#error code: self ship takes

[thebluester2020]

[BG3] Kinktober Day 6: "Mirror Sex"

Summary: After overhearing you talk badly about yourself. Halsin suggests a way to help improve your confidence.

Warning(s): [Male! Reader Insert], Praise, Handjobs, Mutual Masturbation (In a way? Halsin rubs himself against the Reader's ass while giving them a handy), Slight angst (Reader is insecure about their body),

Side Note(s): I watched five Halsin romance videos to prep for this. To the hardcore BG3 fans who may come across this, sorry in advance if there are any errors 😭 (I love the hot elf druid from all the fanart I see of him but I know nothing about his story 😔)

Scars maimed every inch of your body, all born from your countless narrow escapes from death or from the many times you've either knicked yourself against a branch or tripped over something along a dirt path. You were a shell of your former self, you felt like, even after you had escaped the ship of those Mind Flayers. You were still connected to them due to the worm that still wiggled inside of your brain!

Each day it was growing harder and harder to look at yourself, regardless if it was brief or not.

But, despite your insecurities...one person didn't find it hard to look at you in the slightest. Your lover, Halsin. Constantly, he'd rave about how beautiful you were despite your scars and wounds! Whenever, you'd enter one of your moments of extreme worry about the parasite in your brain, about whether or not you'd be too late to save yourself or other people in a similar situation as yourself. Halsin would stop you and ask you to take deep breaths, to breathe and take your time.

Although you two haven't known each other for very long, your fast-paced relationship was born out of Halsin's strict code of following nature and what it demands of him.

You were head over heels. But, even though you were head over heels for the druid, every sultry word that came from his mouth sounding like liquid gold. You still weren't able to escape cringing or outright trying to ignore your reflection—

"You're doing it again," Halsin spoke to you when you tried to slip by the mirror inside your tent without even taking a moment to glance at it.

"What are you talking about?" You scoffed as you dried your hair, fresh from your bath.

"Ignoring your reflection, my heart." The druid clarified. "Are you having negative thoughts again?"

You rolled your eyes, attempting to ignore the shapeshifter and his keen ability to sniff out your thoughts before even you, yourself, could! But, just as you sat down on the ground with a tired yawn. Halsin was there at your side in a heartbeat, crouching down to look you in the eye. "Are you?" He pressed.

"No," You lied through your teeth.

Halsin's gaze narrowed, many times in the past has he told you that scars are simply a physical representation of the life one has lived. That scars are a story of survival rather than something to hide away and be ashamed of. It upset him that he just couldn't seem to get that through to you, no matter how many times he pulled you into his chest to comfort you when you were at your lowest moments. Until, suddenly, a lightbulb appeared in his head. "Do you mind if I try something?" Your eyes immediately flicked to his face at the sound of his voice becoming lower.

Your body shuddered at the way his large hand slowly trailed down your naked torso, and as a finger ghosted over your nipple, a warmth quickly traveled to your hardening length. "T-Try what?" You stuttered.

"An idea that just came to my mind, to help aid your negative thoughts." He said. You gasped when his head lowered to your neck, peppering your neck with kisses as the shocking feeling of his teeth gently biting you here and there sent electricity through your veins. You were weak to the druid's whims whenever he used his looks and deep voice to lure you into a state of being willing to do anything he wanted, it was so unfair!

But, it was no less absolutely addicting as you unconsciously nodded your head as Halsin's hand traveled from your chest to slowly slide itself down your stomach and to where you wanted him the most...

"Hm," He then pressed a kiss to your lips. "Let's take this to our chambers, shall we?"

. . .

Your chest rose and fell heavily as you and Halsin sat in front of a mirror within your chambers. Your back was pressed against his front, the towel that covered your lower half tossed away somewhere within the room, all the while Halsin whispered sweet nothings in your ear as his hands teasingly moved up and down your front, purposefully ignoring the part of you that ached for him the most. "H-Halsin...please—"

"Be patient, my heart." He said to you, chuckling at your impatience. "Worshipping your body isn't something I'd ever dream of rushing. I need to show you exactly how much I adore you." He whispered. Your breath hitched when he pressed a kiss on your shoulder before tucking his chin in between your neck and shoulder, his eyes honed in on your twitching cock that dripped heavy beads of pre-cum.

He couldn't resist the urge to lick his lips like a wild beast. So badly did he wish to taste you like he had many times before, but...tonight was not about him.

It was about you.

"How many times have I told you that I adore your scars, my love?" He said as his hands trailed back up to your chest, his fingers beginning to gently circle and lightly pinch at the hardening buds.

"They tell stories, every single one."

"H-Halsin..." You moaned, your hands reaching to grab his forearms in a weak attempt to try and move his hands to your cock. You both loved and hated when he teased you, despite his sweet words, all you could think about was his clothed cock that twitched against your ass. "You're embarrassing me."

"Am I?" He hummed. "I only speak the truth."

You pouted, your eyes constantly avoiding your reflection in the mirror. And your lover did not take kindly to that, deciding to reprimand you via pinching your nipples. "Look at yourself," He said.

Obediently, you cracked open an eye, the blush on your face only increasing at the sight of Halsin's eyes glowing, the hunger and lust in them apparent. "H-Halsin—"

"Tell me what you adore about yourself, and I'll continue to where you need me most..." To encourage you, one of his went down to your cock before he pressed a finger to your blushing tip. The light feeling only serving to make you more needier as you bucked in search of more of his touch, yet the druid was firm with what he wanted, taking his finger away the second you tried to gain more pleasure. "Tell me what you like about yourself," He repeated. "And I'll continue." He then kissed the side of your face.

You licked your lips, searching for any words that would please him. "Um...I love my face..." You whispered.

"Good, what else?"

"...How my skin looks with your hands on them." You said, your last few words whispered. Though, he didn't seem to mind. "One last thing," He added on.

"I like...this scar." Shakily, your hands went to a scar that rested on your hip. You gained it after escaping from one of the Mind Flayers' pods. Unlike the other scars across your body...although the one on your hip was born from a traumatic encounter, it also served as a permanent symbol of what you aimed to accomplish, to one day get the Mind Flayers' parasite out of your head. And with your final compliment towards yourself, Halsin's hand suddenly began to store your cock.

You keened at the feeling. "H-Halsin—!" You moaned.

"I never tire of your moans, my heart...do you know that?" Through the haze of your quickly heightening pleasure, you could feel Halsin's hips moving against your ass, grunts and quiet moans of his own reaching your ears. "They're like the sweetest of music, give me more..." Your body did as he bade immediately, more moans and whines falling from your lips as Halsin continued stroking your needy dick.

More and more pre-cum began to ooze from your cock as you started to approach your high, pleas for your lover to move faster beginning to slip from your mouth whilst Halsin's rutting against your backside increased in speed and fervor. Halsin couldn't get enough of the sight before him, everything a feast for his senses from the scent of you and his combined arousal in the air and the way your eyes looked at him so pleadingly. As if the entire world hung from his very fingertips while your cock twitched and bobbed so needily.

A part of him wanted to tease you some more, the way you'd grab at his biceps and press your face against the side of his cheek was so sweet...but, he didn't know if he would be able to hold himself back tonight. "Are you close?" He chuckled.

"Uh huh..." You whispered as your hand went to his hair, your fingers tangling themselves with the strands before Halsin allowed himself to be pulled towards your lips.

He groaned against the softness of your lips, your combined moans growing needier and needier as you both approached your highs. Yet as Halsin's hips began to stutter in their rhythm, his hand on your cock suddenly shifted to focusing circling his palm, soaked with your pre-cum, on top of your cockhead. The sudden amount of focus to your sensitive head making you keen and practically scream in pleasure against his mouth before your lover tore his lips away from yours, a trail of spit still connecting you two as he smirked at your love-drunk gaze.

"Cum for me, my love."

"Halsin...Halsin, H-Halsin—!" You stilled as your orgasm ripped through your body, the sheer force of it making your thighs shake and your entire body shudder. Halsin was right behind you, rutting against your ass only for a few more thrusts before he stilled with a deep-bellied groan as he came in his trousers, the front quickly darkening from his cum. You two sat in silence for a few more beats, steadily coming down from cloud nine until you finally settled and were focused on each other once more.

You flashed the druid a dopey grin. "S-So good..." You panted out.

Halsin responded with a kiss before he pulled back, a rare cocky smirk on his face. "I'm glad you enjoyed yourself, my love," He said before he started to peel off his clothes. "Hopefully one orgasm didn't tire you out, my love...I'm still aching to give you more praise, and show you how beautiful you are in my eyes."

[noodleblade]

absolutely love your fics! if you’re still taking requests, I think a rodimags sickfic would be adorable!!

this fic was written in April and I finally got around to editing it ;--; thank you for your patience and I hope you enjoy:3

Ao3 Link

A chill crawled along trembling plating; its frosty fingers digging into the transformation seams like shards of ice. Minimus Ambus curled tightly into a ball as a frame deep ache rolled across his body. A dull, throbbing pain echoed in the center of his forehelm, his processor sluggish under the tight building pressure. Nausea threatened to flip his tanks, leaving him to swallow down acidic balls of static.

Minimus was well and truly sick.

He wasn’t sure of the exact cause. An internal system scan showed him free of any physical damage and he was clean of any infectious malware corroding his software. The only blip he could see across his vitals was a small system bug, a coding error his internal processor was struggling to correct. 

It happened from time to time, though it was often rare to feel it affect him so deeply. His system was prone to bugs when he swapped between hardwiring into the Magnus armor and disconnecting into his current frame. He wasn’t sure why his frame sometimes hiccuped in its recalibration sequencing but, alas, it was not completely unexpected. Irritating nevertheless. 

Distantly, Minimus wondered if the other prior users of the armor suffered the same or was it purely due to the inadequacies of his smaller frame?

He groaned as another tremor wrecked through his chassis, letting his optics offline as he tried to regain a semblance of composure. While this bug was a bit more severe than he was used to, he was not going to shirk off his responsibilities. The very thought of taking a sick day set his processor ablaze. All his duties, both per his station and self-imposed, would be unaccounted for without a proper replacement. He’d have to reassign them all, to make sure the proper mech was assigned the right segments of his job. 

It would…be simpler to just move his shift back. A small nap would provide him adequate rest while his system defragged the coding error. The estimated time for a total defrag was just two breems if he settled into a deep recharge. It would give him ample time to take up a later shift and complete his tasks. 

Yes, Minimus thought to himself as he settled further into the berth, just a small nap. 

He made the change quickly, optics already offlining as Thunderclash valiantly agreed to swap desk duty with him. Minimus could rest easy knowing the ship was in good hands until his nap finished. His recharge parameters started kicking in and he drifted into an aimless, deep slumber. 

—

A loud knock echoed across the dark abyss. Minimus jolted at the noise, his audials ringing at the abrupt sound as his spark rattled in his chassis. It took an agonizingly long moment for him to realize where he was, his blind optics scanning the room. 

His optics spied his orderly desk alongside the severe outline of the Magnus armor and a calm washed over him, though the drumming ache in his joints was still there. Slowly, he curled into his bed, using his arms to cradle his pounding helm. He just needed to fall back into recharge, chase the quiet slumber. According to his internal clock, his defrag was not even halfway done and for once, the prospect of rest sounded preferable to marking tasks complete on his HUD. 

The knock rapped against his door again, more persistent this time in a quick, rapid staccato. Minimus groaned quietly to himself as he tried to make himself smaller in the berth. 

A wild thought struck him as he struggled to settle, one he would only blame on the delirium of his sluggish, sickly frame. 

What if he ignored the call?

The idea was not only against his very character, but a deeper, more delusional part of him almost reveled in the depravity of such an act of selfish negligence.

But it was not without good reason.

His frame was too achy and weak to possibly entertain the thought of having anyone see him in such a state. Minimus wasn’t even wholly sure if he could get himself out of the berth at all. If he didn’t answer, whomever it was would just leave and catch him some other time. They could send him a memo, call his comm if it were truly urgent. Besides, the doors were locked, with only a select few with override authorization-

A sudden click had Minimus’s optics snapping over as he watched the door slowly slide open, a red and yellow figure standing at the threshold. 

“Yo! Mags?” 

Bright light flooded the room and Minimus turned his helm into the berth to avoid the blinding brightness. The light bringing about his helmache twofold.  

“Oh. Scrap. My bad, Mims.” 

At the soft shhhtck of the doors closing, Minimus peered up to see Rodimus walking towards him. Deceptively, Minimus thought he could see…worry? on his Captain’s faceplates. The thought caused his chest plates to tighten uncomfortably. 

“Captain?” Minimus croaked, his mind running through every possible problem that could have arisen in his absence and to cause Rodimus to look at him with that horrible pinched expression. 

Another mutiny? Pirates? Word from Cybertron? An explosion in the labs? Anything pertaining to Whirl?

He tried to sit up, to give his Captain his full and proper attention- never mind how inconsiderate and unprofessional it was to receive his Captain while still laying in his berth. However, as he lifted himself up, a wave of nausea curled in his intake and he immediately thought perhaps it would be better if he remained prone. It was still gratingly unprofessional but not as much as purging at his superior’s pedes. 

He felt…exposed on his too big berth. When the quarters had originally been assigned to him, adjustments had been made to fit Ultra Magnus’s large, boxy frame. It was perfect for when he was wearing the armor, but without it…the berth felt ridiculously large. Far too large for a standard size bot, much more so for a minibot like Minimus. He didn’t want to even think about what it would look like if he were in his truer, smaller form.

“Pits,” Rodimus crept closer, his expression morphing into something decidedly worried. “You look like slag, Mims.”

“Thank you for your thoughtful assessment,” Minimus groaned. A shiver traveled down his spine and Minimus could feel his denta clatter together. 

 Rodimus graciously ignored the snarky comeback. “Are you sick? Uh, should I get Ratchet?”

“No,” Minimus nearly bolted up right once more. The sudden movement made his processor spin and he quickly fell back onto the berth, bringing his servo up to cover his optics. The room was spinning. “I’m fine. It's just a small system bug.”

“Sure.” Rodimus sounded anything but convinced. “It’s not like you to skip your shift.”

Minimus frowned behind his servo. “Skip? My shift isn’t until third rotation.” 

He had swapped with Thunderclash, responsibly making sure he wouldn’t leave a gap in coverage. He had reassigned himself, leaving appropriate room for recovery. His defrag was only estimated for 2 breems and it wasn’t even halfway over. 

Rodimus snorted. “Yeah, that was over a breem ago. Megs took your shift for you and told me not to bother you.”

“Oh.” Minimus swallowed around the word. 

A quick glimpse at his defrag estimation window still showed half left to work through, but time lapsed showed near double that what had been estimated. It looked as if the defrag had stalled, struggling with a nasty tangle of mixed up coding. In the midst of his slumber, Minimus had been unaware, his recharge attempting to conserve power.

Embarrassment curled around his throat and Minimus felt his stomach flip. Failure, even when medically induced, was still a shameful, humiliating feeling.

 “Why are you here?”

“You think Megatron can just tell me what to do?” Rodimus huffed. A warm servo pressed against Minimus’s exposed forehead. “Primus, you’re icy. Are you sure you don’t want me to get Ratchet?” Worry tinged his Captain’s words. 

Originally, Minimus had taken Rodimus’s concern as something surely going catastrophic on the ship. He hadn’t considered the possibility it was over his well-being. 

It shouldn’t make his spark spin at the thought but…it was rare to find Rodimus concerned about anything, much less him. It wasn’t that Rodimus was an unkind mech, but…Minimus was unused to the treatment all the same. 

“I’ll be okay,” Minimus murmured shyly, his words slow under the delightfully warm, heavy weight of Rodimus’s hand on his helm. “I just need to rest. Once my system has done a thorough debugging, I should be back in right order. I can make up for my missed shift and issue a formal apology to Megatron.”

During the debugging, most of his internal systems were stalled until the problem was sorted, which included thermal regulation. While his frame was well above critical chill point, Minimus was cold. Normally, he would have resorted to using the Magnus armor for heating, subrouting its ventilations inward for additional warmth. However, Minimus was worried that hardwiring in would leave the armor vulnerable to catching the system bug and while it was a small, measly thing, he didn’t want to risk any damage to the armor. 

Rodimus snorted an unamused laugh. “Only you would worry about making up work when you can barely keep your optics online. It’s fine. Megatron’s got nothing going on anyway. If anything, he should be thanking you.”

Minimus felt unnaturally soothed by those words. “Of course, Captain.”

“Need help warming up?” Rodimus asked.

Minimus hummed an affirmative. He opened his mouth to give instruction on where Rodimus could find a thermal tarp. He didn’t keep any in his quarters but if Rodimus went to supply closet 3B24, there should be extras and-

The edge of the berth creaked and Minimus felt movement.

He let his optics online slowly, just in time to see Rodimus shimmy onto the berth and flop down beside him.

“What are you doing?” Minimus asked. He tried for indignation but it fell short and sounded more pitiful than anything else. 

“Well,” Rodimus huffed as he scooted closer, “I run a little hot and since you're cold…”

Minimus raised a concerned optic ridge but before he could swat Rodimus away, warmth swept against his frame as Rodimus pulled him closer.

