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mephisto-reporting · 6 months ago

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The Engineer's Gravity - Yandere! Caleb

Plot: You're a biomechanical engineer in Caleb's fleet, incharge of repairs of prosthetic parts. What happens when you become the subject of the Colonel's obsession? Based on this request. Pairing: Non MC Mechanic! Reader x Yandere! Caleb Note: This story is with slightly darker themes. I do not want people to come at me saying Caleb isn't like this. Yes, I know. This is a Yandere! version of Caleb. Please keep that in mind. If you want to be a part of my taglist, please let me know in the comments, DMs or inbox. Content warning: Yandere male, implied deaths, mutilation, mentions of blood, possessiveness, gaslighting, voilence

CALEB'S POV

The faint hum of the Farspace fleet’s engines was a constant background noise, a rhythm that Caleb had grown accustomed to. It filled the silence as he walked down the dimly lit corridor toward the engineering bay, his gloved left hand flexing instinctively while his right hand remained eerily still. It wasn’t the arm itself that unnerved him anymore. No, he’d gotten used to the weight, the cool touch of the synthetic skin against his chest when he rested his hand there. What grated on him was the maintenance—the vulnerability of needing someone else to keep it functional.

The first time he’d come to the mechanic for maintenance, he had been indifferent, as he was to most things in his life. The arm was a tool, no more. Just another part of the machine that was Caleb, the Colonel. She was just another cog in the vast machine of the fleet, a means to an end. He barely remembered their first meeting beyond her clinical efficiency and soft voice, far removed from the barked commands of his officers or the detached drone of his superiors. She’d introduced herself simply, a name he didn’t bother committing to memory at the time, and had begun her work without wasting a second.

He’d sat in silence, his arm stretched out on the diagnostic table, his gaze fixed on the wall as she meticulously checked the connections and replaced worn components. She’d asked him questions—about the arm’s performance, any discomfort he’d noticed—but he’d only answered in monosyllables. He wasn’t trying to be rude; he just didn’t see the point.

She had been… different.

No. She spoke with compassion, with a voice that held an undercurrent of something human. When she’d first touched his arm to inspect it, there was no clinical detachment in her touch—no cold professionalism. Instead, there was a softness, a care.

But she kept showing up, week after week, her presence a constant thread in his routine. She didn’t just maintain his arm; she paid attention. She noticed when he was tense and adjusted her tone accordingly. When she worked, she hummed under her breath—a tune he couldn’t place but found oddly soothing. And unlike the professor who saw him as little more than a prototype for their next experiment, she treated him like a person.

Caleb first noticed it when she spoke to the other fleet members. The soldiers and officers with Toring chips embedded in their bodies, their minds augmented for efficiency but stripped of their individuality, were often treated as tools. Most of the crew barely acknowledged them, but she… she smiled at them. Asked about their day. Made sure they were comfortable during her examinations and modifications.

It wasn’t long before Caleb began to see her differently.

Their interactions changed subtly over time. He found himself lingering in the engineering bay longer than necessary, watching her work under the sharp white lights. She was focused, hands deft as they manipulated wires and micro-tools, her brow furrowed in concentration.

“You’re due for recalibration next week, Colonel.” she said during one session, not looking up from the neural interface she was fine-tuning.

“I’ll be here,” he replied. Then, after a pause, “You’re good at this.”

She glanced at him, surprised. “I’ve had a lot of practice.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Not just the work. The way you… treat people. You’re good at that, too.”

Her lips parted slightly, and for a moment, he thought she might dismiss the comment. But instead, she smiled—a soft, genuine thing that made something unfamiliar stir in his chest. “Everyone deserves to be treated like they matter.” she said simply, turning back to his arm.

He didn’t respond, but those words stayed with him long after he left the bay. Caleb watched her closely, taking note of every smile, every laugh, every time she showed kindness to someone else. It made something dark curl in his chest.

The first time Caleb intervened on her behalf, it was almost instinctual.

He was passing through the mess hall when he heard the sharp edge of Lieutenant Varro’s voice. “You know, for all your compassion, you take forever with repairs. Maybe stop coddling the freaks and do your job faster.”

Caleb froze, his blood turning cold. He rounded the corner to see Varro towering over her, his expression smug. She was holding a tray of food, her shoulders tense but her expression calm as she replied, “I do my job thoroughly, Lieutenant. If you’re unhappy with my work, you can file a complaint.”

Caleb’s steps faltered, his jaw tightening. A cold, simmering rage filled him as he turned to look at the man. He wanted to snap his neck right then and there, but he couldn’t let her see this side of him. Not yet.

So he smiled instead. A cold, calculating smile that sent a chill down Varro’s spine.

“Lieutenant,” Caleb said, his tone deceptively calm. “A word.”

Later that night, Varro didn’t return to his quarters. Whispers spread through the fleet about an "incident" during a routine maintenance check. Caleb made sure it looked like an accident—a malfunction in Varro's own bionic enhancements. No one questioned it, least of all her.

She remained blissfully unaware of the lengths Caleb went to for her.

As the days turned into weeks, Caleb’s obsession deepened. He found himself lingering in her workshop longer than necessary, watching her every move. She would smile at him, her eyes warm and kind, and Caleb would feel something he hadn’t felt since he left home for the DAA. A strange, aching need to keep her close.

“You know,” she said one day, her voice light, “you don’t always have to come here for repairs. You can just... visit, if you want.”

Caleb froze, his gaze locking onto hers. Did she know? Had she figured out how much he craved her presence? But her smile was so genuine, so innocent, that he realized she didn’t suspect a thing.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, his voice steady.

He told her about his family one evening, when the workshop was quiet and the rest of the fleet was asleep. He spoke of the girl he had grown up with, her fiery spirit, and the way she had carved a place for herself in Linkon.

“She is strong…” Caleb said, his voice low. “Stronger than anyone I’ve ever known.”

She listened intently, her expression soft. “You must miss her.” she said gently.

Caleb hesitated. Did he? The memory of that girl felt distant, overshadowed by the woman sitting in front of him.

“I don’t think about her much anymore.” he admitted. “There are... other things on my mind.”

He didn’t elaborate, and she didn’t press.

But Caleb couldn’t stop thinking about her. He thought about the way her hands moved over his arm, the way her laughter echoed in the workshop, the way she seemed to light up the cold, sterile corridors of the fleet.

And when he saw other officers talking to her, laughing with her, something in him snapped. He didn’t like the way they looked at her. He didn’t like the idea of anyone else getting close to her.

Caleb began to manipulate things behind the scenes, ensuring that no one spent too much time with her. He assigned officers to tasks that kept them far away from her workshop. He spread subtle rumors, casting doubt on the intentions of anyone who showed too much interest in her.

She never noticed. She never questioned why the workshop seemed quieter, why fewer people came to her for help.

And Caleb made sure it stayed that way. In the privacy of his quarters, Caleb would sit in the dim light, his bionic hand flexing involuntarily as he thought about her. She was his. She didn’t know it yet, but she belonged to him.

And he would do whatever it took to keep her safe. To keep her close.

Even if it meant destroying anyone who stood in his way.

YOUR POV

Lately, you’d noticed something strange.

The crew didn’t treat you the way they used to. At first, it was subtle—an officer averting his gaze when you greeted him in the corridor, a technician hurriedly ending a conversation when you approached. Then it became more blatant. People gave you a wide berth in the cafeteria, whispers died the moment you entered a room, and the occasional sidelong glances you caught were laced with something unspoken.

Fear.

It didn’t make sense. You’d always prided yourself on being approachable, on treating everyone with the respect they deserved. Sure, your work was demanding, and your position as the fleet’s biomechanical engineer meant you often had to be firm when it came to protocols, but you weren’t cruel. Far from it. You treated the crew like people, not machines.

But now? It was as though you carried some invisible aura that screamed danger.

And then there were the... incidents.

The first time, you brushed it off as coincidence. Lieutenant Gregor had been reassigned to another fleet without warning, just days after he’d mocked you during a team briefing. You’d chalked it up to bad luck or his own poor behavior catching up to him.

But then it happened again.

And again.

Officers and fleet members who dismissed your concerns, who snapped at you during high-stress missions, who made snide comments about your methods—they all disappeared. Some were reassigned to far-off posts, others were suddenly discharged for disciplinary reasons, and a few even suffered freak accidents that left them unfit for duty.

The pattern was impossible to ignore.

The only constant in all of this was the Colonel.

Or just Caleb, as he’d asked you to call him when it was just the two of you.

“Colonel” felt too formal, too distant, he’d said one evening as you adjusted the fine motor controls on his bionic hand. He’d leaned back in the chair, watching you with an intensity that made you feel both self-conscious and oddly comforted.

“Just Caleb,” he’d said, his voice softer than usual. “When we’re alone.”

You hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Over the past few months, he’d become a steady presence in your life, someone you found yourself looking forward to seeing.

