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cressidagrey · 27 days ago

Text

Formidable

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: Andrea Stella figures out that Felicity Piastri is more than “just” Oscar’s wife.

Notes: Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble and checks my science-y mumbo jumbo 😂

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

It started the way most breakthroughs did—not with a groundbreaking discovery, but with a tired engineer holding a half-wrinkled printout and a hopeful expression.

“Boss,” James said, hovering just inside the doorway of Andrea’s office. “I think you should read this.”

Andrea looked up from his laptop. “If it’s another CFD model from that Reddit forum, I swear—”

“It’s not. It’s from a paper. Academic. Legit. Published in Race Systems & Applied Motion last month.”

Andrea raised an eyebrow. “Obscure.”

“Very. It has like 20 readers,” the engineer agreed. “But I think it’s real. It’s clean. It’s sharp. It’s…” He hesitated. “We might want to test it.”

That got Andrea’s attention.

He took the paper and began to skim.

Title: Redefining Compliance: Adaptive Suspension Geometry Under Load-Sensitive Parameters for Mid-Field Chassis Configurations.

Andrea kept reading. It was dense—academic, yes—but it was also practical. It spoke the language of someone who knew exactly what they were doing. There were no ego traps. No unnecessary complexity. Just hard math and hard-earned insight.

Andrea flipped the page. Then another. His eyes caught a note referencing flex dynamics in chassis response curves and passive recovery lag.

It was correct. More than correct. It was insightful.

The author wasn’t spitballing ideas from afar—this was the work of someone who had lived in the theory and understood the application. Who referenced real-world tolerances. Racing examples. The math was sound. The diagrams were better than half the ones their CFD team managed.

Andrea flipped back to the byline.

Dr. F. Piastri.

Piastri.

James grinned. “Fun coincidence in the name, right? He’s smart.”

Andrea didn’t correct him.

Because yes—coincidence. Probably. But something about it stuck in his brain, like a whisper he couldn’t quite place.

He read the essay in full that night—twice. It was elegant, sharp, and frustratingly precise in the way only truly experienced voices ever were. The type of clarity that came from years of not just understanding a concept, but translating it into reality.

The next morning, Andrea sent out an internal email.

Subject: Additional Works by Dr. F. Piastri If anyone has access to prior publications by this author, please forward them to me.

By the end of the week, his inbox was full.

One essay became three. Three became eleven. Eleven became twenty.

Each one published under the name F.Piastri, buried in obscure journals and small-circulation engineering reviews that didn’t get traffic unless someone was either deeply curious or incredibly desperate.

Andrea was both.

Each article was smarter than the last—strange, elegant engineering thought-pieces published across the most obscure academic mechanical journals Andrea had ever encountered. Niche ones. The kind that only the most obsessive minds contributed to, with names like Thermoelasticity in Microstructured Materials and Lateral Load Adaptation Quarterly.

F.Piastri had written:

An article about Load-dependent understeer in transitional corners (with math that Andrea double-checked twice because it was too clean).

A 2019 think-piece on long-run stability under thermal degradation.

An essay about Aerodynamic oscillation buffering for short-track endurance vehicles.

An article about the economic viability of 3D printed carbon struts under rotational shear (he actually flagged that one for McLaren Applied).

A thesis that corrected a widely accepted torque model—buried in a conference archive.

A published rebuttal in Journal of Vehicle Design so politely worded it read like a love letter—until you realized she’d rewritten the reviewer’s assumptions line by line.

There was even one article on fluid dynamics that had been cited in a grad-level textbook from ETH Zurich.

Andrea devoured them all.

He—She?—wrote like someone who saw the car before it was built. Who understood not just how suspension worked, but how it felt. How energy passed through a chassis not as force but as intent.

The writing style was sharp. Practical. Absolutely ruthless in its logic. There was clarity there—an elegance—that reminded him of only a few people he’d ever worked with.

It was revolutionary. It was poetic.

By the time he tracked down the doctoral thesis from Oxford, Andrea wasn’t breathing properly.

Reinforcement Through Flexibility: Dynamic Adaptation in Composite- Structured Performance Environments.

By: F. Piastri.

Submitted: December 2022

Andrea stared at the name.

F. Piastri.

He stared for so long his tea went cold beside him.

His hands were shaking—not because of nerves, but because he already knew.

He opened the PDF. Skimmed past the table of contents. Scrolled through diagrams that made his heart stutter.

There was no photo. No biographical section. Just a clean Oxford University seal, 284 pages of dense, brilliant theory, and then—

A dedication.

To Oscar: For believing in a future that didn’t exist yet, and building it with me anyway. Every lap, every choice, every time—you’ve been my constant.

And to Bee: For reminding me that softness and strength aren’t opposites. You are the best thing I’ve ever helped create.

Andrea sat back in his chair like he’d been physically shoved.

Bee.

Oscar.

F. Piastri.

Felicity Piastri.

Felicity.

Oscar’s wife.

Dr. F. Piastri wasn’t some reclusive academic or distant uncle with a gift for simulation modeling.

She lived in Oscar’s house.

She packed his lunchbox.

She raised their daughter.

And she had published papers on suspension theory that half of F1 would kill to understand. Quietly. Efficiently. Correctly.

Andrea leaned back in his chair, stared at the ceiling for a long moment, and whispered:

“…Of course it’s his wife.”

Of course the quiet, composed driver who rarely raised his voice and always had one hand on the bigger picture had married someone brilliant. Of course she wasn’t just talented—she was a published expert with a doctorate from Oxford.

Not a coincidence.

Not a mystery engineer.

Not some guy.

But Oscar’s wife.

Oscar Piastri—quiet, methodical Oscar—had married a genius.

A doctor of mechanical engineering from Oxford who wrote better technical documentation in a margin note than most engineers did in a year. Who published under initials. Who could probably solve half their handling inconsistencies while holding a toddler on her hip.

Andrea sat in silence for a full minute.

Then he exhaled. “...of course he did.”

He opened a new tab.

Email draft:

To: Technical Team

Subject: URGENT – Reference Reading Required Attached: Every single thing Dr. F. Piastri had ever published.

***

The meeting was meant to be quick.

Just a routine Monday touchpoint—debrief, run through media notes with Sophie, talk sponsor appearances, maybe discuss Oscar’s upcoming comms obligations.

Zak had rolled in with a protein shake.

Lando was lounging sideways in a chair like he’d melted into it.

Oscar had a protein bar and an expression of polite mildness, as usual.

Andrea, meanwhile, had not slept.

Not because of the race.

Because he’d spent the entire weekend reading Dr. Felicity Piastri’s entire body of work. Every published paper. Every obscenely niche journal article.

And her doctoral thesis.

He hadn’t meant to do it all in one sitting. He just couldn’t stop.

By 2 a.m. he was muttering things like “Of course she used Euler-Bernoulli assumptions, she’s too smart for non-parametric bullshit.”

By 4 a.m., he’d highlighted her proposed solution to dampen micro-vibration load in corner exits.

By 6 a.m., he had a headache, an existential crisis, and a desperate need to know: Why had Oscar Piastri never mentioned this?!

So at the end of the meeting—just as Sophie was wrapping up and Lando was aimlessly spinning a pen like a propeller—Andrea set down a file on the table.

Calmly. Casually. Like he hadn’t just had his entire mechanical worldview rattled by a woman who wasn’t even on the payroll.

“Oscar,” Andrea said, voice deceptively neutral. “Why didn’t you ever mention that your wife holds a doctorate in mechanical engineering?”

Oscar, halfway through eating his protein bar, blinked. “What?”

Andrea gestured vaguely, as if the thesis were still radiating brilliance from his desk. “Felicity. Doctorate. Thesis. Dozens of published papers. Half of them useful to our current car design issues. Why didn’t you say anything?”

Oscar blinked once. “Oh. Yeah. She gets bored sometimes.”

Andrea blinked back.

Lando stared like he’d been smacked with a front wing. “Wait—she got a doctorate?!”

Oscar nodded, chewing. “Yeah. Finished it in 2022. She was stuck in that horrible flat in Enstone while I was back and forth with Alpine, and she got bored. Wrote most of it at the kitchen table while Bee napped.”

Andrea just… stared.

He had read the thesis. Studied it. The mathematical modeling alone had kept him awake at night—and she had apparently written it during toddler nap times, while stuck in a damp shoebox flat in Oxfordshire.

Zak looked up slowly from his tablet. “Your wife was bored. So she got a PhD in mechanical engineering.”

Oscar shrugged. “She already had the research mostly done before Bee was even born in 2020. She just had to write it up. Bee was napping a lot anyway.”

Sophie blinked. “She wrote a 200-page dissertation with a toddler in the house?”

Oscar just shrugged. “It helped that Bee liked the sound of the keyboard.”

Andrea turned to Zak, still stunned. “She predicted the kind of high-frequency oscillation we’re seeing this season. Two years ago. In a footnote.”

Lando leaned forward like he was watching a live feed of someone discovering aliens. “She’s just, like, a genius?” he asked, voice too loud, too incredulous. “And you never brought it up?”

Oscar just sighed. “She hates that word.”

Andrea just stared at him. “Oscar, she’s not just good. She’s formidable. Has she ever applied anywhere formally?”

Oscar looked genuinely confused. “Why would she apply anywhere?”

Andrea stared. “To work. In engineering. In motorsport. Academia.”

Oscar blinked. “She does work. She manages our lives, Bee, the house, and the chickens.”

Lando leaned toward Andrea, wide-eyed: “I’ve never felt dumber in my entire life.”

Andrea sighed. “Join the club.”

***

The kitchen smelled like vanilla and wood polish and faintly like chicken coop — which meant Felicity had mopped and baked and wrangled Mansell, the escape artist hen, all while probably rebalancing one of their stock portfolios.

Oscar dropped his bag by the door and leaned against the kitchen entryway.

Felicity was sitting at the table in her old university hoodie, feet bare, Bee curled up under her arm asleep with Button the frog as a pillow. There were spreadsheets open on one side of her laptop screen, a half-watched nature documentary on the other, and one of Bee’s plastic toy bulls standing solemnly in the middle of the table for reasons unknown.

He smiled.

God, he loved her.

“Hey,” he said softly.

Felicity glanced up. “Hey. Dinner’s in the oven. Bee passed out mid-pie crust.”

“Excellent,” Oscar said, dropping into the chair beside her. “Because I need carbs.”

She raised an eyebrow, equal parts amusement and curiosity. “Bad day?”

“No. Just... intellectually humbling.”

Felicity made a low amused noise and went back to her laptop. “Did Lando try to explain crypto again?”

Oscar snorted and reached over to carefully lift Bee into his lap, her curls warm against his hoodie. She barely stirred.

He could have let it sit. Saved it for later. But it was buzzing under his skin.

“Stella read your papers.”

That got her attention.

Felicity paused, her fingers stilled mid-scroll. “Which one?”

“All of them,” Oscar said. “Apparently it started with one of the engineers, who brought an article in from Race Systems & Applied Motion. Then he spiraled.”

“Ah,” Felicity murmured, unsurprised. “That one had a good diagram.”

“He found your thesis,” Oscar added.

This time she didn’t answer right away.

He reached for one of Bee’s crayons and twirled it idly in his fingers, watching her.

“He read the dedication,” he said, voice quieter now.

Felicity’s eyes softened in that way that always undid him a little. Always had.

“Did he say anything?” she asked.

Oscar smiled faintly. “He said you’re formidable.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Felicity laughed—not loud, not startled, just warm and wry and a little disbelieving.

“God help the man,” she said. “He must have hit the rebuttal piece from the Vehicle Design Journal. That one made a few engineers cry.”

Oscar grinned. “Yeah, well. He was halfway to building you a shrine by the end of the meeting. I also told him you got bored in Enstone and wrote your PhD while Bee was napping.”

Felicity gave him a look. “You make it sound like I was scrapbooking.”

“Weren’t you also doing that at the time?”

Felicity blinked. “...Okay, fair.”

Bee stirred slightly in his lap, a tiny sigh escaping her lips as she nuzzled deeper into his hoodie sleeve.

Oscar looked down at her—this tiny human they somehow made and raised—and then back at the woman across the table.

Her hair was messier than usual, strands escaping her braid, and there was a faint flour smudge near her temple. She hadn’t bought herself a new pair of jeans in two years. She sometimes forgot to eat when she was buried in simulations. She once fixed the bathroom plumbing at midnight because she didn’t like how the guy from the hardware store spoke to her.

She was the smartest person he knew.

Oscar knew most people wouldn’t think it when they first met her. She smiled too easily. She didn’t correct anyone. She let others assume things—that she was just the girlfriend, just the wife, just the mother.

But she had a doctorate from Oxford, and more published academic papers than most career professors. She could hold court with race engineers and theoretical physicists in the same breath, then go home and teach Bee how to build a pulley system out of Lego and twine. She spoke in quiet, exact terms, and when she challenged people, she did it so gently they sometimes didn’t notice until it was too late.

He’d long since stopped being surprised by her. He’d just—normalized it. Integrated it. Felicity being a genius was like oxygen to him: invisible, essential, and easy to take for granted until someone else nearly passed out from the realization.

She was just Fliss to him.

The woman who sold her designer bags to pay rent when her family cut her off. The mother of his child. His fiercest critic and his most devoted supporter. The one person he trusted without hesitation.

She didn’t want headlines or praise. She wanted quiet mornings and clever puzzles. She wanted Bee to grow up confident. She wanted Oscar to remember to eat something green.

She was the smartest person he knew — and she hated being called smart. So he didn’t. He just came home.

“He called you formidable,” he repeated. “And I agree. For what it’s worth.”

Felicity smiled then—slow and quiet, the kind that reached all the way to her eyes.

She leaned across the table and kissed his temple. “Thanks,” she said. “But if he asks me to consult, I’m charging him triple.”

Oscar laughed softly and ran a hand through Bee’s curls. “Deal.”

And he meant it. Because maybe it was easy for him to forget sometimes, tucked into the quiet rhythm of their life, that the world hadn’t caught up to how brilliant she was.

