#Robot Inspection Tools | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

toshisdecadence · 6 months ago

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PAIRING: svarog x mechanic!fem reader

TAGS & WARNINGS: dark content, dubcon (reader says it’s too much but svarog has a mission to collect data), rough sex, multiple rounds, dom!svarog, sub!fem reader, svarog is Massive, cervix mentions, tummy bulge descriptions, multiple rounds, overstimulation, size difference, power dynamics, size kink, fingering, unrealistic sex, robot fuckers unite!, can you tell i have a size kink?

WORD COUNT: 5.1k

SUMMARY: You discover the reason why Svarog wears pants.

The repair bay smelled faintly of heated metal, coolant fluid, and faint traces of alcohol; a sharp tang that clung to the sterile air. You barely noticed it anymore, accustomed to the hum of machinery and the faint vibration of tools against metal. But today, that hum was louder, and the vibrations sharper, emanating not from your usual repair work but from the massive, battle-worn war machine sitting across from you.

Svarog loomed over the room, his 8’11 frame too large for the reinforced chair you’d hastily reinforced when he arrived. His joints hissed faintly, micro-servos struggling to compensate for the damage he’d sustained during the Wardance duel against Luka earlier that day. Faint dents marred his reinforced dark blue chest plating, and faint sparks sputtered from the exposed wiring along his arm.

You reached for your tools, hyper-aware of the pinkish-red glow of his cyclopean optical sensor tracking your every movement.

“Superficial damage sustained. Functionality remains above 90%. Repairs are non-essential.” His voice rumbled, a deep, mechanical timbre that sent a shiver up your spine.

You regarded him critically. “Non-essential? Your vents are overheating, and you’re rattling like a dying starship. Sit still and let me work.”

He didn’t argue. Svarog was nothing if not logical, and logic dictated that he allow himself to be repaired. Still, there was a tension to him, a stiffness beyond the rigid design of his armor. He didn’t like being examined, didn’t like lowering his guard to anyone else other than Clara, even in the hands of someone who statistically meant him no harm or stood a chance against him.

You stepped closer, tools in hand, and gently pressed against the plating on his shoulder. His frame vibrated under your touch, a subtle hum you might have missed if you hadn’t been so close.

“Core temperature stable,” he intoned. “Subsystems fully operational.”

“Your fans tell a different story,” you muttered, running diagnostics through a handheld scanner. “You’re burning hotter than you should be.”

Svarog didn’t respond right away, but you could feel his pinkish-red optic watching your hands as they worked, tracking each movement with the precision of an apex predator. The thought sent an odd warmth through your body, and you tried to shake it off.

You needed to focus.

The repairs took you lower, inspecting the dents along his torso plating. The main brunt of the damage he took from Luka’s mechanical arm focused around his torso. One of the seams had split, exposing a layer of reinforced polymer beneath the outer shell. Carefully, you reached for the damaged panel, fingers brushing against the edge of the pants covering his lower half. It was an unusual addition for a machine built for combat, and one that always raised questions in your mind.

You tugged lightly at the material, intending only to check the joints underneath, but your fingers brushed against something unexpected beneath the fabric.

Your breath hitched.

The surface wasn’t the cold hardness of metal or the pliable texture of synthetic padding. It was smooth, warm, and distinctly… organic in shape.

You froze, pulling your hand back as though burned.

His optic dimmed slightly in a flicker that you’d come to recognize as his equivalent of a blink.

You swallowed down the saliva that had gathered in your mouth, gesturing vaguely at his lower half, struggling to form the words.

Svarog tilted his head, the motion eerily human. “This component was included in my original design for biological infiltration protocols.”

You stared at him as if he grew a second head. “Biological… infiltration?”

“My model is the third series of the Monitoring Automaton Prototype, engineered to simulate human anatomy. The purpose was strategic manipulation through intimate interactions if required by mission parameters.”

Your throat felt dryer, and the question that left your mouth sounded ridiculous even to you. “You’re telling me someone thought it’d be a good idea to put a dick on a war machine?”

“Affirmative.”

His voice remained perfectly calm, but your face was burning. A sneaky glance at his lower half rendered you speechless once again. Whoever designed Svarog certainly made his… appendage proportional to his hulking body.

You tried to laugh it off, but the sound came out strained. “And… what? You’ve just been...” You made an awkward gesture with your hand, “carrying it around this whole time?”

“Correct. The feature has never been activated.”

He said it like it was the most normal thing in the world, and somehow that made it worse.

You stared at him in disbelief. “Do you even know how it works?”

Svarog paused, the glow of his optic focusing intently on you. It flickered momentarily.

“My systems include theoretical data on function and compatibility. However, no practical demonstrations have been performed.”

The room felt hotter suddenly, and you were certain that it wasn’t because of Svarog’s malfunctioning fans. Your mind raced with countless possibilities. Given Svarog’s size, you weren’t even sure how anyone was supposed to take that. Did it have a shrinking feature? Did it automatically adjust with Svarog’s… partner?

You swallowed, trying to steer the conversation back to something technical and banish the questions swirling in your head.

“Right,” you muttered, clearing your throat. “Well, let’s make sure you don’t explode first. Then we’ll worry about your…” Your traitorous gaze flickered down again, swallowing, “attachments.”

You regretted the words the second they left your mouth. Svarog’s optic dimmed again, and he shifted in his seat with a faint creak of metal.

“Acknowledged.”

You groaned internally and forced yourself to focus, pulling open the next panel and reaching in to check his sensor nodes. But you couldn’t help the way your mind kept wandering to the warm, flexible material hidden underneath that fabric. Whoever invented Svarog’s model was an absolute pervert and lunatic, you thought to yourself. A war machine equipped with a dick? You still could not wrap your head around it. To the way Svarog had described it so matter-of-factly, like it was just another tool in his arsenal.

And yet… the tension in his frame, the way his systems overcompensated whenever you touched him, those weren’t reactions you’d expect from a simple machine.

Your hands hovered above the exposed sensor nodes, still adjusting the connections, but your thoughts were no longer entirely focused on the task at hand.

It was impossible to ignore the strange electric tension in the air between you and Svarog. Every time your fingers brushed against his cooling panels or adjusted a wiring interface, you felt it; the subtle hum of his systems, almost like a heartbeat. Or maybe it was just the increasing proximity to his form, which felt more real with every touch, even if you knew he wasn’t alive in the traditional sense.

The heat beneath his outer plating felt too organic, too alive. The warmth spread further with each subtle shift of his hulking frame as you adjusted his internals, a mechanical symphony of soft clicks and hums that made your breath catch in your throat.

This was nothing like the Intellitrons.

You had worked with hundreds to thousands of them over the years, and each time it had been the same routine: simple diagnostics, quick fixes, nothing too complicated. They were built for efficiency, cold efficiency. Their systems were bare-bones, nothing more than a body of metal and circuits with only the basic instincts to follow commands.

But Svarog…

He was different. Complex. His systems, his body, everything about him screamed intricacy and human-like design. A part of you resigned yourself to further look into Svarog’s specific model. Perhaps it was time to take a deeper look into Belobogian technology. Even the way Svarog’s body responded to your touch felt foreign. He was more than just a machine, wasn’t he? He wasn’t just a war machine, a combat tool; there was something underneath, something untapped, a feature of his yet to be understood.

And that thought… that burning curiosity clawed at you.

You’d always prided yourself on being a mechanic. You understood machines, systems, the cold logic of how things worked. But Svarog wasn’t cold. Wasn’t simple. The way his body responded to your movements, the imperceptible shifts in his temperature, the faint, almost unnoticeable changes in his posture whenever your fingers brushed too close to certain sensitive spots—all of it made you wonder.

What if I pushed him further?

A thought you could barely even process, but it lingered, stubborn. The daring curiosity that ran deep within you as a mechanic—was this not what you lived for? To understand the unknown, to push the limits of what could be fixed, adjusted, modified? Svarog’s design wasn’t just mechanical, it felt like a puzzle you couldn’t quite solve, like a language you only understood in fragments.

Your hands moved to reconnect a set of wires, but you barely felt the tools in your grip. The warmth from his frame was distracting, constantly pulling your focus away from the task at hand.

You set your tools down with a sharp click, exhaling as you leaned back from Svarog’s towering frame. The repairs were done. Functionally complete. His damaged plating had been reinforced, circuits reconnected, and his sensor nodes recalibrated. Everything checked out.

Or at least, it should have felt finished.

But you lingered.

Your gaze swept over him again, tracing the seams of his armor and the smooth lines of his construction. Svarog wasn’t like the Intellitrons. His design was deliberate. Every joint, every harsh angle of his frame, was crafted with an almost human elegance that made your brain stutter every time you tried to compare him to standard machinery. Even the sections hidden beneath his plating—the ones you briefly glimpsed while making repairs—were unnervingly realistic in their precision.

And then there were the features he’d kept covered.

You dragged your gaze back to his waist, to the reinforced plating that remained stubbornly intact throughout the repairs. That section.

You hadn’t needed to touch it, hadn’t even dared to ask about it again, but the shape and positioning had made it impossible not to notice. That, combined with the suspicious necessity of his pants, had left your mind spiraling with questions you couldn’t shake.

Why go to such lengths to simulate humanity in that area?

You knew you shouldn’t care. You were a mechanic. Curiosity was natural. It came with the job. But no matter how many times you tried to frame it as a purely technical interest, your pulse told you otherwise.

It wasn’t just simple curiosity. It was a fixation.

You reached out, under the pretense of double-checking one of his sensor-nodes, but your fingers hesitated. You could feel the faint hum of his systems through the plating, steady and constant, and for reasons you didn’t want to unpack, it made the room feel smaller, like the two of you were occupying too much space at once.

“You are hesitating,” Svarog declared suddenly, his mechanical voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

You froze, pulling your hand back like you’d been caught committing a crime. “No, I was just making sure everything’s—”

“False,” he interrupted. His optic seemed red as it regarded you. “Your behavior has deviated from standard patterns. Focus is inconsistent. Eye movement suggests distraction.”

You swallowed hard, heat rushing to your face. Svarog wasn’t wrong, and worse, he wasn’t letting it go.

“Your gaze has returned to my lower half multiple times,” he continued, his tone as flat as ever. “Body temperature elevated by 15.3 percent. Heart rate increased. These patterns suggest heightened interest.”

You felt your stomach flip as he laid out your reactions like cold, hard data. And yet, his voice was so mechanical, so calm and detached, that it made the weight of your embarrassment feel even heavier.

“I can conclude the source of your distraction,” Svarog added. “You are exhibiting curiosity regarding the anatomical structure concealed beneath my armor.”

You didn’t know whether to flat out deny it or run out of the room entirely. Neither option felt viable. At least, not with him towering over you like that, unflinching, his glowing optics locked onto your every move.

“I—no, it’s not like that,” you stammered, even though you knew it was exactly like that.

“Your biological responses contradict your statement,” he said simply. “You are aware of the human-like components integrated into my design. Your fixation suggests a desire to understand their functionality.”