And lately, he seemed to be around you more than ever.

It wasn’t just during maintenance sessions anymore. He’d stop by your workshop for no apparent reason, lingering by your workbench as you tinkered with your tools. He’d accompany you on supply runs, his tall frame a protective shadow at your side. When the fleet docked at Skyhaven for shore leave, he invited you to join him for coffee or walks through the market district. He’d cook for you and bring you meals to your residence in Skyhaven, unprompted.

It felt... nice.

You couldn’t deny that you enjoyed his company. Caleb had a dry sense of humor that never failed to catch you off guard, and there was a steadiness to him that you found grounding. Still, there was something about him—something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

The way he always seemed to know when someone had upset you. The way his gaze lingered on you just a little too long, as if he were memorizing every detail. The way his voice dropped when he said your name, like it was a secret only he was allowed to keep.

You tried to push the thoughts aside. Caleb was your superior, your colonel. He’d never given you any reason to distrust him. And yet...

One evening, as you recalibrated the sensory feedback in his arm, you decided to bring it up.

“Have you noticed how people have been acting lately?” you asked, keeping your tone light as you adjusted a tiny screw. “It’s like they think I’m some kind of... I don’t know, threat or something.”

You glanced up at Caleb, expecting him to shrug it off with one of his usual dry remarks. Instead, his body tensed, just for a moment. If you hadn’t been watching him so closely, you might have missed it.

“What makes you say that?” he asked, his voice carefully neutral.

“It’s just a feeling.” you said, turning back to his arm. “People avoiding me, whispering when they think I can’t hear. And then there are the reassignment orders. It’s like anyone who crosses me is... gone.”

There was a long pause.

“It’s nothing.” Caleb said finally. “Tensions have been high since the last Deepspace tunnel exploration. People are on edge.”

You frowned but didn’t press the issue. Maybe he was right. The fleet had been through a lot recently, and stress had a way of making people act strangely. Still, something about his explanation didn’t sit right with you.

“Yeah,” you said, forcing a smile. “That makes sense.”

But it didn’t. Not entirely.

Still, you knew better than to poke your nose where it didn’t belong. You’d learned long ago that asking too many questions could lead to trouble, and trouble was the last thing you needed.

So you stayed in your lane, focusing on your work and pretending not to notice the way Caleb’s presence seemed to permeate every aspect of your life. You told yourself it was fine, that his increased attention was nothing to worry about. After all, you trusted Caleb. He’d always been kind to you, always treated you with respect. And if his gaze lingered a little too long, if his touch was a little too gentle when he handed you a tool, if his smile held a hint of something darker—you ignored it.

Because Caleb was the only person who hadn’t changed. The only person who still treated you like... you.

The ship was silent at night, the hum of its engines a low, constant thrum beneath your feet as you walked through the dimly lit corridors. You’d been restless, the bitter taste of Lieutenant Reese’s words still fresh in your mind. The new Lieutenant had been transferred to Caleb’s fleet three weeks ago and was already causing tensions within the hierarchy of how things ran in the fleet.

“Guess even engineers need quotas filled, huh? They really let anyone take up space on this ship these days,” he had sneered during a systems check earlier. “Bet you’ve only kept this position because someone up high likes the way you look.”

His smirk had twisted into something crueler as he leaned closer. “Face it. You’re not here because you’re good—you’re here because you’re convenient.”

The humiliation burned as much now as it had then. You clenched your fists at the memory, your footsteps echoing softly against the metal floor. You’d worked too hard, poured too much of yourself into your work, to have it dismissed so callously. And yet, his words lingered like a stain, refusing to be scrubbed away.

You were so lost in thought that you almost didn’t hear the sound.

A muffled grunt. A crash.

And then—a sickening crunch.

You froze. Every instinct screamed at you to turn back, to return to your quarters and pretend you hadn’t heard anything. But your curiosity—or perhaps some misplaced sense of duty—compelled you forward. Quietly, you padded down the corridor, following the noise until you reached a maintenance bay.

What you saw made your breath catch in your throat.

Caleb stood over Lieutenant Reese, who was slumped against the wall, blood smeared across his face. The lieutenant’s arm hung at an unnatural angle, his body trembling as he let out a pained whimper. Caleb’s hand was clamped tightly around Reese’s throat, his grip firm but not enough to choke.

Not yet.

“You thought you could get away with it?” Caleb said, his voice low and steady, each word laced with venom. “Insulting her. Undermining her. Disrespecting her.”

Reese tried to stammer out a response, but Caleb’s hand tightened, silencing him.

“You signed your life away the moment you opened your mouth.” Caleb continued, his tone almost conversational, as if he were discussing something as mundane as a supply requisition. “She’s worth more than you’ll ever be. Do you even understand that?”

Reese’s legs kicked weakly, his breaths ragged. Caleb tilted his head, his expression shifting from cold fury to mild disappointment.

“Pathetic!” he muttered, releasing the lieutenant’s throat. Reese crumpled to the ground, wheezing and coughing. Caleb watched him for a moment, then raised his foot and brought it down sharply on Reese’s hand. The sound of bones breaking echoed in the bay.

The lieutenant went limp, his body a lifeless heap. Caleb crouched beside him, his expression one of disdain. “Weak,” he said, his voice barely audible.

And then he turned his head, his gaze locking onto you.

The moment seemed to stretch, the air thick with tension. Caleb’s expression shifted from cold to shocked in the blink of an eye, but his eyes—the ones that had always been so warm towards you—now seemed empty, calculating.

He stood still for a moment, then took a step toward you, his movements slow, deliberate. His voice was a whisper, but it cut through the silence like a blade.

“Don’t be scared,” Caleb said softly, though there was an edge to his words. “I’m just protecting you. I would never let anyone hurt you, never.”

Your mind raced, your pulse quickening. You’d seen this side of Caleb before—quiet, intense, protective—but this? This was something else. He was different.

“Protected me?” you repeated, your heart pounding. “From what?”

“From him,” Caleb replied, gesturing to Reese’s motionless form. “He disrespected you. He questioned your worth. He hurt you.”

His gaze softened, and he took another step closer. “I won’t allow that. Not from him. Not from anyone.”

“This—this isn’t right,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “You can’t just—”

“I can,” Caleb interrupted, his tone firm but not unkind. “And I will. You may not see it now, but this is what’s necessary.”

You stared at him, searching for any hint of remorse, but there was none. Only conviction.

“I’ll always protect you.” he continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Even when you think you don’t need it. Even when you don’t understand why.”

You took a step back, your mind racing. But even as you tried to process what you’d seen and heard, a cold realization settled over you.

He closed the distance between you, his steps soft but purposeful, until he was standing right in front of you. His face was close, too close, his breath warm against your skin. “You’ve been through so much,” he continued, his voice soothing, almost affectionate. “You don’t need to worry about the people who don’t understand you. I’ll always protect you.” He repeats. “Even when you don’t ask for it.”

You swallowed; your throat dry. You should have been afraid, terrified even. But you weren’t. A part of you was frozen, caught in the web of his words, of his gaze. He was so sure of himself, so confident, and it was hard not to believe him when he looked at you like that.

His hand reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

“You’re mine,” Caleb whispered, his words not a command but a promise. “No one will ever take you from me. Not ever.”

You should have questioned it, should have asked him what he meant, why he was doing this. But you didn’t. Because in that moment, you realized you couldn’t escape.

Not really.

You knew who Caleb was. You knew what he was capable of. And you knew that the resources of the Farspace Fleet, the professor, and Caleb’s power meant there was no running, no hiding from him. You’d seen what happened to those who crossed you. And now, you didn’t doubt for a second that Caleb was behind it.

But what unnerved you most was the way he looked at you now. Not with malice, not with cruelty, but with something softer. Something almost tender.

“Stay.” he said, his voice coaxing. “I’ll keep you safe. You don’t need to worry about anything else.”

You swallowed hard, your mind screaming at you to run, to fight, to do anything but stand there. And yet... you nodded.

Because deep down, you knew he was right about one thing.

Caleb would never hurt you.

As long as you stayed.

He would never let anyone touch you. He would never let anyone harm you.

You were his, and he was yours.

At least, that’s what you told yourself as you stood there, the weight of his gaze heavy on you.

And as Caleb stepped back, his eyes softening, a reassuring smile tugging at his lips, you knew one thing for certain: you were far past the point of no return.

And maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t so bad.

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

Taglist: @cordidy, @natimiles @leighsartworks216 @notisekais @raining4food @fallthelong @pomegranatepip @juliuscaesarsstabbedback @krystallevine @lemurianmaster @nenggie @loverindeepspace @sinsodom

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makingfanfictionstosleep · 1 month ago

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the cure to his curse

sylus x non mc || angst & hurt || happy ending || mc is kinda pick me || drabble out of boredom that spiraled into a series while listening to linkin park's song - heavy || could be triggering for others so read at your own risk || this is not smut || story masterlist : love and deepspace

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FIVE

The world swam back into focus with a dull ache that seemed to emanate from every cell in your body. Four days. Four days in a coma, a silent battle waged against the very edge of oblivion. You'd lost so much blood, almost slipped away, kept tethered to life only by the sheer, stubborn will of your evol.

