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keferon · 2 months ago

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Sigh. I wasn’t strong enough to stop. I wrote a fic too

———————————

The thing is.

The procedure is designed to help.

Jazz isn't sure Prowl is getting help.

Organics are fragile.

Most of the ones Jazz had met were, at least. Flesh is more susceptible to environmental influences than metal. Flesh accumulates damage faster, both external and internal. It often generates it itself.

The processes and causes are often a mystery to Jazz, but he's familiar with the general concept.

Organics are fragile.

That's why Jaz isn't very surprised by the crowds of medical personnel scurrying around a human military base.

As Prowl explained to him, humans don't have the built-in ability to open a HUD and perform self-diagnostics. Most of the time all you get is a vague signal in the form of pain in the injured area or nausea or changes in body temperature and things like that.

Pilots have to be constantly monitored by special people who are trained to do diagnostics. Not just medics. Scientists, engineers. There's a surprising number of things that can go wrong with a person hooked up to a machine. It's weird for Jazz. He's used to coming in for physical exams only when something's obviously wrong. Pilots are supposed to get checks just in case anything about them in theory could start breaking down in the future.

The thing is.

The procedure is designed to help.

Jazz isn't sure Prowl is getting help.

He spots the scientist in purple pretty quickly. A crowd of white-haired pilots is a nightmare to identify but this particular organic catches his attention almost instantly.

He's quite...extravagant looking. And he's practically glued to Prowl. They're involved in something together that Jazz isn't sure about, but Prowl looks...wobbly...when he returns from his visits to Tarantulas. And not in a funny way.

Tarantulas holds a special interest in Prowl. Special access, too. Whenever Prowl is injured, Tarantulas is the one who must be contacted immediately. Prowl's mech system needs an upgrade - Tarantulas must be consulted.

Tarantulas slips into the crevices and oozes between the plates. His hands are all over Prowl's personal space and Jazz doesn't really know what he should do about it because Prowl apparently doesn't mind.

Tarantulas dictates what he can and can't eat. What medications he should take and what software he should use.

Tarantulas gives him these little white bracelets with the information he writes on them for the other medics, because Prowl is special for some reason and only Tarantulas has instructions for him.

Knockout wipes his hands with some kind of special napkin and jerks his head around

“If you're looking for Prowl, he's in the labs for a physical.”

Jazz pretends this information is as mundane to him as it is to everyone else on this base

“Why can't you or the other medics examine him?”

“None of us have time to deal with the creepy experiments Prowl is constantly involved in” snorts Knockout ”Last time I checked his blood could dissolve plastic. Haha figuratively of course! Don't look at me like that!”

Jazz smiles, but there's no friendliness behind that smile

“Is this scientist doing experiments on Prowl?”

“Ah. As a matter of fact. Yes. Listen...” Knockout hastily picks up the first aid kit and walks towards the med bays “You'd better ask him yourself. My shift ends in ten minutes, I'm not in the mood to start anything now.”

Jazz nods

“Suuure , no problem.”

“Can I ask what you do in there?”

Prowl has this...look. The one that shows up usually after he gets back from the labs.

In his head, Jazz calls it “'Wobbly.” It's like Prowl's little organic body's joints are coming loose. If he had joints of course (Wait, humans have joints? Right?).

Prowl squints glumly, looking up at him

“Working on improving my mobility on the field.”

Jazz lets out a quiet “oooh.”

Then pulls himself back together

“Shouldn't that involve working on your armor, and not ..uh. you?”

Prowl leans his back against the wall.

“Installing new thrusters on a mech of my class doesn't make sense. They'll increase its speed, but they'll also burn fuel faster.

And installing larger fuel tanks is something reserved for Strikers. There's no way Orion would approve such an upgrade for me.”

Jazz carefully sits down on the floor next to Prowl. It still doesn't give him a good angle on his human's face, but Prowl stares at the floor anyway so...

“And you found some kind of loophole huh?”

Prowl gives a barely perceptible shrug.

“I did some calculations and noticed that the fuel used to run the Heavy Mechs is much more efficient. It's slower to burn out, and gives significantly better performance. Which makes sense, considering it's needed to compensate for the weight of the heavy armor. Used in my mech, it would give me a ten percent increase in speed and twice as much active usage time.

Jazz glares at the top of Prowl's head.

“Sounds like an epic idea, but I'm sensing a 'but' coming...”

“But it's highly toxic.”

“It's what??”

Prowl rubs the bridge of his nose with his fingers

“Only heavy mechs can run this type of fuel because there's enough room in them to insulate the cockpit well enough from any possible chemical exposure.”

Jazz nervously pulls the servo toward Prowl but hesitates at the last second and places it on the floor next to him.

“Prowl. Prowl your armor is lovely but it's anything but heavy.”

“It is” nods Prowl “There isn't enough room in my mech to shield me from any negative effects, so Tarantulas is working on making me immune to them.”

“But that....kind of...why are you letting him? I'm no expert, but sitting inside poisoned armor can't be good for you. I don't know what he told you, but if you had asked even one other medic...”

Prowl finally lifts his head and stares into Jazz's optics for a couple seconds

“He didn't convince me of anything. I asked him to do it myself.”

“Prowl...”

“People have biases against Tarantulas but I assure you, he doesn't do anything I didn't consent to him doing. He likes to go outside the box in his research. He doesn't dismiss my ideas as too harsh. We collaborate.”

“.....”

“The result will be worth it. You'll see.”

Jazz is uncomfortable admitting it, but he sees.

The result is impressive.

Prowl can not only move fast, he can do it for a long time. He's getting more efficient (again), faster (again), better (Prowl's subjective assessment).

The maintenance team wears special masks when working on the internal systems of his mech. The fuel is toxic. Not to Jazz, but even Jazz wouldn't want it to get on his plating.

And humans are fragile.

All organics tend to be fragile.

And Prowl... little flesh-and-blood Prowl gets into this poisoned armor and it's considered acceptable? Because his organic body seems to have developed enough resistance to this kind of damage he only gets a “”mild, easily treatable“” poisoning? And Tarantulas adds another white bracelet to his arm with notes on what substances Prowl needs to put in his drinks to keep his internal components from accumulating damage.

Jazz isn't sure what to think about this.

Jazz doesn't know what to do about it.

And frankly. Does he have the right to get involved if this is what Prowl has chosen for himself?

Tarantulas is a creepy, haunting shadow hanging over Prowl at the slightest opportunity. Tarantulas takes Prowl to a lab and runs poison through his veins. Tarantulas adores Prowl for allowing him to do this.

Prowl insists that Tarantulas is helping.

Jazz doesn't think Prowl is getting help.

#maccadam #transformers #prowl #jazz #jazzprowl #tarantulas #reverse mecha au #reverse mecha art #reverse mecha writing #it might be taraprowl if you squint. But one sided because Prowl only sees Tarantulas as a coworker

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mtchee · 1 year ago

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Silence is Silver, Your Voice is Gold - [Katsuki Bakugo] SOULMATE SERIES | GN

blurb:

You've got the cranky egoist in 1A as your soulmate. Deemed as an 'extra' in his straight laced life, you've resigned yourself to covering your soul words and sealing your lips, becoming U.A's first year general course prodigy, the silent designer. Despite his distasteful character and colourful atittude, as one of Bakugo's primary costume creators, you work to your utmost to satisfy beyond your client's needs. It's unfortunate that despite your title, the angry pompom won't take a goddamn hint from your silence. When you even go out of your way to avoid him, you start to think that he knows you a little too well despite never having uttered a word.

cw: not edited, second-person-pov, [name] is a general course student, swearing, sassy [name], lowkey enemies to lovers, you hate him, he likes your attitude, onesided e2l??, i know nothing about textiles and design except the bare minimum, [name] and bakugo are kinda cute why am i eating this up omg, [name] tormenting bakugo with bright pink and ribbons

| masterlist | boku no hero academia collection |

[2.5k]

Avoiding Katsuki Bakugo has been a piece of cake.

