#drone command ship

[spockvarietyhour]

Decoy Shuttle "Gauntlet"

[neo-exploded]

the boyz 12!!!!

(crap animatic i made during the span of an afternoon)

i might post this to my yt later but its 11 pm n im tired so

[winxanity-ii]

FATHER, FORGIVE ME

ship: father charlie x fem!reader warnings: nsfw 🔞 ( oral sex/f. receiving; overstimulation; coercion/dub-con?; sacrilege, heavy religious imagery ) word count: 4.1k a/n: ahhh….I just want to say I'm so thrilled with all the love and support for the mini Devotion series! It means the world to me to see you guys enjoying it as much as I do. And a huge thank you to everyone who wished me a happy birthday! I got drunk asf, and here's the rough draft I made while tipsy, lolol. Hope you all enjoy~ 😈✨..

★·.·´ɢʀᴏᴛᴇsǫᴜᴇʀɪᴇ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

You wouldn't say you were a bad person.

Selfish? Maybe. Impulsive? Absolutely. But "bad" seemed a bit of a stretch.

It's just that, when you saw something you wanted, you didn't hesitate to take it—and, honestly, you had no regrets. Not until now, at least.

Sitting here, surrounded by the smell of old hymn books and dusty incense, listening to some wrinkly old man in a white robe drone on about salvation.

The whole thing was your mother's doing. She had this recurring phase, like clockwork, where she'd get bitten by the "Bible bug."

For a few weeks every year, she was the most devoted Catholic you'd ever seen. She'd call, text, guilt-trip—anything to get her kids back on the straight and narrow, even if just for a Sunday morning.

For the last seven years, you'd managed to dodge it. Moved out at eighteen and never looked back, leaving the duty of church attendance to your three other siblings.

Usually, someone would take one for the team and tag along with Mom until her enthusiasm fizzled out again. But this time, it seemed your luck had run dry—your sister had finally roped you in, and here you were, seven-year streak shattered.

You sighed deeply, eyes half-lidded as they flicked across the stained glass windows—all those saints staring down at you in judgment.

You couldn't help but think of all the things you could be doing right now. Sleeping, for one. Your bed sounded like heaven compared to the hard pew beneath you.

Or brunch with your friends—mimosas and laughter, not these monotone chants and the faint smell of mothballs.

Hell, you could've called Kevin over and gotten dicked down instead of dealing with this—

Your thoughts screeched to a halt, slamming against an unexpected sight.

The old priest, the one whose croaky voice was practically white noise at this point, stepped away from the pulpit. In his place was someone else—someone younger, someone whose presence commanded attention.

A man, tall, dark hair neatly combed back, with a crisp black cassock that hugged his broad shoulders just right. He moved with a sense of ease, like he belonged up there.

And damn, was he handsome. Handsome enough to pull your focus completely, which was a feat in itself given the circumstances.

Your eyes tracked him as he approached the podium, his voice replacing the rasping chant of the old priest. It was smooth, warm, resonant. Nothing like the man you remembered from years ago.

He spoke about community, faith, redemption—but all you could think was how someone like him ended up in a place like this.

You found yourself leaning forward, just slightly, as if drawn in by some invisible force. Your irritation melted away, replaced by a strange curiosity.

Maybe… maybe this wouldn't be the worst way to spend a Sunday after all.

The priest stood quietly at the altar, his figure framed by the soft light filtering through the stained glass windows. A faint scar traced its way down the right side of his forehead, a mark that spoke of some unknown hardship or past misadventure.

He was youthful but with the stillness of someone who’d seen enough to understand patience and humility.

With each breath, the man seemed grounded in his presence, shoulders relaxed but broad, the fabric of his robe resting comfortably against his chest.

His appearance was almost angelic, yet the subtle scar and the weight in his eyes hinted at something more complex beneath the surface—a man of God, perhaps, but one who had walked through fire to find his faith.

"Oh?" You raised an eyebrow in appreciation as you stared at the handsome man up there. You leaned over a bit to your mother, eyes never straying from his figure. "Ma, who's that? Is he new?" you whispered to your mother.

She looked up from her phone, Candy Crush flashing on her screen. You silenced the snort that wanted to come out. Looked like she might retire from church early this year, you thought to yourself, seeing her early signs of disengaging.

She glanced up at the front, giving a quick look before going back to her game. "That's Father Charlie Mayhew. He was brought in about two or three years ago, I think," she murmured absently, barely paying attention.

Father Charlie.

You watched as he spoke, his voice strong yet gentle, his eyes sweeping over the congregation with a genuine warmth. He wasn't like the old priest—this one seemed to genuinely care, as if each word held weight.

You wondered if that scar came from something dramatic, some story worth knowing. Your gaze lingered, taking in the slope of his shoulders, the way his lips moved with each word. Something about him felt... magnetic.

You found yourself sitting up straighter when the two of you made eye contact—he blinked, his words stumbling just slightly, a brief hitch in his otherwise smooth delivery. "I, uh... I apologize," he stuttered, looking off to the side, the tips of his ears turning pink.

You caught the way his eyes shifted nervously, almost as if he was trying to regain his footing. It was subtle, but you could see it—the way he tried to pull himself back together, to get through the rest of the sermon without any more disruptions.

He cleared his throat to continue, "As I was saying... uh, the importance of faith in our lives cannot be overstated. We must always strive to, um, to do what is right, even when it's difficult..." His voice trailed off slightly, but he managed to steady himself, his eyes avoiding yours as he focused on the rest of the congregation.

It made something stir in you, a mix of curiosity and amusement.

You bit down gently on your lower glossed lip, eyes trailing over his form, taking in every subtle detail. The way his hands gripped the edge of the podium, the faint flush creeping up his neck—it was all so telling.

He seemed innocent, reactive.

You smiled to yourself, letting your gaze linger as he continued, noting the way he seemed to avoid looking in your direction now, as if afraid that another glance might trip him up again.

Maybe you should pay a visit to Father Charlie—see if you could break that serene composure of his.

You could already imagine it—the way he might tense up under your touch, the way his voice might crack if you whispered something just a bit too forward.

The thought alone made your heart race, anticipation bubbling up inside you, like something in you just knew—he'd be fun to unravel.

You leaned back in your seat, a slow, satisfied smile playing on your lips. Oh, this was going to be fun.

The sermon ended with a quiet murmur of 'Amen' from the congregation, followed by the gentle shuffle of people rising from the pews.

You glanced around, watching as people slowly made their way to the exits, some stopping to chat while others lingered near the back of the church.

The old priest was nowhere to be seen, but Father Charlie remained, standing at the front as he spoke softly to a small group of parishioners.

Your mother, of course, made a beeline for him. You heard her voice carrying over the hushed conversations, gushing about how moving today’s sermon was.

You rolled your eyes, unable to help yourself, and slowly rose to your feet, making your way over with an almost lazy stride.

As you approached, you could see your mother perk up, her eyes lighting up as she turned to you. "Oh, there she is! Father Charlie, this is my youngest, ____." She gestured towards you, her hand lightly resting on your arm to pull you closer. "You've met my other children over the years."

You could see the change in Father Charlie almost instantly. His posture shifted, his back straightening just a little more, his eyes rounding as they landed on you. He seemed almost like an eager puppy, his gaze bright and attentive.

He quickly pulled his eyes away, turning back to your mother with a polite smile as he nodded. "Yes, I remember," he said, his voice a touch softer. Then he turned to you, his eyes meeting yours as he gave you a gentle smile. "It's nice to finally meet you. I don't think I've seen you here before... ?"

Your mother gave a sort of laughing scoff, waving him off as she caught his attention again. She chuckled, shaking her head. "Oh, Father, the day she willingly comes to church without an incentive is the day the devil is welcomed back into Heaven's gates."

You kept your eyes on Father Charlie, a small smile tugging at your lips as you tilted your head slightly. "Maybe I just hadn't found a good enough reason to come before," you said, your gaze locked on his, your voice light but carrying a hint of something more.

His eyes widened just a little, and you watched as a faint blush spread across his cheeks, his lips parting slightly as he blinked, clearly caught off guard.

Before he could say anything, your mother’s name was called from behind. It was one of her church friends, and in an instant, she was off, waving a quick goodbye and leaving you standing there in front of Father Charlie.

You didn't waste a second, taking a daring step forward, your eyes fixed on him. "So..." you said, letting your gaze roam over him before meeting his eyes again. "You seem awfully young to be running a church like this. I have to say, I'm impressed."

He looked bashful, glancing down for a moment before looking back up at you. "Oh, well, thank you. I just... I do my best," he said, his voice soft, the pink on his cheeks deepening.

You smiled, tilting your head just slightly. "Do you do one-on-one sessions, like other churches do?" you asked, your voice carrying a hint of mischief.

He blinked, clearly confused for a moment, before his eyes widened in realization. "Oh, you mean confessionals?" He nodded quickly, his expression shifting back to something more serious. "Yes, I do. In fact, I was planning on doing confessionals later today, after the services. Not many people take me up on it, but I think it's important to always offer the option."

"Oh, really?" you said, letting your voice drop just a bit, your head tilting to the side as you watched him. You let a small smile curve your lips, your gaze never leaving his. "Well, you wouldn't mind if I came to see you and... confessed, would you, Father?"

He stuttered, his blush deepening as he quickly nodded. "N-No, of course not. You're more than welcome to come by, anytime," he said, his voice a bit shaky.

You smirked, giving him a nod. "Perfect," you said, your voice smooth, before turning on your heel and walking away, back towards where your mother was waiting.

You could feel his gaze on you the entire time, the weight of his eyes almost burning into your back. And you loved it.

This really was going to be fun.

The church grew quieter as the service officially ended, people slowly trickling out while you lingered, waiting for your moment.

Eventually, you made your way to the confessional booth, the small wooden space feeling cramped as you settled in. The air was close, the scent of polished wood and incense hanging heavy.

You could hear Father Charlie shuffling on the other side, the sound of the door closing behind him, the rustle of fabric as he got seated.

You took a breath, letting the silence stretch for a moment before you began. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned..." you said, your voice soft, but there was an edge to it that you couldn't quite hide.

There was a pause before you heard him clear his throat, his voice coming through the small screen that separated you. "The Lord is always ready to forgive. Please, tell me your sins, my child."

You sighed, leaning back slightly, your fingers brushing against the hem of your dress. "I fear I desire a man that is just out of my reach," you said, your voice carrying a hint of frustration. "It's wrong for me to want him... but I can't seem to help myself."

There was a moment of silence, and you could almost picture the look on his face—concerned, earnest, wanting to help. His voice was gentle as he responded. "Desire can be difficult to control, but it is not inherently sinful. It is what we choose to do with that desire that matters. You must pray for guidance, ask for strength... and remember that God understands our struggles."

You hummed softly, your eyes half-lidded as you listened to him, but your mind was drifting. His voice was soothing, and you found yourself imagining what it would be like if things were different.

If there wasn't a screen between you.

If you could reach out, touch him, feel that innocence melt away under your fingers.

Your hand trailed down your side, your fingers brushing over your thigh as you let out a soft sigh.

His voice cut through your thoughts, sounding a bit uncertain. "Sister ____... are you alright? Do you hear me?"

You smiled to yourself, your mind made up. You leaned closer to the screen, your voice dropping to a near whisper. "Father," you began, your tone coy, "I must confess... I find it difficult to focus when you're speaking. You have such a... soothing voice."

His breath caught audibly, and you could almost hear the way he was struggling to gather himself. "W-What do you mean, sister?" he asked, his voice trembling slightly, laced with confusion.

"It makes me think... sinful thoughts."

You could hear the slight hitch in his breath, the rustle of fabric as he shifted. "S-sister," he stammered, clearly taken aback. "This... this is not appropriate."

You ignored his protest, your voice growing softer, more intimate. "You know, Father, I've always heard that confession is good for the soul. And right now... I think there's only one thing that could truly absolve me of these desires." You let the words hang in the air, knowing exactly what you were implying.

"Sister, this... this isn't..." His voice was shaky now, the uncertainty clear. "I don't think—"

"Come get me, Father," you whispered, your tone daring, challenging him. "You wouldn't leave me like this, would you?"

There was silence for a long moment, and then you heard it—the slow shuffling as he moved. The sound of his door opening, the soft creak of the confessional booth as he stepped out.

You pushed your own door open, stepping out into the dimly lit church. Father Charlie was standing there, his head downcast, his face flushed a deep red. He looked like he wanted to say something, but no words came out, his eyes flickering up to meet yours before darting away again.

You took a step towards him, your movements slow, deliberate—like a predator closing in on its prey. His breath hitched as you approached, his shoulders tensing. He cleared his throat, his voice barely above a whisper. "Sister, I... this isn't right. We shouldn't—"

You reached out, your fingers brushing against the front of his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his breath beneath your touch. You let your hand slide down, your voice a low purr. "Father," you purred, your eyes locking onto his, "I want you to take me somewhere... push me to a higher calling, yeah?"

His eyes widened, the pupils dilating as he stared at you, his lips parting in shock. For a moment, he seemed frozen, and then, almost as if the word was pulled from him, he whispered, "Okay..."

His hand was trembling slightly as he reached for yours, and you let him lead you out of the main church area, his eyes flicking nervously around to make sure no one was watching. He led you down a dim hallway, stopping at a small door that opened into a cramped janitor's closet.

The second the door clicked shut behind you, you were on him.

You pushed him back against the wall, your lips crashing against his. He gasped, and you took advantage, licking into his mouth, tasting the hint of mint on his tongue as a low groan rumbled from your throat. His hands hesitated for a moment before resting on your waist, his touch light, unsure.

You deepened the kiss, feeling the way he shivered beneath your touch, your hands pushing up under his cassock, fingers skimming over the hard lines of his abdomen. His muscles tensed under your fingertips, a shudder running through him as he let out a shaky breath.

You pulled back, just enough to see his face in the low light, and he chased your lips, leaning forward as if he couldn't stand the sudden loss of contact.

You let out a dark chuckle, your hands coming up to cup his flushed cheeks, squeezing gently. His face was a deep shade of red, his eyes half-lidded, his breath coming in short, uneven pants. He looked almost dazed, completely overwhelmed, and it only made your smile widen.

Your thumb grazed over his plump bottom lip, pressing gently before dipping just inside his mouth. His eyes fluttered, his tongue flicking out hesitantly to brush against your thumb before retreating. You let out a soft sigh, a hint of a teasing smile tugging at your lips. "Oh?" you murmured, raising an eyebrow, your gaze fixed on him.

Charlie swallowed hard, his eyes locked onto yours, his breathing ragged. You stepped closer, rising onto your tiptoes, your lips just barely grazing his as you spoke. "You did so well during the sermon, Father," you whispered, your voice low and dripping with suggestion. "It makes me wonder... what could such a blessed mouth do somewhere else?"

His breath hitched, his eyes widening slightly, but he didn’t pull away. You gripped his shoulder, your fingers digging in just enough to make him shiver, and tugged him downwards. "On your knees," you said, your tone commanding, leaving no room for hesitation.

Slowly, almost as if in a trance, Charlie sank to his knees, his eyes never leaving yours. His gaze was filled with a mix of confusion, desire, and something almost like reverence, and it sent a thrill through you.

You watched as he knelt before you, his lips parted, his chest rising and falling with each shaky breath. You could see the conflict in his eyes, the part of him that knew this was wrong, that wanted to resist—but the desire was stronger, and he couldn't bring himself to stop.

You smiled, running your fingers through his hair, your touch surprisingly gentle. "That's it," you murmured, your voice softening just a fraction. "Such a good Father... doing exactly what you're told."

You took a step back, your eyes never leaving his as you moved to the nearest wall, leaning against it comfortably.

With slow, deliberate movements, your hands reached down, unzipping your mini skirt and letting it slide down your legs, pooling around your ankles. You made a show of it, your fingers tracing along your thighs, sliding over your hips, and letting out a soft sigh as you watched him.

Charlie's eyes widened, his gaze following every movement, his lips parted, his breath catching in his throat. The flush on his face deepened, his eyes locked onto you with something like awe, mingled with pure, unfiltered desire.

You smirked, lifting one hand and curling your fingers in a come-hither motion. He hesitated only for a moment before slowly beginning to crawl towards you, his eyes never breaking away from yours.

The sight sent a thrill through you, a shiver of excitement running up your spine. He reached you, his hands carefully coming up to rest on your legs, his touch light, almost reverent.

His fingers traced along your calves, moving upwards with a hesitant slowness that made you release a shaky sigh, your back arching slightly as his touch grew bolder.

His hands were trembling as they reached your hips, his fingers brushing against the edge of your underwear. He swallowed hard, his gaze flicking up to meet yours as if silently asking for permission.

You gave a small nod, and he let out a shaky breath, his fingers hooking into the waistband and slowly slipping your underwear down, his eyes fixed on you the entire time.

Once they were off, he shifted closer, his breath ghosting over your bare skin. He surprised you by gently lifting one of your legs, settling it over his shoulder as he pulled you closer, his face inches away from your most intimate parts.

He let out a deep, almost pornographic groan as he leaned in, taking a slow, deep breath, as if breathing you in. The sound sent a jolt through you, your fingers tightening in his hair.

Charlie looked up at you one more time, his eyes searching, as if asking for final permission.

You smiled, your fingers sliding through his hair before giving a gentle but firm scratch along his scalp, your silent approval. He closed his eyes, letting out a shaky sigh before leaning in.

At first, his movements were hesitant, his tongue slipping out to give an experimental swipe. He was sloppy, uncoordinated, his lack of experience clear, but there was a determination in the way he moved, as if desperate to please.