Sylus was there, of course. His hand, warm and trembling, yet surprisingly steady, rested over yours. You instinctively tried to recoil, but your body was too weak, a leaden weight that refused to obey. He saw the flicker of your eyes, a wave of relief washing over his face, mixed with that familiar, heavy guilt. "Doctor!" he called out, his voice sharp with urgency.

Moments later, the familiar figures of Luke and Kieran appeared at the door, their faces a mixture of worry and profound relief. Then came Zayne. MC’s 'friend,' the calm, unreadable doctor. You knew there was more to their connection, just as you knew of her tangled web with Skyhaven’s Colonel Caleb, the enigmatic Rafayel, the elite hunter Xavier… and your own lover. You remained silent, your head throbbing, your body protesting every movement, every flicker of consciousness.

"Her evol is unique," Zayne murmured, his voice professionally detached yet tinged with a hint of awe. "It's already begun to completely heal the scars. They will fade because of the nature of her evol." He ran a diagnostic tool over your arm, his expression thoughtful. "She's responding well. We should expect a full recovery, Sylus."

You simply nodded, the only response you could muster. The physical pain was sharp, but manageable. The ache in your heart, however, felt like a gaping wound, far more debilitating.

You just wanted to fade, to never wake up from this nightmare. You closed your eyes, drifting back into the dark embrace of sleep, intentionally shutting out Sylus, Zayne, and the twins. You didn't want to see them, to acknowledge the world that had become so painful.

After weeks of slow, arduous recovery, you were back on your feet, but the person you once were felt like a distant memory. Sylus tried to make it up to you, his attempts a clumsy dance between desperate yearning and ingrained stoicism.

Sometimes, you'd scoff at his efforts, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. Other times, you'd accept a meal he'd brought, or a quiet moment in his office, and for a fleeting instant, things would feel almost normal, almost like the lovers you once were. Then, just as quickly, the wall would descend, and you'd become completely withdrawn, a ghost in his presence.

He knew. He saw the shift in your eyes, the subtle contempt in your voice that no one else would detect, but he, who had known you so intimately, could feel it like a physical blow. He knew he'd messed up, knew why you were hot and cold, why your responses were laced with a hidden sting. He just couldn't bring himself to face the full extent of his mistake.

Then came the night that shattered everything. You were walking past his office, intending to drop off some urgent mission reports, when you heard voices. His voice. And hers.

"...it's the cursed loop, Sylus," MC’s voice, soft, almost regretful, drifted through the slightly ajar door. "Just like before, the curse of being fated."

And then Sylus, his tone so gentle, so utterly endearing, a softness you thought was reserved for you alone. "I know. It's just… complicated this time."

Your blood ran cold. You froze, every nerve ending screaming. You heard the hushed words, the undeniable intimacy in their voices.

‘Lovers in the past. Fated partners. Destined to love each other, yet kill one another.’

The cursed loop. It wasn't just a mission, wasn't just her evol, wasn't just his professional responsibility. It was history. It was destiny.

You didn't realize you were crying until the hot tears streamed down your face, blurring the edges of the corridor. Your chest burned, a volcanic eruption of pain and betrayal. At that exact moment, the office door swung open. Sylus stood there, his eyes widening in shock when he saw you, your tear-streaked face a silent testament to everything you’d just overheard. He knew. He knew you knew.

‘Where does this place me? What am I to him? Was I just a replacement? A fleeting romance? Once the curse is broken, will he leave me?’ The questions screamed in your head, a cacophony of agony.

Sylus moved, his hand reaching for you, his lips forming words you couldn't hear, couldn't process. They were just noise, drowned out by the deafening roar of your own despair. You looked past him, into the office. MC was there, her expression unreadable, not a hint of regret, not a shred of apology for the devastation she’d just wrought. ‘How greedy she is,’ you thought numbly, ‘not content with one, but wanting five.’

Absentmindedly, you held out the documents you’d come to deliver for the next mission. Your mind was numb, your shoulders slumped in utter surrender. You felt tired, profoundly, devastatingly tired, yet the tears wouldn’t stop.

Sylus, in a rare display of uncontrolled emotion, snatched the documents from your hand and hurled them to the floor. "Wait!" he cried, but you were already turning, walking aimlessly, your feet feeling like lead, each step an enormous effort.

It was too much. The voices in your head, the searing pain in your heart, the betrayal. Everything was running at once, a chaotic symphony of hurt and confusion. You felt everything, and yet, paradoxically, nothing at all. You just kept walking.

Sylus overtook you, his strong hands gently but firmly gripping your arms, stopping you. You stared at him, your eyes dead and dull, devoid of any light. His heart visibly broke as he saw your vacant gaze, guilt twisting his features.

He knew now. He knew he should have been truthful. His affections, his actions, had been treading a dangerous line between devotion and emotional disloyalty.

Through the fog of your despair, you managed to articulate one desperate plea. "I just want to sleep," you whispered, your voice raw, "and hope to never wake up again. Not in this kind of sick nightmare." You pulled free from his grasp and walked past him, your heavy feet dragging.

Sylus stood frozen, watching you go. He felt helpless, utterly broken, condemned by his own actions. He wanted to follow, to beg you to stay, to explain, but his legs wouldn't move, rooted to the spot by the weight of his guilt.

You heard MC’s voice in the background, a faint, sweet, worried tone calling his name. You didn't hear Sylus reply. You zoned out, focusing only on the journey back to your room, needing nothing more than to crash and stay in that oblivion, that dreamless slumber, forever.

#love and deepspace #lads #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #sylus #sylus lads #sylus love and deepspace #sylus x you #sylus x non mc #lads x non mc #love and deepspace fanfiction

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berrywinner · 4 months ago

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PLEASE WRITE FOR CHASE BUT LIKE FLUFFY AND HAPPY STUFF UGHH and can you make it an x reader 🩷 i appreciate you so much!!

Pot, meet kettle

The hospital was unusually quiet, a rare moment of peace in the chaos that usually filled the halls. You sat in the diagnostics conference room, sipping on a lukewarm coffee, flipping absentmindedly through a patient file. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed softly, casting a dim glow over the table littered with paperwork, medical journals, and half-empty cups of coffee from various shifts.

"You're working too hard," a familiar Australian voice teased, and you looked up to find Chase leaning against the doorframe, his usual smirk firmly in place. His white coat was unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up just enough to hint at exhaustion, yet his blue eyes were bright with mischief.

"Pot, meet kettle," you shot back, raising an eyebrow. "Didn't you just pull a double shift?"

"Maybe," he admitted, pushing himself off the frame and walking over to you. He stole your coffee right out of your hands, took a sip, and immediately made a face. "That’s awful. How do you drink this?"

"Desperation," you deadpanned, watching as he placed the cup back in front of you with an exaggerated look of betrayal.

Chase chuckled, the sound warm and familiar. "Seriously, you should take a break. Come on, let’s get out of here for a bit. I know a place that makes coffee that won’t make you regret all your life choices."

You sighed, leaning back in your chair. "I'll take a break when you do."

"Alright, deal." Without warning, he reached out and laced his fingers with yours, giving them a gentle squeeze. The touch was light, casual, but your heart stuttered all the same.

You narrowed your eyes playfully. "Are you using emotional manipulation to get me to leave work?"

"Absolutely." His grin widened as he tugged you to your feet. "And it's working."

With a resigned laugh, you let him pull you along, exiting the conference room and slipping past a few late-shift nurses in the hall. As you walked side by side, the usual hospital scent of antiseptic and caffeine lingering in the air, Chase’s fingers remained loosely curled around yours, the warmth of his palm grounding you in a way you hadn’t realized you needed.

The coffee shop Chase had insisted on was small, tucked away from the main roads, with dim lighting and the rich scent of espresso hanging in the air.

Chase ordered for both of you without hesitation, a sign of how many times you’d been here together before. You leaned against the counter, watching as he paid before grabbing your drinks and heading toward a small table by the window.

"I don’t remember agreeing to let you pay," you pointed out as you sat down.

Chase smirked over the rim of his cup. "You didn’t. But you were too slow to stop me."

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest betrayed your amusement. "You’re insufferable."

"And yet, you keep hanging around me. Wonder why that is?"

You took a slow sip of your coffee, savoring the rich taste before shrugging. "Maybe I enjoy the challenge of putting up with you."

"Or maybe," Chase leaned forward slightly, a knowing glint in his eyes, "you just like me."

