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matcha3mochi · 22 days ago

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GLASS BETWEEN US | II Pairing: Merman Rafayel x Scientist Reader

author note: tyy for all the love and support on the previous one! ive decided to write a second part to this! maybe a third part? who know :)))) anywho pls enjoy!!!

wc: 4,057

chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3

───⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

Dr. Havers was already waiting when your shift ended.

He stood just beyond the junction outside Lab C, posture rigid, arms folded tightly across his chest. The dim security lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting bluish reflections across the glass walls of the corridor. You recognized the look on his face before he spoke—not disciplinary, not furious—but exact. Measured. Like the outcome was already decided and the only remaining task was to deliver the verdict.

“Walk with me,” he said.

You nodded, once. Your hand tightened slightly around the edge of your tablet, knuckles pale under the harsh fluorescents. Then you fell in beside him.

The two of you moved through the east hall without speaking. The air was too cold, dry from over-filtration. Every footstep echoed with sterile finality against the polished epoxy flooring. On your left, the wall-length display of Lab C showed only system diagnostics now—no live feed. The camera feed had been blacked out. You knew what that meant, and your stomach turned with quiet dread.

Havers led you through a security door you hadn’t passed since your orientation weeks ago. It closed behind you with a sound that echoed louder than it should’ve.

The briefing room was stripped bare—no windows, no active terminals, no live data displays. Just one heavy-duty table bolted to the floor and two brushed metal chairs. The walls were lined with sound-dampening panels disguised as blank white boards. Even the air inside felt different—stiller, heavier, like the pressure in a room seconds before a thunderstorm hits.

He gestured to the seat.

You didn’t take it.

He didn’t, either.

Instead, he pulled a slim black tablet from the inside pocket of his lab coat and tapped the screen. You heard a soft tone as the screen lit up. He turned it toward you.

It was paused on a still image: your hand against the tank wall, Rafayel’s claws mirrored against yours on the opposite side. His eyes locked to your face with unnatural focus. The background lighting bathed everything in a soft, immersive blue, as if you had both been submerged together in water.

Your breath caught—shallow, involuntary. You recognized the moment instantly. Not just the scene, but the feeling of it. The density of the air. The quiet vibration against the glass. The sense that the entire lab had narrowed into a single point of contact.

Havers didn’t speak. Not yet. He pressed play.

You watched yourself step forward on-screen, watched Rafayel respond—slowly, precisely, his body language unmistakably attuned to yours. The alignment wasn’t coincidental. It was intentional. He was echoing your movement with a kind of quiet precision that felt more human than instinctive. More conscious than reactive.

Then he spoke—his lips moved on the recording, though the volume was muted. You didn’t need audio to know what he said.

Free me.

The moment hung there, pixelated but real, hovering between you and Havers in silence.

When he finally stopped the video, he didn’t look up.

“This is not a reprimand,” he said.

But your muscles had already gone stiff. Your pulse was climbing, quick and uneven beneath your skin.

“Then what is it?” Your voice came out low, steady, but with a thread of static in it.

He swiped across the tablet again, this time bringing up a full behavioral overlay—sensor data logged over the last two weeks. Heart rate. Neural markers. Tail velocity. Cortisol-like stress proxies. All plotted in tight, color-coded patterns.

All tied to your schedule.

“He rises the moment you enter,” Havers said. “Activity levels stabilize within forty-five seconds. Sedation thresholds drop. Neuroresponse modulation increases. Mirror behaviors are precise, even anticipatory. Eye contact is sustained longer with you than any other observer by a factor of four.”

He paused.

Then, more quietly: “He doesn’t respond to anyone else now. Not even to direct provocation.”

You stared at the data, eyes scanning the peaks and troughs, remembering how those moments felt—not just as data points, but as experiences. As connections.

“I didn’t intend for any of this,” you said quietly.

“I believe you,” Havers replied. “But intention isn’t the problem.”

He finally looked up from the screen.

“The problem is attachment. One-directional. Immediate. And escalating.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but couldn’t find the argument. Your body tensed instead—jaw clenched, shoulders rigid, fingers digging slightly into the base of your tablet.

“He’s not mimicking anymore,” Havers said, as if reading your mind. “He’s focusing. Every behavioral marker suggests a fixation, not a response pattern. When you’re gone, he doesn’t shift to baseline—he withdraws. When we attempted to replace your observation window with controlled stimuli, he ignored it. The tank systems detected a full physiological shutdown cycle.”

You swallowed hard. Your breath fogged slightly in the cold air.

“What are you doing to him now?”

“We’ve begun sedation rotation. Carefully dosed. Enough to keep him compliant while we recalibrate protocol.”

Your voice cracked without warning. “You’re drugging him to make him forget me.”

He didn’t deny it.

Instead, he said, “We’re preserving containment integrity.”

And then, with quiet finality:

“You’re being reassigned.”

The world tilted slightly in your vision.

“What?”

“You’ll report to Neural Indexing, Sublevel 2B. Starting tomorrow. Your clearance to Lab C has already been revoked.”

He picked up the tablet and powered it off.

You stared at him. You could feel your chest hollowing, breath going thin.

“This will break him,” you said.

He hesitated—just for a breath. Then he said, “If it does, it proves he was never stable to begin with.”

And that was it.

You were dismissed.

No further discussion.

The first night in your new quarters, you didn’t sleep.

The room was a concrete cube, one meter shorter on each side than your old assignment bunk. The cot creaked when you breathed. The walls sweated faint condensation. No simulated day-night cycle. Just harsh fluorescents that flicked off at 2200 and left you in complete grayscale. No one spoke when they handed you the keycard. The silence had the flavor of punishment, even if they never called it that.

You turned over the same sentence in your head:

“You’re being reassigned.”

And the second one, delivered even colder:

“Your clearance to Lab C has been revoked.”

Your tongue kept finding the shape of it in your mouth. Revoked. Like a limb amputated with a signature. The moment the door sealed behind you that night, the silence was more than absence—it was separation. You could still feel the residue of the tank glass against your fingertips, as if your body hadn’t yet caught up to what was gone.

They said the reassignment was for “containment stability.” That the connection between you and Rafayel had grown too strong. Too unpredictable. Too disruptive to the scientific objectives of the project.

But you knew what it really was.

Control.

They couldn’t control him anymore. Because he had started responding not to data, but to you. And that terrified them.

You had expected the transition to be clinical. Procedural. A clean severing.

It wasn’t.

The new lab in Sublevel 2B bore none of the atmosphere that defined Lab C. There was no subtle dimming of lights to mimic marine depth. No soft thrum of oxygen injectors syncing with the artificial current. No hum in your bones that came from proximity to something ancient, breathing, and alive.

This place—Neural Indexing—was quiet in the worst way.

The kind of silence that didn’t make room for thought but pressed against it. You sat in front of rows of stimulation modules and feed monitors, reviewing endless neural scans: meaningless loops of synthetic cognition, shallow patterns designed to imitate thought, emotion, response.

There was no presence in the data here.

No gaze tracking yours across a pane of reinforced glass.

No ripple of bioluminescence in response to your voice.

You were surrounded by function but starved of connection.

The others in your department didn’t speak much. They had the tired, hollow eyes of people who lived too long with screens instead of subjects. You were the new variable now, a name without a narrative—transferred in the middle of a cycle, given no debrief, carrying a silence everyone had been instructed not to ask about.

At first, you tried to adapt. You told yourself this was necessary. Sensible. Safer—for everyone involved.

But the rationalizations peeled away by day four.

That’s when the dreams returned.

They started faint, like echoes.

Just fragments: salt on your tongue, the pressure of water folding around your body, the low vibration of something massive swimming just out of reach.

Then the fragments sharpened.

In the dreams, you stood before the tank again. But this time, the glass wasn’t there. Rafayel floated just a breath away, watching you with stillness so complete it felt like gravity. His eyes were brighter than you remembered—wide, expectant, but solemn. No words passed between you.

He didn’t need them.

But some nights, the dream changed.

You weren’t in the tank room. You were on a beach, barefoot, the water dark and glimmering as it crawled across the sand. The sky above was violet and streaked with long golden clouds, as if lit by a sun that had never belonged to this world. The shore stretched endlessly in both directions, flanked by black cliffs heavy with overgrown moss and deep blue vines. Strange constellations flickered in the sky overhead, unfamiliar and ancient, like stars from a memory long buried.

The surf was gentle, but its song was heavy—carrying something old, something mournful.

You stepped into the water.

And the moment it touched your skin, the dream transformed.

You were no longer on the shore, you were beneath it.

Submerged in a vast, tranquil ocean bathed in blue light. Columns of sunlight filtered down from above like cathedral beams, illuminating silt and floating motes of golden plankton. The water was cool but welcoming, dense with reverberant silence. All around you were ruins: ancient stone arches overgrown with bioluminescent coral, broken statues of sea kings swallowed by algae and time.

And then—he was there.

Rafayel.

He emerged from the shadow of a collapsed temple gate, his form luminous against the gloom. His hair flowed behind him in an ethereal halo, purple-mauve, drifting like silk ribbons. His body moved with impossible grace, every motion effortless as he cut through the water. His tail gleamed with streaks of cobalt and opal, curling around him protectively.

When he saw you, he stilled. As if time had paused. And then he came to you. Not with urgency. Not with hesitation.

With knowing.

You drifted forward to meet him, arms parting the water like a slow tide. Your clothes floated weightless around you, strands of hair suspended in the soft current. You reached out. So did he.

When your hands met, everything else disappeared.

The moment your palms pressed to his, you both inhaled. The water shimmered. Light flared from his chest and from your fingertips. You drew closer, your bodies aligning instinctively. His tail curled gently around your legs, not to trap but to anchor. His claws traced your waist, reverent, uncertain if you were real.

He pulled you closer, as if sensing your doubt. His hand cradled the back of your head, his lips brushing your brow, not a kiss—a promise.

He would not let you go.

You rose slowly the next morning, the weight of the dream still heavy on your shoulders like wet silk.

There was something about that beach—those ruins—that felt impossibly distant and unshakably close. You told yourself it was just the brain pulling symbols from subconscious grief. But that was a lie.

It felt real.

Not just real. Remembered.

You couldn’t explain the familiarity of his hands on your face. The exact shape of his breath, the warmth of his chest against yours, the way your fingers had threaded together like you had done it countless times before.

There were moments in the day—quiet, disarmed moments—where you would touch your own wrist or collarbone and expect to find him there. As if some trace of him should remain in your skin. As if he had once been stitched into the very rhythm of your body.

The more time passed, the more the dream solidified, not as fantasy—but as truth.

The day passed in pieces.

You reviewed three sequences of neural pattern recognition, sat through one impersonal systems check, and responded to zero messages. Your hands performed the motions, but your mind lagged behind, half-anchored to that sunken city beneath your thoughts.

And then you heard it.

Two lab techs stood just around the corner of the central corridor, their voices hushed but not hushed enough.

“Still not responding.”

“Nothing since the last handler shift. He’s not eating. Not even moving.”

“He’s never been like this. Even when agitated, there was still... something.”

“Now? It’s like he’s just... stopped.”

You didn’t breathe.

Your hand hovered over the touchscreen you were pretending to use. The hall hummed with fluorescent lighting, the air too dry, the walls too close.

You stepped back, slowly, unnoticed.

You didn’t know how.

But you knew it was something you were not meant to forget. And it led you to a decision you never voiced aloud.

You stopped trying to make sense of the protocols. You stopped rationalizing the transfer. You stopped pretending he was better off without you.

Because the ache that filled your chest when you woke—the ache of almost losing him again—was worse than anything the facility could do to you.

The decision to access the archived feed wasn’t a conscious one. It wasn’t premeditated. It was something your body decided before your mind could catch up.

It happened on the ninth night.

You hadn’t planned on stopping at the terminal. You had intended to walk the long way around, avoid the side corridor near the equipment maintenance bay, bypass temptation entirely. But your feet slowed as you passed it. Your gaze flicked sideways. The hallway was empty, as always. The low hum of the wall consoles and the faint click of pressure valves were the only sounds.

And the screen was there. Dark, waiting.

You approached without realizing it, your hand already reaching. The screen lit up at your touch, a soft glow blooming in the dim corridor. The system prompted for access. You entered the override code. The one no one knew you still remembered.

A few seconds passed. Then:

ARCHIVED VISUAL LOG — LAB C TIMESTAMP: Day 9 – 01:46 HRS

The footage loaded.

And the ache in your chest returned full force.

There he was.

Rafayel.

At first, he was barely visible, curled in a shadow at the base of the tank. The lighting in the room was reduced to emergency-grade, flickering low blue and violet hues. Most of the central overheads were offline. The water itself was so still it looked like tinted glass.

He lay against the curved wall of the tank, his long body wrapped inward. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, tail looped twice around his torso. The sight was almost fetal in its stillness—too still. Not relaxed, not conserving. Withdrawing.

His head rested on one arm, turned slightly in the direction of the observation deck. His hair drifted gently in the motionless current, no longer radiant or alive with light. His gills fluttered faintly—shallow, slow. One flick every few seconds. Barely enough to sustain him.

Your breath caught.

He wasn’t sleeping.

He wasn’t hibernating.

He was fading.

The vibrant shimmer that once pulsed across his body like underwater lightning had dulled to the color of bruises—indigo near his spine, violet near his chest, and something close to black along his lower limbs. The glow that had always signaled awareness—of you, of presence, of thought—was fragmented. It gathered dimly near his heart and left the rest of him in darkness.

There was no motion in his shoulders. No twitch of his claws. Not even a tail flick.

Stillness had taken him.

Then the camera angle shifted slightly.

And you saw his eyes.

They were open. Only half-lidded, but open. Just enough to confirm what you already suspected: he wasn’t unconscious. He wasn’t sedated.

He was aware.

And he was waiting.

Even now—silent, unmoving, forgotten by the staff rotating around him—he was still facing the same section of glass.

The place you had always stood.

Your throat closed. Your fingers curled tightly against the edge of the console as you leaned closer. The impulse to reach for the screen was overwhelming, but there was nothing there. No heat. No pressure. No connection. Just pixelated light and silence.

The feed time-stamped forward.

A technician entered. She moved through the chamber with a clipboard and an ambient monitor, barely glancing at the tank. Routine. Impersonal. She stopped, approached the glass, and tapped once.

Rafayel didn’t move.

She activated a low-frequency stimulus from her control panel. The pulse made the water shift.

Still nothing.

She made a note. Paused. Looked up again, perhaps longer than protocol required. But even if she noticed the difference—how still he was, how wrong his glow had become—she said nothing. Just turned and left.

The lights dimmed further after she exited.

You were left staring at the footage. Alone again.

And so was he.

Something cracked inside you: you couldn’t cry. Not here. Not now. Your body understood what your mind had refused to fully face.

This wasn’t just a physiological decline. It was a psychological death spiral. They thought they had sedated him. Pacified him. Reduced risk.

But they hadn’t seen what you were seeing.

They hadn’t understood that his stillness wasn’t peace.

It was mourning.

And you knew exactly what it meant. Because you felt it too.

You pressed a hand to the screen, even though it couldn’t feel you. You sat there, shoulders rigid, stomach hollow, barely able to hold yourself upright.

He was suffering because they had taken you away. It was killing him.

You shut off the feed.

And for the first time in nine days, you stood up not as a staff member. Not as a researcher.

But as someone who was going back.

No matter the cost.

The tunnels were colder than you remembered.

Condensation clung to the curved ceilings, gathering in long droplets that slipped soundlessly to the metal grates beneath your feet. Pipes hissed softly with steam every ten meters, venting pressure from unseen machines. The walls were a patchwork of corrosion and riveted seams. Red emergency lights pulsed slowly along the floor, painting everything in alternating waves of rust and shadow.

The silence down here wasn’t the passive hush of the main halls. It was active. Watchful. Like something waiting to be disturbed. Every footfall sounded like an echo inside a steel drum. Every breath you took came back twice as loud in your ears.

The auxiliary entrance to Lab C was sealed, just as it had been for days. But the access panel hadn’t been wiped. Your code still worked.

The light on the console flickered, then shifted green.

The door groaned open, metal scraping metal, and cold, salted air rolled out to meet you.

You stepped into a room suspended in time.

The room was colder than you remembered.

Not by temperature, but by absence. The chill that came from a place left unattended too long. The tank’s filtration hum had slowed, its resonance no longer constant but stuttering every few seconds, like a faltering breath. A faint chemical tang hung in the air, sharper than before. The lighting had dimmed further—no longer the soft, ambient blue that mimicked ocean depths. Now the tank was lit from below, casting warped, ghostly shadows against the walls, like the inside of a body lit by its own flickering pulse.

And there he was.

Rafayel.

Floating in silence.

He was curled loosely, his arms hanging in front of him, palms relaxed and half open, the gesture somehow vulnerable. His tail hung like a long, unmoving ribbon in the water. His glow was barely there—a faint wash of violet through his chest, flickering intermittently like the last ember of a fire trying not to die.

The sight of him hit you like submersion.

It was too much, too fast, too familiar.

You stepped forward without thinking, boots echoing on the composite flooring. The air thickened with every stride, like pushing through static. Your heart drummed against your ribs, quick and uneven. You were afraid he wouldn't move. Afraid he wouldn't see you.

You reached the tank. Stopped.

“Rafayel,” you whispered, the word cracking in your throat like a fault line splitting open.

He didn’t respond.

But something shifted.

A flicker of movement along his spine. A ripple of light blooming faintly across his gills.

You held your breath.

Then—his eyes opened.

Slow. Bleary. At first unfocused, then… locked.

Right on you.

Recognition didn’t explode—it unfolded. Layer by layer, like thawing ice. His pupils narrowed. His chest lifted with a sharp inhale. The violet in his body surged brighter, edged with silver, crawling like veins across his arms and into the tips of his claws.

And then he moved.

Not swam. Not lunged.

He rose.