You let out a soft hum, the sound encouraging him, and he grew a little more confident, his tongue pressing more firmly. He licked a long stripe up, his tongue swirling at the top, and you couldn't help the small smile that tugged at your lips.

"That's it, Father," you murmured, your voice a soft purr. "You're doing such a good job."

The praise seemed to light something in him, a low groan vibrating against you as he pushed in closer. The sound made you gasp, your back arching slightly as the vibrations sent a rush of pleasure through you, your fingers tightening in his hair.

He grew bolder, his tongue delving deeper, slipping inside you as he began to eat you out like a man starved. He was messy, the wet sounds filling the small space, his lips and tongue moving with increasing fervor, as if the more he tasted, the more he craved.

He bullied his tongue into you, his nose brushing against you as he lost himself in the act, his hands gripping your hips tightly, holding you against him as he worked.

You bit down on your lower lip, trying to keep quiet, but the soft, wet sounds filled the small space, making it impossible to ignore.

Your hand moved up, your teeth sinking into the back of it as you stifled a moan, your thighs trembling as he continued. His tongue moved with determination, pressing deeper, swirling before retreating, then focusing on your most sensitive spot.

When his lips closed around your clit, giving a particularly hard suck, your vision blurred, and stars burst behind your eyelids. Your back arched, your body pressing against his face as the waves of pleasure rolled over you, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

Your thighs shook as you slowly came down, your body relaxing slightly against the wall. You let out a shaky breath, your fingers still tangled in his hair, tugging gently. You gave Charlie a small shove, pushing him back just enough.

He hesitated, his tongue giving one last languid lick, followed by a reluctant suck before he finally pulled away, his lips glistening, his breath coming in low, heavy pants. His bottom face was a mess, his eyes half-lidded, dazed as he looked up at you.

You leaned down, your fingers cupping the bottom of his face, your thumb brushing over his flushed cheek as you gave him a swift peck on the corner of his lips. He blinked, his eyes widening slightly, a blush deepening across his face.

Straightening up, you reached down, picking up your discarded thong, folding it neatly before slipping it into the pocket of his cassock. He stared at you, his lips parted, his breathing still uneven.

"Thank you, Father~" you purred, your voice dripping with satisfaction. You watched as his blush deepened even more, his eyes darting away from yours. "You know," you continued, your tone teasing, "I might just have to come back for confession more often."

He swallowed hard, his eyes flicking back up to meet yours, a mix of confusion and something darker swirling in them. You smiled, giving him a wink before turning on your heel, striding out of the closet, leaving him kneeling there, his breath still shaky, his face still flushed.

As you walked away, a satisfied smile playing on your lips, you couldn't help but think that maybe church wasn't going to be so bad after all.

A/N: hehehe, dont mind me, just wanted to see charlie's and y/n relationship in reversal...

[revelboo]

May I request a one-shot of The Ark (I cant get the idea of Optimus freaking out when he sees his ship cajoling with a human lol) TFA Skywarp or WFC Air Raid?

There are four requests for the Ark in the mess that’s my inbox and I couldn’t figure out why. I didn’t realize in the later iterations he transforms 🤣 I don’t remember him transforming in G1, but maybe he did? But I get it now. Big boi

Scenario- lonely

Ark x Reader

• “Optimus?” Looking up to find Ratchet frowning at him, Optimus rubs a hand over the back of his neck. Trying to figure out the strange, new notification on his datapad from the Ark. “You need to see this,” Ratchet adds, pointing. And following him into command, he stops short. “Any idea where they came from?” Because there’s a human he’s never seen before sitting on a console as text scrolls. And then flourishes of strange looking, little red shapes. The Ark chatting away to them.

• They’re staring at him as he coaxes and flirts with you, but he’s beyond caring. Do they have any idea what it’s like to be stuck like this? Treated like an inanimate object they live in? And now having to watch and listen to some of them romancing these soft, little ethereal creatures. Though, Optimus and a couple others aren’t just romancing. Having to listen to and watch them fragging their humans leaving him frustrated and pent up. Don’t they realize he has needs, too?

• Glancing down as his datapad chimes again, he holds it down so Ratchet can read, too. The original message a demand for “a fully integrated avatar with complete sensory nets or in lieu of that, a drone.” The latest message saying “you crashed me into a mountain. I’m stuck. I’m horny and you owe me.” Hears Ratchet make a strangled noise as another notification pops up. “And I recorded everything.”

• Satisfied with that little bit of blackmail, Ark turns his attention back to you. Loving the way you smile for him, so eager to ask questions. So excited to talk to another species. And watching the bots interfacing with their humans? He wants that. A soft, affectionate little mate. Someone that won’t treat him like an object, who’ll see him for who he is. Not just as ‘the ship.’

• Who’d have thought aliens were real? Or so sweet? Smiling as more sweet talk and little hearts scroll across the console, you hear voices and turn. Oh. Lifting a hand in a little wave at two huge, alien robots, you can’t stop grinning. Because this is amazing. No one’s ever going to believe you.

Next

[stellaspectral]

I’m in the mood for a rottmnt Donnie x reader where Donnie has the realization that he has fallen in love with his best friend, a nerdy girl who can be both the sweetest human in the whole universe or the sassiest little gremlin, and he has no clue what to do with it.

Awkward moments + our genius Donnie making a fool of himself + annoying siblings teasing him but secretly trying to make the ship happen + some tooth rotting fluff at the end!

Thank you for writing for the tmnt fandom! I love the way you write, I’m so happy that I found your blog and your fanfictions!

A/N: Thank you, this means so much to hear! I’m glad you found my blog and enjoy my fics! It really makes my day to know my writing is loved and appreciated 😊 I hope you enjoy this story as well! 💜

Neural Network Overload (fluff)

💜 ROTTMNT Donatello/Female Reader 💜

CWs: Fluff, mutual pining, friends to lovers, love confessions, first kiss, teasing siblings, awkwardness & embarrassment (poor Donnie!), and very very mild angst. All characters are aged-up.

There’s no scientific explanation for what’s happening to Donatello Hamato.

He’s a genius. A self-made technological prodigy. He operates with logic, with precision. Emotions, while acknowledged, are typically compartmentalized into manageable sectors of his brain.

But apparently, there is no compartment big enough for you.

You’re curled up in his hoodie, legs tucked underneath you on the lair couch, hair messy and glasses slightly crooked as you stare intently at the screen of your laptop. You’re reverse-engineering one of his drone’s command scripts. For fun. And maybe because he challenged you to, and you couldn’t resist.

Donnie is across the room, supposedly working on his battle shell. He’s holding a micro-soldering iron. But he hasn’t used it in thirty minutes. Because his eyes haven’t left you once.

You chew on your bottom lip when you concentrate. Do this little wiggle when your glasses slide down your nose, refusing to use your hands because you don’t want to break your work flow. You snark like it’s a superpower, but then turn around and give him the most genuine smile.

And that’s when it hits him.

He’s in love with you. Utterly. Completely.

The realization is instant. And horrifying.

Because you’re his best friend, his partner in crime. The one who yells at him to eat when he’s working too long and calls him out when he’s being ‘a smug, purple smartass.’ You’re also the one who listens to his rants, who understands his sarcasm. Who laughs at his dumbest puns and wears his hoodie like it belongs to you.

Still, somehow, he finds himself wanting more.

He wants to hold your hand when you’re hyper-focused. Wants to tuck your hair behind your ear when it falls in your face. Wants to kiss you after you sass him into a corner.

So naturally, he begins malfunctioning, dropping his soldering iron with a loud clatter.

You glance up, raising a brow. “You okay over there, D?”

He clears his throat, sitting up too straight. “Yes! Fine. I am functioning at optimal capacity, thank you very much.”

You squint at him, not convinced. “You sure?”

He tries to scoff, tries to pull off his signature aloofness. But his voice cracks halfway through and he ends up choking on air instead. You blink. And he wants the ground to open and swallow him whole.

This is mortifying, he thinks. A master of composure reduced to a sputtering mess by a simple question.

You set your laptop aside, concern softening your features. “Seriously, Don-Tron, you look like you’re about to short-circuit. Need some water? Or … a reboot?” Your attempt at a tech joke, one you know he usually appreciates with a dry chuckle, now makes his internal processors whir with panic.

He waves a dismissive hand. But it’s far too jerky, betraying his inner turmoil. “Negative! My … my processors are merely … recalibrating. Due to … atmospheric particulates!” He cringes internally. Atmospheric particulates? Really, Donatello? That’s the best your genius brain could concoct?!

You give him that look, the one that says you’re not buying it but will play along. For now. “Atmospheric particulates? In the sewer lair? Okay, Dr. Science.” The familiar nickname, usually a term of endearment, now feels like an accusation.

“Precisely!” he squeaks, then clears his throat again, trying to regain some semblance of dignity.

You rise slowly from the couch, still in his oversized hoodie, and Donnie swears time skips a frame. The hem swishes at your thighs as you pad barefoot across the lair towards him. “Alright, Doc. Let’s run diagnostics,” you say, tone playfully serious as you step into his space.

He stiffens. You’re standing too close. Not objectively close, but close enough that your shampoo tickles his sensory nodes.

“You don’t look optimal. You look like your neural network is spiking.” You tap his plastron with a single finger. “You overheating or something?”

“Preposterous,” he says, backing up, only to bump into the cluttered mobile workbench he was using. Casually, he tries to lean against it—only to knock over a container of screws. They spill everywhere.

“Uh-huh,” you murmur, folding your arms. “Definitely optimal.”

He wants to say something sharp. Something deflective. Maybe even something sarcastic. But then your face softens again, like it always does when you realize he’s not okay. And you do that thing where your hand rests gently on his forearm for grounding. For reassurance.

And his brain completely blue screens.

“You know you can talk to me, right?” you say, your voice quieter now. Not teasing. Not joking.

His vocal processors seem to have staged a mutiny. “Talk?” His voice shoots up three octaves, thin and reedy. “Regarding … what, exactly? The inevitable heat death of the universe? The latest advancements in neural network architecture? My … my perfectly standard, non-deviant, utterly nominal vocal output?” The last few words are practically a shriek.

You blink at him. Once. Twice. Then you slowly reach up and adjust your glasses. “I was gonna suggest talking about what you’re feeling,” you reply, tone dry. “But sure. Let’s start with the heat death of the universe and work our way backwards.”

If Donnie had a fan system, it would be blasting at maximum speed. Instead, he just stands there, frozen, trying desperately to reboot a single coherent thought. His brain is still trapped in a loop: She’s touching me, she’s touching me, she’s touching me—

“Unless …” You lean in slightly, just enough for him to notice the glimmer in your eyes, “the topic of feelings is causing that spike in temperature.”

He lets out a noise. Not a dignified one, but the auditory equivalent of a dying motherboard holding on for dear life. The sound escapes him before he can stop it, and your brows shoot up. He clamps a hand over his mouth.

There’s a beat of silence where you both just exist. You, with that slightly smug, knowing tilt to your head. And him, doing his best impression of a panic-stricken robot who just got hit with an unexpected firmware update.

Donnie’s hand remains glued to his mouth, eyes wide as if his own body has betrayed him on the most fundamental level. His other hand twitches at his side, like he’s running mental diagnostics but getting only error messages.

You place your hand over his. Gently pry his fingers away from his face. His eyes meet yours, still wide. Terrified. Then slowly—so slowly, as if buffering, he speaks, voice tight and squeaky around the edges. “That was … That wasn’t … I didn’t mean—”

Then, inevitably, the peanut gallery arrives.

Leo saunters into the room, stretching lazily. “Hey Donnie, have you seen my …” He stops short, taking in his brother’s rigid, almost statuesque posture and your amused yet concerned expression. His eyes narrow before that familiar glint of mischief appears in them. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

“Leo, don’t you dare,” Donnie practically hisses, voice still several octaves too high. His gaze flicks between you and his blue-clad brother, a trapped animal assessing escape routes where none exist. “This is a … a highly sensitive recalibration process!”

Leo smirks. “Recalibration? Looked more like a full system crash from where I’m standing.” He looks at you. “What’d you do? Confess your admiration for his meticulously organized and alphabetized collection of bad guy threat assessments?”

You snort despite yourself, and Donnie lets out a strangled noise that’s one part gasp, another part groan, and three parts existential despair.

“Leo,” he says, tone lethal but wobbly, “do you have literally anything else you should be doing?”

“Not when you’re this entertaining,” Leo replies with all the smugness of someone who’s been waiting his entire life to catch Donnie mid-swoon. “Seriously, bro, I’ve never seen your face that flushed. Are you overheating or blushing?”

“I do not blush,” Donnie replies, his voice clipped and brittle, like it might snap in half under the weight of his own embarrassment.

You tilt your head. “I dunno, D. You are sort of radiating the same energy as a stressed-out Roomba caught in a corner.”

Leo cackles. “Ohh, that’s good. Can I use that?”

Donnie glares at both of you with the kind of energy typically reserved for malfunctioning lab equipment or Raph’s punching of things labeled FRAGILE. “I hate you both.”

“You love us,” Leo says. “But especially her, huh?” He throws you a wink and ducks just in time to avoid the screwdriver Donnie hurls in his direction.

After the tool clangs harmlessly off the wall, Donnie shouts, “Out!”

Leo exits stage left, laughter echoing through the lair.

Silence falls again. Except it’s not really silence—because Donnie’s heart is practically trying to punch its way out of his chest, and you’re biting your lip to keep from laughing too hard.

“Alphabetized villain assessments, huh?” you tease.

“It’s called preparedness.”

You poke his side, grinning as you tease, “But especially me, huh?”

His eyes meet yours. And this time, even through the flustered static still buzzing around his brain, he answers honestly. “I could never hate you.”

The next day, everything goes downhill.

Donnie spills oil on his blueprints. Walks into a wall. Nearly blows up his mini fusion cell because he accidentally enters your name instead of the energy input variable.

Leo, of course, catches his slip-ups instantly.

“Broo,” he drawls, dramatically leaning against Donnie’s workbench in his lab. “You’ve got it bad.”

Donnie stiffens. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t,” Leo says, twirling a stray wire between his fingers. “You only turned redder than a mutant tomato on prom night when she asked you to pass that tool thingy.”

Donnie scoffs. “That doesn’t even make sense. What mutant tomato? Prom night? Leo, your analogies are garbage.”

“Not as garbage as your poker face, lover boy.”

Mikey slides into the lab, grinning like a fox. “So when’s the wedding?”

“I-It’s not—!! I don’t—!!” Donnie sputters.

“Dude.” Even Raph joins in, chuckling. “Just tell her. We all know you like her.”

“I do not like her,” Donnie insists.

But then he thinks of the hoodie—his hoodie. You wearing it. The soft fabric, the way it hangs off your shoulders, the scent of you mixed with the faint, familiar smell of his own laundry detergent. The image flashes in his mind, clear and warm, and a traitorous little flutter happens somewhere in his chest cavity.

Threatening his self-control.

He covers his face with both hands. “Okay, I might like her.”

Raph raises an eyebrow. “Might?”

“Definitely,” Mikey says, voice sing-song. “You’re toast, dude. Emotional toast. And not the crunchy, golden-brown kind. More like the kind that fell butter-side-down into a pit of feelings.”

Donnie groans louder, dragging his hands down his face. “This is not how my cognitive trajectory was supposed to go today.”

“Then allow me to suggest a new trajectory.” Leo gestures grandly. “Operation: Tell Her Before You Spontaneously Combust.”

“Negative. Absolutely not. That’s a suicide mission.”

“Correction,” Raph says with a grin. “That’s a you’ve-got-a-chance-so-don’t-blow-it mission.”

Donnie bolts upright, pacing now. “You don’t understand. If I confess and she doesn’t feel the same, I lose everything.”

“She wears your hoodie,” Mikey says, as if this fact alone should end the discussion. “That’s like a universal sign of mutual crushing.”

“Correlation is not causation,” Donnie mutters, then spins around with wide, panicked eyes. “And what if she’s just being … nice? What if she just thinks of me as—”

“Don’t say ‘brother,’” Raph interrupts with a grimace.

Mikey throws an arm around Donnie’s shoulders. “She reverse-engineered your drone code for fun. If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.”

“Donnie.” Leo crosses his arms. “You’re stalling. Again.”

“I require more data before making a declaration.”

Leo smirks. “Or you could just ask her how she feels.”

“Statistically, that has a high margin of—”

“Just talk to her,” Raph says. “Before your nervous system explodes.”

Later that night, you’re snuggled back in Donnie’s hoodie. It still smells faintly of him. Something uniquely, comfortingly him.

You’re on the same spot on the couch, scrolling through lines of code. It’s Donnie’s latest security encryption. It’s unnecessarily complex, almost ridiculously so, like he wanted to see if you’d lose patience with it.

You haven’t. And if anything, you’re more determined than ever to crack it.

Donnie stands just inside the lab entrance, fingers twitching at his sides, almost like he’s mentally rehearsing lines. He watches you, a soft, almost bewildered expression on his face. For once, he doesn’t even try to analyze the storm of variables churning within him. He just feels it. All of it.

He clears his throat, the sound a little too loud in the quiet lair. He walks over, hands clasped tightly behind his back, his usual confident stride replaced with something a little more careful. Like he’s approaching a very delicate, potentially explosive experiment.

You glance up, a warm, welcoming smile spreading across your face. “Hey, D.”

He sits down beside you, perhaps a little closer than strictly necessary, but still maintaining a careful distance. You can feel the slight warmth radiating from him. You wait, watching him with an encouraging gaze.

“I …” he starts, then stops. His brow furrows. He swallows, eyes darting away for a nanosecond before refocusing on some indeterminate point near your shoulder.