Your lips parted slightly in protest, but no words came. The way he looked at you teasing, but undeniably sincere, made your heart flutter in a way you weren’t ready to admit. You tried to mask the feeling with an exaggerated sigh. "I tolerate you at best."

Chase chuckled. "Uh-huh, keep telling yourself that."

For a while, you just sat there, sipping your coffee, falling into easy conversation. It was one of those moments where time didn’t feel so rushed, where the exhaustion of the hospital melted away for just a little while.

And then, somewhere between a joke about House’s latest madness and Chase’s terrible attempt at an American accent, he reached across the table, fingers brushing lightly over yours. It was barely a touch, fleeting, but it sent a quiet thrill up your spine.

Your eyes met his, and for once, he wasn’t smirking. He was just looking at you, really looking at you, as if waiting for you to say something, do something.

So you did.

Slowly, tentatively, you turned your hand over so your palm met his. He didn’t pull away, didn’t tease. Instead, he squeezed your fingers, his thumb tracing small circles against your skin in a way that felt comforting and natural.

"See?" he murmured, voice just above a whisper. "Told you you liked me."

You huffed a quiet laugh, feeling your cheeks warm. "Shut up and drink your coffee, Chase."

But before he could lift his cup, you leaned forward, just slightly, and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. It was brief, barely more than a brush of lips, but the effect was instant. His breath hitched, and when you pulled back, his smirk had melted into something softer, something almost dazed.

Chase blinked once, twice, then grinned. "Okay, you definitely like me."

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling as you took another sip of your coffee. "Yeah, yeah. Don’t let it go to your head."

He laughed, and this time, he was the one who leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. "Too late."

#house md #robert chase #robert chase x reader #chase x reader #dr chase

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on-leatheredwings · 1 year ago

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House Arrest

Yandere! Batfam / Bruce Wayne x (Fem!) Reader

For a request, Munchausen's syndrome by proxy with Bruce? Like, he keeps reader sick so she can't leave him or interact with someone outside the family. And maybe the rest of the batfam is in on it?

[a/n: Didn’t know if you wanted this platonic or not so I didn’t specify! In my head its romantic with bruce though lmao]

> word count: 1581

> Tw: gaslighting, munchausen’s syndrome by proxy, yandere-typical behaviors!

You sit in anticipation, foot tapping against the stone floor. There’s an entire miniature hospital set up for you down here in the Batcave. Respirators, diagnostics machines, and other expensive medical equipment that would be better served in Gotham General.

Helping people recover.

So patients could some day leave.

You used to love being in the Batcave. It was the family’s little secret. When you officially joined the family, the Batcave was now your secret as well. But ever since falling ill months ago, bedridden with a sickness whose cause continues to elude everyone… being here is depressing. You now notice it’s damp down here. Dark. Lifeless.

Bruce sits at the Batcomputer, the screen’s light painting over his face in a green wash. You watch his eyes scan line after line of your results. Reminds you of a typewriter. Methodical. Orderly. Nearly inhuman. When he sighs, your heart stops.

Fuck.

He turns to you, face grave. “You’re still ill.”

Your eyes start stinging with an onset of tears that you furiously try to blink back.

“... H-How ill? How bad? Am I any better?” you ask, as if bartering with him will make the situation any different. As if bartering with God ever made any difference for mere mortals such as yourself.

Bruce’s face is still.

“You haven’t improved.”

Your hopes crash down around you like glass. You aren’t better at all? Even though you haven’t had a fever in weeks? Even though you’ve been working out with enough energy to keep up with Damian? He was exerting perhaps only 10% of his effort, but still. Your lymph nodes aren’t even swollen anymore. Tim had told you as much, accidentally contradicting Bruce’s insistence that they had been earlier that morning.

“But I feel better,” you croak. You hear footsteps behind you approach and you swallow drily, nearly hissing at the offender. It’s Dick, and damn him. You don’t want to be placated right now.

“Are you experiencing any headaches? Shortness of breath?” Bruce asks, eyes still trained on you. You try to recall.

“... I may have had a migraine this morning…” At Bruce’s weary shake of the head, you blurt, “But it’s passed. I’m perfectly fine. And no shortness of breath.”

“... I’m sorry. But if you’ve been having symptoms like that, along with your being immunocompromised…” Bruce doesn’t even have to finish the sentence. You won’t be leaving the Wayne Manor grounds for a long time.

Fuck.

You feel a hand on your shoulder. You look up and see Dick, whose face is somber but offers an encouraging smile.

“Well, I’m back in town for the time being. We can hang out all the time.” His expression brightens as an idea pops into his head. “And I can call Tim, Jason, Duke–! Maybe even Cass and Steph… We can have a board game night tonight!” He sounds as chipper as you are miserable.

Damian approaches from behind, leaving the shadows. His arms are folded. “If that’s the case, I’ll humor Grayson and let him capture some of my fleet for once.” A popular choice was Risk, perfect for the family who’s entire lives revolved around combat and strategy. But you didn’t want to play Risk again. You didn’t want to have a board game night, no matter how many of the family came. You wanted to see people.

Other people. Everyone here is your family.

You want fucking friends again. You wanted a job again – a sentiment you would’ve laughed at even just five months ago. You wanted any semblance of a life again.

Bruce’s eyes haven’t left your trembling form once, two chips of slate-gray peering over steepled hands.

“Thank you, Dick. Damian. But I think she could use some time alone.”

Dick’s hand releases your shoulder, retracting as if burned. None of them are the boss here. It’s Bruce who is my warden, your mind whispers darkly.

“Right! Don’t want you to feel overwhelmed.” Dick sees himself out, taking Damian with him. “See you tonight.” And that feels like a sentencing to your fate.

Now the two of you alone, Bruce stands, offering his arm wordlessly. You know what this means. You take it, linking yours with his without thought or protest. Bruce liked to ensure you were always within his reach, as if you were prone to fainting spells. This was less humiliating for you than him carrying you through the estate, you suppose.

“Why, yes, let’s take a turn around the grounds!” you used to exclaim, making your voice posh and British, mimicking the regency romance movies you had been watching all the time.

Now, months later, you just sullenly allow him to lead you. Your surroundings pass by and you vaguely recognize that you are exiting the Batcave, walking through the manor, and out into the never-ending expanse of a well-kept lawn.

It’s a sunny, idyllic spring day after months of overcast winter.

And thank god you could still traipse outside when you wanted, even if fenced in. Bruce told you when you had first fallen ill that he had installed some high-tech, anti-air pollution gadget. Wayne Manor was effectively your own personal bubble. Fresh air was the only thing keeping you sane, lately.

You two pass by the garden, a labor of love Alfred started. You and Damian tend to it now… and mainly the latter, these days. You haven’t had any energy for gardening as of late. Fatigue is a symptom, you hear Bruce’s voice whisper in the back of your mind. But you don’t feel fatigue… rather, just depressed. But of course, isn’t fatigue a symptom of being depressed…? A familiar brain fog crawls into your mind. Your head was starting to hurt.

You look across the lawn, onto the horizon. Gotham’s dark skyline sits there, enticing. When night falls, it’ll glimmer and twinkle with light. There is a whole world out there. And, God, you love the Waynes, but they aren’t the world. You need to distract yourself. Bruce, ever the lover of pleasant silences, is going to have to distract you from thoughts that make you want to leap off the second story balcony of your bedroom.

Should you ask, “How’s work?” No. You find you don’t care.

“How’s Jason?” you say instead, feeling Bruce stiffen at the mention of his most tenuous relation.

He wasn’t around as much, but when he was, he was always relaxing with you in your room. You have a whole shelf for the knick knacks he brings. “Don’t worry. They’re clean,” he’d snort at his former mentor, because Bruce required everything to be thrice sanitized before coming into your possession.

“... Better.”

You’re glad. That’s one good thing, you guess.

“Bruce,” you croak.

He looks at you, face alight in expectation.

“Maybe I should just go,” you say, small and weak. Your eyes don’t leave the sight of Gotham skyscrapers, stretching to the sky. Bruce stills, stopping you both in your tracks.

“What do you mean, ‘go’?” he says carefully.

You remove yourself from his arm and gesture to the city. “Just go. Leave. I mean, I can’t stay here forever.” Bruce looks genuinely confused, as much as he can.

“Of course you can.”

“No, I can’t!” you screech. Frustrated, you tear at your hair. “I can just be an outpatient somewhere– I can go for hospital treatments every week– or everyday– whatever!

Bruce places his hands on your shoulders.

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

Rage flares in you and you gnash your teeth at him. By now, that all-too-familiar brain fog has flooded your brain. But you try to fight it. You have to fight it. Like trying to crawl out of rapidly-sinking quicksand, you fight it.

“I-I know what I’m saying. I’m saying–”

“You’re saying to just let you die,” Bruce sharply returns. “To give up, let you die, and leave us to grieve.”

“No–”

“Stephanie.”

You meet his eyes again at the name, which are resolute and as blue as ever.

