#Control relay panel | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

vingtetunmars · 1 month ago

Text

Take a Hint

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader

Summary: You were only supposed to help Din Djarin with one bounty. But after the mission, you stuck around — teasing, flirting, testing the waters. He never reacted the way you hoped, always hiding behind practical words and stoic silence.

Or five times you thought Din was dense and one time you realized you were wrong.

Tags: Fluff, 5+1 things, miscommunication, SFW, Din Djarin is oblivious, he's trying his best, one sided, or is it???, idiots in love, protective Din Djarin, Din Djarin being soft (in his own way). No descriptions of reader. No mentions of Y/N.

A/N: I know it's a lot shorter than my other Din fanfic, but I hope you'll enjoy this one as well. If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

Word Count: 2.7k

masterlist

You stretched your arms above your head, letting out a sharp sigh as the bounty’s unconscious body thudded to the floor of the Razor Crest’s cargo hold.

“That’s one way to say job well done,” you muttered, brushing space dust from your jacket sleeve before slinking into the co-pilot’s chair.

Behind you, Din Djarin closed the ramp and began checking the carbonite chamber, ensuring the target was fully frozen and secure. He hadn’t spoken much since you reached the ship — not that he was ever particularly chatty — but you chalked that up to the Mando brand of "taciturn charm."

“Well, that was fun,” you said brightly, spinning halfway in the chair to face him. “You always do jobs this entertaining, or was this just to impress me?”

His helmet tilted slightly toward you. “It wasn’t supposed to be fun.”

“No? Shame. You looked pretty good out there.” You gave him a teasing grin and leaned back, resting your boots on the edge of the control panel.

He turned fully toward you now, helmet glinting in the light of hyperspace pre-jump. “You almost got shot.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t let that happen.” You pointed a finger at him, lazily. “Knight in shiny beskar and all that.”

“…I hired you for your recon work. That’s all.”

You shrugged. “Sure, Mando. I’m just saying, you throw a girl against a wall to shield her from a blaster bolt, she might start thinking you care.”

He walked past you to the cockpit, flicking switches like nothing had happened. “We leave in ten.”

You laughed under your breath and leaned back further, hands behind your head. “You’re cute when you pretend I don’t fluster you.”

No response. Just the cold silence of a man fully immersed in his pre-flight check.

Not even a head tilt this time.

You pursed your lips, then smirked.

Alright. That one might have been too subtle…for him.

But you weren’t going anywhere just yet.

You leaned against a stack of fuel canisters, watching Din as he crouched next to the hull of the Razor Crest, speaking low and serious with Peli Motto. Something about coolant lines or hyperdrive relays—you weren’t listening. Mostly because he’d taken off his gloves again, and there was something about watching his fingers flex against a piece of machinery that scrambled your thoughts like eggs on a Tatooine skillet.

Grogu was toddling near your feet, cooing up at you. You bent down and gave his ear a little scratch. “He’s lucky he’s got you, kid,” you said. “Shame you’re the only one in this partnership with any emotional intelligence.”

Grogu blinked at you slowly, then burbled in agreement. Or maybe hunger.

“Mando!” you called out, hopping off the crates and sauntering toward the ship. “Since we’re stuck in Mos Eisley for a bit… how about I buy you a drink?”

He didn’t even look up from where he was tightening something under the ship’s belly.

“No.”

You arched an eyebrow. “You sure? Could be a bonding moment.”

“No.”

You sighed, pushing your tongue against your cheek to hide the smile. “Are you afraid I’ll drink you under the table? Or that you’ll have fun?”

“I don’t drink on the job.”

“We’re not on a job,” you replied smoothly. “We’re in between. There’s a difference.”

He finally looked up at you, visor catching the Tatooine twin suns. “We don’t need to bond.”

You opened your mouth, but then shut it.

Instead, you gave a mock salute and walked off muttering, “Alright, Casanova, loud and clear.”

Later, you were helping Peli hook up a new motivator coil when she snorted and said, “You’re wasting your time, sweetheart.”

You turned your head. “Excuse me?”

“With him,” she nodded toward Din, who was now sitting on the ramp with Grogu in his lap, feeding him a little packet of something green and mushy. “You’ve been laying it on thicker than Bantha butter, and he’s just… nothing.”

You groaned, flopping back onto the sand beside her. “Is he dense, or just emotionally stunted?”

“Both,” Peli replied cheerfully. “Don’t take it personally. I’ve seen rancors with better romantic instincts.”

You covered your face with your hands. “Hopeless.”

“Yep.”

You peeked through your fingers, catching sight of Grogu now waddling toward you with food smeared across his mouth.

“Well,” you murmured, sitting up and letting him crawl into your lap, “at least one of them likes me.”

Peli patted your shoulder, greasy handprint and all. “That’s a start.”

The alley was narrow, the kind of cramped, shadowed crevice that smelled like rust and desperation. You ducked in first, tugging Din’s arm behind you just as blaster fire cracked against the duracrete wall.

“I told you that guy looked too twitchy to be a clean drop,” you hissed.

“You waited until we were already inside to tell me that,” Din replied, voice flat but calm as ever. You could practically hear the slight raise of his brow under the helmet.

“Call it a hunch,” you muttered.

Another volley of shots whizzed past, and Din shoved you further into the shadows. He followed in right after, pinning you both against the wall as the enemy patrol ran past. There was barely a breath between you. His arm was braced next to your head, his chest pressed fully against yours, armor cold even through your clothes.

You tilted your head up slowly, voice low. “You know, if you wanted me pressed up against you, Mando, you could’ve just asked.”

His helmet was angled so close you could see your own smirk reflected in the beskar.

“Stay quiet,” he said.

“That’s all you’re gonna say? Really?” You leaned in just a little, voice all honey and trouble. “No comment on the close quarters? The dim lighting? The way your knee is pressed against my—?”

“I said quiet.”

You let out a long, exaggerated sigh, head thudding back against the wall. “I’m just saying, most people would at least acknowledge the tension here.”

Din shifted his weight slightly, and you thought maybe—maybe—that you’d finally gotten through.

Instead, he pulled back just enough to glance outside the alley. “They’re gone. Let’s move.”

And then, just like that, the warmth of his body was gone, his cape brushing your arm as he slipped back into the light.

You stood there for a second longer, staring after him.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, jogging to catch up. “I was practically breathing pick-up lines in your face, and you gave me nothing. Not even a grunt.”

It had been a long day. The kind that sank into your bones and made even the air feel heavy.

The bounty had fought harder than expected, and Din had taken the brunt of it — bruised ribs, a split lip under the helmet, and a noticeable limp that he stubbornly refused to acknowledge.

Now, inside the dim hull of the Razor Crest, the silence between the two of you felt comfortable. Grogu was already asleep in his hammock, snoring softly like some tiny, ancient gremlin.

Din was sitting on the edge of the cot, working one-handed to undo a section of his chest plate. You noticed the stiffness in his shoulders, the way he winced every time he shifted his weight.

“Here,” you said gently, crossing the space to kneel in front of him. “Let me help.”

He started to protest, of course. “I’ve got it.”

You gave him a look, one you knew he could feel even if he couldn’t see your face. “I didn’t ask if you could. I said let me.”

He hesitated… and then let his hands drop.

Your fingers moved carefully, familiar now with the clasps and locks of his beskar. You worked slowly, undoing the armor piece by piece — chest plate, gauntlets, pauldrons — setting each one down beside you with reverence, like they mattered. Like he mattered.

His undershirt was dark with sweat and streaked with grime. You resisted the urge to reach for a cloth and clean him up. Instead, your hands hovered near the edge of his vambrace.

“You always take care of everyone else,” you said softly. “Let someone take care of you, just this once.”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then: “You don’t have to.”

“I know.” You smiled faintly, not looking up. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want to.”

You unlatched the vambrace slowly. His forearm tensed beneath your fingers, the bare skin warm.

He didn’t say anything to that. But he didn’t stop you, either.

When you finally looked up, you found his visor fixed squarely on you. The silence stretched between you like a held breath.

If he felt anything—warmth, tension, the way your fingers lingered against the edge of his wrist—he didn’t say.

Just a small nod.

And then: “Thank you.”

You nodded back, lips curled in the barest smile. “Anytime.”

You stood and walked past Grogu’s hammock, brushing a hand over his ears as you went.

From behind you, you could feel the weight of Din’s stare following you the whole way.

The Razor Crest creaked under the weight of frost, a low groan echoing through the hull as wind battered the exterior.

You were both grounded — a storm too thick to fly through and a bounty who was likely just as frozen as the damn planet. The heating system, true to its usual charm, had sputtered out three hours ago.

You were curled into yourself on the floor of the ship, back against the wall, arms wrapped tightly around your knees. Your jacket was decent, but nothing short of a portable sun was going to fight the kind of chill creeping into your bones.

Grogu was warm in his little insulated pod, snuggled deep in his blanket nest, occasionally letting out a snore.

Across the room, Din sat on a crate, sharpening one of his vibroblades like it was just any other night. No sign of discomfort. No sign he was feeling the same way your teeth were chattering.

You didn’t say anything. You weren’t sure if it was pride or exhaustion, but the silence stretched.

Until finally, without looking up, he spoke.

“You’re cold.”

“No kidding,” you muttered, breath puffing visibly in front of your face. “What gave it away? The blue lips or the full-body shiver?”

He didn’t rise to the sarcasm. Instead, he reached into the compartment behind him and pulled out a heavy, worn blanket.

“Come here,” he said, scooting to the edge of the crate and patting the space beside him.

You blinked at him. “You’re inviting me to share body heat?”

“Purely practical.”

You snorted as you stood, dragging yourself over. “Right. Not because you enjoy my company or anything ridiculous like that.”

He didn’t answer, just opened the blanket as you sat down beside him.

It was warmer than you expected. His armor had retained some heat, and beneath it, his body was a furnace. The blanket went around both of you, his arm loosely draped behind your shoulders to keep it up.

The silence settled again.

Then, a little softer: “Better?”

You tilted your head toward him. “If I said no, would you let me shove my hands under your shirt?”

He didn’t so much as flinch. “No.”

You laughed, but it was quiet. Tired. The kind of laugh that cracked into something tender. You leaned your head against his shoulder, your voice dropping low.

“...Thanks, Din.”

He didn’t say anything. But you felt it — the shift. A subtle lean into you. The way his fingers adjusted the blanket more tightly around you both.

And then Grogu stirred in his pod, peeking out, blinking at the sight of you nestled together. He blinked once. Twice. And let out a soft, amused coo.

You met his gaze with a smirk.

You stopped calling him Din.

Not on purpose. It just… slipped away.

It had started subtly: the teasing softened, the smiles dimmed. You kept your hands to yourself more, kept your jokes to Grogu instead. You still worked with Din, still followed him into the fire and out again, but the space between you felt wider than it ever had.

And maybe it was for the best.

Maybe you'd crossed a line, misread something. Maybe your flirting had made him uncomfortable, and he was too kind—or too stoic—to say it outright.

You hadn’t realized how much it hurt to pull away until you were halfway across a frozen plain, following behind him in silence, and he didn’t say a word about the wind biting at your skin.

He always offered the blanket before. Always stood just a little closer.

Now?

Nothing.

You tried to tell yourself it was fine. You were fine. You weren’t here to fall in love with a man who never showed his face. You were here because you wanted to be.

You didn’t expect him to care.

Then one night, as the ship drifted through hyperspace and Grogu was snoring softly in his hammock, Din stood in the middle of the hull, hands loose at his sides. Watching you.

“Why are you avoiding me?” he asked.

You blinked from where you sat on your bunk, caught mid-polishing your blaster. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

You looked down. “I just figured maybe I was… pushing too much. Saying things I shouldn’t have. Being… flirty.” The word stung coming out of your mouth. “Didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

There was a long pause. You expected silence. Maybe a brush-off. But instead:

“You weren’t.”

You glanced up. He stepped closer, the quiet clink of his armor unusually loud in the quiet. “I thought you knew.”

“Knew what?”

He hesitated, then said carefully, “I was flirting back.”

You blinked. “You what?”

He tilted his head. “You remember the first job? When we caught that bounty together, and I told you to leave right after?”

You nodded slowly.

“I made sure you got a full share. Paid for your passage off-world. Protected you during the shootout. I don’t do that for strangers.”

You swallowed. “That’s not—”

“And on Tatooine,” he cut in, voice quiet but firm. “You asked me to bond over a drink. I told you we didn’t need to bond.”

You furrowed your brow. “Exactly. You turned me down.”

“No,” he said. “I said, ‘We don’t need to bond.’ What I meant was—we already do. I didn’t think I needed more than what we had.”

Your mouth opened, then closed.

“In the alley,” he continued, stepping even closer, “when I had you pinned against the wall… You think I didn’t want that? That I wasn’t aware of how close we were?”

You felt your pulse jump.

“I wanted it,” he said simply. “I just couldn’t say it then. Couldn’t risk you thinking it was anything less than mutual.”

You sat up straighter, the air tight in your lungs.

He took another step, now close enough that you could feel the shift of his weight. “When you helped me take off my armor… I don’t let anyone do that. No one touches it. No one touches me.”

“Din—”

“And the blanket? On the ice planet?” His voice gentled. “That wasn’t practical. That was me finding the only excuse I had to hold you. To make sure you were okay.”

Your heart thundered in your chest.

“I thought I was being clear,” he said, finally. “But I guess I’m not great at… this.”

You blinked rapidly, trying to catch up. “You… you’ve been flirting this whole time?”

“As much as I know how to.”

There was a beat of silence.

And then, softly—warmly—he added, “So. You gonna keep pulling away? Or are we finally gonna admit we’ve been on the same page since the beginning?”

You stood, moving toward him until you were close enough to touch his chestplate.

“You could’ve said something.”

“I just did.”

You smiled, helpless and stunned. “Guess we’re both kind of hopeless.”

His hand brushed your arm, hesitant but deliberate. “Maybe. But not anymore.”

And just like that, all the quiet tension between you—weeks of half-meant jokes and unspoken affection—finally settled into something real. Something shared.

Not lost in translation anymore.

#kar's fics ☆#din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin fluff #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin fic #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin #the mandalorian #grogu #mandalorian x reader #pedro pascal

473 notes · View notes

a2remedy · 4 months ago

Text

DPXDC Prompt #9- Date Night at Cadmus

Batman couldn’t help his irritation with his hands being slapped away again from the control panel of a Cadmus base- or at least, a supposed partnership with a government division referred to as the GIW by his assailant’s muttering.

Tim and Dick relayed they were in position as the man around his age's hand still from the bag he rummaged in. He pushed Batman away as he drove a taser-like device into the computer, setting it aglow with electricity. The power went out in seconds, and a flash drive was tossed his way.

Danny, retired from the vigilante life and living out his days as a full-time engineer and single dad, had heard of the GIW returning when Dani came home with a blaster wound from her patrol.

Things have been peaceful since Amity Parkers and ghosts co-existed. He wasn’t about to have the next generation deal with his problems. It was the perfect time to test out the ecto-vaccum he had made, even if it did develop a mouth and hunger for the damn thing. He swung his bag over his shoulder and tossed a copy of the info the edgy hunk’s way.

“Come along, hot stuff. We got some work to do.” At least this way, he could keep Batman from getting himself killed. He could overhear the collective of younger voices gagging on the other end of the man’s communicator as he walked past.

Hey, who said he couldn’t get a potential date while he’s at it?

#dpxdc #dc x dp crossover #danny phantom #ghost king danny #batfam #danny is a little shit #batman #Vigilante x Ex-Vigilante #GIVE ME THE DADS #spirit halloween

589 notes · View notes

iraprince · 8 months ago

Text

INITIALIZING..... OSSUARY RELAY ACTIVE......CLEAR SOUL TETHER KNITTING......ERROR. RETRYING..... USER: [GLAIVE] NOT FOUND. CURRENT TETHER POINT: UNIDENTIFIED USER ACCESSING OCULAR FEED.....CLEAR ACCESSING AURICULAR FEED.....CLEAR [UNIDENTIFIED USER] "Omigod. Did that actually work?" [UNIDENTIFIED USER] "Omigod. Omigod. Did I just put a bunch of dead people in my eyeball. Oh, shit. Ohhhh. Fuck!"

xxx

necrotech99, an interactive quest, is now live! exact content warnings pending, but necrotech99 is 18+ and will likely contain nsfw and gore/body horror.

FAQ/quest primer for new readers below cut!