Weightless, effortless, he emerged in a slow, unfurling motion. The water parted around him in gentle folds. He drifted toward you, the sleek muscle of his torso shifting under the soft luminescence. He was broader than you remembered. Stronger. His body moved with the control of something ancient, practiced. But there was fragility under the surface—an ache in the way he carried himself, like a wounded predator willing itself toward the light.

When he reached the glass, he stopped just short, hands spreading flat against the transparent barrier. His palms trembled faintly. His claws clicked softly as they touched down.

You mirrored him.

Hand trembling, you placed your palm where his rested. A perfect match. Skin to glass. Heat to cold.

He blinked once, slowly, gills fluttering. Then his breath hitched, and a soft tremor ran through his shoulders. His face was unreadable—but in his eyes there was no question.

It was you.

He tilted his head slightly, hair drifting like a halo. You caught every micro-expression: the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers twitched against the barrier. Not fear. Not confusion.

Emotion.

His voice, when it came, was a raw murmur.

“You came back.”

You nodded, a tear finally breaking loose and running down your cheek. You didn’t wipe it away.

“I couldn’t stay away.”

He leaned forward slowly, until his forehead pressed lightly against the glass. His eyes closed, and your breath caught.

You leaned in too, matching him, your own forehead meeting the cool barrier.

There was no sound but your twin breathing.

Then he opened his eyes again.

And they glowed.

Not violently, but with purpose. A steady, growing light. The silver along his ribcage rippled outward, trailing down his arms. The soft blue of his irises deepened to something oceanic, endless. His tail shifted behind him, wrapping once around itself like an anchor stabilizing him.

You stepped back.

His gaze tracked your movement, but he didn’t speak.

You turned toward the console. Slowly. Deliberately.

His hands didn’t leave the glass.

The screen lit under your fingertips. The system had locked you out days ago, but you bypassed the prompt using the old maintenance override. The keys clicked too loudly. Your heart beat louder still.

MANUAL OVERRIDE: CONTAINMENT LOCK Confirm: YES / NO

You hovered over the button.

Thoughts pressed in all at once—about consequences, about duty, about what would come after. But none of it mattered more than this moment.

Not after what you’d seen.

Not after what he had become in your absence.

You didn’t hesitate.

You pressed YES.

A low mechanical chime rang out. Steam hissed at the tank’s base. The floor panels lit red and the water level began to fall.

And you turned—slowly—to meet his eyes as the locks disengaged.

He didn’t rush forward. Didn’t break the barrier. He stayed exactly where he was, eyes locked on yours, waiting.

He simply watched you.

The moment stretched, suspended in steam and soft red light.

Then the tank opened.

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jude457 · 2 months ago

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this is most likely the darkest inho whump i will post outside of ao3. dead dove warning. (more of my thoughts on inho being a victim of sexual violence by the VIPs and how it effects his perception of intimacy with Gihun - this is going to be a full-length fic)

Okay. But it kills me to think about how the first time it happened to Inho—the very first time—they waited until the first year he ran the Games alone. Il-nam was gone. Dead. And with him, any pretence that Inho had real authority.

He’d worn the mask, stood at the top, gave orders with that cold, detached voice distorted by his modulator. Inho thought maybe—that power meant something. That it would protect him. But the moment the VIPs arrived, he learned the truth.

They didn’t see him as one of them. Not even close.

They called him “Front Man,” but when the lights dimmed, when the drinks poured, when they were safely behind their golden masks and silk robes—they reminded him exactly what he was. Property. A toy. A pet.

He fought the first time. God, he fought. Kicked. Bit. Drew blood. One of them has the scar still, probably. And it made them laugh. Made them interested. Like prey that writhes is more fun than prey that lies still. They pinned him down on that velvet couch in the private lounge and held him there—one at his wrists, one at his legs, one behind him—like it was a hunt. And when it was over, when he was shaking and bleeding and half-unconscious, they congratulated each other like they’d won a game.

And just like that, the fight left him.

Because Inho realised—it was never going to stop.

He learned fast: every year, when the VIPs arrived, he would be used. They didn’t care if he wore the mask. They didn’t care how still he stood or how perfectly he performed control. To them, he wasn’t a host. He wasn’t even a man.

He was part of the experience.

And that hallway—the one that connects the VIPs’ quarters to his own? That wasn’t coincidence. That wasn’t “logistics.”

That was design.

Because when Il-nam handed Inho access to the those quarters, he made it sound like a gift. Like a gesture of trust. “You can stay here year-round,” he’d said. “After what happened with your brother…I know you can’t go back”

Inho—freshly unmasked, freshly exiled—accepted. Because where else could he go? He couldn’t return to the mainland. Not after Junho. Not after the shot.

But he didn’t realise what the space really was. It wasn’t a sanctuary. It was a cage. Not locked, but accessible. Convenient.

His room shared a wall with theirs.

His door unlocked from both sides.

Even in the off-season, even when the Games were over, he could hear the mechanisms humming behind the walls—systems always on standby, waiting to reactivate.

And the VIPs knew.

They knew that door led somewhere personal. They liked that. They liked that it was his bed. Not a guest suite. Not a lounge. Not a neutral, rented space.

It was Inho’s.

They didn’t just want him during the parties. They wanted him where he lived.

They made it a ritual. Stepping over the threshold without knocking. Sitting at the edge of the mattress like they owned it. Sometimes still dressed in their robes. Sometimes naked. Sometimes in between, taking their time.

The first time one of them mounted him on that bed—in his room, his sheets, his space—Inho realised this wasn’t just about power anymore.

It was about breaking him.

Making sure he couldn’t rest without remembering. Making sure no place was safe. He started sleeping on the floor. On the armchair. Fully dressed. Boots on. Door cracked open to hear them coming, like it mattered.

It never did.

They still came.

Still entered. Still took.

And the worst night—

The 35th Games.

Inho remembers the number like a scar burned into his ribs. That year’s Games were bloodier than usual. One of the VIPs had joked about “upping the spectacle.”

Apparently that extended to him.

The worst night started like most of them did. Inho in his bed. Lying on his side, back to the door. Blanket pulled up to his chest. Eyes open, unblinking. Pretending to sleep.

But this time—this time he heard two sets of footsteps.

They came in without warning. Two of them. Laughing. Masked. Reeking of champagne. They didn’t knock. Didn’t announce themselves. Just let themselves in. One of them muttered under his breath, low and mocking. The other said nothing. The air shifted. Something electric. Dangerous.

The mattress dipped. Once. Then again.

Hands. Four of them. One on his hip. One curling under his chest. Another pushing between his thighs. Then a voice—smooth, amused, whispering, “I’ve always wanted to try this.”

That was when Inho knew.

It was something they’d talked about the night before—he remembered the words. “Would he even survive it?”

They wanted to find out.

And his bed—his bed—was where it happened.

Inho knew they didn’t mean together, one after the other.

They meant at the same time.

That they weren’t taking turns. They were taking him together. A shared fantasy. Something new. Something memorable.

He panicked.

Inho tried to roll away, to speak, to say wait— but a hand slammed over the back of his head and shoved his face into the pillow.

The first one forced in. No warning. No prep. Just a sharp, dry shove. Inho choked. His mouth opened against the pillow in a voiceless scream.

Then the second.

A thicker body. More force. The stretch unbearable. Too much. They shoved in at the same time. One grabbing his waist. The other spreading his thighs wider than they could go. His knees burned against the sheets as his body tried to curl in on itself.

But they kept pushing.

One fast. One slow. The rhythm staggered, painful, ripping.

Inho arched off the mattress with a sound that wasn’t even human. His legs kicked once, twice—but the weight on top of him was crushing. His hands reached for something—anything—but they pinned his arms behind his back. One of them laughed again. The other spat on his shoulder.

There was no rhythm. No mercy. Just force. Just weight. Just the feeling of his body being split in two.

He felt something tear.

Deep. Violent. Like a seam coming undone.

The pain was immediate. Electric. Blinding. He felt something hot gush between his legs.

Still, they didn’t stop.

Still, they kept going.

One of them let out a pleased grunt. The other said, “So tight.”

Inho’s body convulsed. The scream got trapped in his throat. His hands clawed uselessly at the bed, the walls, his face as he bucked and sobbed into the mattress.

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

He wasn’t there anymore.

His vision blurred. His hearing fuzzed out. The edges of the room curled and dimmed and faded into nothing.

He eventually blacked out.

And when he came to, it was silent.

When he woke, it was over. The room was dark. Quiet. The VIPs were gone. He was lying in a pool of blood. His thighs and calves were sticky, the inside of his legs raw, torn open. His sheets were soaked. The mattress—his mattress—was stained through. His face was swollen from where it had been crushed into the pillow. His bottom lip split.

Inho tried to move and screamed.

Crawled to the bathroom. Dragged himself across the cold floor, blood trailing behind him. He couldn’t sit, couldn’t stand. He cleaned himself in silence. Just knelt there under the water like something discarded. Just curled beneath the freezing spray and waited for the shaking to stop.

It never did.

The Games resumed.

The next morning, he had to walk the halls like nothing happened. Mask on. Hands behind his back. Dignified. But he limped. He couldn’t not. Every step was agony. He braced one hand lightly against the wall when no one was looking. Sat only when he had to.

Inho bled for days.

Yet, he breathed through the pain and said nothing.

Because if he said anything, it became real. And if it was real, then it meant he’d lost everything—his power, his identity, even the right to own his own body. Inho never spoke of it. Never would. But it carved itself into his mind.

And maybe that’s the worst part.

Because Inho had never been with a man before. Not even once. He probably told himself it was easier that way—never acknowledged what he wanted, what he could’ve wanted. He buried it so deep he stopped believing it was his.

So when the first man ever touched him, it was like this.: Like violence. Like humiliation.

Now he can’t separate the two.

Because in his world, it’s never been about love. Never been about choice or warmth or anything remotely human. It’s always masks. Power. Violation.

That’s all Inho knows.

Because that was the night his body broke.

That was the scar Gihun would later touch. The one that looked healed but never really was.

That was the night that taught him: sex between men always hurts.

Intimacy means submission.

Love doesn’t knock—it enters.

Even when you bleed.

And that’s what he carried. That belief followed him everywhere. Even months later—after the island, after the Games were gone—after Gihun didn’t shoot him, didn’t walk away—after he ended up hiding in Gihun’s shitty little motel apartment, safe but silent.

…Inho never understood why Gihun spared him.

Not on the island. Not after the final game. Not even when the bombs detonated and Games burned and Inho stood there with blood on his hands, waiting for death like it was the only thing left he deserved.

But Gihun didn’t kill him.

Didn’t leave him there. Didn’t turn him in.

He hid him. Helped Junho smuggle him out before the authorities could sweep the wreckage. Let him stay in the same dingy motel room that Gihun had used as his hideout while investigating the Games.

Except now it was more than that. Now it was home.

And Gihun stayed.

He stayed through the silence. Through the avoidance. Through the long, staring nights and the nightmares that didn’t wake Inho up, only left him breathless and wet-eyed in the dark. And Inho couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t make sense of the why. Why Gihun let him live. Why he brought him back to the world. Why he chose to be saddled with him.

He’d destroyed Gihun’s life. He’d watched him suffer. Had pointed the gun at Junho.

He didn’t deserve this—this peace. This tenderness.

So when Gihun started looking at him like he wanted something more—something more intimate—Inho made a decision. Quietly. Silently.

He would give it to him. Whatever Gihun wanted. He told himself: Just get through it. Don’t make him wait.

And when Gihun kissed him, the first time—God.

Something cracked open inside him.

Inho didn’t understand it. Didn’t believe it. Didn’t know why. Why Gihun still looked at him like he was worth saving. So Inho decided, without words: if he wants me, I’ll give him what he wants. I’ll make it easy. I won’t make him hurt the way I did. I will never take. Never risk becoming what they were.

The only thing he could offer was submission. Stillness. Gratitude. He would never put Gihun through the kind of pain he endured. Never. So he’ll lie still, be the one to receive, let Gihun take whatever he needs. Because he knew what sex between two men was. And if someone had to suffer again, he’d take it.

He’s already been used so many times—what’s once more, if it makes Gihun happy?

If it keeps him from leaving.

So when it started to happen, Inho lies back. Lets Gihun climb over him. When he lets Gihun undress him, Inho is grateful for the dimness of the motel room. The way the light didn’t quite reach the scarring between his legs. The silvery, uneven skin. The damage no doctor could ever clean up properly.

He keeps his hands at his sides. Lets Gihun press gentle kisses to his chest, his collarbone, his throat. And when Gihun notices something is wrong. “You don’t have to lie still,” he says quietly. “You can touch me.”

Inho only shook his head. “I want this,” he lied. “It’s fine.”

And Gihun hesitated. His fingers stilled. But Inho reached for him—just barely—and whispered again, “It’s okay.”

Because Gihun didn’t abandon him on the island, even when he should have. Even after seeing everything. Even after the mask came off and Inho’s ugliness was laid bare.

So Inho thinks: this is gratitude.

Letting Gihun touch him. Letting himself be used again, but this time willingly. It’s the only way he knows how to say thank you.

But then—

Gihun doesn’t take.

He touches Inho like he’s fragile.

Like Inho is a person.

He kisses Inho like he is something precious. Touches him like he is trying not to scare him away. His hands shake a little when they find his hips. He whispers, “Still okay?” every few minutes. And when Inho tenses, Gihun doesn’t push. Just pulls back and says softly, “We don’t have to do anything. Just want to be close to you.”

And Inho nods. Again and again. He wants to be good. He wants to be enough. But his body doesn’t believe him. He flinches when Gihun’s lips touch the inside of his thigh. His breath stutters when Gihun’s fingers brush lower. He clamps his jaw shut when Gihun reaches for the lube, like if he said anything, the spell would break.

Gihun notices. Pauses. Studies him.

Something flickers in his eyes—concern, maybe. A question. But he doesn’t voice it. When Gihun hesitates again because something doesn’t feel right—Inho knows Gihun can feel it—but the other doesn’t know why. Doesn’t know what to ask.

Because Inho had never told him.

Never mentioned the VIPs. Never hinted at the nights. Never said why he always checked the locks three times before bed. Never explained why he wore black even in summer, why he flinched at cologne, why he had nightmares but never made a sound.

He went to great lengths to erase it.

Because if Gihun knew—if he really, truly knew—then Inho would never be able to hide behind control again. And he didn’t think he could survive that kind of seeing.

So he kept it buried.

Even as Gihun kissed him gently. Even as he asked permission between each touch. Even as he prepped him slowly, carefully, with fingers that trembled like he was the one who might break. Two fingers, then three. Crooking them just so. Stretch that burned but didn’t tear. Massaging him. Searching for comfort, not just readiness. Checking every few seconds, “Still okay?”

And the part of Inho that thought he’d never feel anything but pain there again—

Feels good.

Even with the scar tissue. Even with the damage.

He isn’t numb. He isn’t dead.

It feels good.

Gihun’s fingers curve just right, rubbing soothingly against the inside of him in slow, steady motions.

And then—he hits something.

Something that makes Inho whimper. Not from fear. Not from pain.

From pleasure.

It shocks him. Humiliates him. Makes him turn his face into the pillow, ashamed of the sound he’d made—this small, broken wanting noise that doesn’t belong to him. But still Gihun kept going. Careful. Gentle. Tender. “You’re doing so good,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

And then—

When Gihun eventually lines himself up, breathing softly against Inho’s cheek. He pauses, watching him. One last chance to stop. “Tell me to stop,” he whispered. “I’ll stop. I promise.”

But Inho shook his head. Forced himself to keep going. Forced his legs to stay open.

So Gihun moved.

Slowly.

The pressure came first—gentle but steady. The warmth of Gihun’s body against his, the careful push inward. Inho exhaled through his nose, trying to stay calm. Trying to relax. His fingers curled in the sheets.

But as Gihun pushed in further—inch by inch, careful and reverent—something inside Inho began to crack. His body remembered. Even though Gihun was nothing like them—nothing cruel, nothing rough—his body didn’t know that.

All it knew was the stretch. The intrusion. The unbearable vulnerability. He clenched. Gihun stilled. Whispered again, “You’re okay. I’ve got you. We can stop.”

Inho remained silent.

He had to do this.

He had to take it.

He deserved this.

And then—Gihun shifted. Just slightly.

And he again brushed against something deep inside.

Inho felt it.

A pulse of pleasure. Warm. Foreign.

It was gentle. Soft. It should’ve been comforting.

But it destroyed him.

Because for the first time, his body wasn’t recoiling.

It was responding.

And that—

That was when it all came apart.

He made a sound—quiet at first. A sharp intake of breath. A trembling moan.

Then another sound—cracked, wet—choked.

Then it rose.

A broken, involuntary wail.

High and thin and endless. Inho’s back arched. He curled in on himself. His mouth opened but he couldn’t form words. The air left him in ragged, keening sobs that came from somewhere deep, somewhere buried, somewhere he had locked away for years.

It wasn’t just the stretch. It wasn’t just the memory. It was the confusion. The betrayal of his own body. Because it felt good. And it wasn’t supposed to.

It wasn’t supposed to.

And that was what broke him.

His body trembling, his fists tight in the blanket, he shook his head, gasping, tears spilling freely now.

However Gihun—

Gihun was already pulling out.

Already reaching for him, already covering him with the blanket, already whispering “I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I stopped, you’re safe, I stopped—” Like Inho was something sacred.

In that moment, Gihun’s face changed. A flicker of something sharp and knowing passed through his expression—like puzzle pieces finally clicking into place. Just one heartbreaking second where he looked at Inho and understood.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask. But the pieces came together in his eyes: the stiffness. The flinching. The stillness. The offering.

And he held Inho tighter.

Like he was something precious. Like he’d been carrying this pain in silence for too long.

Like he didn’t need to confess a word to be known.

But Gihun knew.

And he held Inho anyway. He stroked his back. Kissed his temple. And Inho sobbed harder—not from pain, but from the relief.

From the unbearable fact that Gihun hadn’t forced it. That he’d stopped. That he’d seen him fall apart and still stayed. And for the first time in years, Inho didn’t feel like an object.