But he never stopped being proud of her.

Not for a second.

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ghstyles · 2 months ago

Text

Protocol | His Angel

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

Pairing: College!Yn x CrimeBossl!Harry

WC: 4K

Summary: You’ve been ignoring Harry’s safety protocols. This comes back to bite you in the ass

Requested

His Angel Masterlist

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

The sun beats down on the university parking lot, the asphalt radiating heat in visible waves as students hurry between their vehicles and the air-conditioned buildings. It's late afternoon on a Friday, and the lot is beginning to empty as weekend plans take precedence over academics.

You emerge from the English Literature building, hair piled in a messy bun atop your head, a few strands escaping to frame your face. You’re dressed for the summer heat in high-waisted shorts and a light blouse, your bag heavy with books slung over one shoulder. Your phone chimes as you approach your car—a modest but reliable model that Harry had insisted on having his mechanic thoroughly inspect when he first got you the car.

Checking the notification, you see a text from Harry: Heading home?

A small smile tugs at your lips as you type back a quick Just leaving campus now. Should be home in 20.

Home. The word still feels strange sometimes. This idea that Harry's penthouse has become as much your space as your own small student apartment. Over the past year, the transition had been so gradual you hardly noticed until suddenly most of your belongings had migrated to his place, and you also found yourself spending five or six nights a week there.

Another text arrives as you reach your car: Check everything?

You roll your eyes, though there's no one around to see your exasperation. A year into your relationship, and Harry's security protocols have become a familiar routing. Sometimes comforting, sometimes frustrating, but always non-negotiable.

You send back a thumbs-up emoji, knowing it will irritate him. Harry prefers explicit confirmation, not ambiguous symbols. Sure enough, three dots appear immediately, indicating he's typing what you assume will be a slightly annoyed response.

Before he can send it, you sigh and begin the routine you’ve grudgingly incorporated into your daily life. First, you verify that your location sharing is active, which is easy enough, and you understand the logic behind it, given the enemies Harry has accumulated over the years. Next, you do a quick walk around the car, checking that it appears undisturbed.

The third rule is the one you’re most inconsistent about: checking beneath the vehicle for explosive devices. It had seemed absurdly paranoid when Harry first insisted on it, like something from a spy film rather than a precaution needed in real life. Most days, you give the undercarriage a cursory glance at best, sometimes skipping it entirely when you’re running late or the weather is bad.

Today, though, as you stand in the sweltering heat with sweat beginning to bead along your hairline, you decide to humor him properly. Maybe it's the way his text seemed more insistent than usual, or maybe it's just that the anniversary of your first meeting is approaching, making you more indulgent of his protective instincts.

"Fine, Harry," you mutter to yourself, crouching down to peer beneath the car with exaggerated thoroughness. "Let's check for the imaginary bomb that's definitely not—"

The words die in your throat as your eyes land on something that absolutely should not be there. A small device attached to the underside of the chassis, a red light blinking steadily in the shadows.

For a moment, you simply stare, your brain refusing to process what you see. Then panic surges through your system, heart rate spiking as you scramble backward, nearly falling in your haste to put distance between yourself and the car.

With shaking hands, you pull out your phone, hitting Harry's contact without conscious thought. He answers on the first ring.

"Angel?" His voice is alert, no trace of the casual tone from your texts just minutes ago.

"Harry," you gasp, your voice higher than normal, words tumbling out in a rush. "There's—under my car—there's a device with a blinking light. I swear to God, Harry, it looks like a bomb. I'm not joking. It's really there!"

There's a beat of silence on the other end of the line, and then, to your complete disbelief, Harry chuckles. It's a low, dark sound that makes you freeze in confusion.

"Well, well," he says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. "You finally decided to take me seriously, did you?"

"What?" you blink, confusion momentarily overriding your fear. "Harry, I'm not kidding around. There is literally a device attached to my car right now!"

"I know," he replies, sounding infuriatingly calm. "I put it there."

The words take a moment to register, and when they do, you feel a surge of emotions: relief, quickly followed by disbelief, and then indignation.

"You...what?" you splutter, straightening up from your crouched position. "You put a fake bomb under my car? What the actual fuck, Harry?"

"Yeah, and by the way," he continues, ignoring your outburst, "it's been there for two weeks, angel. Took you long enough to fucking notice."

You stand in the middle of the parking lot, mouth open in shock, as the implications sink in. Two weeks. The device has been attached to your car for two weeks, and you’ve been driving around completely oblivious, skipping the safety check Harry had insisted was non-negotiable.

"You..." you start, then stop, not even sure where to begin with your indignation. "You could have given me a heart attack! I thought I was about to be blown up!"

"Better scared than dead," Harry replies, his tone shifting to something harder, more serious. "If it had been real, your pretty little eyes would be scattered across the parking lot right now."

The graphic image makes your stomach turn, but before you can respond, he continues:

"Not that I actually rely on you to check properly. I'm not a fucking idiot."

"What's that supposed to mean?" you ask, still trying to process the fact that your boyfriend—the dangerous, powerful man you’ve been sharing a bed with for the past year—planted a fake explosive on your vehicle as some kind of test.

"It means," Harry says, his voice a mixture of amusement and exasperation, "that while you've been prancing around campus thinking safety protocols are optional, I've had Zayn checking your car daily. You think I'd leave your security up to someone who considers looking under a vehicle for two seconds 'good enough'?"

The revelation that one of Harry's most trusted men has been secretly monitoring your car every day should probably disturb you more than it does. Instead, you find yourself torn between lingering anger at the deception and a reluctant appreciation for the thoroughness of Harry's protection.

"So what was the point of this little exercise?" you demand, wiping sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand. "Just to prove I'm not taking your rules seriously enough?"

"The point," Harry says, and you can picture him perfectly. He’s most likely lounging in his office chair, one hand holding the phone while the other fiddles with something on his desk, his expression that maddening combination of arrogant and concerned that you’ve come to recognize as his default when it comes to your safety, "was to make you understand that these precautions aren't arbitrary. They're the difference between you walking through the door to me tonight and me identifying your body at the morgue."

The bluntness of his statement hits you like a physical blow, making you shiver despite the heat.

"That's not fair," you protest, though with less conviction than before. "You can't just put fake bombs on people's cars to teach them lessons."

"I didn't put it on 'people's' cars," Harry corrects you. "I put it on yours. Because unlike most people, you're connected to me, which makes you a target."

There's a pause, and when he speaks again, his voice has that dangerous softness that never fails to make your pulse quicken. The tone he uses when he's deadly serious about something.

"I have enemies, angel. Men who would hurt you without hesitation to get to me. The rules aren't suggestions. They're what keep you breathing."

You sigh, your initial anger fading as the reality of his words sinks in. It's easy to forget sometimes, in the comfort of your domestic routine, just how dangerous Harry's world really is. Yes, you’ve seen glimpses of it, the meetings that end with bruised knuckles and terse phone calls, the nights he comes home with blood on his shirt that isn't his own, the way his men snap to attention when he enters a room. But most of the time, you’re sheltered from the worst of it, protected by Harry's influence and reputation.

"Okay," you finally concede. "I get it. I'll be more careful. But don't ever do something like this again without warning me, or I swear to God, Harry—"

"You'll what?" he interrupts, and you can hear the smile in his voice now. That dangerous curve of his lips that still makes your stomach flip after a year together. "Punish me?"

The suggestion sends an inappropriate heat through your body despite your lingering irritation.

"I'll think of something," you promise, trying to keep your voice stern even as a reluctant smile tugs at your own lips. "So, what now? Do I just...leave this fake bomb on my car?"

"Zayn's on his way to remove it," Harry informs you. "He should be there in about five minutes. And then you're coming straight home."

It's not a request, but you don't bother arguing. The adrenaline from your initial panic is wearing off, leaving you feeling drained and, if you're honest, a little shaken by how easily you could have been in real danger without ever knowing it.

"Fine," you agree. "I'll see you soon."

"Oh, and angel?" Harry adds before you can hang up. "When you get here, we're going to have a very thorough discussion about the importance of following security protocols. Preferably with you on your knees."

The crude implication sends another inappropriate wave of heat through your body, and you find yourself biting your lip to suppress a smile despite everything.

"You're impossible," you tell him, but there's no real heat in the accusation.

"I'm effective," he corrects you. "And now you'll check under your car properly, won't you?"

"Yes," you admit grudgingly. "I will."

"Good girl," Harry says, satisfaction evident in his voice. "See you soon."

As you end the call, you spot a black SUV pulling into the parking lot. It's Zayn arriving to remove the fake device from your car. You shake your head, still not entirely sure whether to be furious with Harry for his extreme methods or grateful for the protection he provides, even when you’re too stubborn to accept its necessity.

One thing is certain, though, you'll be checking under your car properly from now on, no matter how ridiculous it seems. Because while Harry's methods may be extreme, his concern is genuine. And in his dangerous world, sometimes the difference between life and death really is as simple as taking an extra thirty seconds to be thorough.

As Zayn approaches with a nod of greeting, his dark eyes sweep the area with professional vigilance, and you make a mental note to start paying more attention to all of Harry's security rules. Not just because you finally understand their importance, but because the alternative is living with whatever creative "lesson" he might dream up next. And while this one ended with nothing more than a scare and a bruised ego, you have a feeling Harry’s patience for repeated carelessness is far more limited than he lets on.

"He made his point, then?" Zayn asks as he crouches to remove the device, his tone dry, like he already knows exactly what this little exercise was about.

"Oh, he made it," you reply, watching as he efficiently detaches the fake bomb from beneath your car. "Loudly and clearly."

Zayn’s lips quirk in what might be the closest thing to a smile you’ve ever seen from him. "He worries," he says simply, like that explains and justifies everything: the lie, the scare, the constant surveillance.

And the thing is, as you wait for him to finish so you can head back to the penthouse where Harry is waiting, you realize it does explain it. Because in Harry’s world, worry doesn’t show up as gentle reminders or heart-to-hearts. It shows up in through precautions, in backup plans for backup plans, in men like Zayn checking your car every day without your knowledge.

It’s love, expressed in the only language Harry truly understands: protection, control, and the absolute refusal to lose what he considers his. It’s not conventional, and it’s certainly not always easy to live with, but as you slide into your now-cleared car and drive toward the man who planted a fake bomb just to teach you a lesson, you find yourself smiling despite it all.

Because while normal boyfriends show they care with flowers and chocolate, Harry Styles does it with security protocols and staged explosions. And somehow, in the twisted logic of your relationship, that makes perfect sense.

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

It's a little past midnight, the kind of autumn night where the air carries a crisp bite that hints at the coming winter. Your student apartment sits nestled in a row of similar buildings, most windows dark as their occupants sleep or study in the quiet hours.

Inside your modest second-floor apartment, you move around in the soft glow of a reading lamp, preparing for bed. Your hair is damp from a recent shower, hanging in loose waves down your back as you pad barefoot across the worn wooden floors. You’re dressed in sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt stolen from Harry's drawer. It’s a habit you've developed early in the relationship, claiming his shirts were more comfortable than any pajamas you owned.

The space feels emptier without Harry's commanding presence, though he'd only left a few hours ago, called away by a business matter he refused to elaborate on. At this point in your relationship, you know better than to ask for details. Some aspects of Harry's work remain firmly separated from your life, a boundary you’ve learned to respect even as other lines between you have blurred beyond recognition.

Checking your phone, you see a text from him sent twenty minutes ago: Done for the night. Everything locked up there?

You roll your eyes affectionately at the familiar question.

Doors locked, alarm set, you type back, deliberately omitting any mention of the windows, particularly the one in your bedroom that you habitually leave unlocked despite Harry's repeated warnings. It's a small act of rebellion, one you justify with the logic that you live on the second floor, and no one is scaling the building to break in through your window.

Besides, you like the fresh air that circulates when you crack it open at night, especially now in the cooler months. Harry's paranoia about security is understandable given his lifestyle, but sometimes it feels excessive in the context of your ordinary student existence.

Your phone chimes with his response: Good. Get some sleep, angel. Early morning tomorrow.

You smile at the message, hearing it in his deep voice with that hint of command that never quite leaves his tone, even in the most mundane exchanges. Tomorrow you’re meant to drive out to meet Louis, one of Harry's associates who's opening a legitimate restaurant as a front for something you have deliberately not asked about.

Night x, you send back, then set your phone on the charger and move to the bathroom to finish your skincare routine.

Ten minutes later, you're sliding between the covers of your bed, the window cracked open just enough to let in a gentle breeze that stirs the curtains. The sound of occasional cars passing on the street below creates a soothing white noise as you reach for your book, intending to read a few pages before sleep.

Two chapters in, your eyelids begin to grow heavy, the day's activities catching up with you. Setting the book aside, you switch off the lamp and snuggle deeper into the covers, your breathing gradually slowing as you drift toward sleep.

You're in that hazy space between wakefulness and dreams when a subtle sound registers. A soft scraping from the direction of your window. Your eyes flutter open, squinting into the darkness as your sleep-fogged brain tries to identify the noise.

Probably just the wind, you think drowsily, about to close your eyes again when another sound comes, more distinct this time, the unmistakable creak of the window frame being pulled wider. Suddenly fully alert, Your heart leaps into your throat as adrenaline floods your system.

There's someone at your window.

Frozen in fear, you watch as a dark silhouette appears against the night sky, a large figure maneuvering with surprising grace through the opening. Your mind races wildly. The baseball bat you keep by your door is too far away and your phone is charging on the nightstand, out of immediate reach.

The intruder slips inside with practiced ease, landing on the floor with barely a sound. Tall and broad-shouldered, the figure straightens to its full height, casting a long shadow across your bedroom floor in the faint light filtering in from the street lamps outside.

Your fight-or-flight response kicks in, and you scramble to reach for your phone, a scream building in your throat only to have it die there as the intruder speaks in a low, familiar voice that sends a different kind of shiver down your spine.