The guy has such an inflamed ego that he expects the people to part for him wherever he walks.

You met him when the hero course first years were scheduled to mix with the costume design students to discuss both the practical and fashionable output of their hero costumes.

You'd been one of the main designer's for Bakugo's suit, with two others having asissted you in its curation. From his original sketch, you'd syphoned the relevant materials for the prototype, your colleagues aiding in the stitching and detail while you further assessed how it could potentially enhance the use of his quirk.

'Beat it, extra.'

The words had tingled on the back of your neck after he growled at you before you could consult him on his gauntlets' latest design. You had swiftly looked him up and down with disgust at his audaciousness before slapping your sketchpad on the table in front of him and storming off.

You remember hearing the maniacal laughter of his friends while one of your other classmate's (the designer of Shoji's suit) shakily explained to him your presence.

You'd had much better things to do that day, but had decided to go out of your way to personally discuss with him his preference in design and utility so you wouldn't have to go back and forth with various prototypes.

Instead, you got cussed out before saying a single word; what an utter waste of your generous time.

Like hell you were going to deal with a soulmate like that.

You started wearing a thick, velvet choker to hide your golden inked soul words.

Since then, you'd sent your assistants to deliver any sort of message to him. With them doing your communicative bidding, you could put your full focus on the active improvement of his hero costume.

When it would come back burnt from training, you would change and reinforce its material until it was fire resistant. When it got ripped, you would reasses its durability. When his gauntlets got in the way, you would restructure them for better mobility and control.

One day when one of your assistants reluctantly relayed to you Bakugo's irrational displeasure with the pigment of his headpiece (for the seventh time), you'd sent it back hot pink with a black and white frilly ribbon.

He broke your lab door the same day.

Since then, when you'd send off your poor assistants in sacrifice, he'd rattle them and demand for you to face him personally.

You ignored him, but then when your classes started mingling more you couldn't get away from him quick enough.

One of your classmates would sweat in a panic off to the side as you worked at your bench tirelessly with thinned lips and an irk whilst Bakugo yelled and threw a hissyfit at your every move.

"What the hell is that supposed to be? Spandex?!"

"That looks like a lump of shit."

"God, it's ugly."

"Whaddya using that for? Weakass bullshit cloth."

"STOP MAKING IT PINK!"

"No way would that work with my quirk!"

"I'd blow that to smithereens easy."

You had to stop yourself from throwing your sketchpad at him most days. But sometimes you caved and summoned a roll of pink ribbon to stuff in his loud mouth.

He spat it at you and yelled even more, but that single moment of peace and his reddened face made it worth it.

On occasion, you would be lucky and actually get a few decent conversations out of him. His mouth was still foul, but his volume would be acceptable, and his suggestions surprisingly competent and reasonable.

On those days, he would leave with his voice intact, and you with one step closer to the final product.

Your impeccable work ethic and skills and Bakugo's mild decency lead you way ahead of the others in your unit. Eventually, you started having enough time to help out with some of the other hero costumes too--with the permission of both the creator and wearer, of course.

They've all been more than thrilled to work alongside U.A's renouned silent designer.

Although you worked quietly, you made more of an effort to communicate personally with the heroes in training regarding their costumes.

Most were surprised at that, having only known you to work alone and to commune from afar as you've done with Bakugo.

While word of your ingenius spread, unfortunately so too did your most recent work relations.

Bakugo didn't seem to find it funny that you talked to everyone but him.

So you threw all your stationary at him when he stormed into your design lab to make it everyone's problem.

But more specifically, to make it your problem.

"Miss me, nerd?"

Your scathing glare did nothing to Bakugo's arrogant smirk as he waltzes his way past everyone to your work bench.

You narrowly snatch up your latest prototype sketches before he sets down a pair of cold drinks on the table. The condensation drips down, pooling on its surface.

"This it?" He casually quirks up a brow at the strip of hard textured fabric and metal atop your bench. He picks up one of the drinks and slurps from its straw obnoxiously to get on your nerves, "hm, doesn't look like shit this time."

Lately you've been redesigning his utility belt to match the clasps between his protective gloves and gauntlets, additionally extending it to hold extra grenades that activate through his quirk. You've already sent in a request to the support department for those.

"Put ribbons on it like you did last week and I'll kill you."

You fight back a petty smile, recalling the pretty little pompoms decorating the numerous tiny pink bows stitched to each belt loop. He scoffs at your poorly concealed pleasure, and you turn your nose up at him, biting the inside of your cheek mischieviously.

He narrows his eyes at you before rolling them, placing his drink down way too close to your precious papers--again--and resting his cheek on his fist boredly.

Your lips twitch downward in ire at his intrusion of your space, but you work around him nontheless. You don't blink when he cusses as he smacks away a scrap of fabric you toss at him in casual vengeance.

"When's this gonna be done anyway--quit it. I've got a mission in Shinjuku next week." Bakugo snatches a pen you throw at him in mid-air.

You shrug at him, not your problem, but hold up two fingers anyway.

"Two days, huh," He clicks his tongue, "you slackin'?"

He cackles demonically while you log a chunk of stainless steel at his head.

Swear to god--you're gonna make his whole suit neon pink!

He visits you again after his mission, which is evidently successful judging by the fat cocky smirk on his face as he approaches while you stitch up a hero costume from class 1-B.

You deadpan at him as he drops a take away paper bag at the corner of your work bench. Then he tosses his empty utility belt over your most recent handiwork.

"Clasp blasted off."

Bakugo makes himself at home in the spinny chair opposite you, leaning back and putting his boots on the desk as he snags a tasty pastry from the paper bag before pushing it towards you.

An eyebrow twitches as you stare at the no longer existing metal clasp on the support item. A square char mark is left where it would've been. The belt is otherwise untouched.

What, was he aiming for it or something?

Scrunching your nose at him distastefully, you flick the belt off the costume you had been working on and resume your stitching.

"Oi! What about me!?"

You shoot him a sharp glare that makes him scoff. He pipes down nontheless, settling back into his chair with a roll of his eyes and a grumble.

Bakugo's visitations become more frequent.

At this point in time, his hero costume shouldn't need any more major improvements or adjustments until the start of your second year. And yet he's coming in what seems like every other day for any single little thing that bothers him.

Hell, he even comes in to bug you about repaires--you don't do repaires. But he argues that he doesn't want anyone but you 'touching his shit', as he so eloquently explains.

He's come in for his belt clasp six times now, his visor for four, his gauntlets for five, and for the sole of his boots thrice.

The bottom of his fucking shoes.

He can eat your sparkly, bow tied, hot pink and purple swirled shit.

He doesn't even need you anymore!

You're just some stupid non-hero extra. The hell is his deal now?

Bakugo's come in angry today.

He's normally angry, but it's different this time.

