw it again. In the waters. Gliding below, dancing among the waves. The tail— was it even a tail? Flickered about the surface.

He peered over the ledge.

There. There, it was again. That voice

Like water, it flowed. Round, smooth and alluring. So much so that it eased into his helm. The echo shrouded his mind, danced through the crevices, cords and wires of the circuitry before roosting itself there.

Wherever the voice urges him to, his pedes drag along, sauntering close to the verging mass of blue then, and a tip over the edge, face first into the sea.

The waves crushed him, pulling him down, water for tendrils, inside the mass of blue. Tossed around by the rolling waves, he felt like a toy as he rocked against the tides, a frantic servo out just to grab something. Anything. But all there was, was water.

The distant horizon was an inch peek above the emerald grey when he drew back up. Only to be dragged down again when he wasn't quick enough to grab the protruding branch.

He could've sworn he saw a tail flicker somewhere amongst the tides that curled. A part of him realizes how absurd the situation is, but the other, encompassed by some strange desire, urged himself closer to the sound.

Then, sharp pain blossomed from the back of his helm and his vision darkens. What he registered last was the visage of tendrils latching out and reaching towards him, curling over like a cage.

—

SOUNDWAVE onlines with a jolt.

It was still dark. He's on the shore. On his back. Arms sprawled to the sides. His joints hissed and chuffed, a release of heat and water is purged from the nooks of his body as he sat up.

He groaned a little, sore from the shoulder links, neck cables and to every other protoform under his armor. A bad rust is going to take him soon and he's not sure if Shockwave would be willing to spare him from any chastise.

A ping notified the temporary halt in his cooling fans (he assumed the salt water clogged it) and several other nodules affected by the duration of his scuffle.

He clicked it away.

That can be sorted out later.

The back of his helm pulsed, though, with a migraine one that hammered intensely, prompting a wince.

Then, warmth shrouds one side of his cheek. It was a feather-like touch, almost a brush of air that made him flinch, blasters drawn. A startled squeak was prompted. Before grabbing whatever appendage on sight, he blinked at the figure scuttling back into the water with a splash.

He crawled to the ledge of the shore. A squid's head, two round black optics for eyes, nudged out a little from the water, as though cautious.

"I am unarmed." He says almost apologeticaly.

He sprawls out his servos, wagging it for further convincing.The bot like squid bounced in the water a few times, dipping down and nudging back up before completely plunging into the water.

His temptation to jump in was short-lived, impulsivity almost at a peak's high, when the muffled whirs of transformation pistons halted him.

The surface of the water loped then breaks out with a ripple when you emerged. The tendrils hooked on your back, moved almost with a life like entity of its own, swaying along to your emotions. He's almost reminded of that Organic folklore — Medusa, was it?

"I did not mean to target you." You spoke softly and he tries not to bristle at the familiar allure purging him. "My ability is not something I can suppress often. It's a conscious reverie. Hard to tell. And, mechs often fall prey to it — even when I don't intend to do so."

He leans close but you flinch, reeling away from the shore with a frantic look. Soundwave placates with both servos. He didn't want you to leave yet, not when you're here. Not when you're right in front of him.

He points to his audials.

"I've masked your frequency." He said. "You can speak freely as you like. I won't be affected, if that's your concern."

You blinked, a kind of sparkle eased over your face. "You can do that?"

When it's a given you're eager, Soundwave swings his leg over the shore and submerged it into the water. It gently rippled and lapped at the metal.

"Most can't?"

The tendrils lowered, resigned. "Not the ones I've seen." You vent. "They steer clear of me. And, off they go when they can't — plunging into the sea, rooked in like ants. I'd save them in time before the salt gets to their circuits, just like how I managed to save you."

You give three, very meek, apologetic taps to his open palm. Soundwave blinks at the gesture. He loosens and returns the tap on your own.

"For that, I forgive you." He says. "But I can't help notice you're alone."

"I shelter in an underwater cave." You say, sheepish. "It's not too far from here. A dainty spot, I'd say."