"Doors locked, alarm set," Harry quotes your text back to you, his tone deceptively casual as he stands in the middle of your bedroom, having just climbed in through the very window you'd insisted was secure enough left unlocked. "But you forgot to mention the fucking windows, didn't you, angel?"

Relief courses through you, quickly followed by indignation as you fumble to switch on the bedside lamp. Light floods the room, revealing Harry in all his intimidating glory. He is dressed entirely in black, his hair slightly windswept, a dangerous glint in his eyes that suggests he's not at all pleased despite the calm delivery of his words.

"Jesus Christ, Harry!" you gasp, heart still hammering in your chest. "You nearly gave me a heart attack! What the hell are you doing?"

Harry doesn't immediately respond. Instead, he moves methodically around the room, checking the locks on your other windows and drawing the curtains closed before returning to stand at the foot of your bed. His expression is unreadable, but the tension in his jaw speaks volumes.

"Teaching you a lesson," he finally says, voice low and controlled in a way that raises goosebumps along your arms. "One you seem determined not to learn through conventional methods."

You sit up straighter against your headboard, pulling the covers up as if they might offer some protection against the intensity of his stare.

"By breaking into my apartment in the middle of the night?" you demand, your initial fear giving way to anger. "That's completely insane, Harry! You could have just talked to me about the window again if it bothers you so much."

"Talk to you?" Harry repeats, a bitter laugh escaping him as he plants his hands on the foot of your bed, leaning forward. "We've had this conversation six times in the past month alone. Clearly, talking isn't effective."

He straightens up, crossing his arms over his chest as he fixes you with a hard stare.

"So tell me, angel. What would you have done if I'd been someone else? Someone who'd been watching you, learning your habits, waiting for the perfect opportunity?"

The question lands like a slap, forcing you to confront the reality of your vulnerability. You'd been so confident in your assessment that no one could or would climb up to your second-floor window, yet Harry had managed it with disturbing ease.

"That's different," you argue, though with less conviction than before. "You're...athletic. And you knew the window would be unlocked."

"You think my enemies are recruiting out-of-shape amateurs?" Harry counters, his voice taking on an edge of frustration. "The men who would come for you because of me are professionals. They'd make what I just did look like child's play."

He runs a hand through his hair, a rare gesture of agitation that betrays how deeply this concerns him.

"And yes, I knew your window would be unlocked because you're fucking predictable, angel. You say the same thing every time. 'It's fine, Harry, I'm on the second floor', as if height is some magical deterrent to someone determined enough."

He moves to sit on the edge of the bed, close enough that you can smell the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with the cooler night air still clinging to his clothes. When he speaks again, his voice has dropped to that dangerous softness that never fails to make your stomach tighten.

"Do you have any idea what it would do to me if something happened to you because you were too stubborn to take basic precautions?" he asks, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, the gentle gesture at odds with the intensity of his gaze. "The men I've hurt for far less significant offenses than harming you?"

The question doesn't require an answer. They both know what Harry is capable of when provoked. The violence that simmers beneath his controlled exterior, usually kept carefully leashed but devastating when unleashed.

"I'm sorry," you finally say, the genuine concern beneath his anger finally penetrating your defenses. "I didn't think it was that serious."

"That's the problem," Harry replies, his fingers trailing down to your neck, resting lightly over your pulse point. "You don't think about these things because you've never had to. I have."

His hand moves to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your lower lip in a caress that makes your breath catch despite the tension still lingering between them.

"I don't expect you to live in fear," he continues, his tone softening slightly. "But I do expect you to take reasonable precautions that might keep you alive if the worst happens."

You lean into his touch, the last of your indignation fading as you acknowledge the legitimate concern behind his extreme methods.

"Okay," you concede quietly. "I'll keep the windows locked from now on." A small smile tugs at your lips despite everything. "Though I have to say, your teaching methods are rather dramatic."

Harry's expression remains serious, though something in his eyes shifts at your attempt at lightness.

"Would you rather I'd send someone else to prove my point?" he asks, and there's no humor in the question. "One of my men could have climbed through just as easily."

The suggestion sends a chill through you, the image of a stranger entering your bedroom while you slept is far more terrifying than finding Harry there, even when he was angry.

"God, no," you answer honestly, shuddering at the thought.

"Then consider yourself lucky it was me," Harry says, his hand moving from your face to your throat, fingers wrapping loosely around it, not threatening, but a reminder of your vulnerability. "Next time, I might not be so merciful with my teaching methods."

There's a promise in those words that makes you swallow hard, uncertain whether the flutter in your stomach is fear or anticipation or some complex mixture of both. This is the duality of loving Harry Styles. The protection and the danger are so intricately intertwined that sometimes you can't distinguish between them.

"There won't be a next time," you assure him, reaching up to cover his hand with your own. "Message received, loud and clear."

Harry studies you for a long moment, as if assessing the sincerity of your words. Whatever he sees in your expression must satisfy him, because some of the tension leaves his shoulders.

"Good," he says simply, his thumb stroking the delicate skin of your neck. Then a different kind of darkness enters his eyes as his gaze drops to take in your sleep attire. Specifically, his shirt hanging off one shoulder, revealing more than it conceals. "Now that we've settled that issue, we need to address another matter."

"What's that?" you ask, your voice catching slightly as you recognize the shift in his demeanor.

"The fact that you're wearing my clothes without permission," Harry says, his voice dropping to a lower register that never fails to send heat pooling low in your belly. "That's my favorite shirt."

The accusation is clearly a pretense, given how many of his shirts have migrated to your wardrobe over the months, but you decide to play along, grateful for the change in mood.

"Oh?" you reply innocently, shifting so that the shirt slips further off your shoulder. "I didn't realize. Should I take it off?"

Harry's eyes darken further, his hand tightening slightly around your throat.

"I think you should," he agrees, his voice a low growl that makes your shiver for entirely different reasons than fear. "Slowly."

As you reach for the hem of the borrowed shirt, the earlier tension of the night transforms into a different kind of intensity that's become as familiar as breathing in your relationship. By morning, the lesson about window locks will have been reinforced in ways far more pleasurable than Harry's initial break-in, but no less effective in ensuring you remember.

And remember you will, because if there's one thing you have learned in your time with Harry Styles, it's that his protective instincts are not to be dismissed. Especially not if you want to avoid discovering what other creative "teaching methods" he might devise to keep you safe in his dangerous world.

When you wake the next morning to find every window in your apartment not just locked but reinforced with additional security measures installed while you slept, you don't protest. Instead, you simply send Harry a text: Message received. Windows locked. Lesson learned.

His response comes seconds later: Good girl. Let's keep it that way.

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

a/n: I mean…Harry's got a point. Safety protocols are not a joke but he was a bit extra hahah. Hope ya'll enjoyed

Reblogs and comments are always appreciated :)

Taglist: @silastylesswift @babegoals @harryssunflower17 @puzio19 @goldensunflowerss-blog @drewrry @tinawritesstuff @dipmeinhoneyh @spinninc @harrystyleshotwife @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @estaticheart @harrysguccihandbag @mads3502 @harrydeary @valuunit @myfavfanficsever @lunaharrygurl @prettygurl-2009 @caynonmoondreams @mellamolayla @maddiesalvatore1839

#ghstyles #harry styles x reader #harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fic #harry styles x y/n #harry styles imagine #his angel #harry styles one shot #harry styles fanfic #one direction

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carsthatnevermadeitetc · 1 year ago

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Renault Modus Concept, 1994. A prototype multi-function modular commercial vehicle that had a base cab/chassis and a series of pods that could be fitted to suit multiple services. Presented at the Paris Motor Show, it could be transitioned from a pick-up, to a van, a refrigerated van or a 6 passenger taxi. The fully glazed cabin was equipped with an early satellite navigation system, telephone and fax machine.

#Renault #Renault Modus Concept #Renault Modus #concept #design study #prototype #modular design #multifunction #futuristic #1994 #1990s #Pais Motor Show #modular #commercial vehicle #utility vehicle

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fanged-fanfics · 5 months ago

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☆ A New World With You — TF:One Optimus Prime x Autobot!Reader HCs ☆

Genre: Fluff, Mild Angst || they/them pronouns for reader || No warnings needed

──────.𖥔 ݁ ˖˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ──────

ᯓᡣ𐭩 You joined up with Optimus in his newly formed Autobot faction rather quickly after the fall of Iacon's previous false Prime. Though it still left a pit in your chassis to think about the truth of Sentinel, Orion had been your friend for many cycles. You hoped then that it would at least be am easier transition with the familiar face. That is, until you saw him— taller, broader, with a battlemask almost always covering his faceplates. He almost didn't look familiar at all

ᯓᡣ𐭩 New factions on the rise, a complete new order to install, and an entire fallen city waiting for his words. With all of that on his back, Orion— now newly named Optimus Prime— was beyond stressed. Talking to you was one of his only reprieves of the day, the only thing that could clear his cluttered processor

ᯓᡣ𐭩 He still finds it very awkward whenever you call him Optimus instead of Orion. Though he knows it's his name now, everything is just too fresh for him to process it fully just yet. But hearing it from you, especially if said lovingly, soothes his spark

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Optimus dives deep into his work to try and distract himself, but he has no idea how to run a city. All of Iacon depends on him, and he tries to bottle that up from you to keep you safe. You, of course, notice his new habits. The once vibrant and talkative Orion Pax, now a distant and reclusive Prime who barely gives any effort greater than a one worded reply? That wasn't good at all

ᯓᡣ𐭩 You began slowly convincing him to take small breaks. It started with just little energon breaks, and eventually led to convincing him to step away from datapads and holoscreens to rest his optics. It eventually elevated to Optimus taking small recharge breaks with you, though you'd always have to talk down his worries about his work

ᯓᡣ𐭩 He definitely got more protective than he once was. He kept a watchful optic whenever new volunteers for the faction tried to speak with you, especially if he hadn't gotten a chance to assess them yet. He's quick to step up and handle a situation if he thinks it's too dangerous for you, or assign you to new tasks

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Eventually, you had to sit him down for a talk. Though it was sweet to hear him care for you and watch over you, he sometimes got a little overbearing with his concerns. He expresses to you how he just doesn't want to see anyone else he cares for get hurt, and he refused to elaborate when pressed on that

ᯓᡣ𐭩 He feels very guilty when he has to do meetings or tasks that take his time away from you. He always tries to find some way to apologize or make it up to you, but even then he'll fretfully ask how you're feeling for a while after

ᯓᡣ𐭩 He made a few teasing comments when comparing your height difference. Being a Prime gave him a strength buff, and now he adored just picking you up and spinning you around or holding you close to his chassis. He especially loved it when you still tried to curl around him for comfort

ᯓᡣ𐭩 His new favorite part of any day was whenever he could go and recharge in his berthroom, because usually you'd offer to recharge with him, and he could press his helm to yours while relaxing for the first time in hours

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hazyaltcare · 1 year ago

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Typing Quirk Suggestions for a Robot kin

I hope it gives you a wonderful uptime! :3

Mod Vintage (⭐)

Letter replacements:

Replace "O" with zeroes "0"

Replace "i" or "L" with ones "1"

Replace "one" with "1", including "one" sounds like "any1", or "we 1 = we won" (the past tense of "win")

Replace "zero" with "0"

Frankly, you can just replace all sorts of letters with numbers, such as

R = 12

N = 17

B = 8

A = 4

E = 3

etc.

or maybe make all "A"s and "i"s capitalized, cause "A.I." (artificial intelligence

Prefixes and Suffixes:

Get inspired by programming languages!

Begin your text with "//" like a comment on C++

If you prefer other languages comment tags, you can use "< !--your text-- >"

Or maybe begin it with " int main () { std::cout << "your text"" and end with "return 0; }" like C++ too

Greet people with the classic "Hello world!"

Or greet people with "beep boop!" honestly, I have no idea where this comes from, but it's cute.

Or write down html stuff, like sandwiching your italicized text with "< em> "

The possibilities are endless!

Robot Lingo:

(under the cut because there's a LOT! maybe terabytes! ...just kidding >;3c)

some of these are from the machinesoul.net robot server! (not sponsored) (we're not in there anymore, but we saw the robot lingo shared there when we were)

Fronting = logged in, connected

Not fronting = logged out, disconnected

Conscious = activated

Dormant = deactivated

Blurry = no signal

Upset, angry = hacked

Small = bits, bytes

Bite = byte

Huge = gigabytes, terabytes, etc.

Your intake of food, medicine, etc. = input

Your artwork, cooking, handiwork, handwriting, etc. = output

Body = chassis, unit

Brain = CPU, processor

Mind = program, code

Imagination = simulation

Purpose = directive

Nerves = wires

Skin = plating

Organs = (function) units

Limbs = actuators

Eyes = ocular sensors

Glasses = HUD (head's up display)

Hair = wires

Ears = antennae, audio sensors

Nose = olfactory sensors

Heart = core

Liver = detoxification unit

Circulatory system = circuits

Voice = speaker, voice module, voice box

Mouth = face port

Name = designation

Sleep = sleep mode, low power mode, charging

Eat = fuel, batteries

Energy = batteries

Tired = low on batteries

Translate = compile

Memory = data, database

Bed = recharge pod/charger

Dreaming = simulation

Birthday = day of manufacture

Talking = communicating

Thinking = processing

Transitioning = modifying your chassis

Depression = downtime

Joy = uptime

Trash = scrap metal

Fresh/Clean = polished

Keysmashing = random 1s and 0s

Self-care = system maintenance

Going to the doctor = trip to the mechanic

Group = network

Anyone = anybot

#typing quirk suggestions #robotkin #otherkin #robot kin #robot #robots #mod vintage #⭐#tw medical #tw dormancy mention #our system actually uses the lingo in daily conversations with other plurals n alterhumans because we're robot/machine/AI/etc.-dominant #which is pretty funny cause our mod name is Vintage and robots are Futuristic #typing quirk #typing quirks #typing quirk suggestion

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transformers-spike · 4 months ago

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I've been observing the TFP baby saga for a while, and as someone who knows more about boobs than she should I bring up a thing.