“Oh,” Minimus murmured, halfway between a grasp and, embarrassingly enough, a moan. 

“Told ya.” He could hear the cocksure grin in the Captain’s voice but found no need to dismiss it. Not when Rodimus was so heavenly, blazingly correct. Despite himself, Minimus pressed closer until he could feel his pedes knock against Rodimus’s knees. “Feels good right?”

Admission was…too much. Minimus may be borderline snuggling with his Captain, but he would not further feed Rodimus’s ego, especially when any affirmation felt like a confession. Even allowing Rodimus this crossing of boundary felt like a blatant confession, admission, something too vulnerable. Thankfully, Minimus’s ailment seemed to allow for perfect plausible deniability. Which was great because Minimus…didn’t want to give up this warmth any time soon.

“Aren’t you on shift?” Minimus asked blearily. He knew he could check the schedule and confirm this but…for once, Minimus would find himself okay if Rodimus decided to lie. He would be purposefully oblivious.

“Nah,” Rodimus stretched out. “I transferred that to Drift to come investigate your situation.”

Minimus hummed, a shiver wrecking through his body making him curl close to Rodimus’s too-warm plating. “How diligent.” He meant it bitingly, but it almost came out complimentary. 

Above him, Rodimus snorted, servo coming to rest against the center of Minimus’s strut. The warmth made Minimus melt, any remaining tension in his frame seeping away as he laid slack against his captain. 

“Besides,” Rodimus shifted a little, settling further into the large berth, “it would be un-diligent of me to leave you unattended.”

Minimus bit his tongue as his processor nagged him that Ratchet or First Aid would be better medical professionals to call upon attendance to his ailment. Instead, he pressed his face into Rodimus’s broad chest plate, knocking his forehead against his Autobot badge. He even ignored the incorrect negative affixation.

 “Responsibility is a good look for you, Captain.”

“Jeez Mims,” Rodimus leered, though his tone was too soft to hold any real edge, “skipping shift and flirting with your superior; you must really be out of it.”

Weakly, Minimus lifted his servo to lightly tap Rodimus on the lips, grumbling a soft shhh. In the retreating motion, he scrambled for the edge of the tarp hanging around their waists.

Seeing his wants, Rodimus reached for the tarp easily, pulling it up to rest loosely at Minimus’s neck. Tiny engine vibrating in a quiet purr, Minimus let his optics flicker off, content to listen to Rodimus’s inner mechanics whirl softly in his chassis. “Sleep, Mims,” Rodimus murmured quietly. Distantly, at the edges of his sensor net, Minimus could have sworn he felt the warm drag of digits tracing along his spinal strut. “I’ll watch your back.”

[code-behind-the-scenes]

18+ BLOG!!

Ran by @crescent-the-lazy-wolfbones & @asktheevilgeniusesson

This is a UTMV OC/SELF-INSERT ask blog! If you are unconfortable with that, then please scroll :) the two main characters that will be seen here are the OCs of CODE and Puffball. They are currently in a relationship with eachother so there will be no shipping with others for the main two of this blog. However they are OCS. Not entirely sanses, so theres no self shipping going on here.

CODE is owned by my boyfriend, the owner of this blog, and Puffball is owned by me :3 we take no ownership or such for any other aus that may appear and/or drawn on this blog, since other aus will appear from time to time!

Asks will be awnsered by drawings by my boyfriend, thus meaning asks may take alittle more time to be awnsered, since every ask will get a drawing response!

Puffball and CODE will almost entirely always be seen lounging in the white void of ERRORs, therefore ERROR will probably appear afew times more then other aus. CODE was created by ink with the sole purpose of overseeing the coding of the classic UT universe to ensure nothing goes out of hand or such.

RULES:

NSFT asks are ALLOWED, however dont be TOO overly sexual as those will not get a response or a drawing!

There will be harsh/dark topics here, such as alot of profanity/swearing, violent and harsh actions, and the risk/potential of gore and/or blood being present here, it will always be tagged as such incase you do not wish to see that, but it will be prevalent as this is an 18+ blog!

Please do not god-mod in threads, or asks even on anon mode, as these are literal skeletons with magic. They can fight back.

Do not reblog threads where we are roleplaying with others! This is very annoying and clutters up the notifications, aswell as tricks us into thinking the roleplay partner had responded.

[ ASK BOX: OPEN ] ask box will close if there's too many asks and mod needs time to catch up.

[nighttimeebony]

By the way, has anyone else noticed the similarities between these three ships?

BECAUSE I HAVE AND I CANNOT PRETEND TO BE NORMAL ABOUT IT ANYMORE

(unhinged gay screaming and rambling below the cut)

You know, "serious, deadpan gay has their heart melted by a nerdy, chaotic disaster bisexual with childhood trauma." Alternatively, "not enemies but initially on opposing sides before sun-coded breaks down moon-coded's walls and then subsequently become best friends that are closer to each other than most other people."

To start, the similarities between Lan Zhan, Cas, and Shouto:

Deadpan, cold, aloof, serious, intimidating, takes things literally 

Initially driven by rigidly-defined principles/goals before having their world view altered by the other half of their ship, which in turn causes them to become more uncertain of themselves and what they want, but recognizes that they are happier and better-off for it now than they were before

They were raised in an unforgivingly strict environment where there was no margin for error, causing them to become cold and jaded in a way that covers up the fact that, at their core, they are fundamentally kind and good in a way that they don't even realize but desperately want to be

Socially awkward introverts that hate everyone but This One Person

Come across as very intimidating but are actually very soft 

Surprisingly good with kids

Familial issues/trauma

They can also be identified as the "fell first" half of the relationship, and most likely fell within one of their first few interactions with their love interest 

Youngest siblings

Has an obsession with a specific animal (Cas likes bees, Lan Zhan likes rabbits, Shouto likes cats)

The undisputed powerhouse of their respective series that everyone recognizes as one of, if not the strongest members of the cast

Everyone thinks they're super wise and mature, but they are actually the pettiest bitches you will ever meet

Gay and entirely obsessed with This One Person

They all have small, private conflicts about allowing themselves to Feel. They were raised to compartmentalize, repress, and conceal-don't-feel; push everything down until you are perfect and untouchable. Then their love interest comes along and upends everything and finally allows them to Feel, but because they were taught to repress everything, they don't entirely know how to do that yet, so, with the help of their love interest, they slowly heal and learn how to be more human and less like the image of untouchable, god-like perfection they were raised to be (metaphorically for lwj and Shouto, but literally in Cas's case)

(I was gonna say, "they all belong to the mile-high tall club", but then I realized that only applies to lwj and Shouto because Cas is technically shorter than Dean, lol. Though, I guess you could argue that his true form (without his vessel) is taller, but, like, c'mon)

Incredibly dry, niche sense of humor that's only really funny to This One Person

Lan Zhan and Shouto both have mothers that they love, but who were forced into an unwanted, loveless marriage by their father that led them to be increasingly isolated from their children until resulting in a psychotic break that ultimately destroyed them and drove their husbands to imprison them (Rei in the mental hospital and Lan Zhan's mother in the Jingshi)

Unrepentantly earnest and blunt with their thoughts

Completely whipped for their partner

Now! To the disasters! Wei Ying, Dean, and Izuku:

Friendly, excitable, extroverted, sunshine-y/always smiling

Near-unparalleled geniuses in their fields of interest that like to experiment and test things

Childhood trauma

The powers that be have decided that they are undesirable in some way or another, that they are a waste, disposable, an acceptable sacrifice to make in the grand scheme of things. They have all struggled with feelings of worthlessness, and have all arguably struggled with self-hatred at least once in their lives, and even if they don't actively hate themselves anymore, by and large, they do not recognize that they have value just as they are, that the only value they have lies in what they can do (or sacrifice) for others. None of them have much in the way of self-esteem or any sense of self-worth.

At their core, they want to save people.

They all have themes of being different from the negative characatures that society tried to make them into.

Extremely talkative and come across as annoying to most people

Likes kids

Reckless and jump head-first into danger at the drop of a hat

Carry feelings of guilt, have a tendency to cast blame onto themselves, takes responsibility for things that aren't their fault

They want so badly to do good, and they choose to be kind in a world that deemed them unworthy of it

Good relationships with their respective maternal figures/caretakers (Dean and Izuku with their actual mothers, and Wei Ying with Yanli)

Wise-cracking smartasses that give off dumbass energy

Bisexual

Inadvertently ends up adopting a small army of children

Deflects their traumatic experiences with jokes

Has that one female best friend that is definitely a lesbian (wwx and Wen Qing, Izuku and Ochako, and Dean and Charlie)

"Oh my God, (Cas, Lan Zhan, Shouto)! You can't just say things like that!"

They are the caretakers, the protectors, but they so rarely let themselves be cared for by others. Their respective love interests are some of the few people they feel comfortable being truly vulnerable with and will let take care of them

Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms™

In particular, I noticed a lot of uncanny similarities between Wangxian and Destiel specifically, especially in the themes and arcs that exist in both the couples and the individuals

[malewife-overlord]

Six Cycles Later -- Part IV

Summary: Invert frees her new ally from her life pod, only to learn just how a w f u l she is. Their alliance proves in trouble with the arrival of an Autobot.

Features the adorable oc of Starburst, provided by @callsign-relic! Check her and her stuff out sometime!

Prior chapter is here, start and explanation of six cycles later is here. Next chapter is here.

Word count: 5046

trigger warnings: robot racism, some gore, some self harm

Fic below cut!

“LET ME OUT!”

At the sound of the voice her spark leaped in its chamber. Invert grinned despite her prior grievances, the swamp and all of its horrors left behind. Though no one could see it, she raised an arm and waved. 

“I’m here! I hear you! I’m coming! Hold on!”

Water splashed around her pedes as she practically sprinted for the ship, concerns of an Autobot ambush cast aside as its dark entrance yawned. The buzzing grew in volume as she closed the distance, and though she was loath to fully disable her audials, she found she had no choice. Her helm was threatening to split from noise alone.

Whoever was in this ship had to be strong, she could feel it. She ran over her options again: Bombshell, Shrapnel, Kickback. Which had she decided was the most useful? Oh, whoever, she didn’t really care! Well, maybe she did a little, but truly, she’d be grateful just to have another ‘con around. Someone who was on her side. Someone who she could plan with and fight by. Even if they were, according to the data pack, a bit hard to get along with.

Oh well. She would top the pecking order in no time. They didn’t know what she was capable of, and they’d learn fast to respect her. 

The interior of the ship was larger than it seemed from the outside, as most Decepticon ships tended to be. The floor before her was completely underwater, its silver squares smothered by a thick layer of dark organic grime. The walls were colored purple, though their paint had long stripped. Water stains alongside long white streaks of organic substance decorated her surroundings. On the far right, where the front of the ship rested comfortably, the bridge sat in ruin. 

If she was a bit more concerned about escaping the planet, perhaps she would have been distressed by that fact. But Invert couldn’t have cared less at the moment, for her optics were focused on the barely glowing sign hanging above a broken door across from her. The Insecticon ship was small, with only a bridge, a large main area, and a side compartment for the med bay. Under most circumstances, that compartment was sealed, but the presence of the entrance told her all she needed to know about where to find her future friend. 

She left the bridge and the main area behind, taking a step down into the cramped quarters of the med bay. And there, bundled against the wall like a clutch of eggs, sat five stasis pods. 

Three were open. One was dark. And the last one—

It looked like it had been almost destroyed.

The metal was warped and bulged outwards. The glass was cracked and shards of it sparkled beneath the stagnant water. Deep gouges tore up the walls beside the pod. She could see scuff marks on the floor and what looked like burns on the ceiling. The display on the pod was glitching and barely functional, showcasing error codes and a single life signal. 

She furrowed her optical ridges, wondering just what had happened here to incur such damage. 

Well, it was of no major significance to her. Whatever had happened here had passed, and all it had left behind was an Insecticon soldier ready to burst forth and support his cause. Her audials indicated that the source of the buzzing, and logically, the screaming, was the pod. In fact…as she stepped closer, they displayed warnings: the sound being produced would cause damage if listened to at such range, even with muted audials, for elongated periods of time. 

He was strong. Sound based powers? She was reminded of Soundwave and his cassettes. Would this Insecticon also have something similar, then? But how would he–

Nope, not even thinking of it. That was gross organic stuff. She needed to focus on anything but the fact he was mimicking a filthy organic. Yes, all she needed to focus on was releasing him from the pod. 

Approaching it, she took additional note of the severe damage to the door–its seal was incomplete, which possibly indicated stasis failure. The dents on its middle pushed out in the molded shapes of angry fists. On the sides she could see the groove of hands where it had been gripped with enough force to bend in both ways. 

Claw marks on the wall, punches on the door, warping on the edges. Invert wasn’t stupid. Whoever—or whatever—had been forced into this pod had only done so after fighting for his life. 

Why?

She couldn’t see very well inside—though the shape of the Insecticon’s head was discernible, a layer of moisture had formed inside, obscuring his details from her sight. Was he battle damaged? Had he been frozen inside screaming?

Was that why the pod was buzzing so loudly?

She had no answers yet, but she could certainly assume that he was probably rusting in there, with all that water. She didn’t know his story in the slightest, or why he hadn’t been with the other Insecticons, but considering her circumstances, she didn’t have many options besides opening his pod. If she trusted her preservation instincts, which told her this was a terrible idea, she left behind her only potential ally left on this planet. Whatever circumstances had seen him trapped in his stasis pod were likely behind him. She’d just have to trust that he wasn’t as violent as the area around him seemed to indicate. 

Besides. Insecticons were unsavory on their best days, completely uncooperative on their worst. She was probably seeing the results of a spat between the four, soon to be three. 

Three. They’d really trapped one of their brethren in their ship and abandoned him for years. 

Scowling, Invert tapped the broken screen, trying to see if she could convince it to initiate release. 

It gave no such indication. She tapped again, trying to pull up any kind of menu. Besides more error messages, the screen gave no further function. 

“Come on!” She said aloud, giving the pod a kick. 

Whatever was inside reacted. She saw the head turn towards her. The sensation of optics locking onto her form creeped up her back.  

Invert’s spark tightened from both fear and excitement. Oh. He was awake. That meant…oh. That was why he’d been able to make the noise. He had been frozen screaming. The faulty seal had likely forced his body into stasis, but not his mind. 

LET ME O U T 

Her audials indicated they’d picked up on words. She ex-vented through her dentae. 

“Uh, hi!” She said, waving a hand. “Um, I’m Invert. I got your distress call! I’m here to get you out.”

The Insecticon did not move. 

“I’ll, uh, get on that, then. Do you have any idea how to open this pod? Any recommendations or tips? I’ve never been in this ship, so…”

Nothing. 

“Right, on my own again, gotcha.” She turned away and rolled her optics. 

Okay, if the pod didn’t want to behave because it was broken, she could force it. Grabbing the bent edge of the door, she planted a pede against the wall and pulled with all her might. Her joints creaked in protest, but the door didn’t budge in the slightest. 

Frowning, she searched around for a tool, coming back with a metal pipe found submerged at the back of the ship. Jamming it between the door and the pod’s edges, she braced herself against the wall and tried to forcibly pry the door open–only for the pipe to snap and fly across the room. 

Invert cursed and retrieved the blaster she’d brought with herself, pointing it at the seal. A purple glow illuminated the dark ship as she fired several blasts in, succeeding in adding more sear marks, but not breaking or melting the metal in the slightest. 

The door wasn’t budging. She scowled. Looking at the glass, she could see the Insecticon watching her, probably thinking about how pathetically this mass-produced, one-trick Seeker was failing to perform a single task.

Well, she’d damn well show him. Brute force wasn’t her style anyways. She had one trick that was sure to work, and prove that she was worth keeping around–and respecting. 

Oh, he’d damn well respect her, if he was already thinking so negatively about her. 

For Invert had a special ability, one that had kept her around despite how often she’d heard other ‘cons whispering about having her deactivated. It might be an ability that was difficult to use, incredibly dangerous on her best days, and ran the chance of killing her every time she used it, but it was hers. It set her apart from her Seeker brethren. It made her special. 

It made her worth keeping around. 

She stepped back from the pod and smirked. So far she’d only used her ability on other Cybertronians, but she saw no reason it wouldn’t work on their technology as well. It wasn’t like she’d been given time or items to test it on, when resources had already been so slim on Earth. This could serve as a beta test for it, probably. Though, she had to wonder…would it damage the Insecticon inside?

…Once again, she didn’t know. Didn’t really matter, probably–it would be the start of their pecking order. Her on the top, him keeping a distance at all times. 

“Hey, Insecticon?” She said, “I’m going to try and get you out. There might be some sparks, so try not to panic!” 

The Insecticon in the pod did not respond to her words or her movements. His head remained turned towards her. She could feel optics locking onto her, sizing up. Trying equally to determine if she was one to be kicked around.

The buzzing had stopped, her audials indicated. In its absence, the silence hung like the organic slime outside.

“Well, alright then.”