Q. ira this website fucking looks like 4chan A. yeah i know i'm sorry. it's not Q. okay so what is this A. it's a quest, which is kind of like an interactive webcomic, or like a forum game, or like a tabletop roleplay where everyone is controlling one character (at a time), or maybe like something completely different from that Q. how do i play? A. leave suggestions in the thread to help collectively guide the story with your fellow readers! suggestions are posted using this input field at the top of the thread page:

and, a final note on a quality of life thing that isn't very intuitive: all the quest's panels can be expanded to full size by either clicking "expand all images" at the top of the thread, or individually by clicking the blue .png hyperlink above each image, NOT clicking the images themselves (which just opens the images in a new tab for some reason)

#my art #my ocs #fractal quests #necrotech99

640 notes · View notes

woradat · 1 month ago

Text

SCENARIO: Hall of Record (1/2)

PAIRING – sentinel prime, airachnid, orion pax, d-16 x reader (bonus darkwing)

NOTE – please be informed that scenario-chapter is just an additional part/story that this expands on the HALL OF RECORD (one-shot) not a full series and this might come out a bit weird and a little out of character? I don't know. I wrote this fic with three lattes shot and a lot of confusion, so enjoy?

and you can tell who my fav is. I'm a little biased here

O r i o n P a x

The sound of the metal door—untouched for what might as well have been an eon—whined softly as it scraped against its timeworn track. The hinges gave a creak like an old archivist waking from a nap, cranky and reluctant, groaning at being disturbed after centuries of peace. It was a small sound, really. Barely louder than the low thrum of power conduits far down the hall

But to him, it was the sound of trespass

Orion Pax stepped inside as if the shadows might bite

Faint cerulean light dripped from ancient overhead strips, casting the corridor in the sort of glow usually reserved for ghost stories or forgotten secrets. The deepest level of the archive—the forbidden floor, shuttered by Sentinel before Orion had even existed—still exhaled softly beneath its shroud of dust and disuse. It felt less like entering a room, more like entering a memory that didn’t want to be remembered. He moved like a student sneaking into the dean’s office—half-curious, half-sure he’d regret it

His fingers grazed the edge of a shelf, careful not to disturb the decades of quiet. Or the dust. Especially the dust. It looked like it had unionized

“The Matrix…"

He murmured under his breath, blue optics catching the faint shimmer of dormant holograms “There has to be something here. A record. A clue. Anything” He leaned down, reaching for the ancient relay socket at the base of the console—

“Trigger that, and you’ll wake the whole sound grid"

The voice came from behind him. Calm. Dry. Unhurried. The sort of tone one used when catching a cat burglar who clearly forgot to check for traps. Orion flinched hard enough to rattle a few data shelves and spun around on his feet

You stood there, half-veiled in the shadow of a pillar—taller than he expected, posture relaxed, like someone who’d been waiting for him to trip the sensor just for fun. The faint light from your data reader bounced off your optics, revealing a gaze far too unsurprised to belong to a stranger

It wasn’t your first time sneaking in

“Who are you?”

He asked, voice low but edged with a kind of jumpy defiance. His hand inched toward the nearby control panel—not so much in defense as in that universal gesture of ‘I might make this worse but I’ll do something, I swear'

You didn’t answer right away

Instead, you let out a breath. You sighed—the long-suffering kind. Then tilted your head and gave him a look that could only be described as academic disappointment. You looked at him the way a librarian might regard a wayward patron using a sacred first edition as a coaster

“The better question is: what exactly are you doing here?”

“This isn’t a tourist wing. No one's supposed to be down here. Not unless you're a glitch in the system or a Prime in disguise" Your optics flicked over him like a scanner on autopilot—dusty fingers, light frame, and most telling of all: the cavity at his chest. Empty. No transformation cog. No fancy upgrades

A miner

Your field didn’t spike, didn’t flinch. Just took it in with the sort of ease that said: "Ah. One of those"

He bristled. Just slightly

“And what about you?” He countered, trying for defiance but landing somewhere closer to awkwardly offended “You’re not supposed to be here either… right?”

You smiled then. Not the friendly kind. The kind that curled at one corner like a page in a too-old book “Smart enough…” you said, arching an optic ridge

“For someone who leaves the ventilation hatch wide open while sneaking in"

He snuck into the archives more than once—and more than once, he stumbled into you. Neither of you had the right to be there. You both knew it. But you never sent him away and though you pretended not to care, you always watched him—always

Orion was like a flicker of flame brushing through the ashes inside you. A dreamer, yes—but not a fool. Funny, but never dismissive of history. Stubborn, but when you spoke, he truly listened. He wasn’t like anyone you'd met since the age of the Thirteen

He wasn't afraid to ask stupid questions and he wasn’t afraid of you. You often looked at him with a weary kind of exasperation, the sort reserved for someone who should know better. But he always laughed when you snapped at him, as if the weight of silence in the archive had never once touched him

You told him once—by accident more than intention

The air between you had been dusted with a kind of trust you hadn’t felt in countless cycles. A quiet ease. The sort that hadn’t truly touched you since the age of the Thirteen faded into ash

Orion Pax—a randomly-forged miner with far too much hope and far too little support—was the sort to chase impossibilities like they were his rightful inheritance. He reached too far, spoke too loudly, and stood too often where no one asked him to. And yet, he never stopped. Not even when they laughed

“..I used to be Alpha Trion’s aide”

you said, voice quieter than you expected

He froze. Then—almost immediately—he dropped down beside you, like the truth might vanish if he didn’t plant himself right there, fast enough to catch it. Surprise widened his optics, but so did something else—recognition. The name Alpha Trion carried weight: Scholar. Sage. Keeper of knowledge

“Really? I’ve heard of him, but it was always more like… like a myth—”

“It does sound like a story, doesn’t it?”

You gave a faint huff of laughter, more memory than mirth “But I was there. I walked the Hall of Records with the Primes themselves — I once transcribed battle doctrines meant to change the course of the war. I was Alpha Trion’s eyes. His ears”

“And now?” You gestured vaguely, as if your current state explained itself “..Now I’m ‘Advisor to the Prime’ Sentinel’s pet title”

“Sounds good on a datafile, doesn’t it?”

You let your gaze drift toward the ceiling “But it’s a cage. He doesn’t want my counsel—just my silence. He doesn't want me asking, no more. He says it’s time to let go of the past"

Your voice dipped on that last sentence, quieter than even you meant it to be. Beside you, Orion slowly set his hand—close to yours. Not touching. Not yet. But close enough for the intent to be felt

“So… what will you do?”

“How long will you let him keep you quiet?”

You looked back at the desk. Scattered with restricted data slates—salvaged from sealed archives. A few of which you had, perhaps, allowed him to read. Just fragments

Maybe, in some strange way, you weren’t so different from him after all. You’d slipped away whenever the chance arose. Found your way back into old vaults that should’ve been wiped from the map. You’d pulled truth from the edges of erasure, and hidden it in places no one else would look. In hopes someone, anyone—would find it. Someday

You smiled “It’s not like I’ve been sitting still"

He laughed—low and warm, like it lived in his chest “I think I’m starting to like you”

“No! I mean, I like it when you.. don’t just stay still!” You rolled your optics, but couldn’t hide the fact that the corner of your mouth twitched into a smile as well

“You gonna record me, then?”

“–If I ever turn into something important?”

You stared at him. Long enough for him to shift his weight, then chuckle—awkward and a little sheepish

“Kidding. I know someone like me doesn’t exactly scream historically relevant—”

“Please. I’ve been archiving you every days, spark-for-brains” You cut him off, tone dry, but softer than your usual “And if you ever do become something important… I’ll be the one to write that story. Properly. With footnotes”

He blinked — You didn’t smile–but your optics said enough

D – I6

The underground quarters of the labor miners weren’t much to look at

Concrete walls, low ceilings, overhead conduits that flickered as if sighing with age. Everything smelled faintly of rust and recycled air. It was the sort of place where voices fell flat against the metal and hope tended to decay faster than the tools on the racks. No one expected anything new to walk in and yet—one day, Orion Pax brought someone with him. Not a supervisor. Not a guard. Not an auditor sent from the upper halls

But you. You, who walked in with a step just slow enough to take in the room

Not cautious, exactly—but composed. Observing. Weighing. Like you had done this far too many times, and were still waiting to be surprised. D-16 recognized you before you even spoke. He had never heard your name—not officially. There were no public briefings with your designation, no files that reached the lower sectors. But he had seen you. On every state broadcast, every emergency address, every ceremonial function where Sentinel Prime spoke before the world. You were always there—never in front, but never far like the shadow just behind the throne

Orion had mentioned, in passing, that you had once served beneath the Thirteen themselves. The statement had sounded so absurd at the time—like someone claiming to have dined with myths. But now, standing a few meters from you in the dim half-light, D-16 wasn’t laughing

He swallowed. Then, before his mind could interfere with his mouth— “Did you… really meet Megatronus Prime?”

The words tumbled out like gravel down a mine shaft—too loud, too fast, and entirely unrehearsed

Immediately, he stood straighter. As if trying to fold the question back into his body by sheer posture. His arms snapped to his sides, shoulders tense, expression schooled into impassivity. But even a casual observer would’ve noticed how the plates at his spine had locked up stiff, and how his field—normally tight and subdued—now bristled with mortified awareness

Orion, standing nearby, shot him a sidelong look that all but screamed Seriously and pressed his mouth into a thin line, clearly biting back laughter. His field buzzed with that particular kind of amusement only friends could afford

But you didn’t look offended

You simply turned to D-16 with a slow, deliberate grace. One optic ridge lifted in mild surprise, not mockery. The look you gave him was not one of superiority—but memory. And something just shy of sorrow, your gaze slow and precise, like someone turning over an ancient page

“I didn’t think I’d hear that name spoken aloud” you said, voice soft and even “Not in this era. At least”

Something in the way you said it made the air feel older. D-16 opened his mouth to respond—then overcompensated entirely

“I— I mean, I respect him. Megatronus. I really do. Not that I don’t respect the other Primes! I do! It’s just—his power, it was… I mean, the records say he was beyond classification. Singular”

He said it all in one breath, like pulling off a bandage, or confessing something shameful. The words just stumbled out faster than he could polish them, tumbling over one another in a mess of admiration and awkward intensity. For someone usually so reserved, the enthusiasm betrayed him utterly — The silence that followed was so complete it could have been scripted. Orion exhaled sharply through his nose. If he’d had something to throw, he probably would’ve thrown it. But you—

You just laughed

Quiet. Warm. Deep. A sound dredged up from beneath centuries of dust, as if even your voice had forgotten how to smile “You’re the first to say his name with that kind of light in your optics since the fall”

“If Megatronus could hear you now, he’d probably be baffled that he’s become some kind of hero to miners” You tilted your helm, smiling just a little “Though, honestly, I’m not surprised”

D-16 looked like he wanted the floor to collapse beneath him. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, trying to will away the flush creeping across his faceplates. But then—your voice shifted. Quieter now. Calmer

“I stood beside him. Yes”

You didn’t elaborate immediately. You let the weight of that admission settle, like dust returning to a long-forgotten shelf

“Not as a disciple” you said, after a moment “But as a witness”

D-16 froze. Not just with reverence, but intent. His posture didn’t just still—it listened “Was he really like the stories?”

You didn’t answer at first

Your optics drifted upward, tracing the long silver line of a power conduit above, but your vision reached far beyond it. You were looking back—through wars and ages, through the collapse of dynasties and the silence left behind “He was strong"

“Of course he was. But that’s not what stayed with me” Your gaze returned to him. You didn’t look at D-16 like he was a soldier or a worker—you looked at him like someone who had just asked the right question “What I remember most… was the way he shielded the weak. The way he stood between them and harm like he was born to carry the weight of their world, and never once questioned if it was too heavy..”

Silence again. But not a heavy one this time

A reverent, holding sort of quiet. Then, you stepped closer—not imposing, but deliberate. Your optics met his without flinching “If you want to walk his path…”

“Don’t begin with your fists, begin with what you’d give your life to protect”

You weren’t surprised that Orion kept returning to the old archive. He was persistent like that—drawn to lost records and locked doors the way some bots were drawn to light. What did surprise you, however, was that he started bringing D-16 with him. Not just once. Not as a fluke. But again. And again

Each time, the miner sat with his back straight, posture stiff as if the room itself required reverence. He never touched anything without permission. His focus was unwavering—his questions, clear and concise. Never a wasted word. At first, he spoke like someone walking on thin ice. Awkward, hesitant. Always respectful. And always—always—his questions were about Megatronus

“Did Megatronus ever overrule the other Primes?”— “Is it true he once fought a Quintesson with his bare hands?”– “What did his voice sound like?”

It was always about him in the beginning. D-16 would ask you to recount field notes not available in the public archives. He’d ask what Megatronus thought during the final war—what moved him, what held him back. And you told him. You told him everything you remembered. You spoke of war. Of victories. Of moments carved from metal and memory. You even told him how Megatronus once pulled you bodily from the battlefield—without hesitation

But then—quietly, gradually—his questions began to change. They grew softer. Slower. Less historical. He started asking about you instead. At first, you hardly noticed the shift. His voice was steady, his tone still careful. But the pattern had changed. His curiosity had turned inward—toward the storyteller rather than the story and you realized, one day, mid-sentence— You were no longer recounting the past. You were being recorded into it

He hummed

A low, thoughtful sound—less an answer than a pause, a space carved out to think, to consider. The kind of sound someone makes when they’re weighing the ground beneath them before taking a step they can’t take back and then, it came. The question.

Delivered with the kind of casualness that only made it more obvious

“And—did you… ever have anyone? Back then. During the wars" His voice caught near the end, like the question had tripped over its own boots on the way out

Your optics lifted from the datapad slowly. Not sharply. Just… knowingly “Anyone?"

It was a simple word, but layered with intent. You weren’t asking for clarification. You were asking if he knew what he was really asking

He immediately straightened his posture—a move so sudden it bordered on mechanical. Which was impressive, considering his spine had already been stiff enough to pass for reinforced alloy “I mean—allies. Or comrades. People you… trusted. Fought beside..”

The correction tumbled out like bricks falling into place—too neatly, too fast. His words tried to anchor the moment back into neutral ground, but the field around him betrayed him. It had shifted—subtly, but unmistakably. That buzz of restraint pulsing just a little too sharply at the edges. You didn’t respond right away. Didn’t reach for sarcasm. Didn’t turn away.

You simply let the silence sit between you—undisturbed, like dust in a sealed room “I had those” you said, voice low, level. A truth you’d long since polished smooth from memory “And more..”

That did it. The datapad nearly slipped from his fingers—just slightly, just enough. He caught it without looking, reflexes honed from years in the mines, but his control faltered for a breath. Long enough for you to feel the ripple of heat in his field. Not embarrassment. Something quieter. More sincere

he muttered “Right, of course- makes sense”

His optics stayed locked forward, trained on some far-off point just above the floor. Nowhere near you. Nowhere dangerous. And after a moment that pulsed like a heartbeat— He said it – So softly it barely left his frame “I think… I’d like to be one of them.”

The words didn’t echo

They didn’t need to

They settled into the room like something that had been waiting a long time to be said. You turned to him slowly

Not with surprise. Not with mockery. But with something gentler. Quieter. As though he'd just offered you a piece of himself he wasn’t used to sharing—and didn’t yet know if he should regret it. He didn’t meet your gaze. Couldn’t. But you noticed the tight line of his jaw. The slight tension in his servos. The way his shoulders rose—just enough to brace against whatever answer you might give and his field—normally so disciplined—was frayed at the edges. A flicker of static in his composure. Like a transmission that wanted to say more but didn’t know how. You didn’t press — Didn’t tease. Just… watched him, the way one watches something rare and very carefully offered, without changing your tone, you smiled. Not the kind of smile meant to reassure. But the kind that held memory in its corners. That knew what it meant to be seen

“Then start by asking better questions” you said, voice low—carrying more warmth than he probably knew what to do with “I might even answer them”

The corner of his mouth twitched. Barely. But it was there. Not quite a smile. Not yet

But close

You hadn’t said it like a joke. You hadn’t said it to dismiss him. You said it like you meant it. Like there really was a door, just slightly open, and all he had to do was reach and that—that was dangerous

Because he wanted to. He wanted to know more. About you. Not just the archive, not just your history, not just what you’d seen. You. The way your voice changed when you spoke of memories that mattered. The way your optics drifted skyward when you thought no one noticed. The way you never laughed at his awkwardness—only… watched. Quietly. Kindly. Like it didn’t bother you at all

He let his helm rest against the wall

Shut his optics

Let out a slow vent

He shouldn’t get caught up in it. He knew that. He was a miner. A worker. Just another cogless bot trying to survive and you… You were memory incarnate — You carried wars and wisdom in your voice. You stood beside Primes. You remembered gods.

What business did he have wanting to be remembered by you?

But still—under all that logic, that silence, that self-restraint— His spark pulsed just a little faster

S e n t i n e l P r i m e

The corridor stretched long and silent, wrapped in a hush that felt too deliberate to be natural—like a room holding its breath

Ancient murals loomed on either side, half-lit by overhead glowpanels designed to mimic the old morninglight of pre-war Cybertron. Each image painted a different fragment of the same sacred lie: unity, strength, unbroken lineage. The brushstrokes were delicate, reverent, rendered by artists who had believed the Primes were eternal. Immortal. Immutable.