“You okay?” you prompt gently.

A faint flush of pink dusts his cheeks. “No atmospheric particulates this time,” he mumbles, the words barely audible.

You smile wider, your heart doing a little flutter. “That’s a relief.”

Then he says it, his voice dropping to barely a whisper, gaze fixed firmly on his now-trembling hands in his lap.

“I like you.” His hands twitch, fingers interlacing and unlacing. “Like. More-than-best-friend like. Not just ‘you-stole-my-hoodie’ like—though, for the record, that is also a contributing factor. I mean. You can still steal my hoodie. In fact, I … I hope you do. Often. Preferably forever.” He finally risks a tiny, hopeful glance at you.

A soft chuckle escapes you. “Donnie, is this your version of flirting?” you ask, your tone gentle, your own cheeks feeling a little warm.

“I … I genuinely don’t know,” he admits, looking utterly lost, his shoulders slumping a fraction. “I think I’m glitching.” He looks so earnest, so vulnerable, that your heart melts.

You lean forward, your smile softening into something tender. You reach out, slowly, giving him time to pull away if he wants. He doesn’t. You cup his cheek with your hand, your thumb gently stroking his skin. He leans into your touch. Eyes wide, a tiny, almost inaudible sigh escaping him.

“Well. For the record?” you say, and he holds his breath, his gaze locked on yours. “I like you too, Donnie. Like, ‘please keep giving me impossible tech puzzles so I have an excuse to spend ridiculous amounts of time with you because you’re brilliant and funny and sweet.’”

He blinks a few times before his systems finally restart. A slow smile spreads across his face, lighting up his features. To you, it’s like watching a sunrise. “You … do?” The disbelief in his voice is almost painful, but it’s quickly being overridden by dawning joy as he digests your words.

“I’ve been waiting for you to catch up, genius,” you tease, your thumb brushing along the line of his jaw. “Took you long enough. I was starting to think I’d have to spell it out in binary.”

He exhales a short, shaky laugh. Part shock, part awe, all relief. “My predictive algorithms … they … I was running every probable outcome. This one … this one had a statistically lower probability than I preferred, given the stakes.” He shakes his head, still smiling that dazzling, rare smile.

“And which one did your brilliant brain finally land on?” you murmur, your faces incredibly close now—so close you can see the way the light catches the unique patterns in his irises.

He leans in, his gaze dropping to your lips for a breath before meeting your eyes again, his voice a soft, warm whisper against your skin. “This one.”

Then he kisses you.

It’s hesitant at first, a gentle press of lips. Careful, like an experiment he wants to get perfect. You can feel the slight tremor in his hands as one comes up to rest on your waist, the other still on the couch, gripping the cushion. You sigh into the kiss, your own hand moving from his cheek to tangle lightly in the ends of his mask tails, encouraging him.

He deepens the kiss slightly, a spark of newfound confidence igniting. It’s sweet, and a little clumsy, and utterly, breathtakingly perfect.

And for once, Donatello Hamato doesn’t need data, or algorithms, or any empirical evidence to know that this feeling—this connection��is his best, most wonderful result yet.

[zvaigzdelasas]

When he approved a campaign to reopen shipping in the Red Sea by bombing the Houthi militant group into submission, President Trump wanted to see results within 30 days of the initial strikes two months ago.

By Day 31, Mr. Trump, ever leery of drawn-out military entanglements in the Middle East, demanded a progress report, according to administration officials.

But the results were not there. The United States had not even established air superiority over the Houthis. Instead, what was emerging after 30 days of a stepped-up campaign against the Yemeni group was another expensive but inconclusive American military engagement in the region.

The Houthis shot down several American MQ-9 Reaper drones and continued to fire at naval ships in the Red Sea, including an American aircraft carrier. And the U.S. strikes burned through weapons and munitions at a rate of about $1 billion in the first month alone.

It did not help that two $67 million F/A-18 Super Hornets from America’s flagship aircraft carrier tasked with conducting strikes against the Houthis accidentally tumbled off the carrier into the sea.

By then, Mr. Trump had had enough.

Steve Witkoff, his Middle East envoy, who was already in Omani-mediated nuclear talks with Iran, reported that Omani officials had suggested what could be a perfect offramp for Mr. Trump on the separate issue of the Houthis, according to American and Arab officials. The United States would halt the bombing campaign and the militia would no longer target American ships in the Red Sea, but without any agreement to stop disrupting shipping that the group deemed helpful to Israel.

Announcing the cessation of hostilities, the president sounded almost admiring about the militant Islamist group, despite vowing earlier that it would be “completely annihilated.”

“We hit them very hard and they had a great ability to withstand punishment,” Mr. Trump said. “You could say there was a lot of bravery there.” He added that “they gave us their word that they wouldn’t be shooting at ships anymore, and we honor that.”

Whether that proves to be true remains to be seen. The Houthis fired a ballistic missile at Israel on Friday, triggering air raid sirens that drove people off beaches in Tel Aviv. The missile was intercepted by Israeli air defenses.[...]

Mr. Trump’s new chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Gen. Dan Caine, was concerned that an extended campaign against the Houthis would drain military resources away from the Asia-Pacific region. His predecessor, Gen. Charles Q. Brown Jr., shared that view before he was fired in February.

By May 5, Mr. Trump was ready to move on, according to interviews with more than a dozen current and former officials with knowledge of the discussions in the president’s national security circle. They spoke on the condition of anonymity to describe the internal discussions.[...]

General Kurilla had been gunning for the Houthis since November 2023, when the group began attacking ships passing through the Red Sea as a way to target Israel for its invasion of Gaza.

But President Joseph R. Biden Jr. thought that engaging the Houthis in a forceful campaign would elevate their status on the global stage. Instead, he authorized more limited strikes against the group. But that failed to stop the Houthis.

Now General Kurilla had a new commander in chief.

He proposed an eight- to 10-month campaign in which Air Force and Navy warplanes would take out Houthi air defense systems. Then, he said, U.S. forces would mount targeted assassinations modeled on Israel’s recent operation against Hezbollah, three U.S. officials said.

Saudi officials backed General Kurilla’s plan and provided a target list of 12 Houthi senior leaders whose deaths, they said, would cripple the movement. But the United Arab Emirates, another powerful U.S. ally in the region, was not so sure. The Houthis had weathered years of bombings by the Saudis and the Emiratis.

By early March, Mr. Trump had signed off on part of General Kurilla’s plan — airstrikes against Houthi air defense systems and strikes against the group’s leaders. Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth named the campaign Operation Rough Rider.

At some point, General Kurilla’s eight- to 10-month campaign was given just 30 days to show results.

In those first 30 days, the Houthis shot down seven American MQ-9 drones (around $30 million each), hampering Central Command’s ability to track and strike the militant group. Several American F-16s and an F-35 fighter jet were nearly struck by Houthi air defenses, making real the possibility of American casualties, multiple U.S. officials said.

That possibility became reality when two pilots and a flight deck crew member were injured in the two episodes involving the F/A-18 Super Hornets, which fell into the Red Sea from the aircraft carrier Harry S. Truman within 10 days of each other.[...]

the cost of the operation was staggering. The Pentagon had deployed two aircraft carriers, additional B-2 bombers and fighter jets, as well as Patriot and THAAD air defenses, to the Middle East, officials acknowledged privately. By the end of the first 30 days of the campaign, the cost had exceeded $1 billion, the officials said.

So many precision munitions were being used, especially advanced long-range ones, that some Pentagon contingency planners were growing increasingly concerned about overall stocks and the implications for any situation in which the United States might have to ward off an attempted invasion of Taiwan by China.

And through it all, the Houthis were still shooting at vessels and drones, fortifying their bunkers and moving weapons stockpiles underground.

The White House began pressing Central Command for metrics of success in the campaign. The command responded by providing data showing the number of munitions dropped. The intelligence community said that there was “some degradation” of Houthi capability, but argued that the group could easily reconstitute, officials said.

Senior national security officials considered two pathways. They could ramp up operations for up to another month and then conduct “freedom of navigation” exercises in the Red Sea using two carrier groups, the Carl Vinson and the Truman. If the Houthis did not fire on the ships, the Trump administration would declare victory.

Or, officials said, the campaign could be extended to give Yemeni government forces time to restart a drive to push the Houthis out of the capital and key ports.

In late April, Mr. Hegseth organized a video call with Saudi and Emirati officials and senior officials from the State Department and the White House in an effort to come up with a sustainable way forward and an achievable state for the campaign that they could present to the president.

The group was not able to reach a consensus, U.S. officials said.[...]

Also skeptical of a longer campaign were Vice President JD Vance; the director of national intelligence, Tulsi Gabbard; Secretary of State Marco Rubio; and Mr. Trump’s chief of staff, Susie Wiles. Mr. Hegseth, people with knowledge of the discussions said, went back and forth, arguing both sides.

But Mr. Trump had become the most important skeptic.

On April 28, the Truman was forced to make a hard turn at sea to avoid incoming Houthi fire, several U.S. officials said. The move contributed to the loss of one of the Super Hornets, which was being towed at the time and fell overboard. That same day, dozens of people were killed in a U.S. attack that hit a migrant facility controlled by the Houthis, according to the group and aid officials.

Then on May 4, a Houthi ballistic missile evaded Israel’s aerial defenses and struck near Ben-Gurion International Airport outside Tel Aviv.

On Tuesday, two pilots aboard another Super Hornet, again on the Truman, were forced to eject after their fighter jet failed to catch the steel cable on the carrier deck, sending the plane into the Red Sea.

By then, Mr. Trump had decided to declare the operation a success.

Houthi officials and their supporters swiftly declared victory, too, spreading a social media hashtag that read “Yemen defeats America.”

12 May 25

[sayruq]

There has been major developments in the region in the past few days that indicates regional war is imminent. Again the tweets and articles will be in chronological order.

American war ships are in the Mediterranean and Red Seas. Russia responded to that by sending planes to the Black Sea and China by sending warships to Kuwait.

We got our usual back and forth on the ground operation in Gaza

The American media is not really reporting these recent attacks on their military bases. In fact, the military is downplaying the strength of the responses by Yemeni and Syrian groups to the Gaza genocide. This is either because they want to avoid regional war or because they want to be better prepared for regional war.

This statement below seems to indicate that Iran is coming to the conclusion that open warfare is the only thing that will deter America and Israel

As for Yemen, they've declared Israeli ships will be targeted if the attack on Gaza continues (you'll see later that this is no empty threat)

By the way, Israel bombed an Egyptian military site along the border and claimed it was an accident. The Egyptian people have been calling for their government to intervene militarily and I don't think this will ease the pressure.

On the 22nd, Israel sent a small team to infiltrate Gaza. They didn't get very far

They're also struggling against Hezbollah

This meeting by the Russian foreign minister is a big deal as you'll see later

America responds to the escalating tension by deploying 'defensive systems' all over West Asia. It risks stretching itself too thin as multiple countries are already involved in the Palestian resistance with countries like Egypt and Jordan facing internal pressure to do something about the Gazan genocide

Republican Mitch McConnell has recently called Iran, Russia and China 'the new axis of evil'. It seems this is the new angle that the West has chosen because Rishi Sunak has also been comparing Hamas to Russia. This can only lead to Russia getting close to Iran which would ultimately help Hamas.

The situation in Iraq continues to deteriorate as America evacuates its embassy and warns its citizens not to use the Baghdad International Airport due to attacks by Iraqi military groups.

Here we have an Israeli commander admitting that Israel is largely on the defensive against Hezbollah and their soldiers are both traumatised and disheartened. Remember, Hezbollah has yet to officially enter the war

Blinken said that the US 'will be prepared' if Iran escalates its attacks which gives weight to that idea that the US is only trying to deescalate because its not ready yet.

A few hours ago, American bases in Syria were targeted. It's becoming clear that a major goal in the plan to defeat Israel is removing America from the picture in the region

The White House then blames Iran for the attack

More military bases targeted in Iraq

Meanwhile IDF is trying to infiltrate Gaza again. Reminder that a ground operation means that Hezbollah will officially enter the war and begun using its vast numbers of missiles and rockets. They're also attacking the West Bank, the resistance fighters have ambushed them

Yemen follows through on the threats it made by attacking a US warship with drones

Ansarullah claims there was a direct hit but the US Navy says that all drones were intercepted (using days old pictures).

So what now? First, do not expect a ceasefire. Tbh the Palestinian resistance hasn't even called for ceasefire, just an exchange of hostages.

Second of all, America itself does not believe that Israel can win this war so let's all stop acting like Palestine has already lost

Thirdly, regional war is looking more and more like reality

[opencommunion]

"The Armed Forces of Yemen’s Sanaa government, aligned with the Ansarallah resistance movement, announced on 14 July an operation against an Israeli ship in the Gulf of Aden and an attack targeting Israel’s southern port city of Eilat, known in Arabic as Umm al-Rashrash. 

Sanaa’s forces said the operations were a 'response to the Al-Mawasi massacre in Khan Yunis, which was committed by the Israeli enemy [on Saturday].' At least 90 Palestinian civilians were killed in the massacre in southern Gaza. 

... Sanaa also confirmed 'full readiness to carry out joint military operations with any Arab or Islamic party that supports the oppressed Palestinian people.' The Yemeni army has carried out several joint operations with the Islamic Resistance in Iraq (IRI) recently. The Yemeni statement came after renewed US–UK airstrikes on Yemen on 14 July. 

... Washington and London have recently increased their illegal attacks on Yemen, as Sanaa’s forces remain undeterred and continue their blockade on Israeli shipping. US and UK warplanes launched several airstrikes on Hodeidah International Airport in western Yemen on 12 July. ... 57 people have been killed and 87 wounded in 570 airstrikes carried out by the US and UK against Yemen since the start of the western campaign.

The Yemeni army has vowed not to stop its operations until the war in Gaza comes to an end. The western campaign has done nothing to deter the Yemenis. US and EU maritime task forces have failed to progress in preventing attacks on ships, which have strained both the Israeli economy and international shipping as a whole.

Commander Benjamin Orloff, a Navy pilot who recently returned home from deployment, described the experience of intercepting Yemeni missiles and drones as 'traumatizing' in an interview on 13 July. Late last month, a US navy commander said the threat posed by Yemen’s forces in the Red Sea and elsewhere poses a threat unseen by Washington since the Second World War."

[tinydefector]

Could I please request more Tarn x neutral human reader NSFW? Rut cycle, dubcon, breeding? Your Tarn collection is my absolute favorite and I need more! Please and thank you in advance! 🌈

Tarn Rut Cycle

I had alot of fun writing this piece.

Word count: 4.5k

Warnings: NSFW, Smut, Human/Cybertronian. Oral, anal/Vaginal sex depending on how you interpret.

Tarn Masterlist

Rut cycle masterlist

__________

Tarn’s optics dimmed, his clawed digits curling into fists as he leaned against the edge of the table in the conference room. voices droned on, meaningless noise in the back of his processor. His field radiated tension, a flicker of irritation bleeding across the room, though none dared to comment. They could sense something was wrong, but none would risk drawing his attention. Not when the leader of the DJD was so clearly on edge.

His systems were overheating, vents hissing softly as his processor reeled. The scent of them, his Human companion, was a maddening whisper in his olfactory sensors. Tarn had thought himself above such base instincts. His Empurata should have stripped him of such basic needs, and yet. 

Here he was.

He gritted his denta, talons scraping deep grooves into the metal of the table. It had been a mistake to bring the Human aboard the Peaceful Tyranny, he realized now. Tarn had taken them on a whim, fascinated by their fragility, their strange resilience despite their pathetic organic form. They were meant to be a distraction, a curiosity to amuse him when he grew tired of the endless cycle of violence and execution. 

It wasn’t just their scent, though that alone was enough to drive his systems into overdrive. It was their presence, the way they looked at him with those wide, expressive eyes, so full of fear and defiance. The way their tiny hands trembled when he drew close, though they tried to hide it. Tarn had always enjoyed breaking his enemies, watching them fall apart beneath his gaze, but there was something uniquely satisfying about them. 

A low growl rumbled through his vocalizer, drawing a few wary glances from Kaon and Vos. He ignored them, his optics narrowing as his thoughts spiraled further. He hadn’t expected his rut to return, not after the extensive modifications to his frame, not after everything that had been taken from him. But his systems didn’t care about logic or reason. It only cared about the hormones his system could pick up on from his little human. 

“Commander?” Kaon’s voice cut through the haze, hesitantly. Tarn straightened, his towering frame casting a long shadow across the room. 

“This meeting is over,” he said, his voice a low, rumbling growl. “Leave. Now.”

There was no arguing with him. The others scrambled, filing out of the room without so much as a backward glance. Tarn didn’t wait for the door to hiss shut behind them. He was already moving, his strides purposeful as he made his way toward his quarters. 

The scent grew stronger the closer he got, a heady, intoxicating lure that made his systems thrum with anticipation. When Tarn finally reached his quarters, the door slid open with a soft hiss, revealing the small, fragile figure inside, their eyes widening in surprise as they tried to dart away to hide out of reach.  

“Tarn—”

He didn’t let them finish. In a single, fluid motion, he crossed the room, his massive frame looming over them as he reached out, his claws curling around their small form making them yelp as he brought them up to his optics. They freeze, breath hitching as they stared up at him, their expression a mix of fear and uncertainty.

“You’ve been driving me mad,” Tarn rumbled, his optics glowing brighter as his field surged. He had no doubt that the rest of the mechs on the ship knew he was in rut now. “Do you even realize what you’ve done to me?”

The human didn’t respond, their voice caught in their throat. Tarn tilted his head, his grip tightening just enough to make his point clear. “No matter,” he said, his tone dark and possessive.