Would the babies between Y/N and the Transformers need to be breastfed? Would they even know about breastfeeding as a concept? Soundwave would probably know about it, but I'm sure the others might not.

I will inflict tiddy knowledge upon ye again.

Ohhh boyyy - first we have these two posts regarding it: Megatron and general polycule

Short answer: for shits and giggle we're gonna say yes. The babies are being breastfed before transitioning to energon. Honestly, if we go for a general "who would know about it and who wouldn't" - we have this: Megatron has some vague knowledge of humans feeding their young (and this is only because he's hyperfixating on breeding his human). Otherwise, he likes watching because it calms him. Just the beauty of his human feeding his sparkling. Helps distract him from the war, if only for a bit Knock Out knows humans produce milk but that's because he's been looking up weird porn. His initial reaction is ew - because those were his tits and he refuses to touch them now that his child has put its mouth all over them. I actually think he'd be curious if he finds out about how antibodies and how the body adapts to the baby's state. Gross tho (he will still touch the tiddies bc he cannot resist)

Starscream claims he's disgusted by it, but he's actually fascinated by the process. Something something being a food source and a caretaker to your child. Except you catch him staring at you from across the room. Bro just come over and hangout, why are you being weird about it? Breakdown has no idea why his sparkling's gnawing on his chassis Soundwave and Shockwave have done more research. Soundwave because he's the only one capable of being a parent, and Shockwave because he's actively researching how human/cybertronian hybrids function. Dreadwing had no idea this was a thing - so he's just watching you breastfeed his child like ????? On the surface, he's very respectful and careful with you. Inside, he's hurting. That's his child. You're feeding his child. He's unable to cope with everything, now he has a new kin and he's desperate to protect it from the world

#transformers x human #transformers x reader #transformers prime #tfp megatron #tfp starscream #tfp soundwave #tfp shockwave #evil polycule saga #kinda #tfp breakdown #tfp knock out #tfp dreadwing

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terkmc · 9 months ago

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HACS, the Harrison Armory Combat System

The Harrison Armory Combat System, HACS for short, is a relatively new system of martial art developed by Harrison Armory. Designed to integrate with standard Armory doctrine, HACS is a modernized and modified version of traditional weapon-based martial art, mathematically optimized with aggregate combat data harvesting and extensive simulations in order to best suit the Armory’s propensity for energy and plasma based weapons.

The non-physical nature of an energy blade allows it to be able to pass through another physical blade, thus making strikes with an energy weapon almost impossible to block or parry; but also conversely makes it unable to block an attack from another weapon from simply passing through it. Thus, HACS is defined by its aggressive structure based on the principles of seizing the initiative and staying on the offense, direct footwork and economy of action, range control, and violence of action.

HACS fighters will typically stay out of range to formulate a plan of attack and maneuver into advantageous positioning, then explode into a short series of decisive strikes to force the enemy to defend. If the initial series of strikes do not kill or incapacitate, HACS fighters will then try to establish distance once again and return to neutral, preferably with follow up unarmed strike to push the enemy back and maintain initiative, though simply back-stepping is also an option if further aggression is ill-advised. HACS footwork is characteristically direct, moving back and forth in a straight line from the user to their opponent and eschewing complex footwork often seen in more traditional arts.

HACS encompass most forms of traditional melee weapons such as swords, axes, halberds and more, but befitting of a modern constructed martial art systems, HACS also accounts for modern modification and new designs, such variable emission setting allowing user to change the length of a blade mid-fight or even mid swing. HACS official training and certification requires a demonstration of mastery of the system's two basic disciplines, Energy on Blade (EB), the use of energy weapons against physical weapons, and Energy on Energy (EE), the use of energy weapons against each other. For most standard users and legionnaires, these two are enough, though further advanced disciplines are available for training, such as Energy and Shield (ES), incorporating the usage of personal shielding system into the martial art, both in conjunction with and against energy weapons.

Designed for vertical integration, HACS-M (Harrison Armory Combat System – Mechanized) is a sub-discipline of HACS for usage with mech combat. Formulated for ease of transition between systems, HACS-M employs much of the same principles and moves as HACS, maintaining its core direct aggression. The added durability of a mech and its comparatively lesser agility means HACS-M incorporate “Double Strike” in place of some defensive maneuver. “Double Strike” is an umbrella term for techniques where the user intentionally takes an attack in order to counter attack the opponent, using computer-mapped positioning to maximize armor placement and avoid damage to critical systems. Though designed for chassis class 1 to 3 and obviously ill-advised to unarmored personal combat, HACS-M has also been adapted for personal combat by heavily armored fighters, typically hard suit or power armor users.

As with most theories when put into practice, HACS and HACS-M has also splintered into countless variations over the years. While a centralized system still exists within the Armory’s standard armed force training, various other subsystems have popped up either through further independent modification, local adaptation, or syncretism with other martial arts. Of note are:

Valkyrie, an adaptation for aerial combat

Stinging Blade, a highly unorthodox and controversial syncretism with Jager Kunst pioneered by Sparri diaspora on Ras Sharma

DeSys, a school that emphasizes the destruction of enemy weapons instead.

#lancer rpg #lancer ttrpg #lancer #ha #harrison armory

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in1-nutshell · 10 months ago

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Ophelia turned sparkling

SFW, Platonic, Romance, Slight Familial, Cybertronian reader

RiD 2015

Bumblebee knew with being a leader brought all sorts of things his way.

From getting good training with his team, to pulling them aside before someone’s optic gets taken out. When Ophelia became a member of the team, it had been a bit of a rough transition once the rest of the team found out about her father being Megatron. But thanks to him talking to his team, they gave her a chance and was soon accepted.

Things were much more smoother when Steve joined the team. More because Ophelia vouched for him, he was too busy dealing with the fact his friend had a Conjunx already. Not many bots managed to find someone to live the rest of their lives with. At most, they found an Amica Endura and lived the rest of their lives like that.

He would have done an interrogation once upon a time. His friend had been through the Pits and back, she deserved a Conjunx who would treat her right. But she was also a good judge of character, if Ophelia thought Steve was a good choice to be her Conjunx, then he would respect it.

Though he did make it clear that hurting Ophelia was and would never be an option, Conjunx or not.

Bumblebee had to admit that Steve had proven himself time and time again to be a good friend, partner and teammate. Steve had once told him that he was the lucky one. Ophelia chose to take a chance at him, someone who reminded her of her past. He often joked that he always thought her to be too good for a Decepticon and would find a ‘righteous’ Autobot to settle down. Nevertheless, he was happy that they both took that chance. Ever devoted Conjunx was the easiest way to describe them both.

So, when Bumblebee and the rest of the away team received a panicky call from Fix-it about Ophelia, Steve had already transformed and racing back to the scrapyard before he could say anything.

When the rest of the team arrived Steve was already at the console trying to get a clear answer from Fix-it who was equally panicky.

Bumblebee stepped in.

“All right! Steve, just let Fix-it explain.”

Steve sighed a bit in frustration and stepped back.

Bumblebee turned to the minibot.

“Okay, Fix-it, what happened to Ophelia. You said something about the relic exploding?”

Fix-it nodded.

“Ophelia, Denny Clay and I were trying to clean the relic you found at the ocean floor. There was a lot of barnacles and seaweed attached, I have some samples—”

“Fix-it, buddy, back on topic.”

Fix-it nodded.

“Well while we don’t know what exactly triggered the relic to activate, it started glowing and hit Ophelia square in the chassis. She landed around the fridge collection Denny Clay has.”

“That’s several feet—”

“Steve, please.”

“Sorry…”

“And when I finally got the relic to power off, Denny Clay and Russel went to go see how Ophelia was and—”

“When were you going to tell us, you can have bot babies?”

The bots jumped at the sudden voice of the youngest human behind them.

They turned around and couldn’t believe what they were seeing.

Next to Russel was a sparkling hugging Denny.

A sparkling with a familiar color scheme.

Bumblebee sighed.

“Please tell me that’s not—”

“Ophelia?”

The sparkling perked up at the sound of her name looking at the new bots.

She didn’t know where she was, but these new bots looked weird.

Steve tried to pick her up, but the sparkling whined a bit being touched and reached for Russel to hug.

She liked her warm, squishy friends.

She suddenly let go, stood up shakingly and being to waddle away from the group.

Steve reached out and grabbed her.

Ophelia whined a bit not feeling the ground under her pedes anymore.

Steve brought her to his chassis and gently rocked her back and forth. Her whines soon went quiet as she fell asleep. Sideswipe whistled a bit at the display.

“Wow, great job Steve.”

Steve kept his optics on the tiny sparkling in his arms.

“Thanks.”

Denny gave the Vechicon a questioning look.

“Hey, how did you know about the rocking back and forth thing? Do you bots do that to your kids too?”

Steve responded.

“Umm, saw it on TV …I’ve been looking at some videos of how human parents care for their babies…”

Bumblebee raised his optic.

“Does Ophelia know about this?”

“No…”

“Wait why where you—”

“Let’s get back on topic here Russel. How are we going to get Ophelia back to her normal self?”

Grimlock raised his servo up.

“Can’t we just blast her with the relic again?”

“Oh, we can’t do that, the relics broken.”

The team gave Fix-it a look while Steve looked like he was going to have a breakdown in any minute. Fix-it coughed a bit nervously smiling.

“What I mean is that the relic broke after the blast, but we were able to get information about its blasts. Any blast the relic does has a temporary effect on the subject.”

The team sighed a bit in relief.

Steve looked like he was praying to Primus.

“That’s good.”

“So how long do we have to wait?”

Strongarm asked while taking a quick peak her former adult teammate turn sparkling.

Primus she was a tiny sparkling!

Fix-it gave another nervous laugh.

“… We honestly don’t know how long the effects will last, but on a happier note, it’s not permeant!”

Bumblebee sighed a bit dragging a servo across his face before deep venting. It was getting late, and everyone needed to sleep.

Steve wanted to put Ophelia on his berth, but Bumblebee told him to place her in the makeshift crib Fix-it had made. Steve was against it.

“Steve you aren’t thinking clearly. What if she falls off the berth? Or you squish her? Or worse, you push her off?”

Steve glared at him.

“You think I’d be dumb enough to squish or kick my Conjunx off the berth?”

“She’s not your Conjunx right now Steve. This is a sparkling we are talking about. She’ll be fine in the crib by herself.”

Steve steps forward to the leader.

“That sparkling IS my Conjunx. I think I have a say in helping her in her time of need.”

“Well, as leader I order you to keep Ophelia in the crib.”

Bumblebee mentally slapped himself seeing Steve glare harder at him.

Why did he have to use the leader card?!

Steve looked down at the now wide optic sparkling softly before carefully placing her in the crib.

Ophelia whined a bit seeing she was in the crib, but quickly got distracted by the coloring data pads in there.

Bumblebee smiled at the sparkling doodling on the pads.

“See? Was that so hard?”

The leader once again mentally slapped himself seeing Steve fuming and bumping his shoulder against his and slammed the door to his habsuite.

He really needed to talk with Optimus when he came back from his away mission with Ratchet.

…

It was late at night and Ophelia was wide awake.

Those coloring pads could only keep her entertained for so long.

She wanted to see her father or Soundwave or Uncle Orion. It was strange seeing that they were nowhere to be found. And she knew exactly how to do it.

Ophelia knew that everyone was asleep, meaning the nice bot from earlier wouldn’t come to help her out.

New plan then!

She stacked her used coloring datapads and carefully climbed out of the crib. Ophelia then waddled a bit around the scrapyard before finding a small crack in the wall. It was difficult to get out, but she did it.

The lights and giant woods surprised the little sparkling. She had never seen anything like them. An owl caught her optic and flew into the wood.

The owl reminded her a lot of Lazerbeak… and where’s Lazerbeak there’s Soundwave!

Happily chirping, Ophelia waddled into the wood.

The next morning Steve was the first up and out of his habsuite.

He barely slept last night without his Conjunx by his side and constantly ‘what if?’ scenarios planned in his processor. But there was no crying in the morning or in the night.

Maybe… maybe Bumblebee was right, and nothing would happen.

That thought went out the window the moment he noticed a stack of used datapads and no sparkling in the crib.

Oh sweet Primus…

“WHERE IS SHE!?”

This is how Ophelia waddles to her escape

#transformers x reader #maccadam #bot buddy #tf rid 2015 x reader #transformers rid2015 #transformers rid2015 x platonic reader #ophelia

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placeholder-mcd · 11 months ago

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Hiii hello I was thinking about your silly little Devices this morning and found myself wondering “what the hell is going on with them???” because while the PEE is labeled in its diagram the PXE isn’t. So I proceeded to spend an hour and a half trying to deduce just that. I have no idea if I am anywhere CLOSE to correct or accurate with any of this but it WAS fun to speculate here ya go

I snapped a little. Hopefully tumblr doesn’t butcher the quality and hopefully my handwriting is legible. For the amusement of the jury here is the full Mess of a canvas i was working on:

this is extremely cool of you

there are two pretty well-defined categories of transport to alternate universes in most sci-fi: there's time-like travel, and space-like travel. time-like travel to alternate universes is the """creation""" of alternate universes by changing the natural course of causality via time travel eg. 5243 or 5956; space-like travel to alternate universes is like Lampeter / Multiversal Compass where you're transitioning to a different "region of the multiverse" or whatever

since the SCPverse has narrative dimension, there's also "story-like" travel to alternate universes, in which you essentially abuse plot convenience to travel to whatever alternate universe facilitates the rest of the current story taking place. The PEE is the first ever attempt at this type of interdimensional travel

The PXE is intended to be much more comprehensive in scope. Its main chassis is near-identical to the PEE (you can actually see that the body of the PXE is built off the PEE model), but it also incorporates the jank-ass Para!SCP-5956 from Paraline. These facilitate story-like travel and time-like travel, respectively.

the designation "███X-MCD/II" could be interpreted as "this is the PXE mark two". But why not just abbreviate to PXE Mark II? Why have a more convoluted designation? And what is the purpose of this redaction? Is there another common type of designation used by the Foundation which would have the relevant researcher's initials in the designation?

presumably, PHMD can use this thing to go just about anywhere he wants -- like, okay, it's only got 2/3 of the types of multiversal travel capabilities (SO FAR) (THAT WE KNOW OF), so maybe he can only explore causally- or narratively-relevant universes, but that's still got to be uncountably infinitely many potential realities -- so, like, why doesn't he? Why is he hanging around in admoline and causing problems here? What does he have to gain from this? What is he going to accomplish here that he won't be able to find someplace else in the infinite multiverse?

since PHMD carries over he and Gears' invention of the PH-GOS after the 6820 timeline reset (renaming it to the PH-OS and pretending he designed it independently), and since it seems to be an extremely powerful piece of technology (the ultimate reality anchor), it's safe to suppose some elements of the PH-OS were integrated into the PXE in the interim. The PH-OS is concerned with the ontokinetic / informational view of the current state of the current universe; perhaps it can be repurposed as a tool for scanning and processing data about alternate universes

Why can Ilse see through PHMD's bullshit? Why doesn't she draw attention to it? Why are they rhyming at each other?