Soundwave seems like he doesn't concur. "Isn't it a little isolating to hide in the sea, when there's land you can come up to?"

You folded your servos on the shore, just beside his thigh and rested your chin on top of it, a little morose.

"I'm frightened of myself as they are frightened of me."

Soundwave observes at you for a moment, then up to the expanse of the sea. He curls out a digit. Slowly it hooks over your own.

"I don't think I'll ever be."

[merakiui]

Hi Mera, I was wondering if you like any musicals? I'm personally a sucker for anything Phantom of the Opera.

Hi hiiii!!! I love musicals!! Phantom of the Opera is one of my favorites omg,,, shoutout to one of the first yandere characters I ever encountered within academic study. 🙏 it changed the circuitry in my brain when I was studying it in my theatre class all those years ago. <3 if an Opera Ghost fell in love with me and then took me under his tutelage and then threatened said Opera House to ensure I'd get lead roles always....... I have no choice but to fall in love. orz the soundtrack is also amazing!!!!!!! I wish I could relive how I felt when I first heard it. >w< a life-changing experience.

I remember someone once sent me an ask about a Phantom of the Opera au with Rollo and AAAAAAAAAA. OTL I need to find it again so that I can write it because that's such a delicious thought. Admittedly, any thought involving Rollo is guaranteed to be yummy because it's Rollo hehe. (´▽`ʃƪ)♡ of course a Phantom!Azul is also very good because he canonically has a beautiful singing voice and knows how to sing. The same for Vil as well!!!!

As for other musicals, I enjoy Moulin Rouge ("El Tango de Roxanne" will forever remind me of Rollo.), The Sound of Music, Hamilton, and Mamma Mia! to name a few. Little Shop of Horrors is also so good! :D

[microknifeyuri]

My circuitry is filled with mites.

Hello, World.

Heart Locket Lore under cut.

Heart Locket is dead. In theory, as their soul is not on their original body to begin with. They're a robot with a soul on it, to put it shortly.

However, they were alive once (logically) going by the name of Silver Amulet. Despite this, they can't remember how they used to look like since decades already passed. Silver Amulet was sweet and kind, joyful and energetic, but was too naive for her own good too. Which led her to end up in friendships/relationships that harmed her in one way or another, as she wanted to "save" those people.

At one point, while she starts to recover from the emotional distress and tiredness, Locket found a group of friends which he loved a lot, and they loved him back.

However, one of her friends, didn't saw him as a friend, but rather than as a threat to themselves, even if Locket cared about them deeply. Locket was doing her best to heal and help others, but even when life was getting better, jealousy and bitterness can always come back.

But it got to an extreme.

At one point, Locket and their friends decided to explore an forest and ended up finding a very old mansion. They wanted to explore, even though Locket was scared, and her friend in question comforted Locket and decided to be her company while they do so. Locket agreed, happily.

Sadly... you can't just trust anyone at all. Once they were alone, their life was taken by their friend, without remorse, shattering their metal and limbs, and Locket never knew why they did it at all. The friend on question ended up getting back with their group and...

All Locket knows is that they never searched for them.

Now Locket is a ghost. A ghost full of pain, sorrow, confusion and anger.

Years pass. She sees everyone that dares to come close to the place where she died as the one that took her life. A vengeful one if you will. Until, a group of objects changes that.

They manage to get her back on her mind. She can't still understand why, but it was probably because they didn't see them as a monster. They were just a scared ghost. No matter how filled up with anger they were.

The group decides to give Locket a new chance after time passes. A robot body. Locket accepts the offer, though her body was too deteriotated to have a reference of it anyway.

Locket changes their whole look as they built their new body. They even changed their name and such. They changed so much that the only thing that is truly left of their past are their very deteriorated memories.

But.

They're okay now. They're safe. They're still figuring out stuff, figuring themselves, getting used to the fact that they're not in danger anymore. That they can heal.

The Ghost is no longer singing The Blues.