You moved through that quiet with hands folded neatly behind your back, each step measured, silent. You had walked this wing hundreds of times before. Cataloged each pigment, each artisan’s mark, each brittle metadata layer coded beneath the paint. But now—even the images you knew by spark felt… remote. Like they belonged to someone else’s story. Your gaze paused at a depiction of Solus Prime—tall, radiant, her forge-hammer glowing in the cradle of creation. But the dataplate had been changed: “Commissioned in honor of the Divine Reconstruction”

Reconstruction?

That plate hadn’t been there last cycle..

Your hands clenched slightly behind your back, jaw tightened. Then—footsteps. Not hurried. Not stealthy. Just… assured. You didn’t need to turn. The rhythm was unmistakable

“You always did prefer this wing”

The voice came soft—too soft. Like an echo meant to blend in with the art.

“The lighting’s better here” you replied evenly “Less curated”

Sentinel Prime’s presence filled the space behind them long before his frame did. His silhouette—massive, statuesque, lined with cold gold filigree—moved into view with all the ease of a king inspecting his garden. But his steps were quiet. Thoughtful. He approached not like a ruler claiming ground, but like a memory creeping forward on quiet feet.

“I remember” he said, now beside you

His tone was warm. Familiar. Intentionally gentle “You used to drag me here to correct plaques. Spent hours lecturing me on timeline deviations”

“I let you talk. You do know that, don’t you?”

Your optics flicked toward him, then back to the mural “I wasn’t lecturing”

“You were” he said, smiling “But you were right. Mostly” His voice was lower now, quiet enough to ripple through the stillness like heat. He was standing just close enough for his shadow to graze the edges of your frame

You turned toward him at last. Slowly. He was tall. Too tall. The kind of height that once symbolized protection—but now only loomed. You wasn’t small, not by any Cybertronian standard, but beside him, you looked like something meant to be set aside. Kept behind glass. Preserved “That didn’t stop you from rewriting it all”

His smile twitched. Only slightly

“Things change”

“Convenient”

“I’m not here to argue”

“You never are” The space between them was thick with old familiarity, but strained now—like a song slowed half a beat too long, dissonant where it once sang in sync

“I miss when we used to talk” Sentinel said, his voice thinning with a note too careful to be casual “Real talk. You—challenged me”

“so I’m still here”

“You just don’t like the shape of the challenge anymore” He moved a little closer. Not to dominate. But to surround

“You don’t have to fight me..”

“I’m not fighting. I’m resisting. There’s a difference”

His expression shifted—only slightly. Not quite hurt. Not quite angered. But something beneath the surface moved “Then stop resisting” he said, barely above a whisper “Let me in again”

The words hung too heavy in the air

You turned to face him fully now, field flickering slightly—not with fear, but warning “You’re not asking me to let you in. You’re asking me to comply. To pretend none of this happened. That this mural, and the hundreds of others like it, still mean the same thing”

A long pause. Then—quieter “You want me to become part of the illusion..”

He didn’t deny it. Instead, his field pulsed faintly outward—magnetic, warm, intentional. The kind of closeness that might’ve once felt like comfort. But now only pressed too much, too close “I never wanted to lose you in this”

“Out of all bot, not you”

The words were too tender. Too particular

And you heard it — The inflection. That little fracture of emotion that didn’t belong in a public address. That wasn’t meant for a former archivist. That—if left unchecked—would lead to something harder to survive “Then you shouldn’t have replaced everything we stood for”

Silence

He didn’t step away. Not yet. But his gaze lowered just slightly. Not in defeat—but in the careful weighing of what he couldn’t control and just before leaving, Sentinel said—so quiet it barely moved the air “You don’t have to be the last relic of the past, you could be part of what's next”

“There's still a place for you, beside me”

Then he turned. The shadows swallowed him slowly, step by step, until only the lingering hum of his field remained—warm, familiar, and unbearably wrong. You remained there, surrounded by murals of rewritten myths and stories you no longer recognized, stared up at Solus Prime one last time. And for the first time in cycles…

You couldn’t remember what color her optics had been before Sentinel repainted her

You had always wondered—quietly, carefully—why the miners had no T-Cogs. Why these workers–those newborns, forged strong and silent beneath the surface of Cybertron, lacked the very thing that made transformation possible.But it was only ever a question left unspoken. Not because you lacked curiosity—but because you knew Sentinel would never answer you

And so speculation took root. Not in accusation, not yet. Just quiet observation—hypotheses formed in the hush between truths, the kind no one dared to say aloud. Still, you didn’t want to believe it. You couldn’t. Surely not even Sentinel could be that cruel, could he? Or at least, that’s what you told yourself. Until you could see it with your own optics

He treated you much the same as he always had. The teasing still lingered in his voice, familiar as a memory. The smiles came easily, often too easily—warmer than necessary, threaded now with a tension you couldn’t name. He could have just wiped you off. Silenced you. Replaced you. But instead, he kept you close. Closer than before. You told yourself it was strategy. Easier to watch you. Easier to contain

But perhaps, just perhaps— he couldn’t bear to let you go. Perhaps Sentinel had drawn you so deep into the architecture of his world that the thought of ruling it without you — felt incomplete, dangerous, like failure. And so, in every public address, every state broadcast and ceremonial decree, when he stepped into the light and into the eye of the world— you were always there. Not to speak. Not to challenge. Not to stand as an equal. But simply to stand. Beside him as if that alone would be enough. And it was. That’s all he needed. For the new age he ruled to begin—with you still in it

The plaza had been remade—not merely rebuilt, but reborn for this very moment. Steel arches arced overhead like the fossilized ribs of a long-dead colossus, burnished to a gleam beneath the planetary sun. Between them hung banners of deep cobalt, stitched in gold thread so fine it caught the light like fire

THE ERA OF CONTINUITY, they read

Beneath that, the unmistakable crest of Sentinel Prime—repeated, mirrored, multiplied across every surface like a sigil of divine right. A thousand optics turned as he emerged onto the marble dais. Flanked by honor guard. Flanked by silence.

And flanked by them — You followed exactly half a step behind, as protocol required—close enough to signify loyalty, far enough to signify subordination, your frame was immaculate under the precision lighting, each panel polished, each edge adorned with ceremonial filigree. Upon your chestplate gleamed the freshly-forged insignia of Principal Historical Advisor to the Prime—a title announced only a cycle prior, yet already murmured through the chambers of power like scripture passed hand to hand

Sentinel raised a hand

The plaza obeyed

“My fellow citizens of Iacon” his voice unfurled like silk over steel—calm, crystalline, unyielding “today marks not only remembrance—but restoration. A new page. A unified future”

He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to. His voice carried like gravity—inevitable, inescapable

Behind him, you held your stance with exquisite poise, expression serene, the curve of lips calibrated to precision—not warmth, not joy, but symmetry. The kind of smile meant for monuments, not mouths. You weren’t unrecognizable. You had merely become… curated — A fixture, flourish

“In every age of transformation” Sentinel continued “we must reach not only toward innovation—but to those who hold the lineage of wisdom. And so, I walk forward with those who once stood beside the Primes themselves” He turned—just slightly—enough to cast the gesture like a flourish of choreography, an artist unveiling his favorite piece “My advisor. My historian. My conscience”

Applause

You bowed, flawlessly. An angle measured. A nod practiced

“They remind me—daily—that the past is not to be erased, but honored”

And that, you thought behind your perfect smile, is what a lie sounds like when it wears poetry for armor

The crowd didn’t know. Couldn’t know

They didn’t see the redacted records, the vanishing cross-references, the warped timelines spliced together like a forgery passed off as scripture. But you did, knew every phrase pre-approved for the interview after this, knew which questions to feign surprise at, which answers to lace in ambiguity, which smiles to hold half a second longer—for the press, for the pose, for the pageantry

When the mic was passed to you, you spoke clearly. Without tremor “It is my privilege, to ensure that the light of Cybertron’s past still guides our steps. We move forward… not in forgetfulness, but in reverence”

The voice did not falter. But behind your back, fingers curled

Just slightly

You could feel him watching. Not with threat. Not with command. But with the kind of gaze one reserves for polished statues—an artifact restored, admired, and displayed. He stepped closer. Just enough for proximity to read as intimacy to the cameras drone. Just enough to veil the weight behind the words “That was beautifully said” he murmured

You didn’t even look at him “I know”

“You still surprise me sometimes”

“I shouldn’t”

He laughed. Quietly. It sounded like warmth. But you knew the tone was forged from pressure. You just smiled again— for the cameras, for the world, for the lie. All the while counting the seconds until they could shed this costume of allegiance—

and return to silence. To truth. To records that hadn't yet been rewritten

The applause hadn’t faded. Not truly

Even as the final words of the speech dissolved into the crisp evening air, even as the recording lights dimmed and flickered out, the plaza still thrummed with the afterglow of orchestrated pride. A thousand optics shimmered with patriotic sheen. The banners above caught the wind like the sails of a sanctified warship—reborn, rebranded

Sentinel turned slightly as they stepped from the marble dais. His hand extended—not in earnest assistance, but in something more… choreographed. Just close enough to suggest warmth. Just distant enough to deny obligation

You did not take it. You descended with mechanical grace, each movement refined to ceremony, smile remained a studied curve, not a flicker out of place, electromagnetic field was wound tight, compressed close to frame—static-thick, airtight. But Sentinel didn’t retract. He adjusted A beat. A breath. Then he fell into step beside them. One hand still positioned loosely at their back—not touching, not quite, but present. Suggesting

“You handled that perfectly” he murmured, voice pitched just for them—an intimate register dressed in silk “Even that line about reverence” he added, with a glint behind his words “It almost moved me”

“I was quoting your own speech, from six cycles ago. You just don’t remember”

He laughed—quiet, indulgent “That’s why I keep you close”

His hand settled lightly at the small of your back. A touch that, from a distance, would read as fondness. Dignified. United. Photogenic. The Prime and his trusted advisor—a tableau of loyalty

You didn’t recoil. But felt it. The message in the weight of it. The duration. The confidence. The performance. You tilted your head a fraction—not a glare, not yet, but a signal

“You’re taking liberties” you said, voice sheathed in quiet silk. A murmur passed as jest—but honed like a blade

“I’m taking advantage of optics” Sentinel countered, unapologetic “That’s what this office demands” He leaned just slightly toward you, as if confiding something lighthearted. The angle of his smile curled with practiced ease “Besides” he added, almost inaudible beneath the hum of the crowd “if I wanted to take liberties… I’d be far less subtle”

Your optics slid toward him — Sharp. Unblinking. Glacial “Then it’s fortunate, that subtlety suits you. It keeps your hands clean”

He didn’t respond immediately

Let the silence grow roots. Let the proximity say what words couldn’t. Then, with the grace of a ruler accustomed to applause, he stepped ahead. Half a pace. Reclaiming the lead. Shoulders squared. Expression unblemished. A portrait of command. A symbol of benevolent strength. Behind him, you followed. Impeccably. Your smile still worn like enamel. Uncracked

The drone captured the moment—the Prime descending the steps, his advisor close at his side. A soft brush of proximity. A glance. A smile. Unspoken trust. Unshakable partnership. A unity sculpted for the archives

You kept the pace

Matched the image

“You don’t want me. You made that clear from the beginning”

“No” he said, softer, took a step closer now “I said I could no longer have you in the same way”

Unmasked. Unarmored. No shield of title, no pageantry of power. You’d forgotten how tall he was. Or perhaps he had been refitted—Prime-forged and sculpted for presence. It hardly mattered. What mattered was how close he stood now, and how easily someone like him could end you if he wanted to. One strike. One breath

And yet — He never had. Not once. Not with force. Not with violence. He wasn’t that kind of tyrant

“You were a pillar” he said, voice slow, deliberate “Unshakable. I relied on that. Trusted in it”

“But this world—my world—has no place for things that do not change” His tone was not cruel. It was… sorrowful. Almost reverent. The voice of someone delivering last rites to something sacred “That doesn’t mean I wanted to break you”

“You’re the last piece of a world that made me who I was”

A i r a c h n i d

The hallway this time was brighter

Wider. Less suited to shadows, and yet—still quiet enough for things to go unnoticed

You stood near the polished threshold of a secondary archive chamber—one of the newer annexes built under Sentinel's regime. The walls were smooth. Unscuffed. Sterile in a way that felt unnatural, like something grown in a vacuum instead of history. Every surface gleamed too perfectly. Nothing here had aged yet. Nothing here had memory. You scrolled slowly through the contents of a datapad—not reading, not truly. Just moving. Optics skating over headlines, edit trails, deleted citation links. The silence here was curated. Sculpted

You weren’t here for the records

You were waiting

And right on cue “You're early today”

The voice arrived like a brush of silk through charged air. Smooth. Deliberate. It always was. Familiar now—but still edged like a knife’s smile. You didn’t look up immediately, didn’t have to

You already knew who it was

Airachnid was leaning against the terminal bank, as though she’d been there since the system powered on. One hip balanced lightly against the edge, arms folded, posture relaxed—but not truly at rest. Her helm was tilted just enough to unnerve, like she was watching from an angle no one else thought to use. Her smile was slight, carefully measured. It didn’t quite reach her optics, but that was the point

“You’re very consistent” you said mildly, glancing at her from the corner of your optics “Do you clock in like this for everyone?”

“No” Her tone was a velvet purr, low and intentional “Only the ones worth watching”

“I’m flattered”

“You should be”

The silence that followed was thick enough to hold shape. You looked back down, scrolling through the datapad with a laziness that masked purpose “Do you enjoy this?” you asked, voice light

“Watching me sort metadata? Or is this just another item on your schedule?”

Airachnid’s helm tilted further, just a fraction “Do you enjoy testing the patience of your security detail?”

“I prefer to test the depth of curiosity”

That earned a quiet sound from her. Not quite a laugh—more a click. Dry. Surgical. Like a scalpel being returned to its velvet-lined case “You don’t strike me as the reckless type”

“I’m not. But I’ve spent more time speaking to corrupted code than to people lately. You’re more intriguing than most encrypted files” Airachnid uncrossed her arms with slow precision and stepped away from the terminal bank. Her movement was seamless—gliding, but deliberate. Too fluid to be lazy. Too elegant to be harmless

“Careful. Curiosity makes a poor shield”

“So does ignorance”

They stood across from one another now.

Not close enough to touch, but close enough to read nuance. Like two scholars dissecting the same artifact, each searching for a different truth beneath the same surface “Tell me something” your voice gentler now

“Were you always like this?”

Airachnid’s optics narrowed slightly

The light from the overhead glowpanels traced cold reflections across her faceplate, catching in the sharp line of her jaw, the subtle gleam of her plating “Define this” she said—quietly, but with that razor-curious edge. Like she was offering you a choice: explain, or be dissected

You didn’t flinch

“Loyal to the point of silence. Efficient to the point of invisibility — I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone hold power so tightly… without wanting it”

Airachnid said nothing. She simply looked at you. For longer than was polite. Longer than was comfortable. Not with surprise—no, she rarely wasted optics on emotion but with something like scrutiny. A kind of analytical regard, like she was reassessing a threat level. Then, just a half-step forward. Just enough to be noticed

“What makes you think I don’t want power?”

“Because you already have it. And yet, you stay in the shadow of someone else’s crest” You didn’t hesitate, voice remained even

Her smile shifted at that—small, curling inward like a claw retracting just beneath the surface. It wasn’t a smirk. It wasn’t for show. It was closer to truth

“You assume I follow him”

“Don’t you?”

The silence that opened between you wasn’t heavy—but precise. Like a scalpel laid on a sterile tray, gleaming and untouched. No breath. No movement. Just tension wound in stillness “I serve Sentinel Prime” Airachnid said, her tone glass-smooth “Because he knows where he’s going. And because he gave me a place where I no longer have to pretend”

You didn’t blink “Pretend to be what?”