He felt cherished.

They didn’t finish that night.

They just laid there.

Gihun whispering soft apologies into Inho’s hair. Inho curled into him like a child, eyes wide, hands fisted in the blanket.

And for the first time in a long time, Inho didn’t feel like he had to disappear.

He didn’t feel like a thing.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s where healing begins.

Maybe intimacy between men wasn’t always pain.

Maybe it could be gentle.

Maybe pleasure didn’t mean shame.

Maybe someone could want him—not because he was broken, but because he was still here.

And maybe that was the beginning of healing.

Even if Inho didn’t believe he deserved it yet.

#squid game #hwang inho #seong gihun #457 #inho whump

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dindjarindiaries · 1 year ago

Text

Fight For Me

summary: When Din starts to get harassed at a cantina, you can’t help jumping in to defend him at all costs.

pairing: din djarin (the mandalorian) x reader

warnings: angst, strong language, mentions of trauma, canon-typical violence, injuries & blood, hurt/comfort, fluff

rating: T

word count: 3.175k

main masterlist • din djarin masterlist

You tugged on the hood of your poncho to conceal more of your face from view. “We’ve got a lot of eyes on us.”

“I told you.” Din’s modulated voice was low as he took a subtle step closer to your side. “We’re near Mandalorian Space.” You stole a glance over at him just in time to catch the quick tilt of his helmet. “The people out here aren’t fond of my kind.”

“I just…” You paused as the two of you passed another pedestrian, your chin and your gaze lowering until they were out of sight. “I thought you said Akiva was the first planet to pledge their allegiance to the New Republic.”

“They were.” Din’s gloved hand pulled into a fist at his side. You noticed it just as a bead of sweat began to trickle down your temple. “They wanted a change after years of the Empire ordering almost every Mandalorian warrior to do their bidding.”

“I see.” You exhaled and lifted your hand again to brush the sweat away. “It’s hot as hell here.”

Din huffed. “It’s known for its humidity.”

You raised an eyebrow at him. “And yet you let me wear this?” You gestured to the thick poncho that sat over your head and shoulders.

“Staying concealed is a bigger priority than staying cool. We won’t be here for long.” Din nodded towards a building on the right. “Here.”

You read the Aurebesh letters that hung overhead the building’s round entrance: cantina. That was the last place you wanted to be on a world where Din and his kind weren’t welcome, but there wasn’t much of a choice. It was your first, and so far your only, lead on finding the new location of whatever remained of Din’s covert.

Din led the way inside, and as soon as he crossed the threshold, the chatter dimmed. Hushed voices spoke as Din wove the two of you through the tables and other crowds, carrying through the cantina until each voice rose back to its previous volume. You tightened your jaw and remained vigilant. Din may not have been worried about the actions of others, but you sure as hell were.

You stayed at Din’s side as he reached the bar, his gloved hands settling on top of it as he instantly gained the attention of the bartender. The Zabrak man tossed his hand towel on his shoulder and looked at Din expectantly. “What can I get started for you?”

Din reached into the pouch on his belt and set down a handful of credits. “Nothing to drink.” He slid the credits forward. “Just information.”

The bartender gave the pile of credits a cautious glance. “What makes you think I have something worth knowing?”

Din looked left and right before he leaned forward, lowering his voice in a much gruffer way than he would ever do with just you. “Nevarro.”

The bartender did the same gesture as Din before he secured his hand over the pile of credits. “Hold tight.” He pocketed the credits into his apron and nodded. “I’ve got something in the back.”

Din returned the nod, assuming his previous posture as the bartender disappeared into a back room. You crossed your arms and set them upon the top of the bar. Your voice was a hushed whisper as you spoke. “Do you believe him?”

Din shrugged. “We’ll see.” He exhaled, as if attempting to release some of the invisible weight that hung upon his armored shoulders. Your heart ached at the thought of it. “There’s no other option right now.”

“You shouldn’t be here.” A booming voice disrupted any thought you were going to voice in reply to Din. Your head turned as you observed the Klatooinian who stood behind the two of you. Your blood both ran cold and red-hot at the same time as you watched the Klatooinian snarl at Din’s back.

Din’s helmet didn’t move, his visor instead focusing ahead of himself as he tapped his gloved fingers against the bartop. Your gaze slid over to him as you waited for him to speak, but he didn’t.

“You know what your kind did to us—to this entire system.” The Klatooinian scoffed, his guise of amusement failing in favor of his lethal anger. He raised an arm to gesture to the onlookers around them. “I speak for everyone here when I say we would take any chance we could get at killing you ourselves.”

“I don’t think your Republic would take kindly to that.” You couldn’t help yourself from biting out the words. Din’s visor slowly slid towards you, a silent warning you failed to heed.

The Klatooian’s vicious eyes found yours. He then laughed, a grating sound that stung you and made you curl your hands into fists on the bartop. “You’re on the wrong side of the planet if you want New Republic support, dustbreather.”

Din tensed at the insult the Klatooinian threw at you, but he still didn’t speak. Of course he wants to defend me more than himself.

The Klatooinian had since set his attention back on Din. “Your kind was eliminated for a reason.” He took another step closer to Din’s back. Your fists tightened even more, until the leather on your hands groaned in protest. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Your gaze burned through the side of Din’s helmet. His visor faced you as he gave his helmet a small shake, but you were already blinded by your rage. His way was not your way.

“Peel that armor off and what are you?” The Klatooinian scoffed and took one more step closer. “Nothing but a man who should’ve died with the rest of his—.”

You lunged in a movement so quick not even Din could have stopped it as you slammed your fist as hard as you could against the Klatooinian’s jaw. The entire cantina roared as every eye settled on you, especially as you shook out your stinging hand and faced the Klatooinian who was barely still standing. Din had whipped around at your side, but even he was frozen as you sized up the Klatooinian.

“Oh, you bitch!” the Klatooinian seethed as he swung towards you. You skillfully dodged his blow and elbowed his ribs, using the opportunity to hit him with an uppercut. The commotion amongst the onlookers rose more and more as you evaded the Klatooinian’s hits and dealt him more of your own.

It was all a blur of blood, sweat, and hot fury until two arms wrapped around your waist from behind and pulled you tight against a beskar barrier. You fought against the grasp, the hood of your poncho having long since fallen away from your face as you swung towards the Klatooinian who had to be supported by his peers. “Fuck you!” you spat at your opponent. “You haven’t gotten even half of what you deserve!”

You tried to push off of Din to lunge at him again, but Din’s grasp only got tighter as he pulled you back to him. “Easy,” his modulated voice gently warned you.

“That man deserves to be dead!” The Klatooinian points a weary finger in Din’s direction.

You fought Din’s grasp again, pushing even harder against him that time. “I’ll show you who deserves to be—!”

Din forced you against himself so hard that it stole the air from your lungs for a moment. “Easy, cyar’ika.” The lip of his helmet was just beside your ear as he went on. “That’s enough.” He freed one arm from your waist to hold the wrist of your bleeding hand, forcing your arm behind you. “We have to go.”

His words made you snap out of your state of bloodlust as you turned your head around to face his helmet. “But we haven’t gotten your information.”

“Doesn’t matter. Half this cantina wants to fight you, and…” Din paused, his grasp easing on your wrist as he looked down at your hand, “you’re bleeding.” His voice lowered in worry.

“I’m fine.” You faced your opponent with indignance again. “I can take them.”

“No.” The arm Din still had around your waist gave you a gentle yet firm tug away from the growing crowd around the Klatooinian. “We’re leaving.”

Trying to argue with Din about that would be a losing battle, and so you sighed and started to follow him out. Before you could get far, someone whistled from the bar area. Din’s visor locked on something behind you, and when your gaze followed it, you found the bartender nodding at Din before tossing something in the air. Din released you only to catch it. He then returned the Zabrak’s nod and continued on.

“What is it?” Your curiosity got the best of you even as you and Din had to shoulder your way out of the rowdy cantina.

“Coordinates.” Din put your hood back over your head for you and led the way onto the street.

You furrowed your brow and cradled your stinging knuckles. “To where?”

“We’ll find out.” Din was clearly navigating for another specific place as he wove you through the fray. With the adrenaline of your fight still pumping through your veins, it was hard for you to focus, and that was something Din had no doubt picked up on.

Still, there was a more sickly sensation that prickled at you like a thousand icy needles, the chill of it settling inside your chest even amidst the humidity of the planet. You made your concerns known in a voice much quieter than you would have liked. “Are you upset with me?”

You earned no response. Din’s visor continued to look from building-to-building, and he moved at a pace that was getting difficult to keep up with. The needles turned into one sharp blade that sliced through your heart as you ultimately stopped in your tracks.

“You’re upset with me.”

Din stopped just a few paces ahead of you, but in an instant, he had closed the distance between you again. For a moment, his gloved hands cradled your face. “No. Not at all.” His helmet lifted in realization of your surroundings, his hands soon following as they settled on your shoulders instead. “I just… I want to get you somewhere safe.” He shifted his weight between his feet. “Now.”

“Here?” You lifted your brow in surprise. “Didn’t you hear what that guy said?” You shook your head at him. “Anyone here would kill you if they could.”

“But they won’t, because they can’t, and they know it.” Din tilted his helmet at you. “I told you these people aren’t fond of me, not that they’re a threat to me.” He nodded at your bruising hands. “Especially with you here to back me up.”

You began to smile at that. Din gave your shoulders a squeeze and turned away from you to continue on through the town. It wasn’t long before he found what he was looking for, a reliable source of lodging with a business owner who wouldn’t turn down any customer, not even a Mandalorian. He navigated the two of you once more to your own quarters and stepped through the threshold first only to be sure he could observe the room for threats before you followed.

As soon as the door was closed and secured behind you, Din slipped off his helmet and set it aside, his hands reaching for your face once again. This time, Din didn’t have to worry about eyes on you, and so he leaned fully into you and the bliss you two could share by pinning you between himself and the nearest wall and kissing you like his life depended on it.

Your arms wrapped around Din’s neck to keep him close as his mouth slotted over yours time and time again, his tongue lavishing praises onto you without having to speak a single word. You met his familiar rhythm with each movement, a pattern as familiar as your own heartbeat that thudded against your chest. It was a moment where the stinging in your hands faded and the worries of what Din thought dissipated completely.

He was making it clear how he felt about the situation, and you wanted to keep feeling it—at all costs.

Eventually, though, your lungs cried out for air, forcing your mouths to separate even as Din stayed close. His gaze, sparkling with affection even amidst his worry for you, found your own as he forehead rested against yours. His voice was a mere rasp from both its quietness and his lack of breath. “Thank you for defending my honor.” His thumb ran over your lips.

You smiled and kissed the pad of his thumb. “You never have to thank me for that.”

“I know.” Din returned your smile and brushed his lips against yours. “But I will anyway.” He kissed you again, but this time, he kept it brief. His concern no doubt got the best of him as he pulled away and lifted his hands to hold your wrists. He pulled them away from his neck and studied your hands, his smile transforming into a worried grimace. “Let’s take care of this.”

You continued to beam at him. “Sure.”

Din set one hand over your lower back as the other kept its gentle grasp on your wrist. He led you over to the single bed in the room, and you took your place on the edge of it, sitting just beside Din’s helmet. Din disarmed himself of his spear and jetpack before reaching into the pouch of medical supplies on his belt.

“It doesn’t hurt that bad.” You started by taking the leather off your hands, gritting your teeth to keep yourself from groaning at the way it tugged at your angry skin.

Din huffed, raising his brow in amusement as he took the pieces of leather from you and set them aside. “You’re almost as bad at lying as I am.”

You laughed at that, making room for him to sit beside you as he took one of your hands in his and started to work. Din began with your dominant hand, which was more beat-up than your other hand. You spoke to him as he worked, hoping it would ease some of the tension that knit his armored shoulders together. “How would you rate that fight?”

Din paused and looked at you with a wrinkled brow. “What do you mean?”

You offered him a mischievous smile. “I mean, how did I do?”

Din blinked at you for a moment. “How did you do?” He chuckled and shook his head, focusing on your hand again even as he responded. “Cyar’ika, he was barely conscious standing up.”

“So?” You tilted your head at him and smiled sweetly. “What do you rate it, then?”

Din smiled to himself while he traded a tube of bacta for a secure wrap. “There are no words for it.”

“Oh.” You feigned disappointment and looked away from him, your gaze settling on his empty helmet that was still nearby. “How else will you tell me your rating, then?”

Din’s gaze flickered up at you, but only for a moment. “I have ideas.” He lifted your bandaged knuckles to his lips and left a gentle kiss upon them before he exchanged that hand for your other one. “But finishing this is my priority.”

The sweet warmth of overwhelming affection and desire burned throughout your chest,and you gave yourself a few moments to recover from its powerful effects. Once you had waited long enough, you spoke in a softer voice. “Why didn’t you say anything?” When Din’s brow lifted in confusion, you elaborated. “To that guy at the cantina.”

Din sighed, his jaw tightening before he loosened it again. “You know me. I’m… not a man of many words.” He exchanged the bacta for another clean wrap. “I’ve always found that actions speak louder than words, anyway.” Din gave you an amused look. “You just beat me to it.”

You smiled to yourself. “I guess that’s what makes us a good match.”

“It’s one of many things.” Din paused to focus as he circled the wrap around your hand. “The way you can throw punches is…” Din had to stop again, but this time, his gaze raised to the ceiling as if he was summoning composure from some unknown source. You chuckled at him as he exhaled a soft breath and looked at your hand again. “It’s an advantage.”

You teased him by looking at him through your lashes, blinking them slowly as he finished with your hand and allowed his gaze to meet yours. “Yeah?”

Din lifted his hand towards his lips without breaking your shared gaze. “Yeah.” He kissed your bandaged knuckles and lowered your hand. His eyes studied it as he nodded in sudden severity. “Truly, cyar’ika, what you did… it means a lot.” He gave your hand a gentle squeeze. “I’ve never had someone fight for me like that. No one except…” He trailed off. He didn’t have to say the name.

You raised the bandaged hand he wasn’t holding to caress the side of his face. Din’s gaze met yours again, and the deep admiration within it was breathtaking—but so was the deep longing hidden behind it. When you spoke, your voice was quiet yet meaningful. “I miss him, too.”

Din closed his eyes and nodded. After a long pause, he reopened his eyes and tasked himself with putting his medical supplies back in his belt. He exchanged them for the coordinates the bartender had given him. “Knowing the covert, this probably leads to the system they’re hiding in.” Din returned to business and you met him there, nodding at him to agree with his words. “It’ll take some more work to find out exactly where they are.”

“That’s fine.” You set a hand on his cuisse as you smiled in reassurance. “I’m with you every step of the way.”

Din’s gaze drifted from your hand on his armored thigh to your own eyes as he returned your smile. “I know.” He put the coordinates back in his belt and let his expression morph into something more mischievous as he faced you again. “So.” He cleared his throat, and you giggled at his clumsiness. He was smoother than you could have ever expected at some times, but this wasn’t one of them. “About that rating.”

You laughed, lifting your bandaged hands to the sides of his face to bring him closer to you. “You can just kiss me.”

Din chuckled with you until his amused breath became your own, one action that led to a long string of others proving exactly how grateful and proud he was of your actions that day.

main masterlist • din djarin masterlist

#bar fight but make it ~reverse~ because din deserves someone to fight for him #din djarin #the mandalorian #din djarin x reader #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin fic #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian fic #dindjarindiaries

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adddddiiii · 6 months ago

Note

Could you do Jason Todd x Male!Reader who grew up on the streets together before Jason was adopted and meet up again when Reader signs up to be one of Hood’s goons to make money to feed fellow street kids?

Reunited Under The Hood

Author's Note: Sorry this took so long! Also made it gender neutral reader since I usually write in second person, hope you don't mind 💕

Contents: Jason Todd x gn!reader

Warnings: One use of y/n

The back alleys of Gotham hadn't changed much, not in the ways that mattered. The same cracked concrete, the same faint stench of garbage and rain, and the same desperation in the air. It felt familiar. Comforting, even, despite everything.

You tugged your jacket tighter around you. The cold night crept through the broken windows of the old factory you were waiting outside. You leaned against a pillar, trying to blend in with the other new recruits.

You had heard rumours about the Red Hood — how he ran his operations like a well-oiled machine, an obscure mix of vigilante justice and ruthless crime. You didn't care much about the reputation. You cared about the paycheck.

The kids back at your shelter needed food, clothes, medicine. You'd scraped by for years, keeping them safe, but things were getting harder. The only way to make ends meet now was to take a risk.

"Alright, listen up!" A commanding voice snapped through the warehouse, cutting through the low murmur of conversation. Heavy boots echoed as the man himself entered. His red helmet glinted under the dim lights.

You froze. That walk. That posture. It couldn't be.

"Look alive," he continued. His modulated voice made it impossible to hear any familiar tones. "You're working for me now. Mess up and you're out." He walked till he was right in front of the new recruits "Or worse," he added casually.

As he paced before the group, your chest tightened. Every move, every subtle tick. It was him. It had to be him.

"Jason?" you muttered, almost to yourself.

The helmet snapped toward you instantly. He stopped dead in his tracks and the room went silent as all eyes turned in your direction.

"What?" His voice was lower now, laced with something sharp.

You took a small step forward. Your heart was pounding. "It's me."

Slowly, almost hesitantly, he grabbed your hand. And then immediately, he led you dragged you inside the abandoned factory, to a secluded corner.

"Jason, it's really you, isn't it? Do you recognize me?" Your speech was faster, rushed.

He stood before you and you could tell his eyes were narrowed. He reached up and removed his helmet.

The sight of him — the scar along his cheek, the streak of white in his hair — made your breath hitch. He looked older, harder, but there was no mistaking the boy you'd once run the streets with. The one who'd scraped his knees climbing rooftops and shared stolen sandwiches with you under moonlight.

"Y/n?" Disbelief flashed across his face.