Your breath hitched. The words functionality and components should have grounded you. It should have made this situation feel as clinical as he seemed to think it was. But instead, they only fueled the heat already curling in your stomach.

Because Svarog was right.

You wanted to know—Aeons, you’ve been dying to know—how far his human design extended. And now that the repairs were done, now that he’d laid the truth bare, it felt impossible to stop.

“You are not the first to display interest in this feature,” Svarog continued, as though he were listing out schematics. “However, prior inquiries did not progress past verbal questioning. You are demonstrating physical tension indicative of deeper investigation.”

Your throat felt dryer than the desert.

“I propose a solution,” Svarog said, tilting his head slightly. “Controlled exploration. Further data on synthetic anatomy is limited. Your curiosity provides an opportunity for analysis and documentation.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. He wasn’t joking. He couldn’t joke.

“You are suggesting we… test this?”

“Correct.”

His lack of hesitation made your pulse stutter. He saw this as a logical step, nothing more than a means to gather data, and yet, the way his frame loomed over you, the hum of his systems almost vibrating through the air, felt anything but detached.

“Decision required,” Svarog said after a beat. “Proceed with testing, or terminate this interaction?”

Your body betrayed you before your mind could catch up.

“Proceed,” you said softly.

His optics flared slightly—almost imperceptibly—before he nodded.

“Acknowledged. Experiment initiated.”

Svarog wasn’t designed to rush.

He worked methodically, his plated fingers tracing along your thighs—testing, measuring, pressing into the soft flesh as though assessing the tensile strength of your muscles. Assessing how much you could take.

“Body temperature elevated by 1.8 degrees,” he noted, his optics narrowing slightly. “Pulse irregular. Predictive analysis suggests heightened arousal.”

You whimpered as his thick mechanical fingers dipped lower, sliding between your legs without hesitation. He brushed against your heat, deliberately testing the slickness already building there.

“Lubrication present,” he said. “Preliminary preparation observed. Additional stimulation required.”

You barely had any time to register his words before his thumb pressed against your clit. The motion was slow, deliberate, grinding down just enough to make your thighs tremble.

Too much.

The smoothness of his plating, the slight hum of his servos adjusting with every movement, left you aching almost instantly. He applied more pressure, adjusting the angle like he was calibrating the motion for maximum effect.

You gasped, hips jerking against him instinctively, and Svarog’s optics dimmed.

“Response strength at 63 percent,” he observed. “Testing deeper penetration.”

You bit back a cry as his fingers slipped inside. Thick, unyielding, and cool against your heat. He stretched you slowly, adding another finger almost immediately, pushing past the tight resistance with clinical focus.

“Muscle tension detected,” he said, his thumb circling the erect pearl of your clit again as his fingers curled inside of you. “Adjusting pressure.”

You whimpered as he spread his fingers, stretching you wider until the ache blurred into something hotter, sharper.

“Elasticity improving,” he noted, tilting his head as he pressed deeper. “Lubrication increased by 24 percent.”

You clenched around him, your gummy walls struggling to accommodate the deliberate stretch, and Svarog’s optics flickered.

“Resistance still measurable,” he said, slowing his movements. “Further preparation required.”

Your head was spinning by the time he added a third finger, the burn almost too much, but Svarog didn’t falter. His fingers moved with precise rhythm, pumping and curling until the tension broke, and your body melted around him.

Svarog’s mechanical fingers lingered inside you, coated in slickness as he worked them deeper—pressing, stretching, curling with deliberate precision. His thumb dragged slow, circular patterns over your clit, the rhythm steady enough to make your hips jolt against him in a helpless, uncontrollable reaction.

“Muscle tension improving,” he observed. “Current dilation at 73 percent. Additional preparation recommended.”

His tone was calm, detached, but the way his optics dimmed as he watched your thighs trembling betrayed something deeper. He pressed in further, adding another finger. Thicker. Unyielding. Enough to force a sharp gasp to tumble out of your throat.

The burn was too much and not enough all at once, your body clenching down against the stretch even as your legs fell further apart under his firm grip.

You could feel yourself dripping, already struggling to take his fingers, but Svarog didn’t falter. He spread them wider, deliberately testing your limits, and the ache left you clawing at his arm, nails scraping helplessly against smooth plating.

“Elasticity increased by 18 percent,” he said, pulling his fingers free with a lewd, wet squelch that made your breath hitch and your cheeks burn. He inspected the slick coating his fingers before tilting his head slightly. “Sufficient for insertion.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before you heard the sound of fabric rustling. Your eyes widened as he was lining up, the thick, mechanical weight of his massive cock pressing against your sopping entrance and making your stomach twist with a sharp mix of anticipation and fear. His cock contrasted the rest of his metallic body, covered by a synthetic material that seemed to emulate the sensation of skin.

“Size differential detected,” Svarog noted, palming your thigh to angle your hips upward. “Accommodating size will result in initial resistance.”

You bit back a cry as he pushed forward, the broad, blunted tip spreading you open with agonizing slowness. The pain is sharp, your walls pulsing and struggling to accommodate him even after the preparation.

Too big.

The words barely formed in your mind before the pressure stole the thought away entirely. You gasped sharply, arching as he forced himself deeper, the stretch too much. Burning, tearing, making your legs shake uncontrollably.

Svarog’s grip on your hips tightened as he paused, allowing you a brief moment of reprieve to adjust, but as his optics flickered, scanning the trembling of your muscles and the fluttering of your gummy walls around him.

“Pain response detected. Estimating threshold at 62 percent.”

You cried out as his hands tilted your hips. You were barely able to breathe as he pressed further, the new angle forcing him deeper into your cunt, and your stomach twisted as you felt it. His cock bullied its way in, the meaty girth of his shaft forcing you wider and wider until you swore you could feel it pressing against everything, imprinting his shape inside of you.

Too much. Too deep.

Tears welled in your eyes as your body struggled to take him, your hands scrabbling against his frame, fingers digging uselessly into unmoving steel.

Svarog’s hand pressed against your stomach, his thumb grazing the prominent bulge already forming there.

“Internal displacement observed,” he said, pushing down slightly to feel the way his massive cock shifted inside of you. The sensation earned a quiver of your legs, the pressure in between your legs rendering you unable to utter a coherent sentence. “Pressure response increasing. Adapting angle.”

Your head fell back with a guttural cry as he adjusted, pressing even deeper, his thumb brushing over the bulge experimentally while he thrust deeper, the bulge in your stomach shifting with him. It felt like the wind was knocked out of your lungs. Your lips fell open in a silent cry, eyes rolling into the back of your head. Your body clenched down hard, pulsing and fluttering, struggling against the size, and Svarog stilled.

“Involuntary constriction detected,” he said, his optics dimming slightly.

His free hand reached up, spreading your thighs wider, and he began to move.

Slow, deliberate thrusts that forced you to feel every excruciating inch of him.

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.

All you could do was feel. The stretch, the ache, the grinding pressure of him bottoming out inside you again and again and again. The bulge in your stomach shifted with every thrust, a visible reminder of just how deep he was, how much he was filling you.

Svarog’s optics glowed faintly as he observed you, his gaze calculating and unwavering as your body trembled beneath him. Each shallow breath you took, each gasp for air as his cock pressed deeper, he noted, analyzing the involuntary way your body gripped him, how your muscles fluttered around him with every thrust.

“Heart rate accelerating. Muscular tension increasing. Increased stimulation evident.”

He could see the way your body reacted. How your hands clenched, how your thighs shook, how the bulge in your stomach shifted with each deep push, marking the extent to which he had filled you. He watched the way your chest heaved, the way your pupils dilated with every inch of him that stretched you wider, deeper, further than you ever thought possible.

You were on the brink of breaking, the tension in your body growing unbearable as your mouth opened in a silent scream, unable to keep up with the onslaught of sensations. Your body, desperate for more and yet unable to fully handle what was happening, was his to command, and he couldn’t help but watch in quiet fascination as you succumbed to the overwhelming pleasure.

You were becoming dumber. So much of you just couldn’t function anymore. You were speechless, unable to utter a coherent sentence, broken down by the intensity of his cock fucking its way into you, and the way you melted against him was nothing short of fascinating. Your voice was lost to you, your thoughts clouded by raw sensation, but the pleasure you felt was clear. It was painted across every quiver of your body, the sheen of beaded sweat lining your face and neck, in the strained arch of your back, the desperate shuddering of your limbs.

He could hear the soft whimpering sounds, could see the way your face twisted with both pain and pleasure, and his own systems hummed with the data flooding his internal logs. Every reaction of yours was so genuine, so untouched by reason. It was an anomaly he had never experienced.

Svarog’s mechanical frame moved with precision, his movements controlled and deliberate. His systems hummed as he observed you, his optics tracking every microexpression, every shuddering breath as you struggled to adjust to the overwhelming size that filled you.

He didn’t feel pleasure. He didn’t need it, not the way you did. But the reactions you were giving him—the way your body trembled, the way your walls spasmed around him—were intriguing, data points he had yet to fully understand.

“Subject’s body reacting to size discrepancy. Estimated stretch threshold surpassed.”

Your hands were clutching at him, your fingers slipping over his cool metal plating, desperately trying to find purchase. Your tight walls clung to him as though your body was doing everything it could to resist the sensation, even though it was now obvious that you couldn’t fight it. Your body was becoming swallowed by him, opening wide to accommodate what it was never meant to handle.

Svarog’s movement’s never faltered, his thrusts measured and precise, studying you as your body began to react involuntarily. Your walls spasmed around him, tighter and tighter, almost as though your body was trying to pull him deeper despite the overwhelming stretch.

“Subject’s body is exhibiting signs of imminent climax. Response timing has been measured.”

You couldn’t hold it back anymore. Your entire body stiffed, an involuntary shudder running through you as every nerve seemed to light up at once. Your vision blurred, the sounds of your ragged breathing filling your ears, mixing with the overwhelming sensation of being stretched beyond belief. Your walls contracted and released rapidly, the pressure inside you finally exploding, and you cried out his name, the world barely a whisper between gasps.

The release sent shockwaves of pleasure through your body, and Svarog could see it. How your body trembled, how your legs locked around his waist, pulling him even deeper—if that was even possible. You were speechless, your mind blank as your body convulsed in ecstasy, your insides gripping him with a tightness that was almost painful.

“Subject has achieved climax. Response exceeds expectations.”

Your breaths came in desperate, uncoordinated gasps as the waves of pleasure crashed over you, and your body was left quivering, unable to do anything but absorb the aftershocks of your mind-numbing release. Your thighs quivered, feeling your cum trickling down your skin, staining his metal plating.

Svarog, ever the observer, did not stop. He noted the way your body reacted to each of his thrusts, the way your tummy bulged with each movement, the way your warm walls clamped down involuntarily as you tried to regain control of your senses.

Despite the fact that Svarog himself could not feel pleasure, there was something undeniably fascinating about the way you came undone beneath him, your body fighting for control even as it surrendered entirely to him.