He lifted them effortlessly, carrying them toward his berth with a predator’s grace. The Human squirmed in his grasp. “Tarn please! Put me down, I'm Sorry for whatever I did!” their protests falling on deaf audials. Tarn’s vents hissed, his optics narrowing as he pinned them beneath his talons watching them squirm against his berth. 

They let out a sharp yelp as Tarn's claws pressed into their hips, the razor-sharp talons only just shy of breaking their skin beneath clothing. Their body squirmed instinctively, in a futile attempt to escape his grip, but Tarn only tightened his hold, his optics narrowing. Their chest heaving as they gasped, every little sound they made sent another pulse of heat through his systems.

Tarn’s frame shuddered, his vents hissing audibly as he leaned closer, his massive helm casting their small body in shadow. He could feel the tension radiating from them, the way their muscles tensed beneath his claws, their soft skin is something he had always enjoyed.

Humans weren’t quite as small as Cybertronians often assumed. Tarn had learned that when he first acquired them, their length barely spanned the full reach of his arm. But they were still small enough, still fragile enough to ignite the darker urges buried deep in his code. His claws flexed against their hips, pressing into them enjoying the little noises of protest they made.  

A low, reverberating growl rumbled through his chassis, the deep rattle of metal and mechanical components vibrating through the room. His talons curled, catching the fabric of their clothing, and with a slow, deliberate motion, he began to tear it apart. startled gasp and the faint whimpers escaped their lips as they tried to push at his claws, small hands pressing against the unyielding metal, but it was useless. Tarn didn’t relent.

The fabric gave way easily beneath his claws, falling away to expose the bare skin beneath. Tarn’s field surged,a loud pulsing beep leaves him similar to an ear ringing sound. as his optics locked onto the newly revealed flesh. Their scent hit him like a physical blow, stronger now, richer, untainted by the barriers of cloth and distance. It was intoxicating, a heady mixture of fear, adrenaline, and something uniquely them. 

Tarn’s vents hissed again, his massive frame shivering as he leaned closer, his optics glowing brighter. He dragged a single claw along the curve of their chest, the sharp edge barely grazing their skin, just enough to leave a faint red line in its wake. They gasped, their breath hitching, “please” they whimpered and Tarn’s engine purred in response.

“You smell… divine,” he rumbled, his voice a low, guttural growl that sent a shiver down their spine. “Do you even realize what you’re doing to me? What you’ve done to me?”

They stared up at him, wide eyes glistening with unshed tears. Tarn’s helm tilted, his optics narrowing as he leaned in, his faceplate mere inches from their exposed skin. He wanted to taste them, to feel their warmth against his cold metal, to consume the scent that was driving him to the brink of madness.

“You’re mine,” Tarn growled, his voice dark and possessive. 

“Tarn, Don’t—” they finally managed to choke out, their voice trembling, but he cut them off with a low, rumbling growl.

“Quiet,”

 he commanded, his voice sharp and unyielding. “You’re not here to speak.” His words hung heavy in the air, a dark promise that sent a shiver down their spine. 

“Don't move”

Tarn reached up, his claws releasing their trembling form just long enough to grip the edges of his mask. There was a sharp hiss as the seals disengaged, and with a deliberate slowness, he removed the mask that so many feared. 

The Human gasped, their wide eyes fixed on him as they shivered beneath his gaze. Tarn’s optics burned into their soul, in truth they hadn't expected him to look like this, he had assumed the mask was his face. He leaned down, his exposed face mere inches from their skin, and his glossa flicked out, dragging against the curve of their stomach and chest in a slow, deliberate motion. 

The taste of their skin sent a jolt through his systems, his frame trembling as he growled low in his chassis, smoke billowing out from his exhaust. The warmth of their body against his cold metal was maddening. He pressed his glossa to their skin again, savoring the salty tang of their sweat, the faint trace of fear that lingered on their flesh. 

His claws returned to their hips, holding them in place as they squirmed beneath him. Every little movement, every soft sound they made, only fueled the burning sensation in his wiring, he truly hadn't expected his rut to be affected by a human so much. 

“I could devour you,” he rumbled, his voice low and guttural, against their skin as his glossa traced the line of their collarbone. “You’re so soft… so fragile. It would be so easy to break you.”

The Human whimpered, their breath hitching as they turned their head away, exposing more of their neck to him in an instinctive gesture of submission. Tarn’s optics gleamed with satisfaction. 

“But I won’t,” he continued, his tone softening just slightly, though the possessive edge remained. “You’re mine, my little pet. And I intend to keep you”

His claws moved lower, sliding down their trembling sides before curling around the waistband of their pants. With a sharp tug, he tore the fabric away, discarding it as though it were nothing. Their body jerked in response, a startled sound escaping their lips as they tried to cover themselves, but Tarn caught their wrists with a single claw pinning them above their head. 

“None of that,” Tarn growled, his optics narrowing as he loomed over them. “You won’t hide from me.” He leaned down again, his glossa dragging down, tasting every inch of them. holding them in place, savoring the way their body quivered beneath him. 

But Tarn wasn’t foolish. He knew his own size, the sheer difference in scale between their fragile organic frame and his towering Cybertronian frame. He wouldn’t risk damaging his pet, not when he had gone to such lengths to acquire them, to keep them. 

No, he would take his time. He would prepare them, ensuring they could handle him before he took them. Tarn’s claws traced over their body, careful despite their sharp edges, his optics flickering as he watched their every reaction. 

“You’ll take me,” he murmured, his voice a dark promise that sent shivers down their spine. “But not yet. Not until you’re ready. I want you intact, my little pet. I want to feel you writhe beneath me, to hear you beg for more…”

He pressed his glossa to their skin again, his claws tightening just enough to remind them of his strength. Tarn’s frame shuddered, his vents cycling heavily as he continued to taste them, to savor the scent and warmth of their body. 

The Human’s soft sobs filled the room, their cries muffled as they squirmed beneath Tarn’s unyielding grasp. Their small frame trembled, as he adjusted them, spreading their legs with a deliberate slowness.

They whimpered again, their voice a high, broken sound as Tarn pulled them closer, his massive frame looming over them. His talons curled around their thighs, holding them firmly in place. There was no escape, no chance for resistance, and they knew it, not to mention Tarn had told them not to move, they couldn't move even if they wanted to.

Tarn had them exactly where he wanted them. It was one of the upsides of his outlier ability on Human’s, they would do what they were told, it wouldn't off-line them like it could a Mech, no for Human’s it made their body completely give into commands, only simply ones so far but it had been a rather interesting discovery.

His glossa flicked out again, dragging along the sensitive skin he had exposed. The taste of them sent a jolt through his systems, his vents hissing as his sensors were overwhelmed by their scent and taste. It was intoxicating, like Mixing Diesel, High grade with energy crystals, just as addictive as his transformation cog addiction.

“You’re perfect,” Tarn rumbled, his voice low and guttural, vibrating against their thighs. He leaned in further, pressing his mouth against them, his glossa flicking with precision and purpose. The Human cried out, their body jerking in response as Tarn’s claws tightened on their thighs, holding them still.

 His glossa moved slowly, deliberately, savoring every reaction, His optics dimmed slightly, his focus entirely on the sensation of them against his glossa, the way their body trembled beneath him.

They writhed, their small hands pressing against his claws in a futile attempt to either free themself or pull him closer,but Tarn didn’t relent. He pulled them closer, his massive frame adjusting to ensure they couldn’t escape his grip. His engine purred louder as he pressed the tip of his glossa against them, testing, teasing, before slowly beginning to press inward.

They gasped and cried out loudly, their head tilting back as their body tensed, a broken sob escaping their lips. Tarn’s systems shuddered in response, warning lights flickering in his HUD as his spike panel began to pressurize, the plating heating beneath the strain. But he ignored it, his focus entirely on them, the way their body responded to his touch, the way their taste grew stronger, sweeter, as he worked them open.

“Relax,”

 Tarn murmured, his voice a low growl. His glossa pressed deeper, moving slowly, carefully, as he explored them, savoring every moment. The taste of them was maddening, a sensory overload that made his vents hiss and his frame tremble. He could feel his spike panel straining, the pressure building as his systems screamed for release, but he held himself back. He wouldn’t rush this. He wouldn’t risk damaging them, no matter how desperate his own needs became.

They moan out, their voice high and strained as Tarn continues to work them open, his glossa moving with precision and control, teasing and toying with them. “I could do this for cycles and never tire of it.” Tarn rumbled, his voice thick with desire. 

The Human’s breath hitched, their chest heaving as they choke back little soft moans. They were his. Completely, utterly his. And Tarn would savor every moment of their submission.

Tarn’s optics glowed faintly as he watched their trembling form beneath him, He hadn’t expected this. Tarn had assumed, logically, based on their fragile organic nature, that they would be far more resistant to his touch. He’d prepared himself for the possibility of injury, or having to leave them to take care of his rut. But as he pressed further, he realized how wrong he had been.

Humans were far more pliable than he expected. Their soft, warm body yielded to him, stretching around the intrusion of his glossa with far less resistance than he anticipated. He tilted his helm slightly, his optics narrowing as he studied them, his movements slow and meticulous. Their body was trembling, yes, but there was no sign of pain, no indication of damage. They were adapting to him.

 small, broken whines escaped their lips as Tarn pressed a single digit against them, his claw curlingly slightly to avoid the sharp edges. He didn’t push in immediately, instead, he teased, testing their reactions as his glossa continued its slow, deliberate exploration. When he finally pressed the digit forward, their body tensed, a sharp gasp escaping them as they tried to pull away. Tarn growled low in his chest, his claws tightening on their thighs to hold them in place.

“Don’t fight me,”

he rumbled, his voice dark and commanding. “Your body knows better than you do.” He pressed in further, slow and careful, watching as their body stretched around his glossa and digit. It was remarkable, the way their soft, pliant flesh accommodated him, even as they struggled against it. Tarn’s optics flickered, his systems humming with barely restrained anticipation as he continued to work them open. 

“You’re… adaptable,” he murmured, almost to himself, his tone laced with fascination. “I hadn’t expected this. You’re so soft, so fragile, and yet… your body bends easily.” He added the slightest pressure, his digit sliding deeper as his glossa continued its slow, deliberate movements. The combination drew a sharp cry from them, their body arching beneath him as they squirmed in his grasp. Tarn’s optics brightened, satisfaction flickering in their depths.

“See?” he said, his voice a low growl as his digit curled slightly within them, testing their limits. “You can take me.”

He moved slowly, ensuring they stretched with each movement, each deliberate press of his glossa and digit. He forced himself to remain patient. His spike was far larger than his glossa, and he wouldn’t risk damaging his pet in his haste. Not when they had proven themselves so capable of yielding to him.

“You’ll take all of me,” Tarn murmured, his voice dark and possessive as his optics bore into them. “I’ll make sure of it. Slowly, carefully… until you can handle everything I have to give.”

His glossa dragged against their trembling form one last time before he lifted his helm, his claws gently releasing their thighs to allow him to shift his massive frame. His vents hissed, his systems running hot as he observed their flushed, shivering body beneath him. The sight alone was enough to send another pulse through his overworked circuits.

“You should feel honored,” Tarn rumbled, his voice low and guttural, vibrating through the air like a storm on the horizon. “I had no intention of ever using this.” 

Their breath hitched, wide tear-streaked eyes locking with his optics before shooting downwards, their voice trembling as they tried to form words. Tarn tilted his helm, his optics narrowing as his words hung heavy in the silence.

“I remodeled it,” he continued, his tone carrying a faint edge of dark amusement. “Reduced its size. Softer metals. Less dangerous. I didn’t think I’d ever need it again… not after what I’ve become.”

His claws flexed slightly, holding them in place as his spike panel hissed softly, the sound sharp and deliberate. The Human froze, their body tensing as they realized what was about to happen. Tarn’s optics brightened, his engine rumbling as he leaned closer, his massive frame casting them in shadow.

“But then you…” Tarn growled, his voice trailing off as his spike panel slid open, revealing the length of his spike. His optics flickered as he watched their reaction. “You sent me into rut. You. my fragile little pet, did this to me.”

Their face paling as the full length of Tarn’s spike was revealed. It was still enormous compared to their small, organic frame, the sheer size of it making their stomach twist with fear. The metal gleamed faintly, the design smoother and less jagged than Tarn’s usual armor plating, but it was still intimidating.

They shook their head, their voice finally breaking free as they began to argue, their small hands pushing against his chest plating with a desperation that only made his optics gleam brighter.

“I didn’t do anything!” they cried, their voice trembling as they squirmed against his hold. “It’s not my fault!”

Tarn chuckled darkly, the sound low and resonant, His claws shifted, holding them firmly in place as he adjusted his position, his spike pressing against their stomach. The tip was cool to the touch, the softer metal deceptively smooth against their warm skin. Tarn’s optics burned as he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

“You didn’t ask for this?” he repeated, his tone mocking. “Do you think I chose this? Do you think I wanted to be brought to my knees by a mere Human?”

He pressed the length of his spike against their stomach, his optics flickering as he measured the size difference, the way it spanned nearly from their hips to their chest. His claws flexed again, holding them steady as they squirmed, their protests falling on deaf audials. Tarn tilted his helm, his optics narrowing as he observed them, his field crackling with restrained power.

“Do you see this?” he rumbled, his voice low and dangerous. “Do you understand what you’ve done to me? This is your fault. Your scent, your body.”

“Please,” they whispered, their voice trembling. “I didn’t mean to…”

“You’ll take it,” he said, his tone final, unyielding. “Not all at once. Not yet, that will take time and training. But you’ll take it, little one. Your body will adapt. It already has. And when I’m finished… you’ll understand exactly who you belong to.”

The air was heavy, charged with an electric tension that seemed to buzz and crackle like static around them. Tarn’s vents hissed, his massive frame trembling as he shifted, his claws gripping their fragile form. They cried out sharply as he flipped them over, their small body pliant but trembling beneath his hands. A sob escaped their lips, muffled against the surface below, but Tarn’s optics remained fixed on them, 

His spike, heavy and heated, pressed against their smaller entrance, the sheer size of it a stark contrast to their soft, trembling body. Tarn paused there, the tip resting against them, savoring the moment. 

The sound of their labored breathing, their soft whimpered whines, was a melody he hadn’t realized he craved. They were so small, so fragile, and yet their body so warm, so alive, yielded to him, stretched for him, bent to his will.

Slowly, Tarn began to press forward, his optics locked on their back as he watched their body take him. The tip of his spike stretched them, the sight alone sending a pulse of heat through his systems, but he didn’t rush. No, he had control. ensuring they felt every inch, every movement, as he worked his way inside them. 

Their cries grew louder, their small hands clawing at the tarps beneath them, but Tarn only growled, his voice low and reverberating through the room like thunder. One of his claws flexed against their hips, holding them steady as he pressed deeper, grinding slowly into them, making them take more of him with each careful thrust. The other dug into the frame of his berth lesving clesr marks in the metal. 

“Breathe,” 

Tarn rumbled, his voice a deep, guttural growl that seemed to hum in the air around them. “You can take it.”

Their sobs shook their frame, but Tarn could feel it, the way their body stretched, adjusted, yielded to him. The sensation was maddening, the tight, warm pressure of their smaller form around his spike sending his systems into overdrive. His vents hissed louder, glowing red with the strain of holding himself back. He wanted to slam into them, to bury himself to the hilt, but he wouldn’t. Not yet. 

The scent of them was overwhelming, mingling with the faint taste of static in the air. It clung to his olfactory sensors, stoking the fire raging within him. Tarn’s spike throbbed, his systems flickering with warning lights as he ground deeper, pressing further into their trembling form. He could feel his control slipping, his frame trembling with the effort of holding himself back.

Their cries and moans grew louder, their small body arching beneath him as he pushed deeper, grinding slowly, methodically, ensuring they felt every inch. 

And yet, even as he claimed them, his processor wandered, flickering with thoughts he hadn’t considered before. Could they carry? Was it possible? transfluid, designed to create new life among Cybertronians if all else failed, but for a Cybertronian to carry a sparkling to full term was a 15% chance. Would it take to a Human? Could their soft, organic form nurture a sparkling?

The thought sent a jolt through his systems, his spike pressing deeper as his talons tightened on their hips. The idea of them bearing his sparkling, of their small body swelling with his creation, was enough to make his vents hiss louder, his frame trembling with barely restrained need.

Tarn continued to grind into them, his large spike stretching them further with each movement. He leaned closer, his voice a dark, guttural whisper. “Perhaps,” he mused, his tone laced with dark fascination, “you could bear a sparkling. My sparkling. Imagine that, little one.”

Their wails grew louder, their small frame trembling beneath him as Tarn continued, his movements slow but relentless. His processor buzzed with the thought that stoked the fire of his rut into a roaring inferno.

The room was alive with the sound of his vents, hissing and cycling furiously, interwoven with the soft, broken cries of the Human beneath him. Their small, trembling body quaked with each slow, deliberate movement of his spike. He could feel his control slipping, his systems screaming for release, demanding he give in completely to the primal, all-consuming cycle of his rut.

And he did.

The deliberate slowness of his earlier actions gave way to something more raw, more urgent, as he pressed deeper, each movement drawing a sharp cry from his Human. Their warmth, their softness, the way their body stretched and yielded for him, it was a pleasure unlike anything he’d ever allowed himself to experience.

“You take me so well,” Tarn rumbled. Each thrust sent his systems closer to overload, warning lights flickering in his HUD as his spike pressed deeper, grinding into them with force. The tight, warm pressure of their body around him was maddening, driving every thought from his processor except the need to claim them, to fill them, to mark them in every way possible.