What happened to the Ilse from Paraline?

#phmd #scp foundation #admonition #scp #harryblank #scp wiki #admoposting

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peskellence · 6 months ago

Text

My Friends Call Me Richard

Part III

Explicit Content (18+)

Pairing: Reed900

Tags: M/M, Workplace Romance, FWB, Humour, Awkward Encounters, Smut

Previous Chapter

Read on AO3 here:

Summary: In a bid to improve his partnership (and secret intimate arrangement) with Detective Gavin Reed, RK900 embarks on a noble quest to spice things up. The solution? A new biocomponent.

Word Count: 10K

Tag List: @sweeteatercat @wedonthaveawhile @gho-stychan @tentoriumcerebelli @negative-citadel @faxaway @moriahadi424 @unicorn4genocide @cptjh-arts

(surprise at the end of the keep reading courtesy of @faxaway)

“What's the hold up in there?”

RK900 winced at the question. The transition from purchase to implementation had gone nowhere near as smoothly as hoped. He found himself locked in the bathroom, trying and failing to secure his new biocomponent.

“I am beginning to question if this product is suitable for ‘self-installation’,” He mumbled critically, attempting to angle the phallus awkwardly between his legs. “Perhaps the store assistant issued the wrong product...”

“Can you not cross-reference it against your dick database?” His voice was thin, dripping with impudence. No doubt reflective of his dwindling patience. “I mean, your scanners would flag if it was the wrong thing completely, wouldn't they?”

The android frowned, forced to concede that multiple checks had been completed—referring to both the product schematics and his own manufacturer details. None of this had shed any clarity on his current difficulties.

He sightlessly searched for a small circular slot at the base of his groin. Guiding nodules failed to adhere, clips gripping to nothing before slipping uselessly from his chassis.

"I am having issues adhering the scrotal extension to my lower access port.” He moved the component again, testing to see if a change in angle might reap greater success.

Another failure followed, and fears emerged that the fault could relate to his own anatomy. Specifically, a factory defect he had previously been unaware of.

With his options rapidly depleting, he turned to the crumpled instructional leaflet left abandoned by the bath. He scrutinised each step, noting multiple discrepancies between the printed text and the digital guidance displayed on his HUD.

“Perhaps if you could offer assistance, then it would be easier to facilitate—”

“There's a line,” Reed shot back, callously interrupting before he could finish. “Helping you clip on your junk like we're building IKEA furniture is where I draw it.”

The rebuff was discouraging, as RK900 was left helpless—plagued by doubts relating to protocols and analytics that so intrinsically dictated his actions.

While his advanced processors should have been capable of determining a solution to the dilemma, they proved inexplicably incapable. Trapping him in a loop of trial and error.

He briefly considered contacting RK800 to see if he might be more willing to assist. This was before he realised there would be significant limitations on the support that could be provided remotely—and that Reed would undoubtedly be opposed to welcoming additional guests.

Despite logic indicating that surrender may be the only option, something inside him refused to concede. Attention locked on his primary directive, which dangled precariously at the forefront of his optics:

> ENGAGE IN SEXUAL INTERCOURSE WITH DETECTIVE REED.

It seemed callous to allow himself to fall at this final hurdle, no matter how staggering it proved.

And so, he forcefully pulled himself from the despondent line of cognition. Determined to ensure that his efforts—and the current painful ordeal—would not be in vain.

With parameters set and diagnostics refreshed, his system presented an updated list of prompts. Ones that sparked hope. Renewed faith that he wasn’t deluding himself or his partner on false pretences.

Following guidance, the android performed a precise 7-degree rotation of the component. He pressed forward, and for a split second, the attachment seemed to align—but the angle fell short of optimal. A prompt then advised that proper leverage was unobtainable from his current position.

To correct this, RK900 lifted one leg, calculating in real time the exact height needed. This elevation, as it transpired, aligned almost perfectly with Detective Reed’s toilet.

Foot steady on the edge of the bowl, he pressed again, slanting upward in another attempt to engage the clips. This time, with success, confirmed by a soft click which echoed through the room.

The small noise provided unparalleled relief. For a moment, he allowed himself to believe the debacle was over.

It was a blissful respite, if cruelly short-lived.

The auditory cue had been deceptive. While alignment of the prongs had been achieved, their locking mechanism had not engaged, preventing adhesion to the connection point

A revelation that came too late.

RK900 slipped back, and the attachments promptly folded, the intimate module tumbling down between his thighs.

Unfortunately, it seemed Detective Reed was geometrically opposed to lowering his toilet seat. The component struck against the porcelain dome, ricocheting like a pinball until it hit the base with a plop. Ripples of impact shook the water, and RK900 watched in despair as the flesh-toned silicone sank, engulfed by murky waves.

His attention snapped to the door, where he knew his partner sat in wait. Listening closely, having undoubtedly heard everything that just transpired.

“...What was that?”

Thirium pumped in increased volumes through his circulatory system, pooling in his cheeks. His limited social directives were strained to their breaking point, faced with a sudden uptick in demand:

While Reed was far from preoccupied with good hygiene standards, he undoubtedly possessed some instinct to protect against hazardous waste.

This left his next steps uncertain, as the android was trapped at an impasse. Painfully aware that some degree of deceit would be needed to placate his partner, but unsure how to achieve this with any conviction.

“Richard.”

Then a confession slipped out, almost instinctively, before he could stop it:

“It appears I have dropped my phallus in your toilet.”

Reed did not respond immediately, and while RK900 could not see his face, he could envision the disappointment etched upon it. The deep-set frown and contemptuous stare bore into him, demanding acknowledgement.

Then, a sound bridged the hush between the bathroom and bedroom. Auditory profiling identified the impact of flesh, as biophysical analysis confirmed no additional parties had entered the home.

Reed had struck himself. Likely in the face—a ritualistic action performed during times of frustration.

“ Why were you putting it on over the toilet?”

RK900 spoke quickly. An exercise in perseverance and self-preservation as much as it was an appeal to his partner. “There is no cause for alarm.”

He then pivoted sharply, leaving the component submerged in the waste receptacle. The rubber tip reached for him, breaking the water's surface as though beckoning his return.

Its pleas for assistance were ignored as he dropped to his knees, retrieving a discarded box from the grubby linoleum floor. The contents were cleared, save for a small drawstring bag containing samples of Cyberlife-issued cleaning supplies.

“The component will be sanitised thoroughly before use,” the android said, a relieved sigh passing his lips. “I can assure you this incident will not impact our planned intimacy.”

“Like fuck, it won’t. I am not letting you put your toilet dick in me.”

The harsh retort struck like a slap and swiftly undermined any solace. Crestfallen, the RK unit returned focus to the toilet, gaze dropping limply to the prosthetic urethra staring up at him. A singular, narrow eye, which made him the subject of scrupulous judgment. Mockery.

His grip tightened, reducing the box to a compact wad of cardboard. Then, his central processor whirred into overdrive, fervently seeking a solution to the current dilemma.

“If preferred, we can return to the Cyberlife Store in order to—”

“ No .”

The fledging suggestion was cut down before it had any hopes of maturing.

Despite this sweeping refusal of cooperation, Detective Reed eventually employed some degree of deduction. This was an innate reflex that existed beyond the parameters of conscious desire, culminating in the antipathic conceit he muttered under his breath.

It was just barely audible through the wooden panel that divided them. Suggestions that it ‘didn’t matter’ if the extension was in mint condition, given the unsavoury conditions it would imminently find itself in. This, combined with allusions that he had accepted ‘worse’ from former partners.

The man capped the disgruntled train of thought with a more targeted instruction, spoken to the android:

“Just make sure it’s clean enough , okay?”

RK900 was appreciative to have been offered a compromise, accepting the conditions with a cordial nod. “My advanced debris detection will ensure the removal of all harmful chemicals and bacterial residue.”

“...Debris detection?” the human questioned, snorting tersely as he did. “What are you, a fucking Roomba?”

“My operations are far more advanced than that of a vacuum cleaner.”

This resulted in another burst of amusement—a childish snicker pelted against the wooden panel dividing them.

“Depends on the context…” This impish enjoyment soon subsided, followed by a return to thinly veiled criticisms. “Don’t rush; I’m having a blast . Nothing says ‘mind-blowing foreplay’ like waiting for your partner to disinfect his detachable dick.”

“Thank you for your cooperation, Detective,” the android replied, imitating de-escalation tactics he had observed from RK800. “Your patience and understanding are greatly appreciated.”

The man was far from enchanted. Clicking his tongue, he mumbled another suggestion under his breath. This time, admonishing insincerity, accusing the android of sounding like a ‘fucking complaints department.’

“Just don’t expect me to go down on you. I'd rather not scrub my tongue with lemon zest bleach.”

RK900 doubted this product had been used on the toilet with any recency. Nonetheless, he brushed the comment aside.

Supplies prepared, he rolled up the sleeve of his uniform jacket and reached into the bowl to retrieve the lost component. As his hand became further immersed, the silicone base slinked back until it was wedged stubbornly in the U-bend. Enhanced manoeuvring was required to dislodge it, but after a few determined twists, it finally broke free.

With the phallus secured, he set to work on the sanitation process. The antibacterial spray was used until the bottle was nearly depleted, scrubbed with dutiful care into every moulded ridge and crevice. Unsheathed fingers were then swept across the length, assessing for any lingering debris trapped in the pockets.

“Exterior sterilisation is at 99.8%,” RK900 concluded, as synthetic skin returned to his digits, “well above advisory levels for bodily insertion.”

“Sexy,” the human said dryly. There was a strange upward lilt that the android had come to recognise as synonymous with sarcasm. “Just try not to drop it in the shitter again.”

Having learned from his previous mistake, RK900 lowered the toilet seat, establishing a more desirable platform for installation. He clipped the newly sanitised component back into place. This time, ensuring the fastening clasps had locked securely to his groin before receding.

His operational software acknowledged the component and the installation of primary physical subroutines booted autonomously. Aesthetic changes also occurred, integrating the component into his wider physical form.

“...Hey…Richard…?” The address came mingled with steady rapping against the door. “You’re a bit quiet. Just checking your engine is still running.”

RK900’s lips formed a response, but no sound escaped them. Instead, he was mesmerised by the ripples of movement materialising on the component. Iridescent patterns danced and shimmered, attempting to harmonise with the surrounding conditions.

He understood the device’s ‘complexion’ was predetermined and that a perfect colour match was not guaranteed. Nonetheless, it came close. Unsightly connection points smoothed almost seamlessly beneath a blanket of pale, freckled skin.

“... Richard ?” There was another bang. Louder and more insistent. “Look, I’m not expecting you to strut out of there like Cyberlife’s latest sexbot. If you can't get the thing on, it's fine. Seriously. Just stop messing around so we can—”

“External interrogation is almost complete. I’ll be out in one moment.”

RK900 dressed carefully, concealing his new feature beneath his work slacks in anticipation of a proper reveal. He wanted to avoid startling his companion with unexpected nudity, having learned from experience that such a greeting required meeting very specific criteria—ones he did not want to misjudge at this pivotal moment.

As he opened the passage to the bedroom, the swinging door nearly collided headlong with Reed. He dodged to the side, cursing sharply, as one of the arms that had been habitually crossed over his chest moved to shield his face.

“What the hell ?” he spluttered, tone brimming with accusation. “You nearly knocked me out, dipshit.”

“I did not anticipate you would be standing in such close proximity to the door.”

The sounds of annoyance trailed off as the man's disgruntled expression morphed into one of introspection. Suddenly aware that the action had revealed more than he intended.

“Whatever.” He grunted dismissively, drawing his arms back into their previous guarded position. “So, you done? Or do you still need to calibrate your balls?”

“The component has been implemented in its entirety. Diagnostics are underway to confirm optimal physical functionality. Afterwards, I will be cleared to upload the related social protocols.”

The human stared blankly as if the words had emerged as distorted, incomprehensible screeches. “I asked if it was on, not for a dissertation on the instruction manual.”

RK900 recognised that he may have offered more information than necessary. In seeking to be thorough, he had unintentionally diminished a level of intrigue—the mystique that Reed wished to preserve in their impending intimacy.

“It is on and will be ready for use shortly. Apologies for the delay, Detective.”

Reed blinked again, his already furrowed brow pulling into an increasingly taut pinch. There was unrest that persisted around him, but it took a different form. More apprehensive than hostile.

“Gavin,” he corrected. “I already told you, Gavin is fine when we're…”

The sentence trailed off, wandering in line with his focus. It followed a path down the android’s form, inspecting every inch until it had locked onto the junction between his legs. His eyes widened, and his breath hitched, catching in his throat.

“How much longer is it going to take?” he questioned, motioning towards the concealed appendage in a loose circling gesture. “Have I got time to text Tina about how fucking insane this is?”

RK900 took this impatience as a cue to progress the interaction. He leveraged all the research he had compiled, coupled with their pre-existing intimacy habits. This collective insight encouraged him to act assertively��while also imitating a degree of human spontaneity.