To use her ability, she’d have to mess with her T-Cog. It was always easier said than done. Her T-Cog was located in her side, as it was with all Seekers. All she had to do was plunge her servos through her plating and manually crank it. The plating on her side was intentionally thinner for this purpose, meaning any old blaster could deactivate her with a proper shot. And whether it was blaster fire or servos, thin plating did not change the fact that, no matter how her ability was activated, it would hurt.

Easier said than done. Always easier said than done. But she couldn’t show weakness now. They didn’t even know one another’s name, but the pecking had already begun, and she was not about to be on the bottom. 

Invert hovered her servos over her side, ex-venting again. She hadn’t used her ability since before the attack on Autobot City. Only once had she been deployed, during a particularly nasty clash with the Autobots. ‘All soldiers on the field’ had been the order. She’d eagerly flown (tumbled) out with her fellow Seekers, and landed (crashed) straight in the thick of it. With guns pointed at her from all angles and her Seeker brethren flying overhead, ignoring her plight as she floundered amongst a group of Autobots, it wasn’t like she’d had much of a choice. 

They’d paid her more attention after everyone in a hundred foot radius hit the ground–the extent of it had been Starscream demanding why she hadn’t remained in formation and helped with the Aerialbots. She hadn’t been stable enough to properly respond, and when she tried to her voice shrieked with static. 

She didn’t remember who won that day. All she remembered was being dragged back, repaired, and left to work only in the base, since. 

Well. She wasn’t in the base anymore, and their situation demanded nothing less of her than all she had. Which meant her ability as well. 

Frag the pain. Pain made stronger soldiers. She’d be one worth respecting and keeping around no matter what. She’d grit through it like she’d grit through everything else, including flying to this damn place, drinking organics���her tank still felt like it was about to purge–and tolerating humans. Invert ex-vented one more time and held it. 

Then she punched her fist through her side and released it all in a shriek of agony. No, a war cry. It was a damn war cry and she did not feel like she was about to collapse and sob. 

Her servos found her T-Cog in a second. They immediately turned it in the wrong direction, straining her wiring and sending a jolt of pain through her. Her HUD glitched, displaying several warnings about internal damage. Then her audials shut down completely, followed by her optics, as her body tried and failed to change its shape. 

For a second she was left in the void that was never-ending, frame wracking agony. Was she still screaming? She couldn’t hear. She couldn’t feel her throat. She couldn’t feel her voice. 

Her optics onlined. No, she was still in the ship, and her faceplate was contorted from crying out, and her surroundings–

Oh, she recognized glitching when she saw it. 

The field that had formed around her, invisible and just as deadly as radiation, had already taken effect on everything powered within it. She was frozen with pain, but her frame was still standing. The same could not be said of the pod–or its occupant.

The screen had completely scrambled, error messages becoming illegible binary code. The life signal had become erratic, beating too much, beating too little, not beating at all, activating emergency stasis, disabling it. The glow fizzled, flashed, and went out as the wires within the pod gave out, unable to support itself anymore. The head she could just barely see jerked back, snapped to the side. 

The shrieking was back. Was it her own, or his? 

The pain was becoming too much. She couldn’t hold it for much longer. Her entire vision was red, the sight of the ship lost. Energy seemed to crackle around her servos, numbing her entire arm. Was she still gripping her T Cog? If she moved her arm, she certainly wouldn’t be. The numbness was spreading, blooming out from the source of her T-Cog and spreading up her arm like the stillness of death. But she held on. 

And it paid off. 

The screen on the pod fizzled out. Invert tore her arm free just as the numbness hit her shoulder, staggering against the wall and leaning on it for support. Her frame felt cold despite the 98F heat reading her temperature display indicated. How long had she been holding her ability up? She tried to check her internal timer, focusing on maintaining her venting and balance. 

Twelve seconds. She felt ready to purge. 

The groan of metal drew her attention back to the pod. In the low light, she could make out three massive, jointed claws closing around the bent edge, their deadly sharp tips already forming punctures in the metal. Her audials notified her of growling. 

Then the pod door burst like it was not a mech it contained but a bomb. In a stroke of luck, as the door hurled past her and embedded clean into the opposing wall, it missed Invert by a few inches, saving her from an untimely end at the awakening of her new ally. 

Or perhaps saving wasn’t the right word for it. For as the bot inside rose up, towering over her by almost half her height, a sinking feeling in the pit of her tank told her that perhaps the door knocking her helm off might have been mercy compared to whatever his intentions might be. 

He was absolutely massive. She’d seen the combiners, the great Omega Supreme, even Astrotrain in his spaceship mode, and she still wasn’t quite prepared for how large he was. His frame took up the entirety of the room as he wrenched himself free from the pod, tearing pieces of it free as he did so. 

The Insecticon’s visor lit up, illuminating his face with an ominous red light. What looked like three needle-like proboscises were folded atop his mask, which reminded her just enough of Soundwave’s to tell her that maybe she should have tried to size up her ally before attempting to establish pecking order. Bulky antennae uncurled and shifted. His large claws opened and shut as he cracked his neck, optics locking onto her vulnerable form as he took a step forward. 

She didn’t have the energy to react as his claws shot to her throat, raising her off the ground like she weighed nothing. The numbness in her body eased whatever pain she might have felt from it, but her HUD swarmed with danger notifications, and not just from the structural damage her frame had sustained. With a single click of his claws, the Insecticon could decapitate her. 

Instead he twisted and hurled her with enough force to punch through the ship, splattering her against the opposite wall in the main area. Her HUD glitched, momentarily offlined, and returned with a staunch warning: emergency stasis would soon set in. Invert fought against it, standing on shaky legs as the numbness promptly consumed one, causing her to stagger. 

And yet despite the fact that half of her body was cold and she could see graying on her right servos, she held on.

She would not die here. Her left arm was still functional. As the Insecticon tore apart the threshold of what to him was a tiny door, she retrieved her blaster and pointed it straight for his helm. Metal shrieked as the Insecticon ripped his way free of the stasis room, optics locking onto her. 

He was glaring at her. She returned the look, feeling Energon leaking from her optics. 

“Take…another…step…” she garbled out, spitting pink into the water, “and I…shoot…your head…off.” 

He cocked his helm back, looking down at her over the bridge of his mask. His chassis rose and fell a few times with what seemed like laughter. And then he held his claws out, spreading them in a provocative gesture. Do it. He was daring her. 

She gripped the blaster tighter, willing with all her might to move her numb right arm. Electricity was crackling through her systems, replacing that numbness with uncomfortable tingling. 

“Don’t you mock me,” she crackled. 

He held his gaze on her, and it took her a moment to realize that her audials were alerting her to noise. With a mask covering his face and a thousand danger notifications to keep note of, she hadn’t even thought about turning them back on. Digging the command prompt out of the sea of pop-ups, she promptly reactivated them at 50% capacity. Even with her best efforts, the audio came in slightly distorted.

“...--en, you weak little plane.” His voice was low and accented. “See where that gets you.” 

“What?”

“Do it, then,” he snarled. “How many times do I have to say it before you get it through your tiny little processor?”

“Oh yeah?” She challenged, trying to straighten up as much as she could while only having one functional leg. “What are you going to do, rip my spark out?” 

“Are you giving me ideas?” 

“You think you’ll have the brain left to process them?” “You think you’ve got the firepower to drop me in one shot?” He leaned forward, a smirk all but plastered on his masked face. “Because I think I recognize a standard issue Seeker class blaster when I see one.”

Frag. She kept the blaster pointed at his helm, but the fact of the matter was she held no power in this situation. Injured, numb, and significantly smaller than her foe, she was touting a blaster that only had potential to kill in extremely close quarters, and only against light armor. 

Her foe easily towered over her and was heavy armor class just from a glance. Even a blast to the face would likely be just a singe to him. Unless she could aim exactly into his optic or intake, she had no chance of sending a fatal bolt to his spark or processor. 

She had no power here, and he knew it. All he was doing was teasing her. 

“Now…” His voice picked up in its distinct growl. “Where are they, Seeker?” 

One heavy pede stepped forward. She vented sharply. 

“Who are ‘they’? The other Decepticons? Wait, the other Inse–”

He jammed his claws into the wall beside her, shredding it like paper. A trickle of cold ran down her back as she was pinned between his massive chassis and the panels.

“The others. Shrapnel. Kickback. Bombshell.” 

This close, she could make out the intensity of his optics behind his visor. He looked like he could be the face of a war poster. One of his proboscises unfurled, scraping against her faceplate and leaving a scar. 

Yep, she was going to purge. 

“They-they’re–!” 

And then she did, right onto his chassis. Pink energon combined with the sludge of the indigestible organics she had consumed. She coughed several times, optics momentarily offlining with each hack. 

Sharp claws moved right to her throat, accompanied by a low buzz. Oh, there it was. Maybe he only made it when he was pissed. 

“They’re…dead,” she finally said, glowering at him. “Everyone is.” 

Did she necessarily believe it? Maybe. Did she want to admit it, speak it aloud? Absolutely not.

And for forcing her to say it, she hated him, she decided. 

He didn’t relent for a moment as they held each other's gaze. The amount of vitriol contained within his own could strip plating. She tried to load the same hatred into her own.

Metal shrieked as the Insecticon tore his claws free of the wall, venting in disgust as he turned away from her. She pulled herself off the wall, stumbling as her right leg gave out again. 

“Your processor is half-melted,” he said dismissively, heading for the open side of the ship. “Who even are you? The Decepticon ranks don’t need broken weaklings who lie to save their plating.” 

A fire lit in her tank at the words, and she snapped. “Weakling!? I flew all the way here from the last Decepticon stronghold on this planet just to answer your SOS signal! I risked my aft to get you out of your stasis pod! We’re currently so deep in Autobot turf that at any moment, we could be ambushed, and that’d be the end of the cause!” Sparks crackled from her side as she yelled. “And you’re calling me weak!?”

He didn’t even look at her. “Yes, I am, little Seeker. Crossing the planet to engage in a suicide mission doesn’t make you brave or strong. It makes you incredibly stupid. But I suppose you Seekers have never been renowned for your intelligence.”

She didn’t really think about her next action, which saw her raise her blaster and shoot a bolt straight into his side. A puff of smoke rose as the energy singed his segmented plating. The Insecticon glared down at the tiny insult, then at her. 

“See? There’s your proof, dead metallico.” 

And he lunged. 

Well, if she was dying, she was taking him with her. Invert abandoned her blaster and jammed her servos into her side, the burning, agonizing pain only fueling her rage. The action made him pause right before his claws would collide with her helm, deadly sharp spikes halting mere inches from it. 

She smirked. “What’s wrong, Insecticon? Scared of a weakling Seeker?”

He didn’t get the chance to answer. They both heard the sound of an engine, followed by the crack of a jet shooting by overhead. The Insecticon’s head immediately turned to the entrance of the ship. 

Autobots. They didn’t need to say it aloud to both understand. Every Decepticon knew the sound of a Seeker’s engines and the roar they emitted when they flew low over the ground. This sounded nothing like that. 

He was off her in a second. Instinctively she fell in place behind him, keeping her servos over her T-Cog. Glancing out together, they both saw nothing in the sky–yet. 

“Take to the skies,” the Insecticon ordered. “I’ll handle whatever ground troops have arrived.” 

She grimaced, sucking an ex-vent in through her dentae. “Uh. So. About that.”

The roar sounded again, and this time they both saw the blur of what looked like a tiny rocket. The Insecticon’s antennae perked right up. Invert raised an optical ridge. 

“It’s small. A scout,” she whispered. “They don’t know we’re here yet, probably. If we can stay hidden, he might leave.”

“Hidden?” The Insecticon scoffed. “It’s one scout. I have done enough hiding in that damnable pod. I don’t care what’s wrong with you, Seeker. Get in the sky and kill him.”

“I–”

Before she could say another word the Insecticon grabbed her and charged out, roaring as he threw her into the air. She yelled, tumbling through the sky as her body instinctively tried to take its alt mode, failed, and crashed into the trees. 

“Are you KIDDING me!?” She heard echo from below before hitting her helm on a tree and momentarily losing consciousness. 

“Hey, Decepticon!” Another voice. This one sounded like it belonged to a ‘bot who was widely regarded as annoying. So, basically, any Autobot under the sun. “You’re supposed to aim at your enemy, not the sky! And since when do Seekers count as bullets?”

“GET DOWN HERE!”

“Not on ya’ life, ugly!” 

Invert groaned, peeling herself free as the sound of blaster fire rang out from nearby. Just one Autobot scout, and they were both already threatened with the possibility of termination. She needed to do something about this all. They needed to regroup back at Victory, and they needed this Autobot scout silenced. 

For one meant many–he’d probably contacted his allies the moment he saw them. 

With a bit of effort she extricated herself from the tree, splashing down onto the cage below it. The water began to turn pink as she pulled herself up. Her blaster was gone, which might have inspired her to use her rifle, except…

How could she even hope to transform it with one functional arm? Let alone try aiming it with so much crowding her HUD?

The sound of nearby blaster fire grew louder. Splashing was followed by hissing. Metal creaked and shrieked, and then she saw a frisbee of shrapnel fly through the air, missing the tiny rocket as he wheeled up and did a twirl, promptly transforming in the air just to gloat.

He really was tiny. His faceplate was gray, his plating a light orange. Blasters were mounted on his arms, which he crossed as he smirked down at the Insecticon. 

“Ya aim needs work, buggy!” And turning back, he promptly activated his boosters and shot just overhead, circling around to unleash another barrage. 

He was fast. No way the Insecticon managed to hit him with a piece of shrapnel. As he tore another piece free of the ship, Invert pulled herself up on her knees, bracing against a nearby tree. Even if they both had blasters, as long as the rocket stayed in the air, neither of them could hit him. 

As if he even cared about her. Busy toying with the giant Insecticon, the scout had already counted her out of his game. What was a broken Seeker thrown around as ammo going to do to a speedster like him?

Idiot. Did everyone think she was useless because she couldn’t fly? Because she was never deployed? Because the thing that made her useful almost killed her? Because she…

Because she would show him, damn it all. Experimental or not, her body was her weapon. Kneeling in the muddy warm, gradually growing pinker from the Energon leaking out of her side, and ignoring the constant warnings pinging in her HUD, Invert gripped her T-Cog tighter. Peering through the trees, she traced the Autobot’s swift movements, waiting for him to dive just a bit closer.

The Insecticon would suffer from this as well. She really didn’t care. He damn deserved it. 

Another metal shriek sounded through the air, followed by more taunting from the Autobot. 

“Alright, I’m getting tired’a this, ‘con. Tell ya what, surrender now, and the great Starburst will put in a good word for ya when my buds arrive, yeah? No need ta’ draw this cybercat and glitchmouse game out anymore!” 

“Get down here and we’ll see how much longer it’s drawn out,” the Insecticon warned. Starburst chortled and promptly took off again, circling and dodging branches as they were hurled for him. 

A sound like a squeal of pain escaped her, which was just as quickly silenced by biting her glossa . Focus, despite how the pain was radiating up her side. Focus, despite how many warnings were flashing in her HUD. Focus, despite how her processor was threatening to offline at any moment. 

An orange and cream blur. The pink of blaster fire. Dark of a leaf. Between the trees. The blue of the sky. Everything was starting to blur. Circling, he was circling. Which meant if she waited till he came just a bit closer, to the spot where the leaves parted and the branches formed the shape of a X– 

She practically ripped her T-Cog out of its socket cranking it to the side. One second the flash of orange was in her sights. The next the crackling of static overcame her vision and consumed her HUD. 

She heard screaming from two voices. They sounded like they were in agony. 

Good. Feel my pain.

As she thought it her body slumped and hit the ground alongside two other splashes. Water covered her optics, blurring her vision as it tried to online, turned to nothing but red, and gave up. A single message flashed several times.

ENERGON LEVELS CRITICAL. INITIATING EMERGENCY STASIS. 

Was this really it? In the heart of the Demon Swamp? She’d always thought she’d go out on Cybertron again, and that it’d be just like the first time, buried in all that rubble. 

It had been lonely. At least here, she had company. Enemies, for sure, but company. They’d all offline together. 

And then she was out. 

[xiakha]

FFXIVWrite 2024 Prompt #2 - Horizon

The first encounter that Xiao had with Empire happened when she was but a babe. She was awoken by the rumble of far too consistent thunder and peered bleary-eyed at distant flashes of lightning in the predawn without the clouds to account for it.

Cannonfire, one of her elder sisters told her. There was a battle at sea. Unlike the trading ships that would sometimes anchor just off-island and send merchants to barter goods and services, those ships held soldiers that bartered only in violence and death. Gods be good, nothing of the sort would darken the shores upon which their clans lived.

But there was no such luck. That very afternoon, white sails approached their small archipelago. A bedraggled fleet of motley vessels anchored themselves a few malms away. Within cannon range. Strange men bearing too many weapons limped ashore, requesting succor, promising riches, implying terrible violence. 

The Matriarch, Xiao’s mother, summoned an emergency council of elders, but it was all too obvious their lack of choices. They had enough to fend off a single ship with some casualties, and they had done so in the past. Perhaps they would be able to defend their homes against the current fleet, albeit with heavy losses they would mourn for years to come. 