You watch him wearily from the corner of your eye as you type out a risk assessment at your desk. School's finished now, but you've been putting this off for a bit, and wanted to get it done while you were still feeling productive.

Less than ten minutes after the last bell rang out and everyone left for the day, Bakugo had come barging in with a stiffer than usual scowl and a dissatisfied furrow in his brows.

But he's been silent.

Bakugo's never been silent.

He sits in the seat adjacent to you, leant all the way into the backrest with his arms tightly crossed and his eyes narrowed, boring into your form.

Each time you glance at him you look away in a hurry as you meet his gaze.

Okay, now it's getting to you...

Slowly, your fingers stop typing, unable to function properly under the intensity of his stare. You don't look at him this time though, and you sweatdrop uncomfortably.

The tension causes your skin to prick, and you tug at your choker discomposibly. The velvet rubs at your skin, irritating it.

You jump when he suddenly speaks.

"What's up with you, huh?" He says it more like a statement, "you're so damn quiet it's eery. Say something."

You give him a disgruntled look.

Is he for real? Is that what his tantrum is about? He can go eat grass.

You turn your attention back onto your laptop, typing again.

He growls at that.

"Don't ignore me, damnit! I know you can say shit!"

Oh, and the shit I would say. You snicker to yourself, but that only seems to tick him off more.

"[name], answer me."

Your stomach drops--he's never called you by your name, let alone your first name. You glance at him again; Bakugo leans forwards with his elbows on his knees, eyes piercing you with a threatening intensity that sends off warning bells in your head.

You look back at him once you grasp the gravity of his tone.

Your annoyed frown fades, and your features soften as to prompt him. He takes in a deep breath, gaze flicking up and down your form as he processes his thoughts first.

He meets your eyes again with a determined resolve.

"I know you're my soulmate."

Fuck, what.

Bakugo scowls when you visibly stiffen, shock coursing your system.

"Get over yourself, you ain't slick. 'S why you've been runnin' from me." He crosses his arms across his chest, lips firmly downturned at your lack of verbal response.

Ice freezes your blood and your gaze flicks away from him apprehensively. What exactly is he expecting from this? Bakugo is a cocky bastard.

An egocentric prick with the means to flaunt it. He's one of the top students in the hero course and he knows it--what the hell does he want from you?

You feel your temper flare.

So what if he knows your soulmates? He obviously thinks he's too good for this shit; fuck fate and all that it stands for, you're just some side character behind him, just like he's said.

You aren't shit to him, and if he thinks he can actually do better than you, well then you know that you can. Who is he to pick and choose who he deserves? In that case, you know what, yeah, he's right, because you deserve better than him any day-

"What?" Bakugo's unappreciated tone fans the flames of the rapidly burning thread containing your tolerance, "still silent?"

"Shut up, asshole! You think you're too good for shit!" Your outburst as you slamming your hands down atop your work bench, the few utensils scattered about clattering in tandem with the vibration, "I'm not just some side piece you can bulldoze! I know my worth, even if you can't fathom it, you eighth-grade-syndrome twit!"

A tense silence settles over the room, and his eyes harden as you stare him down with an unwavering resolve.

Bakugo's lips twitch.

And then he's cackling like a hyena.

You flinch at the abrupt switch, scrambling to process whether you should feel glad or offended that he doesn't seem to be taking your words to heart.

You know for a fact you would not beat Katsuki Bakugo in a fight.

You shiver at the thought, and he beats his fist on the edge of the table as he recovers from his laughter. He lets out a long winded breath, wiping an exaggerated tear from his eye which you deadpan at.

"Ah, damn," Bakugo snorts, "we're really meant to be, eh?" He lifts up the edge of his loose shirt just enough to reveal the glowing golden words inked vertically on his toned waist, "knew there was a reason I could tolerate you more."

"Ditto." You spit out despite the relief flooding you as he stays put. You rub the back of your neck subconsciously.

He eyes the movement skeptically before motioning for you to move towards him. You scrunch your nose at him but oblige when he clicks his tongue irratedly. You've tested his patience enough already.

Once you're close enough he yanks you down and unclasps your velvet choker. You emit a scandalised gasp, feeling naked without it.

"Hey!"

"Give it up," He drawls, "get over yourself."

Bakugo latches a hand around your nape, pulling you forward so your head is bent level with his chest, and your face flushes. Both your hands grip at the armrests of the chair, caging him in as you fight not to fall off balance.

"Ack-" You choke at the feeling of him ever so gently tracing beneath the words on the back of your neck, "-stop that!"

He huffs a laugh, and his breath pans over your skin.

His eyes soften ever so slightly, "You're not jus' some extra, you know..." He lets you up. He ignores the imbuing embarrassment that pairs with the subtle blush tinting his cheeks.

You mull over his words for a second, pushing yourself back to face him head on. You blink slowly, registering his meaning. A gentle warmth settles across your cheeks, and a quiet glee bubbles inside you.

"Yeah?"

Although you bite back a smile, there's a hopeful glimmer in your eyes.

Bakugo grins, "Yeah," and places a reassuring hand atop your head, "not my soulmate."

#x reader #character x reader #bnha x reader #bnha fluff #bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #mha x reader #mha fluff #mtchee's library #mtchee's tea & story house #soulmate au #bakugo katuski x reader #bakugo x reader #fluff

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royal-cupidity · 2 months ago

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Something happened and I thought that this is gonna make some funny fic.. since I can't write, maybe you can do it? (I'm not forcing you, its ok if you don't do it) This is really embarrassing.. before I tell it, I WAS ON MY LOWEST POINT. I was ovulating, horny, single and research was killing me.

I had fun with a test tube.. it almost got stuck. I tried to pull it out but it was really slippery and I thought of using forceps but I was scared that it might break it inside so I had no choice to get it out with my fingers.

I'm so sorry you had to read this. A few days ago I was defending you from some fools on the internet and now this.

This isn't how I usually talk but I have used up all my grammar skills due to our research paper. I'm so tired. College makes you do questionable things.

“In Vitro, In You.”

Rating: T+ (mild sexual content, no actual smut) Pairing: Senku Ishigami x Reader (I found this EXTREMELY FUNNY and too good to pass up. Thank for you sharing lmfao— took my mind off of my wisdom teeth consultation…)

You weren’t going to die like this. You refused.

Not on the laboratory floor, pants halfway down, staring at a poster of Marie Curie and wondering if she’d be proud of your “curiosity.”

The test tube was still inside you.

You were still inside your lowest moment.

One ovulation-induced, thesis-writing, brain-rotting moment of weakness. You'd seen it lying there, glinting under fluorescent lights like a siren from hell. Slim. Smooth. Sterilized. And, regrettably, conveniently phallic. And in your hormonal haze, you’d thought:

“Science is exploration.”

Not even two minutes later, you were on your back trying to remember if borosilicate glass had a tensile strength strong enough to survive vaginal suction.

You’d panicked. Reached for the forceps. Recoiled. Visions of ER visits danced behind your eyes. You imagined explaining it to your gynecologist. Worse: a male gynecologist. Worse still: Senku Ishigami, who was, tragically, your partner for this semester’s Advanced Experimental Design.

That was when the lab door opened.

Click.

Rustle.

“Yo. You forgot your data sheets—”

And then silence.

You couldn’t even look.

“...You know, there are safer methods for artificial insemination,” Senku said dryly, voice echoing off your pride. “Unless this is some radical new protocol you forgot to mention during hypothesis design.”