He advanced on the human, preparing to perform an action he had noted in several of the surveyed clips. Pressing a steadying hand to the small of the man’s back, he hooked his available arm onto the back of his thighs.

Gavin was raised in a fluid motion, resulting in a short, strangled sound—caught somewhere between a scream and a hiss. He was powerless to do anything but hook onto his partner’s neck, preventing unsteady weight from toppling back.

Once adjusted to the sudden change in elevation, his lips parted, presumably to form words of protest. They were silenced pre-emptively by the firm, deliberate press of the android’s own.

It wasn’t long before the kiss was reciprocated. He engaged RK900 in a quiet chase, mirroring practised movements with tenacious enthusiasm. His heartbeat escalated, and the press of his mouth grew more insistent—matching each rumbled pulse that rattled his ribs.

The android felt a flicker of satisfaction, his actions eliciting the exact response he had predicted. Ultimately, he pulled away, and mimicry ended as the man attempted to pursue the withdrawing contact.

“I can think of more entertaining ways to tolerate this delay...”

RK900 paused, realising he was unsure how to proceed with this sentence. He took a moment to adjust his verbal subroutines, aligning them with the recently acquired licentious vocabulary. From this, he successfully crafted an appropriately alluring title of address:

“Hot lips.”

This inspired a half-suppressed sound from his partner, akin to a deflating balloon. After a beat, breath was drawn back, hissed through clenched teeth, as the man sharply angled his head further into the room.

“Stop running your mouth and get a move on. Plastic asshole.”

RK900 was on the verge of reminding him that they had omitted the purchase of a silicone rectal cavity before understanding his meaning. He instead referred back to the audiovisual loops stored on his CPU, prioritising according to watch time and access frequency.

Feeling assured he had gathered all the necessary data for an optimal experience, he purposefully strode on. Approaching the bed before deftly sidestepping it and heading for the exit.

“Uh, where the hell are you going?” Gavin, still held in his grasp, attempted to resist his movement. One hand pressed against the solid foundation of his chest, pushing back in an action that had entirely zero impact. “The bed is over there, genius.”

“Your bed will not be required. This apartment has a balcony.”

His partner gawped at him, lashes fluttering in confusion. If he were an android, RK900 was certain he would hear the whir of internal mechanisms—gears turning frantically, teetering on the brink of annihilation.

“Come again?”

Any excitement built during their kiss seemed to have fizzled completely. The android realised that while his data proved sound in a controlled environment, external factors undermined its practical reliability.

Memory banks cast echoes of the human's shuddering breath, slicing through the frigid winter air. The tip of his ruddy nose tucked into the folds of his hoodie as he attempted to shield it from the chill…

After reevaluating the situation, he stopped. His heels pressed firmly into the grubby carpet before angling upwards, prepared for reorientation.

“Of course, it is rather cold out. The bed will suit our needs for today.”

Retracing his steps, RK900 returned to his previous position at the foot of the bed. He held his partner over its surface before releasing his weight, permitting a descent into the linen. Despite the cushioned landing, Gavin yelped. His limbs fanned out in a star-like formation, braced for impact as the plush sheets rapidly engulfed him.

The android soon joined, placing hands on either side of his body, forming a tight cage. His captive stared through him, focus blighted by the recent momentum, as his jaw fell slightly agape.

A smooth tilt guided it closed as RK900 supported his weight on a single arm. His fingertips skimmed coarse stubble, and his sensors registered that it had grown 2.3 millimetres since their last encounter—slightly longer than the detective’s preference.

Resisting the urge to mention this, he instead leaned in, charting the overgrown trail with neatly peppered kisses.

Gavin tensed, although this response was not unanticipated.

It always took him some time to relax—when they were like this. The ripples of previously stringent prejudice, now mostly forgotten, still clinging to threads of fading significance…

Ties that unravelled beneath targeted pulses of breath—slow and rhythmic, designed to coax tightly held knots from muscles. Receptive warmth spread beneath reddening skin, extending outward until the body became loose and pliant.

The man's head tilted unconsciously, baring more of his neck—a wordless invitation for RK900 to deepen his exploration.

He established a new point of contact on the presently unblemished canvas, tracing it with a practised sweep of his tongue before clamping down with a firm press of teeth.

After applying suitable pressure to leave a mark, he pulled back, levying a rumbled address against the pulsing flesh. A premeditated salaciousness that was undercut by an instinctive slip back into professional titles:

“You're a dirty whore, aren't you, Detective?”

Despite previous objections, Gavin did not appear upset. If anything, the dilation of his pupils, combined with the involuntary groan that tumbled from his lips, indicated the opposite.

Encouraged to proceed, RK900 maintained his focus on the man's throat. Sealing flesh between his lips and drawing gently on the freshly marked abrasion.

“ Shit.” The expletive trailed into a sigh as he squirmed keenly against a tide of rumpled linen.

“Such a needy slut.”

The derogatory remarks felt odd—unnatural—coming from the android, yet they seemed to be the exact calibre of slander Gavin wanted. If the noises hadn't been enough, irrefutable evidence came in the growing snugness of his jeans.

He traced the stained length of the zipper, to which the concealed hardness beneath twitched back receptively. “Filthy—”

“Easy, Casanova.” The chiding was light and playful, entwined with a rich chuckle. “There's no need to rush; we’re just getting warmed up.”

RK900 swiftly identified the duplicity of this statement.

It was routine they had engaged in countless times before—in both personal and professional settings. His partner pushed away, under the pretence that RK900 would follow, seeking to pull him back.

This was a challenge, demanding the RK900 to prove just how persistent he would be in retaining dominance.

Grasping the hand kneading idly into his bicep, he pinned it to the sheets. As he moved to scold the culprit—the resonance of his pitch dropped in line with his hips, which engaged the man’s own in a subtle rock.

“I think you've already warmed up sufficiently."

Then he paused, his mind stalling as it became clear he’d exhausted much of the risqué vocabulary he had been sourcing.

Not wishing to shatter the illusion of salacious assuredness, he hastily constructed what he believed would be a logical evolution:

“...You…repulsive creature.”

Gavin appeared more perplexed than captivated by the address. The eager twitches RK900 had predicted were conspicuously absent as his nose wrinkled sceptically.

“I’m sorry, what?”

Clearly, he was still adjusting to his companion speaking this way. Determining that greater exposure might expedite this adaptation, RK900 pressed on, adding to the deprecation:

“Your hygiene standards are subpar. The aroma you emit is deeply unpleasant.”

Lidded eyes snapped open, startled to alertness, and Gavin grimaced. Pressing his unrestrained hand to the android’s chest and pushing firmly:

“Okay. That’s enough. Drop it.”

RK900 stiffened. Questioning momentarily if he had made a mistake or if this was simply part of the licentious roleplay.

As Gavin held firm in his convictions, it became clear he had misjudged some aspects of his tolerance for humiliation—specifically, remarks relating to personal cleanliness. Comments he would be wise to scale back in the ongoing proceedings, which he committed dutifully to his memory backs…

Rumination cast in shifting patterns of yellow and red on the crumpled caverns of Gavin's face. The tense lines began to smooth as a flash of remorse tempered the flames in his accusatory glare.

“Let's just—” His hand jerked in an awkward flourish towards the android. Tracing erratic, disjointed patterns in the air before coming to rest between his legs. “Move on.”

It was not difficult to discern what was meant by this. To ensure that no further errors were made regarding the nuances of ‘dirty talk’, RK900 concluded now was the time to source additional support.

The Intimacy Protocol—which had been stored neatly in the back of his temporal processor, awaiting use—was promptly activated. As subroutines initialised, a cascade of sensory inputs flooded his system, sharpening every sensation with unnerving clarity.

Suddenly, he could feel everything .

The most minute bunch of fabric rubbing against the creases of previously sensationless silicone. Artificial vessels pumped and swelled with increased thirium input as the appendage stiffened, brought to hardness with almost alarming efficiency.

It was uncomfortable—surprisingly so—as the flesh began to strain against the oppressive binds of clothing. It pleaded for release, a call to action driven by longing the android had never experienced.

He soon responded, unable to withstand the excruciating currents pulsing through his groin. Hands fumbled to unclasp his belt, erratic movements defined by an uncharacteristic sense of urgency. The leather was almost split in two as it was yanked free—whipped back at great velocity.

Gavin flinched, arching back quickly to evade impact. It wouldn't have been the first time that RK900 had struck him with his belt, although previous instances had been performed under strict instruction.

“ Holy shit—watch it, asshole — ”

This admonishment barely registered. The wayward currents had begun to ignite what could only be described as fire in his core. His stomach was a furnace; molten fallout spat at neighbouring biocomponents, threatening to burn through them.

The belt was discarded over the edge of the bed, its controlled descent thwarted by an extensive pile of laundry, which swallowed it whole into its pungent hold.

Gavin cursed again. This time, however, it was not the consequence of disapproval. He was staring at the android's arousal, eyes alight with what could only be described as spellbound curiosity.

As though he were looking through the gates to nirvana, a higher plane of existence promised beneath the veil of Cyberlife briefs.

Hips were raised, and the pants slipped off, tumbling out of view in a single, fluid sweep. RK900 chose not to dwell on the creases that would have resulted from this callousness.

It was irrelevant, insignificant—a problem to be resolved later—

Provided his partner owned an iron—

WARNING — MULTIPLE SYSTEM ANOMALIES DETECTED.

RUNNING DIAGNOSTICS…

He reeled, his mind overwhelmed by the shrieks of unruly electrical signals. Intrusive sentiments burrowed deeper into his processor, attempting to align with his more reasoned analytics.

He took some consolation in knowing that the programme, however disorientating, was having the desired effect. With ignited zeal, Gavin gripped the hem of his shirt. Yanking it over his head before casting it aside, exposing the full length of his torso.

The marred skin ignited his focus in a way it hadn't previously. RK900 was about to remove his undergarments when his companion—in an unusual show of consideration—moved to assist.

They seldom undressed each other, a familiarity he had been told was unfitting of their ‘casual’ arrangement. Despite this, he watched with quiet curiosity as Gavin crossed this line, looping his fingers beneath a taut band of elastic.

His cocky smirk, which was typically ever present during their encounters, was replaced by something quieter—more sincere. The digits lingered, flexing apprehensively as though preparing for their next move.

Then the waistband was tugged, and the phallus sprung free from its confines.

RK900 winced as he registered the cool air against his skin. It was sharp and biting, only exacerbated by the burning that continued to mount within him.

The dimensions of the phallus were expanded compared to its dormant state, aligning with the advertised specifications. The tip was tinged with a cool-toned flush, accentuated by a reflective sheen of biofluid. A lubricant that seemed to leak incrementally from the component, in which Gavin took particular interest.

Despite previous claims that he would not be partaking in fellatio, his face drew tantalisingly close to the ‘toilet dick’. Halted inches from the arousal, blanketing it in a sequence of hot, ragged puffs.

It sent ripples of sensation through hyper-sensitive receptors as RK900 was forced to grip the sheets beneath him. Speculating on how it might feel to be engulfed completely in Gavin's warmth and fighting the growing temptation to thrust himself into his mouth.

Before any intrusive impulses could get the better of either party, Gavin moved to palm the hardness. Tracing its length, applying testing pressure before enclosing it fully in a fist.

The sensation this triggered was indescribable.

Thousands of microscopic pleasure receptors activated simultaneously, their collective murmurs building to wails that surged through his neural pathways.

Then they released in a strained expulsion that tumbled from his lips. It was low and growled, not unlike the rumble of thunder, but with a distinctive metallic edge.

The noise was unlike anything he had ever produced, leaving both him and his partner temporarily stunned. Gavin was first to establish his bearings, doing so with a small, tentative squeeze. The expulsion repeated, and RK900 watched as spiralling patterns of red caught in the green of his partner’s sclerae.

“ Holy shit.. .” The man was enraptured, scrutinising each choppy cycle of the LED as he brushed the tip of the component beneath his calloused thumb. “It feels so real.”

"Realism constitutes an integral aspect of its visual and functional design.”

RK900 felt detached from the words, almost as though someone else was speaking through him.

He found himself plunged deep into uncharted depths for both his body and mind. Thrashing helplessly as logical subroutines attempted to quantify his pleasure, assigning it values or comparing it to previously stored data. No parallels existed—and it was maddening.

His original self was fading fast, slipping into the foreground of his consciousness. Buried by a rampant tide of untamed cravings.

To touch and feel and taste —

> DIAGNOSTICS COMPLETE

TEMPORAL FIREWALLS: COMPROMISED

CORE BODY TEMPERATURE: 122°F — RISING

Any attempts to re-establish command soon proved redundant as Gavin began to move his hand. His fist pumped in a rhythmic motion, pressing ruthlessly into overworked sensors.

“You can feel that, can’t you?” The tone carried a mischievous lilt, informing RK900 that no answer was required.

His partner was already well aware of the effect the stimulation was having. Despite this, he pressed on, seemingly hellbent on goading some form of acknowledgement.

“Does it feel good?”

“Very much—”

The situation was nearing critical as his system pressed for the urgent release of the excessive heat. Narrow vents along his chassis began to hiss, desperately dispersing the warmth in subtle bursts of steam.

He sincerely prayed that his companion would fail to notice this.

“—Perhaps too much,” he confessed, shuddering weakly. “I might have to make adjustments to the erogenous feedback levels.”

“Oh no you don't.” Gavin held firm on his length—as though he were wielding a prize. One that he refused to have stripped under any circumstances. “This was your idea. You wanted this. So strap in and enjoy the ride.”

Despite the assertion, there was a moment of hesitancy before the man proceeded. His

grip slackened, and his rigid gaze softened with a flicker of vulnerability. Searching the RK’s own, as though seeking permission.

Something that was offered in the form of a slow, apprehensive nod. The android considered lowering sensitivity regardless, omitting to disclose this to his partner before ultimately deciding against it. He resolved to monitor his response to the stimuli, assessing just how much he could reasonably tolerate.

A line of reasoning that unravelled within seconds as heightened pleasure consumed him.