Her optics glinted—cool light on polished alloy, the gleam of a trap sprung just enough to warn

“Anything less than what I am” That landed harder than you expected. Not just the words. But the way she said them. The calm certainty. The unapologetic sharpness. You watched her—still, quiet, measuring

“He trusts you”

“Utterly”

“That’s rare”

“That’s earned”

This silence felt different. No longer stretched like wire across a minefield. It settled between you like cooling metal—coiled, yes, but no longer poised to strike. A mutual understanding, or something close. You gave a small nod

“Thank you. For the conversation”

Airachnid didn’t nod back. Didn’t tilt her head. Didn’t break the mask. She simply said, plainly “I’ll still be watching”

“I know” You turned back to the datapad—but didn’t move. Didn’t scroll. Didn’t type. Your hands rested on the console’s edge, tension vibrating faintly in the joints

Behind you, Airachnid moved with the silence of trained instinct—less like she walked away, more like she was subtracted from the scene — Gone. Clean. Seamless. Somewhere behind her careful silence, something lingered. Not doubt. Not regret. But the smallest flicker of recognition. The way one predator sees another in the wild—not a threat, but a mirror. A different species of survivor. She’d known from the first time she was assigned to monitor you

You were dangerous

Not because you fought. But because you watched. Because you remembered. Because you asked questions like knives and in this golden empire built on curated truths, it was those who asked quietly that had to be watched the closest. As her shadow faded into the long corridor. Airachnid didn’t look back. She didn’t need to. You were still there—rooted in archives, cloaked in dignity, poised like a weapon Sentinel still thought ornamental and if there was war coming beneath the sheen of peace

Airachnid would not choose a side

She was the side — Already chosen, already loyal, already lethal

Sentinel doesn't have the time to watch you every day. To follow you. Track you. Monitor your movements. And that’s precisely why Airachnid does it in his place. He entrusted her with the task—assigned her to keep a careful, unflinching eye on you. To guard you, yes. But also to measure. To evaluate. To intercept, if needed — She has never failed him before and so, Sentinel has no reason to question the arrangement

When you are not with him then you are with her. It’s always one or the other and you’ve grown used to that rhythm. Far too used to it. Used to it enough that you’ve begun to speak with her. Start conversations. Ask things. Curious. And, strangely—perhaps suspiciously—Airachnid lets you

She allows the exchange. Doesn’t cut you down. Doesn’t shut you out. Maybe it’s a tactic. Maybe she’s letting the walls fall just enough to get closer. To make it easier when the time comes—when Sentinel finally decides to erase you but you know how to play this game. You’ve survived long enough by knowing when not to step away. And you’re not about to waste the opportunity now

“You already have power and yet, you stay in the shadow of someone else’s crest”

She almost laughed at that. What a foolish perspective. Sentinel isn’t her shadow. He’s her axis. He gave her a place where she didn’t have to soften herself to fit. You doesn’t understand that kind of loyalty. Because theirs is built on memory. On rules. On history. And all of that burned. Still—Airachnid cannot help but.. observe you

You doesn’t speak like a politician. Doesn’t stand like a servant. You carry something harder. Older. The weight of someone who has seen too much truth to be satisfied with a lie, but is too tired to shout it anymore. She doesn’t hate you. That surprises her. She respects. And that’s dangerous. Because it means that if Sentinel ever does order her to remove them— it won’t be clean. It won’t be mechanical. It will leave a mark

The archives were quiet, but that’s nothing new. What was new, though, was the feel of someone waiting in the wings—someone not standing in the open, but lingering just at the edge, just beyond the light, as if they were the shadow. Airachnid’s presence was invisible, like most things she did. The moment Reader began to analyze data once more, she appeared at the edge of their peripheral vision, standing just far enough not to intrude. She didn’t speak. Didn’t even move. She just waited

“I thought you’d be occupied” you said, voice not accusatory but more curious “Or are you always so quiet?”

Airachnid remained still, like a spider perched at the edge of its web.

She didn’t look directly at them. Not yet “Sometimes” her voice just soft enough to blend into the silence of the chamber

“quiet is all that’s needed”

“You’re not here for me to ask you questions”

Airachnid shifted her weight slightly, taking one step closer without breaking that eerie calm that surrounded her “I don’t answer questions” she said, stepping into the slight illumination cast by the panel. Her silhouette now clear, framed in the soft light “I observe. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

You turned, but the motion was slow, thoughtful “Observing? ..or controlling?”

Airachnid tilted her helm a fraction of an inch, her optics glinting in that same sharp, calculating manner they’d seen so often. Yet, this time, there was a softness, a subtle understanding that hinted at something deeper “If I wanted control, I wouldn’t have left you alone long enough to ask me that question”

There was a moment of hesitation—of silence that stretched far longer than it should have. You lowered your optics, a soft chuckle escaping their lips, though it wasn’t directed at Airachnid

“You do like keeping your distance, don’t you?”

“Distance is necessary” Airachnid replied simply, her voice like ice melting in the sun “But observation... that’s personal”

You stopped, looked at her again—not with caution, but with genuine curiosity. For all her quiet, for all her efficiency, there was something about Airachnid that had always fascinated them. The way she moved—measured and deliberate. The way she saw things others missed

“Why do you stay here? Why stay with Sentinel?”

Airachnid’s optics darkened slightly, but she didn’t look away. Her answer came with a slight, almost imperceptible shift in her stance

“I don’t stay. I’m here because I choose to be”

You let the question settle, watching the way she stood, poised but not impatient and just as your optics lingered too long, just as your mind shifted—Airachnid’s hand moved, almost without a thought. She slid a small data disk onto the edge of the console. Not just any disk. One with new directives “It’s not what you’ve been told to look for” she said softly, almost as if she had read the question forming in their mind “But it’s something you’ll need soon”

You stared down at the disk, thoughts moving a mile a minute, hadn’t expected this. Not from Airachnid, not from someone so loyal to Sentinel. But the glance she gave them—fleeting, calculating—spoke volumes

“Just make sure you don’t miss it”

she added, before stepping back into the shadows, fading from view once more. The disk sat there. Silent. Waiting. As if it, too, knew that its secrets had already begun to spill, even before you had reached for it

She remembers their last conversation—low-lit corridor, quiet exchange. The way they tried to read her.

As if she were text on a slab of archive steel. ‘You can’t catalog a predator’ she thinks. And yet… something in you had watched her not with fear, but effort. Like they wanted to understand. To connect

It was foolish. Possibly suicidal. But it was real and real things are rare — She reports to Sentinel later that cycle. The conversation is short “They’re stable. Contained. But restless” Sentinel leans back in his chair. Fingers steepled, voice soft

“And still trying to find where they belong?”

“You’ve already decided where they belong”

He smiles. That cool, refined smile that has sealed fates without ever raising his voice “Then make sure they stay there”

She nods once. No hesitation and yet—Later that night, she walks past the corridor where you sometimes works late. She does not stop. She does not speak. But she slows. Just for a moment. And in that moment, she wonders ‘If they ever fall… will I warn them first?’ It is a thought that should not exist. So she leaves it behind, buried in silence. Where it belongs

Sometimes when you sneak out to hide in the old archives that are considered a forbidden place for no one to invade, or even when you talk to the bots that you shouldn't, she doesn't report that to Sentinel

BONUS ON

D A R K W I N G

The lower quarry shook with the thunder of drills

Sparks flew. Gravel sang under heavy treads. Miners shouted to one another over the noise—some urgent, some desperate, most ignored. And at the center of it all stood Darkwing. Massive. Smudged with energon soot. Half-snapped shoulder armor from who-knew-what yesterday. He barked at two workers who’d paused too long

“I said get it moving, you slagging excuses for bolts! You want the Prime’s wrath down here next?! MOVE!” He raised a reinforced datapad like he was going to throw it. The worker scrambled back —someone coughed

A soft, polite cough. A very high-ranking, polite cough. Darkwing froze. Turned–

You stood at the edge of the overlook, flanked by two silent escorts and dressed in the calm, formal sheen of someone who did not come here to yell, ust… to observ

“Oh. Uh. Sir—Ma’am—Advisor—”

Darkwing stiffened, saluting with one shoulder (the only one still intact) “Didn’t, uh—didn’t know you were coming down today”

“It was unannounced” you replied mildly, stepping closer “I was told this sector has been underperforming”

Darkwing nodded too fast “Yes! I mean—no! I mean—uh—there were some delays. But nothing that can’t be—! Well, you know. Handled. Promptly. Professionally”

You raised an optic ridge. Behind him, a miner who’d just been shouted at looked up, mouth slightly open at the shift in tone “We noticed an unusual spike in damage reports from your crew” you continued

“Yes—eh—that’s…” Darkwing tried to scratch the back of his helm. Realized he had a dent there. Scratched beside it instead “We’re in a rough phase. You know how ore layers get. It’s the… uh. The fault of… geology”

You stared. He stared back.

Then laughed—awkwardly. Loudly “Heh! Cybertron, right? So unpredictable!”

The silence behind Reader was immediate and cold

“We’ll be reviewing your operation logs and your conduct notes”

“Absolutely. Please. All yours. I love paperwork. I dream of audits”

“Of course you do” You turned slightly to speak with their aide, but before they could finish a sentence— “Would you—like some energon, Advisor? We have, uh, local brew. Very unrefined”

“...No, thank you”

“Good choice. It’s terrible”

You looked at him one last time. Measured “Carry on, Supervisor”

Darkwing saluted again—sharper now. Nearly knocked his own helmplate with the angle. Once advisor and their group disappeared from the walkway, he let out a sound between a groan and a short-range radio malfunction

Behind him, one of the miners whispered “Did you just call geology unpredictable?”

Darkwing glared “SHUT UP AND DIG”

Maybe it was Sentinel’s bad habits rubbing off on you. Or maybe it was your own emotionally-repressed tendencies finally leaking out sideways. Because, sometimes.. you enjoyed bothering Darkwing. There was just something undeniably satisfying about watching him get flustered—just a little. The way he’d fidget, posture, start to sweat wires the moment you casually inquired about the progress reports and mining quotas under his jurisdiction. Naturally, that only made you press harder. Because why wouldn’t you?

It was fun. In a terrible, twisted, borderline-unethical kind of way. It wasn’t you. You swore it wasn’t you. And then when you know Orion and D-16. After that, well—let’s just say you suddenly found a lot more reasons to “personally inspect” the lower levels of the mines. Every now and then, you’d find an excuse to stop by. Just a quick visit. Just enough time for a few questions. Some light conversation. Perhaps a little friendly interrogation

Occasionally, you had to bribe Darkwing with a few of Sentinel’s private assets— Nothing serious. A datachip here, a high-grade component there but most of the time? You just threatened him. Nicely. Harmlessly. In that special way that makes guilty bots break into a cold sweat and confess things they didn’t even do. Honestly, it was probably fine. Mostly …Probably

#transformers #transformers one #transformers x y/n #transformers x reader #transformers x cybertronian reader #orion pax x reader #optimus prime x reader #d 16 x reader #megatron x reader #sentinel prime x reader #airachnid x reader #darkwing x reader #cybertronian reader #reader insert

222 notes · View notes

rabotimagines · 5 months ago

Text

"Insecticon assault" GN BOT Reader x The insecticons (Noncon!)

Summary: Reader experiences a triple insecticon attack while under Bombshells' outlier ability.

Warnings: Noncon!, Smut 🔞 MDNI

G1 characters: The insecticons!

Genre/Theme: Smut 🔞 Scenario

Notes: Reader gets hit with one of bombshells mind control shells. They call reader "slave" because of this. Reader has limited control of themselves. Reader is also mostly just annoyed about the entire ordeal to be completely honest. Autobot reader!

Pronouns: You, your, yours, them, they, their

You don't know how the pit you got into this situation. You were on night watch and saw some suspicious activity on the outside the ark camera so you noted it to Teletraan 1 to alert the others if you didn't relay back in a few klicks and went to check it out. Next thing you know, you're getting electrocuted so hard your senses reset themselves. You come to on your back with the spark damned insecticons standing over you. You jerk upwards, ready to physically bash your way out if you have too, only for Bombshell to shove himself forward and something to strike you in between your optical ridge.

You have half a nanoklick to realize you're fragged before your frame slacks of its own accord under Bombshells control. "Ha lucky- lucky! We got the one we wanted! Wanted-!" Shrapnel grabs at your faceplate and tilts your helm side to side.

"Autobot slave! You'll forget how to use your communication system while under our command." Bombshells voice is ringing on your audials, and just like that, you forget exactly how to use your com system. Oh Primus, what were they gonna have you do for them. Slag, what could they have you do before Teletrann 1 alerted the others-?

"Lie back slave!" Your frame slacks on the ground, and you're staring at the trees now- "Open your interface panel." Oh- Wait- This is happening? Your interface panel snapped back, exposing your array to the open air. Digits are suddenly rubbing between your valve mesh and- Oh yeah, this was apparently just happening!

"Slave, you're in control of your own frame, As long as you don't move from your spot on the ground, close your panel, or touch my shell." Your optics snap wide when you abruptly have even partial control of yourself again. And you have exactly enough time to get your elbows under you before you get jumped.

Now you're staring down, wide opticed, at the insecticons who've readily taken to slobbering all over your array. Bombshells between your thighs and using his usually hidden mouth to lap greedy strips along your valve. (Why is his glossia so long!?) You can't see him over Kickback and Shrapnel. Who are on either side of your hips and dragging their glossias along the length of your spike. Your servos had tried to push at them, but it only served for both of them to grab one of your wrists. You hissed in a vent and watched when Shrapnel dragged his glossia along the underside of your spikes head. Your spike throbbed on the insecticons' glossia, while Kickback dragged his own glossia along the side of your shaft. Bombshells digits suddenly slipping inside your valve made you buck your hips. "Slave tastes good. Good-!" Shrapnel's words sends humming fits down your spike since he's muttering against you.

You can- Can you call for help? Slag, would it be loud enough, though? It might just only make them order you to stay quiet- and Teletraan 1 should alert someone soon anyway. You just needed to hold on- Bombshell sucking hard on your anterior node makes you cry out and abruptly start overloading right onto Shrapnel. Shrapnel got a splash of your transfluid right in the faceplate, which made him jerk back in surprise. Kickback only leaned forward and started stroking your spike off as you continued overloaded all over yourself. You grunted when bombshell began to curl his digits and lap at your anterior node.

"Naughty slave." Kickback murmured and started lapping at your spike again- like you hadn't just overloaded. Shrapnel wiped your transfluid off of his faceplate and lapped it off his own digits before joining Kickback in cleaning your spike- Slag slag slag- You were sensitive still- Your digits flexed against the dirt.

"Stop-" you whined when Bombshell quickly pulled his digits out of your valve. You could see his helm suddenly, his mask back in place, and something else was pressing against your valve- "Don't-!" Bombshell bottomed out inside you with no remorse. Your back jerked, but your frame refused to raise off the ground. You could only grunt when his hips snapped against your aft in short but forceful thursts.

Bombshell groaned, "Your valves taking me well, slave." Bombshell brazenly admitted, before grabbing one of your legs to hoist onto his own pauldron. His pelvis knocked against your aft every time he thrust back into your valve.

Your attention was quickly brought back to your lap when Kickback and Shrapnel actually started fighting over your spike. Kickback finally raised a leg and smashed it into Shrapnels chassis, sending him tumbling off through the shrubbery. Kickback laughed and threw the already raised leg over your hip. The cons array snapped back, spike pressurizing and valve dripping onto your own plating. Kickback lowered himself, making your spike kiss his valve entrance. "Wait-" Bombshell bottomed out in you hard enough, his pelvis grinded down on your anterior node- And Kickbacks valve was suddenly taking in the entire length of your spike. Your servos latched onto Kickbacks waist, your digits tight enough to want to warp the metal underneath it.

Kickback only laughed "Big- and nice." Kickback rocked back and forth, and you whined through clenched denta. His valve squeezing down on you without remorse. Kickback didn't hesitate to get his own thighs under him and promptly start slamming himself up and back down your length. Valve fluttering over your spike and making your thoughts get even more muddled. Bombshells spike slammed into a deeper pleasure node, and you cried out again.

"Slagger Kickback! Slagger-!" Shrapnel hissed, scampering back over to where you were. You didn't even have the chance to glance at the angry con. Too focused on getting fragged and rode with no regard. So you weren't exactly ready when Shrapnel suddenly straddled your throat with his array out. "Use your glossia slave! Slave-" Your mouth opened on its own accord, and Shrapnel didn't wait to sit his valve right on top of your faceplate. Your muffled noise of protest only made Shrapnel grind down on you with a huffy laugh. Your servos abandoned Kickbacks waist and clung onto Shrapnels thighs instead. Your glossia moved itself against Shrapnels mesh and node. At least he didn't taste terrible (Small mercies.). But Primus, they were using you like an interface toy!

You groaned against Shrapnel when Bombshells spike smacked into another deeper node in your valve. You instinctively clenched down on his length, which made the con groan. Bombshells thrusts only picked up till he was practically slamming back into you to bottom out every time. Kickback started picking up his own pace, his servos grabbing onto your chassis. Thighs working faster to frag himself down your spike. Shrapnel only ground down more enthusiastically, his servos grabbing at your helm kibble. "Good slave-! Take it- take it!" You groaned against his valve, and you felt your second overload rear it's helm and smack you right in the chassis.