“Cassandra. Duke.” Your stomach churns, imagining their smiling faces, turned into ash as your hypothetical passing. “Barbara.”

“Bruce,” you croak, pleading inwardly for him to stop.

“Damian.”

“Tim.”

“Jason.”

“Dick. Alfred.” You duck your head and your eyes meet the ground. The listing of all your loved ones pinches your heart, and you feel nauseous. You weren’t trying to leave them. You didn’t want to leave them at all.

“... Me.”

Your eyes sting with tears again. Why did he have to make it sound like that? Like you were seeking some selfish want, rather than trying to improve your quality of life. You feel your ambition and desire wane under the weight of guilt. You feel all sense of struggle start to disintegrate, lost to the fog in your head. Lost. You’ve lost.

Bruce’s eyes scrutinize you.

“As I suspected. You’re acting delirious. Manic. Delusional.”

Any semblance of protest dies in your throat.

“What?” you say. But Bruce is already leading you away towards the looming doors of Wayne Manor, away from the green of the grounds. Away from the light of the sun, and away from the skyline. He comforts you with familiar lines on the way to your bedroom.

You need rest. Alfred will brew his tea for you. I’ll call the kids to come tonight. We can play Risk. He pats your shoulder, stroking soft, deceptively warm circles with his thumb.

“You just need some rest.”

And not for the first time, you believe he may be right.

#yandere batfam #yandere bruce wayne #bruce wayne x reader #tw gaslighting #bruce wayne #mine

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bitstream24 · 2 months ago

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Economic Impact of Preventive Maintenance and the Role of SAE J1939 in Fleet Management

Discover the economic benefits of preventive maintenance for diesel fleets. Learn how SAE J1939 streamlines diagnostics and boosts vehicle uptime, efficiency, and compliance.

#SAE J1939 #Fleet Management #Diagnostics #eld #Diesel Engine #Maintenance #CAN Bus #Data Logging #Preventive Maintenance

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velvetinks · 3 months ago

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Fault Lines - Heat

The hangar was freezing. Not in temperature—no, the First Order kept its environments regulated within strict tolerances—but in atmosphere. The chill didn’t come from the air but from the silence, from the rigid way troopers marched and engineers spoke in clipped tones. No one lingered. No one slouched.

You liked it that way.

You moved like you belonged, toolbelt clipped tight around your hips, sleeves rolled to your elbows, a hydrospanner clutched in your gloved hand. You were covered in grease, grime, and flecks of scorched carbon—proof that you’d been elbows-deep in starship guts all morning.

This was your kingdom. A mess of wires, panels, circuits, and systems. Machines made sense. Orders were followed. Laws of physics didn’t lie.

People, on the other hand—especially the one whose ship you’d been assigned to—didn’t make any damn sense at all.

Kylo Ren’s personal shuttle sat in the center of Hangar Bay A—sleek, black, ominous. You’d been working on it for a week now, cycling through diagnostic after diagnostic, trying to track down a glitch in the hyperdrive cooling matrix. It was nothing that would kill him—not immediately. But long-term? It could cause catastrophic failure. The ship was fast. Fast enough to outpace every model in the First Order’s fleet, but it ran too hot.

Much like its owner.

You hadn’t met him yet. Not face to face. You’d only seen him at a distance once—a tall, black silhouette, helmet glinting under overhead lights, stalking past stormtroopers like a dark god among mortals. Everyone had gone stiff at his approach, including you.

Still, you weren’t intimidated. Not exactly. Cautious, maybe. Focused. You couldn’t afford fear when you were the only one trusted to keep this ship from tearing itself apart.

You wiped your forehead with the back of your hand and slid under the belly of the shuttle, flashlight clamped between your teeth. Panels were still open from your earlier reroute. You muttered to yourself as you worked, fingers moving fast and practiced.

“Should’ve rerouted the coolant lines through the secondary manifold days ago,” you hissed. “But no—‘protocol’ says the Supreme Leader needs to approve every modification like he personally birthed the damn ship—”

A quiet sound broke through your grumbling. Not boots, not troopers. Something quieter. Heavier. You paused.

The air shifted. Not in temperature. In pressure.

You knew before you even rolled out that he was behind you.

You wiped your hands quickly, stood, and turned.

Kylo Ren was taller than you remembered. Without context, he might’ve looked sculpted—dark robes over broad shoulders, mask glossy and unreadable. But with context? With the stories whispered across the decks and the way he held his silence like a blade? He was a storm contained in a man.

And he was looking right at you.

“Who authorized this access?” he asked.

His voice was low. Filtered. Unreadable.

You didn’t flinch.

“Lieutenant Oro,” you replied, evenly. “I was assigned to run diagnostics on your shuttle. You’ve been experiencing thermal instability in the hyperdrive.”

A long pause.

“You bypassed three safety protocols,” he said.

“I had to,” you said, resisting the urge to cross your arms. “The override commands weren’t responding through standard channels. If I hadn’t rerouted the coolant, the core could’ve overheated during your next jump.”

“And what makes you qualified to override safety procedures?”

“Fifteen years in propulsion systems,” you said. “And the fact that no one else wanted to touch your ship without written approval. I chose not to wait until it exploded.”

Silence.

You felt it stretch between you like taut cable. He wasn’t reacting. Not visibly. No head tilt. No shift of weight. Just… stillness.

It was unnerving.

Finally, he said, “You’re the one they call the Fixer.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“The engineer who takes impossible repairs and makes them work,” he said. “Even when it breaks protocol. Even when it’s reckless.”

You didn’t answer. There was no way to know if that was praise or warning.

Kylo turned away.

“I want you to stay assigned to this shuttle,” he said. “No one else. Just you.”

Your throat went tight. “Yes, sir.”

He paused halfway up the ramp, glancing back over his shoulder.

“Don’t touch anything without telling me first.”

And then he disappeared into the ship.

You exhaled.

Only then did your heart start beating again.

You didn’t expect to see him again for at least a few days. Most commanding officers left the dirty work to their subordinates. You assumed Kylo Ren would do the same.

You were wrong.

The next day, he returned.

And the next.

He didn’t speak often. He watched. Close. Still. Like he was waiting for something. Every time you adjusted a panel, every time you accessed a console, you could feel his presence—just out of sight but impossible to ignore.

At first, it rattled you.

Then it started to piss you off.

Because he never offered assistance. Never asked questions. Just watched.

He was testing you.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. You’d worked under pressure before. But pressure didn’t usually have a lightsaber.

It wasn’t until day five that something changed.

You were on your back again, deep in the guts of the main thruster when something sparked.

“Shit—” You jerked back, hitting your head against the interior casing. Sparks rained down from above.

“Don’t move,” said a voice.

He was right there.

He knelt beside the ship, reaching for the power relay. You hadn’t even heard him approach.

He cut power to the circuit in one smooth motion. The sparks died. The glow from the console flickered and dimmed.

You blinked up at him, stunned.

“Thanks,” you muttered.

He didn’t respond. Just stared at you from behind the mask.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to get your hands dirty,” you added, pushing yourself up to a seated position. Your tone was light. Testing.

“I don’t like wasting time,” he said. “If you die under this ship, I have to wait for another one of you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Wow. Touching.”

Silence.

Then

“You’re not afraid of me.”

It wasn’t a question.

You looked at him. Really looked. His helmet was still on, but something about the way he said it felt… vulnerable. Not soft. Just raw.

You swallowed. “Should I be?”

Another long pause.

“No.”

He stood and walked away.

You didn’t realize your hands were shaking until he was gone.

You tried not to think about the way your skin felt warmer when he was close. You tried not to notice how he always lingered just long enough to unsettle you—but never long enough to explain why.

And when he finally spoke again—on the seventh day—you weren’t prepared for what he said.

“Why did you take this post?”

You looked up from your console. “What?”

“This assignment. You had others.”

You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes. “Are you reading my file?”

“I don’t need to,” he said.

You stood up. “Why does it matter?”

He took a step forward.

“Because every other engineer avoided this post. But you volunteered.”

You shrugged. “I like a challenge.”

He stepped closer. “That’s not all.”

“No,” you agreed, your voice lower now. “It’s not.”

He stared at you. Helmet inches from your face.

And then—

“Report to the bridge in one hour. I want you to see what your work is keeping in the sky.”

Then he was gone again.

You reported to the bridge. And everything changed.

You saw what he saw.

Star charts. Battle plans. Orders in motion. Entire systems bent to his will. The kind of power few ever glimpsed, let alone touched.

And you realized

He didn’t just want an engineer.

He wanted someone who understood.

Someone who saw the way he held the galaxy in his hands… and didn’t flinch.

When he turned to look at you across the bridge, eyes hidden but presence unmistakable

You didn’t look away.