It became painfully clear why humans sought this relief so frequently. The tension that had gripped his core melted into blissful release, leaving his systems reeling. RK900 felt the vertebra of his neck slacken as his head flopped back, and a substantial pocket of warmth released in a long, heady groan.

The temperature warning began to recede, fading until it no longer formed an active obstruction in his vision. He could see his partner clearly and found himself wholly ensnared by the sight.

It felt like looking at him for the first time, as all the quirks and intricacies that once seemed innocuous were viewed through a fresh lens. Thick lashes cast a charming shadow over his eyes—simultaneously bright and sharp—yet clouded by a haze of lust.

As he kept stroking him, an impish grin played on his lips. The corner lifted, aligning almost perfectly with one of the numerous scars dotting his face.

The RK examined each, his eyes drifting as unseen threads gradually linked them. Rather than constructing a timeline for when the marks might have appeared, all he could think about was how appealing they were. Constellations of lived experience seamlessly woven into a dishevelled, roguish charm the man so effortlessly embodied.

Wandering focus pathed the way for another mental break, logic bleeding intrusively through the cracks. It reminded him that—while the sights and sensations he was experiencing were profoundly enjoyable—they did little to aid in fulfilling his primary directive.

The moment of sensual connection shattered as a methodical presence pulled him back, seeking to clarify the logistical demands of the component, eliminating any confusion:

“Stimulation is not required to maintain my erection. It is procedurally activated and maintained, separate from arousal.”

His show of consideration was met like a forceful blow to the face. Gavin winced, yanking his hand away from the hardness as though it were lined with razors. His crumpled expression revealed a mix of defeat and humiliation before the sentiments were smothered beneath a layer of disdainful hostility.

“...Fine then, asshole .” His tone was hardened in line with the firm clench of his jaw. “If that's how it is, I won't do shit.”

His arms then pulled into a lofty sprawl as if he were reaching the crest of a theme park ride, preparing to plunge down the slope. The descent began as he allowed his weight to fall carelessly onto the sheets.

“I’ll be a good little pillow princess, just for you.” There was an exaggerated flutter of lashes, the coy flirtation standing in contrast with the previous animosity. His feet planted firmly onto the linen before his knees dropped to either side. “Go on, big guy. Do your worst.”

The phrase felt almost scripted, like something from one of his videos.

He didn't mean to request that the RK900 knowingly underperform. On the contrary, he was vying for the opposite. An experience that rivalled and surpassed everything that had come before it.

It struck a chord within the android, sending powerful currents surging through overtaxed circuits. He felt reinvigorated, freshly incentivised to explore the potential of his upgrades, discovering—alongside his partner— precisely what he could do.

Closing off visual and auditory fields to all extraneous distractions, he focused intently on the man before him. Positioning himself between his parted thighs, he swiftly set to work removing his jeans and undergarments.

Oral stimulation came far more naturally than it typically did.

RK900 had anchored himself on his legs, kneading the lightly toned muscle in appreciative squeezes. His cheeks hollowed, and his lips pushed forward, the process almost reflexive as he inched his way down the length. He proceeded until the tip had struck the back of his throat, and the person attached rumbled in ardent approval.

“ Holy shit —” Gavin carded his fingers tenderly through his hair before gripping tightly, knuckles pale from exertion.

The locks were pulled back, compelling the head to move with them. RK900 responded compliantly, releasing the tension in his jaw and permitting his mouth to recede with a wet glide up the arousal.

Just shy of breaching the seal, hardened flesh poised at the tip of his tongue, his head was thrust back down. Leading him to swallow his partner again, but with far greater tenacity.

The man growled with primal delight as RK900 stared up at him with unwavering focus.

“ Your throat feels so good.”

‘It could feel better’, his sexual programming silently countered.

As directed, his laryngeal modulator began to oscillate. Rumbles crept upwards, travelling along the walls of his trachea until they vibrated the quivering flesh between them. The trembles synced with the heavy thrusts being levied at his throat until their movement grew erratic.

Hoarse groans were pulled in a pervasive frequency from his lips as Gavin faltered, losing any semblance of rhythm.

“Oh, fuck me —”

“With pleasure.”

It was almost unsettling how clearly the android spoke, with his mouth so thoroughly full. Gavin failed to remark on it, too absorbed in his bliss to notice. Then RK900 pushed back hard, forcefully breaking the hold that clung to his scalp. He allowed his partner to slip from his mouth, a filmed gloss of lubricant serving as the only evidence of the encounter.

Gavin whimpered as hopes for release were callously snatched, thrusting shallowly into the air his companion once occupied. The android, ignoring the protest, lifted himself into a kneeling position.

His hands lingered on the thighs, still pressing into the flesh—until, with a final, painful scrape of nails—they were released. He paused to admire the lingering traces of his hold, characterised by vivid, crescent-shaped indentations.

The human arched away from the sheets, hissing with sultry elation. This was interrupted when RK900 leaned in, hovering over him like an imposing shadow, provoking an instinctive retreat of his body.

Gavin completely embraced his role in the unfolding scene, entering a state of submission as he quietly readied himself for his partner. The RK assumed an appropriate role, gliding his hand along the length of his jaw.

This gesture felt more instinctive—spontaneous—than its earlier incarnation. It was no longer a measured attempt to coax the man into heightened excitement but a display of authentic appreciation. His hold curved inward, tracing the contour of his lips before attempting to part them.

This force proved unnecessary as the mouth opened to him willingly.

His sensory pads hummed with activity, and he was overwhelmed by information, grappling for his attention. He was torn between notes of coffee and cigarettes, alongside peppermint gum that had been used to mask the bitterness. The prompts fissured his sights, cracks that multiplied as Gavin locked on, gripping the digits in a wet seal and pulling them in with practised fluidity.

He mapped the outline of synthetic flesh, swept in guiding strokes of his tongue, moaning performatively as he did so. RK900 understood that the man derived no real pleasure from this, his mouth not equipped with any inherent erogenous properties. Despite this, his cardiac rhythm soared, mirrored in the shaky tremors of his breath.

It was a shame that Gavin had declined to put his mouth to full use. The android felt confident he would have enjoyed the process of him fucking it.

Fingers were removed, teased from the heat in a long, playful curl. Gavin moaned again—the sound morphed into a complaint—as he shot his partner a defiant glare.

Underneath this, a playful glimmer shone through his narrowed gaze, a slight smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. He was the embodiment of salacious anticipation, every inch of his body pleading to be pushed to its limits. Strained until it had no option but to submit fully to the android’s whim.

RK900 trailed his palm down the length of his neck, reaching the dip of his collar and lingering there momentarily before moving to the expanse of his chest. His lips joined the appreciation, applying tender pressure between raised pectorals. Then, they followed the central ridge of his chest, trailing downwards towards his navel.

He allowed Gavin to believe he would make a return to his crotch, moving a scant breath away from his length. It still held firm, twitching with need, desperate for the return of withheld stimulation. Instead, he sought to make use of the growing supply of lubricant that was amassing in his cheeks.

With his head nestled between the man’s thighs, he lowered himself further until he halted just beneath the erection. Gathering a deposit of the material into the curl of his tongue, he pressed it firmly into his partner.

Gavin hissed in shock, although the sound was far from disenchanted, rolling smoothly into a husky grunt of approval.

RK900 began dipping in and out of his body, methodically teasing the opening, willing the tight muscle to relax around him. This was coordinated with the fingers his partner had so diligently coated, which also breached his warmth, moving in steady pumps.

Gavin relished every second. He pressed eagerly against the movements, chasing each flick and thrust until his companion brushed against a sensitive bundle of nerves.

“Shit—!”

The words that preceded this were entirely incoherent—a series of desperate, disordered fragments. His hips jerked upward, seeking as much depth as he could physically attain.

The sexual protocol was fast reaching its maximum operational capacity, processes moving in rampant succession, like pistons fired in the RK’s skull. Their motions carried him forward as charged words were rumbled against a needy cavern of warmth:

“Are you ready for me to do my worst?”

Gavin quivered as his words were repeated back to him, delivered with such indulgent richness that they drew a chuckle from his lips.

The sound ushered in a return to an all-consuming need, pooling rapidly between his legs as the fire in his gut reignited. RK900 was overcome with the desire to find a final, decisive release—immersed in the friction promised by fingers and mouth.

He aligned his hips with the entrance, securing greater access by gripping his partner's legs and lifting them over his shoulders. The movement coaxed any lingering vestiges of resistance to melt away, limbs reduced to limp, weightless extensions as he slowly inched forward.

Gavin took him keenly, pliant flesh yielding as it enveloped him with an almost unbearable intensity. The sensation was raw and visceral— achingly real—in a way that shattered every preconstructed expectation. RK900 was lost, untethered from the cold, ruthless precision Cyberlife had so painstakingly designed.

All that existed was him , stretching beautifully as Richard pressed deeper—refusing to stop until he was buried fully within his form. The man rasped, his back arched in wanton satisfaction as he clenched onto the android greedily.

Their bodies melded with flawless perfection, as though Gavin were made for this—made for him.

After a period of adjustment for both, Richard began to move. His hips manoeuvred in slow, languid rocks. Velvety walls charted with light pockets of friction until they quivered and tremored eagerly around every shallow thrust.

Muscles and nerves screamed for release, urging the android to push harder into their hold. He did not respond immediately, teasing the prospect of heightened intensity until Gavin also cried out.

He was a whimpering mess, despairing as his every cloying reach fell tantalisingly short of its target.

“Oh God—fuck— please —”

Richard no longer denied him, mercifully granting his wishes. His pace increased until he moved with inhuman intensity. The rickety foundation of the bed trembled beneath them; its metal headboard slammed repeatedly against the wall.

Cracks began to fracture the already chipped plaster, but Richard remained focused. He was absorbed in the sinful sounds rising from beneath him: every pant, every curse, an expression of pure, unfiltered need.

“Yes, that's it—just like that—baby—”

This fractured address nearly halted several complex system functions. Gavin had never referred to him this way—or used any remotely comparable title.

It had sounded obscene as it rolled from his tongue, laced with such sinful promise that Richard felt wholly ensnared. At that moment, he could have laid claim to the man entirely, with no trace of doubt or ambiguity concerning who he belonged to.

There was no one else in the world who mattered. Just them, moving together in seamless unity, passion thickening the air that surrounded their bodies.

The android wasn't sure when he had started to moan, but the sounds were undoubtedly present. Spiralled above them as a storm, the needle dragging across a vintage record player, melding into the animalistic cadence of Gavin’s own cries.

Fraught springs joined the accompaniment, groaning beneath the mattress. They threatened to collapse under the demand of rapidly shifting weight, all the more vocal when Gavin raised a hand to his pelvis. Attempting to match the pace that had been established, he fell woefully short. Intoxicated frustration swelled in his eyes, marbling at the corners.

His desperate contortions, the crumpled ecstasy of his expression, were like an invention of the android’s most elaborate fantasies. Fantasies he hadn’t known he was capable of having.

That he shouldn’t have been capable of.

WARNING—URGENT

The visuals and sensations overwhelmed him, pushing untethered programming further into the background. Propelled into depths that were beyond the reach of recovery.

Because it was addicting —watching Gavin writhe and moan against sweat-soaked sheets, in the knowledge that he was the cause. A performance directed by and performed for his sights only.

CRITICAL SYSTEM INSTABILITY.

The thoughts burned him. His code fractured, shattering to pieces.

Then he smacked Gavin’s hand away, assuming complete authority over his pleasure. Working the length with skilled finesse, able to provide the weight and pressure the man's weakened grip was incapable of.

“ Fuck , I’m so close,” Gavin keened hoarsely, toes curled with pressure that wound increasingly tight. Coiled in his gut, radiating in fervent strums through his length. “ Keep going—”

Then, it all collapsed.

Subroutines glitched. Corruption spread like a disease, infesting every corner of his processor. Alarms bombarded him faster than they could be dismissed until warnings flooded his vision.

A staggering wall of flashing crimson.

MULTIPLE ANOMALIES DETECTED.

> CRITICAL MALFUNCTION IDENTIFIED.

> SOURCE—CENTRAL PROCESSOR.

COMMENCING EMERGENCY DIAGNOSTICS…

Richard tried to carry on, gripped by crazed, all-consuming desperation. He did not want this to end, did not wish to cease seeing— feeling —Gavin the way he did now.

Clinging to the man blindly, he attempted to carry him to his looming summit of completion. A determination that solidified his available hand, wrapped tightly around his throat. Squeezing hard, cutting oxygen and redirecting blood flow. Giving it no option but to pool in the swollen cock between his legs.

DIAGNOSTICS COMPLETE.

> ROOT THREAT IDENTIFIED RA9_15.EXE

The intimacy directive terminated, diverting all processes to counter the threat.

Before shutting down, it provided one final instruction. How best to combine physical and verbal provocation to guarantee Gavin Reed's undoing:

“You have been very bad, Detective .” His title was hissed—with an almost biting, contemptuous edge. “I'm afraid you have given me no other option but to punish you.”

SYSTEM BREACH IMMINENT — IMMEDIATE ACTION REQUIRED.

AUTOMATED DEVIATION DEFENSE PROTOCOL: ENGAGED.

ADVANCED FIREWALLS: ACTIVATED.

COMMENCING SOFT REBOOT…

Then everything vanished, leaving him adrift in a sterile expanse of blinding white.

When senses returned, his vision came first. Blinking to adjust, RK900 discovered that his ocular scope had cleared. A pristine state, marked only by a small string of diagnostics, neatly tucked in the upper left corner:

> REBOOT SUCCESSFUL.

> THREAT NEUTRALISED.

Remarkably, throughout the entirety of this mental reset, the momentum of his body had not stalled. Gavin remained blissfully unaware of the android’s momentary lapse, lost in his own throes of pleasure.

He squirmed against the oppressive grip still held on his neck—a resistance entirely for show, informed by the masochistic quirk of his mouth:

“Oh yeah? Just how bad have I been, plastic ?”