You arched as well as you good against the three of them. Overloading under the triple insecticon assault. Kickback overloaded right after you, his valve fluttering in pulses around your spike. Kickback laughed and ground down on your length through his own overload, making you keen pathetically against Shrapnel. Bombshell overloaded next, spike buried deep as he could be inside you and pumping your valve full of transfluid. His servos were squeezing your thighs, and you could feel what you thought was his glossia lapping strips along your leg. Shrapnel finally overloaded with a breathy cackle- hips grinding down on your faceplate through it. Servos clutching your kibble tight and keeping your helm still. Once Shrapnel finally slacked, you relaxed under all three of them.

Shrapnel pulled himself off of your faceplate. You gasped in vents only to watch Shrapnel turn, so he was above your helm- you tilted your helm back to keep a view on him only to find his spike tip kissing your derma. "Now take my spike! Open up slave! Slave-" Your mouth opened of its own volition, and Sharpnel shoved his spike into your intake. A muffled noise echoed out of you when Kickback started fragging himself back on your spike again. Bombshell followed soon after and started fragging your valve again. Valve fluttering and squelching when he fragged his own transfluid out of you.

Frag- They were insatiable- they always were! Just- you just needed to wait for help- you could do that! Your glossia lapped along Shrapnels spike, your servos grabbing back onto Kickbacks waist for some type of purchase. You could survive this- just- You needed to hold on. You could hold on!

...Right?

It was morning, the sun streaming through the gaps in the trees. Your helm was fuzzy from how many overloads the insecticons dragged out of you. If the insecticons are smaller then you (which considering they were about minibot sized, the chances were high) They'd end up figuring out that you can take two of their spikes in your valve at the same time. After that, your valve was constantly double stuffed for the rest of the night. (If you're noticeably bigger than them, then they will attempt to fit all three of their spikes in your valve simultaneously.)

They ended up making you overload so hard at the end that your senses reset again. Only when you came to this time, they were gone. Bombshell did not pull his shell off of your helm before he left, so you're stuck on the ground- Covered in transfluid and fragged silly. With copious amounts of transfluid still dripping out of your valve. Waiting for rescue still- Primus, you wish you remembered how to use your comm system.

"-I don't understand how Teletraan 1 shorted out." A familiar voice makes you perk up- as well as you could anyway still stuck on the ground.

"There was a big electrical surge, and Teletraan 1 couldn't handle the output, so Teletrann 1 reset and couldn't turn back on. We only realized it this morning- and they sent that alert actual earth hours ago- I just hope they're okay."

Hoist! And Grapple! Primus! Okay! You could get help. And well... it suddenly made sense why you got fragged till morning with no help at all.

You glanced down at your transfluid stained self.

Yeah, there was no hiding this. You were covered in purple, dark, and silver paint transfers, too. You stared at your still open modesty panel. Which you still couldn't close because of the shell...

Slag it all. Hoist was a medic, and Grapple wasn't the type to gossip. At least your spike wasn't still pressurized. Plus, you technically just got... sexually assaulted. And neither of them were afts, so you should be fine.

Knowing you wouldn't keep what little dignity you had you through your helm back and shouted for help. You thankfully heard your designation being called back and the shrubbery starting to shuffle towards you.

At least Red Alert couldn't be mad at you for abandoning your post... small mercies.

...

And thank Primus Ratchet had replaced your baffles last week... Primus sized mercies.

#🔞#transformers x reader #transformers x cybertronian reader #transformers x y/n #the insecticons #x reader #x gn reader #insecticons x reader #g1 bombshell #g1 shrapnel #g1 kickback #everyone who liked this say thank you to the anon who asked for it to be posted!#valveplug #rabot writes

182 notes · View notes

archivewriter1ont · 5 months ago

Text

Echo and the Cadet Batch Chapter 19: The Domino Twins

art by @littletroggo

https://archiveofourown.org/works/58834273/chapters/162533413

Summary:

Back on Kamino, Hunter has some explaining to do, Tech is still working on a way to get home, and all of the Batchers are distracted by their two new "recruits." Echo and Fives think this is great, Wrecker adores all kids but especially these two, and Crosshair is trying desperately not to make friends he knows he can't keep.

SNEAK PEEK: ⬇️

Hunter stood just inside the door and cleared his throat uncomfortably, his gaze darting to each of his three siblings. For once, the sergeant’s golden eyes were unsettled, uncertain of how his batchmates would react. He was almost squirming under their slack-jawed scrutiny.

Crosshair would have laughed at the unusual sight, if he hadn’t been so surprised that his vocal chords refused to operate and his brain seemed to have briefly fritzed itself out of commission. If everything hadn’t just gotten turned directly on its head in an instant.

If Hunter didn’t have two cadets with him, including one who had just answered to the name Echo .

The sniper’s nerves finally ceded control back to his brain and he snapped his jaw shut, still staring at the two cadets. They looked just like any other clone cadets in their fourth year, like the 99s would have looked if they hadn’t been made different , but the one who had been called Echo…

Crosshair had been trained from decanting to notice and break down every detail of the world around him. His enhanced eyesight gave him an unmatched advantage, but merely seeing wasn’t enough. He had to understand it, to separate every miniscule particle of what his vision relayed to his brain and evaluate each separately, systematically, before putting them all back together and analyzing the whole. After years of honing his skills, that entire process was now embedded in his every waking moment, threaded beneath his skin and intertwined with his DNA. He was able to break down, assess, and make split second decisions based on what he saw before most people could even realize what they were supposed to be looking at .

And that little cadet – he was too familiar, even though Crosshair had never seen him before. His eyes shone with an all-too recognizable gleam, and there was something about the way that he stood, with his hand holding Hunter’s as if he were afraid to let go but his face boldly turned toward the three strangers, that Crosshair was shockingly accustomed to. There were other things, too, that confirmed it – small things, but sometimes the small things mattered more than the bigger ones – but Crosshair didn’t need to itemize them. It was already cemented beyond a shadow of a doubt in the sniper’s mind.

Sometimes he went over things in his mind for a moment, rethought them before letting his conclusions solidify as accepted fact. But in the time between Hunter pressing the operating panel and the door hissing shut, Crosshair realized that he didn’t even have to think about this one. He knew that the cadet was Echo.

And something in his heart, something coiled up and cold and feeling suspiciously like fear, instantly released.

They hadn’t found their Echo…which meant he was safe aboard the Negotiator . Echo was okay .

Of course, he still had to deal with the fact that a younger version of his brother was staring him in the face, but he could handle that in a minute. For the moment, he chose to be grateful, and wait.

{the rest is at the link above!}

❤️Tag List: @leapingbadger, @badbatchposts, and @kybercrystals94, @maybe-some-words @littletroggo @spinoqueenwrites

LMK if you want to be added (or removed)

57 notes · View notes

webslinger-holland · 1 year ago

Text

Best Pilot in the Galaxy | Tech from The Bad Batch

Summary: During a mission, Tech has a hard time allowing his ship to be driven by someone else.

Warning: slight angst and argument

Pairing: Tech x Fem!Reader Pilot

Type: Oneshot

The Marauder was sitting on a world in the Outer Rim called Cassander. It was a lush, green planet with a few major bodies of water. However, most notably, the planet was growing in population and had recently become Ord Mantell's most competitive trading rival.

The ship was nearly empty, except for a singular pilot sitting in the cockpit. She was not the rightful owner of the ship, but had been assigned this mission with the group of rouge clones that did own the ship. The squad was located somewhere in the capital city nearby, attempting to steal the package in which they had come for. The pilot waited patiently for the pickup call.

Now, the pilot had been waiting for nearly two hours for the call to come through the comms. She did everything she could think of to pass the time, which included rummaging through the squad's belongings. Though she didn't find anything of value.

The gonk droid made a noise as he waddled into the cockpit. The pilot went through the ship's log, seeing all the planets the squad had recently visited. Their last stop happened to be Ord Mantell where they were assigned this mission in particular.

"Y/n! Come in," Hunter's voice sounded desperate over the comms. She quickly jolted forward in her seat, pressing the button to relay a message back.

"Read you loud and clear," Y/n responded. She began clicking buttons on the control panel, preparing the ship for liftoff.

"We need a pick up. We've been compromised," Hunter explained. He was panting on the other end of the line, which probably meant they were running.

"What part of stealth mission is so hard to understand?"

"Just hurry. We don't have a lot of time. They're sending air support," Hunter warned her.

"Oh great," Y/n scoffed sarcastically.

"I'm sending you our coordinates," Tech interjected over the communications.

As the Marauder departed off the ground, the landing gear retracted back into the ship. The wings moved downwards as the ship was angled towards the sky. The engine roared to life; the ship began flying towards the rendezvous location.

The workers from the trading post were shooting their blasters at the criminals running away from them. They tried to keep up with them, firing relentlessly as they got away with some of their own goods.

It was Wrecker, Hunter, and Tech who were carrying the heavy cargo in the form of a shipping container. Normally, it would take four guys to carry the cargo, but since Wrecker was so strong, he was able to carry the left side without help. Behind them, Echo and Omega fired shots back at the workers. They covered them as the rest ran as fast as they could.

"Whatever is in here, it better be worth it." Wrecker grunted, dodging the blaster fire.

"As long as we get paid," Hunter responded.

The small squad continued running through the vast forest, maneuvering around trees in hopes of using its coverage to their advantage. They came into a clearing with the workers getting closer each second. All of the sudden, a cliff came into their view which caused them to halt in their place.

"Where's our ride?" Echo asked desperately. He peered around his shoulder with his gun still raised.

"There!" Omega pointed into the sky.

The Marauder rounded the corner of the mountain, coming into their line of view. It flew over to the edge of the cliff to meet them. The ramp lowered to hover right by the cliff, allowing the squad to climb aboard the vessel.

The blaster fire was beginning to hit the sides of the ship. The squad fired back, striking a few of the workers down. Once everyone was aboard, Hunter slammed the button on the side of the wall so the ramp was lifted.

"That's everyone," Hunter shouted. "Get us out of here!"

"Roger that," Y/n said.

Pulling a lever, the thrusters sent a powerful volt back which propelled the ship forward rapidly. By steering the ship, Y/n directed the ship back into the mountain range. She could hear the air support coming up behind them. She took a sharp turn to deter them.

The sharp turn caused each member of the squad to loose their footing and grab something nearby to steady themselves. Carefully, Tech quickly made his way into the cockpit. He leaned over the back of the pilot's seat, resting his hand on the panel for support. He hadn't taken the time to remove his helmet.

"That is sufficient," Tech announced to the pilot. "I'll take it from here."

"A little busy here," Y/n stated instead. She turned the wheel to the left, taking another sharp turn which made everything in the ship turn that way. And Tech ended up leaning a little into her.

"Wrecker," Tech ordered. He moved to sit in the co-pilot seat which was where Echo usually sat. "Get to the tail gun."

There were at least six smaller ships following them at this point, firing as many rounds as possible. The Marauder swayed to the left and right, expertly dodging each blast aimed at them. In the tail gun, Wrecker got into position before firing back at the ships. He managed to hit one of them, but it wasn't enough to bring the ship down.

Back in the cockpit, Tech began pressing a few buttons on the control panel. The pilot glared at him through the corner of her eye, knowing exactly what he was trying to do. She maintained her grip on the sides of the wheel.

"Transitioning controls back to co-pilot," Tech announced. He went to press the final red button, but she swatted his hand away. "What are you doing?" Tech demanded an explanation.

"I know how to fly," Y/n said through gritted teeth. Her eyes were still facing forward as she focused on the task at hand.

"I never said you didn't," Tech informed her. "I am simply stating that I am ready to transition controls back to me as I am more capable of flying this vessel than you. It is my ship after all," Tech said as a matter of factly.

Hunter rolled his eyes in the background. He knew it was pointless to argue over the comment.

"You weren't hired to be the pilot for this mission," Y/n argued back. "I can get us out of this."

With that comment, one of the blaster fires struck the right wing which caused it to catch on fire. The two of them peered out the window, spotting the trail of black smoke falling behind the hit.

"You were saying?" Tech replied. He gestured to the damage done to his ship. She rolled her eyes at him.

A few more ships began trailing behind them. They began firing more shots towards them. There was no way one ship could take the whole fleet down.

"Uh guys," Wrecker announced from the tail gun. "We've got more incoming."

Ignoring the comment, Tech quickly transitioned controls back to his wheel before the other pilot could protest. He gripped the wheel harshly, moving the wheel to take a sharp left hand turn. The ship was forced to swerve around the side of the mountain; a few of the enemy ships crashed into the sides as a result. She switched controls back to her wheel, taking a right hand turn. The ship weaved around another mountainside.

Behind the googles of his helmet, Tech squinted his eyes in slight irritation. He changed controls once again. He quickly grabbed onto the lever, pulling it backwards so the thrusters gave another jolt of energy. Now they were flying a little faster.

Nevertheless, another blaster hit managed to strike the back of the ship. The Marauder jolted forward from the force of the blast. The two pilots lurched forward in their seats. The others continued to hold onto things for support.

"You aren't doing much better," Y/n replied snakily. She reached forward to press the button once more. She turned the wheel as far as she could, which caused the ship to completely turn around. She pulled the lever for the extra push.

"What are you doing?" Tech exclaimed. "Are you trying to get us killed?"

Down in the tail gun, Wrecker began firing at the ships flying directly in front of them. With his expertise, he struck down three ships. Those ships exploded into a million pieces, fierce flames erupting around them. The Marauder flew through the fire without taking damage.

The enemy ships needed to turn around before continuing their chase. They quickly swerved their ships. Once the ships were facing the right way, the thrusters kicked in for that extra power. And the enemy continued their pursuit.

"I will only say this one more time," Tech's modulated voice spoke through his helmet. He turned to face her in his seat. His eyes looked angry behind his googles. "Relinquish controls now."

"Over my dead body," Y/n challenged him. She didn't take her eyes off him.

In the background, Hunter and Echo seemed to raise their eyebrows at the two pilots. They looked between them, half expecting one of them to cave in and go back to flying the ship. But neither of them faltered.

"Uh guys," Omega interrupted them.

Both of them directed their line of attention back towards flying the ship. With a quick maneuver, they managed to dodge the mountain they were heading straight for at the last second. A few more ships crashed into it.

"You're both going to get us all killed if you don't figure something out," Hunter shouted behind them.

Reaching forward, Y/n went to press a few more buttons, but Tech swatted her hand away this time. He went ahead and pressed his own buttons. He was punching in the coordinates for their destination.

"You are not the best pilot in the galaxy," Y/n claimed. She glanced at him through the corner of her eye. He kept putting in the coordinates.

"Hardly a measurable cause," Tech said with a roll of his eyes in annoyance.

"You haven't made the Kessel Run in fourteen parsecs," Y/n added. It was like she was insisting that it could be measurable.

"I have a theory that it can be done in twelve," Tech stated as a matter of factly.

"I highly doubt that," Y/n chuckled at the comment.

Suddenly, Y/n pressed the wheel forward with all of her might. The ship began to descend down at a rapid pace, shifting into a nose dive position. The ground was growing closer and closer with each second. The enemy ships following right behind them, firing non-stop.

Both Hunter and Echo were holding onto panels behind them. The force of falling forwards was pushing them back. They were unable to move.

"You have to pull up--" Tech ordered in a slight panic.

"Oh for the last time," Y/n shouted over him. "I know what I'm doing!"

At the last possible second, the wonderfully skilled pilot pulled the wheel into her chest so that the ship was pulled up. It was so close to touching the ground, but it missed it by a hair. The last two ships crashed into the ground, exploding suddenly and sending debris flying.

Now that the threat of the chase was finally over, Y/n could relax in her seat a little. The rest of the squad was completely silent, realizing that she had managed to get them out of the situation with little damage in the end. Beside her, Tech kept his eye on her since he was still angry with her.

The Marauder started to climb in altitude, shifting towards the edge of the planet's atmosphere. It finally passed through the atmosphere, flying through space. The stars throughout the galaxy sparkled as the planet grew small and smaller. It was now all behind them.

"Are the coordinates to Ord Mantell in?" Y/n wondered. Her voice was so much calmer now. Her shoulders slumped at her sides. But she refused to make eye contact.

"Yes. They are in," Tech informed her softly. His eyes softened behind his helmet. He studied her carefully, trying to figure out what she was thinking in that brain of hers. He quickly shook it off, directing his attention back towards the void of space in front of them.

Without thinking, Tech and Y/n went to reach for the lever to send them into hyperspace. Their hands grazed each other's with neither of them being any closer to the lever than the other. They both awkwardly pulled their hands away upon contact.

"I'm sorry," Y/n muttered under her breath.

He wasn't sure if she was apologizing for the situation they just came out of or the situation that just occurred with the lever. Nevertheless, she reached for the lever once again, pulling it back to send the ship into hyperspace.

Back at Ord Mantell, the Bad Batch went back to Cid's Parlor. They stood on the other side of her desk, having just delivered the cargo that she paid them to retrieve. She peered into the package, checking to make sure everything was there.