You wanted to die. No, you wanted to evaporate. Maybe combust. Something quick and volatile that left no body, no evidence, no test tube.

“I can explain,” you croaked, not moving. “Actually, I can’t. But I can theorize. Hormones. Stress. Sleep deprivation. A warped sense of agency.”

“You’re giving me citations while a test tube is still halfway inside you?”

“Please stop talking.”

Senku crouched, annoyingly calm. He set your data sheets on the counter, adjusted his lab coat, and leaned forward with the investigative interest of someone studying fungal growth in petri dishes.

“You want help?”

You turned your head sharply. “No!”

He raised a brow. “Then stop clenching.”

You whimpered. “I wasn’t clenching until you walked in!”

“You’re literally creating negative pressure,” he muttered, and—oh god—he reached for gloves. Snapped them on. Powdered latex and your dignity now mingled in the air like acid and base.

“Senku, if you even think about going near—!”

He pulled back. “Relax. I'm not gonna go spelunking in your sin cave, jeez. I was going to hand you the lubricant from the prep kit, but if you’d rather do this raw—”

You flung a hand toward him without looking. “Give it!”

He placed the small bottle in your palm like a soldier passing a grenade.

Five minutes of slippery, shameful maneuvering later, you managed to retrieve the test tube with a soft pop and an echoing sense of lost innocence.

You lay there, limp, glaring at the ceiling. “If you ever tell anyone about this, I’ll spike your food with potassium cyanide.”

He snorted. “You wouldn’t waste good cyanide on me.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

Senku grabbed a disinfectant wipe, flicked the tube clean with an almost too-practiced motion, then held it up to the light.

“...Still intact. Glass is more durable than most people assume. Honestly, I’m impressed. You chose a high-quality one.”

“Are you complimenting my taste in emergency sex toys?”

“No, I’m complimenting your subconscious material analysis skills under stress.”

You sat up, face hot enough to sterilize the entire counter. “I can’t believe I’m in love with you.”

The words fell out. Just—slipped. Like everything else today.

Senku paused. Like someone who just got an unexpected positive result in a wildly unethical experiment. Slowly, he turned to you.

“Oh?” he said, voice infuriatingly smug. “So that’s why you were willing to risk internal lacerations in the name of biology. You were thinking about me.”

“No I wasn’t.”

“You literally just said—”

“Shut up! That was a—heat of the moment—delirium confession!”

He leaned in, way too close. “So you’re saying if I ran a controlled trial—let’s say, increased proximity and chemical stimuli—you’d still deny any feelings?”

“Don’t you have platinum to purify or something?”

“You’re deflecting.”

“I’m threatening to kill you.”

Senku’s grin was a slow-burn reaction, heat rising without a single spark. “Alright then,” he said. “When you’re ready to write your case report on how not to use lab equipment as a coping mechanism, let me know. I’ll peer-review it.”

He turned to go.

But before he reached the door, he looked over his shoulder.

“And hey,” he said. “If you’re still curious about inserting things for science—”

“GET OUT.”

#dr stone #senku #senku ishigami #senku x reader #senku x reader fic #senku x y/n #senku ishigami x reader #dr stone fanfic

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painted-kneecaps · 7 months ago

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In an alternate universe, Powder gets caught and left behind when Jayce’s lab explodes. Realizing that she will likely be shipped off to some dismal prison or orphanage, Jayce argues that keeping her around will lure back the real culprits of the attack- she’s just a child, after all, and nobody was really harmed- besides, somebody has to keep an eye on her, and they were his crystals. What’s the harm in letting her tag along?

In an alternate universe, Viktor notices her genius and takes her under his wing, consults her on his experiments and encourages her to undertake her own. She becomes an expected presence in their lab, tinkering away at her own projects and offering a fresh perspective when Jayce and Viktor get stuck.

In an alternate universe, they notice her despair and betrayal when her sister doesn’t come back for her. They notice when she breaks down, her grief and rage, the internal violence her mind wreaks on her, and they search for a cure. They get her help and medicine, and if need be, they talk her through her delusions with cool, scientific detachment, explaining what is going on in her brain until it doesn’t scare her anymore. If, in the process of helping her, they both begin to reconcile with their own self destructive tendencies- well, that’s just a convenient side effect.

In an alternate universe, she is understood and listened to and valued, and she is not a weapon or a tool or a jinx. She is respected for her brilliance, and her illness is acknowledged and not feared, and her genius is put toward progress and not violence. She never quite fits outside the lab- she is a Zaunite, after all, and she clings to that identity with teeth and claws- and though Jayce never quite understands, Viktor always defends her to him.

In an alternate universe, she builds Viktor braces and prosthetics and mobility aids as his condition declines, new and improved with every model. They tweak the designs together, and their witty banter as they work staves off the threat of impending mortality, just for a while. Hextech products begin to sport animal motifs, a phenomenon that neither Jayce nor Viktor feel the need to explain. Their lab is covered in graffiti, which they both complain about, but never actually discourage.

In an alternate universe, Vi finds her sister, and she is eccentric, but not broken. She is supported and cared for and hailed as the protege of the two most brilliant scientists alive. She is angry and confused and betrayed, yes- but she is not alone, and she is not afraid.

And they can work with that.

#i’m ill i’m so unwell #i’ve been thinking about this all night i just #i’ll never forgive silco for weaponizing her mental illness instead of trying to help her #and i think two queerplatonic scientist dads and their adopted mad genius inventor daughter would be a bonkers dynamic #the found family in this show is already off the charts i’m just working with what i was provided <3 #arcane #jinx #jinx arcane #powder arcane #viktor arcane #jayce talis #this is not realistic but i don’t care. IM COPING LET ME COPE

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stealingyourbones · 6 months ago

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DPXDC Prompt Masterlist #1151-1200

1151. Wild Superman Meets Danny Story 1152. Eighth "Secret Brother" This Month 1153. Undead GCPD Consultant Danny Fenton 1154. Superman and Danny Timetravel 1155. Summoning AU Mind Control Angst 1156. Jazz Exposed to Platinum Kryptonite 1157. Jimmy and Phantom's Unorthodox Friendship 1158. Time Fluctuation Shenanigans 1159. Hallmark Hell 1160. Phantom Projector 1161. Coast City in the GZ 1162. Origin Story Comparison 1163. Ghost Butler of the Bats 1164. Danny and his Neverending Feud against Brucie Wayne 1165. Beep Beep!! 1166. Jimmy's Pal Jazz Fenton 1167. Get Boomeranged Idiot 1168. The Race + A Ghost Kid 1169. Jon Jones's PI Intern 1170. Not Subtle Booster 1171. Danny in the Suicide Slums 1172. Danny meets Animal Man 1173. EMT Danny Fenton 1174. Danny Meets Red Robin in Crime Alley 1175. Danny Designs Lairs 1176. Danny Visits Star Labs 1177. Starfire + Language Barrier 1178. Same Frequency 1179. Inopportune Call 1180. Dr. Manhattan Reference 1181. OSHA Evading 1182. Possession Complications 1183. Made of Goo 1184. Upstairs Neighbor 1185. "Sir, You've Dropped Your Key" 1186. Corner Store Stick Up 1187. Flash and Cults 1188. I've Read Your Comic 1189. Ideals Clash 1190. Undercover Drag 1191. Two Halves of a Whole 1192. Just Your Average Tuesday 1193. Non Linear Relationship 1194. Body Swap AU 1195. Danny meets the JSA 1196. Sam Vs. Steve 1197. Uncommon Kidnapping Prompts 1198. Happy Holiday Warpath 1199. Midnight Shift 1200. Multiple Personality Mayhem

#danny phantom #dpxdc #dp x dc #bones prompts #bones masterlist

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inkie-does-whump · 5 months ago

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Hiii

For the Lab Au, what are some of the other characters rented out for, like Pearl or Bdubs? Are some of the others just odd jobbers or is there something specific, like Tim being a designated punching bag?