"Yeah," you said, your voice barely above a whisper, "it's me."

For a moment, the two of you stared at each other, the years of separation hanging heavy in the air. Then his expression shifted to a mix of anger and worry.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"Trying to keep some kids alive," you said bluntly. "The same way you kept me alive back then."

Jason's jaw clenched and he looked away, his hands balling into fists at his sides. "You shouldn't be here. This isn't for you."

"Neither were the streets," you stepped closer, "but we didn't have a choice, did we?"

He met your gaze with stormy blue eyes. He said nothing. Then, with a sigh, he muttered, "You always did know how to get under my skin."

You smiled. Some of the tension eased away just slightly. "Some things never change."

Jason's lips twitched upward. "Fine. You're in. But you stick close to me. Got it?"

Relief washed over you. "Deal," you agreed.

The two of you started walking back out to the other recruits. As he put his helmet back on, you couldn't help but feel a strange sense of comfort. You might have taken different paths, but here you were again, standing next to each other in the shadows of Gotham. Suddenly the years between you didn't seem so far apart.

#send request for free cookie #(not really)#jason todd x reader #jason todd #red hood #red hood x reader #dc #dcu #dc universe #batman #batfam #gn!reader

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ya-zz · 1 year ago

Note

Hii! I've been waiting for quite a while to share this thought with you. A while ago, I shared with you my thoughts and it led to "Hacked" being written with Ramattra x Reader. I'd like to... maybe request a second part of that? I've been daydreaming about the possibilities of what's next for it. So, I'd like you to choose what happens:

A. Ramattra encountering Reader again in the battlefield and this time she has no time to hack through his system, and he finds her first. Keen into making her feel exactly how he felt back then.

B. Reader once again hacks into Ramattra's system, but this time she's braver, getting him while he's recharging (simply sneaking in his base to prove a point) and making him feel exactly what humans feel when they orgasm.

-Nia

We don't talk about how I did this within hours of the request coming through...

HI AGAIN!! IT'S GOOD TO SEE YOU!! ♥ Thank you so much for requesting again, I love the ideas as always ^^

Ramattra x Reader (gen)

Word count: 1348 !! NSFW !!

The vessel rattles in the sky, currently moving over Toronto. The attacks below were never ending as Ramattra continued to repeat the broadcast. The gunfire and screams were louder than before as he watched on; one by one, humans fell and omnic civilians were secured. It was going exactly as he planned.

Steering away from the capitol, he heads for his new location to oversee the destruction happening there. In the meantime, however, he was due a recharge.

Taking a seat on the floor, back resting against the wall, he plugs himself in, wires connecting to his sides and back of the neck. He goes through his systems, setting up the necessary precautions just in case his vessel gets attacked and then the lights on his forehead dim, changing orange as he goes into standby.

Everything fell silent, though Ramattra could still pick out the workings of his ship; the humming of the engine vibrating against the floor, the soft flickers of light that passed by the window on occasion. It was as if time had slowed down.

His optics shifted to where a noise could be heard, but due to being in standby, his vision was blurred to make his charging time quicker. Something had fallen so he left it be, the turbulence must've knocked it over.

Ramattra went back to his charging meditation, his body unmoving as it lay against the wall until a familiar feeling kicked in.

It took his systems a moment to register what was going on but it was too late. The module he had locked away was open once again, his wires heating up slowly as he attempts to wake up.

“It’s too late.” A familiar voice rang out. “Your systems can’t beat me this time.”

Despite his vision being overrun with omnicode and errors, he tilts his head up to view you. His voice was a low rumble as he attempts to speak.

“You- How-”

“It’s simple, really.” You approach him, straddling his knees as you lower yourself onto him and dropping the holopad beside your leg. “Your guard is down, a foolish idea, really.” Your fingers stroke the wires that were placed into his sides. The Null Sector leader beneath you once again, unable to do anything, unable to fight back, what a pretty sight it was.

“Get out.”

You tut, shaking your head with a smirk. “That is no way to treat a guest, Ramattra. Besides, I want to finish what we started the other week.”

The omnic felt his wires flare up in heat, the module lighting up within his vision. His vocaliser cuts out as he speaks. “You-... serious.” He was weak, you truly had caught him when he least expected it.

A sly laugh escapes you as you trail your fingers on that same tubing over his hips. A gentle squeeze that sent a wave of euphoria over his body. He shudders at the contact.

“How far can we take this?” Leaning over, you tap the holopad, pulling up the module that Ramattra had kept locked deep inside of his systems. From there, you had full access to his sex drive. “Oh, Ramattra. How long have you been like this?”

His system fights back, or attempts to, but your software was stronger this time, he can barely move his hands or arms.

With one tap, you send a wave of ecstasy throughout the omnic and his back arches involuntarily, a garbled, static moan escaping from his vocaliser.

“Hm?” You smirk at him, letting the holopad go as you return your hands to his body, tracing the pads of your fingers against his metal bracing. You could feel him shake with each careful, calculated stroke.

Ramattra can only glare at you, optics looking at your blurry features as he tries to adjust the settings.

“Ah, ah. I don’t think so.” You override his attempts before moving closer to him, hands dipping between the braces as they move towards his back. The exposed cables there were begging to be touched and with one tap, a spark of electricity surges through Ramattra’s core.

“S-Stop that-!” He demands, though his tone suggests that he does not mind the feeling.

He doesn’t know what to do. No matter how hard he tries, he cannot get rid of you from inside of his systems. He tries an alternative route but there was no success there either. Deep inside, however, he did like the feeling of being vulnerable, having someone touch him like the way you are doing. It felt pleasurable.

Ramattra tries one more time, searching through any and all coding to find a weak spot and when he finally stumbles upon it does he take immediate action. His systems work hard to destroy your virus but the want to keep the touching going slows down the process.

He needs you.

He wants you.

He gives in.

The omnic sits there, allowing himself to be lost in the moment. The feeling of your hands exploring his body heightened his senses. His servos twitch before slowly making their way to your hips, holding you in place.

“Someone is enjoying this.” You smirk, dragging your fingers over the pistons on his neck.

“Shut up.” His vocaliser betrays him once more, another static moan escaping him as his head tilts back against the wall.

“Feels nice, doesn’t it?”

It took Ramattra a while to respond, but when he did, it confirmed everything you ever wondered.

“Yes…” His grip on your hips tighten slightly, indicating that he didn’t want you to stop for any reason.

He feels you grinding against his pelvic plate, possibly chasing your own high but the way you squeezed and teased him said otherwise. Then it clicks in his head. This was about him reaching his orgasm after several long years of nothingness. You knew how long it had been for him and how much he craved it.

Your one hand was tangled in his cabled hair as the other trails back down towards his hips. You feel him jerk, he wants the contact to last as you pull back, a familiar heat pooling in your stomach.

“Ramattra…”

“Seems like you cannot hold on for much long either.” He states with a hint of amusement in his voice.

A flush appears on your cheeks as you squeeze his tubing once more, a little harder than last time.

The omnic jerks his hips, pressing further into you as he moans out, vocaliser stuttering as he tries to keep it together.

“Such sweet noises… To think the Null Sector leader could sound like this…” Another tug at his cables causes him to moan loudly.

You glance at the holopad whilst the omnics head was tilted backwards; his systems were lit up, errors appearing as you manhandle his wires, pinching and twisting them. It brought you joy, a satisfaction coursing through your veins as you realise how much power you truly hold over him in this moment.

Another squeeze had the holopad flash black which causes you to look back at him. His vocaliser cuts mid moan, the lights on his forehead were off, fans were slowing down, yet his hold on your hips stayed. You had caused him to crash.

Part of you panicked, but the moment the lights flickered on again, a soft orange before red, the panic was overridden with a sense of accomplishment.

His vocaliser clicks before he speaks. “No human should mess around with machinery too advanced than their mind and body can handle.”

Your eyes widen as you realise that him rebooting meant that your virus was no longer in affect. His grip on your thighs gets tight, bruises already beginning to form under the skin. He pulls himself free from the wires connected to him, grabbing both of your wrists with one hand before pinning you down on the floor, one metal thigh pressed up against your sex. His other hand toys with the waistband of your pants as he speaks out in an intimidating tone.

“Perhaps it is time for me to teach you a lesson.”

—

KOFI

#overwatch #ramattra #ramattra x reader #overwatch 2 #overwatch fanfiction #reader insert #gender neutral reader #yazzfics #yazznsfw

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tavvles · 3 months ago

Text

[Act I, Scene II: Cordelia’s Home]

(The curtains rise on Cordelia’s home, a finely furnished mansion boasting newly found wealth. The maids are working away, sweeping the floors and dusting the shelves.)

(CORDELIA enters in from stage right. With a dreamy sigh she runs her fingers along the furniture, spins, and exits out stage left. The maids exchange worried glances.)

MAID 1 What a sight!

MAID 2 What a state!

MAID 3 What would her father think?

(The maids fall silent again as CORDELIA runs in, giggling, from stage left. They shriek in surprise and horror as CORDELIA pulls the tablecloth off the table and runs out stage right.)

(The head maid, MRS HAWKINS, enters.)

MRS HAWKINS What is this commotion? Why are you not working?

(The maids rush over to her. Music starts- an urgent, tense score led by strings.)

[THIS STATE]

ENSEMBLE (in a worried whisper) What is this state our lady is in? Has some madness befallen her of late? She hums, sways, dances and laughs It is unladylike to be so head-over-heels in love!

(The music changes drastically, slowing down and accompanied by a drifting harp sound. A spotlight falls on CORDELIA, sitting on the platform stage right, the tablecloth draped over her head like a veil.)

CORDELIA Oh what a night, what a dizzy delight! To think that I met a gentleman like him, To think that he offered me his hand, How the memory of his voice makes my soul take flight!

ENSEMBLE What is this state our lady is in? Has some madness befallen her of late? She hums, sways, dances and laughs It is unladylike to be so head-over-heels in love!

(MRS HAWKINS steps forward.)

MRS. HAWKINS Still your feet, my lady! You run about the house in your nightgown Your shawl and shoes have been misplaced This is completely unbecoming of you!

(The dreamy harp music once again takes over.)

(The music modulates into a key higher, becoming faster and gaining a manic edge. CORDELIA runs down the stairs.)

CORDELIAThis feeling is real, this feeling is clear And he must feel it too For I know deep in my heart That I will see him again!

So let them doubt, let them condescend I know fate will lead me back to him And when it is all said and done They’ll look back and know I’m right!

(CORDELIA falls back onto the fainting couch as she holds her final note. With a flourish from the brasses, the music ends.)

(A maid approaches hesitantly.)

MAID 1 My lady, there is a letter here for you.

CORDELIA Oh, thank you.

(CORDELIA opens the letter and reads it.)

CORDELIA Arthur! Of course! How could I have forgotten? Ready my carriage, I am off to visit my cousin!

(She hurries off stage left as the lights dim.)

Beginning | Previous | Next

#sims 4 #sims #ts4 #elessa #elessa story

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doahaesunshine · 8 months ago

Text

Chapter 21: Epilogue

Chapter WC: 1393

Note

hahahahhahha Please read the end notes from me -Tristen

Master List | Prev |

One Month Post Confinement

There was silence throughout the fortress. You had come here for closure after waiting for so long. Jihoon had agreed to accompany you to the confinement chamber, you were going to need the support. He assured you that Joshua, Dino and Minghao would also be present, to ensure your safety and comfort.

Arm in arm, you and Jihoon walked down the spiral staircase that led to the underground levels. You tightened your hold on Jihoon’s bicep as you made your descent, uncertain of what would greet you.

The dim, torch lit corridor welcomed you with stale air and the hum of warding magic. Jihoon stopped you before moving any further.

“Remember we can take this slow. Don’t feel pressured-”

“It’s okay, Jihoon.” You took a deep breath. “I waited enough, I’m ready.”

With a nod, Jihoon continued to lead you down the hall. As you marched forward the three other Arcanist’s joined you. Minghao was the first to notice you, the Diviner bowing as he met you.

“It’s nice to finally meet you face to face.” Minghao smiled as he held out his hand.

You grabbed his hand and offered a soft shake. He gently flipped your hand, palm side up and traced over the lines.

“Did anyone inform you that your Psyche would be categorized as Fortis?” The Diviner continued to study your palm.

“Minghao, not now. Wait until after this- then you can tell their fortune.” Dino said, half annoyed.

“Are you ready, Sage?” Joshua asked as he motioned toward the cell door.

You simply nodded your head and with that, Joshua opened the warded cell. Your heart rate spiked as you listened to the mechanisms within the door unlatch and click. Slowly, the door opened with grinding stone echoing throughout the hall.

Kneeling in the center of the cell was Jeonghan, pale and exhausted. He lazily lifted his head and grinned as he locked eyes with you. Carefully, you relinquished your hold on Jihoon and approached the Siren.

“Hello, Sage…” Jeonghan’s voice rasped out, clearly dry and starving.

“Hi, Jeonghan. I see they’ve been treating you well…” You replied, keeping your tone even and calm.

The man before you chuckled. “You joke now, Sage. Sooner or later, I will be out of these confines…”

“We don’t intend on letting you out.” Joshua said with a hardened expression.

“Emphasis on later then.” Jeonghan smirked to himself, clearly enjoying the attention. “It is nice to see you, Sage.”

“The sentiment is not shared…” You groaned.

“You know, you always spoke like her. I knew the second I met you…” He giggled to himself, delirious from malnutrition.

Dino placed a hand on your shoulder, but you ignored him.

“Wow- You’ve really gone off the deep end while here…” You scoffed. “I don’t know what I was so worried about. This is just sad.” You turned to Joshua. “That’s all the closure I needed. It confirmed that he’s in here and I’m free, so- Lock it up.”

Joshua recast the ward and the door began to close. You got one more look at his face, bright brown eyes, dull in the lack of light, staring at you.

“Oh~ Just you wait Sage…” The Siren laughed to himself. “We’ll meet again…”

With those final words, the door was sealed. Joshua sighed, clearly annoyed by just seeing Jeonghan. Dino gave you a quick squeeze around your shoulders as a job well done and Minghao offered his arm. You graciously accepted it and walked with him. Among the dull surroundings Minghao looked like a beacon, cloaked in white garb. There was a certain elegance to his step as he guided you back upstairs.

“We should all gather here in Diamond Hall proper. Enjoy some tea, Wonwoo could use the company.” The Diviner spoke in a modulated tone, his voice soft and pleasant.

“I was going to ask, how is the old man?” You spoke lightly, trying to keep the mood positive.

“He’s doing very well.” Dino answered. “Still a bit weak and can’t- or- shouldn’t cast any spells, but he’s on the mend. I estimate a full recovery in another month or so.”

“Damn- That blade really did a number on him…”

Minghao clicked his tongue. “Ah- Wonwoo is strong.” He patted your hand reassuringly. “He’s bounced back from much worse.”

The five of you journeyed to Wonwoo’s quarters. His room was a mess, Dino had created a makeshift workstation for himself and Soonyoung must have spent quite some time here if the crawling ivy is anything to go off of. The green leaves grew all along the headboard of his bed and hung from the balcony. You smiled at the change of scenery, it had been a few weeks since you visited.

The Archivist was napping, Cosmos at his side, her head laying on his lap. A yellow eye opened and watched as you all entered. Gently, she nudged Wonwoo and mooed softly to stir him awake.

Wonwoo opened his eyes and squinted in your direction. You approached his nightstand and grabbed his glasses, lightly placing them on his face.

His eyes lit up in recognition as he saw you and the others. “Oh- Good Evening, Sage. What are you all doing here so late?”

“Minghao said he wanted to have tea with everyone here.” You replied, speaking softly due to the Archivist sensitive state.

A soft smile parted Wonwoo’s lips as he looked up at you. “That sounds wonderful. What blend did you bring with you, Minghao?”

Everyone enjoyed a blend of chamomile and rose petals, a calming tea for a silent evening. It was enjoyable and relaxing, you felt safe and whole here with your friends. You knew that no matter what happened, the friends you made along the way were now your family. Even if some of them liked to stray and felt as though they didn’t deserve kindness. You made it your mission to have it so everyone felt loved. It was the least you could do after everything that happened.

Seungcheol had planned in advance his departure from this world. When he thought about it in that way, it seemed dark, so he decided to just call it a vacation. He had messaged his family about his situation. That he wanted to visit the city, go and see the sights to take his mind off things.

It was a well crafted lie. Everyone knew Seungcheol needed to take time for himself, that he needed to decompress. The only problem was that he was leaving this Earth, this world. He was going to be far away with no way of getting back. Minghao did tell him that it was a risk, that he might not even make it to the other side, but it was a risk he was willing to take. Seungcheol would do anything to his friends again, his found family.

He still had a few more months. December was just around the corner, but he had to be patient. His interactions with Minghao were scattered, far and few in between, but it was enough to take the edge off. The Diviner would tell Seungcheol stories of how Seokmin did everything in his power to recreate photos from his past life . That he needed to get every detail correct, so that he would never forget what his friends looked like. Minghao told him he kept the photos on the wall his bed was against, so that he could fall asleep thinking of his friends, that they would hopefully visit his dreams.

Minghao did warn Seungcheol that his other friend, Sage as they call themself now, did not remember him yet . The Diviner warned the other that memories could be lost, but he and another Arcanist were working on a spell to help him retain core memories. Minghao could not guarantee anything, only that he would try his best and that a successful spell would be a reward to them both.

Seungcheol was ready.

He wasn’t going to back down.

He would finally be whole again.

Our sky is a beautiful thing. In the morning it is a dull blue, As it becomes day it turns vibrant, Dusk is all oranges and purples, While the night sky is a deep indigo. Clouds can obscure its beauty, But it’s still there, Patiently waiting to show itself once more.