Behind the group, Y/n stood there in total silence. Her eyes were trained on the floor as she shifted in her place awkwardly. She waited for their boss to address them.

Beside her, Tech stood about an arm's length away. He glanced at her through the corner of his eye, taking note of her odd demeanor. He raised his finger and opened his mouth to say something to her, but he was rudely cut off.

"Looks like everything is here," Cid announced. She closed the cargo container. She began rummaging through her drawers, collecting the correct amount of credits to pay both parties.

Now Y/n went to take a few steps forward and made her way through the members of the squad. She stood in front of the desk. Her boss went ahead and placed a handful of credits in her hand.

"That is your cut," Cid told her. She handed the rest of the credits to Hunter. "And here is your cut. I'll call you when I have another job," Cid claimed.

There was a brief moment of silence in the room. Cid went to cross her arms over her chest. She narrowed her eyes at the company of six standing in front of her.

"You guys work well together," Cid said honestly. "You should work together more often."

In response, Y/n breathed a scoff under her breath. The boys turned their heads to look at her, slightly surprised at her reaction. She shook her head in denial.

"Yeah. Like that's ever going to happen," Y/n rolled her eyes at the notion.

Without hesitation, she spun around on the heels of her feet in order to head towards the door. She purposely bumped into Tech's shoulder a little too harshly. She left the room with the door closing behind her.

"What's wrong with her?" Cid scoffed. She looked at the rest of the squad for some form of explanation, but none of them said anything. "Fine! Be all quiet and mysterious. See if I care," Cid said.

By the time the Bad Batch left Cid's office, Y/n was nowhere to be found in the bar. They went to sit down at the bar so they could order drinks to celebrate another successful mission. They sat in complete silence, thinking about what transpired during the mission.

"Where do you think she's gone?" Echo wondered.

Though they never pulled missions together, the Bad Batch knew that the pilot worked for Cid and was stationed at Ord Mantell. They had seen her quite often over the past few months. They had grown familiar of her. And now they worried about her.

"The odds are that she returned to her flat," Tech explained. He pushed the bridge of his googles up to be more secure on his face. He kept his focus on his data pad.

"Probably," Hunter shrugged his shoulders. "But it's late. Which means it's dark out."

"Astute observation," Tech claimed sarcastically. He gave a single nod, but didn't take his eyes off his data pad.

"And she's walking back to her flat...at the edge of town...late at night," Hunter further explained.

"She will be fine," Tech stated. He knew where he was going with this. "She is always saying how she can take care of herself and doesn't need our help. Why would that change now?"

The other members remained silent. They turned their heads to take quick glances at one another. With a silent agreement, Hunter rose to his feet and went to stand by Tech. He roughly grabbed his shoulders and hoisted him out of his seat, much to his dismay.

"Go find her. Make sure she gets home safe. And apologize to her," Hunter ordered.

"I do not see why I have to be the one to apologize when I did noth--" Tech began. He was quickly cut off.

"Tech," Hunter said in a warning tone of voice. He crossed his arms over his chest, showing that he meant business.

"Fine," Tech said in defeat. "I will apologize."

With some hesitation, Tech grabbed his helmet and fitted it over his head. He began making his way towards the door of the parlor, leaving the rest of his crew behind. He walked through the deserted streets of Ord Mantell, passing a few shady people in the process.

Now Tech knew that she lived near the edge of town because she had once mentioned it during a conversation. Besides that, Tech really didn't know where to look and simply hoped he'd bump into her before she got home so he'd know she was safe. He passed by a few alleys, peeking through each one briefly.

The Marauder was parked in a hanger bay only a few blocks away from the parlor. Just as Tech passed by the hanger, he heard a familiar voice coming from his very own ship. He backtracked by taking two steps backwards. He peered into the hangar bay to glance at his ship.

Stepping into the bay, Tech tilted his head to the side in slight curiosity. The right wing of the ship began to move downwards until it lay completely horizontal. A few seconds later, Y/n began descending down the ramp with a toolbox in hand. She walked over to the wing of the ship.

Upon seeing her, Tech sharply inhaled. He felt the back of his throat close up and his shoulders tensed at his sides. He hesitantly took a few steps forward, fiddling with his fingers nervously.

Reaching upwards, Y/n placed the single toolbox onto the flat surface of the ship's wing. She proceeded to grab onto the wing before hoisting herself up onto it. She climbed to the center of the wing to assess the damage inflicted in the crossfire.

At this point, Y/n had no idea that he was also in the hanger bay with her. She opened the toolbox, rummaging through to find the right tool. The damage done to the right wing was a massive gaping hole with burnt edges from the fire. It would eventually need a panel welded to cover it up again. But for now, she focused on the internal repairs.

Thankfully, from the assessment, nothing major had been hit. A few bolts had gotten loose and a few parts needed to be replaced. She focused on that for now.

After grabbing a socket spanner, Y/n leaned down to place her arm into the gaping hole of the wing. It went so far down that her chest was practically pressed against the surface of the wing. She used the spanner to tighten some bolts.

"What...are you doing?" Tech decided to finally announce his presence. He stepped forward until he stood in the light coming from the opening of the hanger bay.

Upon hearing that familiar voice, Y/n only rolled her eyes to herself. She continued her work as she preferred to focus on repairs rather than on him. She grunted softly, making sure that first bolt was nice and tight.

"What do you want Tech?" Y/n wondered. She pulled her arm out of the hole to assess her work. She didn't even bother to glance towards him, knowing he would have sent her a look of disapproval for working on his ship.

Slowly, Tech began to lower his gaze to the floor. He contemplated his next words carefully, fighting the urge to lash out at her for meddling with his ship. He liked things to be a certain way and would have much preferred if he did the actual repairs. Now Tech didn't want to fight with her so he changed his approach.

"I analyzed that you left the parlor on your own and thought it would be better if I accompany you back home," Tech explained. She huffed at his answer.

"I've told you before," Y/n began. "I can--"

"Take care of yourself," Tech finished. He adjusted the lenses of his goggles though he still wore his helmet. He noticed how she fell silent. "Yes, I've gathered that much."

"Why are you really out here?" Y/n wondered. She went to lean down again in order to tighten more bolts.

"I...could ask you the same," Tech replied slowly. He honestly felt like this was the first civil conversation they had ever had.

"I wanted to make some repairs on your precious ship since it was apparently my fault," Y/n claimed. Her tone sounding a little harsher now. She tightened two more bolts in the process.

"That is not what I meant," Tech interjected. He took a step forward. He gazed up at her figure perched on the wing, attempting to reason with her. "I was...caught up in the moment. Shouldn't have said those things," Tech confessed quietly.

"Well, don't worry. As soon as I finish up these repairs, I'll leave and you'll never have to see me again," Y/n responded.

For some reason, Tech couldn't combat a response to her comment. He simply nodded his head understandingly. He lowered his gaze to stare down at the ground and allowed her to finish her repairs in silence. He thought for some time how he could fix this relationship since it wasn't his strong suit. Fixing things was more his style.

"Blast," Y/n's voice pulled him out of his train of thought. He glanced up at her.

The sleeve of her blue flight suit had gotten in the way of her repairs. She had rolled her sleeves up to keep the material out of her way, but the sleeves continued to fall back down to her wrists every time she placed her arm in the hole. She pulled back and rose to her feet.

Without hesitation, Y/n's hands flew to the top button of her flight suit. She began to undue the buttons in which she revealed the black tank top underneath. All the while, Tech studied her carefully as her nimble fingers worked steadily. His pupils dilated behind those goggles of his.

Upon reaching her waistline, Y/n had stopped unbuttoning and shrugged the suit off her shoulders. She tied the sleeves around her waist. She dropped to her knees to continue working without the distraction of her clothes getting in the way.

Slowly, Tech raised his hand to the side of his head and clicked the bottom to save the recording to the drive. He records everything and he was certainly glad he recorded that. He wanted to revisit the recording later for his own 'research' purposes.

"There," Y/n sighed. She sat back on her knees, wiping her dirty hands on the pants of her flight suit. "Repairs are finished."

Naturally, Y/n began to pack away the tools she used and placed them back into the box. She closed the lid of the toolbox, tossing it over the edge of the wing for it to land on the ground with a thump. She then proceeded to jump down off the wing of the ship, landing a little hard so her knees buckled slightly.

Just like she promised, Y/n had every intention of leaving the hanger bay so that they'd never have to see her again. She went to walk away, but just as she passed beside him, Tech reached out and grabbed her forearm. She halted in her steps.

Neither of them could look at each other. She felt his gloved fingers digging into her bare skin, but not hard enough that it would leave marks. She slowly turned to look at him, but he kept his head down.

"I...really came here to apologize," Tech confessed. When Tech lifted his gaze to meet her face, he saw how her eyebrows went up in slight surprise. It definitely caught her off guard.

"I see," Y/n thought about his words carefully. She shifted her balance from one foot to the other. "So all those things you said back on Cassander where just...what?"

He closed his eyes, seriously regretting everything he said. "Like I said earlier, in the moment, I was incredibly frustrated with you."

"Because I wouldn't give up the controls?" Y/n said flatly.

"No, because I recognize that my levels of dopamine are elevated when I'm around you and I distance myself from you in order to prevent that from happening,” Tech confessed before he could even stop himself.

But now, hearing what he just said, Tech quickly averted his gaze away from her. He was thankful to be wearing his helmet so she wouldn't see how bright his cheeks had gotten. He released his grip on her arm, letting it fall back down to his side.

For once, Y/n actually understood what he said. Her eyebrows rose in surprise at this sudden confession. She definitely did not expect him to blurt out his emotions that night, especially after their fight on the ship. She knew better than to tease him at a time like this.

"I-I don't understand why," Tech said rather sadly. That was the first time that he'd spoken those words out loud.

What broke her heart was the tone of defeat laced with his words. It told her that he'd been wrestling with these foreign emotions and thoughts for some time. He didn't know how to react around her and so he acted with defense. He pushed those feeling away, fighting against it.

Hesitantly, Y/n lifted her hands to the sides of his helmet. She went to remove his helmet slowly, revealing his face to her for the first time today. She tossed the helmet to the side without a care in the world, but he still refused to meet her gaze.

"You are probably repulsed by me," Tech began. "From the way I treated you and the words I said to--"

But Tech wasn't able to finish that sentence. Because Y/n had taken his face in her hands and leaned upwards to press her lips against his own. He froze in his place.

His eyes were wide open in surprise. His hands were elevated on either side of him because he didn't know what to do with them. He could feel the softness of her lips still against his own. Before Tech had the chance to process what was happening, Y/n pulled away from him.

The two of them were standing so close together; the chests being pressed against one another's. Their breath mingled as their noses bumped together once or twice. He glanced down at her lips because he wanted nothing more than to taste them once more.

His hands found their way down to her hips with one hand sneaking around her lower back. He pressed that hand into her back which brought her body even closer to his. She released a small gasp.

"Apology accepted," Y/n whispered to him. She played with the edge of the plastoid armor on his chest. "And I'm sorry for the way I acted towards you."

"Why cyare?" Tech wondered. He raised his hand to the side of her face, tucking a single strand of hair behind her ear. He held his hand against her cheek.

"I should have given up the controls. You are the better pilot and it is your ship," Y/n explained with a shake of the head.

"I am not the better pilot," Tech stated firmly.

There was a moment of silence between them. "I can't make split second decisions and calculations like you do when you're flying."

"Well, I've never done the Kessel Run." Tech argued back playfully. He smiled down at her. "At least, not in twelve parsecs."

"Fourteen," Y/n corrected him. "I did it in fourteen."

"Fine. Fourteen," Tech caved in.

Slowly, Tech tilted his head to the side and began to lean down with every intention of kissing her again. But the two of them were interrupted when someone cleared their throat over by the entrance of the hanger bay. The two of them quickly pulled apart and turned to face whoever had interrupted them.

The other members of the Bad Batch stood looking at them near the entrance of the hanger. It was initially Hunter who had cleared his throat to garner their attention; he stood with his arms folded across his chest just as a disapproving father would. Beside him, Wrecker and Omega were practically squealing with each other. They couldn't contain their excitement. And Echo averted his gaze in an awkward manner.

"Care to explain yourselves?" Hunter hinted. He glanced between the two of them with a playful smirk on his face.

"I think they finally confessed that they like each other," Wrecker interrupted. His words coming out louder than anticipated. He nudged Echo who stood beside him.

"You think?" Echo glanced at him.

"It's exciting, isn't it?" Omega smiled at them.

Meanwhile, Tech quickly collected his helmet off the ground and placed it over his head once again. He hoped it would cover the blush creeping up his neck to his face. He knew he wouldn't hear the end of the taunting from his brothers anytime soon.

"Well boys. It looks like we got another member on our crew," Hunter said slowly. "Welcome to the Bad Batch."

#the bad batch #the clone wars #tech bad batch #tech x reader #tech x y/n #tech x you #star wars #the marauder ship #tech oneshot #tech fluff #tech angst #tech imagine #hunter #crosshair #omega #wrecker #echo #tech

321 notes · View notes

zoeykallus · 3 months ago

Text

In His Crosshairs

Crosshair x Fem!Reader

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

Masterlist Warnings: "Minor" Violence and injury _______________ AC:

In Case anybody is wondering about the song beeing sung in this chapter, it's this one: Good Things Go ________________

Chapter 3. No Second Shot

The comm tower was quiet now.

The bodies had been dealt with. Your arm was bandaged, stinging under fresh synth-skin, and your blaster sat in your lap like a weight you weren’t sure you could carry again.

Crosshair stood by the door, gear packed, rifle slung across his back. He hadn’t spoken since the last bounty hunter dropped. But you could feel something heavy in the air between you. Not quite anger. Not quite closure.

Just unfinished business.

You broke the silence first. “So what now?”

His back remained to you for a long second. Then he turned, slow, deliberate, and walked over, stopping just a few feet away.

“You’re lucky I'm not a good soldier,” he said. His voice was calm. Too calm.

You looked up at him. "What's that supposed to mean?”

He mutters, "Good soldiers follow orders" You blink, not sure what he was on about, “Was that supposed to be comforting?

“No.” A pause. “It’s supposed to make you think.”

You rose to your feet, wincing slightly. “I told you. I didn’t know what I was carrying.”

“And now you do.”

He was close enough that you could see every line in his face. The set of his jaw. The way his eyes pinned you down, same as they had when he was aiming down a scope.

“You’re not turning me in,” you said quietly. It wasn’t a question.

“No.”

“Why?”

He hesitated. Just a flicker. But it was there.

Then, his gaze sharpened.

“Because I think you’re smart enough not to be this stupid again.”

You almost laughed. “And if I’m not?”

He stepped forward. Just enough to make your breath catch.

“Then next time,” he said, voice like steel, “I won’t miss.”

The crosshair tattoo over his eye pulsed with that quiet threat. You didn’t doubt him. Not for a second.

“You’re letting me go,” you said. “But this isn’t over.”

His mouth twitched. “Not even close.”

You nodded slowly. “Fine.”

He stared at you a moment longer. Then turned.

Walked to the door.

Paused.

“One warning shot,” he said without looking back. “That’s all you get.”

And then he was gone.

You stood alone in the silence of the tower, the cold wind seeping in through the cracks in the walls.

You should have felt relieved. Safe.

Instead, your heart was racing.

Weeks later:

You didn’t recognize the distress signal when it first lit up on your console. Just another encrypted ping bouncing off an abandoned relay station.

But the coordinates? They weren’t far.

Too close to ignore.

You debated it for a solid minute, hands hovering over the controls, foot tapping against the floor of your mostly functional ship. Then, with a muttered curse and a shove of the throttle, you changed course.

You told yourself it was just curiosity.

You were lying.

The canyon was steep, narrow, and littered with smoke. You kept the ship low and quiet, sensors pinging every few seconds as you zeroed in on the signal. It took a second to see him, black armor half-covered in dust, rifle beside him, his leg pinned under a collapsed outcropping of rock.

And worse: three hostiles circling above. Blasters out. Not bounty hunter, mercs, maybe. Trained, armed, and absolutely out for blood.

You landed hard enough to rattle the panels.

Doors opened before the landing ramp touched ground.

“Hey,” you shouted as you stepped out, weapon raised, voice smug and far louder than necessary. “Funny seeing you in the dirt.”

Three heads turned. Too late.

You fired twice. Clean hits.

The third one ducked, fast, but not fast enough. You didn’t get him, but your shot knocked him off balance long enough for Crosshair to recover his rifle.

One shot. One breath. Gone.

Silence returned.

The wind kicked up dust, blood and tension.

You lowered your blaster and strolled forward, chin tilted up just enough to make your grin feel like a weapon.

“Look how the tables have turned.”