Trigger warning: abuse? I guess? Does this count?

Most of the subjects are labeled as "general use" but some of them have specialties that the Watchers advertise.

For example, Cleo is considered "child-safe" due to her background as a teacher. Some subjects are advertised as "experts" in certain fields and they are rented as consultants (Scar and Bdubs are "experts in architecture and construction" while subjects like Etho and Doc are "experts in engineering and ethical hacking") experts can be expensive and often it's cheaper for someone to cut corners and rent from the Watchers.

But even if a subject is advertised as something, that doesn't guarantee that's what they'll be rented for. Etho might be *really good* at coding and hacking, but that doesn't help when he's instructed to clean someone's house.

A few renters have discovered it's useful to rent a subject to fight in underground fight circles. If they don't have to fight themselves, plus they win the money from the fight, it can be very profitable.

Sometimes this even leads to two subjects fighting each other. Joel and Pearl can't make eye contact after those nights. But what else can they do? If their renters complain to the Watchers then they'll get punished. Encouraged to "try harder" and "get better." So they pretend they don't recognize the person they've got pinned under them.

Encouragement tastes like the blade of a knife

#mcyt #trafficblr #life series #inkie talks #hermitblr #hermitcraft #zombie cleo #gtws #bdubs #etho #docm77 #joel smallishbeans #pearlescentmoon #life series au #hermitcraft au #lab au

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quartervirus · 8 months ago

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🦇👻🎃 HAPPY HALLOWEEEEEEEENNNN 🎃👻🦇

Halloween really snuck up on me this year. I intended to upload old, vaguely-thematic art throughout the month, then Life Happened and suddenly it was October 31st.

Here's my last-minute fit thrown together from what I had lying around for the company party I didn't know was happening until I walked into the studio on the day to find it done up like a Haunted House!

It's a lot of straps and chains and I definitely have a terrible allergic reaction now, but it was worth it.

I can also finally show off my NEW, TOTALLY PERMANENT VAMPIRE VENEERS!!!

I was 12 when I watched Interview With A Vampire for the first time and I've wanted fangs of my own ever since.

I am now 33.

I'd say 20 years is long enough to safely say it is no longer "just a phase", mom.

Of course, now that I have them and have gotten used to them, I'm already thinking about getting them longer ... and mORe ...

For anyone interested in details or are considering permanent fangs of their own:

These are ceramic veneers capping my existing teeth. There was no filing, extracting, or damage done to the original teeth. If I change my mind and want them removed at some point, it will be possible to remove them without issue using the old scans and X-rays as reference.

Most dentists may not agree to the procedure for personal or legal reasons. I had to really shop around to find these, which is largely why it took me so long to get them done. I finally found a dental practice specialising in cosmetics and prosthetics.

From there it was a simple matter of consulting with a dentist, taking a 3D scan of my teeth (upper, lower, biting), and sending them to the lab. The specialists mocked up a design which I tweaked until we got it looking just right, and barely two weeks later they were ready to pop in. It was so fast!

My dentist was so sweet and lovely and so excited to have such an unusual request. It turns out I'm not even the first person to ask for vampire fangs ... He and the lab made sure to brief me on the pros and cons and potential side effects, but were ultimately very happy to accommodate me.

I've had them for almost three weeks now. Talking was no issue, but I wore pop-ins throughout high school so I had some practice with more cumbersome teeth. It took a little longer to get used to how the fangs felt in my mouth, and I definitely startled myself a few times in the mirror.

Eating, however ... It didn't even occur to me until I was staring down a plate of food that it's not exactly a thing vampires are known for.

We're mostly fine now.

Spoons are sometimes an issue.

I am psyched and very happy with the veneers and 11/10 would get them again. Of course, now that I've gotten used to this bite, I'm already suffering "teeth envy" and considering future alterations ...

💀⚰️🦇 Happy Halloween, little batlings 🦇⚰️💀

#why yes they're real #like plastic surgery they'll just keep getting bigger and bigger #we're probably gonna go full tiefling next #uppers and lowers and then some #the boyFIEND is very scared #he just needs to stop TWITCHING #Happy Halloween #vampire #interview with a vampire #gothic #vampire the masquerade

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berlioz-the-kitten · 25 days ago

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Petri Dishes and Plastic Wrap

ACT THREE: PRESERVED

Brian Moser/Reader

Summary: Y/N was brought in for a psychological profile contract after the Ice Truck Killer case starts gaining momentum and the department begins to feel the pressure. She reviews old case files, offers insight, and quietly builds profiles. What no one knows? Y/N used to work at a private sanitarium in Georgia—one that got shut down after multiple patient abuse reports. She even kept a journal on a particular patient who had dissociative tendencies, surgical skill, and a fixation on reconstructing human bodies like art. The file? It got buried. Now in Miami, Y/N starts receiving odd notes—sketches of bodies in glass boxes, neatly preserved. No threats. Just… acknowledgments. And when she meets Rudy Cooper, the charming prosthetics specialist brought in to consult on a limb pattern, she gets the feeling she’s being studied.

TW: Graphic depictions of death and body preservation (artistic context), Emotional coercion and grooming culmination, Moral ambiguity and complicity in serial murder, Mentions of dissociative mental states / identity collapse, Psychological domination disguised as romance / intimacy, Unreliable memory / trauma erasure, Faked death / staged suicide (brief), Stalking and post-trauma haunting (ongoing), Canon is a sandbox.

It was past midnight when he showed up again. No call. No text. Just the soft knock on her apartment door, rhythmic and patient—like he knew she was awake. Like he knew she’d open it.

She did.

Rudy Cooper stood there, but something about him was gone. The pleasantness. The posture. The warmth like sun-dappled water.

Gone was the man who charmed his way into forensics labs and wine-stained evenings.

In his place stood Brian Moser—and though he hadn’t spoken his name yet, Y/N knew. The truth settled between them like fog, inevitable and damp.

He stepped inside without being asked.

“Rudy,” she said, carefully.

He tilted his head.

“No,” he replied. “Brian.”

She closed the door behind him.

He walked into the living room like it was already his, glancing at the bookshelf, the photos she never hung, the empty tea cup still on the table from hours ago.

He turned back to her. "You always saw more than anyone else. Even then. Back in Georgia. I think that’s why I never tried to lie to you.”

She watched him with the stillness of a hunted animal—one that’s not afraid, just calculating.

“So this is your confession?” she asked.

He smiled. “Confession is for people who want absolution.”

He stepped closer. Close enough for her to feel the heat of him, the weight of something ancient in his gaze. There was no pretense anymore. No mask.

“There’s one piece left,” he said softly. “One part of the installation. Of the story.”

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled something out: a folded blueprint of a room, hand-sketched and marked with deliberate precision. A glass box in the center. Elevated. Spotlit.