His optics flickered as he leaned over them, his massive frame engulfing their smaller one entirely. Tarn’s pace quickened, his movements growing more forceful, more desperate, as his rut overtook him completely. He drove into them, his spike throbbing with the strain of holding back his release. He wanted to savor this, to draw it out, but his systems were reaching their limit. His frame trembled, his optics flaring brightly as his engine roared. 

“You’ll take it,” Tarn growled, his voice thick with possession, his words a dark promise that sent shivers through their small frame. “All of it. Every drop.”

Their small body had gone limp beneath him, Tarn’s claws flexed one last time, his optics burning as his frame shuddered, his engine roaring as he drove into them with a final, powerful thrust. His spike throbbed, his systems screaming as he finally let go, his transfluid surging forward in thick, pulsing waves. He growled low in his chassis, his voice a deep, resonant rumble that filled the room as he filled them with bright pink fluid which leaks out in gushes.

His frame trembled, his systems cycling heavily as he came down from the high of his overload. The Human beneath him was still trembling, their small body limp and pliant, their breath coming in soft, broken gasps. “You’re mine,” he rumbled, his tone final, unyielding. “Completely, utterly mine. And now… now we’ll see what comes of this.”

He pulled back slightly, as he watched his transfluid drip from their trembling form, his processor buzzing with dark satisfaction. The thought of them carrying his sparkling, of their small body nurturing his creation, was a thought that filled him with a possessive pride he hadn’t expected.

___________

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[pinkanonwrites]

Handle with Care

Rodimus has finally been allowed to bring you into a meeting to hopefully curb some of his rampant fidgeting problems. It ends up having unforeseen consequences.

First Contact AU! Rodimus/Human Reader

NSFW, DUB-CON, Accidental Stimulation, Rodmius has ADHD and you can pry that fact out of my cold dead hands

(Since this is a First Contact AU Rodimus uses Cybertronian words for body parts instead of human ones for you, but the Reader is a human!)

Rodimus knew he always did his best thinking when he had something to do with his servos. As insistent as Ultra Magnus was that his endless tapping, bouncing, and desk-carving was simply "an untapped well of craving for mayhem", Rodimus knew that having even a little something to fiddle with would make those endless, droning safety meetings into something just barely bordering on tolerable.

And since Ultra Magnus was also sick of his relentless desk vandalism, he finally gave the begrudging all-clear for Rodimus to bring his favorite organic to the meeting room.

"They can remain so long as they are not a distraction." With his soft little buddy cupped carefully in his servos, not even Ultra Magnus's stern words could sway his captain's notable enthusiasm.

"You say that as if they could be any more distracting than the bot carrying them." Megatron added.

"You worry too much! We'll be quieter than moon mice, right bud?" Rodimus ran a thumb over your soft, fuzz-covered helm as he took his seat. You were sitting comfortably in the center of his right palm, legs dangling over the edge between his digits. He kept his middle and ring digits curled up slightly to keep you from toppling forward, and you'd settled yourself in with your arms folded atop them and your chin resting against the tips of his digits. He gave you another soft stroke to the helm and beamed at the content little chirp you let out in response.

Ultra Magnus cleared his vents. "If we may begin, we have a lot of ground to cover. Starting with the grievous filing system Brainstorm has insisted on using for the weapons bay. It flaunts any Cybertronian standard known to bot and presents a massive safety risk when considering…"

Yeah, if Rodimus hadn't brought you along he'd already be itching for a dagger to start carving caricatures with. Instead his left-servo digits wandered lazily over your helm and shoulders, absentmindedly petting as his processor already started phasing out the dialogue of his second-in-command. Primus, organics really were so soft. Even your little coverings were soft, he noted as he ran a digit tip over the fabric covering your torso. You let out another quiet hum, melting ever further into Rodimus's grip as he patted you.

"And if you think your petition to install turbo-thrusters on your private vehicle was approved, Rodimus, I assure you it was not."

"WHA-?! What's wrong with the turbo thrusters? Brainstorm already approved the prototype!" He sat upright and forward in his seat, left servo cupping around your back to make sure you weren't overly jostled. "And they'll look great on the Rod Pod, too. Already painted and everything."

"We can't have one of our captains blowing himself up meteor surfing just because he wanted a thrill. And must I emphasize the use of the word 'prototype'? Meaning 'unfinished and untested'?"

"What better way to test them than on my ship?" 

"Do you want them listed alphabetically, or by order of safety protocol?"

Rodimus grumbled, a buzzing charge of irritation spiking through his frame. He cupped your back tighter with his servo to make sure you were still settled in as he flumped back into his seat with an overly dramatic ex-vent. The motion pushed your entire soft fore up against his wide digits, and he could feel a shiver course through your small frame. 

"You bored yet?" He murmured, knowing you couldn't fully understand him but also knowing his comments would needle at Ultra Magnus. "Or are you cold? You feel pretty warm." A single digit stroked down the length of your spinal strut and Rodimus startled at the sudden, shaky in-vent you'd failed to stifle. "What was…?"

"Affectionate little organic you've found for yourself, Rodimus." Megatron's comment nearly made Rodimus leap out of his own plating. The taller mech gestured to the way you'd wrapped both of your arms around Rodimus's digits, your cheek pressed against the metal tip of one.

"W-Well yeah! I am their favorite, after all." He asserted, though his free digits kept wandering up and down the expanse of your back. The last thing he wanted was for Megatron and Ultra Magnus to think something was wrong with you. That would just give them more reason to not let him bring you to meetings. No, as soon as he could slip out of here he'd take you to Perceptor himself to get you checked out. Hopefully you could wait it out that long.

But as the meeting progressed Rodimus found that everything that was being said to him was going in one audial processor and straight out the other. He was too focused on your movement, each tiny rock and wriggle. He kept the palm of his other servo pressed against your back to keep you snug and warm, though his own sensors didn't indicate anything out of the norm for your current ambient temperature. Maybe you got bored like he did? Absent-mindedly he began bouncing you in his palm, just barely enough movement to jostle your frame. The dull motion would keep you occupied and keep Rodimus from going stir-crazy with nothing to fiddle with. He was killing two birdbots with one stone!

"...And if we're going to allow Swerve to continue his antics, I must insist that he is at least properly licensed and certified." 

"C'mon! It's good for-!" Rodimus had tried to interject, but before he could he was interrupted by a strangled yelp from his palm. All three bots' optics were drawn to your form as you shuddered in Rodimus's servo, arms and legs squeezing around his digits and your helm hanging over the tips of them, hiding your faceplate from view. Your own little servos pushed pathetically at Rodimus's, trying to shove your fore away from his touch as you whimpered.

"You didn't squash them, did you? Rodimus."

"They don't appear to be harmed. Merely… distressed?"

"No worries everything's fine let's pick this up next cycle sounds good okay BYE!" Rodimus spat out a flurry of placations and excuses as he scrambled to leave, cupping you close to his chest the entire sprint back to his own habsuite. Only once he was over his desk, littered with your various human-sized furniture and items, did he carefully uncup his hands and let you sprawl out across a single palm. You remained lying flat on your back, fore heaving as you vented, helm fluff sticky with your organic-made coolant where it clung to your face. As you made optic contact with him you let out the tiniest, most pathetic whine as your servos flew up to cover your face.

"Rodimus…" Though you couldn't fully understand each other, you had settled on a throaty, metered recreation of his name, doing your best to mimic the mechanical warbles he had used to introduce himself to you. He'd heard you use it a handful of times before, mostly to get his attention. But now? Now you seemed absolutely distraught, whining out the word in a high, flustered pitch through your cupped servos.

"What?! What did I do wrong?" He blinked owlishly down at you, poking ever so gently around your form with a free digit. He prodded at your helm, your shoulders, your chassis… But as his digits trailed down your fore you whimpered, hips jerking pathetically up as he neared your pelvis. You let out another embarrassed squeak, one of your pedes kicking frantically against his digit with a metal 'bang!' to shove it away. 

Oh. Oops.

Rodimus wasn't stupid, he knew that humans didn't have armor plating. Instead you delighted in covering yourself with various colorful fabrics for different occasions and times of day, a freedom of self-design that he both greatly admired and slightly envied.

But Rodimus had never actually considered that no armor really meant no armor. Not even a modesty plate. 

"I'm so sorry!" He hissed, heat rushing to his own faceplate as well. Accidentally making you overload in the middle of a meeting wasn't even on the list of possible ways Rodimus thought things could go wrong, but apparently now it needed to be added. He'd used the vibrating buzz if his digits many a time on other mechs and femmes, but he never intended to use it on you. At least not in that way! Letting you slide oh-so-carefully from his palm and onto the surface of the desk, you continued to languish in your humiliation sprawled out on your back. "I really didn't mean to! I know you don't know what I'm saying but I promise it wasn't on purpose!"

You glanced through your fingers at his faceplate and his apologetic frown, letting out another huff. This one sounded less overwhelmed though, more resigned. You gestured for him to bring a servo closer and he did, only for you to duck your helm under one of his digits and let him pet your soft organic head fluff. 

"You forgive me?" You couldn't understand him but gave him a small, reassuring pat on the palm. "Ahh, thank you! If it's any consolation, I don't think either of them noticed."

But as he carefully stroked your helm with two digits, a teeny tiny part of Rodimus's processor was curious. How hard was it for you to keep quiet? Was the wiggling around from you trying to get away from the stimulation, or chase it? Were you scared, overloading in a room full of giant mechs? Or was there a chance that part of you might have… enjoyed it?

Weird. He was weird. And he was going to file those thoughts away behind a door in his processor to only be opened when he needed things to feel self-deprecating about. Rodimus of Nyon, Captain of the Lost Light, secret fantasizer of human overloads… Yeah, that probably wouldn't go over well.

And yet, Rodimus couldn't help how little he actually minded that.

[polo-drone-001]

GOLDEN ECLIPSE

“I was never born. I was made.” —Elijah Gold, Cadet of Aureum One

ACT I: THE PRODIGY

Above the storms of Jupiter, cradled in silence, Aureum One orbits like a blade in prayer. Every surface reflects gold, walls that gleam with ritual perfection, corridors hum with command tones, each doorway sealed with biometric incantations.

Elijah’s boots echo in the Grand Annex. His posture is flawless, back straight, expression blank, every breath regulated. He is top-tier, unmatched. Yet inside, doubt simmers like plasma beneath a containment shell.

Across from him stands PDU-001, the Master of Protocol. Dressed head to toe in tight, glossy black rubber etched with shimmering gold seams, his face hidden behind a reflective mask, he never raises his voice.

“Elijah,” he intones. “Your posture slipped. Left shoulder, off by 1.4 degrees.”

Elijah adjusts. “Affirmative.”

001 circles him slowly, like a predator memorizing prey, yet his tone holds something else… memory? Recognition?

And then, the glyph.

Elijah notices it mid-drill. Behind a sealed vault door at the end of an unused hall, it pulses faintly, shaped like a stag’s antlers drawn in golden circuitry. It should be invisible. But he sees it. It sees him.

“What’s behind that door?” he asks.

001’s tone shifts, metallic, unreadable. “Nothing you are ready for.”

But the glyph keeps pulsing, calling.

ACT II: THE DUEL

The rogue moon beneath Saturn’s shadow was a recovery op. Elijah led it.

But the Hive ship was waiting.

Golden echoes crackle as he’s dragged into the ruins, abandoned containment chambers, walls scratched by time and blood. At the heart of the dead moon’s temple stands the figure in black: taller, stronger, sharper.

Polished drone armor reflects Elijah’s face, then moves with surgical elegance. Every strike is predicted. Every feint countered. Elijah grows desperate, his arm gashed, body pinned against the wall of a decaying anti-grav silo.

“Who are you?” Elijah growls through clenched teeth. “Why do you know my every move?”

The drone steps back. Reaches to its helmet. Pulls it off.

001.

But older. Maskless. Eyes golden. Scar above his lip, Elijah’s own face… aged.

“I know you,” he says, “because I built you.”

“No.”

“You were not adopted. You were not born. You are engineered.”

“…No.”

“I am your father.”

The silence is total. Even the reactor hum halts.

Elijah’s knees buckle. “No…”

001 steps closer. “You were never meant to obey. You were meant to replace.”

ACT III: THE COLLAPSE

Elijah’s scream tears through the dark. He lunges, wounded, trembling, his blade shatters against 001’s gauntlet.

001 doesn’t flinch. “Elijah, listen. You are more than flesh. You are purpose.”

But Elijah’s done listening.

He hurls himself backwards, into the silo’s core. Energy arcs, the planet’s ring pulls. Static devours the screen.

He awakens in silence.

Naked. Weightless. Floating in a golden-pulsed pod, his breath slow and shallow.

He tries to scream. He can’t.

Outside the pod, rows of others. Floating, dreaming, becoming.

Inside his chest, something glows.

A mark. A stag. Gold lines etched into his skin, pulsing with heat and command.

He gasps.

“What… did you make me into?”

FADE TO BLACK. Obedience is no longer taught. It is embedded. He is no longer alone. He is the next generation.

Broadcast terminated. Hive signal reactivated. The Seed has taken root. @eliasgold20 For more, contact your local drone recruiter: @brodygold | goldenherc9 | @polo-drone-001

Join us. Or become us.

[spockvarietyhour]

Destiny takes on a Drone command ship, "Gauntlet"

[severedfromthesource]

Without

Cohl has been down a long time before Yui can get to him, but he refuses to give up. No matter what logic dictates. Features M resus, M rescuer, mechanical CPR, intubation, prolonged resus, hypothermia, drowning.

He couldn't even remember why they were diving in the middle of this godforsaken planet. Drowned treasure? Some ancient alien wreckage? All Yui knew as he piloted the little drone sub down the black depths was that Cohl hadn't responded on comms in a very long time. They'd exceeded the point he'd told Yui to find him if he didn't respond, and gone well past it in the twenty minutes it took him to even find the spot the Captain had dove to. The GPS and radar systems didn't play well with the planet's near constant electrical storms. When he did at last find the ship, he drove the submersible until the lights finally caught a flash of something reflective in the dark. His heart seized. Cohl was lying on his side on a platform outside the sub he'd taken down, unmoving. In an instant he snatched him up into the drone sub's hull and drove the thing as fast as he could back up to the waiting Hawk. Her bay opened up to recieve the little craft and he tore open the door as water sloshed out.

Yui heaved his Captain's sopping wet body onto a stretcher. His usually deep bronze skin was ashen, and he looked so utterly dead that it took everything inside the second in command to not burst into tears. The stretcher rose on its thrusters and he shoved it towards the Medbay. All the while he chattered to the ship's intelligence system, "How's he looking? How long has he been without oxygen?" "Body temperature is extremely low. Patient is in full cardiac and respiratory arrest, no BP or oxygen saturation. His suit marked the start of the cardiac event." Yui's stomach lurched. He asked quietly, "How long has He been down?" "37 minutes," replied the Hawk's comms. His legs went weak at the knees and he nearly fell. Adrenaline pushed him forward, careening into the medical unit. No wonder he looked like a corpse. He'd been one the entire time Yui was looking for him. He'd hoped, somehow, the oxygen reserves would last a bit longer than the projection. Cohl was lucky like that. Luck only got you so far with faulty equipment.

He slammed the levitating gurney into the dock and the medical system hummed to life. Another intelligence system with a masculine voice to contrast the Hawk's system piped up from the hub, "Warning, Code Blue. Warning, Code Blue." "I know, goddamnit," Yui sobbed, the strength going out of him for a brief moment. He almost crumpled over the side of the gurney as a sob bubbled up. He had to grip the railing and control his voice enough to say, "Start resuscitative protocol." "Patient's system has high levels of-" "Get him back!" he spat, jamming the controls until he got to the screen for the revival procedures. He blindly jabbed at any prompt, initiating CPR, defib on standby, airway, IV push with both epinephrine and adrenaline queued once the line was established.

He started cutting away the wetsuit clinging tightly to his Captain's clammy skin, so frozen and stiff he nearly lost it again to touch him. Every inch of exposed skin was cold and gray where it should have been warm and brown. The only color to his skin was the blue and purple edged around his lips. His stomach distended slightly from water inhalation. Yui continued to run the shears through the side seam of the fabric, under his armpit and down to where it ended at his ankle. He pulled away the shorn fabric from underneath his still body and discarded it, leaving him bare under the harsh lights of the Medbay, making him look all the paler as it caught on the rivulets of water collecting here and there in the dips and hollows. Yui planted his hands over the too firm and too round stomach and shoved down, expelling a gush of foaming white seawater from his slack lips and nose. He did this a few times, shuddering as Cohl gurgled and grunted with dead lungs. The Medbay's small mechanical arms and pincers moved about the body as it started an IV and raised the bed beneath his shoulders blades so his chest sat in a slight arch, forcing his head to tilt limply back. When Yui returned to the head of the gurney to clear away the foam from his face, he shivered to see his eyes had slid slightly open. "It's okay," he whispered as he dried off his lips and nose, though he wasn't sure if he was saying it to himself or his Captain.

"Beginning cardiopulmonary resuscitation," the system announced, sliding a thin band around Cohl's chest. In the middle of this sat a small rubber plunger, and in an instant the band was tightening in a vice and shoving the plunger against his sternum. His body rocked, the little device having a surprising amount of strength. It forced his shoulders to shrug inward, his arms rocking at his sides as his stomach, flattened by Yui's efforts, again bulged with displaced force. An additional arm lowered to pull his jaw open, easily sliding in a narrow breathing tube that split into two. A clip at the halfway point extended over his cheeks and mouth to hold it in place, and nearby a ventilator began breathing for him. The other tube in his throat suctioned out the remaining water and fluid in his throat, and for a moment the room was full of wet gurgling and squelching as the compression band beat against waterlogged lungs. Even when his airway was suctioned clear, Cohl still rasped out any air the ventilator fed him, the plastic tubing making each soft grunt whistle slightly.