Crosshair didn’t respond right away. He was breathing hard, propped against a boulder, his armor scraped and blood streaking down one thigh.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, because of course he did.

You crouched next to him anyway.

“Sure,” you said. “You look great. Real intimidating... if I squint.”

He gave you a look that could have frozen fire. “Are you here to mock me or get me out?”

You made a show of thinking. “I mean… I could leave you. Wait around for the next group to finish the job.”

He didn’t flinch. “You won’t.”

You clicked your tongue. “Why not?”

He looked at you. Really looked. That tattoo drawing your eye like a magnet. His voice dropped just enough to hit somewhere deep in your chest.

“Because I let you walk away.”

That shouldn’t have made your heart do what it did. You stood abruptly. “Yeah, well. Call it even.”

You helped him up, awkward, heavy, but steady. He hissed once when the weight hit his leg, and you caught his arm before he stumbled.

The contact was too warm.

Too familiar.

You guided him toward your ship, trying to ignore the way his fingers tightened around yours, just for a moment, before he let go.

“You’re limping,” you said, a little too smug again.

He shot you a sideways glance. “You talk too much.”

“Must be the concussion from watching me save your ass.”

He didn’t respond. But you saw it, the twitch at the edge of his mouth. Almost a smile.

Almost.

The hum of the ship's engine thrummed low beneath your feet as the planet shrank behind you. In the cockpit, the nav was locked in. Smooth jump to hyperspace in less than a minute.

In the back?

Crosshair sat on the edge of the bench in your medbay alcove, one leg stretched out, jaw tight, eyes sharper than ever, even while bleeding.

You crouched in front of him with a med kit and a scowl.

“Stop glaring at me,” you muttered.

He didn’t respond. His gaze was somewhere else, not on your hands, but over your shoulder. Scanning.

You knew the look. He was cataloguing everything.

And there was a lot to catalog.

Your ship wasn’t standard. No cold chrome. No Imperial precision. Instead:

Music playing low over the comm system, a rough, steady rhythm.

A dog-eared book, half-opened, wedged into a compartment above the seat.

Trinkets on the shelf. Old flight pins. A dented flask. A ragged scarf tied around a pipe that served no function.

A painted panel on one wall — something someone once called art.

He didn’t ask about any of it. He just saw it.

But you could feel the shift. Like he was starting to understand something about you he couldn’t quite articulate yet. Something that unsettled him more than a firefight.

You finished cleaning the wound. “You’ll live,” you said, gently pressing a bandage over the gash.

“Obviously.”

You rolled your eyes. “You know, for someone who almost died today, you’re in a remarkably shitty mood.”

“I don’t like being shot.”

“I don’t like being hunted,” you shot back, voice quiet now. “Yet here we are.”

That made him pause.

The music shifted. Something angrier. You weren’t sure which track. It had bled into the playlist naturally, but now the lyrics felt too raw.

I tried so hard and got so far...

He looked at the speaker. Just for a second.

“You listen to this on purpose?”

You gave a half-smirk. “It helps drown out too loud thoughts.”

He looked at you again, longer this time. Like he didn’t expect the honesty. Like it did something to him he didn’t want you to see.

Then his gaze dropped to your hands, still stained from the fight, still shaking a little.

“I flinched.”

“But you didn’t run.”

You shrugged. “You were bleeding. I didn’t have time to run.”

Another pause. Then, so soft you almost missed it: “You could’ve let me die.”

You looked up. Met his eyes. That damn tattoo again. Always watching. Always targeting.

“I could’ve,” you said. “But I didn’t.”

The silence stretched again, broken only by the music.

Then:

“You should change your codes.”

You blinked. “What?”

He nodded toward the panel. “Your ID tag. Your registration’s still flagged from the last planet. If you’re going to keep flying with that name, someone’s going to find you.”

You stared. “You… checked my tags?”

“I had time.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. Not really. So you leaned back, set the med kit aside, and looked at him.

“You still gonna turn me in?”

“No.”

“But you said...”

“I said no second chances,” he said. Then added, almost like it hurt, “This wasn’t a chance. This was a… complication.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I’m a complication now?”

He looked at you like you’d said something obvious. “You always were.”

You stood before he could say anything else, moving toward the cockpit.

Behind you, the music changed again. Low and intense.

And as you slid into the pilot seat, you realized something:

For the first time since he walked into your life, Crosshair wasn’t just watching you like a target. He was watching you like a person. And that scared you more than the bounty hunters ever did.

The hum of the ship had faded into the background hours ago. Now it was just you, the faint ache in your shoulder, and the quiet pull of the engine coils that needed organizing, or maybe just touching, just something to keep your hands moving.

The playlist kept running. A track drifted in, one you usually skipped when someone else was around.

You didn’t skip it this time.

“Good Things Go.” You weren’t really thinking. You were somewhere else. Half-remembered regrets, sharp edges dulled by fatigue.

And your voice, soft, low, almost a hum, joined the melody.

Say I hate you when I don't... Push you when you get too close... It's hard to laugh when I'm the joke... But I can't do this on my own...

You didn’t notice him shift in the cot.

Only you can save me from my lack of self-control... And I won't make excuses for the pain I caused us both... So thank you for always standing by me even though... Sometimes bad things take the place where good things go...

The last note faded.

You blinked, suddenly aware of the room again. Of him still behind you. You turned your head halfway, not meeting his gaze, not needing to.

He hadn’t moved.

Not much.

But you knew he’d been listening.

Maybe not to the words. Maybe just to the sound of you. The way your voice had softened. The way your guard had slipped.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t react. Didn’t ask.

Just kept his gaze steady, unreadable, cool, but not unkind. And maybe a little longer than necessary, he didn’t look away.

You cleared your throat, turned back to the compartment. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

He didn’t respond.

But his voice came a few moments later, low and distant:

“…Didn’t sleep.”

That was all.

But somehow, it was enough. Maybe it was somehting in his voice, in that moment, that told you, he wasn't as cold as he was acting.

Ko-Fi (If you feel like giving me some coffee)

@thecoffeelorian @littlemissbshine

#star wars #tbb #x reader #bad batch crosshair #crosshair #crosshair tbb #crosshair x reader #crosshair x you #crosshair bad batch #tbb crosshair #tbb crosshair x reader #crosshair the bad batch

26 notes · View notes

fandomtrash-16 · 10 months ago

Text

that one panel in the noland flashback has been eating at me for months, and the sillies are on their way to Elbaf, so like. never a better time to post my god headcanons

/their designs were made before Egghead finished so like, any inaccuracies are due to that, sorry//

little fun facts and doodles below:

Ohma (Ohm-ma), Nika, and Aamaru (Ah-ma-rue) are major gossips. Often they'll gather in the gardens and relay stories about themselves or other things between each other. Nika often has the weirdest stories, while Aamaru has the most dramatic.

Rudahn (Rue-dan, like Dadan) is the eldest of the divine four, and is the most strict. (Think of a school Principal) Nika is his polar opposite, and the two often get into arguments, as Rudahn thinks Nika's behavior is unfitting of a God. Nika thinks him controlling.

Nika and Ohma like to garden together :) His rooms in his temples/castle are eternally sunny, so she borrows them for her plants

Aamaru has a proper big dragon/sea serpent form!! ....but I'm still working on it,, He is based on Amaru, which is a sacred serpent from Incan mythology!

the whole "Sun god Nika of Elbaf" thing makes me think that maybe Nika's giant form is his normal size, but I like to think he prefers being in such a small form. easier to party!

part of Ohma's hair is actually vines! she uses them to hold up her hair in a partial bun, and she likes to weave flowers onto them

confession: I love @/orange-artist 's god AU so much, like Astrus and Tsuisu are canon to me, so if these sillies were a part of that AU then Aamaru, despite being a god himself, would actually worship Tsuisu. (bc yknow, mink.)

the fact that the joyboy silhouette (not from egghead) looks almost identical to Nika's silhouette but without the boa has led to my personal belief that the first 'Joyboy' was just Nika coming back to cause problems (Imu hates him so much)

Nika has two human (mortal) friends: Veras, his personal attendant and Ashira, a wandering scholar. (because I can)

^ i also have some bare concepts for the ocean as a god, because the fact there's a character tag on ao3 for it is just too good, and also its literally so important to the story and it being alive is just AUUH

my ramblings are probably all over the place but i hope they make enough sense shsbdn

#sun god nika #one piece #skypiea gods #the devil fruits are my very bad guesses at what they'd make #sans aamaru's his was inspired by theories abt dragon's df #they are canon to me #this all ties into my theories about Imu too #gods au #shout out orange artists god au that isnpired me so much #the ocean (one piece)

62 notes · View notes

playedcrowd5610 · 10 months ago

Text

Soundwave - Danny Phantom x Transformers Prime

Summary: Danny finally manages to get a chance to talk to Soundwave and discovers why Megatron hasn't discovered him yet. Maybe he also makes a friend along the way.

---

Notes

Set in a series where Danny finds Starscream one day and decides to start haunting the Decepticons. That's basically all the context you need but if you want more here is the rest of the series:

Haunting the Nemesis

Part 1: Chasing Stars

Part 2: Burning Rubber

Part 3: Adventures of the Decepticons' Pet Ghost Or Tumblr Master List

---

Danny had been on the Nemesis for over a week at this point, and for some reason, Megatron hadn’t come kicking down Starscream’s door in order to confiscate his new pet and blast Danny to smithereens or throw him out the airlock. From what he had heard about Megatron from Starscream’s dramatic retellings he seemed to have more of a dislike towards humans than Starscream did.

Though to be fair, Starscream still greatly disliked humans, he was just stuck with one who was now not going to leave him alone and was starting to reluctantly enjoy his company because Danny is the only one who tolerated his monologuing.

But so far, the only Decepticons aware of Danny’s presence were Starscream, Knockout, and Breakdown. The two later found Danny inside Starscream’s crushed subspace after pulling them away from the cave Danny had phased them out of. Once a more lucid Starscream had threatened them enough about what would happen if they told Megatron, even Danny was scared for them.

Danny didn’t know if Starscream was more worried about Danny getting killed if Megatron found out or if Starscream was worried about what Megaton would do to him if he found out that his second-in-command adopted a human pet. Probably a mix of both.

So far, from what Starscream had relayed to him in the last couple of months, Megatron seemed like the kind of mech to let Starscream keep Danny until he messed up and then would promptly squeeze the new pet until he exploded just to prove that he had power over Starscream. And that thought was enough of a reason for Danny to try and stay in hiding. Not that he was worried that Megatron would kill him — Danny didn’t think anyone on this ship could — but he didn’t want Starscream to get hurt in the process and Danny to be a means to achieve that hurt.

But still, Danny was confused. And he could tell that Starscream was as well. The last few days, he had seen the seeker pacing incessantly around his room and talking to himself about how something seemed off. Starscream had warned Danny not to leave his room, which Danny didn’t listen to. But apparently, the bedrooms (berth-rooms? Personal quarters?) were the only places on the Nemesis without security cameras.

But with all of those cameras, there definitely had to be some way that Megatron knew about him, that is unless someone was messing with the footage. After some light questioning of Starscream about how the security worked and who had access, he discovered that a mech by the name Soundwave had control of everything on the ship. He was apparently constantly watching and recording everything that happened and was the third in command on the Nemesis after Starscream himself. And if anything was happening to the footage Danny was in, it was ‘cause of that guy.

Danny decided to take this questioning into his own hands. A few days later, while Starscream was out, Danny turned invisible and slipped through the door, weaving in and out through the hallways until he found a big enough door that he could safely assume was the bridge.

There, standing at the main control panel, surrounded by monitors, was a tall purple mech who looked like he was pierced together by several thin pieces of metal. Even his arms seemed as thin as paper compared to the rest of these guys.

The purple origami man was rapidly typing on the keys with fingers even longer than Starscream’s (which Danny didn’t even think was possible). As Danny floated closer to his side he saw the black screen covering his faceplate, removing any expression from the table. He remembered Screamy talking about that “faceless freak” before, and how unnerving it was to be around him.

Well, now was as good a time as ever to make an introduction. “Heyyy, just the mech I wanted to talk to,” Danny said as he turned visible and walked out of the shadows. The mech simply turned its helm towards him and tilted his visor to the side. Screamy was right; that was a little unnerving. He could see his reflection looking back at him in the black glass.

And if Starscream’s EM field was hard to read, this guy’s was impossible. Danny strolled up closer to him, pretending that the staring didn’t bother him at all. “I was curious. Why didn’t you rat me out, to the big M?” Danny put his hands in his pockets. “I know you saw me on the cameras in the lab. There’s no way you didn’t. And I've been in the halls many times. I was expecting to be exterminated like the “pest” I am by now.”

Soundwave didn’t move from his position. “Curious, -saw- -on the cameras-, didn’t- know -why-.” The mech clipped back to him in his own voice, which made Danny’s eyes widen.

“You were curious about me, so you wanted to know more before you go tell your master?”

The mech paused, as if trying to comb through Danny’s sentences for words but instead decided to lean in closer, awkwardly crouching on one knee so that Danny could see his visor more clearly as English words appeared on the screen for Danny to read like subtitles. ‘Subject gives off unstable readings, waiting for more data before proceeding…’ A scan of Danny’s body showed up on Soundwave’s faceplate. Things like ‘below average body temperature’ and ‘Energy feedback readings’ stood out.

Danny laughed nervously. It seemed this guy was closer to finding Danny out than he would have hoped. Danny rubbed the back of his neck as he stepped back a bit. “If you find out what I am, will you tell Megatron?”

Soundwave stilled a bit too long for Danny’s liking before responding. “Negative.” The voice sounded strangely monotone and robotic compared to any other mechs he encountered. “Statement: Report is required for all unauthorized guests. Statement: you are not unauthorized.”

Danny smiled. “So because Starscream let me on, I’m allowed?” He paused. “Also, was that your real voice?”

The mech again waited a long moment before responding. “Both assessments: correct.”

“I didn’t think you spoke around other people?” Danny questioned. He was sure that Starscream had mentioned he never heard the mech speak, and Starscream didn’t even think he had a voice.

Soundwave straightened slightly so he wasn't crouching down so far to meet Danny in the middle. “Only when necessary.” He then started turning around to face the monitors again. Ahh, the work grind never stops.

Danny scuffed his foot back and forth on the floor. Starscream wouldn’t be back for another hour or so and he was bored of those data pads. Danny coughed into his hand, causing the mech to turn his helm back towards Danny again with a slight tilt. “You mind if I join you for a bit?”

Soundwave paused in thought before he replied with a quick nod. Just as Danny was about to walk closer to the terminal, a long purple tendril extended from Soundwave’s side and slowly wormed itself toward Danny. Danny stepped back a bit in surprise at first but the tentacle gently wrapped itself around Danny’s waist, gently lifting him to the height of the desk and placing him down with more gentleness than he had received at any point being on the Nemesis thus far.

Soundwave must not have been doing anything important, as he let Danny watch. Or maybe he just didn’t think Danny was able to learn Cybertronian that fast. Danny sat down on the desk with crossed legs as he glanced over the text flashing up the screen rapidly. The other monitors were showing cameras and other information they were scanning from Earth, photos, maps, and even articles of dig sites. Danny sat there, enamored by the work.

“Request: reveal your designation.” Danny’s head snapped up and back towards Soundwave’s visor, which was solely focused on him. Danny guessed on the cameras he was just called ‘the human’ or ‘pest’ or ‘Starscream’s pet’. It was nice of him to ask.

“Danny. My name is Danny.” Danny smiled brightly.

Soundwave nodded as a smiling emoticon appeared on his visor and he turned back to his work.

---

Disclaimer: Soundwave talking — so I know that Soundwave doesn't commonly talk in Prime like… at all. But he is shown to speak (even if it was only one line) in the series. He can talk, he just chooses not to unless the need arises. This started back when he was in the Senate and no one listened to him, so he decided that actions speak louder than words. After that, he only speaks to those he respects, and when the need arises. Mainly Megatron, or his mini-cons.

As much as I love Soundwave's somehow snarky silence and clipping things together with previous words he has recorded, I think it’s sweet if he finds himself willing to speak to Danny, especially because I see him as treating Danny almost like one of his mini-cons. Either way! Hope my interpretation of Soundwave is up to your standards and that people enjoyed how I wrote him <3

#danny phantom #danny fenton #crossover #transformers prime #danny phantom x transformers #transformers #decepticons pet ghost #decepticons #haunting the nemesis #soundwave #starscream #ao3 #fanart

57 notes · View notes

waywardserpent176389053 · 1 year ago

Text

Natsuki's Doki Doki Panic Chapter Two

Here is the second chapter, this time with editing provided by the talented @nursepunkdreams.

Circling Darkness

At first, Natsuki could only feel the throbbing of her heart. It was hummingbird fast, uncountable, and as tentative as the slight beat of their wings.