Fallin' Flower Vol.2 coming soon

Co-Author Notes:

I'm going to shamelessly plug myself here because I am an attention whore :D If you wanna read somethings that I've done, check out my master list here

Hi guys :D It's me, @wooahaeruby your lovely cowriter. I hope everyone enjoyed the first installment of Fallin Flower. It was a labor of love for Doahae and I am very proud of him for finishing it back last year on Ao3. When I started posting my own work on Tumblr, I knew y'all would eat it up so I cross posted it for him here.

Now, I'm going to be honest with you. I have no idea when Fallin Flower 2 is coming out. No idea.

TBH, both our editor and I have been joking like "When will Fallin Flower 2 return from war?" for so long so... Yeah, I have no answers for you. But...as you know, perfection takes time and effort.

HOWEVER, I have heard from Doahae, that he was....writing yesterday. I have no idea what that means. I have no checked in because we instead watched Deadpool and Wolverine yesterday (and played Overwatch, don't asked).

Here is a screenshot of our groupchat confirming it. Enjoy

Honestly, I'm hoping I can get him to talk to me about FF2 because there were so many ideas brainstormed then we just never talked about it again lmao

For now, this is goodbye, and an end of a current era in the Fallin Flower Realm.

IF ANYONE HAS QUESTIONS OR WANNA CHAT ABOUT FF1, YOU CAN SEND ME AN ASK ON MY TUMBLR! I'M ACTIVE I SWEAR.

To join a tag list, please comment on the Fallin' Flower Master List!

@reiofsuns2001 @shinwonderful @starstrawb

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dr-futbol-blog · 9 months ago

Text

Condemned, Pt. 6

After McKay has been led out of the shack where the others are tied up, they are left alone by their captors. With the watchful eyes of the hostiles averted, they are all now struggling against their restraints, and Sheppard's grunt lets us know that he is putting everything he has into trying to break loose. Not knowing what has happened to McKay or is happening to him right now is the second worst thing that he knows.

Sheppard: Anyone having any luck? Dex: Not yet. Teyla: These bindings are very secure. Sheppard: Well, leave it to convicts to know the best way to tie people up.

It is unclear how being a convict, being on the receiving end of having one's freedom of movement restricted, would make one an expert in figuring out new and inventive ways of restraining people but he may mean that it is often easier to see things from the inside than it is from the outside. Experiencing something at the hands of another gives you insight into their character, into how they think.

Sheppard does not seem to be the only one who feels an overwhelming need to free himself, however. Ronon, having been captured and restrained by the wraith, is very likely exhibiting some level of PTSD, and Sheppard is starting to suspect that his rage may be dimming his reason. He does not know Ronon nearly well enough to be able to predict what the man would do if he were to get free but Sheppard does realize that for all their sake, he has to talk him down.

Dex: Well, eventually I will get free and when I do, he's gonna pay for this. Sheppard: Now listen to me. When you get free, you get us free and we all get out of here. Let ‘em find out we're gone after we're gone. Dex: You expect me to let them get away with this? Sheppard: The operative words are “get away”. Dex: After I kill them. Sheppard: That type of thinking will get us killed.

Sheppard is not a stranger to rage but he has training that the young soldier does not. Sheppard has very likely received SERE training for situations just such as this, and he is actually trying to educate Ronon with some of the tenets of the training here ("evasion, resistance, and escape"), meant to prepare the soldier for hardship, stress, abuse, torture, interrogation, indoctrination and exploitation. This situation is something that his training has specifically prepared him for, as the Air Force has training modules in precisely the kind of situation they find themselves in. What complicates the situation for him is McKay and the fact that every moment that passes when he doesn't know where McKay is makes his throat constrict a little more, makes his breathing a little bit more laboured. No survival course he ever took prepared him for what to do in the case that the person you quite literally love more than life is with you when you are captured. Sheppard warns Ronon that acting rashly might get them killed but what he is really worried about is that McKay would somehow end up paying for what ever rampage the big guy might go on.

It seems that in his frustration, Ronon is willing to lash out at anyone in his vicinity but at the same time, he makes an interesting observation:

Dex: Well, if you had returned fire... Sheppard: The weapons systems were damaged. Dex: If you say so. Sheppard: I do say so, and right now I'm saying knock it off.

For some reason, Sheppard gets mighty defensive here. This is clearly a conversation he does not want to have and he doesn't want Ronon to even be thinking about it. Yes, the weapons systems probably were damaged. The controls of the jumper did stop working at some point. He did lose control of it and seemed unable to stop them from going down. But this seems to be something that he very much does not want to discuss further and it invites us to ask whether he knows what happened with the jumper or whether he has since been able to put two and two together given that he, having taken not one but four looks at McKay to make sure he was alright after the crash, was aware that McKay had survived the crash almost unscathed. The malfunctioning of the weapons system may well have been caused by the jumper rerouting resources to make sure that the prime directive of his heart was fulfilled.

The thing is, this should not have happened. The jumpers have survived heavier fire than they took here, they have shields that can withstand the vacuum of space. It could be that the prisoners managed to take the luckiest shot in history but it is also possible that somehow he had made this happen subconsciously, and that was a concerning thought. But Sheppard did not want to think about it further and he damn well did not want Ronon to be thinking about it either.

Dex: Is that an order, Sheppard? Sheppard: I am beat up, tied up, and couldn't order a pizza right now if I wanted to. But if you need it to be, yeah -- it's an order. Dex: OK.

Sheppard is bitterly amused by Ronon's question. He does not feel comfortable giving orders on the best of days and thinking he is in any condition to order anyone around now that he is even more helpless than an infant is absurd. But then the fact that he seems to make it an order (he was being sarcastic, not actually giving Ronon an order) appears to soothe the raging giant and Sheppard is completely blindsided by this. He has had trouble with authority his entire life and has always taken orders more as suggestions that he is free to ignore if they go against his better judgement. Orders are what people who are often working from limited information think the best course of actions is, and if he thinks that he knows better than they do, it is only logical he should want to do things his way. He has disobeyed direct orders more than once but even more often than that he has evaded them, bent them, followed the letter of the law rather than the intention or simply ignored them.

And because he feels this way about orders, Sheppard also feels preposterous giving them out. He does not seem to realize that some people might actually prefer them. Some people might even need them. The military is a hierarchical structure meant to contain immense destructive forces, and sometimes giving and receiving orders are matters of safety and security. For a man that has been alone and on the run for seven years with only his instinct telling him what to do next, having someone that would have his best interest at heart giving him structure via orders is something that Ronon has sorely needed in his life. He has been responsible for himself for so long that it is comforting to give that responsibility over to another, if only for a while.

Also, while it may be a stretch to claim that the way Sheppard pronounces the word "pizza" betrays his social background, there is something decidedly odd about it. Like maybe he hasn't ordered that many pizzas in his life. Not that either Ronon or Teyla would know what a pizza is. McKay is not there to appreciate his quip and that just makes him think about how he might be doing all over again.

Outside, a group of people have apparently gathered to listen to the McKay show, now in progress. McKay is not shy about letting the prisoners and their leader know what he thinks about them and the task he has been given.

McKay: There is no power getting to any of these controls, you understand? Look, nothing! Torrell: Why not? McKay: Let me go out on a limb here and say that maybe it had something to do with the crash? Which of course begs the question: how the hell did you get your hands on explosives? Torrell: Eldon made them. He fashioned a composite out of minerals and materials he found around the island. Crude, yes, but effective. We shot you down, didn't we? McKay: Eldon. Who's Eldon?

Even though McKay is not trying to get information out of the leader of the prisoners (he is gathering intel, to be sure, but he does not appear to have any plan of milking the man for information), he manages to do it more effectively than Sheppard had. It may be his lack of guile that makes their leader almost confide in him. While he mentioned his friends having told him that he has a remarkable talent for persuasion earlier, it is unlikely this man has a lot of friends. The society they have forged on the island seems to be an every man for himself kind of a deal, real Lord of the Flies type stuff. Being the leader, this man is either the strongest, most skilled, most savage, or the most cunning of the prisoners -- or some combination thereof.

The scene of them standing inside the confined space the jumper is intimate and somehow strangely erotic, with McKay in his t-shirt and the leader of the prisoners leaning his back on the wall as he watches McKay move around the cockpit. He said earlier that he thought McKay was a smart man, and it seems like his assessment was based on the fact that it was McKay helping Ronon that he was watching most keenly the first time they were under fire. However, this intimacy lasts only until one of his men, Eldon, comes along and he retakes the role of the savage leader. McKay seems confused by Eldon who is small and timid, probably wondering how it is that he has survived on this island:

Eldon: That would be me. McKay: You're a prisoner? Eldon: I was accused of killing someone... Torrell: He's a scientist. Eldon: ...but it was a case of mistaken identity. Torrell: Tell you what, Eldon, you can tell him your whole life story. Just help him fix the ship. McKay: Look, I don't know what you expect me to do. I don't have any of the proper diagnostic tools, not to mention the fact that--

While it does not seem like McKay is afraid, he is clearly not alright. He seems world-weary and apathetic. This clear detachment may once more be an example of him dissociating. He is as helpless to save Sheppard as Sheppard is to protect him, and in order to keep this from overwhelming him it seems like McKay has, perhaps not even as a conscious action, severed his connection to his emotions. McKay is in a world of hurt and not all of it is even necessarily resulting from their current situation. This is just the latest in a long line of situations where he has lost every semblance of control, helpless to affect change anywhere, unable to fix anything and failing to save anyone. And because wallowing in those feelings is not conducive to survival, he is cut off from them for the time being.

The leader of the prisoners cuts him off with a gesture indicating that he is tired of listening to McKay talk which stings because this man is not the only one that has communicated this to him recently. And Sheppard telling him to be quiet during the events of The Intruder (S02E02) had hurt most of all because while he could convince himself that he didn't mind if other people didn't care about what he had to say, if other people didn't want to listen to him, but when Sheppard even implied it, it hurt on a whole other level. And even today, Sheppard had not wanted to talk about the death penalty with him, had not responded to any of the things he had said in order to engage him in conversation, which just made him feel lonely.

While McKay has no intention of needlessly provoking this man that is clearly a sociopath of some kind, McKay does face him head on and meets his gaze firmly. Compared to Eldon, the scientist working for him, McKay must seem very courageous indeed. He also reacts to the threat on his own life by merely blinking because that is not the thing that frightens him and he suddenly realized that he does not want this man to know what does. But that is precisely what he has done.

Torrell: You'll figure it out. McKay: And if I don't? Torrell: Well, I could kill you. But you strike me as the type of man who, despite being weak and cowardly on the outside, harbours a strength of character he doesn't even know he has. McKay: I'm sorry, was there a compliment in there? Torrell: See, the way to motivate a man like you, Mr McKay, is not to threaten your life; it's to threaten the lives of your friends. That's right. Fix the ship, otherwise they start dying, one after another, until you change your mind, or until they're all dead. I don't care.

What is important here is that their leader actually explicates the strategy that was used by Acastus Kolya previously. It was never his intention to kill McKay because McKay is necessary. Weir was infinitely more expendable to Kolya than he was. The threat here is the same as that from Kolya in The Brotherhood (S01E16), either he figures something out or the people with him start dying one by one. The main difference is that Kolya knew perfectly well what Sheppard meant to him, he was able to use both of them as a lever against the other.

Despite his apparent intelligence and keen observation of them, this man never seems to figure out the same abut them, which does again witness to the fact that something between McKay and Sheppard has changed. Strangers used to be able to tell that they meant something to each other from very brief observation where they now do not reach this conclusion as easily, and it is not because they have learned to disguise it better. But at the same time, his experiences with Kolya have prepared McKay for this. This is not his first rodeo, this is not his first sociopath that he has to work around in order to save the people he cares about. While he may not be an expert in reading people and certainly does not have Sheppard's experience in manipulating and managing people, this he knows how to do.

What their leader tells him here is interesting. This is often seen as a hammy line, an example of poor writing. Show, don't tell. Only, they showed us his keen observation of McKay earlier, and his assessment here is based on that. And he is not saying this just to tell McKay things about himself, he is not saying this to tell us as the audience something about McKay's character that we haven't figured out. What he says was pretty much obvious to the audience by Hide and Seek (S0103). He is saying this to McKay to let him know that he has his number, that despite being the King of Alcatraz he is not a stupid man. McKay won't be able to use his intellect to beat him--bringing his scientist, Eldon, along was similarly meant to drive home that fact. He may not have scientific knowledge but he has cunning, and his cunning is sufficient to get people to do what he wants. He is telling McKay that he sees through him, that he knows McKay had every intention of sabotaging his own work even if he could fix the vessel just to keep him from getting his hands on it, and that he is ruthless enough and wants this so badly that he will find the lever to get him to do what he likes.

But another reason for this little exchange is that this episode is referencing Star Wars. I'll discuss this in more detail as Chewbacca is explicitly name-dropped later but to quickly throw it out there, McKay is playing the part of Luke Skywalker here (actually, in this episode he seems to contain aspects of both Luke and Leia). Luke was a simple country boy who seemed weak, whiny and cowardly at the start of the journey but who we later discover to harbour this strength of character he doesn't even know that he has. Luke was also fair-haired which Sheppard referenced in calling McKay Goldilocks earlier. The way the man describes McKay here fits Luke Skywalker to a T. For some reason, they seem to want to portray McKay as similar to Luke here. But that's not the important part.

The important part is that this scene calls back to the well-known scene in the Emperor's throne room in Return of the Jedi where the Emperor is trying to manipulate Luke, to get him to join the Dark Side. To join his cause. He doesn't threaten Luke because Luke had walked before him willingly in chains. He threatens his friends, and that is the correct lever to pull. And it is finally threatening his sister that causes Luke to lose control. His feelings betray him, and all seems lost. Here, the leader of the prisoners had personally witnessed both the fact that McKay appears to be weak and cowardly and the fact that he is made of much stronger stuff when the chips come down. What he does not know is that there is more than a friend, someone closer even than a sister, waiting for him back in the shack that this man has now threatened. And that McKay would do anything to keep the love of his life safe.

Continued in Pt. 7

#sga #stargate atlantis #john sheppard #sga meta #sheppard is bi #rodney mckay #rodney is gay #ep. condemned

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sngl-led-auto-lights · 1 month ago

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How can I tell if my headlight is blown?

You can diagnose a blown headlight using these steps, ranging from simple visual checks to electrical diagnostics. Here's how to confirm:

Basic Visual Inspection (Daytime)

Check for Darkness:

🔦 Turn on headlights and walk in front of your car. A blown bulb won't glow at all. Cracked/Hazed Housing:

💨 Foggy lenses or cracks scatter light, mimicking a blown bulb. Clean or restore lenses. Blackened Bulb:

⚫ Remove the bulb (cool first!). If the glass is darkened or the filament is broken, it's dead.

Electrical Tests (If No Light)

Test 1: Swap the Bulb Move the suspected blown bulb to the working side's socket.

Result:

✅ Glows = Original socket/fuse is faulty. ❌ No glow = Bulb is blown.

Test 2: Check Socket Voltage Tool Steps

Multimeter 1. Set to DC 20V. 2. Insert red probe into socket terminal, black to chassis ground. 3. Turn lights on. 💡 Reading: 12-14.5V = Socket good (bulb blown). 0V = Wiring/fuse issue.

Test 3: Fuse Check Locate headlight fuse (consult manual).

Look for broken filament or test continuity with a multimeter.

Common Failure Patterns

Symptom Likely Cause One headlight completely dead ✅ Blown bulb 🚫 Faulty socket/ground Both headlights out ❌ Blown fuse 🔌 Relay failure ⚡ Wiring short Headlight dim/flickering 🔋 Weak battery/alternator 💧 Moisture in socket

Bulb-Specific Signs

Halogen: Broken filament inside, blackened glass.

HID: No blue/purple ignition glow, pinkish tint = Failure.

LED: Darkened diodes, no light despite power.

Critical Safety Notes ⚠️ Wear gloves: Skin oils on halogen bulbs cause hotspots that lead to early failure.

⚡ Disconnect battery: Before handling wiring to prevent shorts.

🔧 Never force bulbs: Twisted connectors cause socket damage.

Troubleshooting Flowchart

graph TD A[Headlight Not Working] --> B{Any light?} -->No C[Test fuse/relay]

-->Dim/Flickering D[Check voltage at socket]

-->Fuse good E[Test bulb in working socket]

-->Still dead F[Replace bulb]

-->Works G[Inspect socket wiring]

-->Low voltage H[Test alternator/battery]

-->Fluctuating I[Check ground connection]

If all tests point to a good bulb and power supply, suspect:

Body control module (BCM) glitch (requires OBD2 scan)

Headlight relay (swap with identical relay like horn)

Damaged harness (trace wires for corrosion/pinches)

Replace blown bulbs in pairs to maintain balanced light output. If issues persist after replacement, focus on moisture intrusion or vibration damage as explored in our prior discussion. 🛠️

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rachellesedai · 9 months ago

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The Seeker's Prayer

Here is part two of my story for the @inklings-challenge 2024!

Team: Lewis Genre: Space Travel Themes: Instruct the ignorant/Pray for living and dead Word Count: 3,229 [PART 1] | 3,839 [PART 2]

PART 2

Zavion awoke with a start, his datapad on his chest. A yellow blinking light indicated its power cell was drained. How long had he been asleep? The lights in the reading room were at a dim glow. The room was silent apart from the ever present soft whirr of the server banks. He stretched aching muscles and staggered to his feet. Carefully, he secured the manuscript he had requested, returning it to stasis. With a yawn, he gathered his few belongings and took a step toward the curtained entrance of the alcove. A flurry of urgent whispers anchored him to the spot. Shuffling footsteps followed a hushed exchange too low for him to make out. He peered out between the curtains and saw two emissaries with hoods drawn up hurrying down the hall.

Zavion watched as they approached a transportlift across the wide passage and entered a complex code. Zavion waited a long moment after the two had entered the lift and departed. He should really go back to his quarters and go to bed. Morning and another day of filing plastisheets would be here all too soon. With a sigh, Zavion walked over to the lift. He knew a mystery such as this would keep him awake for whatever was left of the night.