But there were other fleets. 

Worse, this one was wounded and tired from a day of battle. Others would be better equipped, fresher to the fight. And if what the Roegadyn with the wide-brimmed triangular hat claimed was true, the island chain was half a day’s sail from a newly established imperial trading route. A battle that the clans would need a generation to recover from would now threaten them at least once every moon. The sailors graciously pledged upon their code that they would never bring their conflicts to the islands if they were allowed refuge.

Empty promises pledged to meaningless words. The council instead counted the swords and pistols on the Roegadyn’s gold trimmed coat. It summed the number of gunports reported by their fishing boats coming home. It reviewed what risks and sacrifices and losses the clans could take. The calculations were grim.

Ere the sun tipped beyond the self-same horizon that the sailors had come from, the council agreed to lend aid to the men, offer hospitality, and open their doors. They graciously allowed the sailors to trade in gold instead of murder. The clans offered freely sons and daughters to join crews and provide comfort so that not all of them would be taken by force, so that they all may live at least a while longer.

It was not until much later that the council realized its gravest error, that they had not traded away their tranquil and humble fishing lifestyle to the Empire, but to the Empire’s parasites. The sailors were pirates, raiding from a distant homeland. The bloodstained gold and goods they proffered were stolen. The clans had allied themselves to a foreign state with no local power save the errant and fickle pirate crews that could not be trusted with the open secret that was the Clan Longbao Freeport. Even the crews that swore by the code readily violated its terms while on the islands. If there was any retaliation against violators, recompense came not to the clansfolk that suffered, and revenge was out of the question, lest the treaties the clans signed with the pirates were revoked.

To their credit, the pirates understood what a golden hamsa the archipelago represented, and warded off imperial vessels long before they could sight the shores. They were primarily looking out for themselves, of course, but the clans were thus able to rebuild their livelihoods up from the disruption. After the freeport was established, a market in the former village square arose. Hospitality and mercantilism became the main trades. The clans genuinely prospered from the existential risk. However it was not lost upon the elders that the foreign men and women now outnumbered the Keepers of the Moon that made up their clans, and their young were leaving with the pirates to seek fortunes away from the islands.

In their number, of course, included the youth favored to become the next Matriarch: Xiao herself.

***

Empire followed her to the shores of Limsa Lominsa. She learned its name proper: Garlemald. But she saw little difference in the actions of these claimed enemies of her claimed allies. In many ways, the Lominsans treated those around them with the same terror and menace as the Garleans were purported to. She found more akin with the plight of the “beastmen” than she did the struggles of the former pirates. Indeed, the only reason she did not simply renounce her ties with the city states completely was that she could not abide the terror that was the primals either. That, and she knew not what vengeance would be wreaked upon her home, still offering hospitality to Lominsan pirates, were she to foment insurrection.

The Kobolds and Sahagin at least had more fight in them than her clans had, but that was because the land that they lived on was more valuable to the Lominsans than their lives were. Their crisis was actively existential, instead of passively. But if the “beast tribes” were eliminated, would the Lominsans be satisfied with just Vylbrand? Or would their thirst for conquest continue to the horizons that their ships oft sailed past to seek fortunes and to raid Imperial ships? The Thalassocracy was after all as much a weapon of war as it was a government, if it were not more so. That they did not turn against the other city-states in the same manner in which they preyed upon the Kobolds and Sahagin was a matter of convenience apparently. There were retired pirates that first cut their teeth raiding Ul’Dahn vessels still living the quiet life in La Noscea after all, their trespasses largely forgotten if not forgiven. At the least, she would refuse to aid in the overt destruction.

Xiao was aware there was talk behind her back, that she was unlikely to achieve a rank higher than Storm Captain, that even that rank was more honorary than duty bound. There were none under her command, partially because her activities under Maelstrom were primarily dedicated to primal slaying and being the Warrior of Light, mostly because she was considered too much of a liability to be allowed more than a squadron. After all, she was “too soft on the beastmen” because she refused to drive them back with lethal force, and she rarely slayed any save their primals, leaving even their most tempered captains to slink off to lick their wounds if she could help it.

The only time she was to be disciplined by Maelstrom High Command was for insubordination and assault of a superior officer, charges that were dropped when Xiao made it clear she did not have the words to defend herself, but she did have her axe. Her run through Hullbreaker Isle made it clear that she could deflect direct fire from a cannon with an intimidating amount of ease and could make even the most seasoned captain yield in single combat. The inter-city-state politics that was disciplining the Warrior of Light also became a sticking point. Thus the commander that had ordered the slaughter of Sahagin spawnlings that Xiao stopped was instead tried and convicted before the Admiral. Indeed, it would be difficult to argue that the new accord struck between Kobold patriarch, Za Da and Admiral Merlwyb Bloefhiswyn would have happened had it not been years of Xiao’s interventions to defend the Kobolds against her own.

But she was still in this way a perpetuator of the harm that Empire committed.

***

The sins of Empire started back at her once more upon the Azim Steppe. Her greatsword lifted above her head in triumph, the peoples of the Steppe arranged kneeling around her in defeat and supplication, Cirina and her allies all roaring in victory, Xiao was visited by a dark impulse. What was stopping her from usurping Mol rule? She could easily bring her blade down upon Cirina’s head; she could ride back to Mol Iloh and slay Temulun and any that would stop her. Was she not khagan? The entire Steppe was under her rule. She could bring them all the bear against Doma, the conquest would likely be easy. After all, the point of all of this was to rout the Imperials, and the Xaela tribes were the army that they were looking to raise to do so. And with the Domans conscripted and Hien disposed of, what was to stop her from taking the rest of Othard? She could establish a dynasty after “uniting” much of the East, possibly a viable challenger to Garlemald.

It could have been the advent of the long and bloody reign of the khagan, warlord, and possibly Empress Longbao. The horizons were hers to conquer, to chase.

But even as the thoughts occurred to her, she dropped them in horror. She hadn’t the temerity, the bloodthirst, the greed. Oh, it was true she loved a good challenge, and she didn’t shy from contests of strength and of will, but with conquest, would she be fighting against ever greater odds, or would most of her time be spent policing her previous conquests? She saw how Garlemald operated. Ala Mhigo made it clear how miserable it was. They passed by the archipelago she hailed from, a glimmer in the distant horizon, on their journey to the far east. The Kraken's Arms’ helmsman pointed it out as the freeport that bore a similar name to Xiao’s, to which the Warrior of Light dismissed any relationship. But were she to declare herself a conqueror, how long would it be before she returned to her home with blade in hand and fire at her back?

How fortuitous it was then, that the Imperial forces decided then and there to converge upon the Naadam, before Xiao could ponder anymore her newfound authority.

***

Years later still, in Garlemald proper, the Ilsabard Contingent may have met with little Imperial opposition, but they also provided little succor. 

The first full day and night they had spent in Garlemald was fruitless. Sure, they were able to ascertain that at least some survived the horrors of the Telophoroi, said survivors were not forthcoming about seeking aid. The overall mood in Camp Broken Glass was low. 

As khagan this year as well, much to Magnai’s chagrin, Xiao wished to rally the spirits of the members of the Eastern Alliance, and she could use a bit of rallying herself. So it was such that she had just sat down with them for a repast when the white noise of the salvaged and repaired radio crackled into a haunting melody. 

The Warrior of Light was struck with a strange cloying sensation. The tune gripped her chest and throat, and were it not so cold, perhaps tears would have welled up in her eyes.

Sadu first noticed the change in Xiao’s expression, “Ah, so it strikes to the quick of even a mighty warrior such as yourself.”

“‘Tis most melancholy.”

Magnai spoke up, likely to one-up Sadu, “Aye, Maxima said ‘tis a traditional Garlean song, its origins date back to before the empire, when the Garleans were first pushed this far north.”

“What’s the song’s name?”

“‘Home Beyond the Horizon.’”

Xiao looked out to what little glow was left of the sunset. She wondered what love she still held for the islands from which she hailed, and how the song was able to kindle that love into a desperate longing. And yet she also felt nauseated. Was this cause enough? Was this homesick desire enough to motivate a people to drive forth on ceruleum-belching magitek and subjugate all that would stand in their way? Was this excuse enough for Empire? 

It was suffering that perpetuated more suffering, greed that perpetuated more greed, war that perpetuated more war. Conquest was a means to its own ends…

All the way to the horizon.

[callsign-marsh]

Log #1

Alright, might as well start one of these yeah?

Been a few days since coming out of stasis. I'm somewhere pretty far out on the edge of the settled systems. I looked up the name of the planet but honestly it hardly matters right now. Should have been more specific in my discharge papers, they stuck me with an old wreck of a Mech and shipped me out to the edge, but it's worth the freedom. got myself a workshop and a place to crash as long as I help out with some basic engineering tasks around the city, and with some labor with the Mech once I get it up and running.

The NHP stopped self cycling. I've got them hooked up to a bunch of communication equipment so they can see and hear around the workshop. They're definitely receiving information, but still haven't communicated back. I'm still hopeful though. I hit download on just about every movie I could find so they could watch something while I sleep. NHPs don't sleep right? Figured I shouldn't let them be board while I'm sawing logs.

Repairing the Mech's going well. All the tampering contingencies should be out now, so now I'm just giving it a thorough once over to make sure nothing's degraded. I know the MK 1 has a... checkered past, though growing up in HA space I'm sure I got the sanitized version. regardless, it's a solid frame, lots of standardized parts so plenty of room to customize. and that reactor, Void above the things I could run off that...

there's still something wrong with the onboard computer system, which is shocking considering how simple it is. The problem is I can't tell what the issue is. error codes pop up that I can't find anywhere in any Genghis manual, but they don't seem to be impacting the performance? I went ahead and fired the thing up. It was weird, I've piloted Sherman's pretty much exclusively, I didn't expect it to feel so different through the subjectivity implants. Wasn't bad just, weird. I'm sure it's just getting used to a bigger frame...

I really need to get my hands on some SSC stuff. A top shelf flight system and some improved sync equipment would do wonders. Maybe a Vulture DMR. But that's long term. Tomorrow we'll take it out for a stress test and make sure that plasma thrower isn't gonna break on me.

Still need a name for the Mech itself, but we'll keep brainstorming on it till it's proper ready to go.

--Marsh

[thefeyreblogs]

Hello lovelies. I'm sick and going to ramble. And it most likely won't make sense!

Hello and welcome, it has been awhile!

I want to start off and just open the doors wide open, if.. IF You catch the summer bug of 2025, DO NOT PLAY AROUND. Go to the Dr/Clinic/ER before you get severely dehydrated like I did!

That being said. Let's continue with something I have been noticing, at least with myself, and I suspect with the fandom in general, although I could be, so very, very wrong here.

The Stages of Simping:

Level One. Introduction.

Oh hey, Sans/Papyrus/Ect is an awesome character that I relate to well and I adore their character design, moral code (or lack there of), and ect.

You are fine here. This is the realm of the classic timeline. You are safe here, everyone has a script and they follow it.

It does not last.

Level Two: Introductions to AUs

Oh wow! You mean there are more stories?! How many more? Infinite?! Wowie Zowie Batman! What about one where they swap personalities? Really?! Oh oh, what if everyone was a massive edgelord? OH SPIKEY! And what if..

Sit back and enjoy the ride, start trying to pick a favorite now. It will change, frequently.

Danger LV: -1

Level Three: The Darker AUs

Sometimes, people skip straight to Level three and don't look back. DO NOT TRUST THESE PEOPLE.

Unless you like murder hobos, then go for it.

Here we find the Killer fans, Horror Fans, ect.

It's getting bumpy, folks.

Danger LV: 5

Level Four: Where are your gods now?

This is the point of no return. Welcome to the realm of the gods. Where you find Reaper, Nightmare, Dream, Ink, Error, and so forth.

The shipping wars have begun.

Everyone has a favorite OTP and NTP and they shall be VERY vocal about it.

Unless they're cool like you, you are cool aren't you? Yeah you're cool. Good on you, Broski. (I mentioned I am sick while writing this and a cold comfort has been fics where Fresh has been popping up a lot, get used to it)

Self ship fan art and fanfiction is in full swing, no harm no foul.

You are deep into the fandom however, you have merch, you are part of a social media or seven, devoted to this fandom, you are reading this post, you are hearing it in your favorite character's voice, you are one with the AUs and the Balance must be kept.

Danger LV: 50

Level Five: Creation Begins Again.

Ink loves you. Error Hates you.

How many AUs do you have sitting in your brain, or a folder, waiting to be finished?

How many polls have you voted in? Did your favorite win or are you hoping for next year?

You start to question why certain things are just accepted in the fandom as canon or if there is a key root back to the source material.

How many times have you played the game? Do you start a new one on each device, and picture it as a new AU so you can give the monsters in that particular AU a happy ending?

Have you created an imaginary Parlor or Lounge for people to request spicy or comfort time with their favorite characters?

Do you have a rotating background of SO MUCH DAMN FANART so you can always minimize anything and get that dopamine fix?

You are in too deep now.

You are reading into histories and lore dumps. You know more about Nightmare's crew than you do about your best friend. You dream of having that damn Isekai moment and waking up in a world where all this is real.

And you are a massive simp.

Welcome. to Undertale (nearly typed that tell) Hell. You are here, you are one of us.

Alllllsssoo..

Yeah a big part of this fandom is toxic as HELL, but there are a lot of awesome people here. Sit back, stay out of flame wars, enjoy the art and stories, and have a good time.

You're not going anywhere for a good long ti.. Is that the Fnaf Daycare them? I'll... brb!

Danger LV: How do I make a damn infinity symbol?!

This was all one massive joke, please do not take me seriously. Ever.

[kdoarts346]

Helen Armstrong - Teaming Up With Technology

Overall, I can see the potential for AI as a tool for designers in the process. It could automate the mundane and tedious parts, like sorting through data. It could be overwhelming and even impossible for a single person, or even a team, to really tackle that much information all at once. Brain overload. Automating that task would allow for more time to do more actual design. Armstrong said designers have the unique ability to envision the future. I had never thought of it that way. Especially with programs like Figma, we could create apps that don’t exist/are not coded yet but the prototype makes them feel real. They could be interacted with, which could lead to more development down the line. I found it interesting the answer to the method for avoiding bias in AI is the possible use of another AI tool to check. I am definitely not someone who is informed enough to answer to this but how would we be sure that the AI technology that is used to check other AI tools for accuracy won’t also have its own biases and egregious errors? Armstrong mentioned how one possible error is that the AI could not pick up on a joke or misread a pronoun. Well, that is something humans might do too. For now I can mostly tell when something is AI generated, but I know the technology will only get better. It will soon be indistinguishable.

It already is indistinguishable to me, as someone who floats between designer and artist. I use Pinterest a lot for creating moodboards and finding photo references. Generative AI has poisoned that well. I look up clothing and it shows me pieces that are not real, but they look so much like they come from life, until they’re put under a microscope. My issue with that is that AI draws from the work of human artists who have went through the whole creative process to make work that is tangible. Clothes are meant to be worn. They are meant to move. The AI generated clothes are not showing me what an actual fold in fabric would look like. It’s not taking into account how materials would interact or what would be practical. I could ask AI to show me pictures of medieval clothing but I don’t think it could ever be as accurate or helpful as going to a museum or looking at a catalog.

Context matters. Human input matters. I think that is what Armstrong was trying to instill in us. We shouldn’t be scared of this technology. To use it is to understand it.

In this week’s reading, Swanson states, “…I don’t understand the desire to falsify an affirmation of self” (156) and “…plagiarized work robs…of one more precious chance to reach out with the very thing we design for— to connect directly with other human beings” (156).

If the heart of design is to design for other people, to envision a better future, there needs to be better regulation for it. This was brought up in class. Too many bad actors see it now as a way to devalue human designers, and generative AI in my opinion is dangerous to integrity. If this machine could do it faster and without complaint, why pay a real person to do it? I often see the argument that human critical thinking will trump all, but I think we know the real driver is profit. I think AI is completely unavoidable. It is being pushed too much and too much investment has been put into it for it to stop any time soon. I can only work with it and try to see it as a tool and nothing more than a tool. No different from pen and paper. No different from doing a Google search or perusing the library.

I would hate for the future to be AI avatars talking to other AI avatars. In an increasingly disconnected society, that honestly seems like a dystopian future. Humans are pack animals at our core. We need and seek connection. I would hate to only talk to a machine. A lot of communication is the visual— the body language, eye contact, mannerisms. Recently, I have dealt with some shipping issues. If I had talked to customer service and it was entirely automated, I’d feel like the company doesn’t care about me as a person. Every website has a chatbot now. I always try to find the quickest way to a person. Humans understand emotion. Robots can pretend to understand emotion, but it feels like a mockery.

After Armstrong’s talk, I went home and pulled up ChatGPT. I had a conversation with it about my nerves surrounding an interview next week. While it did ease some tension, I was still very aware I was talking to a machine, and that it mostly told me what I wanted to hear. I think I will look into Adobe’s new generative tools too. Overall, I am not impressed. For now.

[n-1ghtmares]

Kilonifer is just silly guys. He's an absolute menace<3 i mean- have you ever heard of an AU sans that can modify an AU without any general control over the Multiverse?