#kylo ren #kylo x reader #kylo ren x reader #star wars #star wars x reader #x reader #ben solo #han solo

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saiautocare485 · 3 months ago

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Best fleet maintenance and repair shop in Perth

SAI Auto Care deals in providing a package of services to their customers at a minimum operating cost. We are Perth-based auto repair services providers who are skilled in repairing and servicing all sorts of cars irrespective of their make and model. Fleet mechanical services in Perth includes a range of services like logbook servicing, tyres, batteries, suspension upgrade, windscreen repair and replacement, tune-ups, timing belts, and many more services. Our skilled and professional car mechanics in Perth gives priority to provide a better experience to our customers with our services.

#fleet servicing Perth #car fleet maintenance in Perth #fleet diagnostic Perth

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aldryrththerainbowheart · 4 months ago

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Chapter 2: When Red Hood Comes Knocking

Gotham City is no stranger to chaos. But the recent wave of violence sweeping through the city feels different, colder, and more unsettling. It wasn't the usual chaos; this was…different. Instead of the usual flamboyant theatrics of rogue villains, Gotham is witnessing a series of precise, calculated attacks that are leaving both the criminal underworld and innocent civilians reeling. Surgical strikes, executed with cold efficiency. A gun smuggling ring ripped apart at the docks, leaving behind neatly stacked crates of useless components instead of weapons. A drug lab in the Narrows, its entire digital infrastructure wiped clean, production crippled.

However, the precision stops there. A delivery driver caught in the crossfire at the docks, a low-level dealer left bleeding in an alley near the lab. The GCPD, stretched thin and already battling a crippling morale deficit, is struggling to maintain order, let alone unravel the mystery behind these escalating assaults.

"It's like watching a surgeon with a tremor," commented Detective Renee Montoya during her interview at GNN, frustration etched on her face. "They know where to cut and what to target, but their execution is… sloppy.” The news report was unwelcome but necessary background for our investigation.

At moments like these, Batman’s absence is felt more keenly than ever.

Back at the Belfry, the clock tower felt smaller, more claustrophobic than usual.

The Gotham Knights were stretched thin. Dick, Barbara, Tim, and Jason – trying to contain the spreading tendrils of this new kind of chaos. The city's wireless network was stuttering, plagued by glitches and outages, as if some unseen force was playing puppeteer with its digital arteries. Tim and Babs were running diagnostics day and night, but they were chasing ghosts. The disruptions were too sophisticated, too fleeting.

Not even the Watch knows what's going on. Some whisper of a new player entering the game, a shadowy organization with a vendetta against Gotham's underworld. Others suspect a rogue vigilante, someone taking the law into their own hands with a disregard for collateral damage. The lack of a clear motive and the seemingly random selection of targets only fuels the paranoia.

"They're hitting crime where it hurts, but they're leaving bodies in their wake," Dick said, pacing a tight circle in the tower’s central area. "This isn't justice, it's…execution."

Barbara, tethered to her screens, her face illuminated by the swirling data stream and surveillance feeds, sighed. "The intel they're acting on is flawless. They know the exact location of every drug den, every arms dealer, the security protocols, the patrol patterns, everything. Someone's feeding them information from the inside."

Tim, hunched over the Batcomputer, his fingers flying across the keyboard, his brow furrowed in concentration, muttered, "The network interference is…complex. Almost elegant, in a way. It's bypassing firewalls that should be impenetrable. It's like watching a master craftsman at work.”

"Elegant? People are getting hurt, Tim!" Jason snapped, running a hand through his already dishevelled hair. The damn helmet was doing a number on it, and the weight of the situation was pressing down on him. The anger simmered just below the surface, a volatile cocktail of frustration and the ever-present guilt.

Dick stopped pacing, his gaze locking onto Json’s, a flicker of something he couldn’t quite decipher in his usually cheerful blue eyes. "This… this feels familiar, Jason. The ruthlessness, the focus. It reminds me of…your early days."

The words hit Jason like a physical blow. His jaw tightened. "Don't you dare compare me to this, Dick. I learned my lesson. I paid the price. I don't leave innocent people in the dirt. And I sure as hell don't orchestrate executions." The words came out sharper than intended, laced with a defensiveness he couldn't quite control.

Dick visibly winced, the implication of his words stinging him as much as they stung Jason. He held up his hands in a gesture of appeasement. "I didn't mean... I just…" He trailed off, unable to articulate the unspoken past that haunted all of them. The air crackled with unspoken accusations and old sins. Dick hadn't accused Jason outright, but the shadow of his past hung heavy in the air. They were all haunted by ghosts, but Jason’s seemed to have a louder voice than the others.

Thankfully, Tim's voice cut through the tension. "Guys, I think I've got something!” he announced. He spun around in his chair, its wheels squeaking in protest. His eyes were wide with a mixture of excitement and concern. “I've traced some of the network disruptions back to a central source." He leaned forward. "Whoever's doing this is a genius. They're using a layered encryption I've never seen before. I'm losing the trace, though. We need to move, and fast." His voice dropped, brimming with urgency. "This is our only chance.”

"Alright," Dick said, his voice regaining its authority. "Who's going?"

Before he could even finish the question, Jason was already at his gear locker, pulling on my helmet. "I'm on it."

Jason didn’t wait for arguments. He just needed to get out of there, to chase down this lead, to prove to himself that whatever was happening, he wasn't part of it. This was a constant weight on his heart, and he was desperate to shed it.

Jason hit the streets, the roar of his motorcycle a welcome distraction from the voices in his head. Leather creaked against his skin as I leaned into the turns, the wind whipping past his face. He followed the digital breadcrumbs Tim had provided, each trace a faint glimmer in the murky depths of the dark web. The GPS glowed, guiding him through the labyrinthine streets. The encrypted comms used by the perpetrators, the data dumps of intercepted police frequencies – they all funneled back to one place, and Jason could only guess what or who could bring city to its knees in such a short time.

These weren't your garden-variety cyber attacks. This was something… different. Gotham had always been a city of uncertainty and chaos, where fists and bullets spoke louder than lines of code. But now, the very fabric of the city was being unwound, thread by digital thread. Power grids flickered erratically, communication lines were choked with encrypted gibberish, and even the security systems at Arkham Asylum had reportedly experienced a brief, terrifying hiccup.

He tightened his grip on the handlebars, the cold metal a familiar comfort against the rising tide of anger within him.

The GPS beeped, signaling a turn. He leaned into the curve, the bike responding with a satisfying growl. The closer he got to the signal's origin, the more agitated the city seemed to become.

He slammed on the brakes as a phalanx of GCPD cruisers blocked his path near the Gotham Docks. Blue and red lights pulsed, painting the rain in harsh, alternating hues. Officers, clad in riot gear, swarmed the area, their radios crackling with static and panicked voices.

"Hold it right there! Bike off, hands where we can see them!" a burly officer barked, his voice amplified through a megaphone.

Jason let out a low growl. This wasn't good. He considered blasting past them, but that would only escalate things. He powered down the bike, slowly raising his hands.

"Just passing through, Officer," he said, his voice modulator making him sound neutral, almost robotic. "What's the commotion?"

"Don't play dumb with us, vigilante," another officer shouted, leveling his weapon. "We know you're out here. And we're arresting anyone causing trouble tonight."

"Trouble? I'm fighting it," Jason retorted, his hand twitching towards his holster. He knew how this dance went. The GCPD, especially on edge like this, saw him as just another criminal.

Before the situation could escalate, a sleek, black sedan pulled up beside the cruisers. A man in a tailored suit, his face obscured by the shadows of the car, rolled down the window. It was Sal Maroni, one of Gotham's oldest and most ruthless crime lords.

"Officers," Maroni's gravelly voice cut through the night. "What seems to be the problem?"

The lead officer hesitated, clearly uncomfortable interacting with Maroni, but he still answered. "We're apprehending a vigilante, sir. Possible suspect in the recent… disturbances."

Maroni chuckled, a sound that sent a chill down Jason's spine. "Disturbances? Hardly. Seems like someone's finally leveling the playing field. Let him go, Officer. He's under my protection."

Jason raised an eyebrow behind his helmet. His protection? What was Maroni playing at?

The officer, clearly not wanting to cross Maroni, reluctantly nodded. "Alright, sir. But keep him in line."

The cruisers parted, and Jason found himself face-to-face with Maroni's driver.

"Get in," the driver instructed tersely. "The Boss wants a word."

Jason hesitated. Entanglement with Maroni was the last thing he needed. But curiosity, and the unspoken threat hanging in the air, won out. He holstered his weapon, leaving the Batcycle behind, and climbed into the back of the sedan.

As the car pulled away, Jason could hear the officers grumbling behind them. The city, already teetering on the edge, was now a three-way power struggle: the GCPD trying to maintain order, Maroni vying for control of the digital chaos, and him… trying to stop it all. And maybe, just maybe, get a piece of the pie for himself.

"So, Maroni," Jason said, his voice still modulated. "What exactly do you want with me?"