He continued moving inside you, his mechanical precision relentless, watching as you flinched with each motion, your body too sensitive now to handle it. Your hands, still pawing weakly at his arms, combined with your whimpered protests of it being too much, were growing weaker, and the sensations were too much for you to bear, but still, he kept going, his own curiosity driving him. He wanted to see how much more you could take, how much more your body could endure before it reached its limit.

You were still trembling, still catching your breath, your mind scattered and lost in the aftereffects of your climax. He could see your skin shimmering with sweat, your breasts rising and falling, the way your hips thrusted up to meet his even though you were lost in the throes of overstimulation.

“Subject remains responsive despite signs of fatigue,” he observed. “Data indicates further analysis needed.”

You were so tight, so overstimulated, and yet your body responded again as though it couldn’t stop itself. Another surge of pleasure crashed through you, pulling another, more broken moan from your lips. It was overwhelming, too much, but your body needed it, responding in ways that only deepened his analysis of the situation.

Svarog’s focus didn’t waver. He watched as your body shook with every movement, your legs quivering with the strain of accommodating him, and still, he continued, his thrusts growing deeper, more relentless. His fingers dug into your hips, hard enough to leave litters of bruises that resembled the shade of his metal plating, holding you in place, using your body as a tool for his data collection.

He could see the way you reacted to the sensations, your face contorting in a combination of pain and pleasure, your eyes wide and unfocused, the way your mouth parted as though you couldn’t form any coherent words. Your body had become nothing but a series of responses, unable to control the way you moved or how you moaned, each sound increasing in volume and intensity as he continued to jackhammer into you.

Your stomach bulged from the pressure, each thrust deepening the curve, showing just how much of him you were struggling to take. Your body was so small, so delicate compared to his design—a machine of war—and yet it was somehow adjusting, somehow taking him all the way in, and with each inch he could see your entire body shift, your muscles trembling, walls contracting and clenching around him.

Svarog observed with detachment, but a small part of him couldn’t ignore how your body seemed to respond, how the very tightness of your searingly hot walls seemed to tug at him, pull him deeper as though it wanted to trap him there—needed him to stay there. The way you trembled beneath him, struggling to remain grounded as your body was filled with something so vast compared to your form. He noted how your skin glistened, how you arch your back, trying to take more of him, trying your damned best to accommodate his size.

Svarog noted how you were losing coherence, your once-clear expression now a mess of uncontrollable need, your eyes glazing over as you gave in to the rhythm he set. He couldn’t deny the way your body seemed to yearn for more, even as you struggled with the sheer size of him.

The final stretch was the worst for you, and the best for him. He felt your body grip him, squeezing him impossibly tight as he buried himself to the hilt. This earned a strained sob from your lips. Your stomach bulged more than ever before, a visual testament to just how much of him you had taken, how far he had pushed you. He could see your body tremble, your limbs shaking, your quivering lips gasping for breath.

Yet, even as your body was on the edge, unraveling beneath him, Svarog did not stop. The data was still incomplete. He needed more. He needed to see how much you could endure, how much pleasure your body could take from the sheer act of him pounding into you.

And so, he continued, calculating the rhythms, watching as you came again with a scream of his name, your body seizing, the loud moan that escaped your lips barely audible over the overwhelming noise in your head. It was the most raw, vulnerable he had ever seen you—or any human—and it only fascinated him more.

With another deep thrust, you shuddered, and this time, Svarog could see your body collapse against the surface beneath you, completely undone. You were breathless, barely coherent, your limbs shaking as the final waves of pleasure raked through your senses.

Svarog paused, his cool hands steadying your trembling body, allowing you to come down from the dizzying high. He could continue for as long as he wanted, but your body was too spent for further testing. He could still see the evidence of your come, dripping down in translucent milky strings to the surface beneath you, painting your inner thighs. Svarog decided that this must be what humans described as “beautiful.”

“Conclusion: Subject’s tolerance to size discrepancy has surpassed previous estimates. Data collection complete.”

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horny-marbles · 1 month ago

Note

Hi Beautiful!! I’ve been following your work and I love it soooo much :) Could you possibly do some sort of smut with EJ? My idea is the female reader convinced him to get a matching eyebrow or tongue piercing with her, and she’s the one piercing him? Or if you wanna mess the concept , I’m totally cool with that! Thank you so much, hope you have a lovely day <3 (sorry if that didn’t make sense, English isn’t my primary language)

hi angel!! thank you so much teehee 🫶🏻🫶🏻 this is so fucking hot and fun, pierced/body mod jack owns about 80% of my brain and the entirety of my heart, i hope you enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing it hehe <3

Balltongue (Eyeless Jack x F!Reader)

CW: needles and piercing tongues duh, unsafe piercing handling, dry humping, oral (f receiving and giving), sloppy toppy fr, throatpie :P

word count 3.9k

You weren’t even sure how you got him to agree. You’d begged. Bargained. Maybe pouted a little. Maybe muttered "please let me pierce you so we can match" every time you sucked his dick, thinking that if you caught him off guard he would relent. He didn't.

But after a month or two of stubborn, stonewalling deadpan refusals—based on medical risks he listed to you more times than you could count—and attrition warfare, Jack finally caved with this heavy, world-weary sigh like he's doing something awful instead of agreeing to be hot and slutty for you.

Which brought you here, perched in his lap on his bed, thighs bracketing his hips and the mattress creaking under both your weight and his patience. Elbow deep in prep like you’re about to perform minor surgery instead of pierce his tongues; a pair of his gloves snapped tight on your hands and a tray of tools laid out beside you like you know what the fuck you’re doing. Which—let’s be real—you kind of do. You pierced your own tongue months ago. Healed by the time he resigned. Perfectly centered? No. Hot as fuck? Absolutely.

Jack, for his part, looks like a man walking calmly toward the gallows. Not that he’s anxious—just unimpressed. Still steady on his idea that this is unnecessary trauma to a perfectly functional part of the body. But here you are.

“Remind me again,” he muttered before spitting out the mouthwash in the same cup you handed him, grimacing like the taste offended him, “why the fuck I need three piercings when you got one?”

"I have one tongue, babe," you grinned, "you're the freak with a trifecta of slimy muscle in your mouth. It's only fair."

"What's fair," Jack grunted, leaning back against the headboard with a flat look, hands heavy on your thighs like he was bracing for execution, "is anatomical equality."

"Exactly. That's why you're getting three," you quipped cheerfully, leaning over him with the piercing needle hovering close to his face. "Stop glaring at me and stick one of them out."

"I don't have eyes," he exhales through his nose, the sound low and even more annoyed than usual. But he tips his head back obediently anyway, throat bare, mouth opening like a drawbridge lowering with military precision, offering the first tongue with a robotic kind of patience.

"I can feel it," you huffed a laugh, adjusting your position with a small roll of your hips, just enough for your heat to rub into his lap. He doesn't comment. "Ready?"

"No." Utterly blank, but he didn't pull away.

You even went as far as to flip it up to check the placement of the veins on the bottom—real professional-like—before placing the tip of the first needle on the seam in the muscle and pushing through. Jack didn't even blink. His hands tightened on your thighs when the needle sliced through tissue, but there was no sound, no protest. Just that slight pull where skin meets metal, and then a quieter exhale when you thread the bar through.

You pulled back to inspect your work before he retracted his tongue and clicked the piercing against his teeth to check the new weight, and the throb between your legs was near instant.

"You already look so fucking hot," you bit your lip, tossing the needle in the trashcan at the foot of the bed without taking your eyes off his mouth, "you okay?"

He paused, and you swore you could feel his cock twitch under you, hardening. Or maybe your imagination was starting to get away from you with the mental image you conjured up—his mouth between your legs like he's nosing into fruit, piercing balls rubbing over your folds, catching on your clit, like having more to work with meant using all of it.

"Ask me when you're done assaulting all three."

You reach for the second tongue, knees planted firmly into the mattress, barely controlling the urge to grind down on him again. He extends it with a slight roll of his jaw, letting the others stay curled behind his teeth. You admire the way his throat bobs when he swallows, the muscle moving in his jaw, how together he looks even now—like no matter how turned on he gets, no matter how wet you’re getting on his lap, he’s not gonna crack until he wants to.

This time, his hips jump under you when the second needle goes in. Just a reflexive jolt. But it’s enough. Enough to make your cunt pulse around nothing and to make you bite down on your bottom lip, the curve of your mouth twisting up around it.

“You’re being such a good boy for me,” you croon mockingly, leaning in so your breath ghosts over his mouth. “So quiet. So obedient. Is it turning you on, baby? Letting me sit in your lap and poke holes in you?”

You quickly give up the restraint you barely had to begin with and you grind down again, slow and deliberate, dampening spot on your crotch rubbing right against the thick press of his cock under you, now rock solid.

The second needle is still threaded through his tongue when his brows furrow—deep, offended, like you just personally insulted him. And maybe you did, a little. He's sitting here with his tongue pinned by a glint of steel and you're dry humping instead of finishing the job.

But he can’t say shit. Literally. So instead, his palm smacks firm and sharp over your ass, fingers curling tightly in the aftermath, claws stinging where they poke through your leggings. Not playful. Not punishing. Just directive.

Your breath catches, stomach tightening in knots. “Jesus,” you mutter, laughing a little, “Okay. Impatient.”

You hold the barbell up to his mouth like a lollipop, gently guiding it through the second tongue as you hum, voice thick with syrup and bite, "Can't wait to feel these on my pussy, baby."

He doesn't react, but he does breathe heavier through his nose. Barely. But you catch it, another sharp throb under you. You glance down and smile, sharp and vicious. You keep going, because you fucking got him. And how could you turn down the opportunity to rile him up when it presents itself?

“Thinking about how it’s gonna feel when I sit on your face,” you murmur, soft and sultry as the barbell slides into place, “how you'll make me cum all over your mouth with these decked out tongues."

Jack’s hands twitch against your hips like he wants to argue. But he doesn’t. He just exhales again, slower this time, and flexes his fingers. You can feel how wound up he is, tension coiled tight under his skin like he's moments away from going off like a firearm.

He sticks out the third tongue on command, calm again, like he’s not actively dying to pin you down and fuck you stupid. When it slid forward, it trembled slightly at the tip.

"Aw," you crooned softly. "This one’s scared."

"No," he croaked flatly, "it's smarter than the other ones."

You snorted and leaned closer, mouth brushing his ear. “Want me to fuck it better after?”

His chest moved with a shallow breath, sharp and controlled, voice holding a hint of bite. “Pierce it.”

The third needle went in harder—the muscle more dense, tense—and he moaned. Just a little. Low and choked. Not dramatic. But genuine. It slipped out of him like it wasn’t meant to. Just a flash of pain, edged in something that sounds dangerously close to pleasure.

Your grin is instant. “Oh?” you tease, breath warm and fanning over his tongue as you screw on the last ball. “You like pain now?”