He handed it to her like a gift.

“You’re the only one who’s ever understood the structure. The meaning. The control. You saw the pattern before anyone else did.”

Her fingers curled around the paper, knuckles white.

“I don’t want to kill you,” he continued, voice quiet. “That was never the point. This isn’t about death. It never was.”

She looked down at the design. It was perfect. Cold. Beautiful.

“Then what is it about?” she whispered.

His eyes searched hers, and for a moment, something that almost resembled tenderness flickered across his face.

“It’s about completion,” he said. “And I think you’re the only one who can stand beside it and not look away.”

He reached out then, fingertips barely grazing her wrist. Not controlling. Not threatening.

Inviting.

“You don’t have to say yes,” Brian said. “But I hope you do. Because every masterpiece needs someone who can understand the weight of it. And you… you’re the only one who’s ever listened.”

She didn’t answer.

Not yet.

But she didn’t pull away.

The file sat open in front of her, bloodstained photos glinting beneath lamplight, victim details outlined in her own crisp, clinical handwriting. Her notes had grown darker in tone lately—less detached, more specific. And the profile… it was no longer a sketch of an unknown killer.

It was Brian.

It had always been Brian.

But now, the lines between documentation and devotion were beginning to blur. The way she wrote about his patterns, his poses, the intent behind his work—it read like a eulogy in progress. Or maybe a love letter.

She had all the evidence she needed. She could walk it in tomorrow, straight to LaGuerta or Deb, and it would only take a few hours before warrants were issued, press conferences scheduled, statements made. It would end in blood. It always did.

And yet—she sat still.

Because Brian’s final tableau wasn’t just about the victim.

It was about her.

He had asked, not demanded. He had looked her in the eye and given her what no one else ever had: not love, not even respect, but understanding.

He had handed her the blueprint like a proposal. An offer. A place beside the art instead of above it or beneath it.

If she let him finish—just this once—it wouldn’t mean letting him disappear forever. He could be caught after. She could orchestrate it. She could control it. She could preserve the symmetry.

Letting it play out could be the cleanest end. The most complete.

But was that justice?

Or was it complicity?

Y/N stared at the photos again, hands still, mind racing. The last potential victim’s name already circled in red. A woman. Pale. Slender. Dark hair. Too much like her. It was a warning. Or a mirror. Or both.

She reached for her phone once, hand hovering over the contacts list.

Dexter. Deb. Doakes. LaGuerta.

But her hand didn’t move.

Instead, she turned the phone off, folded the blueprint with care, and placed it back inside Brian’s file. Her fingers brushed against the edge of the red ribbon still tucked inside the folder—the one from her glovebox. The one she’d never thrown away.

Preservation is not always mercy, she had once written. Sometimes, it’s simply the refusal to interrupt beauty.

And maybe, just maybe…

She wanted to see how it ended.

Because the line between the analyst and the accomplice was thin.

And she had always walked it barefoot.

It happened in a warehouse—abandoned, of course. Somewhere between the city’s gutted industrial skeleton and the marshland that swallowed evidence whole. Dexter had traced the patterns. He’d followed the bloodless crime scenes, the perfectly arranged limbs, the artful coldness of it all.

And it had led him to Rudy Cooper.

To Brian Moser.

To his brother.

He’d come with the intent to end it. Wrap the kill room in plastic. Deliver justice in the only way he knew how.

But he wasn’t alone.

Y/N was already there.

She stood off to the side, shadowed, still, like a painting someone hadn’t finished yet. Her coat was buttoned. Her hands were empty. Her expression was unreadable, composed as always—except for her eyes. Her eyes were lit with something Dexter hadn’t seen before.

Not fear.

Alignment.

Brian turned when Dexter entered, smiling like it was a family reunion. Like the blood hadn’t dried beneath his nails. “You’re late,” he said. “We were just finishing.”

The tableau was behind him: a woman, preserved but untouched. She was alive. Tranquilized. Spared. For now.

Dexter didn’t look at the woman. He looked at Y/N. “You knew.”

She didn’t deny it. “I did.”

“How long?”

“A while.”

His stomach turned—not because of the betrayal, but because of the recognition. That mirror he always feared. She’d always been too calm. Too precise. She didn’t just profile monsters—she understood them.

Brian stepped between them, his hands raised like a priest delivering a blessing. “She’s not like you, Dexter. She doesn’t pretend to be normal. She never has. That’s what makes her perfect.”

Dexter’s grip tightened on the scalpel in his pocket. “You’re using her.”

Brian’s voice went low. Intimate. “She’s choosing this.”

And Y/N didn’t move.

She didn’t run. Didn’t cry. Didn’t plead.

“I see both of you,” she said, voice like steel beneath velvet. “You kill to silence the chaos. He kills to show its symmetry. And I…” She swallowed. “I want to understand it. To witness it.”

She looked at Brian—not with adoration, not even affection. With purpose.

“I don’t need to be saved,” she told Dexter. “I was never yours to protect.”

That was the moment Dexter realized he was too late.

Not just for the woman strapped to the table—but for Y/N.

Because she wasn’t a victim in this story.

She was already part of the design.

The final tableau was already in motion when Dexter arrived.

An underground space—half-forgotten, half-flooded—somewhere beneath the bones of an old courthouse set to be demolished within the month. The scent of mildew clung to every surface, but beneath it lingered formaldehyde, copper, and lavender. It was colder than Miami should’ve allowed. Too cold.

Brian was there, sleeves rolled, blade in hand, eyes alight with that familiar calm he wore like skin.

Y/N stood beside him.

Not restrained.

Not threatened.

Present.

She turned when she heard Dexter’s footsteps. She didn’t startle.

“Don’t,” she said. Just one word.

He kept walking.

The scene behind her was nearly finished—a body arranged in an upright tank, filled with preserving fluid, limbs disarticulated and reassembled with surgical precision. The spinal column had been cleaned and mounted like vertebral calligraphy, and above it, etched into glass:

"To the woman who never looked away."

On one side of the installation: sketches from Briarcliff—shadows of a younger man, faceless, hunched in the corner of a therapy room. On the other: a bloodless, Miami crime scene photograph, laminated, perfectly aligned with the trajectory of a red ribbon suspended in the fluid like a heartbeat.

Brian stepped back and wiped his gloves clean, eyes on Dexter now. “She gave me time,” he said. “You can have whatever comes after.”

Dexter raised the scalpel.

Y/N stepped between them.

Not panicked. Not dramatic. She simply moved forward and blocked the line. Her gaze didn’t waver.

“I won’t let you stop him yet,” she said, voice tight. “Not before it’s complete.”

“Y/N—” he said, low. A warning. A plea.

But she didn’t blink. Didn’t budge. Her fingers were trembling just barely where they gripped her coat sleeves, but her jaw stayed set.

“You take him now, and all you’ll have left is a corpse and a mess. Let him finish—let this be the end—and you can have your justice.”

Brian didn’t speak. Just stood still behind her, blood drying on his forearms, the work gleaming in the tank like a cathedral window. It wasn’t gore. It was design.

Dexter hesitated.

For one breathless moment, he considered slicing past her.

But then—he didn’t.

He stepped back. Just slightly. Eyes on the tank. On Brian. On her.

The choice had already been made.

And in the hours that followed, while the fluid settled and the glass fogged, Y/N wrote in her journal for the last time:

He gave me a cathedral made of bone and silence. It is not love. It is not hate. It is recognition.