Yeah. That's Kilo~! His Codius board can modify an AU to an extent. No, he cannot delete any monster/human in an AU's code. No, he cannot delete code. And no, he cannot travel to destroyed AUs— or modify said destroyed AUs. Redefined!Tale was glitched during a self-destruction process which gave Kilo said power.

However, there are some downsides.

1. He can't enter an AU under attack.

2. If caught in an AU during a code deletion, he will be deleted himself.

3. The most significant thing he can modify is a monsters' appearance.

If you have any questions, feel free to ask! But I thought I'd get Kilo's specialty and other things out of the way<3

Kilo can NOT out-rule any Guardians (I.e Dream and Nightmare) or the Protector (Ink) and Destroyer (Error) of AUs. He is just as powerless in the situation like UT!Sans/Classic, or Underswap Sans/Swap/Blue.

Kilo's sexuality is up for debate! I can seriously care less for who he's shipped with.

{And yes- Ink's billingual in this Multiverse. He does know French like the amazing comyet intended for him to be! I rarely ever see anyone include this factor in stories- or their AUs for that matter. I am part French myself (Maple syrup iykyk), so allowing Ink to speak both Anglais (English) en Français (French) gives more creativity compared to others who simply forgotten this. And no, I'm not hating don't take it that way. — thanks for coming to the Ink!Sans tedtalk :) (creds to comyet btw for Ink!Sans) }

[mostlopez-blog]

Finding A New Home

Chapter 1: Operator Error

Chapter Master List

The Runaway was an odd ship to look at. A wide uneven semi-circle, with two enormous mismatched thrusters flanking it on both sides. Glancing closely at the Runaway’s hull, one would find a lumpy mess of metal barely holding itself together. A careful observer would find a wide variety of patch jobs here and there along its surface, an occasional stop sign welded haphazardly over a hole, and wads of duct tape covering exposed wiring. 

Peeling back the scrapy exterior of the ship, one would find a vast array of old and new computer parts, all working in a disjointed harmony. Old CRT screens struggling to keep up with much younger slick towers, over a spider web of yellow tinted cables that ran along the walls and floors. 

The Runaway would look right at home inside a stuffy posh art museum, alongside other abstract metal sculptures that twist into strange shapes. It was as if the engineer had cobbled together random mechanical parts that just so happened to somewhat fit together, into a collage of nonsense. That description was not too far off from the truth.

Of course, when putting together a ship from random salvaged garbage, it's quite difficult to make sure everything works together properly. So it shouldn’t have been a surprise when every alarm started going off at once, and the ship began to rattle.  

With a loud crack the ship jerked downwards, and suddenly the Runaway’s flight path was tumbling end over end. On the outside, one of the reinforced stop signs bent and cracked down the middle, leaving a long nasty gash down the side of the ship. A plume of radioactive coolant billowed out from the wound, and as the ship tumbled it made a strange yet strangely calming spiral pattern amongst the stars.

Inside the ship, every single computer screamed in confusion, as they hurtled wildly into the void of space. The Runaway’s pilot however, paid them no mind. Unlike an organic, whose brain might have seized up from the overload of information, and whose stomach might have gotten sick from the movement, Kickback went right to work fixing her mistake.

This pilot, if it wasn’t obvious before, was not like other “living” pilots. Kickback didn’t have skin, or eyes, or any organs for that matter. Her body was made of a complex plastic ceramic, and was powered by a series of batteries that ran the length of her body. Her entire frame moved with many interlocking pieces that all fitted together into a relatively slim, and aerodynamic shape.  

Kickback clunked her head against the ship’s controls in defeat. The metal panel made a low ring that reverberated through her cylindrical head. Her twin propellers twitched in frustration, as she knew she had no one to blame but herself. She should’ve taken the small victory and went back home. Breaking through the atmosphere was a massive achievement on its own. 

But Kickback had gotten a little too excited. Humans would have called this “putting the cart before the horse”,  or something along those lines. That phrase was, at the very least, about as accurate.  

Kickback wanted to make it into orbit. She had to. It was an incessant itch that bugged her coding ever since take off. She knew she could do it. Or rather, she had believed she could. But now as tendrils of smoke drifted into the cockpit her self belief was running dangerously low. 

By the time Kickback managed to collect herself, the smoke had gathered into a strange ball that rippled like water. The young bot stood and watched the odd patterns warp themselves into, and then out of creation. She spun her propellers once to disperse the smoke, then glared at the only window on the ship. It was an upsettingly small thing, with disgusting orange brown streaks lining the in-between of the two panes. 

Yet just outside, through the rust blotches, twinkled little balls of light. They shimmered like discolored gemstones, shining through the otherwise cloudy soup of space. In fact, glaring at them like this, the stars didn’t seem so far away. For only a brief moment, Kickback tricked herself into believing she could reach out and grab them. The actuators in her hand extended closer. Closer. So very close. Just to hit cold glass. 

“Some day…” Kickback whispered. 

Kickback lazily floated up from her chair, and glided from one end of the ship to the other. She rubbed her hand across the uneven floor, getting stuck in every divot and weld line. The bot wasn’t in a rush. Help wouldn’t be coming for a long time, even if she sent a distress signal in record time. In fact, there was no guarantee that help was coming at all. 

Even from the cockpit Kickback knew what had happened. She couldn’t “smell” not in the organic sense of the word, but the sensors in her head told her the whole ship now reeked of fried plastic and melted circuits. The Runaway’s thrusters had demanded just a little too much power, and the engine couldn’t provide. The resulting electrical surge wreaked havoc on the little ship, and roasted its nerves. What a waste of perfectly good parts. 

They had spent months putting together this scrap heap, digging through trash piles and bargaining with other bots. Repairing it all would be a nightmare, if it could even be repaired at all.

As she opened the door to the engine pod, Kickback considered how much worse the accident could have been. A plume of smoke billowed out into the hallway, but the bot pushed herself right in. She brushed off streaks of fire that licked at her frame, and reached for an extinguisher. Considering how hot the room had grown, Kickback was sure the entire ship could have exploded. It would have killed her in an instant, her metallic body ripped to shreds and tossed into the endless void of space.  

There would have been no recovering her. No, she wasn't a military droid, for better or worse.  

When the extinguisher was empty, Kickback tossed it to the side. By this point, the engine was more bubbling mass of foam than metal. She floated back to the cockpit, and glanced over the flashing board of buttons and screens. In less than a second, Kickback had started a distress signal, and in the next second, she had slumped down into her chair. It was going to be a very long wait for a rescue. 

…

The room was dark, the only light a small crack from a curtain over the far window. Hidden by the shadows, rested a large iron box, folded in on itself to save space. The box was lined with panels and seams, hidden compartments containing a virtual Swiss army knife of tools.

Suddenly a small red light flickered to life in the opposite corner of the room. The box didn't react. The light began incessantly blinking. The box didn’t react. A high pitched wail began to sound in rhythm with the light. That got the box’s attention. A single panel flipped open on the box, and a squat chunky photoreceptor slid out. The box stared at the red light, then slid back inside and slammed the hatch shut.  

Suddenly two tall square shoulders slid outwards from the body, arms unfurling from their protective casing. Two legs weakly pushed out from the body, their internal springs long ago losing their elasticity to time and rust. The metal box just managed to push itself upright, as finally the “head” slid out from another panel. Hank was online once again, despite how little he wanted to be.  

Hank was a distinctly organic machine. He was designed with a basic faceplate that could smile and frown. Hank's photoreceptors were placed to look like two “eyes”, and two metallic “eyebrows” would occasionally shift up and down to simulate emotion. Of course Hank could feel emotions, perhaps not in the same way organics could, but he was just as alive as you or me. And right now, Hank was very annoyed.   

The machine began his long treacherous walk over to his computer. He took wide careful steps over the vast collection of potted plants that littered the floor. Tall stringy ones, petite flowering ones, others with long vines that wrapped in on themselves. A particular favorite of Hanks rested in the far corner, a large rigid green slab with two arms, and covered in tiny spines. 

Hank didn’t know the names of anything in his collection. He knew they were plants, and that they needed water sometimes, but that was it. He couldn’t find any books about them, and none of the other bots in town seemed to know, or care that much. Hank was a mechanic, and he knew machines, but sometimes Hank wished his data banks were not so limited.   

Finally Hank finished his journey, and pushed the growing collection of starship manuals off the keyboard. He glared at the blinking distress signal, calculating the chances this was just a fluke. Of course, it wasn’t, and the probability calculations only proved that.

There wasn’t a flight scheduled for today. In fact, the Runaway was supposed to still be grounded. Kickback had snuck out late the previous night, and decided to take a “short joyride.” Of course, it was anything but short, and though this was just one of literally millions of things going wrong, if Hank was being honest, Kickback’s little stunt absolutely ruined his day. 

The Runaway’s engine was a classic. A type M-32, Zillath industries, with a high powered oxidizer. Sure the battery was old, but if taken care of it could have gotten them far. Hank was certain it had not been taken care of. Hank simulated how nicely the engine could have worked for a few self indulgent seconds longer. Then when he had his fill, and he accepted that none of his simulations were true, he pressed the “accept message” button.  

“Hank! Good to see you,” said the semi-transparent video of Kickback. She was a small bot, barely chest height when standing next to the others. But please understand small for a Meckatronix is actually quite tall for a human, and Kickback would stand a full head above you or I. The single yellow light that was Kickback's face flickered in the way it did, meaning she was nervous. Kickback was also designed to be a more organic machine, like Hank himself. But a nasty crash some time ago had damaged her old head, meaning it had to be replaced by a more generic one.

The small translucent video gave a hesitant nod and a little wave. “Hello? Can you hear me?” Kickback was already quite short, not helped by the fact that only half of her appeared. Hank would have found it funny, his literal pocket sized friend, but that didn’t seem to matter any more.  

“What did you do?” Hank asked. 

“Ok don’t be mad.” Though she did her best to hide them, the propellers on her back twitched.

“What did you do?”

“Ok so, everything was going perfect-”

“Kickback.”

“It waaaasss.”

Hank could feel his servos grow a little hotter. “You broke the Runaway, didn’t you?”

Kickback was quiet. “Yea,” she whispered. “The engine blew up…” 

“You blew up the engine?! Do you know how hard that’ll be to replace?” 

The video didn't respond. 

The hydraulics in Hank’s legs whined as he slowly turned to the far wall. He hobbled over to a star map and frowned. The Runaway was not an exploration ship. At best, it was a proof of concept that the bots could build a ship at all.   

“How far did you get?” Hank asked, after cooling off for a moment.

Kickback glanced at something outside, and didn't look back. “I don’t think I made it to orbit, but I broke the atmosphere. I’m hanging up here with the stars.”

Hank nodded. In all honesty that was a promising start. Rather impressive for their first attempt. Or it would have been, if the runaway had any means of landing without burning into a pile of slag. Perhaps it was best to learn this lesson now, and not so far away where no one could help. “Do you have power left?” Hank asked. Kickback tapped her controls. “Enough to head back on my own terms” she mumbled.  

Hank took out a pen and marked Kickback’s location on the map. He wrote her distance and the words “New personal best” under them. Hank ran several calculations, determining the thruster size needed to reach a more stable orbit. He then added the necessary fuel weight, as well the hardware needed to operate such a ship. 

The new Runaway would need to be much larger. It would need parts that would be much harder to find. Was it possible to build a new Runaway? Yes, of course. Very few things ever had a 0% of happening. But the question of when they could have it built? Hank stopped himself before finishing the calculations. It was better not knowing.

Hank glanced at Kickback’s video. The small bot was fidgeting in the strange way she always did. A function Hank knew wasn’t programmed into her. She had no faceplate, not anymore, but guilt was written all over her.

“Any chance you can land close by?”

Back in space, Kickback studied a map of Fulcrum, taped to the far wall. She knew for sure she could hit the large brown blob of a continent she started on. But from there how accurate she could be was anyone's guess. “I’ve gone too far,” Kickback grumbled. By this point she was moving too fast, and was too far along into her orbit to turn around. It would be best to do a full rotation, and then try to land. “So unless you feel like going cross country, I’ve got some time to kill.”

She stared at the small projection of Hank as he ran even more calculations, perhaps for a bit too long. The old bot looked worse for wear, tired and battered. The majority of his body was covered in rust, his once nice coat of blue paint withered to a dull brown. The baseball cap he wore was to cover up some nasty dents in his head, and a large scratch ran down his torso. Damage from a bad storm last year. 

Hank needed repairs desperately, and was not taking care of himself. And on top of all that, he had this brat messing up his plans. One that had just ruined his favorite project. But despite all that, his rigid faceplate returned to its usual default smile. “Do you know where Saxon Scrap yard is? We’ve never scavenged there before.”

Kickback glanced at the map again, to the small drawing of a house that meant so much to her. She wasn’t certain exactly where the scrapyard was, but at the very least she was confident she could get close. “I think so? I can get to walking distance at worst.” She turned back to Hank. “It’ll take… a couple of hours to get into position. I gotta go around the planet.”

Hank nodded, adding wider margins of errors to his calculations. “Alright. Aim for the scrap yard then. And if you can’t find it, go for home. There's no way we can miss you landing.”

Kickback hesitated. Her eye flickered, but couldn’t seem to meet Hank’s face. “I wasn’t trying to leave you… you know that right? I just… I was excited.”

Hank scratched his arm. Bits of blue flaked off. “I know, spark plug. Come on home.” 

Kickback did her best not to worry, but for the rest of the flight home, she did nothing but worry.

[ebizfiling]

Common Mistakes to Avoid While Making Income Tax Payments

Making well-timed and correct income tax payments is important to keep away from consequences and interest costs from the Income Tax Department.

In this article, we will discover the common mistakes to avoid while making income tax payments, helping you make certain compliance decisions and avoid useless financial loans.

1. Not Verifying Tax Slabs and Rates

One of the most common errors individuals make whilst paying profits tax is failing to verify the applicable tax slabs and prices. The tax fees range primarily based on profits levels, age, and the type of earnings (e.g., income, business earnings, capital profits, and many others.). It’s crucial to apprehend the perfect slab rate relevant to your income to calculate your tax liability correctly.

Avoid This Mistake By:

Reviewing the cutting-edge tax slabs and quotes to your profits class and sort.

Consulting with a tax professional if you're unsure.

2. Failing to Pay in Installments (If Applicable)

For individuals with income from business or professions, income tax bills can also want to be made in installments throughout the year (i.e., develop tax). Missing an installment can lead to consequences and interest expenses. Failing to estimate your tax liability and pay accordingly should lead to better tax bills at the end of the year.

Avoid This Mistake By:

Reviewing your profits and assets periodically to estimate your tax legal responsibility as it should be.

Setting up reminders to strengthen tax bills.

Paying the estimated tax quantity in installments all through the economic year.

3. Using Incorrect Tax Payment Form (Challan)

Another not unusual mistake is using the incorrect tax fee form (Challan) while making the income tax fee. For instance, people the usage of wrong Challans for TDS, self-assessment tax, increase tax, or ordinary tax price can motive delays and confusion in processing bills.

Avoid This Mistake By:

Reviewing the form of tax fee required (e.G., Challan 280 for earnings tax, Challan 26QB for TDS on assets transactions) and choosing the perfect shape.

Ensuring that you are using the right mode of price (e.g., online or guide) primarily based in your tax class.

4. Not Ensuring Proper Bank Account Details

While Making the Payment Incorrect bank account information whilst making tax payments can lead to charge failures and behind schedule processing. It’s vital to double-take a look at the bank account wide variety, IFSC code, and different relevant information before finishing the fee.

Avoid This Mistake By: 

Cross-checking all bank account info supplied for the duration of the income tax payment process.

Using pre-proven bank info anywhere possible.

5. Delaying the Payment

Delaying earnings tax payments can lead to interest fees and penalties. The longer you delay the payment, the better the hobby and penalty quantity. It’s essential to pay your tax dues on time to avoid greater prices.

Avoid This Mistake By:

Setting up reminders or using e-filing structures that ship notifications for due dates.

Planning your income tax payments properly earlier.

6. Not Keeping Records of Tax Payments

Many taxpayers fail to preserve facts of income tax payments, leading to disputes with the Income Tax Department if discrepancies get up. It’s vital to preserve records of Challans, receipts, and different price documents.

Avoid This Mistake By:

Keeping digital or bodily facts of all tax payment receipts and Challans.

Regularly updating your records with online price confirmations and information.

7. Not Using the Correct PAN 

Using the incorrect Permanent Account Number (PAN) while making income tax payments can cause fee mistakes and processing delays. The PAN range should suit the statistics to be had in your tax submitting files.

Avoid This Mistake By:

Ensuring that your PAN range is up to date and confirmed with the Income Tax Department.

Double-checking the PAN wide variety before submitting bills.

Conclusion

Avoiding those not unusual errors while making income tax payment permits you to live compliant, decrease consequences, and make certain smooth processing of your tax filings.

Income Tax Returns (ITR) are required filings for individuals and companies to report their income, deductions, and tax payments to the Income Tax Department. Filing ITR ensures compliance with tax laws and helps decide whether extra tax is payable or a reimbursement is due.