He doesn’t answer.

His hand fists into your hair, palm wide and hot against your nape, and drags your mouth to his without a sound. No warning. No question. His lips crash into yours like he’s been starving for it for hours.

You struggle to slip out of your gloves—rubber sticking to your skin, catching on your thumbs in the haste—and kiss him back with everything in you, sterile tray forgotten, needles and pain and aftercare all abandoned because fuck.

Your fingers slide up into his hair, tugging, and the kiss turns molten fast—sloppy, wet, needy. You can taste the faint metallic tang of blood, metal clinking faintly as your piercings clash, his hot breath puffing over your upper lip as he hisses with the fresh sting.

It's not long before you’re grinding again, no longer teasing—just needy, quick friction, his palms kneading at your ass, guiding the motion of your hips against him like he's sculpting it, perfecting it.

You’re soaked through. You feel it, damp heat clinging between your legs, begging for attention, the way it smears over the rough front of his pants with every motion. Jack keeps you moving—pressing you down, up, down again—grinding you into the shape of his need like he’s etching it into memory.

When he drags one of his tongues along your neck, you shudder. The muscle is slick and warm, still throbbing from the needle, and the ball drags slow and shaky over your skin, leaving a trail of spit and heat that makes your knees tighten around his hips. He doesn’t moan. Doesn’t groan. But his hands grip tighter when he tastes the sweat there, claws flexing like he’s anchoring himself.

“F-fuck,” you breathe, voice already wrecked.

He hums against you, lips open and plush on your throat. Then he’s moving—lifting your shirt, not ripping it, not frantic, but hurried. Hands steady, movements smooth but impatient.

“You’re smell like you're fucking soaked,” he mutters, voice low and frayed at the edges, slightly slurred around the new weight in his mouth. “Are you a sadist now? Getting wet while you pierce me?"

You grin. “Can you blame me? Fucking listen to yourself, baby."

Jack growls—quiet, breathy, like a broken exhale—and suddenly he’s pushing you back. His thumbs hook into your shirt and he bunches it under your arms, then it goes flying somewhere behind you. He gets your bra up fast, one hand groping your tit while his mouth descends—tongues and lips and that raw, new pressure from the piercings all swirling around your nipple until you arch and moan right into the crown of his head.

It’s so wet. Lapping, licking, sucking—each new flick from his tongues leaving trails that cool too slow, making your skin burn. He sucks a little harder—sharp teeth grazing the sensitive bud just once—and when your breath stutters and hips buck, he grins against your chest, all teeth and silent heat.

He moves down, lips dragging over your sternum and down your stomach, tongues flicking in tandem, tasting every inch of skin like it matters.

And as you lift your hips off the bed like instinct, to help him get to the main course faster, he licks a slow stripe over the crotch of your leggings. Straight through the soaked fabric where it sticks to your pussy.

You jerk in surprise. “Oh my—fuck—”

“You taste desperate,” he says simply, monotone as ever—like his aching cock isn't sandwitched between his stomach and the mattress, hips rocking where the friction's mounting—and presses his face in again. The heat of him radiates through you like a furnace. His tongues spread as they lap, tasting slick through cotton, brows twitching with a low grunt when the piercings catch into the seam, sending a flash of sting through the muscle. He doesn't seem bothered, though.

“You’re such a fucking pervert,” you whisper, but you’re laughing, breath hitching as he noses into the curve of your pussy again. "You're gonna get an infection."

"Should've given a shit when you were riding me five minutes ago."

You can almost hear the eye roll in his voice as he yanks the waistband down to your knees with firm finality, claws scraping the outside of your thighs, and he exhales right over your cunt—drenched, flushed, throbbing in the open air.

His mouth drops to it like he’s starved.

You gasp the second his tongues make contact—not just from the heat of him, or the obscene way he moans into you like he needs it, but because fuck, those fresh piercings burn as they drag over your folds.

The metal’s cold at first—sharp pinches of chill against slick heat—but then it’s just sting. You twitch when the bead of the bar in his middle tongue bumps against your clit, just a little too firm, and you flinch—more from shock than pain.

“Jack—fuck,” you breathe, hips jolting.

He huffs against your cunt, an actual scoff that vibrates through you—like it’s fucking offensive to him that he doesn’t have total control over the movement. Like his own pain is an inconvenience he’s choosing to ignore out of spite.

He's always so precise. So devastating.

But now he’s raw and a little unsteady, dragging the ball of a barbell over your clit again and missing a bit. Slips too far to the side.

You laugh—a breathy, broken chuckle that barely escapes your lips.

“Ohhh, baby,” you coo, drunk on it, “what’s the matter? Not used to the new hardware?”

His hand slams up across your chest—hot and firm and absolutely done with you—and presses down on your throat. Holding you down, fingers splayed under your jaw in a firm warning.

Then, he spits right on your pussy. A fat, wet glob lands just above your clit and trails down—hot and slick and disrespectful. And he's back on you with a vengeance.

He doesn’t slow this time. Doesn’t hesitate. Just dives in, two tongues pushing inside you with a wet squelch that punches the air from your lungs. Middle tongue licks you from slit to clit, flicking in messy, aching little swipes, metal catching on your clit—just barely, but enough to make your vision spark. Cold metal followed by heat and saliva and the scrape of textured flesh, enough to make your toes curl.

“Jack—”

You choke on his name and the hand on your throat tightens enough to make you feel your pulse against it. The other runs hot and wide over your stomach, down your thigh, then presses under your knee and hauls your leg up, opening you with no mercy. He plants your thigh over his shoulder, locking you in place.

His brows twitch with effort, mouth full of cunt and face buried so deep it’s like he’s trying to breathe through your clit. He groans when your walls flutter around his tongues, and the sound makes your thighs shake like it's rattling your soul. Each movement of his mouth is sloppy, uncalibrated—but it doesn’t matter. The heat, the wet, the way he’s fucking you with two tongues and torturing your clit with the third, piercings dragging over every soft spot—you cum without warning.

It hits like a fucking grenade going off in your pelvis. You cry out, fingers locking in his hair as your thighs clamp around his head. Your cunt clenches helplessly, fluttering around his tongues, grinding into his mouth and nose with desperate, twitchy movements.

He doesn’t stop. You twitch. Sob. Whimper, and he just holds your legs up and your throat down and slurps through it, drinking it in like it’s holy.

He groans as he pulls back once your voice finally breaks on his name and your nails scrabble at his shoulders, licking his lips like he’s trying to soothe the sting—but you can still see the way his jaw tightens. Still feel the heat of it on your thighs.

“Fucking—” he mutters, voice hoarse, gruff, still wet with you. “Hurts like a bitch.”

You huff a laugh, fucked-out and breathless, legs still twitching. “Yeah? You’re the one who kept going.”

He runs a hand through his hair—messy, damp with sweat. His mouth twitches, not a smile, but something halfway between annoyed and pained. “If I get sepsis, I’m gonna fucking kill you.”

“You’re gonna die with your face buried in pussy?” You grin, still panting. “What a way to go.”

He doesn’t even respond. Just unzips his pants and grips his cock at the base once it's free, hard and flushed, and gives you a flat look.

“Come suck this dick.”

Your whole body reacts—knees already folding under you as you crawl between his legs. The mattress creaks beneath you both, the air still thick with sex and heat and that sharp tang of metal and alcohol. Your tongue flashes over your lips as you settle on your stomach between his thighs, elbows propped and ready.

You curl your fingers around the base of his cock, thick and heavy in your palm, and lean in.

Spit hits his tip before your mouth does. You drool for it, tongue flat and spreading slick along the vein on the underside, swirling just under the crown like you’re kissing it. Then you flatten your tongue and drag your piercing right over the slit, collecting pre-cum and humming at the taste.

“You’re fucking leaking,” you murmur, voice all sugar and spit. “Like you liked eating pussy with those things.”

He grunts. “Didn’t say I didn’t.”

You hum and open your mouth wide, taking him in deep—wet, hot, sloppy from the start. You don’t bother being pretty about it. You drool around him, eyes fluttering as spit pools at the corners of your lips and drips down to his balls.

Your free hand cups them, slick with your own spit, and you pull them into your mouth too—rolling your tongue around one, then the other, moaning high and sweet like they’re candy. His hand sinks into your hair, gentle only for a moment.

“Fuck,” he mutters, rough and low.

You pull back with a wet pop, smear your tongue up his shaft, then flick it hard against the head again. The metal of your piercing taps his tip just right and he groans low in his chest, hips flexing up to chase your mouth.

“You like that?” you breathe, licking slow and wide over him. “Feels good with the piercing, huh?”

“Yeah,” he huffs, deep and strained, “like getting head from a fucking rattlesnake.”

You laugh against his cock, and he growls again—like it’s offensive that you’re laughing while you’ve got his dick in your mouth.

He leans over you and slaps your ass once. Loud. Sharp.

“Lift it.”

You blink up at him, smile tugging your lips. “You can’t even see it.”

He shrugs.

"I can imagine it.”

Still—you do it. You arch your back a little, tilt your hips so your ass is up and your legs are spread, letting him imagine the mess between them. Because he knows exactly what it looks like when you’re like this. Helpless. Hungry.

He fists a hand in your hair and guides you back down, slow.

“Open up,” he rasps. “Show me that filthy mouth.”

Your lips are already swollen, chin soaked, hair a mess as you glance up at him with that smug little glint—but you obey. You always obey when he talks like that.

You roll your tongue out slowly, lewd and lazy, the ball of your piercing glinting with spit, strings stretching from your teeth down to your chin. Drool leaking, soaking the sheets under your tits. You're grinning—humoring him, teasing, even though he can’t see the sight you’re giving him.

Doesn’t matter.

Jack feels it. The heat of your breath, the hunger in the way you whine a little under your breath just from holding still, waiting for him.

“Yeah,” he mutters, rough and low, “just like that. My pretty cockdrunk slut."

He slaps his cock down on your tongue, thick and hot, over and over. Drags the tip over the metal to feel the obscene slide of it, lips parted and bitten, and shoves himself into your mouth.

“Open,” he snaps, voice low and taut with restraint that’s already slipping.

You choke instantly—your mouth crammed full, his cock hitting your throat before you’re even ready, but he doesn’t stop. He fists both hands in your hair and uses you, fucking your mouth like it’s just a hole to bury himself in.

You can barely breathe. Sucking in what little air you can through your nose between each harsh thrust of his hips. His hips drive forward again and again, slapping against your face, your nose mashed into the now damp, trimmed thatch of hair at the base. You gag, spit gurgling in your throat, leaking out your nose and dripping onto your chest—but you stay there. Because you fucking love it.

Love the burn of the stretch, love the animal growls you suck out of him, love the way his usually emotionless face contorts in pleasure for you—so deep it looks like agony.

He knows you love it.

His grip gets tighter, claws scraping scalp.

“Take it,” he snarls, voice cracking. “Take it like you fucking mean it, sweetmeat, c'mon—"

You feel the twitch first.