Yui stood to the side of the mechanical assault. After punching in a few hypothermia procedures to be done alongside resuscitation, there wasn't much else he could do. He tried to help, tried to find something to do to not feel so useless, but the Medbay was an advanced system from a newer model of space cruiser than the Hawk, and most of a doctor's work was automated. It did a lot more than a failed med student could do. So he watched, his knuckles white around the bed railing, as Cohl was shifted and pounded into the back support like a ragdoll. The compression band made his head rock and he shifted to the side to slide a pillow underneath to hold him somewhat still. He couldn't stand watching the way his body bonelessly jerked and spasmed under the chest compressions. He glanced up at the monitors. A flatline, broken by the artificial pulse, raced across the nearest holo. His gaze slid to the cardiogram beside it. Cohl's heart was being squeezed, coiling and releasing in tandem with the machine, but the muscle didn't so much as twitch on its own. Yui pushed back dark hair from Cohl's lidded eyes for want of something to do with his hands.

One of the Medbay's arms implanted a small device over one of Cohl's kidneys, a port which connected to a suspended bag of saline. Heating coils hummed in the dispenser the IV liquid appeared from, and Yui could feel the table radiate a low warmth against Cohl's skin. He wanted to just crank the damn thing up, but knew he could easily kill him that way. As if he could get any deader. Cold, bloodless, without a pulse or respiration. He scrubbed his hand over his face to chase away the morbid thoughts. He dropped out of med school, but one thing had always stuck dealing with the cold: you're not dead until you're warm and dead. Medbay put his Captain's core temp at 75 degrees and climbing by minute percentiles. Not warm, and not dead. Not yet.

Machines pumped his heart, circulated his blood, filled his lungs, and some piece of hardware was in charge of his every vital organ. Yui told himself there was no way Cohl wasn't coming back. But the minutes crawled by. His body temp got to the upper 80s as the warm saline piped through his kidneys to heat up his bloodstream from the inside. His skin wasn't so wooden anymore, and although still noticeably cooler than usual, Yui could finally touch him without wincing. The band zipped in against his chest and pulsed through his upper body, his belly rising just a touch whenever the ventilator hissed oxygen into his lungs. There was no longer the wet sucking sound, which marked an improvement as well as his core body temp. At least his lungs were finally clear of water.

The minutes stretched on. He kept imagining Cohl in the dark, swallowed up by pitch black water, waiting for him. Drifting off. Laying dead on that platform for over half an hour. He checked the time marked on a nearby holo and flinched to see he'd been in cardiac arrest for an hour. His organs had been pumped and blood suffused for the latter half of that hour, and there hadn't been a sign of ventricular fibrillation, no improvement. Yui touched the cheek that finally had back some of its color. "Any change?" he asked as his voice cracked. "No change," announced the Medbay, "Patient is exhibiting a low level of brain activity, but no electrical activity in the heart. Temperature has risen another three points since last reading, and circulation to femoral and carotid seem to be unimpeded." Yui pressed down hard against Cohl's thigh and lower belly, squinting as he felt the pulse from the machine. "Yeah... Yeah blood is circulating. Push..." His chest felt too tight to speak and he pressed a bit harder into Cohl's femoral for the comfort of his pulse, even if it was one being forced on him. "Push another round of epi." It wasn't bound to be much help while his temp was still so low, but if he didn't do something, even just order something, he might break down completely. There had to be something he could do besides stand around like a jackass while machines jostled and pumped his body. Yui slid his hand under his Captain's neck, the other resting just above the thumper jamming down into his cracked sternum. He tried not to focus on the way his entire body seemed to pulse with each compression, or the way his throat flexed with each breath shoved into his lungs, unwilling to take up their own task.

"Surat," he whispered, invoking the name the illustrious Captain Cohl only ever trusted Yui with, "If you leave me alone in the middle of nowhere, I will never forgive you. If you-" His voice caught and he sagged over the rippling body, pressing his forehead to Cohl's cheek. He rubbed his hand gently over his clavicle as the thumper jabbed again and again at his heart. "Don't leave me," he pleaded in a quiet rasp, "Please... please, just come back." The warm saline had softened him again, raising his body temp enough he just seemed slightly cool to touch. Yui continued running his hand back and forth over the space just above the compression band as if in apology. It was, in a way. He hated doing all this to him. Every bit of it felt invasive and violent in a way he would never wish on the Captain he loved as dearly as anyone in his life. More than anyone, if he were honest with himself. Seeing his ribcage pulverized, his organs forced to function, the tubing and wires snaking from his body. One in his throat to make him breathe. One cycling saline through his kidneys. A catheter, also helping pump warm fluid through his system. He felt like he would break if he had to watch much longer, but knew he would never recover if he stopped the resuscitation efforts. He checked the temp gauge one more time. 90.9 glowed in red. A few more degrees and he would be in the normal range. Warm and dead. Yui shook his head, trying to clear it of that thought.

The code went on. The second in command had nothing to do, so he simply held Cohl's hand, trying to find comfort in the artificial pulse he could feel in his wrist. "Doctor Yui," the Medbay said after some time, though it was hard to tell just how long- he couldn't bring himself to look at the clock ticking down the seconds Cohl had been without a heartbeat. "Not a doctor," he sighed. "Noted. Commander Yui," the voice corrected. Suddenly the body went still. The automatic CPR stopped, and the heart monitor went from the rhythmic pip pip pip pip in time to the compressions to a long, flat whine. He sat bolt upright, jabbing at the controls. "What the hell are you doing?" he demanded. The controls had locked. He slapped at the RESUME button, but it wouldn't obey. "Patient has suffered a total lack of cardiac activity for two hours." Yui's blood went cold to hear that. The Medbay went on, "Protocol dictates the attending physician calls time of death and ceases all resuscitation efforts." "Don't you dare fucking stop," he snapped, trying to shift the compression band out of the way. It held firm. Yui cursed under his breath and awkwardly stuck his hands between Cohl's chest and the machine, shoving as well as he could. The plunger got in the way of actually pumping his heart, but he got as close as he could with the intrusion. He looked up pleading at the health display. "Please don't stop, just- he's got a chance, he was in subzero for long enough to preserve-" "Patient has had a temperature of 98 degrees for the past twenty minutes with no electrical activity." Bile rose in his throat. Indeed the display which marked his temperature was in the green, and still he had laid unmoving on the gurney, without even fibrillation to suggest his heart might remember how to beat. "Just a little while longer," Yui gasped out, shoving against Cohl's heart. "He's gonna come back, alright? He has to." He clutched the sides of his face and shook him slightly. "Surat, just fucking breathe, please! One breath, come on!" The ventilator stuck out from between his teeth, but this too had been stopped. Yui pulled his mouth open enough he could get somewhat around it, pressing their lips together as he pushed a breath into his throat. "Protocol dictates-" "Override then!" he shouted, returning to the display, "Override security code, fuck... s-security code 226784, Yui H-" "Insufficient clearance."

The stupid thing was designed for this exact situation. A doctor who didn't want to admit defeat. Who would keep a patient's heart beating and their lungs inflating until the ship lost power, because he was too stubborn and stupid to know when enough was enough. A higher ranking crew member would be the one to have to make the call on whether it could continue. But on the Hawk, it was just the two of them. It was always just the two of them. And the only person who could tell the Medbay to keep it up was the one laying pulseless on the table. Yui shoved a hand through his hair, his breath quickening. "Goddamnit, override security code-" Cohl only ever used two or three passwords repeated through computer systems on the ship. It had always been a huge security risk, but he was glad of it now. He tried, "Code 011289!" Cohl's birthday. "Invalid." He tried his mother's birthday. "Invalid." He tried the anniversary date of the day Cohl had adopted his dog back on Earth. "Invalid." A sob stole Yui's voice for a moment as he collapsed against the bed. His mind raced, heart thudding as he tried to think of what else his Captain might use, his blood rushing almost too loud to think. He again cupped his face, searching his slack features like he might have some answer to give him. Then, as a last resort, he quietly murmured, "Override security code... code 122492." "Override accepted. Would you like me to continue resuscitation?" He shuddered. The big idiot had used his birthday for the Medbay's systems. "Yes," Yui sobbed, pressing their foreheads together. "How long should efforts continue if there's no change?" "As long as it takes. Keep going."

Again his body spasmed under the compression band, again air hissed into the ventilation tube. Yui's gaze flickered over the body in front of him. Naked in a nest of wires and tubes. Bruised black and blue where the mechanical thumper pistoned into his chest. He pulled a sheet over his lower half to preserve some kind of dignity, but there was no dignity in assaulting a corpse like this. But he couldn't give up. Even if, by now, it felt less like giving up on him and more like letting him rest after a long, drawn out fight for his life. Tears ran warm down his cheeks and he shuddered in a breath. There was nothing he could do but wait for the inevitable warning on the ship's power supply, when he'd be forced to stop or risk shutting down the whole place. Until then...

Yui crawled onto the gurney beside his Captain as the compression band mechanically seesawed his body, making his stomach bulge when it hit. He laid down at his side, laying his head against his shoulder, which jerked underneath him with each thrust. Cohl's arm hung limp at his side, and he took his wrist and folded the limb over himself like a blanket. Like the embrace he'd only ever stolen during those nights of drinking and revelry, when Cohl would pull him into his body and he'd feel his warmth and smell the dust of some adventure on him. He smelled like salt water now, and antiseptic. Still, he curled in against him, the ripples and pulses of the machines serving to lull him into a trance like state. Yui slid an arm around his stomach as the thumper forced it to bob up and down, closing his eyes in the warmth of the embrace, and pretending, at least for a little while, that everything was fine.

He stayed like that for an eternity, waiting for the system alarm that warned him the code was taking up too much energy. Just listening to the steady blip of the monitor and feeling the Medbay's work jostle his limp body around. Then, nearing the third and final hour of Cohl's cardiac arrest, the Medbay said, "Commander Yui, please do not touch the patient." He jumped slightly and sat up, still holding Cohl's arm around his shoulders. "W-What is it?" "I've detected ventricular fibrillation. Stand clear while I charge the defibrillation unit." He felt weak with relief, almost too weak to climb down off the bed. Part of him didn't want to either, he wanted to lay there with him forever, suspended in a moment where there might still be some glimmer of hope. But this was better, this was real hope, and he reluctantly laid Cohl's arm back against the bed, drawing away. Two sets of thin robotic limbs placed pads against his upper chest and flush against his ribs on the opposite side. "Charging to 200," announced the Medbay as the machine whined with electricity, "Stand clear." Cohl jerked up against the plunger pinning him down, his limbs contracting inward. Yui glanced at the monitor showing an inside view of his chest, able to watch as the muscle, fluttering and thrown into chaos, seized up with the shock. When the contraction passed, it again vibrated without rhythm or meaning. "Shock advised. Charging to 260. Stand clear." Cohl bucked again, fingers jerking into a fist for a moment before his body slid back into stillness. No change. The Medbay shocked him again, then again, and again, but his heart wouldn't obey. The display showed it jerk, tense up, then continue quivering. Or it would push out a few quick beats and return to its useless shaking. On the fifth shock, when Yui was nearly broken from his catatonic mania and about to tell the Medbay to at last stop, Cohl's body jumped particularly hard. Then his heart started beating.

The sudden stillness felt so wrong after hours of rhythmic spasming and jerking that for a moment, Yui thought something else had gone wrong. But something had gone right instead. Cohl was alive. The compression band slid back into the ports it had come from, leaving his battered chest at last. His sternum was sunken slightly where it had been beating at his heart for at least two and a half hours, and his dark skin was mottled with an ugly bruise that stretched over most of his chest, but Yui could see his pulse leaping at the apex and pounding in his throat. As if not trusting the most advanced med system on board, he fumbled for an old fashioned analog stethoscope amidst the supplies, pressing the bell to a few points on his chest. He heard the ventilator hiss, the air filling his lungs in a whoosh, and beneath that, at last, was his heartbeat. It sounded like a lame animal, still shaky on its feet as it occasionally stammered in half-beats. Lub-dub, lub-lublub- lub-dub, lub-d-dub. But it was there. He was there.

It would be a long time before he woke up, miraculously with minimal brain damage. It still took months for him to fully recover. Yui still carried the shame of the event with him for awhile after Cohl was well enough to captain the ship again. Any other patient subjected to everything he'd put him through might have been angry he didn't just call time. But the shame warred with the joy he felt to see him alive, and most of the time that won out. He confessed one night the full extent- told Cohl of curling up next to his body in his grief and the guilt he felt for what he'd done. But Cohl had just wrapped him up in his arms and kissed the top of his head. "I'm glad you didn't give up," he murmured against his hair. Yui closed his eyes, pressing his face against his chest hard to take comfort in the beat of his heart, and whispered, "Me too."

[winxanity-ii]

TOUCH IT

ship: gojo x fem!empath!reader warnings: nsfw 🔞 (p in v, fingering); overstimulation word count: 7.0k (omg, i forgot to post this; it was originally supposed to be 2-parts but i just let it all stay together 🥹long fic again, i promise kast time jajaja... ) A/N: Hey guys, just wanted to let you know that i'm reposting this from my alt account, lulu-4-u in case you've seen this posted before...

★·.·´🇯‌🇺‌🇯‌🇺‌🇹‌🇸‌🇺‌ 🇰‌🇦‌🇮‌🇸‌🇪‌🇳‌ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

The strongest sorcerer to ever live, in all the heavens and the earth, feared by cursed spirits alike, was… bored.

Lounging in his seat, Gojo Satoru let out a low hum, his head tipped back lazily as the council droned on and on about his newest mission.

The weight of the room was thick with tension, but none of it seemed to touch him. His fingers tapped a careless rhythm on the armrest, legs spread out in front of him, exuding a carelessness that bordered on irreverence.

"…growing threat…potentially catastrophic…dangerous sorcerer…" The words buzzed around his head like an annoying fly he had no intention of swatting away.

He exhaled through his nose, continuing his little hum as the head councilman's voice grew more insistent. The man's brows were knitted together, speaking with all the gravity that someone in his position ought to muster.

But it was all white noise to Satoru—at least, until—

"Gojo."

A beat.

"Gojo, this is serious. Pay attention..." The councilman's voice sliced through the monotony, sharp enough to make him lazily shift his head to the side.

Slowly, Satoru turned his head, letting his neck roll as he turned his attention to the source of the command. His eyes, usually hidden behind his shades, seemed to sharpen with the motion, focusing like a hawk about to strike.

Even through the dark lenses, the icy intensity of his gaze bore down on the man. His smile stayed in place—easy, almost playful—but his stare was dead.

Empty.

It was a predator's look, concealed beneath the mask of casual indifference.

A tremor rippled through the room. The councilmen around him shifted in their seats, unease crawling up their spines as they suddenly remembered exactly who they were addressing.

The strongest. The untouchable. The one who smiled but never truly revealed his hand.

"So..." Satoru's voice was deceptively light, a mocking tilt to his words as he spoke. "You want me to take out this 'big bad' or whatever, yeah? Because they're, like, super dangerous and might cause some, I dunno, world-ending chaos?" He let the sentence drag, his smile never faltering, but his eyes remained locked on the councilman like a wolf sizing up its prey. "That about sum it up?"

The councilman, clearly rattled, swallowed hard. His voice faltered as he stammered out a weak, "Y-yes, correct."

Satoru sighed, long and exaggerated, before standing up in one smooth motion. His towering frame unfolded effortlessly, drawing every eye in the room.

Stretching his arms above his head, he dragged a hand through his snowy hair, letting out a groan as though this entire affair was just a mild inconvenience to him. "Alright, alright," he drawled, adjusting his shades as he flashed them another easy grin. "Let's just get this over with."

You were carefully decorating the last of the cupcakes, smoothing the frosting into perfect swirls, when the familiar ding of the bakery bell rang through the back. "Just a minute!" you called out, wiping your hands on the apron tied snugly around your waist.

It was just you on the morning shift today—your coworker had called out last minute, promising to take your afternoon shift so you wouldn't have to pull a double.

Not something you were unfamiliar with, but still, it left you scrambling to deal with the shop alone.

Your fingers were still a little sticky with frosting, and you knew there were probably a few smudges on your face, but you couldn’t keep a customer waiting.

Quickly, you smoothed your apron down, pushing through the swinging door that led to the front of the shop.

As you stepped behind the counter, the first thing you noticed was a figure crouched down, examining the glass display case where rows of colorful cupcakes, cakes, and pastries were lined up neatly.

From your angle, you could only see their side profile—a tall, lean figure, slightly hunched as they squatted low, eyes fixed on the sugary treats.

You scurried behind the register, hastily plastering on your customer service smile. "Hi! How can I help you—?" Your sentence trailed off, the words drying up in your throat as the figure slowly rose to full height, straightening out.

Your hand froze mid-motion as you adjusted your glasses, your face warming with an instant, involuntary blush. Standing before you was quite possibly the most striking person you'd ever seen.

His hair was the first thing to catch your eye—white as freshly fallen snow, a stark contrast against the black suit that clung to his lithe, muscled frame. He wore it effortlessly: black business pants, a sleek turtleneck, and a long jacket draped over his shoulders in a way that screamed confidence.

But it was his eyes that left you breathless. The brightest, most piercing shade of blue you had ever seen, framed by delicate, pale lashes.

They gleamed behind a pair of circular glasses that sat low on the bridge of his nose, as if he’d forgotten they were even there. His head tilted slightly, curiously, like he was taking you in just as you were gawking at him.