[manawitchyt]

NSB: The Prequel

CHAPTER 3

Story Starts after the cut

The next day, with a massive hangover and a weird feeling she was being watched, Anunux starts to covertly gather the access codes for Hondo.

If the First Order found out they would make sure that they wouldn't miss with their blasters. Its not a pretty sight. Just this morning a random screening by the Troopers unbatuued a few Rebels. They were made examples of to the remaining work force.

Anunux shivered at the memory, but knew she had to take this risk, even if it cost her her life. Getting off this world and away from the sadistic Empire is worth it.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thinking to her self, A: I've hacked and gotten codes from all the ships, the air defense systems, and the shuttle bay door codes. The only one left is the armory codes. Now which access point is the weakest so I can weasel my way into the system unnoticed?

Anunux official title was systems auditor. Her job was to organize and maintain the information and suplies for this Colony outpost. She installed "Efficiencies" aka back door entrances into the Empire's own systems. She reprogramed the bot systems, the Comms, everything to make her Mom's Sixam job that much easier. Did she ever get a thank you? No.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The easiest access point she could find was the lock boxes in sector 3. It is used as a junk heap and no one cared about cleaning it up. Anunux found the most out of the way box to run her tests. Thankfully her mundane day job gave her the perfect cover if she was discovered. The main part of her job is to count, order, and maintain the fleet colony's supplies and it just so happens that this particular box contained soiled old trooper uniforms.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

⚠️Error:401⚠️ Error: Wrong Passcode⚠️ Error: Wrong Sign-in Credentials ⚠️ Unable to accept Code⚠️ You Must wait:1248768747612651 seconds to try again ⚠️ Good-bye....

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A: What the Kriff is going on?!? Just accept and comply you SithKriffin tin can! *punches the screen harder with her finger* This is bullfrell!! Stupa Ulss box. Ok, can't use this useless thing.*tosses the Com Tab on the box* She kicks the lock box to vent her frustrations. Which does nothing to make the box release its information. She swears it laughed at her in beeps!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Picking the Comm Tab back up, A: Ok, lets see here. Where is a better place to try? She scans the directory searching for weak signals and places where the bots may be damaged or needing upgrades. Bing the search has found the perfect spot… A: Varpit, why does it have to be there?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

At the end of her shift she takes the next shuttle to the next colony over. She knows exactly where to find the broken bot. Its always broken. It's in a place thats very familiar. She grew up in this colony. Anunux knows every nook, cranny and secret hangout spots.

Her Mom should have called a repair tech out to fix this a long time ago.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Its not a very well off Colony but its home. The colony is bustling and there seems to be more new faces since the last time she was here. This is so confusing, her mom never said a word to her about it on their last comm call. Thinking to herself, A: I wonder what's going on? Hope nothing bad has happened, I better go straight to mom's.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mom and Dad were Sixam's historians for the Planet. They moved around a lot before Anunux was born. Once they found that they were expecting, they settled in this quiet Colony.

Dad typically only ventured out to retrieve important artifacts or histories when they were detected. She was told that one day when she was just an infant, the Sixam Council sent him away on a mission that took him to another planet. It was only supposed to be a couple of months at most.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

To be honest Dad has been gone for years. No communication, No secret messages, Nothing. Anunux believes he cheated on her mother and ran off, but she isn't about to tell her mother that. Her mom believes something else has him and that he is trying coming home. It's a touchy subject growing up and It hurts to think about, but thats the life of a Sixam. Her parents were lucky to find each other when they did and even luckier that they had a child.

A: Sithspit! Mom isn't here. She's probably in that varp cave sending messages to Jedi knows who.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------ ✨End of Chapter 3👽

[errorcode582]

it's valid to f/o a character from problematic sources

it's also valid to take that source and twist it to complete unrecognizability with an AU

[bb-8]

Tech Savvy

Pairing: Tech x female reader Summary:  You’re an ex-imperial who has a crush on Tech. He’s awkward about it. Until he’s not. Rating: Explicit (18+, minors DNI) Warnings/tags: crack treated seriously, smut, unprotected PIV, awkward flirting, oral sex, first kisses, accidental exhibitionism, lots of bad jokes, slight angst Word count: 5.4K Notes: It’s smutty crack treated seriously, guys. Read on AO3.

The planet you land on isn’t anything special. It’s a humid swamp world in the Outer Rim that offers enough seclusion for even the Empire’s Most Wanted to pass by unnoticed.

You, being the kind and selfless individual you are, decide to help with repairs while Clone Force 99 are on a supply run. It’s the first time the ship has made planet fall in weeks and everyone is a bit stir-crazy, jumping at the chance to stretch their legs. Prolonged time spent in hyperspace has that effect.

Before he left, you told Hunter that your status as an ex-Imperial put an unnecessary target on their back. You’re still wearing your Imperial uniform, after all, and you know for a fact that the Empire is not exactly merciful to deserters. Especially deserters that committed high treason. Like aiding Clone Force 99’s escape from an Imperial prison.

You definitely didn’t just jump at the chance to stay behind because Tech opted to. That would be ridiculous.

You feel your face heat at the thought.

(What? His goggles are cute.)

The truth is, there’s been something – a tension, as it were – between the two of you since you arrived on board. You know it, he knows it. You’ve been orbiting around each other for some weeks now, and this is the first time you’ve been alone –

“Can you spare a minute?” Tech calls out, pulling you away from your thoughts. You swivel in your chair and shift your attention to him, a bit surprised.

“I was beginning to think you didn’t realise I was on board,” you reply as you make your way to the cockpit where Tech is currently fiddling with some wires.

“You’re...very hard to miss,” Tech replies and your heart skips a beat. “The ship is far too small to miss another sentient being’s presence.”

“Right,” you mutter while taking a seat, trying not to sound too deflated. So maybe he didn’t feel that tension. “What do you need help with?”

“I am taking this opportunity to rewrite the ship’s central comm unit to be more covert when passing through areas with increased Imperial traffic. If I can update the ship’s communication infrastructure to resemble that of a first generation Imperial craft, then we will considerably reduce our chances of being identified. Which is why I am particularly glad you stayed behind today. Considering your, er, history.” He fiddles with a mess of wires in front of him, not once looking up.

“And here I was thinking you wanted me around because you enjoyed my company,” you playfully jab.

“There’s that, too,” Tech replies. “Though it would be advantageous if you could list all of the Imperial access codes you can remember. The computer and I can do some pattern recognition to better–,” he cut himself off and anxiously rubbed the back of his neck. “Apologies, you don’t need a long-winded explanation. If you’re happy to share, you can do so whenever you’re ready.”

You consider protesting and telling him that you find his rambling cute, but you decide not to dwell on it for his sake. You list the codes you remember from the Academy. You keep talking, relaying any tangential intel relating to access codes. If it’s irrelevant, Tech doesn’t stop you.

He is silent for a few moments analysing the data you’ve given him. You watch him closely, admiring the way his brow furrows and his lips purse while he’s concentrating.

“You trust me then?” you venture to say. You play with your hands in your lap. “Even though I was with the Empire?”

“You’re helping us now,” Tech replies, as if it’s obvious. He is still inputting data into the datapad he is holding when he continues, “You trust us, it would seem. And we were soldiers programmed upon our creation to destroy the Republic.”

You fumble over your next words.

“That’s – it’s entirely different.”

“And from my perspective, all that matters is where you are now,” he states with finality.

“Well,” you say shyly, “I like where I am.”

Tech smirks despite himself, briefly glancing up at you from his datapad.

You hold his gaze for a moment, before settling into a comfortable silence. You sit in next to him for several minutes, revelling in his closeness like a brezak basking under the Zygerrian sun. It’s only when you notice yourself blushing like a teenager that you decide to make yourself useful and actually help with repairs like you promised.

++++++++++++++++++++

“Would you mind holding this wire out of the way for me while I solder the capacitors for the localised memory bank?” Tech calls, breaking your concentration. The illumination device you were repairing could wait.

You have no idea what Tech means, if his string of words means anything, and you survey his makeshift workbench for a hint. Several panels are detached, limply dangling from a few brightly coloured wires. Tech is focusing his attention on a large panel that is plugged into a cylindrical storage device.

“Maker, that’s a big data stick,” you can’t help but mutter.

Tech makes an incoherent choking sound.

You do as requested and lean over his shoulder to take hold of the wire he specified between your thumb and forefinger. The fabric of your sleeves brushes against his shoulder armour and it feels as though there is a static shift in the air, like the air around you is alive and humming.

And Tech gulps with the contact. He types a few sets of numbers into his datapad with excess force, seriously testing the build quality of the device. His posture is especially rigid as focuses on testing the wires currently in his lap.

Your pulse is racing. It’s as if each second that passes without a confession threatens to rip apart the very fabric of reality.

“Tech?” He has to feel this too, right? “Why...why did you stay behind today?” you ask, careful to keep your voice even. You need him to say it, admit that he feels it, too. You’re desperate for it.

“You can let go now,” he replied, pointedly ignoring your question.

You let go of the wire, but make no move to step away from him. You’re acutely aware of yourself right now and suddenly self-conscious: about the deep shade of crimson enveloping your face, the way you’re breathing, the clamminess you can feel on your palms. You hope you smell alright and silently pray that any traces of caf on your breath are long gone.

Several seconds pass before Tech looks up, over his shoulder at you. His face briefly flickers with concern.

“Your flushed features and increased heart rate indicates that you are nervous,” he remarks.

Maker, is it that obvious, you cringe.

Your mouth is dry and you contemplate making an excuse, but your brain does not want to cooperate.

“Sometimes I –,” you begin. Void, here I go. “Sometimes I get nervous around you,” you admit, attempting to make your confession sound as casual as possible. You bite your bottom lip in a way that you hope will be interpreted as sensual, or, at the very least, cute.

And Tech? Tech is flustered. Like visibly shaken, blushing furiously, two-steps-away-from-hyperventilating, kind of flustered.

“Please do not be nervous,” he responds tightly. Each word is taking considerable effort to be spoken. “I already told you: we trust you. I am not a threat to you.”

The poor guy. There’s no way he can really be misinterpreting that –.

“No, no, it’s a good kind of nervous,” you attempt to clarify.

“Nervousness is not conducive to high quality work,” Tech chokes out.

“No, I mean like giddy. I feel giddy around you.”

Come on, Tech.

“Would you like a chair–.”

“Stars, Tech, I like you!”

Tech...errors. He attempts to start several sentences with no success before mumbling an excuse that he has to go, “fix the reverse polarity capacitive inductor,” which, to your knowledge, is definitely not a real thing.

So maybe that could have gone better. All things considered, he did seem affected by your admission. On the other hand, he also left the room entirely.

Your face burns with embarrassment and, hey, maybe this backwater planet could make a decent home. Maybe the swamp water would be safe for consumption and you could spend the rest of your days foraging for swamp... berries. Sure, it might be a little uncomfortable, but no less uncomfortable than staying here for one more second.

And this is why you don’t admit your feelings to anyone. Ever.

Ugh. You were so confident, too. You squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself to transport to another star system.

The door to the ‘fresher shuts, followed by a slight scuffle of feet, and a thunk that sounds decidedly like a head hitting the door.

You briefly consider leaving the ship to attempt to meet up with the rest of the Bad Batch. It’s been far too long since you’ve breathed fresh, clean, air and you feel a second wave of self-pity wash over you as you contemplate the thought of breathing in the smell of Wrecker’s feet for several more weeks in the Marauder’s circulated air. They hadn’t been gone longer than a standard hour and there was a clear path to get into town. You could still salvage the day, you could still stretch your legs–

‘Oh you want to know why I suddenly decided to join you, Hunter, after promising I’d help fix the ship? Funny story, I was trying to seduce your brother and he rejected me!’

You physically cringe at that. On second thought, maybe just pretending this didn’t happen would be the easier option. Lesser of two evils and all that.

Well, you’ve endured worse situations than this. Swamp berries, if they exist, probably won’t offer enough sustenance anyway, you conclude. You turn your attention to fixing several access panels that require little to no attention.

++++++++++++++++++++

It takes a long while for Tech to exit the ‘fresher. The door opens with a hiss and you stiffen, not looking up until he briskly walks past you and resumes his makeshift work station in the cockpit. Once he is seated and his back is facing you and you can hear the rhythmic tapping of his fingers on his datapad, you allow your entire body to relax.

You look back down to your newest project: fixing the swivel action on a chair. You’re not entirely sure if the chair needed to swivel, or whether it was supposed to, but it does now. At least Omega would have fun with that.

“Can you spare another minute?” Tech says after a considerable stretch of silence.

His comment catches you off-guard. It’s fine, it’s fine, you are just going to pretend like nothing happened. You can just carry on helping with actual repairs like you promised.

“I’m coming,” you say, while putting your entire weight into tightening a screw.

Tech coughs slightly.

“The, uh, I need your help with the cum system. The comm system!” he stutters.

Your eyes widen and decide it’s best not to comment, furiously thinking about the fact that Tech rarely makes mistakes. You wipe your hands on your trousers and stride over to the cockpit where Tech is fiddling with some wires on his lap.

“Take these,” he says while coiling a piece of wire to make a conductor. He pushes right through the awkwardness and places a handful of resistors in your outstretched hand.

You stand there in silence for several moments before you drum your fingers on the back of his chair. He makes no move to immediately utilise the resistors, so you resign yourself to stand there and watch him work. (You suppress a sigh – you wish you weren’t attracted to him at this moment, but here you are, drawn in by his confidence and fixated on watching his nimble fingers work their magic.)

Normally, you’d have already lost your patience. But not now, not when you are trying to decipher just what exactly Tech was trying to accomplish by calling you over and ignoring you. And that’s when you realise that Tech either forgot you were there or forgot to give you whichever menial task he originally intended.

But there’s absolutely no chance that Tech makes two mistakes within the same standard year, never mind two mistakes within the same afternoon.

You start to wonder if he even has any use for the resistors. Your knowledge of technology is limited, but you really don’t see how they’d be useful with his current task. Maybe this is Tech’s uncharacteristically inefficient way to try to initiate conversation. You really hope you’re not completely misreading the situation, but it’s not like you have any pride left to lose.

“Why did you stay behind today, Tech?” you ask quietly, voice tinged with apprehension and perhaps an unmistakable eagerness. You phrase it more like a statement than a question this time.

He continues to fidget, his leg bouncing anxiously as he works.

“I did some research,” he blurts. “Regarding intimacy between human males and human females.”

Huh.

“I read the specifics on how to kiss,” he continues, “but I fear that I am a bit out of my depth as to how I am supposed to initiate it.” He is still fussing with the wires in his lap, not quite able to look up at you.

“You...want to kiss?” you surmise, your heart thumping wildly in your chest. “Me?”

“Very much so.”

A grin breaks across your face and the sharp sting of Tech’s previous rejection immediately melts away. You deposit the handful of resistors in a tray containing various tools Tech had been using throughout the day before taking a tentative step forward from behind the chair. He cranes his neck to look at you, an unfamiliar expression that you’re not quite able to decipher written across his face.

You reach your hand out to caress his cheek, and sliding your hand down to his chin to guide it upwards as you bend down to bring your lips to his. The kiss is chaste, at first, but Tech proves himself a quick study as slightly parts his lips to deepen the kiss. His goggles nudge against your face and you’re pretty sure you’re leaving a greasy cheek print on one of them.

You pull away to gauge his reaction.

“Was that... satisfactory?” he asks, seemingly dazed. His eyes are hooded and still focused on your lips.

“It was perfect.” You offer a small smile.

He removes the goggles to clean one side of them with a nearby cloth. So you were leaving a cheek print. Once his goggles are back in place, he’s looking at you like he can’t quite believe you’re real, his golden brown eyes blinking owlishly at you.

“I apologise for leaving you earlier. I did not anticipate you returning my affections – it did not seem probable. And I was, regrettably, not prepared,” he mumbles.

“Probable?” It’s your turn to malfunction. You want to usher a thousand reassurances at once.

“Well, no.” Tech shifts his weight uncomfortably, not quite able to meet your eyes. “Hunter or Crosshair usually are the ones who capture the affections of –,”

“I like your goggles,” you interrupt in a rush before you surge forward to press your lips against his, hoping to convey just how much you return his affections. It’s a messy, urgent kiss that Tech returns with equal fervour. His fingers find their way into your hair, pulling you closer.

When you finally break the kiss, you straighten your back and take both of his hands in yours and take small, hesitant steps backwards, encouraging Tech to stand. As he does, the project he is working on slides off of his lap and clatters to the floor. He pays it no attention as he closes the distance between you, his eyes darkened with lust. He kisses you with renewed purpose as his hands wrap around your waist, roaming across your body, before they settle firmly on your ass.

Your hips grind into his codpiece and Tech lets out a low groan that goes straight to your core. He moves to kiss the curve of your neck, sucking at the delicate skin and making you squirm. The dampness between your legs becomes apparent and you press yourself closer to him, desperate for friction where you need it the most. As if he can read your mind, he trails a hand from your ass and places it between your legs, grazing over your clit before cupping your cunt. You involuntarily rock into his hand and moan into his mouth, hardly recognising the sounds you’re making.