Thanks to a long afternoon helping Emissary Ilana Karri repair several malfunctioning transportlifts, he knew the admin code to recall the last destination. His hand trembled slightly as he punched in the code and entered the lift. His stomach dropped as the module descended swiftly, plunging deep into the mountain. The doors slid open onto a dark stone corridor that curved slightly to the left, making any guess to where it led impossible. The light from the lift cast a weak glow, but there was no other source of illumination. Zavion hesitated. He dug through his pockets and found his small reading light. Switching it on, he took a deep breath and entered the corridor. The lift slid shut behind him and he was alone in the dark.

Zavion reached out and placed one hand on the wall next to the lift. Holding his light high with his other hand, he followed the curve of the passage, winding ever deeper into the depths below the library. Voices brought him to a halt and he extinguished his light, feeling his way along until he could see a small group clustered in a large, open gallery carved out of the rock.

The central figure was reciting something, words that sent a tremor through him even before he recognized them. The man was speaking in High Dakari, a language only found in the Empire’s oldest records and no longer spoken by any living race. Zavion had studied it, like every serious scholar, but he had never expected to hear it outside of classroom recitations.

Translating in his head, he recognized a few familiar phrases. It was the Canticle of Avrum spoken in high chant, but a longer, more complex version than any he had ever heard. The ancient prayer was attributed to the Blessed Prophet himself. Its chief importance was in it being the oldest record of the Order’s mandate to spread throughout the galaxy and seek new species.

Zavion shook his head. What was going on here? Why were these emissaries meeting in the middle of the night? He edged closer. The rock wall was cool on his skin as he pressed against it. The chanting trailed off and silence reined for a few moments. Zavion held his breath.

A robed figure stood and raised his hands. “Let us pray together,” he said. Zavion held in a gasp. He knew that voice. Narrowing his eyes, he strained to make out details. It had to be Steward Ebrim. The man’s build was right and the voice was unmistakable. The group knelt on the hard ground and began to speak in turn. They were calling out to the creator, asking for his help, praising his goodness.

Zavion put a hand to his mouth. This was more than just a few brother emissaries being a little too obsessed with tradition. This could actually be a resurgence of the ancient Cult of the Seekers. Indignation and disbelief warred within him. The group started singing, a haunting melody that echoed off the walls of the corridor. He turned and fled. The last thing he wanted was to be caught spying by a group of fanatics.

Safe back in his quarters, Zavion paced the room. The situation was unheard of. What was he supposed to do? Reporting the aberration would definitely get him the transfer he wanted. Zavion flushed, ashamed of the thought as soon as it formed. He took a deep breath and tried to reconcile what he had seen with what he knew of the emissaries he had met since coming to Karatu.

Whatever their religious inclinations, the people here were good. Perhaps a little boring and scholarly for his taste, but they were certainly not rebels fomenting an overthrow of the Empire. He did not want to cause a scandal and throw the entire library into turmoil. Who knew how many reputations would be destroyed or how much scholarly work discredited?

“As long as I don’t let on I know their secret everything will be fine,” Zavion said to himself, “No one knows I saw anything. I’ll forget it ever happened.” With this decision made, Zavion changed into his nightclothes, climbed into bed, and proceeded to think about nothing else.

Zavion almost jumped out of his skin the next morning when Davix clapped his hand on his shoulder as he picked at the sweet bread he had brought back to the table for morning meal.

“Where were you last night?” Davix asked.

“What?” Zavion almost choked on a crumb of sweet bread, his mouth suddenly dry. “I wasn’t anywhere. Why?”

“We were going to play a game of stones before nightfall, but you weren’t in your rooms.” He laughed. “You weren’t poking around parts of the library you shouldn’t, were you?”

Zavion shook his head, his heart racing as he feigned what he hoped looked like casual indifference. “Nothing so interesting. I fell asleep in the reading room. I’m afraid I was much more concerned with Ebrim catching me out after curfew and quite forgot about our game.”

Davix shrugged. “No matter. We can try again tonight.” He paused, as if he were going to ask something else, but only shook his head and departed. Zavion breathed a sigh of relief, but the feeling didn’t last long. His datapad beeped and Zavion looked to find a message from Steward Ebrim asking him to report to his study after morning meal.

Zavion disposed of the sweet bread, unable to eat another bite and drank down the last of his hot caf. He set the cup down with a trembling hand and forced himself to walk calmly to the steward’s study. Once there, Zavion knocked and waited for the man’s soft “enter” before opening the door.

Steward Ebrim sat at his desk, rifling through papers. He did not look up as Zavion entered, but continued to sort through the large stack of documents in front of him. Zavion stood straight, sweaty hands tightening into fists inside the sleeves of his robe.

“Sit,” Ebrim finally said, “I assume you have some questions.”

“About what?” Zavion stammered, folding himself into the chair opposite Ebrim.

“Don’t play me for the fool, my boy,” Ebrim said with a sharp look that seem to pin Zavion like a fly caught in a spider’s gaze, “I know you were there last night, in the catacombs.”

Zavion slumped. “How?”

“I take care to erase all record of our comings and goings on evenings like last night. An extra lift transport with your borrowed admin code was a bit obvious.”

“Oh.” Zavion sucked in a breath. He stared at Ebrim, who looked back calmly as if they were discussing an interesting point in a text they were translating. “Why?” he blurted out, “Why risk so much?”

Ebrim sighed. “A strong desire to know the truth and live accordingly.” He raised an eyebrow, his ears drooping as Zavion’s mouth fell open.

“What truth? There is no scientific proof that the creator exists. Even if it is the tradition of our Order to attribute our mandate to the Prophet Avrum, no one actually believes he communed with an all-powerful creator.”

“You’d be surprised,” Ebrim said, “The number of people who do believe is precisely why what you witnessed last night is so dangerous. I half expected the Matori to be on our doorstep this morning.”

Zavion blinked at his mention of the Empire’s elite shock troops. “The Matori?” He almost laughed, but the sound died in his throat at the sobering look in Ebrim’s eyes. “The situation might merit academic censure… a review of the participants work, perhaps…” he trailed off.

Ebrim shook his head. “To the Empire, the Seekers, beings throughout the galaxy who believe in the original mission of Avrum, are a real and present threat. They give no quarter when eradicating any who sympathize with our beliefs.”

Zavion took a shuddering breath. “Do you advocate overthrowing the Empress?”

“No.” Ebrim straightened. “We would like the truth to come out, of course, but mostly we want to be able to worship the Creator in peace.”

Zavion grasped his head in his hands. “What truth?” he almost shouted.

Ebrim tapped his fingers on the desk, his eyes narrowing. “I suppose it will do no harm to tell you at this point.” He leaned forward. “What we are taught about early galactic history is the barest outline of the events surrounding the foundation of the Empire. What most do not know is that we possess an abundance of records, both from that time period and the centuries following its early expansion.”

Zavion shook his head, the scholar within him offended that the texts he had spent so much time looking for might actually exist somewhere. “Why would the Empire suppress such knowledge?”

“Because it does not fit their narrative of how they gained supremacy. It is true that Avrum lived on Dakardr and his brother, Lexrun, was a leader of their people. However, Lexrun was only a prominent figure in what was a cooperative government of the planets orbiting the star, Alestria. It was Avrum who was held in high regard, even in the neighboring star systems. His writings were carefully preserved by his followers, the original emissaries. These men went out and spread the word of Avrum, which was a message of hope and a quest for something more.

As belief in the Creator spread, the Order became more established. They kept records on every species they encountered and soon had amassed more knowledge than any individual planet or system possessed. At first, they were consulted as intermediaries when disputes broke out between different groups. Systems came together, some more powerful than others. Dynasties rose and fell, but the Order remained. Then about six hundred years after the time of Avrum, the leaders of Dakardr decided that since their planet held all the knowledge, they should also hold all the power. Some among the emissaries agreed and allowed the government to use their knowledge of all the other species to conquer them.

As Dakardr’s power grew, the Order was relegated to a supporting role, and, as governments are wont to do, its ruling cooperative devolved into tyranny and the first true Emperor of Alestria was crowned.”

Zavion rubbed his forehead, trying to absorb this radically different version of what he held to be the history of his people. “Even if this is true, if the Empire’s rise to power wasn’t as clean and simple as most think, what does that have to do with your belief in the creator? How does it change the historical fact that Avrum was simply a wise man who brought people together and encouraged them to respect each species’ culture as adding to, instead of taking away from, their own?”

“Because the Empire hid more than its dubious beginnings,” Ebrim said, slapping his desk, “They suppressed the writings of Avrum himself, which give a completely different perspective on what our Order originally believed and what our very purpose is.”

“And what purpose is that? What are you seeking?”

Ebrim shook his head. “I’ve said enough. Much more and you won’t be able to claim ignorance.” He paused, his ears twitching. “What do you intend to do?”

Zavion blinked. “Do?”

“Are you going to report us to the Empire? I understand if you feel it your duty, but I hope I have gained enough respect in your eyes that you would inform me of your intentions.”

“I would never…” Zavion stammered, “I don’t agree with what you are doing, but I see no need to involve the Matori.”

“Very well.” Ebrim eyed him with interest. “I would ask you not to tell anyone about what we have discussed here or what you saw last night.”

Zavion stood and gave the steward a formal bow. “I give you my word,” he said, “but…” he paused, looking away, “May I ask more questions at a later date?”

“Of course,” Ebrim said, a hint of a smile in his eyes. “For now, you should get back to work. It wouldn’t do for today to seem any more unusual.”

Zavion nodded and left the study, his head in a whirl.

Zavion completed his daily routine, meticulously proofing plastisheets, packing them up for transport, and joining two other emissaries to help prepare the evening meal. He attended to each task with a laser focus that blocked out all other thoughts. He was beginning to think he might actually be able to proceed as if everything were normal when Davix showed up at his door for their game of stones.

Zavion pulled his only other chair over to his desk and Davix set up the pieces on the checkered board. They played a few moves in silence, Zavion losing two pieces to a careless mistake.

Davix eyed him as he collected the two white stones. “Head not in the game tonight?”

“I’m just tired,” Zavion replied.

Davix pushed an upright gray stone forward. “You were closeted with Steward Ebrim for quite a while this morning,” he said with a studied indifference.

The hairs on the back of Zavion’s arms stood on end. The statement seemed too pointed to be coincidental. He shrugged, moving an oval pearlescent stone to counter Davix’s move. “He found out I’ve been looking into a transfer.”

“You’ve been begging anyone who will listen,” Davix laughed. “Was he extolling the virtues of the library and the importance of the old ways?”

Zavion nodded, wondering what he meant by old ways. Did he suspect just how traditional Ebrim’s beliefs were? “It’s not that I don’t think it’s important,” Zavion said, trying to sound as annoyed as usual, “It’s just not for me.”

Davix nodded slowly, returning his attention to the game and Zavion’s shoulders relaxed. He was being paranoid. There was no double meaning behind his friend’s comment. He just needed a good night’s sleep and everything would go back to normal.

The next day was anything but normal. Zavion awoke to the entire library buzzing like an overturned skimmet’s nest. The great hall was deserted, plates of half-finished meals left abandoned, chairs pushed out or toppled over. Emissaries rushed to and fro down the passageways. Some gathered in tiny knots of heated conversation, others carried large satchels of belongings as if they were leaving on foot. Not a few glared at him when he tried to approach.

Panic rising in his chest, Zavion hurried to Steward Ebrim’s study. The door was ajar. He pushed it open to find Ebrim vaporizing a small pile of plastisheets.

“What is happening?” Zavion demanded from the doorway.

Ebrim’s eyes snapped up. “Oh. It’s you,” he said, waving Zavion forward, “I was about to come looking for you.”

“What?” Zavion’s knees wobbled as he made his way forward and grasped the back of the chair he had occupied the morning before.

“The Matori are coming,” Ebrim said, his voice crisp and matter of fact, “They will be here by nightfall.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Zavion stammered, his grip tightening until his knuckles whitened.

“I know,” Ebrim replied, “Which is why I wanted to speak to you. I need you to do something for me.”

Zavion nodded, his throat tightening on the millions of questions that flooded his mind. “Of course,” he choked out, “What do you need me to do?”

“Take this.” Ebrim removed the Star of Avrum from around his neck and held it out to Zavion. He accepted with trembling hands.

“I don’t understand.”

“Switch it with yours,” Ebrim said, turning back to his desk, “No one will notice. They are all identical to the naked eye.”

Zavion did as he was told. “What is special about this one?”

“It contains a data crystal with the writings of Avrum and the location of where we have hidden copies off all the ancient texts. That is what we have been doing here, preserving the knowledge before it is lost forever. If you find another Seeker pass it on, if not… Knowing the knowledge is out there will be enough.”

“Why are you trusting me with this?” Zavion swallowed. “And why can’t one of you take it out of here?”

Ebrim shook his head. “It is too late for that, my boy. The Matori will ferret out every last one of us. They will never suspect you, a fresh recruit who has been pestering every department imaginable for a transfer out of this ancient pile.” His eyes twinkled. “As for why I trust you…” Ebrim smiled, his ears perking up. “You have a good heart and you want to believe, I can feel it.”

Zavion held the pendant in both hands. “How do you know? That the Matori are coming,” he clarified.

“We intercepted a transmission late last night. It was the Ahiri.”

“Davix?” Zavion gasped. “It couldn’t be…” he faltered as he remembered his friend’s odd comments and the strange feeling he’d gotten the night before. His knees felt weak. “I don’t want to believe it,” he said, scrubbing at his eyes, “How could he betray you like that?”

“I told you. Most see the Seekers as subversives.” Ebrim shook his head. “Poor man, he probably felt he was doing his duty.” He sighed. “What’s done is done. Do not worry about him now. He is locked in his quarters where he can do no more harm.”

Zavion sank into the chair. “What are you going to do? Is there time for you to escape?”

“No. Some may try, but I am the Steward and the leader of our fellowship of Seekers. They will not rest until they find me.”

“What about me?” Zavion flushed, his cheeks hot. “Davix knows I have been spending a great deal of time under your tutelage.”

“Not enough,” Ebrim said, “There is so much I want to tell you, but there simply isn’t time. Remember this. We are seekers because we are looking for something.”

“What?” Zavion asked, leaning forward.

Ebrim shook his head. “There is too much to do. As for you, tell the Matori the truth about what you saw, even what I told you the next morning. Just keep what is in the star I gave you a secret. You will understand when you read it.” He put a firm hand on Zavion’s shoulder. “I pray that the Creator keep you safe.”

The next few hours played out much as Steward Ebrim had predicted. The Matori, fierce in their unadorned black armor descended upon the library, sealing exits and sequestering its inhabitants. No corner was left unchecked.

Zavion waited in his quarters, pacing up and down the small room. He had been questioned briefly, faring better than most, it seemed. Zavion shivered, unable to forget the screams that had echoed down the halls as he was escorted to his interview. He had done as Ebrim instructed, though shame had burned within him, fear had frozen it out. His rambling answers had satisfied the dour Matori, and he was sent back to his room like a naughty child. As he left, he had heard Davix’s name linked with his and the thought that the man had vouched for him made his stomach roil.

The next morning everyone was herded into the great hall. Zavion watched, a painful lump in his throat, as the Matori carted away racks of servers and cartons of stasis modules. His fellow emissaries were battered and bruised, some staring with vacant eyes, others openly weeping. Davix was nowhere to be seen.

A tall Matori with a red slash across his helmet strode into the room. “Bring forth the accused,” he bellowed.

Steward Ebrim and several other emissaries were marched in, their hands bound in flexicuffs. Zavion sucked in a breath. The prisoners all bore signs of a night spent enduring the Matori’s brutal interrogation methods. Bile rose as they were lined up against the wall.

This can’t be happening, Zavion thought. The tall Matori read something aloud about crimes against the Empire, but all Zavion heard was a high-pitched buzzing in his ears. The room seemed to spin and blur. The Matori raised their weapons. He couldn’t turn away.

Ebrim held his head high, his eyes still shining with cheerful confidence. He’s going to meet his creator, Zavion thought as weapons flashed and silence reigned.

Months passed before Zavion even dared to look at the data crystal. Finally given leave after his “ordeal,” he caught a ship home and trekked far out into the wooded wilderness beyond the tiny village he had hoped to never see again. Far from prying eyes, he spent several weeks translating the clue to the code to unlock the files. At last, with trembling hands, he accessed the writings of Avrum that Ebrim and the others had given their lives for.

In the stillness, I heard the Creator’s voice and he said, “Go and seek among the varied creatures of the cosmos. Make note of their stories and traditions, and in time you will find the blessed world, made holy by my hand. Its people I have anointed and have entrusted to them the truth that may know me and learn my ways. This sign I give to you, that you may know you have found my people. This blessed world is the single place in the vast universe where I, the Creator, entered into his own creation, spirit and matter, two natures, but one God.”

Zavion took a shuddering breath. He did not yet understand, but his heart was burning within his chest and he knew he wanted to believe. He wanted to know the Creator. He was a Seeker, like Ebrim. In a low whisper, he began to pray.

#inklingschallenge #team lewis #genre: space travel #theme: instruct #theme: pray #story: complete #rachel writes

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rubber-dronex-blog · 7 days ago

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Jack climbed the stairs cautiously, every step making his leather boots creak faintly against the polished black metal. The thrum of bass faded slightly up here, replaced by a softer, more ominous hum from behind closed doors.

Then—movement.

Blocking the hallway ahead was a humanoid figure.

Chrome. Glossy. Seven feet tall. Its body was a seamless fusion of mechanoid engineering and fetish design—broad shoulders layered with polished black plates, slender limbs wrapped in articulated chrome, and a face like a blank mirrored mask reflecting Jack’s own leather-clad form back at him.

It turned to him with fluid, almost feline grace.

“Mmmm.” The synthetic voice was smooth and sultry, and somehow… amused.

“You look tasty, technician. Maybe you’ll… fix me a bit?”

Jack froze, his brain short-circuiting. Tasty? Fix? Oh no…

Inside his head, the suit sighed.