I was never the subject. I was the mirror.

By morning, the building was empty.

Brian was gone.

And the masterpiece remained.

She didn’t cry when she did it.

Y/N Morrissey had never been sentimental. Not in the way people expected. Not with mementos, not with memories. But her journals—those were different. They weren’t just records. They were witnesses. They were every observation, every insight, every moment she had spent cataloguing the minds no one else dared to understand.

Especially his.

She waited until the city went quiet. Not the quiet of peace, but of exhaustion. Of aftermath.

The final tableau had been discovered. It would take weeks for the department to piece together its meaning, and even longer to realize that the woman Brian Moser had chosen to honor with it wasn’t a victim at all.

They would never know she stood in front of Dexter Morgan and made him wait. That she allowed a killer one last act of creation. That she chose not to run.

And so—she burned the evidence.

She took the box from the top shelf of her closet. It was heavier than she remembered, the journals stacked neatly inside like preserved organs. Each one was marked. Numbered. Labeled. She’d always been precise. That was what he liked about her.

Y/N placed them one by one into the steel sink of her kitchen, flicked the lighter, and set the first page ablaze.

The flame caught fast—ink curled, paper blackened, smoke rose. It smelled of scorched memory.

She didn’t look away.

As each journal turned to ash, she fed the next into the fire. No hesitation. No remorse. Just release.

The last one—the red-threaded leatherbound volume labeled #79—lingered in her hands.

She ran her thumb over the cover. Thought of Georgia. Of red doors. Of the boy who never blinked when he talked about detaching things. Of the man who offered her a place beside the masterpiece instead of under it.

And then she let it go.

The fire took it all.

When it was over, she stood in the smoke-thick room, alone with the silence.

Y/N Morrissey, who had once kept records so no one else would have to, now had nothing left to prove what she’d seen. What she’d chosen. What she’d allowed.

And she felt lighter than she had in years.

The mirror had been shattered.

And she had stepped through the glass.

It happened fast. Clean. Controlled.

Like everything Brian ever did.

There was a body, of course—a man pulled from the canal with the face barely intact, hands mutilated beyond print analysis, teeth removed with surgical care. The torso bore wounds eerily reminiscent of the Ice Truck Killer’s earliest victims. Enough to suggest revenge, or suicide, or a final act of madness.

LaGuerta bought it. So did the coroner. The press spun it as poetic justice, a killer consumed by his own pathology.

Dexter didn’t believe it.

But he didn’t fight it either. Something in him—wounded, exhausted, ashamed—let it lie. Maybe he didn’t want to admit that he had failed to finish what he started. That someone else had stepped between him and the kill. That Y/N had chosen the monster over the method.

They held a briefing to close the file. “Case Resolved.” A memorial for the victims was arranged. Miami Metro moved on, hungry for the next headline.

But Y/N knew better.

The staged death was his parting gift. A vanishing act designed not to fool her—but to protect her. To end the performance, seal the narrative, and allow them both to disappear from the stage.

There were no more visits. No more sketches. No more tokens left in gloveboxes or boxes of wine at her door.

But every now and then—

—when she walked past a butcher shop and saw a display arranged just so,

—when a chalk outline in a crime scene photograph aligned too perfectly with one she’d diagrammed long ago,

—when a red ribbon found its way between the pages of a returned library book—

She knew.

He wasn’t dead.

He was preserved.

Not in body. Not in evidence. But in the space he’d carved for her in his design.

And she?

She lived as though she had been sculpted, too.

Not marked by trauma.

But chosen by it.

She requested the transfer herself.

Cited burnout. Emotional fatigue. Said all the right things in all the right tones. Miami Metro signed off without protest—she’d done more than expected, stayed long past contract. There were rumors, of course, whispered in corners and breakrooms, but no one had evidence. No one had answers.

Dexter didn’t say goodbye. Neither did she.

She packed her apartment in a single day—books boxed, clothes folded, art taken down without sentiment. She left behind only one thing: a single post-it note, stuck to the inside of the desk drawer.

Not everything beautiful wants to be understood.

The new city was colder. Quieter. Rain more than sun. She liked it that way. Fewer questions. A new badge clipped to her coat. A new name on her office door: Dr. Y/N Morrissey, Consulting Forensic Psychiatrist.

She didn’t decorate.

Didn’t hang degrees. Didn’t smile in the hallways.

She just worked—methodical, clean, clinical.

But once a month—like a clock with its own blood pulse—something arrived.

Not through the front desk. Not through interoffice mail.

Always slipped under the door. Folded neatly. Heavy paper. Precise lines.

A sketch.

Never violent. Never grotesque.

Anatomical poetry.

Hands reaching toward each other, bones curled mid-motion, spines like cathedral arches. Sometimes, they mirrored her posture. Sometimes, they mimicked her movements from cases only she had touched.

Sometimes, they looked like her.

No name. No threat.

Only the red ribbon, coiled in the center of the fold like a kiss on the neck.

She never spoke of them. Never traced them back. She burned each one after studying it. All but the ribbon—those she kept, tucked inside the lining of her coat like red nerves, stitched close to her heart.

Because Brian wasn’t haunting her.

He was reminding her.

That once, they had stood on the same side of the glass. That once, they had built something beautiful in blood and silence and understanding.

And maybe—

just maybe—

they weren’t finished.

#dexter showtime #dexter morgan #brian moser x you #brian moser x reader #brian moser #rudy cooper x reader #rudy cooper

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love-archer · 7 months ago

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More to love. . .

♡ pt.1 pt.2 pt.3 (You're here!) ♡

♡.Obey me!

♡♡.TW? SFW! Pregnancy, Fem!reader, Implied couple

♡♡♡. Two years brewing in my drafts 😵‍💫

. . . A S M O D E U S !

♡ Asmodeus, the Avatar of Lust and embodiment of beauty, isn't typically associated with family life. Your fingers trace the lab report nervously. A baby. Your baby. His baby.

♡ That’s what’s whirling in your head as you stare at the lab report in the waiting room, fingers trace the laminated papers nervously

♡ Would he accept this slowly or would he freak out? Wait, how can you tell him? Text? Drop it in a conversation randomly? Do those cute pregnancy reveal on Deviltube?

♡ The moment you decide to tell him is during a rare quiet evening in the Devildom. Asmodeus is meticulously applying his nightly skincare routine when you enter the bathroom, lab report clutched behind your back. "Darling?" His perfectly arched eyebrow raises, sensing something different in your demeanor. You slide the report onto his marble vanity, next to bottles of expensive serums and perfumes. His eyes widen, scanning the document. Silence. Then

♡ "PREGNANT?" His shriek could shatter glass. Dramatic reaction confirmed: tears sparkling like his favorite glitter eyeshadow he launches himself into your arms. "A BABY? MY BABY? OH MY HELL!"

♡ His brothers will definitely hear this announcement. Lucifer will probably pinch the bridge of his nose. Satan would smack his door down, "Quiet down!". Mammon will immediately start calculating potential 'baby sponsorship' schemes with his modeling sessions. ♡ Asmodeus's excitement rapidly transforms into hyper-planning mode. ♡ Within days, he's calling every demon realm's top pediatric specialist. The pediatric specialists he consults aren't just doctors - they're the crème de la crème of the Devildom medical world. He has Solomon double-check their credentials and even gets Barbatos to recommend time-tested professionals who've dealt with human-demon pregnancies. ♡ He's ordering custom designer maternity wear for you (in matching sets, naturally). The maternity wardrobe he designs is EXTENSIVE. We're talking: silk robes with delicate demon realm embroidery, stretchy but luxurious dresses that "showcase your divine glow", custom pajama sets with his sigil subtly woven into the fabric, special occasion outfits for each milestone of pregnancy, even the undergarments are designer, because "comfort and style should never be compromised!"