Tech’s hand abruptly stills as he draws back to meet your eyes. His expression mirrors yours: searching wide eyes filled with longing, a silent acknowledgement passes between you as you reach the point of no return.

And in that moment you are struck with the urge to want nothing more than his cock in your mouth.

“Can I?” you blurt, glancing downward, hoping he is able to intuit exactly what you are suggesting in that moment.

“You may.” You allow the grammatical correction to slip by. “But I’ve never–,” he begins.

You don’t break eye contact and you begin to drop to your knees. He’s looking at you with his eyes wide, mouth slack. Tech’s bulged codpiece is mere inches from your face, and it’s in that moment that you realise that you have no idea how to undress this man.

And this, this is when you start to worry.

Does it have a latch? Does it even come off?

Your eyes dart from left to right looking for some sort of hint as to how it could be removed. You’re half tempted to just plant a smooch on the armour or the kiss inside of his thigh and pretend that all of this was intentional.

“I can get that,” Tech helpfully chimes in, blessedly oblivious to your internal struggle. He removes the pelvic plate with ease and, to your relief, you can see the shape of his erection straining under a layer of thick black fabric. Black fabric that conforms to his body shape exceedingly well. You reach out to feel his length, gently cupping his balls through the fabric before applying more pressure as you palm his shaft. He soft groan escapes his lips.

It catches you a little off guard, actually, to see him so hard. Knowing he’s been hard underneath his armour this entire time. Wondering when else he’s been hard and you had been none the wiser.

His cock has an attractive silhouette – it’s thicker than you expected and you can feel the patch of pre-cum that dampens the black fabric near his tip. You reach for his waistband and pull it down before slowly wrapping a hand around his shaft. He hisses with the contact and brings a white-knuckled fist to his lips.

You peer up at him through your lashes and you lick your lips, preparing to tease him a bit before taking him as deep as you can manage.

And that’s when something inside Tech snaps.

He looks down at you with wild eyes and places his hand on the back of your head to guide your mouth to his cock, apparently unable to continue the role of a passive observer for any longer. Clearly intent at putting his newfound research to good use. You lick a wet stripe from the base to the tip, before taking him in your mouth, the pre-cum tangy on your tongue. His grip tightens on your hair the same time he tilts his hips forward to push his cock further and you hollow your cheeks, sucking hard enough to make Tech groan and his knees buckle. He braces himself against the back of the pilot’s chair, captivated at the sight your mouth stretched around his length.

You begin to bob your head in a steady rhythm, taking him as deep as you’re able. You drag your tongue and press it flush on the underside of his cock, looking up at Tech with wide doe eyes, batting your eyelashes prettily as he struggles to maintain composure. You continue your pace until sweat starts to bead at his temple and his breathing becomes less controlled.

Patience isn’t your strong point and you’re too pent up not to touch yourself. You bring your free hand down your trousers, between your thighs, running your fingers through your wet folds and hum at the sensation. Tech’s hips stutter with the vibrations and his face contorts in what looks like a pained grimace. He takes a miniature step back and your lips leave his cock with a pop. He’s breathing heavily now and his weeping cock is painfully hard, his balls tight.

“I don’t want to finish in your mouth, mesh’la,” he pants, voice low.

You nod dumbly, currently unable to form a coherent thought or tear your eyes away from his erect length, only inches away from your face.

Tech takes hold of both of your forearms, helping you get to your feet, before wrapping his hands around your thighs, picking you up with surprising ease. You lock your thighs around his torso as he strides over to press you against one of the auxiliary control panels adjacent to the co-pilot’s chair in the cockpit. The incline on the panel is steep and the pressure of his hips against yours is the only thing keeping you from sliding down.

“Let me taste you,” Tech groans against your ear.

You let out a frustrated whine and desperately move to unclasp your trousers as Tech works to open your shirt. You shudder once the cool air hits your sweat-dampened skin and Tech messily palms your exposed breast while nipping at your neck. He helps you shimmy out of your clothing while holding you in firmly place before discarding them on the floor of he Marauder.

And this is how you find yourself spread eagle on the Marauder's control panel in possibly the most undignified position you’ve ever been in.

He goes to remove his goggles and you stop him.

“If they’re not uncomfortable for you, I’d like for you to leave them on.” He quirks a brow at you, quizzical. “What? I told you that they’re cute.”

His face evolves from sceptical to bashful in a few moments.

“Very well, then. I can leave them on.”

Tech moves his hands under your thighs as he lowers himself, draping your legs across each of his shoulders with surprising gentleness for a man who looks like he is ready to devour you. Once he’s on his knees and comfortably supporting your weight, keeping you pressed against the console, he places an open-mouthed kiss on the inside of your thigh.

“A-are you okay with this?” you manage to stutter out. It’s not like you haven’t pictured his head between your thighs before, but something about his head actually being between your thighs fills you with a nervousness you hadn’t anticipated.

He mumbles his assurances against your clit. He begins with slow, languid licks and you suck in a sharp breath as you feel yourself craving more and have to stop yourself from violently bucking your hips up.

Okay, so he’s actually really good at this. You know you really shouldn’t be that surprised, Tech is nothing if not thorough with his research and it’s, er, practical applications. Any thoughts of humour at Tech’s expense are, however, ripped from your mind when he sinks a single finger inside your cunt. His finger curls with a precision that only Tech could manage and you moan in encouragement as he pumps it in and out.

You squirm when he hits the spot that makes you want to beg for more and you feel your bare ass hit a button on the console. The next thing you hear is a soft swish swish sound of the Marauder's screen wipers that you inadvertently turned on. Mercifully, it doesn’t break Tech’s concentration and his hands continue to grip your hips, holding your cunt to his face.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop, please don’t stop,” you chant. You writhe again and another button sounds its activation. Nothing immediately makes itself known. You hope it’s not something like a proton torpedo firing into the swampy area the Marauder landed in. Not because there’s anything nearby, but because you’ll die if Tech stops here.

He moans into your core as he brings a hand down to grip his leaking cock, desperate for some friction.

“Kriff,” you grunt at the sight of him fucking his fist, only to hear Tech utter the same exclamation at the same time.

“Is there an echo in here or something?” You smile at him, offering a half-laugh before your face contorts with pleasure once again and you hiss through your teeth.

“Yes?” a new, tinny voice chimes in on the overhead speaker system. “This is Echo... You’ve, uh, turned on the short range comm system.”

You knew Tech was a good soldier, but the reflexes in which he slammed the short range comm transmitter with his free hand surprised you. He didn’t move himself from between your thighs and skilfully cut off the transmission while continuing to work your clit with his tongue and your cunt with his finger.

Before you could die from embarrassment and wonder just how much Echo and the rest of the Batch heard, Tech adds another finger and your entire body jerks and tenses.

“I’ve – ah, right there – Maker, that feels good. I’ve never been with anyone who is patient enough to let me come,” you manage to say through gritted teeth.

“My research indicated that it can take around 20 standard minutes for women to orgasm if properly relaxed, why would others stop prematurely?” Tech replies, only briefly removing his mouth from your cunt to reply.

“Selfishness?” you guess.

Tech seemed to take your admission (and ability to form sentences) personally, clearly intent on rendering you incapacitated. He returns to his attention to your clit and maintains his rhythm, teasing a third finger near your entrance. You whine at the sensation and move to hold Tech’s head in place, because if he stops now, there’s no way you’ll ever forgive him. The pressure that’s been mounting in your core finally, finally peaks and your entire body tenses as you surrender to your climax.

“Tech,” you whine, unable to formulate thoughts, let alone words.

He assures you with a soft groan and tightens his grip on your hip. He can feel your walls clenching around his fingers as he guides you through your climax.

As you come down from your orgasm, you feel like you’ve spent a year in bacta. You can’t move. Honestly, your bones are like Andorian jelly. The feeling is only temporary, however, as you’re overcome with the desire – no, need – to be filled.

“In me,” you urge. “Now.”

He adjusts his goggles and looks at you, spread out, completely ready for him.

“Lie back then.”

Tech settles between your thighs and nudges his cock head against your entrance. He takes a breath to steady himself, rubbing his length through your folds, covering it in your arousal.

“So wet and ready for me, mesh’la.”

Your hands wildly grasp at his chest plate, fingernails scratching along the plastoid, desperate to hold onto anything to anchor you. You meet his mouth with a graceless kiss, before he finally sinks into you.

“You’re tight,” he grits out.

He waits a few moments letting you adjust to his size before he begins to move. He restrains himself, slowly rolling his hips as your cunt stretches around his length.

“More,” you plead, breathlessly. “Please.”

Your encouragement is all he needs before he snaps his hips against yours, setting an unrelenting rhythm. He rocks into you harder with each thrust of his hips, his plastoid leg places slapping your skin.

“You feel so good, cyar'ika,” he pants. You surge upwards to greet his lips with a messy kiss, which only spurs him on to fuck you faster. “You’re, ah, taking me so well.”

“Fuck –,” you whine.

His grip tightens and his whole body starts to tense – he’s dangerously close to coming undone. And that’s when you notice his pace start to slow, his movements clearly distracted.

“Tech?” you mumble. You focus your eyes on his face and he looks dazed, you can practically hear him thinking. You’re about to ask him what’s wrong, but he doesn’t give you any time to panic.

“Elevate your hips by seven to ten degrees,” he states through heavy breaths.

“What?” Definitely not what you were expecting him to say.

Tech seems unfazed by your apparent annoyance. He wordlessly repositions himself, grabbing both of your hips and raising them slightly, holding your body up so it’s just the sharp incline of the console and Tech’s hands keeping you in place.

He began thrusting in earnest again, his eyes screwing shut in pleasure. And, Maker, he was right. The new angle hits a spot that makes your toes curl and you lose the ability to speak almost instantly and mewl helplessly as Tech fucks into you.

You made an undignified noise as you gripped his bicep, desperate to hold onto something, feeling the pressure mount in your core. With Tech’s hands busy holding you in place as he maintains a brutal pace, you bring a hand down to your clit, still wet with spit and your own essence. You barely have to touch yourself before you feel your body screaming for release.

“’M coming,” is all the warning you are able to give him before your cunt spasms around his twitching cock as your vision whites out. Tech grunts at the sensation, unable to hold his own climax off any longer.

“Where do you want me to –,” he grates out.

“Anywhere,” you cut him off, still feeling the aftershocks of your orgasm. “Just want to feel you.”

“Fuck, mesh’la, I’m going to come,” Tech groans, desperately chasing his release with harsh thrusts. His hips forcefully buck into you before his cock stiffens and he spills himself inside of you. He buries his face in your neck, slowly pumping you full of his cum, before he slumps against you. “Bid jate par me,” he mumbles into your neck, barely audible. “Gotal par me.”

You don’t know Mando’a, but whatever he is saying, the way he is saying it, sends a pleasant chill over your body.

You’re both still breathing heavily when Tech gingerly places you back down with a surprising gentleness for someone who had just been fucking you within an inch of your life. He’s in no rush to remove himself from you, but when his softened cock does slip out and his cum leaks out of you and onto the console, he helps you slide down. When your feet touch the floor, your legs wobble slightly and Tech has to grasp your forearms to steady you, softly chuckling at the state you’re in.

And when you look at him, he looks positively debauched. Sated, but debauched. You probably look worse.

In one swift motion he bends down, brings an arm down under your knees, and lifts you up. You wrap your arms around your neck while he carries you to his bunk. His cool armour against your overheated skin is a welcome sensation and you press yourself closer.

“Your research paid off,” you mumble into his chest as he sets you down on his bed.

“Please do not act so surprised by that.”

++++++++++++++++++++

You and Tech aren’t quite finished with the repairs by the time the Batch return hours later, long after the moons have risen and the bioluminescent plants surrounding the ship have begun to glow. If the squad notice you’re sitting a bit too close to Tech, your thigh pressing comfortably against his, they don’t say anything.

Neither of you were expecting to defile the Marauder all day and Tech was frantically fixing the lever on a storage hatch access panel, attempting to make up for lost time.

“Wrecker!” Echo shouts. “Clean up after yourself, for kriff’s sake.”

“Why?” Wrecker drawls, stomping towards the cockpit. “What did I do this time?”

“You’ve spilled your juice on the console again, all the keys are stuck in place.”

The access lever snaps clean off in Tech’s hands.

[redsabres]

momentum • 1 • a humbling battle against a trash can

a peter parker x reader story

prologue • next (coming soon)

•add yourself to the taglist here•

warning(s): blood mention. scientific inaccuracies regarding how much time it takes for a person to fall from six thousand feet. probably some typos. spaghettios.

word count: 4.7k

mild nwh spoilers

WARNING: Velocity Exceeds Safe Limit

WARNING: Altitude Greater Than Ten Thousand Feet

WARNING: Life Support Systems Offline

Those were just some of the many warnings within your vision. There were many more flashing vibrantly across the corners of your eyes, but your suit had sustained too much damage for them to be readable, much less could you comprehend them in your current state. None of the warnings came off as worrying to your somewhat oxygen-deprived, freezing self, until a bright red emergency code came flashing on in the center of your vision, obscuring nearly all the other warnings.

COMPUTER SYSTEMS OFFLINE: ERROR CODE 31

In small text below it, read:

Error code 31: a device attached to system is not functioning.

This nearly made your heart stop, as if the fall wouldn't hurt enough.

Ragnar is gone. The realization sank in.

Now panicking, you sprawled around in the air, trying to think of a solution. In your panic, the hood of your suit snagged on the web shooters, ripping a small section of the seam, tearing it from the bodice of your suit in the process.

That's it!

You carefully ripped the rest of the seam until your hood came off, while still leaving the wire that connected the visual systems to the main hub in your lower back, an area you couldn't reach given your current predicament. Following the cord down as far as you could, you prayed your soldering job was as good, then pulled as hard as you could.

The tiny computer systems chip slid out of its compartment in your suit, whipping around wildly in the air as it came free. You pulled it in front of you, careful not to damage any of the components. Manually zooming in your field of vision with a sliding dial on the side of your neck, you attempted to find the problem. That is, until your vision started fogging up.

Frantically, you ripped off your mask, clutching it in your mouth. Through teary eyes, you found the issue. The CPU had become knocked out of place after Venom had decided to play a game of dodgeball with shipping containers. You pressed it back into place, as good as one could with freezing, shaky hands. Once it was back in place as best as you could get it, you promptly jammed it into a hidden compartment in the abdomen of your suit.

The startup thing greeted your ears. You slid your mask back on.

Computer systems back online flashed across your vision, a welcome change in scenery.

"RAGS," You screamed into your suit, fighting to be heard over the rush of wind, " HOW HIGH UP ARE WE?"

"Six thousand feet and descending." Their voice calmly responded,

"Now five thousand."

You attempted to stay conscious for the rest of the fall, but the adrenaline had begun to wear off.

Closing your eyes, you let fate take the reins.

Unbeknownst to your unconscious self, fate was a trusty steed.

EMERGENCY PROTOCOL 4 ACTIVATED. VELOCITY ARRESTED

You awoke to a searing pain in your abdomen and the smell of spaghettios. A small glyph of the number four was burnt into the left corner of your vision, indicating that emergency protocol 4 was activated.

ah, so that's how I'm alive.

"Ragnar?" You groaned.

Your call was met with silence.

"C'mon bud," you whined, "this isn't funny right now."

Still no response. Even though you were no longer falling, your heart dropped.

You set up, hoping it would help you regain a sense of your surroundings. However, you were immediately forced back down by the pain in your abdomen. You roll onto your uninjured side in an attempt to get up through bypassing the injured side. It worked, and you were able to sit up and see where you were.

a dumpster.

You waited for a moment, hoping Ragnar would jump in with a snarky joke. Silence was your only response. You sighed in defeat. Continuing to lean over the uninjured side, you started to swim through the garbage to the side of the dumpster. It was a grueling process. Along the way, random pieces of god knows what would keep snagging on you, especially on your abdomen, which was concealed by the chest-deep trash.

Finally, you made it to the edge. Careful not to further agitate your side, you slowly hoisted one half of your upper body over the edge, while using your feet to stick to the sides and push yourself up. You were met with the disheartening 'zrrrp' as your feet just slid down the wall, bringing you down with them as you pitifully slid down the side of the dumpster, ending right back where you started. You laid there for a bit, basking in the misfortune. Oh, how much Jonah Jameson would love to see you like this. You could imagine the headline flashing on the billboards of Times Square, reading something along the lines of 'White Spider Found Dumpster Diving in Alley!'

Carefully sitting up, you reached up and over your shoulders to clear any garbage that had tumbled into your hood, but you felt nothing. You must have let go of it when you passed out. It could have floated down anywhere in New York. Even worse, you couldn't get any visual feed from your suit’s computer system if you didn't have your hood, due to the fact that the two were connected. Even worse than that, Ragnar wouldn't be able to help you because they wouldn't be able to see what you're seeing.

