#LED Module system

[futureelctronic1172]

Signify PPC Lumen Color Select Driver

https://www.futureelectronics.com/resources/featured-products/signify-north-america-lumen-and-color-selectable-led-components . Signify advance color selectable and lumen selection LED driver plus LED Module system allows customers to design fixture solutions that require less SKUs without compromising performance. https://youtu.be/xHhnWHeTFog

[futureelectronic1527]

Signify PPC Lumen Color Select Driver

https://www.futureelectronics.com/resources/featured-products/signify-north-america-lumen-and-color-selectable-led-components . Signify advance color selectable and lumen selection LED driver plus LED Module system allows customers to design fixture solutions that require less SKUs without compromising performance. https://youtu.be/xHhnWHeTFog

[rchir2jton]

https://www.futureelectronics.com/p/semiconductors--Led-lighting-components--led-driver-modules-rev--constant-current-acdc-led-drivers/hlg-320h-24a-mean-well-1161990

LED Lighting Components, LEDs lights, led light, led module, outdoor led lighting

100 - 277Vac, 320.16W, 13340mA, 12-24V, [Potentiome...], IP65 LED Driver

[jsms2llrr]

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LED Driver Modules,   Programmable led driver, LED Lighting Components

100 - 277Vac, 95W, 1000 - 2750mA, 27-54V, [0-10V], IP44 LED Driver

[rchir2nkk]

https://www.futureelectronics.com/p/semiconductors--Led-lighting-components--led-driver-modules-rev--constant-current-acdc-led-drivers/eud-320s670dt-inventronics-7061320

Programmable led driver , LED Lighting Components, Color high power led

100 - 277Vac, 320W, 469 - 6700mA, 24-68V, [0-10V, PWM...], IP67 LED Driver

[jrddn2hmm]

https://www.futureelectronics.com/p/semiconductors--Led-lighting-components--led-driver-modules-rev--constant-voltage-acdc-led-drivers/vlm100w-24-erp-power-1120075

LED Lighting Components, LED Driver, LED power supplies, LED control systems

100 - 277Vac, 96W, 24V, IP20 LED Driver

[mihe2leyy]

https://www.futureelectronics.com/p/semiconductors--Led-lighting-components--led-driver-modules-rev--constant-current-acdc-led-drivers/xi075c200v054bst1-signify-north-america-5129716

Constant current load tester, LED Lighting Components, Led home lighting

Xitanium 75 W 2 A 54 V Output Max Linear LED Driver

[crl2ptiste]

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Outdoor Light, brightest light bulbs, LED lighting systems, retrofit LED lamp

100 - 277Vac, 14.7W, 350mA, 24-42V, [0-10V, TRI...], IP64 LED Driver

[wliw2dina]

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LED Lighting Components, LED control systems, High power LED driver

100 - 277Vac, 29.4W, 350 - 700mA, 28-42V, [0-10V, TRI...], IP20 LED Driver

[knet2thorn]

https://www.futureelectronics.com/p/semiconductors--comm-products--i2c/pca9532pw-118-nxp-5033862

16-bit I2C-bus LED Dimmer, Embedded communication, image processing,

PCA9532 Series 5.5 V 350 uA 400kHz SMT 16-bit I2C-bus LED Dimmer - TSSOP-24

[futureelctronic1202]

Signify: ADVANCE Family of Products

https://www.futureelectronics.com/resources/featured-products/signify-north-america-lighting-components . Signify’s trusted product brands of ADVANCE products provide the highest quality lighting components in the industry, which includes LED modules, LED drivers and connected solutions. See Signify’s expertise and knowledge of a connected world on full display. https://youtu.be/Qe7QqYsLMFk

[futureelectronic1527]

Signify: ADVANCE Family of Products

https://www.futureelectronics.com/resources/featured-products/signify-north-america-lighting-components . Signify’s trusted product brands of ADVANCE products provide the highest quality lighting components in the industry, which includes LED modules, LED drivers and connected solutions. See Signify’s expertise and knowledge of a connected world on full display. https://youtu.be/Qe7QqYsLMFk

[movedchromednova]

The Connor hyper fixation is SO real

Imagine giving him his first bj. He’s got a million questions and concerns about damaging your throat, but the second tongue hits tip he shuts up. Overwhelmed by the pleasure like he’s never felt before, he can’t form words anymore just noises

UGH I NEED HIM RN

Foaming at the mouth oh god... 💭

warnings: overstim(?) bj, Connor being unintentionally rough- lol, probably forgetting something!

Giving Connor his first blowie was definitely... ahem.. oh boy.

- First off the questions are so much and so overwhelming so when you simply sit between his thighs while he's rambling on these stupid useless questions about if its safe or not and when you start trailing your hands up his work slacks he stutters- genuinely stutters as he speaks, quickly shutting his mouth as he realizes he's learning and adapting to human flaw as a deviant should be.

- feeling your nose brush into his clothed crotch sends him reeling as his hands grip the couch cushions underneath him, his legs spreading further apart with ease as you bite his soft, faux skin at his hips, Connor's eyes roll back slightly as he basks in the sensation. Connor's hands traveling to ghost over your shoulder and head as you sit there- kissing and biting his torso down to his thighs

- Connor makes a sound of surpise as your fingers hook into his boxers, (which Hank advised he wore for.. well.. instances like this one) slowly slipping them off as his surprisingly sizeable length practically smacks you in the face- you stare at it, analyzing how it looks, the intrest in his attachable 'accessorie' growing on you for god knows how long

- Connor's LED going a heated purple tone as his expression is a mix between worried and excited, worried you'll be turned off or something but excited because of your hot touch and the fact he's got a pretty thing between his legs which he never in a million years would've thought were to happen to him

- When he closes his eyes for a momment to help himself regulate his core systems and not freak out he gasps as his eyes fly open to see your mouth now swallowing about 60% of his 7.5 inches of length, his hands gripping your head and shoulder roughly- making you wince just slightly at the uncontrolled strength he used.