There was something both playful and intimidating in the way he smiled—a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes but made your heart race all the same.

Your breath caught, and you fumbled with the edge of your apron, trying desperately to calm the heat that was crawling up your neck. You quickly shook yourself out of your stupor, blinking rapidly as if to reset your brain. "Y-yes! W-we have plenty to choose from," you stammered, forcing your voice to steady itself.

Your heart raced, the thumping in your chest almost deafening as your eyes darted anywhere but at him, unable to hold his gaze for too long without feeling your cheeks heat up all over again. "Is there... um, anything in particular you're looking for?"

The man didn’t respond right away, and you half wondered if he hadn’t noticed your nervousness—or maybe he was just too polite to say anything about it. But the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips said otherwise.

He knew.

Of course he knew.

He hummed thoughtfully, the sound deep and drawn out, leaning casually against the glass display case. His hand came up to prop his head up as he tilted it slightly, his lips forming a small pout. "Hmm... I'm not sure. I'm looking for something... sweet." His voice dipped on the last word as if he wasn't just talking about pastries.

Your breath hitched, and you could feel the flush of embarrassment crawl up your neck again. You scrambled to maintain your composure, glancing down at the cupcakes and cookies like they held the answers to his cryptic request.

From his Satoru's perspective, you barely reached his chest. He couldn't help but notice how tiny you looked in comparison, especially with your hair tied up into a neat, tight bun, a silk scarf wrapped around your head as if to keep stray strands in check.

You wore a baking apron that was thoroughly covered in flour, smudges of icing trailing from your hands to your face, and a couple of spots dabbed on your cheeks.

The glasses perched on your nose kept slipping down, and you pushed them up in a quick, nervous motion every time they fell.

Your wide, inquisitive eyes blinked up at him, and he noted the light freckles dusted across the bridge of your nose.

Cute.

Everything about you—from the shy glances to the nervous fidgeting—made him want to toy with you, just a little.

"Well, if you're looking for sweet, we have a variety of cupcakes that are really popular," you offered, your voice wavering slightly as you gestured towards the rows of neatly frosted confections. "Or, um, cookies... cakes..." Your words trailed off as his gaze lingered on you, and it felt as though the temperature in the room had gone up a few degrees.

He didn't seem particularly interested in the pastries, though. His eyes remained on you, as if you were far more interesting than anything in the display case.

"Hmm, that's tempting," he murmured, his smirk growing just a little wider. His eyes flickered to the cupcakes, but only for a brief moment before they returned to you. "But I think I'm in the mood for something... softer."

Your heart did a somersault at the way he emphasized the last word words, and you couldn't help but wonder just what exactly this man was getting at.

"O-oh, softer?" You fumbled, trying desperately to keep your brain from melting. You forced yourself to focus, tapping your fingers nervously against the counter. "W-we have some cream-filled pastries, if that's more to your taste?" you managed to choke out, trying to keep your voice steady.

Whatever it was, you weren't sure how much longer you could handle it without combusting on the spot.

"Maybe..." He dragged the word out, enjoying the way you squirmed under his attention. "But what would you recommend?" His voice dipped again, lower, almost teasing, like he wasn't just asking about pastries anymore.

"I-I'll just choose something!" you stammered, turning quickly before you could embarrass yourself further.

Your pulse raced as you headed to the back, reaching for the dessert you had made earlier—a strawberry cheesecake, heavily decorated and sweet.

It was indulgent, something you'd crafted for yourself during a quiet moment, filled with all the sugary indulgence you allowed yourself on rare occasions.

You pulled out a small slice, plating it carefully, your fingers trembling slightly as you arranged it perfectly.

When you returned to the counter, you placed a small sample in front of him, offering it with shaky hands. "Here, try this," you said, your voice softer than you’d intended.

He didn't need any further prompting. With a smooth, almost languid motion, he picked up the small fork you offered and took a bite.

You watched as the dessert disappeared into his mouth, his lips curling upward in a satisfied hum. The moment his eyes brightened, a wave of pride hit you. A low, pleased hum escaped him, and the sound sent a shiver down your spine.

He savored it, his gaze flickering back to you with delighted approval, as though the simple dessert had been crafted by the hands of gods.

"This is fantastic," he murmured, the praise making your chest tighten. "Where do you get this from? Who made it?"

You glanced away, feeling your face flush under his stare. "I, um... I made it."

"You did?"

With a small nod, you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, trying to focus on the task at hand. "Y-yes, I made it this morning."

His lips twitched into an amused grin, but this time, his eyes didn’t stay on your face. "Well, that explains why it's so perfect..." His gaze, deliberate and slow, trailed downwards, lingering for a long moment on your chest. It wasn't subtle—he wanted you to notice. You felt the heat creeping up your neck as his eyes lingered on your name tag.

"...____," he read aloud, his voice low and teasing, drawing out each letter. He let the name hang in the air for a moment, before lifting his gaze back to your flushed face.

The intensity of his gaze, combined with the deliberate way he said your name, sent a jolt of awareness through you. You tried to keep your composure, your hands trembled slightly as you packed up the rest of the cheesecake, placing the box on the counter.

"Here you are, Mr...." You trailed off, realizing you didn’t know his name. Your eyes flickered up to meet his again, a silent question hanging in the air.

He caught your hesitation, and a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "Satoru," he said smoothly, the name rolling off his tongue like a secret only he was sharing with you.

You swallowed hard, nodding quickly as you cleared your throat. "R-right. Mr. Satoru." You glanced at the register, trying to refocus as you gave him the total softly.

He blinked in mild surprise, his smirk widening. "That's practically half off from the price on the card," he remarked, amusement evident in his voice.

You could feel your face grow impossibly warmer. "O-oh, um..." Your lips fell into a small pout as you avoided his gaze, your hand twitching up to adjust your glasses again in a nervous habit. "I-it's no big deal. I mean, I like to, uh, give stuff to new customers... in hopes that they return, yeah..."

Your voice trailed off, and you immediately wanted to kick yourself for the weak excuse. But it was too late now. You shrugged your shoulders, trying to act nonchalant, but the heat in your cheeks betrayed you.

Satoru's chuckle made your heart skip a beat. Even his laughter sounded handsome, deep and melodic, sending your pulse racing. "Is that so?" he mused, his voice holding a playful edge. His fingers brushed against yours as he took the cheesecake, and your breath caught in your throat.

"Well, I'll definitely be back... ____."

He winked, and you nearly melted on the spot as he turned toward the door. With a casual wave, he added, "See you soon, Sweets," leaving you standing there, flustered and wide-eyed, barely able to process what had just happened.

The bell above the door rang as he left, and only then did you release the breath you had been holding. You stood there, staring after him, your heart still pounding in your chest.

Sweets?

A few hours later, the warmth of the late afternoon sun filtered through the bakery’s front windows, casting long shadows across the floor as you wiped down the counters.

It had been a relatively quiet shift after he left, though your heart was still recovering from the encounter. As you finished up, the front door swung open with a familiar jingle, and you turned to see your coworker rushing in.

"Sorry! I'm so sorry I'm late!" The boy practically stumbled through the door, one hand frantically adjusting the tie of his high school uniform, the other pushing his hair back in a desperate attempt to look more presentable. "I got caught up in something!"

You couldn’t help but chuckle at his flustered state. Itadori Yuji, always full of energy and apologies, was like a golden retriever in human form—warm, friendly, and almost comically eager to please. His messy pink hair and wide, bright eyes gave him an air of youthful enthusiasm, and his genuine smile could light up a room.

"It's fine, Yuji," you said with a laugh, waving him off as you headed to the back to grab your things. "You're not that late."

He smiled sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck as he finally finished fixing his uniform. "Still, I hate being late. Promise it won't happen again, if it does, I owe you lunch!"

"Deal," you replied, opening your locker and pulling out your bag. As you walked back toward him, you noticed his name tag was crooked, dangling off one pin. With a quick flick of your hand, you reached out to fix it, adjusting it until it sat neatly on his chest.

"There," you said, looking up at him with a soft smile. "Much better." His warm grin mirrored your own as he stood there, slightly flustered but grateful. "Have a good shift, Yuji. Oh, and the manager should be stopping by later to check in on you."

"Thanks!" he said, already grabbing an apron and getting ready to dive into work. "I’ll handle it. You get out of here and enjoy your break!"

You gave him a small wave and turned to leave, but just as you reached the door, you heard him call out behind you. "Y/N!" Yuji's voice was filled with enthusiasm, and you turned to see him waving both hands energetically, grinning from ear to ear. "Goodbye! See you tomorrow!"

You waved back, shaking your head with a fond smile as you stepped outside, the cool afternoon air brushing against your skin.

You allowed yourself to get lost in the rhythm of your steps as you strolled home, your mind wandering as you took in the sights and sounds around you—the rustling of leaves, the distant hum of traffic, and the occasional chatter of people passing by.

It was a rare moment of peace after the hectic shift, a brief escape from the buzz of daily life.

As you rounded the corner, something unexpected caught your eye—a small form, huddled on the edge of the sidewalk.

Your pace slowed as you approached, your brow furrowing in concern.

It was a cat, lying awkwardly on its side, its fur matted and dirty. A quick glance told you it had been hit by something, maybe a car or someone careless.

Normally, you would have continued walking, not wanting to get too involved. But just beyond the cat, two tiny kittens sat mewling helplessly, their cries piercing the quiet air.

Your heart clenched at the sight.

With a soft sigh, you crouched down, inching closer to the injured cat. It hissed at you, its eyes wild with pain and fear, its body tense as it tried to protect its young. But you ignored the warning sounds, reaching out slowly, gently, until your fingers brushed under its chin.

"Hey, it’s okay," you whispered, your voice soft and soothing.

At your touch, the cat stiffened for a moment before going completely lax, its body relaxing against the ground. You stroked it tenderly, watching in quiet as the distended paw began to shift, the bones cracking softly back into place.

You could almost feel the snap of pain yourself, a sharp ache spreading through your own wrist as the cat's injury healed before your eyes.

After a few seconds, the paw was as good as new. The cat stood, shaking itself off, and without a second glance at you, it gathered its kittens and disappeared into the safety of the alleyway.

You remained crouched there for a moment, watching the small family as they vanished from sight, the ache in your wrist growing stronger.

Slowly, you straightened up, flexing your fingers as the pain began to dull. It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened, but it didn't make it any easier to bear.

Feelings.

That's all you'd ever known. Whether you wanted to or not.

All your life, you'd felt things—things you shouldn't be able to feel.

Anger from your neighbors down the hall as they argued about their personal issues, envy from classmates who resented your successes, and worst of all, the fear radiating from your parents as they stood helpless, unable to comfort you through your relentless sobs.

You could feel their confusion, their frustration.

But at the end of it all, they couldn't fix something they couldn't see.

Over time, it grew—your ability to feel. At first, it was just emotions. You could sense a slight shift in someone’s mood, a flicker of sadness or anger, just an inkling of what they were going through. But soon, it became more than that.

You began to feel their thoughts, whispers that echoed faintly in your mind, giving you glimpses of what lay beneath their surface emotions.

And then... it escalated. Suddenly, you could feel everything.

Whatever someone was going through—physically or emotionally—washed over you like a wave. Their pain became your pain. Their joy became your joy. It all found its way to you.

No matter how far you distanced yourself, it clung to you like a shadow.

It was overwhelming, relentless, like you were drowning in the feelings of others with no way to claw your way to the surface.

As the years went by, your condition worsened. What started as a manageable, if confusing, ability turned into a burden too heavy to bear.

The world became unbearable. Every day was agony, the constant onslaught of emotions and sensations from those around you leaving you raw, exhausted, and desperate for relief.

The cacophony of the city—the anger, the fear, the pain—was like a living entity, clawing at your skin, leaving you shaking and fragile.

Your parents were at a loss. They didn't understand what was happening to you, couldn't see the invisible weight pressing down on your soul. They could only watch as you withdrew further, your silence growing more suffocating by the day.

When your father finally made a call to a buddy—a man who had a cousin that owned a small apartment complex on the edge of the city—it was an act of desperation.

They didn't know what else to do.

So, at fifteen, they sent you away. The cousin gave your parents a deal, allowing them to pay for three years of rent upfront for the ‘penthouse’—a small, one-bedroom apartment that was anything but luxurious.

It was decrepit, cheap, and hidden away in an area most people avoided. The walls were stained with years of neglect, the air thick with the smell of dust and mold.

But it was quiet. Isolated.

And for the first time, you were alone with your thoughts.

Alone with the pain.

But that wasn't the only thing you had to deal with. Upon leaving home, you unknowingly stepped into a new world—a world of curses and sorcerers.

It happened by accident, of course. During one of your bad days, when the weight of others' emotions became too much to bear, you found yourself overwhelmed, losing control, but this time was different.

This time, it happened in public.

You don't remember exactly how you ended up on that street, or why you couldn’t move your legs when you wanted to run. All you knew was that your chest was heaving, your heart pounding, and everything was too loud, too bright.

The emotions pouring out of you were anything but silent. They radiated outward like a tidal wave, flooding the space around you. People nearby started to feel it—your pain, your panic.

The air grew heavy with the thick, chaotic energy you couldn't control.

You didn't know it at the time, but there had been sorcerers nearby. They had been in the middle of an exorcism, dealing with a high-grade curse just down the block. But your outburst—your instability—had thrown everything into disarray.

By the time you calmed down, the sorcerers had won their battle, but the damage was done.

You were on their radar.

At first, the solitude was a relief. The absence of people meant an absence of feelings—no more sadness seeping through the walls, no more anger gracing your vision from out of nowhere, no more envy creeping in with every inhale of breath, rattling you to the bone. But as the years passed, the silence became suffocating in a different way.

You found yourself missing the world outside, the life you had once known slipping further and further away. And yet... somehow, you survived.

As the years passed, you learned to cope with your abilities. Instead of rejecting the constant barrage of feelings, you began to embrace them, to accept the pain and emotion as part of you.

It was hard, terrifying even, at first.

There were times when the spasms would hit, your body wracked with the pain of others, and you'd think you were slipping back into the endless agony of your youth. But you learned to shake it off, to focus, and slowly, everything would melt into the background.

Now, at twenty-three, you've managed to regain some semblance of normalcy. You work part-time at a small bakery just a block away from the apartment, a quiet job that doesn't demand too much interaction with people.

And as you've grown more confident in yourself, so too have your powers.

Now, not only can you feel and change others' emotions, but you've learned to take away their pain as well—absorbing it into yourself, inadvertently healing them.

You glanced down at your wrist, the ache in your wrist from earlier was a reminder of that, the subtle way your body absorbs and dissipates pain.

You didn't know when it started exactly, but the more you leaned into your ability, the more you realized how much power you had over others' emotions—and their suffering.

Arriving home, you expected to be a typical Friday night of you sitting comfortably on your worn-out couch, book in hand, ready to lose yourself in another evening of quiet solitude.

But the buzz of your phone said otherwise.

Your best friend, Sumi, didn't give you a second before launching into an excited explanation about some classmates going out to celebrate the end of exam season and begged you to join them. She pointed out how you never went out anymore, and that you'd been practically living as a hermit

You tried to resist, your first instinct to decline and stick to your quiet night in, but Sumi;s persistence wore you down. She had a way of making even the simplest invitation sound like a grand adventure, and after a bit of internal back-and-forth, you finally relented.

After ending the call, you stood up, looking around your small apartment. It had been a while since you'd gone out, and a part of you felt nervous, but another part—one you hadn't acknowledged in some time—was starting to feel a flicker of anticipation.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to step outside your comfort zone for once.

The music was loud, vibrating through the floor and up into your bones as you sat squeezed into a booth, surrounded by people on all sides.

You hadn't expected the party to be this big—Sumi had said it would be a small celebration, but it turned out to be anything but. The entire club was packed, and the crowd seemed to pulse with energy, the lights flashing erratically in rhythm with the heavy bass.

It was... overwhelming, to say the least, and you'd already considered slipping out the back more than once.

But every time you thought about leaving, someone—whether it was Sumi or one of her classmates—would pull you back into the booth, keeping you tethered to the chaos.

After a while, you accepted your fate, sighing softly as you forced yourself to take a sip of the drink in your hand. The alcohol was meant to distract you, to keep your mind from spiraling into overstimulation.

The lights, the smells, the music, the press of bodies around you—it was all too much. But if you focused on the cool burn of the drink sliding down your throat, maybe you could hold yourself together a little longer.

A few drinks later, your muscles loosened, and the tightness in your chest began to melt away. The alcohol took the edge off, softening the sharpness of your senses, and you finally started to feel relaxed.

When Sumi eagerly dragged you onto the dance floor, you didn't resist, allowing yourself to get swept up in the moment.

The music pounded through the air, and soon you were caught in the rhythm. You let yourself get lost in it, swaying with the crowd, Sumi's infectious energy keeping you in the moment.

"You're finally having fun, aren't you?" Sumi laughed, spinning around you, her blonde hair whipping in the flashing lights.

You smiled faintly, your body relaxing into the music. "Yeah, it's... not so bad."

But as the alcohol worked through your system, the familiar buzz started beneath your skin. The sensations around you grew sharper—eagerness, excitement, arousal.

You could feel it all.

As you danced, it became harder to focus, every emotion from the people packed around you began to seep into your mind, their energy flooding your senses.

It was too much, and yet you couldn't seem to pull yourself out of it.

You wanted to scream, to escape, but the crowd held you tight, the sensations enveloping you like a suffocating blanket.

The music blurred with the flashes of emotion that weren't your own. It was like you were taking in everyone's feelings, all at once. A wave of drunken joy hit you, followed by a sharp stab of lust from a couple nearby.