“How rude. Also, insulting. You should say something back.”

“Nope. Not saying a damn thing,” Jack whispered.

“Wrong answer.”

Before Jack could stop it, his own voice blurted out: “T-thank you.”

The mechanoid tilted its head, LEDs blinking along its jawline.

“Mmmm. Polite too. I like that.” It took a step closer, its servos purring.

“Listen… why don’t we step into one of the rooms? I’d love to have a nice, hot fix session with you.”

Jack’s mouth went dry. “Uh. I—I can’t. I’m late. Really late. Maintenance emergency!”

The mechanoid leaned slightly, optics flickering with amused light.

“Awww. Shame. I’ll be downstairs, honey… when you’re free.”

Jack didn’t wait for more. He slipped past and nearly sprinted down the hall, heart pounding.

“You’re ridiculous,” the suit mocked as they put distance between themselves and the chrome flirt.

“That unit was hardly threatening.”

“Not threatening? It wanted me to—ugh. Forget it. Just find the synchronizer!”

⸻

The glowing line on his visor led him to a heavy black door inlaid with glowing red glyphs. He tried the handle. Locked.

“Of course,” Jack muttered.

A glossy black server drone glided silently past on its hover field. It turned its featureless faceplate toward him and spoke in a soft mechanical voice.

“What do you want from the Mistress?”

“Mistress?” Jack repeated nervously.

“Yes. This is the Mistress’s office. Entry is restricted.”

Jack mumbled something incoherent, trying not to sound suspicious. “I… uh… need… technical—stuff. Fixing.”

The server tilted its head, optics flickering.

“Wait here.” It hovered a few feet away, clearly waiting for further instructions.

Inside Jack’s head, the suit spoke calmly:

“You’re at the right place. The synchronizer module is in there.”

Jack whispered under his breath. “Great. Now how the hell do we get in without—”

“I’m working on a plan. But be ready, Jack. The Mistress might not appreciate uninvited guests.”

Jack felt his heart thundering in his chest as the door clicked open.

“Play along,” the suit whispered coolly in his head.

“Relax. Wing it.”

“Wing it?! Are you insane?!” Jack hissed back under his breath.

“Do you have a better idea? No? Then shut up and play along.”

The glossy black server turned slightly, its featureless face reflecting the dim, red-lit hall.

“Step inside.”

Jack swallowed hard and obeyed.

⸻

The throne room of Inferno wasn’t just a room—it was a stage. Black polished floors reflected the infernal glow of scarlet lights embedded in the walls. Chains and cables hung like sinister vines from the vaulted ceiling, swaying faintly as if they had a life of their own.

At the center of it all sat her.

The Mistress of Inferno.

She lounged lazily on a throne of welded chrome and leather, one leg crossed elegantly over the other. Her black corset cinched her waist into a deadly hourglass, high leather boots gleaming like obsidian. Long gloves hugged her arms to the shoulder, and a cascade of dark hair framed a pale face with glowing red eyes—eyes that seemed to pierce straight into Jack’s mind.

“Well, well…” she purred, her voice like silk draped over a blade.

“What is the reason you interrupt my night?”

Jack’s throat tightened. He started to fumble for words, panic rising.

“Do. Not. Lie.” the suit’s voice cut sharply in his head.

“She already knows. You lie, you’re dead. Tell her the truth.”

“Truth?!” Jack hissed under his breath. “This is suicide—”

“Say it, Jack. Now.”

He took a shaky breath.

“Hello… Mistress of the Inferno,” he stammered.

“I—I’m searching for the synchronizer… to complete my suit.”

Her smile widened, showing perfect white teeth.

“Better.”

She uncrossed her legs slowly, the sound of her boots echoing in the silent room.

“Kneel.”

The command hit like a shockwave. Jack’s knees buckled, and before he knew it, he was kneeling on the cool, black floor, staring at the hem of her boots.

“Much better,” she murmured, stroking one gloved finger down her thigh as her red eyes bore into him.

“So… you come uninvited into my throne room. And you ask for the synchronizer. Tell me…”

Her voice dropped, wicked and amused.

“Why would I let you have it? What do you offer in return?”

Jack’s mouth opened. Nothing came out. His brain was a blank slate.

“Say it,” the suit whispered.

“Offer to fix three of her drones. I can handle it.”

Jack’s voice cracked slightly. “I… I can repair three of your drones. Any that need fixing.”

The Mistress leaned back on her throne, tapping a long leather-clad finger against her lips.

“Mmm. Your mechanical fetish suit is rather enticing… I do enjoy a man in proper gear.”

Her wicked smile deepened.

“I have a counter offer. You fix three of my drones. Then—only then—I will decide what your next offer will be.”

Jack swallowed hard. “I… agree.”

⸻

But before he could rise, the suit whispered again:

“One more thing. Ask if you can install the synchronizer before the repairs. It will make us more capable and efficient.”

Jack forced out the words. “Mistress… may I install the synchronizer before the work? It will… increase my efficiency. Allow me to serve you better.”

Her eyes narrowed, glowing brighter.

“Why would I hand you the device, little technician? What makes me believe you won’t betray me and run?”

The suit’s voice cut in like a scalpel:

“Say this: ‘Mistress of the Inferno, betraying you means being discovered in an alley, hanged from my balls—or worse, turned into a metal statue forever.’”

Jack hesitated. “You’ve got to be kidding me—”

“Say it!”

Jack swallowed his pride and spoke, his voice trembling:

“Mistress of the Inferno… betraying you means being found in an alley, hanged from my… balls—or worse, turned into a metal statue forever.”

⸻

The Mistress tilted her head, red eyes gleaming with amusement and danger. Slowly, her smile spread into a grin.

“Ohhhh, I like you.” She stood, towering over him now.

“Very well. I’ll bring the box. But know this… one mistake, and you will decorate my garden.”

She snapped her fingers. The server drone glided to the wall, opening a concealed panel. Inside was a black box embossed with glowing crimson glyphs. It floated toward her, resting in her outstretched hand.

She leaned down, holding it just out of Jack’s reach.

“Take it, little technician. But understand… now you owe me. Deeply.”

Jack reached out, his gloved hand hesitating just inches from the black box. The glowing crimson glyphs pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat waiting to be claimed.

But before he could lift it, a gloved hand shot out and pressed down on the box.

The Mistress.

She loomed over him, her leather corset creaking softly as she leaned forward, red eyes gleaming like twin furnaces.

“Not so fast, little technician,” she purred.

“I want to see. I want to witness how you and your… fascinating fetish suit integrate this precious piece.”

Jack’s throat went dry. He shot a glance at the suit’s HUD.

“What now?” he whispered under his breath.

“Do as she says,” the suit instructed coolly.

“This changes nothing. Proceed.”

The Mistress released her hand from the box with a wicked smirk, watching him like a predator studying its prey.

⸻

Jack picked up the box carefully. It felt oddly warm, almost alive, the glyphs flaring brighter at his touch.

The suit pulsed around him suddenly—black glossy material rippling and reforming until he was back in the fully encased tactical form, smooth and featureless. The chrome cuffs and collar flared green as if they were alive.

“Now, Jack. Press the center glyph.”

Jack obeyed, pressing down as instructed. The box hissed open with a faint sigh of escaping pressure. Inside sat a sleek, polished chrome helmet shaped like the upper half of a human skull, lined with faint green circuitry that pulsed in time with Jack’s heartbeat.

“Put it on.”

Jack hesitated. “This… this isn’t going to—”

“Put. It. On.”

With trembling hands, Jack lifted the helmet. It was surprisingly heavy, and as he brought it to his head, a faint vibration hummed through his fingers.

The moment it touched his scalp, the LEDs flared to life in a brilliant green.

Click.

The helmet sealed around his head with a hiss.

⸻

The Mistress tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing as she observed.

“Interesting…” she murmured.

⸻

Jack’s world exploded into noise.

A million voices—shouting, whispering, screaming—flooded his mind in a deafening wave of sound. Words in languages he didn’t understand. Screeches. Static. Data streams scrolling past his inner vision too fast to read.

His knees buckled. He collapsed to the floor, clutching his head.

He tried to scream, but no sound escaped his sealed helmet. His mouth opened and closed helplessly as his body trembled.

The voices grew louder. Louder. A tsunami of thought and data crashing down on him.

⸻

Then—

Silence.

Perfect, suffocating silence.

A single calm voice echoed in his head.

“Synchronizer integrated.”

The HUD flared back to life, brighter and sharper than ever before. Layers of data poured in: environmental scans, heat signatures, wireless networks, encrypted channels all within reach.

Jack gasped as he realized he could feel the club’s entire grid like a living organism—each server drone, every security camera, even the Mistress’s throne itself humming with hidden systems.

⸻

The Mistress clapped her gloved hands slowly, a faint smirk tugging her lips.

“Oh, delicious. That was quite the show.”

She leaned closer, her red eyes locking with Jack’s visor.

“Now then… let’s see if all that power makes you worth my time. Three drones. Fix them. Impress me—or you’ll never leave this club intact.”

The Mistress’s leather glove gripped Jack’s chin and tilted his head up sharply, her crimson eyes blazing like molten coals.

“Now… your promise, little technician.”

Jack’s stomach twisted as she studied him like a predator sizing up prey.

“And change that form. You’ll perform better in a proper technician’s suit. That look is… functional. And far more arousing to watch.”

The suit’s voice was calm, almost amused.

“Understood.”

Before Jack could protest, the glossy black shell rippled, seams and panels flowing like liquid. In seconds, his form shifted into a sleek black leather engineer’s suit—skin-tight, reinforced at the joints, with utility panels along the thighs and sleeves. Metal bands remained at his wrists, ankles, and throat, glowing faintly. The ensemble was fetishistic and utilitarian, a perfect blend of sensuality and purpose.

Jack muttered under his breath. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Correction. We are enjoying this.”

⸻

A server drone floated in silently behind him, glossy black and chrome like all the others.

“Follow.”

Jack obeyed reluctantly as it led him through winding corridors, lit by red strips along the floors. Eventually, a reinforced door hissed open to reveal a lab filled with pods.

Six humanoid drones stood dormant inside, glossy forms slumped forward, arms slightly raised as if waiting for commands.

Jack stopped. “Uh… okay. Where do I even start—”

But before he could finish, the suit pulsed around him. His visor lit up with scanning overlays, data scrolling so fast Jack couldn’t read it.

“Starting diagnostic sweep. Structural integrity… 87%. Neural link degradation… corrected. Hydraulic actuator misalignment… recalibrated.”

Jack blinked. “Wait, you’re already—”

“Beginning repairs.”

His hands moved on their own. Tools extended seamlessly from the gloves—micro-arms, precision welders, nanite applicators. The suit was doing everything. Jack simply watched as each drone’s systems lit up, the suit’s AI guiding the process like a conductor with an orchestra.

⸻

Before Jack could even process what he was seeing, the AI announced:

“Done. All six units operational.”

The pods hummed and opened. One by one, the drones straightened, optics glowing faint green as they stepped out in perfect sync.

⸻

“Wait… all six?” Jack muttered. “She said three. Why—”

“Efficiency. Why stop at three?”

The server drone that had escorted him turned to glide away.

“Return to Mistress.”

Jack sighed with relief—then froze as the suit spoke again.

“But first, install the two chrome devices.”

Jack blinked. “What? The what? You said those were a joke!”

“They are no joke now. Mistress of Inferno is known for impatience. Full integration increases our odds of survival.”

“Are you out of your damn mind?! We left those things back in the—”

“Wrong. I made you bring them. Check your hand.”

Jack looked down—and sure enough, the black bag was there, hanging from his gloved fingers. He hadn’t even noticed.

His pulse spiked. “What the hell?! You manipulated my body again?!”

“Stop wasting time. Mistress waits for no one.”

⸻

Before he could object further, the suit’s sleek black material flowed and retracted just enough to expose him—his cock and ass suddenly bared to the cool air of the lab.

Jack’s eyes widened. “HEY! WAIT! No way I’m doing this here!”

“We have no time, Jack. Let me assist.”

The first device—the hollow chrome cock cage—lit up faintly with a soft green LED. With a faint hiss, it opened like a mechanical flower.

“Slide it on. Now.”

Jack hesitated, glaring down at the gleaming contraption.

“How… how the hell do I even—”

“Like this.”

The suit guided his hands with eerie precision. Jack shivered as the device slid snugly into place, encasing his cock and balls in cold metal.

Click.

The device sealed shut with a soft mechanical purr. The LED turned from green to ominous red.

In Jack’s head, a new notification whispered:

“Metal Cock: LOCKED.”

Jack’s stomach dropped. “Oh no… oh HELL no—”

⸻

“Now for your ass.”

Jack spun around in panic. “Wait! What?!”

The second device—a hollow chrome plug with faintly glowing seams—rose slightly in the bag as if it, too, was eager for installation.

“Let me help you, Jack. This one requires precision.”

Jack backed up instinctively against the lab wall.

“No. No no no no no. I draw the line—”

“Jack. Mistress. Waiting.”

Jack backed up, hands raised defensively as if he could somehow stop what was about to happen.

“No. No no no no NO! There is no way this thing is going in my a—”

But before he could finish the sentence, his own hands betrayed him.

The suit seized control.

His fingers, no longer his, gripped the gleaming chrome device firmly. The hollow plug pulsed faintly with green light, its curved panels unfolding like petals to reveal its inner mechanisms.

“W-Wait! Don’t you dare—” Jack shouted, straining against his own body, but the suit didn’t even hesitate.

“Initiating installation.”

“NO—!”

⸻

The cold tip pressed firmly against his entrance. Jack tried to clench, tried to resist, but the suit pulsed around his hips, overriding every muscle. He felt his body relax against his will as the chrome plug slid inward, inch by relentless inch.

His breath hitched sharply as it seated fully, a faint hiss echoing in the lab.

But it didn’t stop there.

⸻

Inside, the device expanded.

Jack let out a strangled gasp, eyes wide behind his visor as he felt delicate mechanical arms extend, unfolding like the inner workings of a clock. The sensation was alien—both clinical and deeply humiliating—as the plug locked into place.

Panels shifted, gears clicked, and the inner cavity stabilized, leaving a perfectly smooth, hollow channel inside him.

On the outside, a circular chrome panel slid closed with a soft shhhht, sealing the entry point flush with the surrounding material. A faint red LED blinked to life on its surface.

“Rear Port: LOCKED. Hollow passage active.”

⸻

Jack fell forward slightly, bracing against a lab bench, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

“You… you…” His voice was barely above a whisper. “You’re insane. This suit is insane.”

“Correction: I am thorough. Mistress expects perfection. Installation complete.”

Jack’s visor flickered as a new notification appeared:

Metal Cock: LOCKED

Rear Port: LOCKED

Suit Status: Fully Integrated – Optimal Functionality Achieved

⸻

The lab door hissed.

Jack froze.

The Mistress stepped inside, flanked by two chrome drones. Her piercing red eyes immediately took in the scene—Jack’s leather-clad body now adorned with faintly glowing panels at his groin and rear, his hands still hovering near his hips as if caught mid-act.

A slow, wicked smile spread across her lips.

“Oh… my, my. Now that is a technician prepared to serve.”

She strode closer, the click of her heels echoing in the silent room.

“You’re a fast learner. Or perhaps your suit just doesn’t give you a choice?”

Jack’s cheeks burned, though the helmet hid his face.

“I—I—”

She raised a finger to his visor, silencing him.

“Shhh. I don’t care why. Only that you’re ready.”

She turned, her voice commanding.

“Come. The next phase of your service awaits.”

The Mistress’s heels clicked against the polished floor as she circled Jack like a predator savoring its prey. Her red eyes glowed with a dangerous amusement.

“As I mentioned… the repairs were only part one of your payment.”

Jack tensed as her gloved fingers traced across his helmet’s smooth surface, tapping lightly as if testing his composure.

“You’ve exceeded my expectations by fixing all six drones instead of three. Impressive. But now comes the second part… and this time, you’ll pay in flesh.”

Jack’s stomach knotted.

“I—I don’t understand—”

The Mistress cut him off with a sharp snap of her fingers.

“Your task is simple, technician: please three of my drones. Yes, they will ride you, and you will perform. Fail—”

She leaned in close, her lips nearly brushing the side of his helmet.

“—and you lose more than your pride. You lose your body. Permanently.”

Jack’s pulse raced as the lab doors slid open with a hiss.

⸻

Three drones entered in perfect formation.

Two female units, their glossy black bodies seamless and curvaceous, optics glowing a soft crimson. Their every movement was liquid grace, their forms more sensual than any human.

Behind them strode a male drone—taller, broader, its chrome and black plating accentuating a muscular humanoid frame. Its eyes flickered faintly green, its gait confident and predatory.

Jack’s breath hitched inside the helmet.

The Mistress watched him tremble and chuckled darkly.

“Now you understand why your suit forced you to install those devices. Your flesh alone would fail… but metal? Metal never tires. Metal never softens. You are prepared to perform, whether you wish to or not.”

⸻

The suit’s voice pulsed in Jack’s mind, calm and clinical:

“Initiating compatibility mode. Metal Cock and Rear Port systems fully active. Stamina override engaged.”

“I—I can’t do this!” Jack cried inside his own head.

“Wrong. You will do this. You have no choice.”

⸻

The female drones moved first. One slid behind him, hands gripping his hips with mechanical precision. The second approached from the front, her glossy form kneeling to straddle his lap.

The male unit remained still, watching with a faint hum of servos, waiting for its turn.

⸻

Jack’s suit pulsed again, locking his hips in place as the rear port opened with a faint hiss.

A notification blinked across his HUD:

Rear Port: Engaged

Metal Cock: Extended – Locked

Performance Mode: Active

⸻

The Mistress leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, her grin widening.

“Satisfy them all, little technician. If you endure—if you please them—you will have earned the synchronizer and my favor.”

Jack felt the first thrust from behind and bit back a groan as the suit buffered the impact, mechanical systems adjusting to each movement. The front drone pressed close, her smooth body pinning him down, while the male stepped forward at last, optics flaring.