- Connor loosening his grip as he realizes and as he tries to apologize you sink further down, causing Connor to watch in awe and have his 'breath' caught in his artificial throat. Moaning around his length out of satisfaction it makes him jolt and spread this thighs further apart for you as his systems go through a series of resets and shutdown momments

- Once you start actually moving your hand and head against his length he's letting out groans and sounds you never wouldve expexted him.. let alone an android- to make at all. His reactions almost completely mimic a true human's reactions as his body grows shakey- whatever upgrades and changes cyberlife made to make them function exactly like humans to all degrees was definitely getting put to... good use.

- Connor's voice modulator goes into overtime as his voice grows almost a little staticy when he grows closer to what you think is him cumming you assume?...

- Connor quickly tries to pry you off but when you resist and it feels more and more intense he gives up and allows you to continue- uncontrollable breathing and soft moans slip from his mouth as grips the edge of the bed so tight you fear he might rip the sheets apart.

- When he finally gets to that point his eyes roll back and his frame twitches roughly as he hunches over you, his hands gripping you so violently that you think he's trying to purposely rip your hair out as he gasps and tenses up. You swallow the... sweet?... substance?...

- You move back, out of breath and definitely confused from the sweetness of whatever you swallowed as Connor tries to catch his breath to explain what the substance was until you blurt out

" ... blue.. raspberry... flavored.. semen?"

- You start laughing as you rest your head against his thigh as he explains poorly that the substance is a faux semen replicate but with a sweet blueraz aftertaste so that when people want to get.. well.. frisky with an android they arent completely grossed out afterwards

EJSJS this is kinda bad my apologies :(.

[matcha3mochi]

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.

taglist:

@orange-stars @flameo-hotman12 @paper--angel @vynn30 @lalaluch @wilddreamer98 @multisstuff

[jude457]

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.

[klysanderelias]

I realized I haven't talked about it yet, but I finished my second game of Eureka, doing The Rot of Osborne Estate! It ended up taking about 4 sessions, 15-16 hours in total, and it was such a good experience.

No spoilers for the module, but I had a really great time running it! I specifically tried to avoid doing any prep or rewriting for the module, and while that definitely made me feel underprepared coming into each session, I think it really shows the strength of the Eureka philosophy. The modules are meant to allow narrators to avoid having to make most decisions on the fly, and to give enough framework to be able to run it 'out of the box' so to speak.

And I think it really worked - I've always treated DnD/Pathfinder adventure modules as things that inherently need to be rewritten, as a skeleton or toolbox for me to build a specific instance out of. It's always been a process of stripping a pre-written adventure down for parts and spending hours turning it into something serviceable, and this was the first time I haven't done that and came away feeling really happy about the game I ran.

Partially that's because the system is set up to organically produce plot beats based off of character choices, but also because modules are written AS a toolbox instead of a railroad-y series of setpieces for players to be led through. I don't have to figure out what happens if x instead of y, or what to do if neither my players nor I want to do z, because none of that is written into the resource.

I've been complaining about the writing of starfinder adventure paths for a minute but I'll do it again here - the most recent one I played was so egregious as to literally say to the GM 'regardless of what the players do, this result has to occur' as well as having fights that were like 'if the players kill the monster too fast, just adjust the HP as necessary to get the right feel for the encounter' which as a player, had me tearing my hair out in frustration.

And Eureka has the robust mechanics to let you say 'look if the investigators don't find everything in this room, that's fine' and let them bounce around from location to location, NPC to NPC, and piece things together at their own pace.

And I was really happy with how things played out - my players never felt stymied or lost, always having some other lead to pursue or some goal directly in front of them, and I never felt pressure to put out the carrot on the stick or otherwise massage things to move the game along.

The investigators ended up in a couple of really climactic moments that killed one of them near the end of the module, and I'm so excited to hear from other groups how their games go because there are so many ways to get from point a to point z, but also because each group of investigators might radically change the plot of the adventure.

Overall I'm really proud of my players, especially since it was their first time with the Eureka system, but also of the module writer, CoffeeWolf. I think they really knocked it out of the park and wrote a wonderful module. Unfortunately having run it I'm not able to play in it (since of course there is a core mystery with a correct answer that I know), but I'm looking forward to getting to run it again for other players.

I'm definitely looking forward to running more Eureka games because it's such a fucking relief from a lot of the systems I've been playing in for the last, like, decade. Not only do the players have agency, but as a GM I'm super fucking excited to run every module because I have no idea how things will turn out! Usually, it's reading through the book and seeing all the setpieces methodically planned out, and at best that means you get to go 'oh wow the players are going to think that this story is so cool', and not 'there is a world of possibility open to them and I'm so excited to see what they choose to do first'. Even for adventures I've already run, there's a lot of replay value because different players will run different investigators who will do different things, and I've already heard stories about other games that went radically different from mine even though it's still the same module.

There's a lot of systems and design philosophy like PbtA that say 'figure the story out as you go' and I think that gets you to the point of 'wow I can't wait to see what the players choose to do next' but you never get that hanging payoff that you can see getting closer every session, y'know? Like, watching people figure out a mystery is such a fucking joy, and maybe it's just the caliber of players who are in the Eureka servers but I've been so blown away by how friendly and skilled all of them are.

I cannot recommend enough the @anim-ttrpgs book club or patreon servers, they're both full of wonderful people and I've been having such a great time playing games but also just hanging out and making friends.