Maroni's silhouette remained unreadable. "The city's bleeding, Red Hood. Bleeding data. And you seem to know where the tourniquet is. Whoever's doing this has power, technology… assets that could be very valuable. I want them. And I believe you can help me find them."

Jason leaned back, a grim smile forming behind his helmet. "What makes you think I'd help you?"

"Because," Maroni said, his voice laced with menace, "Gotham's a city of choices. And you can choose to work with me… or against me. But trust me, Red Hood, you don't want to choose against me."

The car sped deeper into the heart of Gotham, leaving the rain and the flashing lights behind. Jason knew he was walking a very dangerous line. But sometimes, the only way to fight fire was with fire. And in Gotham, fire was Maroni's specialty. The car stopped at the location of Jason’s bike.

“Remember what I said, Hood,” was Maroni’s last words before the car sped away.

Jason's jaw clenched. Maroni wasn’t alone. This wasn't just a turf war; it was a scramble for control of the information, the power, that this digital chaos represented. Every villain with a modicum of tech savvy was hunting for the source.

As he revved his bike once again, he spotted a trio of goons, patched with the tell-tale signs of Freaks gang colors, lurking in an alleyway. They measured each other from a distance, the tension palpable in the air, but to Jason’s surprise, they just walked away. It seems that both of them have bigger fish to fry.

He sped off, leaving the goons in his dust. A couple blocks away, Red Hood roared past a GCPD cruiser, its siren a mournful wail in the distance. The cops were scrambling, their communication radios spitting static and fractured orders. His comm caught snippets: "…power outage Sector C…," "…firewall breach at Wayne Enterprises…," "…attempted data theft from Gotham General…"

This was getting messy. He has to find the source sooner rather than later.

After several minutes of speeding through Gotham, Jason finally found the source: a small, unassuming IT shop tucked away on the edge of Bristol. Neon signs flickered in the window, advertising "Data Recovery" and "Custom PC Builds." He cut the engine, the sudden silence amplifying the pounding in his ears. Jason peers through the shop windows for any sign of movement. A small flicker of light flashes in the back.

Without hesitation, he kicked open the door.

#gotham knights #gotham knights fanfic #gotham knights jason todd #gk jason todd #jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #red hood #red hood x reader #hacker!reader #dc #jason just loooves kicking door open for no reason

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ilovetheriddler · 8 months ago

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Ooooh! I would love a little fluffy something with my space husband Data!!

Uhhhh ummm maybe bedtime??? He doesn’t need to sleep but I do!!

💚💚💚💚

I love this idea! Yes!!! Finally, some data fics! I hope data is in character enough, I tried to make sure that i didn't write him using any contractions, since he usually doesn't if i recall correctly? It's been a bit since I last watched TNG, I need to rewatch it again soon.... anyway, I hope that you enjoy it!

Do you dream?

(Star Trek) Data x F!Reader.

Word Count: 520.

Contents: Fluff! Bedtime Snuggles and Cuddles!

You let out an exhausted huff as you laid down. It was a fairly usual day on the enterprise, but man, were you tired. Data stared at you silently for a few moments, contemplating his next words.

"....I am not sure as to why you needed me to be here?"

"Because you're my boyfriend, is it so strange to want to snuggle with you while I fall asleep?"

A look of brief contemplation crossed Data's face before he seemingly accepts your reasoning for desiring his comfort.

"I suppose that is a within reason excuse as to why you would, but I must ask, do you consider me to be a good lover?"

"Oh, um... yeah? Why wouldn't I? I wouldn't be with you if I didn't think you were great!"

"...I see, very well then, I am glad that you enjoy my company."

You couldn't help but chuckle slightly at the unique and particular way that Data spoke and phrased his overall sentences. You found it to be quite endearing. He carefully went about getting into your bed next to you, pulling the covers over the both of you despite the fact that he wouldn't be sleeping himself.

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you closer to rest against his chest. As you laid there, snuggling your face against the front of his uniform, a simple question popped into your head that left you curious.

"I've been wondering for a while now. Are you capable of dreaming?"

Data was quiet for a moment, giving your question a lot of thought and consideration before forming an answer to it.

"I am incapable of dreaming in the traditional sense, however i am able to review my memory banks whenever I put myself into a brief rest mode for diagnostics tests, so perhaps that could be considered a type of dreaming in itself?"

"Hmm.... that's actually really interesting."

After another moment of silence, he spoke up, inquiring about what you dream of.

"If you do not mind me asking, what do you dream of when you are asleep? Do you remember them, or are they more fleeting and forgettable?"

"Umm... let me think.... I guess most of them aren't really too memorable, but i do occasionally dream of you.... usually of us getting married.... to be entirely honest..."

He seemed a bit surprised at your answer. You often dreamed of marrying him? How intriguing. Data shifted his hold on you, moving one of his hands to rest on your cheek, resting there gently.

"....I do not understand why you would wish to marry me, i think it would objectively be better if you married someone capable of actually... feeling love and passion for you."

"Don't be ridiculous Data! You feel more than enough love and passion for me to be happy! It doesn't matter if you don't experience or feel emotions in the traditional way. I truly believe that you just... experience them in your own way, and that's perfectly fine and one of the reasons why I love you so much!"

"... I am... very content with the fact that you feel that way...:

#star trek #star trek the next generation #data x reader #data soong #x reader #fanfic

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boneapplet · 2 months ago

Text

Shrouded in Silence

Relationship: Magnus the Red x assassin!afab!reader

Word Count: 1036

Requested Tags for All Works: @beckyninja @runin64 @ilovewolvezz

Masterlist

pt 1 | pt 2 | pt 3 | pt 4 | pt 5

The warp doesn’t scream. It whimpers. A sickly, shivering thing, trapped beneath glass and smothered under silk—still breathing, but barely.

Magnus stands in the inner sanctum of The Photep, the flagship of his grand Prospero fleet, deep within its command-spire, beneath a vaulted dome inlaid with gold-thread runes and Prosperoan obsidian. The room hums with energy. Gilded light pooling around his feet, drawn from psychometric projectors that render the Immaterium in complex threads of gold.

The chamber pulses with layered data— casting luminous maplines of warp-tide shifts, the harmonic resonance of Gellar-field hymns, the pulse of astropathic traffic threading between vessels into the air like drifting constellations. And something within all of it was...wrong. Not shattered. Not broken. Muted. Not in the ship’s mechanisms—those obeyed. Nor in the discipline of his sons. It is subtler than that. A wrongness of absence. An echo that returns no sound.

His hands twitch behind his back, fingers tightening around the edge of his belt. The Eye of Magnus, the flame-slicked orb that blazes open in the center of his brow, narrows as it drinks in the flow of the Immaterium. Warp-vision flooding his mind in ripples of light and resonance, revealing the thousand candles that flicker across his fleet: psykers, ship-minds, astropaths, thought-forms echoing between Librarius cells and choir sanctums. But in the heart of it all, there is a place where nothing stirs. A blind spot. A cold seam in the weave. He reaches toward them, threads of warp-light vanishing like dust motes the closer he drew.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

By the third day, the whispers had begun. Not from the serfs, they are always muttering, but from his own sons. In the Librarius vaults, where words are chosen carefully and meanings wrapped in precision, even there he hears it:

“Fatigue in the astropaths.” “Dream disturbances among junior initiates.” “Shielding instability. Vox thrones returning static.” “The resonance of thought feels... displaced.”

Displaced. The word needles him. They don’t bring him panic or accusations—his sons are too composed for that. But the signs were there in their tone. The measured hesitations. The way they linger after dismissals. The unusual frequency of dream journals being submitted for peer review.

Magnus stands before the central warp-array during morning diagnostics when Librarian Valessan approaches. Having been summoned to the secondary Librarius wing, beneath a sphere of muted starlight and ritual-scripted iron. The two stand in silence before the sealed pict-records of the last astropath who had perished during warp-channel alignment. The younger psyker bows his head, his aura flickering pale yellow with unease, seemingly decided to finally voice it aloud.

“My lord,” Valessan begins, “we lost another astropath during the dawn shift.”

Magnus turns slightly, his cloak rustling across the inlaid runes on the deck. “Cause?”

“Translation collapse. The last three occurred within seconds of contact. Autopsies reveal hemorrhaging across the primary psychic cortex. No warning. No strain signatures.”

“And the survivors?”

“Unstable. Listless. Dreams flicker and die before the second layer of trance. Even the strongest of them are complaining of... vagueness.”

Magnus’s third eye opens wider, pupil blazing like a solar flare. Warp-sight flooding his perception—and even here, among trained psykers, he sees it: A sagging in the weave. Like water heavy with salt. A shape where resonance should be. The primarch’s silence is heavier than accusation.

Valessan continues quickly. “It is the fifth in a week. And more report disorientation. Even the Gellar-chant priests speak of their voices echoing back... empty.”