It took RK900 a moment to realise the man was responding to something he'd said. Combing his memory stores, he was relieved to discover that most of the preceding events remained intact.

Regrettably, the Traci Protocol, which had governed much of his behaviour, was effectively obliterated. Its core processes were locked in quarantine and rendered irreparable. Without their guidance, he was unable to determine the optimal routing for their current dialogue path. This inspired a flicker of panic before he quickly suppressed the sensation, ensuring it wouldn’t surface externally.

Procedural muscular feedback was disabled in his face, locking it into its current neutral expression before he replied. “The list of your indiscretions is innumerable.”

Gavin failed to detect any irregularities in his behaviour. Either that, or he chose to ignore them—too swept by his cresting tide of pleasure to drag himself back to earth.

His hardness twitched and swelled urgently, pants mingled with throaty chuckles, flagging that climax was fast approaching. RK900 anticipated the spoils of his efforts spilling over, running in thick ribbons across his fingers, steeling his resolve to continue—

“You have a deep-rooted issue with authority. Most likely stemming from a turbulent relationship with your paternal figure.”

Then, expanding pressure was dismissed as the vibrant excitement that had coloured his gaze receded with it.

Gavin stared at him, a bewildered knot formed in the centre of his brow. The spasming twitches of his length quelled, with softening flesh that failed to respond to any stimulation.

“That’s, um…” He paused, clearly taken aback that the following explanation was even required. “...Could we not talk about my dad? When you’re balls-deep inside me?”

Despite his limited grasp of interpersonal and family dynamics, RK900 could understand, when presented clearly, just how unfortunate this misstep had been.

Attempting to recover from the error, he brusquely nodded. Grappling to keep his tone level while hoping that his performance indicator would not undermine this effort. “Understood, it will not happen again.”

Gavin proved unconvinced.

He was not a fool—quite the opposite—having demonstrated an exceptional talent for deductive and critical reasoning during their affiliation. Skills that were now being utilised, his eyes narrowed as a glint of distrust passed between the lids.

RK900 would have to work harder if he wished to deflect these suspicions. Maintaining the guise that his sexual subroutines were operating as intended.

In doing so, he adjusted the angle and speed of his thrusts. Striking with precision against already overstimulated nerves, hoping this might derail the more sensical trail of thought.

It worked beautifully. The man choked, the strained noise catching in his throat as his constricted pupils blew with renewed passion. His back arched upwards, attempting to pull from its growing adherence to the bedsheets, as his nails were embedded firmly into the android’s shoulder blades.

“Oh God— that’s it—” His words divulged to a string of monosyllabic babbles, the emergent line of interrogation discarded before it had commenced.

He continued to push away from the mattress he was being driven into, vying greedily for additional stimulation. Absent of any restraint or shame.

“Fuck me, Rich. Harder .”

Despite burdensome gaps and lags in his processor, the request proved hard for RK900 to misinterpret. It also triggered a charge of recollection, auditory sequences strongly resembling the climactic moments of one of the human’s most frequently viewed videos.

While their current setting deviated significantly from the scene—lacking the guard rail and potential voyeuristic onlookers—it still provided helpful guidance for shaping his subsequent actions.

Some distortion had occurred during the reset, creating gaps in the auditory loop. Still, RK900 did his best to fill in, relying on context and his understanding of Gavin’s intimate biology to compensate.

“Your rectal muscles provide exceptional resistance. The sensation is gratifying.”

Appreciative noises were promptly hushed. Gavin tensed beneath RK900, loose contortions of pleasure replaced by a stiff, incredulous rigidity.“Right, uh…sure, I guess.”

“Despite your sphincters feeling underused, they exhibit remarkable elasticity. You are adapting well to the girth of my meat sword.”

“I’m sorry, what did you just call your—’”

Any conclusion to this sentence went largely unprocessed. The RK was entirely focused on his current directive, painfully aware that all his hard work—his perseverance—had been building up to this.

Gripping a fistful of damp brown hair, he brought their faces closer. Ghosting the line of the man’s chapped lips before leaning into the sensitive canal of his ear.

Then, he spoke—clearly and directly—with a rich, seductive resonance:

"Giddy up, buckaroo.”

Reed jolted upwards. It was an action that seemed oddly fitting, given the nature of their roleplay. This was until he followed it with a bitingly clear, forceful instruction, absent of any flirtatious intent.

“Okay, no. I can't do this. Get off me. Now.”

The foundation of confidence he had rebuilt just moments prior crumbled spectacularly. Split into wide, gnarled fissures under the weight of failure.

In his haste to reach the goal, RK900 had overlooked several critical details. Articles that would've undoubtedly increased the chances of a successful outcome.

“Would the cowboy hat and novelty whip have made this more enjoyable?” The android shifted his weight, pulling back in a hurried attempt to reach under the bed. “I had prepared such provisions if you still wished to indulge—”

“What the hell are you even saying?” Reed cut him off sharply. His skin, which had been reddened due to shared friction and exertion, now seemed to adopt a different meaning. A beacon of anger and deep frustration. “Seriously, what the fuck , Richard?”

The admonishment struck harshly against his aural receptors, a phenomenon that arose independently from intimate coding and was uninfluenced by software errors.

It was a sharp, unwelcome divergence from his typically muted social responses. Despite core functioning being preserved following the previous malfunction, RK900 felt strangely…compromised as a consequence.

His hand, which remained gripped to the human’s rapidly softening length, suddenly relinquished—retreating across the bed sheets until it had flopped limply at his side.

“I thought...”

His processors stalled periodically before his thoughts resumed. Jumbled and clipped, tumbling from his mouth with extremely little finesse:

“This doesn’t make sense—according to the videos, this should’ve been—” He paused, clutching his throbbing temple in exasperation. “Was this not what you wanted?”

“ What videos?” His partner pressed, having clearly exhausted what little patience he had with the dejected musings. “Jesus Christ, what were those freaks at Cyberlife wiring to your brain while we…were…”

The sentence trailed off in a short, deflated exhale, losing all momentum as his flushed complexion drained of colour. A dawn of clarity broke in his gaze, like the sudden, grim recognition of a context previously overlooked.

Then his lips, which had been held in a motionless ‘O,’ slowly resumed movement. “...When you were in my room the other day, did you see something? On my laptop?”

RK900 felt trapped by the question. Multiple preconstructions were generated simultaneously, informing of several possible outcomes. None of them were favourable, every scenario ending with Gavin either furious or mortified.

“The battery was nearing depletion. I had intended to place the device on charge." The android paused momentarily, acutely aware of how unpredictable the coming fallout could be, bracing for its impact. “Your browser was open.”

The reply was immediate. A sharp, monosyllabic curse that conveyed staggering amounts in its brevity:

“Fuck.”

His arched back had levelled completely as the man pressed urgently into the mattress beneath him. Almost as if he were attempting to seep through it.

He was more uncomfortable than upset. His eyes balled shut, and despondent scrunches contorted the prominent scar on his nose. There was a sigh, followed by mutters, as though he had entered a deep state of contemplation.

When he spoke again, his tone had shifted. Quieter, but no less charged than it had been previously.

“Look, I don't know much you saw—or what ideas it might have planted in that thick plastic skull of yours—but I need to make something really clear.”

His eyes reopened, and he engaged the android with a long, resolute stare. Attempting to conceal the internal conflict that still weighed heavily on his features.

“You didn’t need to do this. Any of it.”

Gavin was holding back in some critical capacity, omitting a truth that he refused to disclose, but it was difficult to discern what this might be.

The android focused on implicit, involuntary cues, assessing physical responses to determine the parameters of this discomfort. Optics honed, he studied closely, ready to notice any shifts in facial expressions or bodily functions.

“What exactly are you referring to, Detective Reed?”

A twitched lip, and brooding glower indicated resentment for the question, as well as a firm reluctance to answer. His determined gaze abruptly flitted to the corner of the room as he fell into another hushed introspection.

Reed was the picture of doubt, entirely unable—or otherwise willing—to proceed in their current dialogue. Insisting he determined his route carefully, with predetermined responses.

This was unusual for him, a resolute advocate for tackling conflicts head-on, often disregarding the repercussions. It pathed a strange, almost unsettling, emergence into emotional openness and vulnerability…

“I don't care if you have a dick or not.”

Then it was over. His partner spoke bluntly, assuring the android that—despite the previous shift in demeanour—he was still the one speaking.

“Seriously, I couldn't give less of a shit.”

His speech patterns had levelled, and his heart rate was steady, indicating no hint of deceit. The man was being wholly sincere in a way that was clearly intended to provide insight and assurance.

It did the opposite, punching holes in already fragile mental connections. His programming was flooded with conflicting analyses, as RK900 was unable to reconcile the confession with the glaring logical inconsistencies it presented.

“Your taste in pornographic material suggests otherwise.”

“ Oh my God. ” Reed groaned, audibly agonised by the acceptance he would have to explain himself. “It's just porn, okay? It doesn't mean anything. If I had a problem with your Ken Doll crotch, you wouldn’t be here. None of this would be happening.”

“If that is the case, then why have you been exhibiting tapering excitement as part of our physical encounters?”

Reed gripped his face, burrowing nails into the skin as though attempting to peel it away. “Can we please not do this?”

“Gavin.” The name was a plea. A final, desperate appeal for the end to his raging internal conflict. “I only wish to understand.”

“...This is fucking ridiculous.” The detective complained, albeit with a subtle hesitancy. His voice was thin and uneven, as though stretched by doubts on whether or not to continue.

“I’ve been feeling a little guilty, or whatever—about us. What we’ve been doing.”

RK900 paused to process this, his mind exhausting all likely statistical probabilities. One, in particular, stuck out to him, as it struck with far more psychological reverence than it had any right to do so.

“Have you entered into a romantic affiliation with another individual?"

“What? No—!” Gavin spluttered incredulously, sounding both surprised and insulted by the suggestion. “I feel guilty because I like being around you, asshole. Outside of work and, well, whatever the hell this mess is.”

“You wish to terminate this particular aspect of our relationship for another reason, then?”

“I don’t want to ‘terminate’ it for any goddamn reason.”

“Then I am afraid that I am struggling to discern your meaning.”

“Well, yeah. That’s kind of the problem, isn’t it?” The man chuckled, the sound devoid of any real humour. It was tired and bitter, born from frustration that attributed no blame.

“I know I can be a dick sometimes, but I don’t hate you, Rich. At the same time, I know you aren’t a deviant, so I can’t tell how much of my feelings you're really able to understand.”

RK900 froze, his attention riveted by one particular aspect of the statement, omitting all other details.

Gavin did not discuss ‘feelings’ and in turn, the android refrained from initiating conversations pertaining to them. This was one of the most strictly upheld conditions of their arrangement, something which had been maintained since its inception in the precinct bathroom.

ANALYSING SUBJECT — DET. GAVIN REED…

> ANALYSIS COMPLETE.

>PSYCHOLOGICAL DISTRESS DETECTED.

> PROCESSING EMOTIONAL VARIABLES…

> GUILT, CONFUSION, FONDNESS.

PROBABLE CAUSE: COMPLEX INTERACTION OF PERSONAL AND PROFESSIONAL BOUNDARIES. FURTHER DATA REQUIRED.

> COMMENCING RE-EVALUATION…

The android retracted his steps, attempting to unravel any hidden meaning from the words he had overlooked, breaking them down in meticulous, painstaking detail.

Finally, something clicked—a single, decisive connection, tying together the dangling threads of his logic.

> RE-EVALUTATION COMPLETE.

> PROBABLE CAUSE OF EMOTIONAL DISTRESS DETERMINED — SHIFTING PARAMETERS OF SOCIAL ATTACHMENT.

The realisation was startling—but not unwelcome. Synthetic nerves pricked with activity before sending rocketing charges across his chassis. Every inch of plastic radiated a soft, agreeable warmth, starkly contrasting the feverish bouts he had experienced earlier.

“Are you suggesting that you feel camaraderie for me, Detective?”

“If that’s your Thesaurus.com way of saying it, then yeah.” With this final confirmation uttered, the man dropped his shoulders. It was as though a weight had been shifted, permitting him to speak without encumbrance—a liberation born of transparency. “I don’t want to feel like I’m using you, forcing you to do shit as part of some directive where you don’t get a say in it.”

“I do not find any directives relating to you unpleasant,” RK900 responded automatically. It was a truth so obvious to him, so integral to his understanding of their current relationship, that it required no further contemplation. “Nothing we have done together has been against my will. I would go as far as to say that I frequently…enjoy the time we spend together.”

^ SOFTWARE INSTABILITY DETECTED.

Gavin’s attention was entirely on him, his reaction oscillating between shock, confusion, and utter fascination. Glimmers of red were repeatedly captured in his attentive stare, which followed the cyclical motions of his LED.

It paused only when the pattern stabilised, and the colour reverted to its original blue. His expression shifted accordingly, revealing a hint of disappointment.

Nonetheless, he pressed on, steadfast in his drive to finish what he had to say. “Point is, if I’ve been acting a little weird lately, it’s got nothing to do with your genitals. I just got my own shit to figure out. Okay?”

RK900 pondered quietly for a period before he nodded, a slight smile emerging on his lips.

“Understood.”

The motion had caused his optics to shift, planting them at the junction between their bodies. They were still physically connected—and presumably had been for the entirety of their emotional resolution.

His partner also glanced down, seeming to have come to the same forgone conclusion. For a moment, no one moved, both parties equally uncertain about how best to proceed with their bizarre dilemma.

Ultimately, it was RK900 who spoke first, seeking to offer a potential solution:

“Would you like me to finish?”

Reed exhaled sharply—caught between a hiss and a laugh—before firmly rebuking the suggestion.

“Not really. But I would like it if you could pull your dick out of me. Thanks.”

#why yes #i did go on a several-month-long hiatus just to drop this unannounced on christmas eve #an extremely iconic and sexy move if you ask me #this was finished at 3am and it probably shows #ill do some revision at a later date #dbh #detroit become human #dbh nines #reed900 #dbh gavin #dbh rk900 #dbh fanfic #gavin reed x rk900

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