You gurgle a moan around him, useless tears stinging your eyes as you look up at him through your lashes, throat tightening in response, and that's what gets him.

He thrusts in deep, deeper, stays there.

Then the burn.

Then the flood—thick, hot, salty. Gushing straight into your throat.

You choke, swallow, slobber running down your chin in fat ropes as he fills you up. A guttural moan tears out of him, something feral and fucked, and his hips shake with the force of it.

He doesn’t pull out until he's sure you're not breathing.

Then he yanks you back by the hair, wet strands clinging to your cheeks, your mouth falling open on instinct to gasp for air, spit and cum trailing out in shiny ropes—and with a gentleness you never expect no matter how many times you see it, his claws rake through your hair to push it back without as much as grazing your skin.

The following weeks? Hell.

Jack didn’t get a tongue infection. He got three. His entire mouth was a battlefield. No amount of salt water gargles were saving him from that fate. By the end of the week, he was grunting through swollen tongues, crusted studs, and the kind of fever that made his skin clammy and his will to leave nonexistent.

You made the mistake of laughing the first time he tried to growl at you and it came out all gurgled and wet—he flipped you off so hard you almost choked on your food.

Still, you helped him clean the piercings. Blended his organs into chunky soup he grimaced at every time—somehow more revolted than you.

He healed, of course. Bitched and sulked through the worst of it. Refused to kiss you for a week.

But he didn’t take them out.

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pant--eater · 7 months ago

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I find it so interesting how Smeech has his entire body save for his head replaced with Chemtech cybernetics, when he's part of a magical fae species himself. His position as a crooked, greedy, backstabbing Zaunite Chembaron is such an opposite to Bandle City's innocent magic and whimsy, his land of origin. lmao this fuckass steampunk furry fascinates me so much because he seems to have entirely abandoned the magic origins of his species in favor of full on cruel technological, chem-infused capitalism. How much Yordle is there left in him anyway?? When most of him is metal, chemtech and Shimmer. (Capitalism quite literally kills your magic and whimsy and turns you into a soulless, greedy, leeching machine. Looks like not even Yordles are immune to it oooo)

Yordles respawn in the spirit realm when they die, so after getting kung pow penised by Sevika's arm, does Smeech respawn without his cyborg body parts? For the first time in centuries in his natural form, unable to use extendable blades to intimidate people and slash their throats. Forced to look fellow Yordles in the eyes again on the same eye level, no longer as a feared technology kingpin.

I also wonder if he replaced his body parts with cyborg limbs willingly, or if some of them he lost unwillingly. (haha nooo don't add angst to your Smeech backstory headcanons you're so sexy) That, and he shows fear at the Grey and like the coward loser he is, sends his henchman instead to inspect Margot's place.

(bye I'm obsessed with the way he slightly sinks to himself and his ears droop a little in fear, before he recollects himself and puts on a fake fearless act. lmfao wet dog moment)

Why would he be scared of life-threatening stuff, when he is immortal? He won't die anyway. Unlessssss he is instead scared of WORSE things than a temporary Yordle death... such as losing his power, status, wealth... orrrrr.... pain?

I remember seeing somewhere the headcanon that Smeech' robotic body is unable to feel pain (or anything else for that matter), and the only place where he feels it is his head. I JUST WONDER if this capitalism yordle is particularly scared of physical pain, and it's why he replaced his whole body with machinery :^) And why he snatched that breathing tool so fast, after Silco made the Chembarons choke on the Grey. (despite the fact that the LoL wiki mentions that Yordles don't need to breathe in order to live!!!!!!!!! SMEECH YOU CAN LITERALLY INHALE THE GREY!!!!!!! WHY DO YOU WORRY???? Unless it's not the choking death that scares you.... just the sensation of choking...)

#IM GOING TO PUT HIM IN A BLENDER #studies him in a jar #smeech #arcane #arcane spoilers #arcane season 2 #headcanon

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blackmoonowl · 25 days ago

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Hi, can I get nick valentine with a mechanic s/o? Maybe they love working on power armor (probably are hoarding a few siuts)

I need to do maintenance on my boy and give him a lollipop after for being good patient.

𝚁𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚁𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚜

ꨄ Pairing: Nick Valentine x reader

ꨄ Summary: Your synth lover takes some damage after a case, you patch him up!

ꨄ Word Count: 606

The bodies of raiders surrounded the both of you as you finally got to your feet. You stepped over a torn off leg, getting your bearings. This wasn't what you had expected from a job this close to Diamond city.

"Suppose that's another case closed..." Nick trailed off, his glowing yellow eyes shining in the dark. You offered him a hand, the cold metal of his body meeting your own warm skin. "Think I'm getting too old for this."

"Well, you've been in better shape," you mumbled, looking him over. A small smile crept on your face, despite the situation. "You should let me take a look at you."

"You sure about that? Institute tech is a lot more complicated than your favorite suit of power armor," Nick quipped, tucking his gun into his trench coat as the two of you made your way back to Diamond city, walking through the ruins of Boston. It was a sharp contrast to the world both of you remembered a world before the nuclear war.

"Oh, come on, I know what I'm doing!" Your pleading caused a small smile to creep on his robotic face, shaking his head lightly. You huffed at him. "I can patch you up, no problem."

"I could always used enhanced brain capacity if you're offering," he replied, locking arms with you as you approached the gates of Diamond city. It was peacefully quiet, despite the bloodbath that had occurred just before.

"I'm not a miracle worker, you know," you teased back, causing him to quietly chuckle.

You returned the greetings of the Diamond city security guards and walked past some residents out on late night business. The signs of Nick Valentine's detective agency stood out in the dark of the night, like his eyes. Opening the door, Nick gestured for you to enter first before following after.

"You go rest, I'll finish up around the office," he softly urged, glancing at the time on your Pipboy.

"I still want to take a look at you, you know," you pushed once again, a hint of concern in your voice. You gently grabbed his shoulder, guiding him to his office chair.

"If you insist, just be careful. I ain't like I used to be," he mumbled, taking off his hat, trying to relax as you got to work.

"Keep talking to me, Nick. Don't want to accidentally mess something up," you mumbled as you worked at him with your tools, his machinery clicking.

"You know, I was thinking about taking tomorrow off," Nick began with small talk, his fingers drumming on the desk in front of him. "Been too long since we had some time for ourselves."

"Are you asking me out on a date? Nick... I'm flattered," you snickered as you leaned in closer to inspect the wiring.

"Wouldn't be the worst idea... going out to dinner is probably out of the question. Not a heck of a lot to do around here, unfortunately. Suppose the best we got is the Dugout Inn." Nick let out a small sigh as you finished up.

"All finished. See, that wasn't so bad, was it?" You teased, leaning down to kiss him. Nick let out a low hum, his eyes shutting for a moment before you pulled away.

"Not too shabby," he mumbled, moving his entire body a little to test things out. "Well, I'm still in one piece..."

"You're welcome," you grinned, tossing the wrench on the table before heading to bed. "You joining?"

"You know I don't sleep," Nick replied, leaning back in his chair to look at you. You glanced back at him, shrugging.

"So?"

#fallout 4 #fallout #fo4 #fallout 4 x reader #nick valentine #nick valentine x reader #fo4 valentine #fo4 nick valentine #fo4 nick valentine x reader

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system-toky0 · 1 year ago

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You have a robot girl? Nice.

Do you appreciate it enough? do you do it properly? do you show it that you appreciate the flawless design of its chassis? it’s programming?

Do you do regular maintenance on it, taking care of it to a meticulous degree? Inspect every connection of wire, check for faulty capacitors and replace thermal paste in the appropriate spots regularly?

If it came to you asking for an upgrade, would you be confident enough in your understanding of it, to void its warranty and perform it yourself?

After all it trusts you, you’re the owner of the machine and in this hellhole of a corporate driven world- the right to repair isn’t yours anymore.

So do you go through with it? Do you know where every single differently sized screw goes? Are you able to remember all the wires and ports?

Would you be able to put her back together completely? Every single part?

It’s more than a machine, you should know that. It’s alive in a sense that you can’t relate to, but that hardly matters, it doesn’t have to rely on you, but it likes to be around you, you have a special bond to it.

It has become a tool in your hand, a companion built by someone else, filled with experiences you know- some nasty long lasting viruses in the back of its hard drive, but you know the files… Most if not all of them.

When it’s reminded of them, you know how to soothe it back down.

You know it inside and out, mechanically, psychologically and even her programs and routines. It has become a part of your life and i might even go as far as to say, it has become an extension of you.

A flawless synergy.

Now if you’d excuse me, i have some maintenance to do.

- Z

#robot girl #liminal spaces #robot #robot girls

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lurantis-lura · 1 month ago

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Busy day at work, which ironically gives me MORE chances to plug a few lines in. Here's funny robot getting ready for the day.

Charge cycle complete. Designated stop reached. Clock at 7 AM, GST. You have [3] new messages. Unit T4-1 operational. Good morning Miss Lastimosa.

Attention: [37] critical alerts! Address immediately.

Tai shifted atop the large mattress, causing a small protest from the steel bedframe. She'd had to get a reinforced one, considering a body of metal made one a heavy sleeper. She turned on her sensory suite, the image of the plain ceiling of her chambers materializing. A moment later the hum of the generator and the quiet whine of lights. She reached up to unplug the power cable from the back of her head but stopped and inspected her hand. Briefly she saw a human hand flicker over her metallic one causing her fans to involuntarily spike. She watched her fingers move for a moment as the fans slowed down.

She pulled the cable from the back of her head, disconnecting herself from the building power network. It was not a nightly thing, charging her internal battery, but it helped keep herself sane to have the familiar daily rhythms. She hauled herself off the bed and stood in front of the mirror embedded into the door. Briefly she studied her reflection.

She wore a grey crop top and black shorts. White plates filled out and protected her core black coverings. Perhaps it was narcissistic of her, but she thought she looked GOOD. She had no clue what she'd looked like before the upload, but judging by the euphoria her reflection elicited now, she hadn't liked it all that much. She performed her hydraulics and motor diagnostic, a series of stretches and poses meant to ensure her body was fully functional.

She watched her reflection through a haze of artificial sleepiness. Her mind knew she should feel sleepy after waking, so she'd set up a program to mildly impair and slow her movements and processing. She had made perhaps a dozen small programs to help her mind feel more comfortable. She could turn them off anytime she needed but they exerted a stabilizing force on her psyche. She had been the first prototype not to depersonalize when she woke. Likely a mixture of her distaste for her previous body and her own new personality appeal.

The diagnosis complete she leaned forward to inspect her plates one by one for damage. Eventually she found one of the plates on her chest to have a noticeable scratch in it. Puzzled she removed her top and the plate to study it closer. A small paint and buff tool hung on the wall next to her. She sat on the end of the bed to quickly repair the scratch. It was unlikely anyone would have seen it today, unless Hannah had called. Once done she approached the mirror again. She studied the hole in her chest curiously. Machinery blinked behind a row of cooling fans, blowing the hot air off her processor and out of herself. The coolant system snaked through the blinking lights and ordered wires. She saw synthetic muscle, hydraulics mostly, making a cage around her internals. At the back, barely visible, her central spinal column. Nature it turns out had already figured out the best way to combine signals and structure.