“What do you feel, Valessan?” Magnus asks.

The Librarian hesitates, words forming and dying in his throat before finally surfacing.

“A weight,” he finally says. “Not on my limbs. On my thoughts. Like someone placed a mirror in my skull—and I cannot see myself in it. As if someone’s taken a part of the world and…erased its voice.”

That catches Magnus’s full attention. Slowly, he turns. His gaze meets the younger man’s. The Eye above his brow flares once—subtle, inquisitive. Not madness. Not sabotage. Something was pressing in from the outside. Something that made even memory quieter. Magnus says nothing, but he too had felt it.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That night, long after the deck chiming of the sixth cycle, Magnus remains in the data sanctum. He is methodical in his search, filing through countless forms. Incident logs. Vox-trace failures. Subdeck air integrity fluctuations. Gellar-shield misfires. Crew transfers. Minor deaths, unnoticed errata. Patterns beneath patterns.

It emerges like a bruise through the layers. Everything—every anomaly—clustered around Decks Thirteen through Sixteen, lower midship, near the secondary astropathic choir chambers and the warp-buffer harmonics. Too low for remembrancers. Too secure for outsiders.

There, one name repeats, never overtly. No one filed complaints. No citations. No malfunctions tied directly to her, but she is always nearby. Aetanna Vale: Handler-Adept, Theta Clearance. On record, she is assigned to oversee shielding compliance and astropathic emotional telemetry. Standard duties for one managing long-range translation staff. Though she doesn’t appear in pict-feeds. Or personal logs. Or mission rosters beyond the minimum. A blank space in the latticework of discipline. Her name surfaced where warp-resonance dimmed. Where dreams falter. Where voices stopped.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Magnus doesn’t confront her. Not yet. Instead, he sends Valessan to walk the decks. Told him to check for faulty harmonics in the psychometric altars, and to carry no overt power with him. Just presence. Valessan returns hours later, sweating, pale, and silent.

“She was there,” he says simply.

Magnus studies him. “And?”

The Librarian struggles for words. “I lost my thought mid-prayer. I began to speak—and forgot the tongue. I could feel her, Lord. Not through the warp. Around it. Like she wore silence as a second skin.”

“Did she see you?”

“She looked through me.”

Magnus nods slowly. He walks the lower decks himself that night, silent, senses wide. In the guise of inspecting a collapsed astropath personally. He passes the secondary choir chambers. Past the scriptorium. Past the meditation vaults. As he turns down a side hall—and feels it, viscerally: The warp recoils. Not flare, not surge. Recoils.

His third eye clenches shut. Not by choice. By reflex. He knew then, this isn’t coincidence. He hears footsteps, as he turns the corner but finds the hallway empty.

#warhammer 40k #wh40k #warhammer 40000 #warhammer x reader #warhammer 40k x reader #primarch x reader #magnus the red #magnus x reader #magnus the red x reader #cover identity #warhammer oc #warhammer 40k oc #wh40k oc #space marine oc #thousand sons

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m0th-g0th0 · 1 year ago

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I have another piece of translation trivia for you pathologic nutsos

In English, on the night of day 3, Artemy can mention to Lara that he "Served as a medic for a while", refering to his brief military service.

*extremely incorrect loud buzzer*

He doesn't say "medic", or even "combat medic" in Russian. He uses the word Фельдшер, or Feldsher, which is a very specific thing.

A Feldsher is (or rather was) a mid-level (that is, without university education) medical practitioner. They don't have the same authority as doctors, but can perform certain operations or diagnostics. Historically, it was a non-combative position in the Russian Army and fleet. They even made a labor union in 1905!

It gives historical context to the entire setting, because Feldshers are mostly assossiated with the late 19th to early 20th century - the term is anachronistic (I guess that's why it was omitted in English) Edit: The term is still generally used in Russia, as pointed out in the comments, though the current and historical meaning are slightly different. We still have some Feldshers in Poland, as the only country in the EU where that position is legally recognized.

It also makes so much sense, given Artemy's situation - he never finished university but did have some prior knowlegde, so it would be reasonable for him to serve, as it was a common practice back then.

#pathologic #pathologic 2 #artemy burakh #мор утопия #evey day means more hatered towards the english translation of this game #but its also so fun to discover all that #by discover i mean doing the bare minimum of consuming art as it was intended by the creator #without filtering it through the lense of a different language #which creates a completely new and often wrong understanding of the source material #girls when they learn a new language just to experience art in its purest form

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shiyorin · 1 year ago

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Do Dreadnoughts dream of taking a bath?

#Inspired by PowerWash x Warhammer 40K and Roco.

#I love Dreadnought.

"Do Dreadnoughts dream?"

That is a question with no certain answer. On one hand, a Dreadnought is more machine than man, neural implants fuse mind to machine in ways bizarre to comprehend. Their armored carapace shelters only remnants of flesh, sustained through bionic might alone. By all rights, their cerebral cortex should have decayed long ago.

By such logic, one could argue conscious thought ends where flesh yields to steel. Sleep and its dreamscapes are biological realities, are they not? With only trace humanity remaining, why expect mental functions of slumber? But integrated into their armored shells are enough enhanced organs and neural implants to sustain bioniorganic functions far beyond mere biological viability. Isn't the nature of dream itself stems from biological instincts overwritten.

The pain was a dull ache, easily ignored after centuries entombed. But a new irritation assailed him now, crawling itches across flesh long denied sensation. Confusion, this body felt change, though it had lain inert as worlds turned. Deeper still came the oppression, lungs seizing as if drowning once more in bloody.

What trickery was this? Diagnostics reported stasis, all systems firing true. Yet the discomforts grew, phlegmy coughs racking the half-machine beast. Panic swelled, animal instincts long dormant rising within the eternal tomb. Then light, piercing the darkness behind closing lids. Sweet air rushed into ruined lungs, this labor easing at last.

His eyes snapped open to an unfamiliar realm. No armored bulk rose before him but limbs scoured by shrapnel and burned by virus-bombs. His original form, given once more against all reason, a gift or curse, he knew not. Unfettered he stood, wounds healed to bare scars across taut flesh. This was a dream, or something.

An uncertainty gripped him. What madness was this? To be returned to old flesh but feel no urge to battle, no call to crusade? A different impulse arose, foreign but ingrained, cleansing ritual performed eons past in youth. He walked uncertain, waters calling him to rites unseen by any in aeons untold.

Ribs still bore flecks of ceramite and plasteel patched within living shell. He paused before the waters, studying form that had known only warfare. Scars told their own tales, each etched upon memories kept alive through aeons in stasis. With care he entered in that, waters lapping old wounds as if in benediction.

There he lingered, letting cares and pains wash freely away. Muscles long locked in adamantium relaxed, tension fleeing in steam rising. For the first time in memory untold, no demands of duty or flesh assailed him. A feeling swelled within him, emotion locked beyond reach of mortal sensation. Peace, serenity swept over ancient minds as waters sloughed away cares of ages...

Pain pulsed through his battered form as consciousness returned. The fleeting peace of dreams melted away, centuries of enforced half-life onboard the Dreadnought crashing back upon ancient shoulders. Systems booted sluggishly, sensors recalibrating after solaris of monotony disturbed.

A hum escaped grille as servos whirred back to their duties securing crumpled flesh deeper than mortal sight could pierce. Outside clangs and grinding announced the diligent ministrations of tech-priests ensuring their perpetual charge clung yet to shadow of function. One voice carried clearly through armored carapace:

"Vitals stabilize in sector C-12 Magos. Neural links firing within tolerances." The Tech-priest's voice rang through microphones.

"Understood. Continue maintenance protocols and monitor for anomalies. This relic has served faithfully many centuries. Pray for the Omnissiah." The Magos's bionics buzzed in compliance. They ensured history marched on, whatever hulls preserved that march.

With effort, aged vox-grille creaked open. "Brother, I was dreaming." Static laced speech imparted by cobbled augmetics mere palliates for ravaged throat too ruined for basic sounds. The Techmarine's etheric sensors detected words nonetheless.

A static pause preceded Techmarine's reply. "Dreaming? Impossible, your neural engrams show only baseline activity."

Mirthless chuckle issued from loudspeakers. "Impossible, yes, But I dream... I'm taking a bath."

Silence answered as Techmarine puzzled over the incomprehensible scene. "The priests scrub your plating clean as monthly rite. Perhaps some synapse misfired."

Silence reigned for moments uncounted as ritual continued outside. Then, a final whisper from within. "Indeed. A... nice dream."

With that, consciousness fell back into lowest-level rest as painkillers suffused systems. The Techmarine watched monitors return to quiescent patterns, then signaled to close the Dreadnought once more. Its machine spirit's notions were beyond his. The armored tomb closed, and darkness reigned once more.

#shiyorin's writer #warhammer 40k #dreadnought

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