♡ He's set into drafting elaborate nursery designs with themes ranging to "Royal Demon": Rich crimsons and blacks, with plush velvet and his signature roses to "Paradise Garden": Soft pastels with ethereal touches, butterfly motifs, and enchanted flowers that never wilt or to "Modern Devildom": Sleek lines with pops of neon, metallic accents ♡ Speaking of the nursery, with his never-ending favors to call in, he'd corner Leviathan or rather pester...

♡ "Leviiiii~ Don't you want to be the coolest uncle?" ♡ Finally, Leviathan would agree to use his brains and the cluttering materials in the ever-dim room to make a baby mobile. He'd throw ideas like Crystal flowers that catch and reflect light like anime sparkles or Something engraved with Asmodeus' mark in hot pink or one with a mirror....perhaps? ♡ From the moment pregnancy becomes real, Asmodeus persuades yoga into your monthly schedule after days with his sweet voice tugging you off the couch to pin you in his bed, cuddling and his hands rubbing your hips, his fleeting kisses on your cheek, "My darling.......Tension isn't good for either of you. Let me take care of those muscles."

♡ His idea of prenatal yoga is pure luxury - transforms his room into a private studio with scented candles, silk cushions, and ambient lighting. "Ambiance is essential for both beauty AND wellness, darling~"

♡ Always positions himself behind you during poses, hands carefully supporting your waist. "Just like that, love. Let me guide you..." His touch is surprisingly gentle, more caring than flirtatious.

♡ Gets absolutely delighted when the baby moves during sessions. "Oh! They're already developing my sense of rhythm!" He'll pause everything just to feel the movement, pressing soft kisses to your belly.

♡ Creates a special pre-natal skincare routine for you, researching safe ingredients for hours. His bathroom counter becomes divided between his products and yours, all labeled with cute heart stickers.

♡ Insists on documenting everything. Weekly photoshoots of your growing bump, decorated with flowers and silk ribbons. Has Solomon enchant a special album that captures magical 3D memories.

♡ The first time he holds the baby, his usual perfect composure completely dissolves. Tears pool at his eyes, but for once, he doesn't care. Keeps whispering "perfect, perfect, perfect" while counting those tiny fingers and toes.

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juniper-simblr · 11 months ago

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The New Bleakfort Health Clinic

Thanks to the expertise of newcomer Cemil Okyar, a former architect from the big city, Bleakfort now boasts a state-of-the-art health clinic that combines modern functionality with small-town charm. The previous clinic, though relatively new, quickly proved too small to meet the growing needs of the community.

Upon entering the clinic, patients are greeted by a warm and inviting reception and waiting area. Comfortable seating, a selection of reading materials. The interior design, guided by Cemil's vision, incorporates calming colors, local artwork by Daisy St. James, and thoughtful touches that reflect the community's character.

Through the door behind the reception desk, the staff of the health clinic can take a break and get an overview of the daily schedule with patient informations.

The rest of the ground floor features Psychiatrist Antwan Bahij and Dr. Applebaum's offices, which also works as their consultation rooms. Antwan's office is kept in warm wooden colours to ensure a calming area for his counseling sessions, while Quinton's office is closer to looking like a standard examination/treatment room as per his request.

In an adjacent building, the residents of Bleakfort can enter the small pharmacy. Here they can pick up their prescriptions or buy over-the-counter medicine as soon as Dr. Applebaum starts producing it.

Speaking of medicine; Upstairs the clinic features a small lab where Quinton can make the medicine.

Also upstairs, the health clinic has opened a patients rom. It's a shared room with only two beds, since the town doesn't have a need for anything bigger.

#sims2 #ts2 #bleakfort

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siblingshuffle · 8 months ago

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Day-017: Partner

Lore:

Dr. Light’s idea was for robots that could grow, change, and think for themselves. However, he’d had to win over the committee before he could make that dream a reality. Feeling bad after he’d told the committee that he couldn’t support Wily’s double-gear system (especially because Wily had been there to witness it), he offered that they could build the first Robot Master together.

Wily had always been better with hardware and mechanical design. It was something of his specialty, even. With his skills with hardware and Light’s skills in artificial intelligence, the two could be basically unstoppable.

Wily had initially refused - the salty man he is, he definitely interpreted Light’s gesture of goodwill as some kind of condescension. However, eventually he accepted. Light (mistakenly) took to mean he’d been forgiven. Wily would design a lot of the hardware and design, including, eventually, the prototype Megabuster and the Variable Tool System.

Dr.s Cossack and LaLinde weren’t officially on the project, though they did contribute their thoughts and ideas. When Blues’s core failed in the middle of the Military demonstration (because they built it with Blues the unarmed child in mind and forgot to compensate for the weapon attachment, and it turns out it couldn’t generate enough to power both Blues and the buster. The event damaged his core, making it more inefficient and unbalanced.), Light made sure to consult Dr. LaLinde to help him design the solar cores for Rock and Roll (she’s an environmental scientist and he figured she would probably be able to help him and Wily design a more efficient environmentally-friendly solar core.)

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Notes:

Their overall appearances are based on their young designs from Megaman 11. Their shirts are colored that way as a reference to their young selves from the Ruby Spears cartoon.

Wily’s hair color came from blending the shades of yellow of Piano, Bass, and Zero together (& then lightening it because 11’s Flashback Wily has LIGHT blond hair). With Light, I blended Rock, Blues, and X’s hair colors and darkened it. ✨ Contrast ✨

Light and Wily were roommates. They couldn’t exactly escape each other. After ignoring Light for a week, Wily told their shared friend group that he was getting sick of having see his "stupid, traitorous face" every the morning and afternoon and LaLinde & Cossack (he was doing his thesis at the time) individually suggested that he should try talking to Light about how he felt. He basically said "screw that!" but did take their advice to at least try to get along. It was the first crack in their friendship and he never actually forgave it.

Dysfunctional Besties <3 (/hj)

Also I think it would be kinda cute if Light was inspired on a subconscious level by Dr. Cossack talking about Kalinka & how she was growing up. She might be like 2, if she is even born yet tho. Still working out the timeline there. It’s a little fuzzy.

Blues took quite a few years to build because they had to do everything from the ground up. The Robot Masters built after him used modified versions of Blues’s base code and designs, so they took comparatively less long.

The idea was presented before the committee as just the base code, which they determined would probably work. (I assume the committee would reach out to investors or something, but I’m like the furthest thing from a roboticist so I have no idea.) By the time Light founded Light Labs and obtained military funding, he’d gotten like. parental-levels of attached. He didn’t set out to make robot children but boy did he want robot children now—

and then he made 4 that were "children" children and like a bajillion that don’t stay at Light Labs

#rocktober #rocktober 2024 #sibling shuffle au #mega man au #mega man classic #megaman #my art #dr. light #dr. Light #dr. Wily #dr wily #Lore #im not an engineer Idk what I’m talking about when it comes to that stuff

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