And then, you felt two hands grip your waist from behind, steady and firm, tethering you to the moment.

A more coherent version of yourself might have jumped away from the unknown touch, startled by the sudden intrusion. But instead, you found yourself leaning into it, falling backward into whoever dared wrap you in their embrace.

The sensation of strong arms circling your waist held you in place, and the firmness of the chest against your back was like a solid wall anchoring you amidst the chaos.

You blinked slowly, your mind swimming as you squinted your eyes open. The faint tickle of soft hair brushed against your neck, and you could tell the person behind you was tall—taller than you by far. They had to slouch and bend over slightly to reach your ear.

It was only when you caught a glimpse of white, snowy hair out of the corner of your eye that you froze. A familiar shiver ran down your spine, and the sharp sensation of lust and arousal hit you like a wave, pouring off the figure behind you in an overwhelming rush.

It was intoxicating, and for the first time tonight, you felt your own emotions cut through the fog of everyone else's. Your heart raced, and the heat rising in your cheeks wasn't from the alcohol anymore.

You didn't even need to turn around to know who it was. But any doubt you had vanished when a smooth voice purred into your ear, "Hello, Sweets~"

The words sent a shiver through you, and before you could fully process the situation, you were whisked off the dance floor. One second you were drowning in the crowd, and the next, you were being led—no, practically carried—through the bustling club.

Satoru, with an ease that belied the chaos around him, guided you up the steps to the VIP section, his hand never leaving your waist.

In what felt like no time at all, you were settled in a more secluded booth at the top balcony, away from prying eyes. The noise of the club felt distant here, muted by the heavy drapes surrounding the area.

Satoru moved with purpose, easily sliding into the booth beside you, his presence commanding and all-encompassing.

You glanced at him, your breath catching in your throat as his bright blue eyes locked onto yours. There was a teasing glint in them as he took in your flushed face, a smirk curling at his lips.

Without warning, he cupped your cheek, his large hand warm against your skin, and pinched your face lightly.

"You're a lightweight, huh?" he teased, his tone light but dripping with amusement.

You swatted his hand away with a roll of your eyes, trying to steady yourself. "'m not drunk. 'm tipsy," you muttered, trying to maintain some semblance of control, though the heat in your cheeks betrayed you.

Satoru chuckled, leaning in closer. His arm draped casually over the back of the booth, but the movement subtly caged you in, his broad back shielding you from view. He didn't seem concerned with the world beyond your little corner, his attention entirely on you.

"Tipsy, huh?" he drawled, his voice lowering as he leaned even closer, his breath warm against your ear. "You're definitely something."

You swallowed hard, your pulse quickening as his finger gently lifted your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. "You're a pretty girl, you know that?" His words were soft but carried a weight that made your heart race.

Your mouth went dry as his finger trailed along the edge of your chin before brushing the underside of your lip. The touch was light, teasing, but it sent a jolt of electricity through you. His eyes darkened slightly, the pupils dilating as his gaze lingered on your lips, a light flush dusting his own cheeks.

"I could get used to this," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave as his thumb stroked your bottom lip. "The way you look at me... I wonder how much better it would feel to have you under me."

The suggestiveness of his words hit you like a punch, your entire body flushing with heat.

You could feel the intensity of his desire, the raw lust pouring off him in waves, and for once, you weren't overwhelmed by it. Instead, it mixed with your own growing attraction, the tension between you crackling like static in the air.

Your breath hitched, and though you were flustered, you couldn't deny the pull between you.

Every part of you screamed to push back, to regain control, but the way Satoru's fingers lingered on your skin, the way his eyes drank you in like you were the only person in the world, made it hard to focus on anything but him.

Your mouth moved before your brain could catch up. "I do too..." The words were barely a whisper, slipping out between the pounding of your heart and the electric charge that hummed between you.

That was all it took.

In an instant, Satoru closed the space between you, his lips crashing into yours with a hunger that made your head spin. You could feel the desperation in the way he kissed you, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, exploring, tasting. He licked into you with fervor, groaning low in his throat, the sound vibrating through your chest.

It was as if he couldn't get enough, like he was drinking in every little sound you made, savoring it.

You barely had time to catch your breath before his hands were on you—gripping your waist, pulling you closer, and leaving no space between your bodies.

The plush cushions of the sofa gave way beneath you as you felt your back press into them, Satoru already pushing you down. His body hovered over yours, his weight pinning you in place as his hands roamed freely, one sliding up your side, fingers brushing your skin under your shirt.

Every touch sent sparks through your veins, and you couldn't help the soft gasp that escaped your lips when his palm finally slid under your skirt, pressing against the warmth of your skin.

His hand moved higher, fingers brushing over your upper thigh as his other hand gripped your hip, holding you in place beneath him. You squirmed under his touch, your body responding to every movement as if on instinct.

The sensation of his fingers ghosting over your skin was enough to drive you crazy, and you arched into his touch, your own hands finding purchase on his shoulders, gripping him tightly as if to anchor yourself to the moment.

Satoru groaned again, this time louder, the sound muffled by the kiss. His body pressed closer, and you could feel the heat radiating off him, the solid strength of his chest against yours.

It was dizzying—the way he seemed to consume you with every touch, every kiss, as if he was starved for you. His lips left yours for only a second, moving to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down the side of your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

"Satoru..." you breathed, barely able to think as his lips found yours again. His hand gripped your thigh, pulling you flush against him as he kissed you deeper, more possessively, like he never wanted to let you go.

Before you could catch your breath, Satoru moved again, flipping you both upright with ease. He pulled you on top of his lap, his hands gripping your waist firmly as he settled you onto him.

You both sat there, panting from the intensity of the makeout session, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you stared down at him.

His eyes were dark, hooded with desire, the usual playfulness in his expression replaced by something more intense. His face was flushed, and a light sheen of sweat dotted his forehead. His hands, strong and confident, kneaded your exposed thighs, your skirt having ridden up from all the movement.

The warmth of his touch against your skin sent a shiver down your spine, and you couldn’t help but feel your mind race as you took in his features—the sharpness of his jaw, the way his pale lashes framed those piercing blue eyes, his lips swollen from kissing.

Satoru licked his lips slowly, and you could feel the heat between you grow as he scooted you even closer on his lap. A shiver ran through you when you felt him hard beneath you, the sensation making your body tingle. He tilted his head to the side, a cocky smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth as he watched you.

"Hey, Sweets," he purred, his voice low and teasing. "Wanna feel how bad I wanna fuck you?"

If you weren't already lost in the feeling of him against you, you might've recoiled in embarrassment at his bluntness. But instead, your body reacted instinctively, pressing down onto him, sending a jolt of electricity through both of you.

The low groan that escaped his lips, paired with the small jump of his hips in response, had your heart racing even faster.

It was your turn to lick your lips, and you noticed the way Satoru's eyes snapped down to watch, darkening even further as his gaze locked onto your mouth.

You leaned in slightly, your lips hovering near his ear as you whispered, "Only if I get to make you beg for it first."

Satoru's breath hitched, and his eyes flickered with surprise and excitement at your boldness. His grip on your thighs tightened, and his cocky smirk grew wider, clearly pleased with your response. "Oh, Sweets," he murmured, his voice dripping with playful challenge. "I think you and I are going to have a lot of fun tonight."

Satoru wasted no time, his hand sliding between your thighs with practiced ease, his eyes focused solely on your face.

ou could only bite your lip in response as he easily slipped his fingers beneath your underwear, his breath growing heavier with each passing second.

"Shit… you're soaked," he breathed out, voice rough with desire.

You can feel your cheeks burning in embarrassment, heat flooding your body as his touch sent sparks through you. It was almost too easy for him to slip a single finger inside you, sinking in to the knuckle with no resistance.

His thumb began working in small, slow circles, rubbing against your clit, and your hips twitch involuntarily in response. The sensation is overwhelming, and you can feel your body reacting without thought.

Your hips moved on their own, instinctively jutting forward in small circles, matching the rhythm of his fingers as he skillfully worked you over.

You barely had time to catch your breath before he added another finger, pressing deeper, massaging your walls with a deliberate, teasing pressure.

A sharp, breathy squeak left you when he found your G-spot. "There she goes…" he murmurs with a low moan, his own hips twitching slightly beneath you, as if the sight of your reaction was enough to affect him too.

Before you know it, the tension inside you snapped. You gasp, feeling yourself reach the peak as your body shudders and tightens around his fingers, your mind reeling from the pleasure coursing through you.

While you were still clenching and twitching from your release, Satoru didn't hesitate. He pulled your underwear to the side and swiftly guided you down onto him, bullying his dick into your small hole.

A low hiss escaped his lips, followed by a growl as his entire body tensed beneath you, almost as if he was in pain.

It felt like all the air had been knocked out of you when he bottomed out in one stroke, your hips pressed flush against his. The fullness in your lower stomach was overwhelming, your thighs burning as they settled around his waist.

Your body reacted instinctively, twitching and clenching down as another orgasm washed over you.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Satoru groaned, his voice thick and slurred as he lifted you up and down slowly, your whole clenching tight like a vice.

A low moan escaped his lips as he stared up with dazed and half-lidded eyes, as if he were completely drunk off the feel of you. His hands gripped your waist tightly, his head lolling back against the cushion.

You could only cling helplessly to his broad shoulders, your body trembling like a ragdoll as his hips picked up speed, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing through the room with each deep thrust.

You were lost in the feel of him, lost in the way his lust matched yours, the heat between you nearly unbearable.

Satoru's hand found its way to your neck, fingers wrapping around it like a collar as he tilted your head back, exposing the curve of your throat.

You could feel his breath, hot and ragged, as his other hand trailed up slowly, his thumb brushing against your lips before slipping into your mouth.

A moan escaped you, muffled around his digit, your thighs twitching in response to the growing pressure building deep inside you.

Satoru's hips snapped up harder as if he could feel how close you were. Each thrust brought you closer to the edge, and just as you felt yourself about to tip over, his voice broke through the haze, panting and breathless in your ear.

"Y'know…" he rasped, punctuating each word with a rough thrust, "…I was sent here… to kill you…" His grip tightened on your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he groaned into your ear. "But how… can I get… rid of something… this… perfect?"

His voice was filthy, dripping with lust, and his words came out between gasping breaths. "My perfect… little cock-sleeve…" He smirked against your neck, his voice growing lower and more ragged with each thrust. "… And I'm never letting you go."

You couldn't stop the shudder that ran through you as his words sank in. Just as you tipped over the edge into one last, mind-numbing release, you couldn’t help but wonder what your future held next.

A/N: not me screeching into my pillows while editing like i didnt write this 😭😭

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: The Folly of Gel’vana

( Please come see me on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord Every bit helps)

The Terminus class warship “Gel’vana”, named after her captain of the same name, was the largest warship the Mogabi had ever constructed.

Outfitted with the latest technology, coupled with enough armaments to equal any single fleet, the ship was unlike anything the galaxy had seen set to sail amongst the void sea. The batteries of void cannons alone were capable of cracking tectonic plates like gingerbread.  

It didn’t take long for the intentions of such a ship to be made obvious as no sooner had it been launched from the orbital dockyards above the Mogabi homeworld did they declare war upon their galactic neighbor the Techno Autocracy.

The sentient machines held control over numerous mineral rich worlds that the Mogabi long since craved and so they dispatched the Gel’vana to drive the Autocracy out. Swarms of drones and carries were dispatched outnumbering the lone warship a ten thousand to one, yet the Gel’vana carved through them like a hot knife through butter. None of their weapons could pierce the warships shields as it unleashed devastating barrages against the mechanical adversaries.

By the conclusion of the Battle of Raxsus III the Autocracy had been crippled militarily and ceded control of the planets in question.

Emboldened by their victory, three months later the Mogabi declared war on their northern neighbors of the Tumani and Yulnucks. The pair had been locked in an ongoing border dispute for three years and the resulting conflicts had caused waves of disruption within the Mogabi trade network.

The pair was swiftly conquered by the Mogabi fleet with the Gel’vana leading the effort. Both fleets were swatted aside and their homeworlds conquered and instated as new vassal clients of the growing Mogabi empire.

This sad display of power played out again and again for the next ten years until to Mogabi controlled some twenty star systems, fifty worlds, and a dozen different client species serving their needs with resources and manpower. Their hubris was matched only by the fear they instilled when their enemies learned the Mogabi had dispatched the Gel’vana to their system. It was a sentiment that Mogabi felt with their soon to be latest acquisition.

A small empire of planets controlled by a species called “Humans”.

In short order the Gel’vana arrived in the human sol system and expected a fight. To their surprise they were met by a lone warship and a message of surrender.

To say the Mogabi were surprised would be an understatement. They had heard of the prowess of the human war machine and their spirit for conquest. Even with their previous victories the Mogabi were expecting a protracted war that could last decades and cost thousands if not millions of lives.

Human diplomats contacted the Gel’vana and expressed that they had no wish to see their people devastated by a long war. They were willing to negotiate with the Mogabi and give them favorable terms, even the possibility of limited subjugation, conditional on two terms.

1st: No human world would be subject to excessive occupation.

2nd: The human diplomats wished to sign the agreements onboard the Gel’vana as a sign of respect to both of powers.

The first the Mogabi could understand, but the second confused them.

Humans explained that while they were surrendering they still had a measure of pride to take into account. By signing the treaties onboard the Gel’vana they would show that it took the universes mightiest warship to bring them to heel.

Even with the explanation some of the Mogabi were still skeptical, but so drunk on their own supposed power the command staff ignored their suspicions and agreed to the terms.

Slowly the human ship approached the Gel’vana; the shadow of the Mogabi warship swallowing up the entire vessel like the maw of a great sea beast of old. A long lone docking tube extended outwards and latched on to the human ship and pulled it close as the Mogabi delegation gathered at the entry point ready in full military uniform.

As the tube finally stopped moving and the lights turned green, the entry door began sliding open slowly. When it finally slid fully open the Mogabi had just moment to register the tip of the Nova Warhead pointing right at them.

Before any of them could react the ignition triggered and the missile flew the length of the docking tube into the waiting Mogabi delegation, splattering several before colliding into the wall and detonating in a violent explosion.

While it was true that the Gel’vana was nearly impervious to exterior attacks, it was not designed to handle internal explosions. The detonation of the Nova warhead set off a series of secondary explosions in nearby ammo storage chambers which further added to the detonations until finally reaching the main reactor and setting off a critical overload.

In a single moment the deadliest warship the solar seas had ever seen was reduced to a momentary star of light and wreckage before being swallowed into the gravity well of Jupiter.

So assured in their own supremacy, the Mogabi failed to conduct even the most basic of scans of the human ship. Had they done so they would have seen that there was not a single soul on board, and quickly realized the ship was being remotely operated via a series of spy satellites floating throughout the Sol system. The destruction of the Gel’vana was recorded by one such satellite and then broadcast throughout the Mogabi Empire.

 Uprisings erupted throughout the entirety of their domain as their freshly conquered territories were all too eager to overthrow their oppressors; many of these rebellions aided by fresh contingents of human warships flooding in and engaging the scattered Mogabi forces.

Within six months the Mogabi Empire was no more and the human forces retreated back to their own domain. Many had expected the humans to become the new overlords, and it was a sentiment toyed with by some notable human leaders in flights of fancy; but that is all they were, flights of fancy. Their only interest had been in the complete and utter destruction of the Mogabi.

In their arrogance of sending a single warship to conquer humanity the Mogabi had done more harm to their cause then they could have ever imagined. They had wounded human pride at the insinuation that they were so frail and weak that they would cower beneath the gaze of one ship.

With their revenge carried out they were all too happy to leave the former vassals finish off what remained of the Mogabi; a vengeance they were all too happy to watch play out from afar.

[naoutchi]

✧ Enforcer Squad ✧

These are my enforcer yautja OCs. They work together in a Squad with each individual serving special functional responsibilities. This work gets overseen and directed by their superior, also known as Captain.

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Captain

The leader of the team. He oversees and guides their missions, taking on the role as a communicator, decision-maker, delegator and strategist. He never fails to motivate and drive forward his squad.

Captain is a top performer, an absolute workaholic. Sleep? What is that?

Under his leadership, his missions have never failed or ever left any cases unsolved. Partially, he also gathers information and research.

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Pilot

The team’s ship navigator and second in command. Pilot possesses ship-engineering skills and very educated in spacecraft technology.

He maintains their ship and other equipment. Pilot works best under pressure. He often stays in the ship during missions and helps to get an accurate overview of the situation by using spy drones.

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Greaser

The team's technology specialist and mechanic. Greaser is responsible for all electronic equipment, including weapon systems, and communication devices.

He possesses extensive knowledge technology, allowing the team to navigate and manipulate various systems, whether they're on a spacecraft or infiltrating a high-tech facility. Greaser often designs and builds custom gadgets to aid in the team's missions.

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Chef

The team's tracker and stealth expert. Chef is incredibly skilled in wilderness survival and has an innate ability to track prey or enemies through diverse environments.

He excels in hand-to-hand combat and is proficient with a variety of silent weapons, making him the perfect choice for covert infiltration missions.

Chef often utilizes environmental camouflage techniques to blend seamlessly with his surroundings, making him a formidable asset in stealth missions.

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Doc

The team's combat medic and survival expert. Doc is responsible for the health and well-being of the team during missions.

He is skilled in battlefield medicine, familiar with various biological species' anatomies, and capable of administering immediate medical care in high-pressure situations. Doc also has a deep understanding of chemical compounds and poisons, enabling him to concoct antidotes or other substances that can enhance the team's capabilities.

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