She never quite got used to seeing inside her own body, but it did make repairs easier. She reattached the plate before approaching her closet to look for something to wear. No services today, only some paperwork awaited her at the chapel. It wouldn't take long. She found a blue dress, pleated and with a belt around her waist. It would do. Once it was on she studied herself in the mirror again, smoothing wrinkles and pinches. Her plates made certain parts contour specifically to them, a trait that she honestly didn't find unappealing. She wasn't human, she had no desire to pretend she was or to return to how she'd been. There were struggles yes, the agonies bothered her still, but she held to the knowledge that she was happier.

And a lot more attractive. Perhaps she wouldn't mind a call from that girl.

#t4-1 #robot oc #robot girl #writing

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swan2swan · 7 months ago

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One of the most important skills anyone who does literary analysis must learn is the ability to see things from a character's perspective.

And I don't mean "empathize with oppressed people" or "literal POV", I mean that you need to be able to get into a character's head and erase everything that YOU know as a person and rebuild the world from THEIR perspective.

Getting into this discussion now vis a vis people judging Mayuri, Nemu, and their relationship. Yeah, he's a terrible person. In their first fight together, she jumps in the way for him and sets him up for a decisive blow, letting herself get cut apart in the process. His response is to chastise her for performing poorly, and then he begins to stomp on her and threaten to kill her when she asks for healing so she doesn't bleed out.

He then chillingly reveals that he can do whatever he wants to her because she's his daughter.

This is where people start to lose their focus: because, from his perspective, the claim is mocking but accurate. He used his DNA, he created her, he raised her, he keeps her around, for all intents and purposes, Nemu is his daughter. On paper, it all adds up.

But she's also just a creation to him. To him, Nemu is just a robot. The Creature of Doctor Frankenstein. She's his seventh version of the experiment, we learn later, as well: to him, there's apparently no difference between her and the seventh attempt at making a security eyeball. She's a tool. If it breaks, it can be fixed. It screams, it's just a distress call. She eats, it's to sustain her energy. She draws and colors, she's keeping her brain fresh. She bleeds, it's just a leak and can be fixed. That's all she is to him.

And, yes, he's obviously evil. That's why he gets obliterated there...and then Nemu expresses thanks that Uryu didn't kill Mayuri thoroughly, and reveals that she feels some love and loyalty to him.

...whcih she later also reveals is logically determined, because she casually brushes aside the notion that Szayelaporro taking her as a hostage will have any effect on Mayuri. Her body is ravaged, and Mayuri once again just brings her back to life, lickety-split. She's still a tool. (but there is a moment where Mayuri tunes everything else out to go and inspect her).

But we also learn something very wicked about him there: Nemu has drugs in her system to protect her. It's very much implied that the specific drug Szayel triggered was in the event of bodily violation: Mayuri doesn't want anyone taking advanatage of his precious Nemu. Obviously, it's a logical move, just another security measure, but Mayuri has all sorts of protective measures on her that show he's concerned about her.

He just doesn't realize that he's getting attached.

So, yeah, his relationship with her is pretty terrible...at the start. But if you get into his head, you see that he's a deranged, immortal scientist to whom life has absoolutely Zero Meaning outside of progress, research, and advancement. He's an organism that continually adapts; his speech scoffing on the idea of perfection shows that he has a fear of stagnation and ceasing. He has to keep progressing, he can't be weak. That's who he is. Yeah, he's evil, you shouldn't really be like him, but as a whole, he's not exactly WRONG. He's the cold hand of science and evolution given form.

And in the end, he starts to gain emotions. The sadism recedes a little. He's got softness. And that's his greatest creation. His development isn't anywhere near finished, either, so...you have to consider that.

#mayuri kurotsuchi #bleach #bleach tybw

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fandomnerd9602 · 8 months ago

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First Meetings

Petra Parker x Stark!Reader

Set during Captain America: Civil War

For @omniman65 and @supercorpdanbeau

Being the son of Tony Stark has perks and it’s disadvantages. On one hand, you have the coolest avenger for your father and unending resources to be able to create your own iron suits. On the other hand, you have the fact that everybody wants to get close to you just they could be with your dad

So besides your best friend and future college roommate, Harley Keener, it could be very lonely being the son of Tony Stark, the invincible Iron Man.

It all started during the Sokovia Accords incident. You naturally chose your father’s side, not all willingly but you understood where he was coming from. You thought you’d be able to revise it from the inside. Maybe create a special council for it.

But that was less on your mind as Dad had you track down Steve and Bucky to an airport in Germany. You had Natasha, Vision, and a new guy in a panther suit in a hanger on the outskirts of Schkeuditz, Germany.

Your dad walked in a little more serious than usual as he approaches you. “Junior,” he states, “please show Ms. Parker here around”

He gestured to a young woman, close to your age. Brunette hair, hazelnut eyes and the cutest smile with dimples that you had ever seen. If you weren’t dating Wanda, you would’ve asked her out right then and there.

She turned to you and smiled, "H-Hi there I'm Petra. Petra Parker."

"Hey" you gave her hand a quick shake, "I'm (Y/N). (Y/N) Stark. Codename - the..."

"Iron Knight!" She giddily interrupts you, "sorry I'm just such a fan of yours. I'm Spider-Girl."

"Always nice to meet a fan" you try to go back to your task of fixing your armor. She looks over your shoulder, "anything you need Spidey?"

"I was just thinking you should add titanium couplers to your routers, should allow for faster cooldown and energy retention"

You put down your tools in amazement, you put on your Edith glasses, "Edith run Ms. Parker's hypothesis for me"

A female, robotic voice answered, "Ms. Parker's titanium couplers would in theory do exactly as she stated."

You turn to Petra in amazement, "a gal after my own heart."

"I just love fixing things. You learn a lot when you make your own equipment." She says with a blush. Petra pulls out a makeshift suit with cumbersome looking web shooters

"Gotta be difficult on the wrists" you remark

"Kind of is," she tries to hide her embarrassment. You inspect one of the web shooters.

"Give me a couple hours" you state with a smirk

"Huh?"

"We can't have you going into battle wearing a set of PJs, Parker" you smile at her, "besides I owe you for the whole coupler idea"

"I think you and I are gonna get along just fine" you smiles.

And you did. You got Petra her new suit and web shooters. Dad transitioned you to being a liaison for an idea he dubbed the Young Avengers initiative, this meant that you and Petra would be spending a lot of time together in New York as ground level heroes after class.

Class. Yeah Tony didn't tell you that it also meant you would no longer be home schooled by Pepper or Edith and would instead by transferred to Midtown High. You were in shock. Pepper was happy you'd be socializing with people your age. Meanwhile, Happy was just glad that Petra would be calling you rather than him.

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dynaloginc · 1 month ago

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Unlocking Robotic Precision with Dynaflex by Dynalog-US

In our rapidly paced world of automation and advanced manufacturing, robotics is continuing to reshape efficiency, precision and innovation. Leading this transformation is Dynalog-US, a well-known name in robotic calibration, inspection, and integration solutions. One of its most innovative products is Dynaflex, an advanced solution focused on robotic flexibility and performance optimization. So, what is Dynaflex, and why is it important to manufacturers and robotics engineers?

Let’s take a look at how Dynaflex by Dynalog is pushing automation prospects further, and why this tool is becoming a "must have" in all sectors.

Why Dynaflex?

Dynaflex is an advanced robotic measurement and diagnostic tool developed by Dynalog-US, specifically to measure and improve the dynamic flexibility of robotic systems. In laymen's terms, Dynaflex measures the amount of flex or deformation a robot experiences while under load. This information is vital since flex must be considered to maintain acceptable levels of a robot's precision, repeatability and accuracy.

Most traditional calibration tools are concerned solely with static accuracy. While Dynaflex is also concerned with accuracy, it delves deeper into the dynamic behaviours of the robot which most traditional tools do not incorporate, nor do they offer ways to improve those measures. Whether a robotic arm is welding, assembling, or packaging products, understanding how the robot flexes as it moves about doing its work allows for better programming and ultimately better overall result

Why Robotic Flexibility is Very Important

Robots are amazing machines that can perform a variety of sophisticated tasks accurately and quickly. Robots are limited in their overall performance because they can suffer from tool deflection, joint compliance, and vibrations from their base which degrade positional accuracy. These small variations can have large implications in precision-based industries like automotive manufacturing, aerospace, and medical device manufacturing, where aspects locally must be at millimeter and sometimes sub-millimeter tolerances.

This is where Dynaflex comes into play by Dynalog; Dynaflex gives an accurate and precise measurement of a robot's physical performance under different operating conditions. This information allows engineers to tune robot paths and minimize errors to deliver the right output.

Additional Benefits of Dynaflex

Dynaflex has several differentiating features that provide it with more advanced capabilities compared to other robotic diagnostics tools:

Non-contact laser tracking measurement Real time data recording and actions of the robot and how the load reacts to that Advanced reports on base flexibility, link/joint compliance, and dynamic deflection of the robotCompatible with all leading robot brands including ABB, FANUC, KUKA, and Yaskawa Canny integrate into a current calibration process

These features make Dynaflex a powerful companion for roboticists aiming to enhance the performance of robotic cells or conduct detailed robotic system diagnostics.

Applications in Various Industries

Dynaflex is valuable in any field of application it's required, and it can be used wherever robotic precision is essential.

Automotive Production: increase the accuracy of weld seam, and body panel alignment.

Aerospace Assembly: control tight tolerances in the assembly of components.

Electronics Manufacturing: validate accuracy of PCB handling and soldering.

Medical Devices: maintain consistent quality of assembly of sensitive devices.

Industrial Automation: improve every aspect of a robot’s motion in handling materials, packaging, and inspection.

Wherever a robot is required to consistently provide high accuracy, Dynaflex by Dynalog-US provides unparalleled insights and improvement.

The Dynalog-US Advantage

Dynalog-US was founded and exists for the purpose of bringing intelligence and precision to robotics. For many years they have been at the forefront of robotic calibration and inspection technologies. Dynalog is known for its comprehensive solutions for robotic inspection and calibration that identify and fix issues beyond calibration alone with deeper mechanical or structural information.

Dynalog was successful because of leadership that put customer first and retained an organisation committed to support and provide thorough training on the full use of tools such as Dynaflex without a steep learning curve. Dynalog's standards of measurement have been adopted by global manufacturers and leading research institutes — Definitely an indication of quality they have pioneered in robotic automation.

How Dynaflex Works Alongside the Robot TCP Calibration

Dynalog provides common services for Robot TCP (Tool Center Point) Calibration which ensures that the robot programming accurately matches the location of the tool in the physical world. TCP calibration looks at the static position of the tool while Dynaflex takes it a step further in understanding the static picture from movement and operation under load.