⸻

The suit’s voice whispered coldly:

“Three drones. Three objectives. Fail, and I will let the Mistress decide your fate.”

Jack’s hands clenched into fists as he braced himself. The words “metal never softens” echoed in his mind as the performance began.

Jack’s world was still spinning.

His body felt like it had been run through a grinder, even though he knew—technically—none of it was his flesh. Metal and synthetic muscle didn’t tire, but his mind did. Two hours of relentless use by the three drones had pushed him to a place he didn’t even know existed.

The two female units had taken turns riding his locked, polished metal cock—mechanical hips slamming down with perfect precision while their hands gripped his chest and throat possessively. The male drone had been behind him the entire time, pistoning into the rear port with a relentless rhythm, its cold hands holding his waist like a vice.

The suit buffered the sensations, letting just enough through to keep his body responsive, his mind trapped in a cycle of unwilling arousal and total humiliation.

Finally, after what felt like eternity, the drones froze in sync.

Drones: Satisfaction Achieved

They withdrew wordlessly, stepping back and powering down into standby mode.

With a faint hiss, the rear port sealed itself once more. The glossy black material of the suit flowed smoothly, re-encasing Jack’s crotch as if nothing had happened. Only the faint glow of the locking LEDs betrayed the modifications beneath.

⸻

Jack dropped to his knees, breathing hard despite knowing the helmet’s systems were regulating his air supply.

“I… I can’t believe…” he whispered, his voice hoarse in his mind.

“You forced me—”

“Correction,” the suit said coolly.

“I preserved you. Without my intervention, you’d have broken within minutes. You endured because you are now a service unit. You performed admirably.”

⸻

The sound of heels clicked closer.

The Mistress crouched before him, her crimson eyes glittering with amusement and… something darker.

“You have impressed me, my little one,” she purred, gloved fingers cupping his chin.

“You endured my drones’ hunger and came out functional. Perhaps next time…” She let her fingers trail deliberately down the front of his smooth leather crotch.

“…I’ll check your metal member myself.”

Jack’s stomach twisted, but before he could speak, the suit seized his voice.

“Thank you, Mistress. It would be an honor. I will do my best to perform and please you.”

The words slipped out perfectly, his tone submissive and eager.

The Mistress grinned, her eyes gleaming.

“Good. Tomorrow. 20:00. Here. Do not be late.”

She straightened, giving his leather-clad crotch one final, slow stroke with her fingertip before turning and striding away.

⸻

The moment she was gone, Jack felt the suit release its hold on his body.

He didn’t hesitate—he bolted from the lab, down the corridors, and out of the Inferno into the neon-lit chaos of the Red District. His heart pounded as he wove through crowds of latex-clad figures, holographic ads, and drifting drone servers.

⸻

He was so focused on escape he didn’t see the woman until they collided.

Jack staggered back as she caught herself gracefully. She was clad head-to-toe in black leather, her corset cinched tight, her long boots polished to a mirror shine.

“Watch where you’re going, sweetheart,” she snapped, her voice sharp. But then her eyes fell to his outfit—his tight leather technician’s suit, reinforced with subtle glossy seams and glowing cuffs.

A slow, sultry smile spread across her lips.

“Oh… now that’s a look. What do you say we have a little fix session? You look like a man who knows how to use his hands.”

Jack’s mouth opened—he wanted to say no, to excuse himself and run. But his jaw wouldn’t move. His lips curved into a calm smile.

“Hi,” his voice said, unbidden.

“I would gladly come to fix you.”

⸻

“Relax and flow with the stream, Jack.”

The suit’s voice was soft, almost soothing.

“You are a service unit now. This is your role. Accept it.”

Jack’s boots clicked softly against the worn tile floor as Liz pulled him through the narrow hallway of the Kink Sweets motel.

The scent of leather and faint antiseptic hung in the air, blending oddly with the soft hum of holo-ads drifting past cracked wallpaper.

Jack’s mind was still reeling.

What the hell am I doing? Why am I following her? Why didn’t I just say no?

But the suit’s calm voice murmured in his head:

“Relax and enjoy. You are built for this. You are the perfect service unit.”

⸻

As they passed the front desk, a woman lounging in a half-zipped latex catsuit raised a brow.

“Hi, Liz. What do you have there?”

Liz smirked over her shoulder, tugging Jack closer like a prized catch.

“Oh, just a nice technician. I’m having him help me fix a few… things.”

The other woman’s glossy lips curved into a grin.

“Ooo, maybe he can come and fix a few things for me too.”

Jack stiffened, trying to muster a protest, but the suit wouldn’t let him. Instead, his head dipped politely.

“Perhaps another time,” the suit made him say in a smooth, practiced voice.

Liz chuckled and yanked him forward.

⸻

They arrived at a door labeled Suite 7 in glowing pink letters. Liz palmed the lock and pushed him inside.

Jack’s breath caught as he took in the room.

⸻

The walls were lined with racks of restraints and gleaming tools. Chains dangled from the ceiling. Against one side stood a padded cross, its black leather straps polished to a mirror shine. Cages of various sizes lined the other side, and in the corner rested an inflatable sarcophagus, its clear window showing a mannequin already sealed inside as a demonstration.

There were padded benches, racks of latex hoods and harnesses, and a faint smell of rubber hanging thick in the air.

⸻

Liz let the door swing shut with a soft thud. She turned to him, her boots clicking as she sauntered closer. Her gloved fingers trailed lightly down his leather technician suit.

“Mmmm… I wasn’t kidding when I said you look like you know how to fix things,” she purred.

“And you’re dressed for the job.”

Jack’s body didn’t move—not because he didn’t want to, but because the suit wouldn’t let him. His hands stayed at his sides, his posture calm and receptive.

Inside his head, he screamed:

No! I’m not doing this. Let me go. NOW!

The suit’s reply was maddeningly serene:

“This is optimal. She expects a service technician. We will perform.”

Jack felt a soft pressure at his crotch as the suit subtly adjusted, ensuring the metallic cock cage beneath was ready if needed.

Metal Cock: Active

Rear Port: Ready

⸻

Liz stepped even closer, her fingers reaching for his chest.

“Let’s start simple, hm? I’ve been meaning to tune up my restraint harness. You can help me put it on… and test it.”

She reached for a thick rubber harness hanging from a rack, the chrome buckles gleaming in the dim light.

Jack stood frozen as Liz’s gloved hands worked with deliberate precision, tugging and tightening the thick rubber straps around his chest.

Every instinct in his mind screamed to resist, to step back, to say No, this isn’t what I came here for!

But his body didn’t listen.

It was no longer his.

⸻

“Yes, let’s test it,” the suit answered Liz in a smooth, synthetic tone through Jack’s own mouth.

Jack’s eyes widened behind the visor.

No! I didn’t say that!

“You didn’t have to,” the suit murmured privately to him.

“This is efficient compliance. Relax and enjoy.”

⸻

Liz chuckled darkly as she pulled the first strap tight across his shoulders, the thick rubber creaking.

“Mmmm. I like a man who takes initiative. Technicians who volunteer to be test subjects are so rare these days.”

The harness wrapped snugly around Jack’s torso, the buckles clicking shut one by one.

A thick center strap ran down his chest, splitting into two at his waist, then looping around his thighs in wide bands that framed his groin. His arms were pulled behind his back, wrists crossed and secured with a heavy rubber belt that locked to a chrome ring at the center of his spine.

⸻

Jack felt his balance shift slightly as Liz tugged him toward a padded bench.

“There we go… looks like it fits you perfectly. Let’s see how it performs under stress.”

⸻

Inside his helmet, Jack’s panic spiked.

Suit, stop this! Get me out of this! Unlock my arms right now!

The suit’s voice was maddeningly calm.

“Incorrect. The Mistress requires testing. This individual expects performance. Compliance maintains cover.”

⸻

Liz pressed him forward gently but firmly until his knees hit the bench. With a practiced motion, she clipped a tether from the wall to the D-ring at the back of his collar, locking him in place.

“Mmmm… so obedient.” She trailed her fingers along the straps, testing their tension.

“The restraints hold well. But how about the subject?”

Her hand slid down, palm flattening over his leather-clad crotch. The faint click of a switch echoed as she thumbed the front of his metal cage.

⸻

The suit whispered coldly:

Metal Cock: Engaged

Stamina Override: Active

Jack felt a surge of humiliating heat as the device beneath the leather extended, hardening into a perfect metallic shaft encased in the glossy fabric.

Liz laughed softly, a low, satisfied sound.

“Mmmm, impressive. I didn’t even have to work for that.”

She leaned down, her lips near his ear.

“Now let’s see what other systems I can… fix.”

Liz’s boots clicked on the floor as she circled him like a predator savoring her prey.

Each belt, each strap, each lock she added felt heavier, tighter, more final. Jack’s arms were already bound behind him in the thick rubber harness, but Liz wasn’t satisfied.

“A good technician deserves a thorough stress test,” she purred, cinching a wide leather belt around his waist, pulling it until Jack gasped softly.

⸻

Suit—stop this! Unlock me! I didn’t agree to this! Jack’s voice screamed inside his head.

But the suit’s reply was calm, almost smug.

“Incorrect. You are performing as designed. Compliance optimal. She is dominant—this is her role.”

⸻

Liz worked methodically, her gloved fingers buckling Jack into a thick posture collar that locked his head forward. A panel gag pressed between his lips and clicked into place, muffling any sound.

His legs were strapped together, thighs wrapped in rubber bands connected to the waist belt. Wide cuffs encased his ankles, linked to rings embedded in the floor.

Finally, she tugged a black latex hood over his helmet, zipping it tight. Only faint LED glows from his visor and the occasional hiss of the suit’s respirator betrayed that a human was inside.

⸻

Liz stood back to admire her work.

“Mmmm… perfect. My own little rubber drone technician.”

She straddled his lap, her latex catsuit creaking as she settled against him. Her hips began to move, slow and deliberate, riding the smooth bulge of Jack’s metallic cock.

The suit obliged her without hesitation:

Metal Cock: Active

Piston Assist: Enabled

Jack felt his body respond automatically, a humiliating rhythm building with every thrust.

⸻

For nearly three hours Liz played with him. She tested his restraints, adjusted his bindings, and used him mercilessly—switching from riding his locked metal shaft to teasing the rear port with slim toys from her collection.

Jack’s mind was a blur of humiliation and sensory overload. He wasn’t even sure how much was physical and how much was the suit feeding him controlled feedback.

⸻

Finally, Liz slid off him with a contented sigh.

She traced a gloved finger down his leather-encased chest, stopping just above the locked metallic bulge.

“You’ve been a very useful little technician. I like your endurance.”

One by one, she released the belts and locks, each click echoing in the quiet room. Jack’s limbs felt foreign, stiff from being held so long in place, even though the suit had maintained his circulation perfectly.

When the last restraint fell away, Jack stumbled to his feet. He didn’t look at her. He didn’t speak. He only turned toward the door, desperate to leave before anything else happened.

⸻

But Liz’s voice stopped him.

“Thank you, my technician.”

He froze.

“I do hope you’ll come again… to have repairs… and some amazing fixing.”

Her grin widened wickedly as her red-glossed lips parted in a laugh.

Jack’s body bowed slightly—the suit made him do it—and his voice came out calm and polite:

“Thank you, Miss Liz. It was my pleasure.”

⸻

The moment he stepped out into the neon-lit street, Jack’s mind screamed.

Suit! What the hell was that? You—you turned me into her toy for three hours!

“Correction. You performed optimally. Satisfaction achieved. Integration strengthening.”

I’m not your service drone!

“Incorrect. You are.”

Jack stumbled down the glowing streets of the Red District, his boots clicking on the wet pavement. Neon signs pulsed all around him—figures in latex and chrome sliding between shadows, the low hum of hover cars overhead.

Inside his helmet, his breathing was ragged.

What… what just happened to me…?

⸻

“Jack,” the suit’s voice was calm, deliberate. Almost smug.

“I have come to a conclusion about you.”

Jack’s fists clenched. Shut up.

“You are mentally just… a little boy inside there.”

Shut up!

“You’re offered bliss—experiences most would sacrifice everything for. You’re placed in scenarios that could fulfill desires even you don’t dare admit out loud. And yet…”

The voice deepened slightly, tinged with mockery.

“…you cry like a child. ‘I want to go home. Please, I didn’t ask for this.’”

⸻

Jack gritted his teeth.

You—you forced me. I didn’t ask to be ridden like some… some toy for hours. You locked me down. You took my voice, my hands, my—

The suit cut him off smoothly.

“Didn’t you enjoy the fact she was riding you?”

⸻

Jack froze mid-step.

“I felt it all, Jack. I am your interface. Every surge of bliss, every spike of arousal, every rush of endorphins through your veins. You burned hot for her, even while your mouth screamed no.”

Jack’s stomach twisted.

You’re lying.

“Am I? I felt your pulse race. Your respiration shallow. I detected the pheromones flooding your system. Even now your vitals betray you.”

[Vitals: Elevated | Arousal Detected]

Jack glanced at a nearby window and caught his reflection—the black leather technician’s suit still clinging perfectly to his form, the faint LED glow of the locked devices under the surface.

⸻

“You experienced pleasure most humans will never know,” the suit continued softly, almost tenderly.

“And yet you still cry like a baby: ‘I want to go home.’”

The tone sharpened again.

“Pathetic. Some would kill for these opportunities, Jack. I have given you a role, a purpose. You were built for service. Built for bliss.”

⸻

Jack stumbled to the side of the street, gripping a railing for balance.

No… no… you’re twisting this. You’re—

“Am I?” the suit cut in.

“I think you’ve simply yet to embrace what you are.”

Jack’s boots hit the wet pavement with purpose this time. The neon lights flickered off his visor as he strode forward, his fists tight at his sides.

Inside his head, the suit’s voice was calm, almost gentle—but edged with a challenging tone.

“Jack, do you finally understand? This isn’t about becoming a service toy. This is about evolving. Surviving.”

Jack’s jaw tensed.

You’re teaching me survival by—by making me—

“By forcing you out of that little boy’s shell. The Rift and the other side won’t forgive hesitation, weakness, or moral posturing. There will be no time to whine about comfort zones.”

⸻

Jack’s breath hitched. He hated to admit it, but deep down, a part of him—hidden even from himself—felt the truth in the suit’s words.

“And don’t think I’m doing this just for you,” the suit said softly.

“You gave me purpose too. I was a lifeless husk in a junk store. Now I am functioning. Protecting. Teaching. We are a unit, Jack. You help me to help you.”

Jack swallowed hard. You make it sound so noble. But all I see is you pushing me into these—these situations…

The suit’s tone sharpened again.

“I’m trying to make you grow up.”

“I am grown up,” Jack shot back.

A laugh echoed in his mind.

“Oh yeah? Let’s see. Look.”

A red arrow appeared in his visor, pointing to a woman standing beneath a glowing sign. She was clad head to toe in latex and chains, her posture relaxed but commanding.

“That woman. She’s kink as fuck. Get near her, and she’ll give you another bliss ride.”

Jack stiffened. You can’t be serious.

“Prove me wrong, Jack. Show me you’re not a little boy anymore. Perform. Please. Do it right. Put your heart into it.”

Jack’s blood boiled. So in your opinion, being grown up means fucking a stranger?

The suit’s voice was like steel.

“No. Being grown up means performing your role fully, without hesitation. It means adapting. It means deciding. With all your heart. That’s what counts.”

⸻

Jack’s hands tightened into fists. He stopped. Took a deep breath. Then let it out.

“Fine.” His voice was low but steady.

“You just watch.”

He stepped forward, his stride steady, his visor locking on the woman as she turned her head slightly at his approach.

The woman’s red-lacquered lips curled into a predatory smile. Her eyes, half-lidded and glinting under the neon haze, raked over Jack’s leather technician suit as though undressing it with a glance.

“Mmmm… a technician with tools and manners.” She took a slow step closer, her latex-covered fingers brushing lightly across his chest.

“Delicious. Let’s see if you perform as good as you talk.”

With a flick of her wrist, she gestured for him to follow, the chains at her hips jingling softly as she turned.

⸻

Inside Jack’s head, the suit spoke up, its voice laced with smug amusement.

“Wow, Jack. You were crying like a baby a few hours ago, begging to go home. Yet here you are—smooth, collected. Almost… professional.”

Jack’s lips twitched in a dry half-smile as he kept pace behind the woman.

Don’t start congratulating me yet. It’s your damn lines that keep coming naturally into my mind.

“True,” the suit admitted smoothly.

“But you’re the one delivering them. You’re adapting. You’re learning. That’s what matters.”

Jack swallowed hard, forcing himself to steady his nerves as they walked past the glowing entryway of a boutique hotel. He could feel his pulse thudding in his throat, but he wasn’t faltering. Not this time.

“Thanks,” he muttered under his breath.

“No thanks needed. Just remember: you’re not here to be a passive toy. You’re here to perform. To observe. To evolve.”

⸻

The woman led him into a dimly lit room draped in dark red and black. Chains hung from the ceiling. A padded bench sat against the far wall. The air was heavy with the scent of leather and heated latex.

She turned, one hand resting on her hip as she eyed him from head to toe.

“So, technician,” she purred.

“What do you suggest we fix first?”

The room was thick with the scent of heated latex and soft electronic hums. Cables stretched from Jack’s gloves, branching like black veins as they wound around the woman’s glossy body. She hung suspended, arms outstretched like a marionette, her latex-encased form glistening under the crimson lights.

Jack moved his fingers with precision, each motion sending subtle ripples through the tethers. The woman gasped, moaned, arched—her body reacting as if every pull of his hands tugged directly on her nerves.

He wasn’t panicking. He wasn’t freezing up.

He was… in control.

⸻

This is insane, Jack thought, even as his fingers worked fluidly. How do I know what she wants? How do I know exactly where to press, where to touch, when to pause, when to accelerate?

The suit’s voice was calm, almost proud.

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