And it hurt. God, did it hurt. As though someone had sunk several needles into her chest and her heart was being forced to contract around them.

But that wasn’t quite right. Her other senses trickled in one after another. More pain. The soft hiss of compressed air; something strapped to her face, and a scattering of smaller somethings attached to her chest. A shrill, rapid beeping…

She winced. She was in motion, for sure—whoever was driving had hit some rough road. She tensed and tried to focus on something else.

Natsuki finally opened her eyes. She recognized the interior of an ambulance right away and tried to take it all in. An intravenous line snaked into her arm, and a dozen EKG electrodes covered her naked chest. A green mask fitted around her face fogged with her every breath.

Her vision wouldn’t quite focus, no matter how much she willed it to, and her thoughts didn’t fare much better. The whats, the whys, the hows of everything—it all escaped her.

“Hey there.” The paramedic noticed her wandering eyes. He gently touched the side of her face to center her gaze on him. “You just rest, okay? You’ve been through a lot. We’ve got you.”

She wanted to demand some answers, but was distracted by someone touching her shoulder. It looked like…

“It’s okay. I’m here too,” Monika reassured her in a soft tone. She watched worriedly as the other paramedic inched his stethoscope around her chest. “You fainted in the club room… so we’re just going to the hospital for a checkup. That’s all.” She placed her hand in Natsuki’s.

The paramedic let out a short sigh when he finished his examination and replaced the instrument around his neck.

“Still tachy. ETA?” He called out to the front.

“A minute, if that.”

Natsuki allowed herself to take some relief in that. The hospital would fix everything, right?

“Ah—” Her breath caught with a particularly painful spasm of her heart. The patient monitor sounded off with a new alarm as the spasms continued, and her hopes began to wane.

“She’s throwing some strong PVCs,” the paramedic said. He looked concerned scanning the monitor’s readout. “Hanging out around 180—pulse ox is dropping…”

Natsuki didn’t understand what the words meant. She looked to Monika for context and found her looking down at her, tense with worry—even more so than before.

That couldn’t be good.

“We’re here,” Monika gently relayed the information to her with a hand on her face. “I’ll be close by, okay…?”

She barely registered what she had said. There was a bit of jostling, some fussing by some unseen hands and the voices attached to them; the panel lights flashing overhead… but all she could focus on was her heart, beating out of control. It skipped and stuttered along in double-time, threatening to give out…

Then she came to a stop. She thought she glimpsed a sign that said ‘Cardiac Care Unit’, but she didn’t have time to think about it further. Suddenly her body was aloft, and then manhandled into position on a new bed. On every side, people were a blur of activity and an indiscernible torrent of medical jargon she couldn't hope to understand.

“Hi there Natsuki, are you with us?” One of her attendants spoke loudly and clearly, but still with a reassuring lilt. She waved her hand in front of her face. “There you are. You’re at the hospital, okay? Your heartbeat is very irregular, and we need to give it a little jolt to get it back to normal…”

She continued talking, explaining, but the words faded. On her opposite side, another medic was readying a defibrillator. She’d seen them, in movies, of course—but never in real life. The heavy capacitors were placed on her chest: one under her collarbone and the other under her breast. The team stepped back, and the man holding the paddles shot her a sympathetic look.

The shock was sharp and sudden, so much so that she hardly grasped that it had happened at all. She gasped, the trace read flat, and she became hyper aware of her heart. For a second, she was able to trace every part of her rebellious cardiac organ. Every blood vessel, valve, nerve, all of it; as though she could view it in a three-dimension space…

Then the muscle contracted. Once more, blood rushed to the rest of her body. She started to hyperventilate. The sensation—the awareness—was overwhelming. The monitor continued to broadcast a rhythm that was far too rapid.

“No change—still v-tach…”

She braced for the worst. The twin capacitors settled onto her chest once more.

The second shock struck her. The muscles of her back tightened and thrust her body against the defibrillator paddles, as if trying to buck them off. Her heart clenched like a fist, the electricity forcing a contraction. She slumped back onto the bed and her heart relaxed, still for a moment, then one beat… another…

No third beat. Natsuki’s heart, tired from all it had been through, merely twitched and spasmed.

She felt like she was sinking. The action around her grew more frantic—one medic rushed forward to compress her chest, another grabbed a bag-valve mask as her breath fled her lungs in a drawn out wheeze.

Her vision frayed into darkness at its edges. She feared the worst, but…

She could still see.

A medic frantically worked her chest, caving her ribs with every shove. Another tore off her mask and replaced it with the bag valve. She squeezed the bulb fast and steady, raising her chest with each repetition. It brought an ache in her ribs to her attention, and she found herself with the wherewithal to wonder if it was broken. Having barely finished her thought, she also noticed the pain of her ordeal was rapidly subsiding.

This is so embarrassing… Natsuki thought when her head was a little clearer. She hadn’t bared her chest for anyone in recent memory, but now a whole half dozen—or more—got to behold her pathetic body. She could feel her small breasts jiggling with each thrust, and going by what parts of her body felt clothed… she was only wearing her pink panties and white socks.

Natsuki thought she might expire fully right then and there.

She was reminded of the gravity of her situation then. She was fucking dying.

No… no! Not like this! She couldn’t reconcile with it. Her life had been utterly terrible for so long—it was only just getting good. She had a nice place to live! A crush on a cute girl! And she most certainly did not deserve to die from a sudden heart attack. She still needed to graduate, start a bakery… have sex at least once—not put into a casket at the ripe old age of fucking eighteen.

The compressions stopped, and the defibrillator was placed against her once more.

Please work, Natsuki begged. The current rippled through her and arched her back. Her jaw clenched, and for a second, all she saw was light. It rapidly gave way to darkness.

The void lingered just long enough to make her think this might be it. But she realized—she could still think, and then, she heard the noises around her. They were muffled, as though coming from the next room over, but enough for her to cling to for dear life. There was an alarm—shrill, persistent; a backdrop against the desperate voices of the team working her code.

She became aware of the compressions resuming next—suddenly acutely aware of her ribs being forced down; of her sternum pushing into her heart. The weight moved the arrested muscle down, stopped only by her spine; her ribs growing more pliable and fragile by the second. Beneath her chest wall, the organ was squeezed like a rubber ball; the valves within forced open as the blood was ejected. She could feel it—the blood pushed through the hungry arteries… and could discern, somehow, that it wasn’t nearly as effective as her heart beating normally. Between each thrust, her heart would swell as the blood rushed back.

All of this, in less than a second. But time dilated beyond all meaning now. The artificial rhythm continued at pace, and Natsuki felt the cadence with exacting clarity. Her heart continued to twitch. It reminded her of a plate of gelatin being shaken.

It occurred to her then—she hadn’t really considered her cardiac health all that much. Sure, she’d been a bit worried about it recently, but she didn’t think about it as a distinct part of her. She supposed she’d abstracted it somewhat—it having took on the appearance of a classic cartoon heart in her mind's eye, rather than the complicated mass of muscle it actually was.

Natsuki tried to give herself a shake. The present moment was far more pressing than this weird little detour her mind had taken… she needed that heart to beat again.

The compressions let up and air flooded her lungs. She relished the feeling. Breathing was good…

More of that, please…

She was met with more compressions. It would have been a relaxing cycle, if not for the mortal terror of it all.

Attempting to shift her mind elsewhere, she thought of her heart again. She could feel it so clearly, after all… perhaps she could figure out what the hell was wrong with it. She imagined turning it over in her hands, looking for anything amiss.

Her mouth being forced open broke her train of thought.

Oh… that’s kind of unpleasant… she thought dreamily as the endotracheal tube was guided down her throat. She wanted to gag, but didn’t, and when air came again at last, it inflated her lungs even more than before.

Alright, tube… I forgive you, Natsuki thought, still dazed. She allowed herself to luxuriate in the newfound oxygen and expected the cycle to resume, but it didn’t—instead of the hands ramming her heart, she felt two familiar weights against her chest.

Natsuki steeled herself as best she could.

Please, shocky things… please work—

The defibrillation forced her eyes open for a moment. Her heart, as with every shock before, locked up and ceased its twitching. She could see her chest arching against the paddles; the large, ugly bruise that had settled between her breasts; the breathing tube taped in place at her lips, and the many medics desperately trying to save her.

Maybe she was imagining things, but… she thought they didn’t look particularly hopeful. Her organ had stilled. There was an agonal contraction after a long pause, and then it started quivering again.

Natsuki groaned. The shock had hurt like hell. And not only that, but it had failed to revive her. At the very least… the pain was evidence she was still alive. It had to be. She tried to recenter herself, but—

They must have increased the voltage. The electricity snaked through her muscles, pulling each one taut as the current leaped from one paddle to the other. Her spine bowed and her heart seized with the current. She could trace the individual nerves of the organ as they fired all at once, the muscles at their end squeezing with as much strength as they could spare. Then—as before—it relaxed and returned to spasming.

Natsuki was getting a little frustrated now. Weren’t they supposed to call out ‘clear’ or something? A little more warning would be nice…

The compressions returned, and she began to riddle over her fibrillating organ once more. There must be an issue with her nerves—they were still sending out signals, but not the right ones. That must be why her heart was shaking instead of contracting. She traced her own cardiac nerves, trying to find which ones weren’t working, not sure what she would do if she found the right one…

The paddles were placed around her heart again.

Okay… gotta focus, she thought, with newfound determination. When the shock comes, I gotta force that nerve to—

The defibrillation rocked her body. Her heart contracted; its electrical signals scrambled. Natsuki traced the current…

There!

At the top of her heart, there was an entire cluster of nerves firing all at once from the external current. One of those nerves stood out to her, and even though she couldn’t tell how… she knew that was the one.

The charge dissipated, and her heart fell still. It stayed still.

The sinking feeling from earlier came back tenfold and Natsuki fought hard to keep her head above water. She was suddenly so cold, and the sounds from outside grew ever indistinct. She could only just barely make out the team’s voices…

“Asystole…!” One attendant shouted.

“Losing her!” She heard another cry.

The sensation of the chest compressions returned to her, but numb and distant.

Her life flashed before her eyes. Memories from the early days, when her mom was still around… those fleeting peaceful moment between the shouting matches and slamming doors. She hadn’t taken Natsuki with her, when she left—and she’d always blamed herself for that.

She was a pitiful child, after all. There were the years where she barely had any friends—thin and destitute, scrounging around for whatever food that man left for her—never enough to fill her. She was reminded of learning to bake, so she wouldn’t starve over summer break, and the comics she gorged herself on to give her any sense of hope.

More recent images flashed before her. Like joining the Literature Club and meeting all of her new friends.

That man being arrested, freeing her at last.

Planning for college. Baking new things—not for survival, but for fun.

All of it so recent. And so, so short.

Natsuki suddenly saw that all she would amount to would be a girl who never got the chance to really live—who got only the smallest taste of a good life before it was cruelly snatched away.

The darkness boiled around her; the cold threatening to consume her.

No!

She was not going to die!

Natsuki desperately thrashed against the death that surrounded her. She could still feel her body—the chest compressions, the air pumped to her lungs; the faint sounds of the efforts to revive her. She pushed upward, as if swimming towards the surface of an endless lake.

Natsuki had spent years reading manga. She tended toward slice of life and comedy—stories of girls just hanging out and having a good time, but she had read a bit of everything. Horror, romance, erotica, dramas, sometimes even action/adventure, if she was feeling a bit bored of her usual fare.

She envisioned herself as the protagonists of one of these adventures. Downtrodden, bloody—but standing up and defying the odds nonetheless. The second wind was coming.

She was going to survive this.

In her mind’s eye, she wrestled with her heart; begged it function. She pleaded and coaxed, and then, she was overwhelmed by an awful, acidic burning sensation in her veins. It moved closer to her heart with each press on her sternum, and she felt sick about it, but she knew it was likely the doctors still trying to save her and tolerated it as best she could.

The drugs soon arrived at her cardiac center. Nerves, once quiet, began to fire again. Slowly at first, then swiftly gaining speed—before long, the muscles attached returned to their unconditioned shaking.

Yes! Natsuki reveled in her triumph, even though it was largely the drugs that had done the heavy lifting.

Come on! Hit me again, shocky things!

As though the team could hear her, the weights of the paddles were promptly settled onto her chest again. Natsuki readied herself, but her timing was off. The fibrillation continued, and she prepared for the next jolt.

Three, two, one…

Another current rolled through her and she rode along it, pouring every ounce of her will into forcing her heart to beat once more. The cardiac muscles tightened, then relaxed, then remained still.

The darkness swirled around her. Natsuki clung to the light.

That was supposed to work, damn it!

Time was dilating again, and the creeping coldness settling in was fogging her mind. The distance between the compressions and voices stretched on further and further, as though she were adrift at sea, being pulled further and further away by the unforgiving yet undeniably gentle tide…

She felt more acidic drugs pouring into her veins and thought—for a scant moment—that her heart would react and start spasming again. But the organ did not respond. The voices of the medics cut in and out, hazy; painfully indistinct. Despite her senses failing, she still picked up the droning cry of the monitor, a flatline certainly running across it. In her altered state, it signaled to her that there was some great, terrible predator stalking around her, waiting to take her into dissolution.

My name… she thought desperately. It’s… my name is Natsuki. I like good manga, cute things… and baking! She tightened her focus. And… I love my friends, Monika, Sayori, and Yuri. God, Yuri… if I live for anyone, it’ll be for you!

She held onto this thought loop for dear life. A shield against the tide, against the cold, against the predator stalking near… if she could just hold onto herself… her friends…

Something changed. It was hard for her to focus on other things, but this was different. The compressions had stopped, but her heart wasn’t twitching. The asystole alarm continued, although distorted, as if she was hearing it underwater.

Oh… they gave up… she thought, despondent.

After all that, despite everything, her time was up.

The immense void moved in.

Yuri…!

She was numb, completely and utterly, but… there was no doubting it. She was being cut open. She struggled to remember why that might be happening.

Was she… dead? Was this a morgue; an autopsy? Something cold forced her ribs apart, snapping them like twigs.

That hurt. That hurt!

She remembered the names of her beloved friends and focused on the pain.

If I can still feel pain… then I must be… still alive…

Something new invaded her chest. They wrapped around her heart and squeezed. Hands, maybe. Blood shot through her arteries.

Natsuki rallied.

They haven’t given up! They’re still trying!

Her mind was scattered, but she tried to focus. She centered her attention on her stubborn heart.

Come on… work! Do something!

More drugs. It all felt so terrible, but she grit her teeth and didn’t dare break her focus.

A flutter. Then another, then her whole heart was thick with fibrillation once more. She could feel it so clearly; it was injured, weakened from its ordeal. The repeated shocks, the drugs, the lack of oxygen… and something deeper.

Some small thing that had always been there.

Natsuki lacked the vocabulary for it, but she knew, more than anything, it was the root cause. It wasn’t her nerves misfiring for seemingly no reason—it was this. This little thing she didn’t have a name for.

This flaw.

Small metal discs were placed against her heart.

Mini shocky things… she thought hazily. She knew she didn’t have much fight left. The creature stalked, just outside her perception, she knew—waiting for her to slip up.

Wait for the right—

Her heart was the sun as the charge smashed into it. Even though the capacitors were smaller, it was many, many times more intense.

Natsuki shook it off and readied herself. Her heart continued to shake meaninglessly.

Heh… rule of threes, she thought wryly. It’s now or never…!

The third hit. As her nerves sparked and fired; as the cardiac muscles clinched; as blood sloshed forward from the artificial beat—Natsuki took hold of one thought and bent all her will towards its success. She screamed it, howled it, bellowed it:

BEAT!!!

The heart relaxed as the charge dissipated. It was still.

Then, a nerve fired. Others followed. The muscle contracted—dared to contract.

And again. Then it stumbled, but caught itself.

Ba-dup… ba-dup… ba-dup…

If she could, Natsuki would have collapsed out of sheer relief.

She’d lived. She’d fucking lived.

She knew that her heart was still in poor shape; that she wasn’t out of the woods just yet. But that didn’t matter.

For now, she was alive. The rest could come later.

A new darkness rose around her, a friendlier one—a blanket of simple unconsciousness. She took the offer; she was exhausted in her bones. Her friends' faces rushed past her; she’d kept them. Held on so tight. Let them guide her back to the world of the living.

“I’ll see you soon, okay…?” she murmured, too quiet and indistinct for anyone to hear.

Her heart continued to beat. It was battered… and Natsuki knew, deep down, than it wouldn’t last much longer in the grand scheme of things. But for now, it would fulfill its function. Softly, as if exhausted itself, it beat.

And Natsuki lived.

#resus #cardiophile #cardiophilia #heartbeat #female resus #female heartbeat #storytelling #defib #female defib #cpr #resus writing

130 notes · View notes