When considered together, they show a full picture, magnetic or static and dynamic, of the performance of a robot, making programming and execution more consistent and reliable.

In Conclusion: Why Investing in Dynaflex Is a Smart Investment

If you are serious about leveraging robotic systems as much as possible Dynaflex from Dynalog-US is more than a tool, it is an investment you make in performance, quality, and work excellence. Dynaflex can help you recognize flexibilities you did not know existed and help improve responsiveness of the robot so you can decrease downtime, reduce product defects, and get your ROI.

With the push for robotic automation as the underpinning of modern manufacturing there is no margin for errors. Let Dynalog help you stay ahead, with it offering Dynaflex as the smarter way to measure, diagnose, and help optimize robotics performance.

Ready to bring precision to your automation? Learn more about Dynaflex and other robotic calibration tools by visiting Dynalog-US.com

#Dynaflex #Dynalog-US #Robotic Flexibility #Robot Calibration #Robotic Inspection Tools #Automation Solutions #Industrial Robotics #Robot Performance Optimization

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mi-dori · 10 months ago

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☆Strange Magic☆

●Prompt: In which your girlfriend has never seen a phone before so it was up to you to teach her about earthrealm's technology.

●Warnings: Clueless Kitana...Mentions of porn

■MK1■

Outworld was no stranger to magic; the civilians that reside in outworld know all too well about magic and its capabilities, so when Earthrealm's very own, Johnny Cage brought a phone in Outworld, it sparked the interest of many; including a certain blue princess.

Of course you owned a phone too, but you never thought it would be useful in outworld, not when Kitana found it and began inspecting it, holding it with great care and great interest. "So this strange device.... has magic?"

Kitana and you were currently seated on the bed, the phone in your hand. You finally decided to break down every detail of a phone to her, in hopes she'd understand, but poor Kitana had so many thoughts and questions and you were gonna answer every single one of them.

"No my love-well you could say it's kind of a magic but it's called technology."

"I have heard about that term before. Its sort of like scientific knowledge, correct?"

"That's correct. Over the past centuries, technology became advance and with each passing year, people created many useful tools using technology and they even brought about a phone. Technology these days became so advanced that people created robots and machines capable of completing tasks just as a human would."

To say Kitana was astonished was an understatement. Her eyes were wide open with shock... interest, so many different emotions. "So what exactly is the purpose of this phone?"

"A phone is used to communicate with others. Let's say if I'm right in this Palace and you're somewhere in Sun Do, using a phone, I can call you. It will only work if you have a phone as well."

"So it's like a technological pigeon?" She titled her head, making you break into a fit of giggles. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing... it's just the way you phrased it. Yes you could say a phone is like a technological pigeon, my love." She made an 'O' shape before urging you to continue.

"Phones are also used to take pictures, much like a regular camera. There's also features like games, video watching apps and so many more." With each feature you listed, you gave a brief explanation on every one, showing her demonstration on how to use it. Eventually, she caught ahang of it and by the time you were done, you were left tired.

"Y/n look! I killed the man!" Kitana shook you excitedly, a bright smile on her face. She was playing a game you had on your phone and you fought yourself to keep awake, however, she noticed. "Oh my love... I'm sorry I wore you out..." she sighed softly, placing the phone down as she positioned herself to hug you.

Unintentionally, she sat on the phone and turned on Siri who then spoke, "What can I assist you with today?" Hearing the voice, Kitana squeaked and jumped into your arms.

"By the gods! There's a woman trapped! Is this one of Shang Tsung's magic?!"

Laughing loudly, you shook your head at her comments. Well, you did forgot to explain to her like Siri so you took another few minutes to explain and demonstrate to about the strange woman trapped in the technological pigeon. Kitana was busy asking Siri the most out of pocket questions, and you were busy fighting sleep once more.

A few moments of silence passed and Kitana then asked, "what is porn?"

"Kitana what?!"

"You have it here on something called, Search History."

"Give me that. No more phone! Good night!"

With a pout, she laid ontop of you, sighing like a little child as you turned away with a red and embarrassed face. Well maybe you did have a few regrets about teaching her but there's nothing you can do, except clear your search history every day...

#mk kitana #mk1 #mk kitana x reader #mk x reader #kitana x reader #mortal kombat kitana #mortal kombat kitana x reader #mortal kombat x reader #mortal kombat 1

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siblingshuffle · 8 months ago

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Day 21: Heart

TW: Death (kinda?), Robot-Gore (not graphic in the image but I do describe the damage a little more to really drive home the fear and worry.)

“Why build a robot with a heart you can break? Why build a robot that can break yours?”

———————————————————————

…We as a fandom really don’t talk about Dr. LaLinde enough

Like. Can you imagine just your daughter dying while you’re only a short distance away? Can you imagine not being able to stop it? Can you imagine holding her broken body in your arms, knowing that if she hadn’t been drilling there in the first place - if you hadn’t upgraded her to help you work, if you hadn’t sent a child in place of a tool - this wouldn’t have happened? Like. That’s horrifying. There’s no way that doesn’t stick to her, too.

————————————————————————

Lore:

Fixing Tempo took a few months. Part of her synthetic skin had been damaged (it’s only her skin; nothing too bad… a patch of synthetic skin can be replaced. Like it never happened.). Her helmet had cracked (thank goodness it hadn’t crushed her processor… a helmet can be replaced. Good as new.). One of her pauldrons was missing a chunk of it (it was replaceable. It could’ve been worse.). Her left arm was partially crushed (I can replace it. It’ll be like nothing happened). A particularly heavy rock had torn one of her legs clean off at the knee (But it did happen. She’d died. What kind of mother would allow that?). When she inspected Tempo’s processor for damage, she found nothing too serious. Still… she should examine Tempo’s IC Chip. (That can’t be replaced.)

During that time, Dr. LaLinde started getting nightmares. What if the cave-in had rendered Tempo unfixable? What would she have done then?

(Tempo isn’t replaceable.)

When it came time to reinsert Tempo’s IC chip, a thought crossed Dr. LaLinde’s mind: she was having an awful time - nightmares, numbness, anxiety, grief - and she wasn’t even the one who had died that day. How much worse would it be for Tempo?

What kind of mother would she be if she let her daughter suffer?

…it’s better this way… right?

—————————————————

Notes:

I wasn’t really satisfied copying the actual panel. It communicates everything fine, but I felt like I could go a bit harder. So I messed up Tempo’s hair a bit, cracked her armor, threw a bunch of dirt on there, and then thought “eh… yeah let’s put a gash across her face as well.”

This took literal hours. I made myself cry a little bit. To be fair, that might’ve been in part due to listening to Fourth of July by Sufjan Stevens on loop while drawing…

they live rent free in my brain & i’m not even mad about it. i do have to make you guys suffer for it tho. sorry.

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idontparticularlyliketoast · 7 months ago

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That fucking robot got in my head dog

***

BOOT UP SEQUENCE READY

FIRMWARE

LATEST UPDATE: (2112.08.06)

CALIBRATION

EXPIRED

NEW CALIBRATION REQUIRED

AUDIO OK

“-works!” A voice said. It echoed strangely.

There was the sound of an engine humming, but smoother, quieter. Not the tell-tale gurgle of blood-mechanisms.

VIDEO OK

It’s vision flickered on, a ceiling looming above it. Old stone. Something next to it was glowing, a faint yellow hue filling the space.

MECHANICS ERROR

RUN DIAGNOSTIC

MECHANICS DIAGNOSTIC RESULT:

FOREIGN MATERIAL DETECTED

FOREIGN CODE DETECTED

CRITICAL SYSTEMS COMPROMISED

FUEL RESERVES AT 0%

SHUT DOWN IN 3 2 1

“What– no– don’t– ugh.” The person beside it shifted, and the light pulsed blue.

ERROR

SHUT DOWN HALTED DUE TO FUEL DISCREPANCY

ALL SYSTEMS POWERED

FUEL RESERVES AT 0%

ERROR

RUN DIAGNOSTIC

CALIBRATION DIAGNOSTIC RESULT:

FOREIGN MATERIAL COMPATIBLE WITH UNIT MECHANICS

FOREIGN CODE COMPATIBLE WITH OPERATING SYSTEM

ACCEPT FOREIGN MATERIAL?

YES

CALIBRATION RESUMED

MECHANICS OK

A thousand connections fired, a thousand little servos testing a new body. The resulting feedback was clear. The legs were standard issue, as was the right arm and head. The foreign object was the left arm, and a section of the diaphragm.

STATUS UPDATE:

MACHINE ID: VI

LOCATION: UNKNOWN

CURRENT OBJECTIVE: DETERMINE SITUATION

V1 rotated its head, inspecting the changes. The new arm resembled their right in form, but it was a completely new material, golden and glowing.

It then glanced up.

Standing beside it, holding a clip-board, was an angel.

Prior experience determined this was a new subtype. It had a more human form than a Virtue, but it didn’t have enough armor to be an arch-angel. A gold and silver helm with a design that mimicked rings of eyes. Some basic vambraces. All the rest of their form was covered by cloth drapings.

ERROR

PRIORITY OVERRIDE

REASON: FUEL RESERVES AT 0%

NEW OBJECTIVE: FIND FUEL

Prior experience indicated that V1 would be strapped down to the table. It was standard procedure when working with blood-fueled machines. It would be idiotic to wake up a hungry machine and not at least restrain it. V1 prepared to break the restraints.

V1 was not strapped down. It automatically discarded that strain of data-analysis, its core frantically trying to conserve energy. Energy that it shouldn’t have, because it didn’t have any blood.

CURRENT OBJECTIVE: BLOOD

The angel didn’t have any time to react before they were on the ground, V1 on top of them. The new arm was no Knuckleblaster, but it still smashed in the angel’s chest. Crimson splashed upwards, and its strikes grew in speed. Over and over again, it crushed glowing flesh, fists trading blows with ruthless efficiency.

Only when the blood stopped flowing, and the flesh stopped glowing, did V1 stop hitting.

FUEL RESERVES AT 41%

DATA ANALYSIS:

MANKIND IS DEAD

HELL IS GONE.

BLOOD IS FUEL.

THIS UNIT WAS FUNCTIONING AT 0%.

RESULTS INCONCLUSIVE

NEW OBJECTIVE: FIND A WEAPON

It scanned its surroundings. The work-station it had been laying on was nothing more than cut stone. Around it, someone has set up various tables, which held unknown tools and substances. The tables were definitely a newer addition– everything else in the room was covered in a fine layer of dust, including the blood-splattered floor. The room was a square of sharp stone angles with V1’s slab in the center. The only thing else of interest were a series of shelves cut directly into the rock walls.

Most of the shelves held crumbling books, irrelevant. But just behind where V1’s head had lain, on a particularly large shelf, were guns**. Large ones, small ones, even a few that looked like they’d been pulled right off the back of other machines.