You let out a deep, controlled breath, in return taking a slow inhale. Yep, it still smells like spaghettios. That's going to take a while to wash out of the suit. Pushing through the sea of trash with a new sense of determination, you pull yourself up the wall, using the momentum from zooming up to the edge to tumble over the wall. You awkwardly hit the ground, letting out a small 'oof' as you did so.

Now, you could hopefully find another quick fix for your computer system and bring Ragnar back. You glance down at the compartment in your suit that you have haphazardly stuffed the chip into, only to feel emptiness. You glanced down towards your torso, immediately spotting the chip.

Halfway inside your abdomen, the emergency protocol must have kicked in a bit too late and failed to slow you down completely, thus lodging the chip into your abdomen when you fell stomach-first into the dumpster. Overwhelmed with falling nearly ten thousand feet and escaping a spaghettio-scented hell, you must have not noticed the chip was what was causing the pain in your abdomen.

Suddenly, goosebumps filled your arms. A deep, unsettling feeling of dread settled deep within your stomach, right alongside the chip. You cloaked yourself, quickly scaling the small apartment building closest to you, in an attempt to try and find whatever was setting your sense off. What you didn't expect, however, was nearly getting kicked in the head, by a person who was also wearing a spider-themed suit. They stopped at the rooftop across from you, staring straight into your being.

Please don't tell me they have a high-tech plasma mask that can see me right now, you thought.

Luckily, the mystery imposter continues to stare straight through you. It was almost as if they sensed you were there, but couldn't prove your existence to their own conscience.

"Hello?" They called out.

You stayed frozen on your rooftop, unsure if you should reveal yourself or not.

The mysterious person continued to stare through you.

You decided against showing yourself, being in no state for a possible brawl against a possible threat with unknown abilities. You shrunk into the shadows, hoping they would continue on soon.

Almost as if hearing your internal monologue, they turned around and swung away. You sat in somewhat stunned silence for a moment, before pulling yourself together. Thankfully they left when they did, as you could feel your energy weakening, falling out of your cloaked state as they swung away.

For now, you need to worry about getting Ragnar back. After being uncloaked against your will, you glanced down at the computer chip that was still poking out of your abdomen. It was somewhat shallow, as the chip was very small, however you still decided not to mess with it. The last thing you wanted was to underestimate the internal damage and end up bleeding out, alone in a random alleyway.

Upon closer inspection, the small backup memory card still seems to be intact, albeit a little bloodstained. If you could get to a computer, you could probably transfer Ragnar to a new chip. Now, where could you find a relatively unguarded computer in a place that would be easy to infiltrate? You pondered for a moment.

The library!

However, you couldn't show up to the library looking fresh off the set of a horror movie. You groaned, looking back down the garbage disposal below you. Cringing, you didn't want to go through that again. Looking around, you saw a row of garbage cans down the alley. There's got to be a shirt in there somewhere, that's all you need to pass off as a regular civilian.

Not falling off the wall was a challenge in and of itself. Finally reaching the bottom, you made a mental note to practice conserving energy. Popping the first trash can open, you lightly dug through the layers of trash. After digging around for a while to no avail, you closed the lid with a slight 'hmpf' and moved on to the next. You opened the next one, leaning into it to get a better look at the bags. Tearing into one of the bottommost bags, you spotted what appeared to be a T-shirt.

Before you could grab it, a huge rat attempted to crawl up your arm. Caught off guard, you tried to pull back, but you just ended up smashing the back of your head into the top of the trash can on accident. Even worse, when trying to pull out of the trash can, you ended up tipping it over. Straight on to yourself, as you tumble backward and attempt to further avoid the rat.

Oh, how Jameson would love to see you now.

At least the shirt was easier to grab now, as the contents of the garbage can had spilled all over the ground, including you.

You pulled the shirt on, careful not to irritate the wound. Setting out for the library, you made another mental note to practice energy endurance for invisibility.

Climbing back on top of the apartment building, you looked around to get a sense of where you were, and what library you were closest to. After looking around for a bit, you got your bearings and headed off in the direction of Times Square.

It wasn't too far of a walk. From here, the library was only a short walk away.

Arriving at Times Square, you took in the many large digital billboards. As always, Jonah Jameson's annoying face was plastered front and center on the largest one. Unsurprisingly, he was ranting about the city's untrustable, reckless superhero. However, an all too familiar face popped up on the screen.

Beck, that lying little bitch.

Ironically, you teamed up with Venom to get rid of him. He was a mutual pain in both your sides, so the two (three?) of you decided it would be in every party's best interest to temporarily work together. Afterward, everyone agreed that such a truce was never to happen again.

However, Quentin had been gone for a long time.

Things aren't adding up. Unless…

No. The multiverse theory can't possibly be true…

Not after all this time.

Your parents had devoted their life's work to prove the existence of the multiverse, only for them to mysteriously disappear one day, their labs ransacked.

Caught up in your thoughts, you had stopped paying attention to the billboard for a short span of time. Glancing up at it, you saw an unfamiliar face labeled 'PUBLIC ENEMY #1' in big, angry letters.

"That's right folks," came Jonah Jameson's booming voice, "Peter Parker is Spider-Man, and he killed Mysterio!"

He continued, "This is J. Jonah Jameson, signing off."

Since when did he have an extra J in his name?

Hold up- The person you saw earlier was just a kid close to your age?

People around you started murmuring, pointing to the skies. You froze, once again having your sense get set off. You followed the gaze of the crowd, eyes landing on the spider-suited individual that nearly concussed you earlier.

The person- who you learned to be Peter Parker, landed on the ground halfway across the square from you, holding a person in his arms. Immeasurably, the two were surrounded by the crowd, overwhelming the two with questions and accusations. While you couldn't relate to the public finding out your identity, you were fully aware of how it felt to be cornered against your will.

You understood the crushing anxiety, the helplessness, and the feeling of betrayal that Peter currently faced at this moment. So, you decide to do what superheroes do best:

Cause property damage.

Making sure everybody was too focused on the disgraced hero to notice your actions, you shot two strings of web, one from each arm, at the caps of two fire hydrants near the crowd. Pulling as hard as you could, you tore the caps of each respective fire hydrant off, causing highly pressurized water to shoot up and at the crowd.

Everyone who had gathered immediately scattered, rushing away to avoid getting wet.

You continued onward to the library, unaware of the two curious gazes settled on your form as you walked away.

The library was a gorgeous stone building about half a mile from Times Square. Walking into the library- such a public place, with your suit on (albeit the top half was covered, leaving the bottom half looking like a pair of overly detailed leggings), but no mask felt strange. Honestly, in a way, it made you feel naked.

You were able to snag a computer at the library pretty easily. Upon sitting down on the cheap desk chair, you promptly shoved Ragnar's memory component into the computer. It was nanotech, so you didn't have to worry about ripping the whole computer apart to get it in. Once Ragnar was set up, you plugged in the headset you stole from the front desk, and opened their program.

"Ragnar?" You cautiously asked into the headset, fearing for the worst.

"You look like you battled a trash can and lost." Came a welcome, sassy response from your robot companion.

"Look, there was a rat, okay? Then it tried to eat my arm, or something."

"Oh my god, you actually fought a trash can?"

"I don't wanna talk about it," you mumbled, looking anywhere but the webcam of the desktop, "plus, I have bigger problems at the moment."

"Like what?" Ragnar asks, as if the two of you weren't falling out of the sky just earlier that day.

"First of all, I lost my hood sometime during the fall-"

"Oh that's easy," Ragnar cut you off, "here, let me pull it up on a map-"

"And," you sternly continued, "the suit's main chip is stuck in my abdomen." You finished, the last few words escaping in a rushed, quiet whisper.

"Oh, shit." The sentence came out awkwardly, as the AI had never experienced physical pain. Yet they continued, "at least your hood isn't too far away."

You stare blankly into the webcam of the computer, in an attempt to convey the fact that you would've just slapped Ragnar's soul out of their body if they were a person sitting in front of you. It must've worked, because the next thing they chose to say was actually useful.

"What if I used some of the nanotech still inside the chip to pull it out and seal it?" Ragnar suggested. "It won't hurt too much, the chip isn't that deep."

You glanced around at the other people in the computer lab. There weren't many, so just maybe could you get away with this.

"Fine, but please be gentle."

Ragnar didn't directly respond, but a pop-up opened on your screen.

Chip removal: initiated

Good luck! I'll try not to fry you up too much

-R

You glared into the webcam again, but had to hunch over due to a searing pain in your abdomen. It was equivalent to someone pulling a thousand rusty needles out of you. You bit the inside of your cheek so as to not draw any attention to yourself.

"aaaaand we're done!" Came Ragnar's voice.

"Great, let's never do that again."

You laid back in your chair, closing your eyes with a sigh of relief, appreciating being computer chip-free.

Your eyes shot open.

You still had to explain to Ragnar that you were in a different universe. However, you didn't really know how to explain the situation without just going Hey, in the short time you were offline, we were transported to another dimension, in which there's another spider-based hero- who isn't me, and the public hates him because Mysterio- not the one from our dimension, even though this fact is also applicable to him, is a lying little bitch who framed him. Good luck taking that in!

But you also had no better ideas on how to phrase it.

You opened the terminal, where you would write code, but instead wrote a note to Ragnar, so the other people in the computer lab didn't think you were insane for muttering about dimensions and universes.

You began typing furiously.

Hey Rags,

The fall transported us to what I think is a different universe. There's somewhat of a version of 'me' in this universe- the other spider suited guy I saw earlier, he's called Spider-Man, but his name's Peter Parker and the public hates him. That's because Mysterio, not the one from out worlf, but the one from this world blackmailed him from beyond the grave.

Ragnar typed back,

What's 'out worlf'?

You typed back,

Shut up, I was trying to type fast.

Ragnar didn't respond after that, no doubt still taking in the fact that the two of you were trapped in a different dimension.

"Rags? You good bud?"

Ragnar didn't respond, prompting you to briefly panic.

A small, grey and blue error box popped up, filled with exclamation points. Instead of the operating system logo, however, was Ragnar's little logo of a small spider.

You giggled at their antics.

"Yes," came an uncharacteristically stern answer from Ragnar, "With that out of the way, would you like me to update to local time?"

"What?" Now it was your turn to be perplexed.

"Here, it is March fifteenth. Back home, it was March Eighteenth."

You sat still for a moment, processing the information.

"So... We went back in time?"

"I believe so. I am unaware of what repercussions this may have."

"Oh my god, am I gonna get like, inter-dimensional jet lag or something?"

"Possibly. Would you like me to monitor your brain waves for fatigue- oh, never mind. Forgot I can't do that like this."

You let out a quiet hmmm, pondering what could be done to get your robot friend out of his 2011 desktop prison.

A solution came in the form of a bright yellow USB poking out from the back of the desktops tower.

"Rags, you can transfer yourself to a new chip, right?"

"Yes," said Ragnar after seemingly pondering for a moment. "It would take quite a while though"

"Ok. Transfer yourself to the USB in the tower."

"That thing?! No! It's old and dirty, and god knows what's already on it!"

"Fine," you sighed, opening the file management app, "Have it your way. "

Moving the files off the USB, you move Ragnar's program over and press ENTER.

"You little sh-"

You giggled as Ragnar's voice was cut off by a pop-up on your screen:

File transfer initiated.

6% complete

You sighed, pushing off from the desk to stretch your legs. You decided to grab a book to entertain yourself, since Ragnar would probably be taking their sweet time. On your way out of the computer lab, you propped the door with a pen. You cruised into the first aisle of books you saw. Grabbing the most flashy book you could find by just glossing over the shelves, you quickly headed back to the computer lab.

Sitting back down at your desk, you were finally able to get a good look at the book.

Superheroes: A Complete History

Sort of ironic that you, of all people, grabbed this exact book. You were drawn to it's gold lettering and flashy cover art.

Now that you didn't have the constant interruption of your somewhat annoying, yet dearly beloved companion, you could finally get some reading done. The book started in the nineteen forties, with the emergence of SHIELD and the creation of Captain America. Then, it had a subsection on an evil foundation called HYDRA that apparently operated secretly with basically nothing keeping it in check. Then, the book skipped ahead to Iron Man, who you learned to be Tony Stark, and all about how he built a full suit stranded in a cave. You thought that part was cool, but didn't really agree with the part about missiles.

Most of the book was about the Avengers, a group of superheroes who you learned operated out of New York. Apparently, the group consisted of a bored billionaire, an ex-Russian spy, an old man, a Greek god, and an archer, and they got more members along the way. You were sad to find that they were no longer around, save for a few members. Most of them had gone off the grid, except for one; Spider-Man. You definitely spent the most time reading his chapter, making sure to absorb every word on the paper. Spider-Man fascinated you. The two of you had so many differences- yet so many similarities.

"Are you done yet?" A familiar voice came, startling you out of your thoughts.

"Oh shut up," you started, giggling at your friend's antics, "show me where my hood is so we can do fieldwork together again."

A blue and black map popped up on the screen, showing a location. It looked like an intricate building, with a large metal sculpture near the roof.

"It's here. 177A Bleecker Street, in Greenwich Village. About a forty minute walk, ten minutes if you swing over."

"Great. I'll be leaving now, I'm gonna pull you out of the tower now."

Without any more of a warning, you ripped the yellow USB out of the computer, gently holding it in your hand.

Leaving out the north doors, you set off to get your hood back.

177A Bleecker Street was a stunning building. It wasn't that big, but it has gorgeous architectural details that made you jealous you didn't have this in your dimension.

You cloaked yourself, then continued to climb up the front side of the building. Sure enough, one of the windows behind the sculpture was able to be opened, so you silently entered through there. The building appeared to be the private collection of some collector, with books and artifacts everywhere.

You quietly stalked through the aisles of books in search of your mask. Finding nothing, you scale the wall down to the level below, not wanting to risk setting off a creaky stair.

It was ridiculously cold on the main floor, and the floor was covered in what appeared to be snow.

A large, strongly built man walked into the room.

"Dammit! Someone left the window open again."

Window? It's the middle of March…

He stalked off to a narrow side hallway. You followed him, silently crawling along the ceiling.

The hallway came to a room with three windows, each to a different climate. As he said, the wintery-looking window-door-portal thingy was open, blowing snow inside the building.

He groaned, closing it with force.

He spun around and left. You continued to follow. The man went off down another hallway and down some stairs. You still continued to stalk behind him, ending up in what appeared to be a sort of office space. You followed him in, crawling around to the center of the ceiling as he sat down at his chair.

Your mask didn't appear to be here. You were just about to look for a way to sneak out, but then the man, opening a desk drawer, revealed your mask. It was so close, all you had to do was extend yourself toward it and steak it off his desk, and make a run for it. However, he continued to inspect your mask very closely, scribbling down things in a journal as he did so.

"How did you get here, you strange little cloth?" He pondered aloud.

Before he could write any further, a loud boom echoed through the building. He sprung out of his chair, out the room, and down the hallway. You took this opportunity to grab your mask and leave the office as well.

"Is this all for a holiday party?" You heard a new voice ask.

"No. One of the rotunda gateways connects to Siberia. Blizzard blasted through." The Man Who you stalked said. Against your better judgment, you perched yourself on the railing overlooking the main floor. The man continued,

"Because someone forgot to cast a maintenance spell to keep the seals tight!"

Spell?

The two continued to argue. You surveyed the room. Along with the two men, stood Peter Parker.

What could he be doing here?

As if he heard your question,

"When Mysterio revealed my identity, my entire life got screwed up, and I was wondering, I mean, I don’t even know if this would actually work, but I was wondering if maybe you could go back in time and make it so that he never did?" Peter rambled.

Back in time? Maybe this could help you answer the question of how you got here.

The three then had a brief argument, something about dark magic and runes.

In all honesty, you were kind of stoked magic existed here.

Caught up in thinking about magic, you almost missed the two descending a set of dusty stairs into a cellar. You followed them, too, into a room filled with ruins.

"Some of these walls are thousands of years old," The older man started, "and they shot an episode of Equalizer here in the ’80s."

You positioned yourself sitting atop a short wall, ready to throw yourself backward if your energy started to wane again.

Now, the two were standing across from each other in the center of the room. The older one, who was probably Stephen, as you guessed from the earlier conversation, was crafting a spell while Peter was rambling on.

"Everyone in the world is gonna forget you’re Spider-Man, except your girlfriend."

"Thank you so much… Oh, my God. Ned."

"What is a Ned?"

They went on and on, back and forth for a while. You sat on the wall, amused.

"Basically, everyone who knew that I was Spider-Man before, should still know." Peter stated, finally done with tweaking the spell.

You were entranced by the golden rings filled with glyphic writing that flowed around Stephen in the center of the room. So entranced, that when the spell collapsed, you were knocked out of invisibility.

As soon as the walls around you disappeared, your body felt as if someone was injecting magma into your bones. The sense of something being just so carnally wrong filled your mind, trapping you in a cage crafted of the flesh of your own mind.

You curled into a fetal position, praying the pain would subside. You couldn't help but believe, out of everything you've been through today, it was a wizard that was going to get you killed, not a nearly twenty thousand foot fall.

Fun Fact: While uploading source content to Ragnar's AI during their creation, you accidentally uploaded an episode of RuPaul's Drag Race, which is where they get their attitude from.