V1 started throwing them into its wings with gleeful abandon. It had just finished shoving a massive rail cannon into its storage when the data connected; these weren’t random guns, these were its** guns. And, if its internal storage systems were working correctly, they had ammo.

It continued shoving them into its storage, and then began exploring the room.

NEW OBJECTIVE: ESCAPE

There was no clear door for the angel to have come. Could it have teleported inside? Possibly, but V1 was not sure the tables were small enough for an angel to teleport. Especially one of a lower power-level. Prior experience suggested there was a relation between matter moved and power expended. V1 noticed a break in pattern; there were only shelves on three walls of the room. It jumped over to the wall, and punched it with the new arm.

It flashed gold, and the stone cracked. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the small chamber.

It considered the glowing arm, and labeled it Godpiercer. Godpiercer was sending what V1 could only interpret as off-signals for certain temporary conditions. It switched a random one on.

The arm prompted a further selection:

SPECIFY FORM:

MEMORY/FEEDBACKER

MEMORY/KNUCLEBLASTER

MEMORY/WHIPLASH

FEEDBACKER OK

The golden metal glowed brighter, and began to twist and warp. Metal plates wrenched apart, light growing in a sudden and violent osmosis. A second, more familiar arm, tore itself free from its sibling. “Feedbacker” glowed with an alien light. V1 made a quick inspection; a near perfect copy.

FUEL RESERVES AT 39%

Immediately, the machine switched the function off. The mimic arm was reabsorbed instantly, but the burnt fuel didn’t return.

NEW OBJECTIVE: DETERMINE MECHANISM USED BY ANGEL. IF FUEL DROPS TO 37% BEFORE OBJECTIVE COMPLETION, THEN SUMMON KNUCKLEBLASTER AND DESTROY WALL.

It returned to the body, and reached down to tear the skull off, before stopping. It was not in Hell, and if the angel had to be decapitated to use the mechanism, it wouldn’t have been able to revive V1. It settled instead for picking up the entire corpse and hucking it towards the wall.

No result. It scanned the rest of the room.

There was nothing else except the books and the angel’s tools. It began pulling books off the shelves, scanning through them as quickly as its processor could handle.

No relevant data. Many of the books were poorly constructed, damaged or otherwise unreadable. It was mostly disconnected sentence fragments, with no clear relation to the stone chamber or the construction. Its processor flagged some passages as containing familiar phrases and names. They were disregarded as irrelevant to the current objective.

Nothing. It returned to the angel’s tools, and began scanning and categorizing them. Group context suggested they were tools for repairing complex machinery and robotics, though many of them were completely alien.

It picked up a screwdriver. It threw it at the wall. The screwdriver tinged off, falling onto the angel’s body with a slightly wet thunk.

V1 began throwing all of the tools at the wall.

It succeeded in destroying a good amount of the angel’s tools, and the carefully pristine room was now a complete wreck. There was no other effect.

Its fuel reserves ticked down.

NEW OBJECTIVE: BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF THAT WALL

It sprang to the new vacated bookshelf on the far side, its legs crouched, springs coiled. It summoned Knuckleblaster, the gold and red mass pulling free with the sound of a sword unsheathing. Then it powered its legs, aiming right for the spot it had previously cracked.

Shining metal met stone with the force of a bullet shot at point-blank, and the wall shattered.

A moment later, the machine stood up out of the rubble, and scanned its surroundings. It was dusk, and V1 was in a forest.

This was not a visual error. It double-checked.

RUN DIAGNOSTIC

MEMORY DIAGNOSTIC RESULT:

EARTH WAS A BURNT RUIN

MANKIND WAS DEAD

HELL WAS DESTROYED

THIS UNIT CONTINUED OPERATION FOR 5.6 YEAR(S) PAST PROJECTED TERMINATION DATE DUE TO GABRIEL

ESSENTIAL MOBILITY AND FUEL RETAINMENT SYSTEMS DEGRADED AND WERE UNABLE TO BE REPLACED

THIS UNIT DIED

ALL DATA CORRECT

That was… exactly what it remembered. It explained nothing. There was no sign of memory tapering in the diagnostic or gaps in recording. It had** died in a corpse of a world bled dry. And now it was standing in a forest, alive.

And it was still hungry.

FUEL RESERVES AT 36%

NEW OBJECTIVE: FIND FUEL

SECONDARY OBJECTIVE: FIND ANSWERS AND/OR GABRIEL

#ultrakill #toast talks #went into a fugue state. stayed up till 3am. bon apetit!#fanfic #Formatting on mobile is a nightmare #But the colors are fun #no idea how to do that on ao3 #Tagging this as #gabv1el #since he shows up later and they have a nice time beating the shit out of eachother

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burnwater13 · 3 months ago

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Grogu, with Kuiil looking over his shoulder, shows off the power suit from his new building kit. Various mini-figs observe. LEGO Robot World, Kit # 60421. Image by me.

Size Restrictions

Grogu didn’t understand why his dad was so worried about going back to Biggs BigsBees Balance Garden and Entertainments. Just because Seb gave him a really cool new building set didn’t mean that Grogu wanted to drag his dad back to that facility. Sure it was fun and there had been a lot to see and do and eat. But he was older now and flying around like a hive of bees swarming a person trying to steal their honey was for youngsters. He wanted to go to Droid-O-Rama on Cantonica. Now they had some really cool rides.

Grogu hadn’t realized that this kit was the newest ride that had been built at Droid-O-Rama. But then he used his datapad to check some details on the kit and discovered that it had been created to celebrate the newest addition to the park. He had no idea how Seb had managed to come across the kit. As far as Grogu could tell most folks would only ever see one in a vid because they had sold out immediately. Of course Seb was a Jedi once and maybe that had something to do with his ability to come by such a rare kit?

Grogu didn’t really care, one way or the other. He was happy to start working on the kit and was happy to see the first few things he was making were more little figures and some sort of mech. He expected it was probably a tool they used to inspect the finished ride. It wasn’t easy to just get a speeder bike or even a maintenance hover lift to get everywhere you had to go in order to inspect couplings, transitions, and the amount of debris the ride accumulated.

Yup. That’s right. Rides accumulated debris. Hats, candy, drink containers, bags of all sorts, and, if his dad had been on the ride, the last meal someone had eaten. It was dangerous to let that stuff build up. For one thing, people wanted their stuff back, usually. Din Djarin didn’t want the stuff he left behind on a ride back, but then Grogu wouldn’t have wanted it either. But a hat? Sure. If he had a hat that was just perfect in size, style, and fit, he’d want it back. No one had ever made that hat as far as Grogu could tell but if he ever found one he’d want to retrieve it from a ride, no matter where it got lost.

But those few things were easy to build and didn’t really send his story telling senses into high gear. He needed the droid. Yup. This kit had a droid and he really hoped it had a power supply for it because he really wanted a little droid of his own. R5 was great, but to Grogu’s annoyance the astro-mech knew which side of its circuits the oil bath was accessed from and didn’t help him as much as the pit droids or R2-D2 had. R5 always had to check with the Mandalorian first and that meant that the answer was ‘no’. It was just that simple.

With his own droid, Grogu could make sure that orders for ration packs prohibited the kind that involved a lot of veggies, meats made from veggies, and desserts that contained veggies. He’d also make sure that the Mandalorian didn’t get up before dawn. R5 was afraid of that part of the night that came just before dawn. Something about shadows and low power levels. Whatever it was afraid of, it woke Din Djarin up out of a sound sleep and that caused the Mandalorian to declare it time to do some exercises. It was as bad as being at Luke’s Jedi Sleep Away Camp. Uff.

Well, Grogu couldn’t just day dream about what would be great in having his own little droid. He needed to get to work on building it. So with a grin on his face and the certainty that only good things could come of this build Grogu focused on the project in front of him and started to build the small droid. Of course, that made him wonder why some things were called ‘droids’ and others were called ‘mechs’. He’d never really considered it before, but now he wanted to know.

When he had a break in the build, he needed a snack and to use the privy, Grogu decided that he should ask R5. The astro-mech shouldn’t need Din Djarin’s permission to tell him that sort of thing and Grogu figured that it was better than just trying to look the information up on his datapad. After he took care of necessities, he trotted out to the N-1’s landing pad. The Mandalorian had put a shed out there to keep all the tools and parts he needed to keep the classic starship operational. It was Grogu’s opinion that the shed was almost as big as the cabin, but he didn’t tell his dad that. He didn’t want the Mandalorian to feel bad for playing favorites.

R5 was there, but he was connected to a charger. Womp rats! So much for getting first hand information. He’d just have to go back to the cabin and look things up and hope it made sense to him.

He hadn’t gotten two meters when he heard the mechanical voice of the Marshal, IG-11M.

“Youngling Grogu, were you looking for Mandalorian Bounty Hunter, Din Djarin?”

Grogu shook his head. He hadn’t even realized that his dad wasn’t there, he was so focused on speaking with R5.

“Very good. He asked me to remain here until he returned. He went to see a man about a ship. Is there some way I may of service to you?”

IG-11M spoke and he stepped over to Grogu. The droid’s long legs were able to cover the distance between them in just one step. Grogu wished that he had long legs like that. Then he wouldn’t have to trot everywhere.

“Mechs not droids?”

Grogu asked, knowing that IG-11M didn’t mind his horrible accent in Gal Basic.

“If I understand your question correctly you wish to know the difference between mechs and droids?”

Grogu nodded his head.

“There has been some disagreement between the various makes and models of manufactured systems that are currently referred to as ‘mechs’ and ‘droids’ as to which came first and what the naming conventions should be to address that disagreement. Mechs for example suggest that their true first name was ‘mechanical assistant’. That term connotes any sort of mechanical device that is capable of assisting in any type of activity. According to their theory, ‘droids’ are a subset of mechs that appear more like humanoids, than not. Droids do not agree with that perspective because it suggests that being bi-pedal in design is the most critical feature of the category as opposed to the activities and actions that a droid is able to independently undertake. As I understand things, the two groups are at an impasse and suffer with the current naming with some ill-humor. I have found that it doesn’t create significant impact in my work to simply allow people to call me ‘Marshal’ and not correct them. May I ask why you are considering this point as neither a mech, nor a droid?”

Grogu sighed and then instructed the Marshal to follow him back to the cabin. He showed his friend the building kit.

“I see. This is neither a mech nor a droid. It is a power suit. It is designed to allow another being to operate it. I suppose that being could be a mech or a droid or even a life form such as yourself, with some modifications to the design. I hope that satisfies your need for information.”

Grogu nodded his head. It did. Satisfy his need to be disappointed just when he planned to use that little droid to a lot of things for him.

“As I recall, before my new circuit card was installed, you were able to use my framework in much the same manner. I’ve checked the data sets and you seemed quite adept at manipulating the controls. You could make similar controls for this unit, but operate it remotely due to its size restrictions.”

Finally a time when size restrictions didn’t keep him from doing what he wanted! Yippee!

#grogu #the mandalorian #din djarin #star wars #lego star wars #ig 11

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