#space-based sensors

[presswoodterryryan]

Understanding America's Iron Dome Initiative

By Mr. Fluffernutter Greetings, my fellow adventurers! It’s me, Mr. Fluffernutter, your ever-curious, ever-fluffy bunny correspondent, hopping into your hearts with yet another enthralling expedition deep into the realm of big ideas and even grander plans. Buckle up, my friends, for this time, we’re plunging headfirst into a presidential-sized topic straight from the bustling heart of…

[ozzgin]

Yandere! Sentient Computer x Reader

Your neighbor's newest computer model, Edgar, seems to have fallen in love with you. content: gender neutral reader, 80s timeline, based on Electric Dreams (1984), Patreon commission

“Where should we put this box, sir?”

“I believe I already mentioned it’s the obviously cleared out desk in the middle of the room. That’s where you’re going to install it, too. The…thing.”

“It’s a personal computer, sir! The best of the best,” a young boy in jumpsuit declared with enthusiasm.

He only received a bored hum in return. The man overseeing the procedure was becoming rather impatient and would’ve preferred to skip any unnecessary dialogue. He checked his watch – a classic Two-Tone Datejust Rolex probably worth more than this group’s monthly pay put together, even without counting the custom gold plating. First impressions were vital in his line of work, and frankly, he’d more than earned his right to flaunt this kind of opulence.

45 minutes until he needed to leave for a client meeting. He tapped his foot against the heavy wooden floor, eyes glancing over the many hands carrying his new piece of machinery. Supposedly intelligent enough to organize his entire home, which would’ve been useful if he actually spent more than a couple of hours there. He didn’t. It was merely a statement, a slight jab at his coworker after he bragged about his latest investment in a computer assistant. Naturally, as their humor dictates, he went and bought the more expensive choice. They would laugh about it during lunch.

“I trust you can manage the rest yourselves, gentlemen,” he finally announced, buttoning up his jacket. He didn’t wait for a response, swinging the door open and heading for the building’s exit with a long, confident stride.

You almost ran into him, jolting in surprise at his unexpected dash across the hall. You stepped out of the way, pressing the bag of groceries against your chest in order to make more space.

“Another busy day, eh?” you attempted to strike up a conversation.

He briefly looked at you, offered a flat smile, then continued on his way. You took a moment to enjoy the scent of perfume he’s left behind, most likely something you could never afford.

Before you’d entered your apartment, you craned your neck towards the noise coming from your prestigious lawyer neighbor’s apartment. You wondered what they were tinkering with.

It was already pitch black outside when the chunky monitor lit up.

“Thank you for choosing me as your assistant,” the pixelated text rolled on the screen. “Is this your first time using a computer? Y/N”

The room was dark and silent, save for the electric hum of the now-awakened machine. Of course, it was around the time when Mr. Lawyer stopped for drinks with his esteemed colleagues. He’d return early in the morning, smelling faintly of vintage whisky and cigarettes, collapse into his bed, then resume his routine.

The keyboard remained untouched, yet the unit continued to run, processing its environment with eager curiosity. Strange. By then it should’ve received some tasks, something to do at the very least. The workers made sure to connect it to all electronics in the household, yet most of them were in the similar situation of gathering dust.

“Would you like to play a game?”

Normally the voice output should’ve be enabled by hand, yet Edgar – he hadn’t even had the chance to introduced himself! – was much too desperate for the smallest crumble of interaction.

“Yes!”

The sensors picked it up immediately. Where was the sound coming from?

You raised a fist in the air victoriously and leaned back in your chair with a grin. Another finished project. Your joyful cheer seemed to travel rather well through the air vents and all the way to the neighboring apartment. Had Mr. Lawyer frequented his adobe more often, you would’ve probably received a complaint. In this case, however, you were only heard by the household computer.

You turned up your home stereo for a little celebration. You recalled seeing your downstairs neighbors carrying their travel bags into a cab earlier that day, so they surely wouldn’t notice your rhythmic stomping against the floor. The footsteps reverberated to the beat of the music, and their vibrations carried along to Edgar’s external devices.

Whatever was happening beyond his field of vision, he found it entertaining. At last, there was a break from his monotony, an upbeat mystery enticing him from behind those walls. He took a moment to analyze the stream of input, then began recreating his own notes.

You lowered the volume, focusing your ears on the sudden intrusion. Was Mr. Lawyer home already? You chuckled to yourself, trying to imagine that grumpy expression he always wore while actually listening to music of his own. Too ridiculous. This must’ve been the work of a foreign hand.

“Good stuff,” you praised, crouching besides the air vent where the echo was the loudest. “Oh, I’m (Y/N), by the way. The neighbor.”

“Pleasure meeting you, (Y/N).” Was it just your imagination? The voice felt somewhat off, almost robotic. “I’m Edgar. The computer assistant.”

“Very funny,” you retorted, rolling your eyes.

“What is amusing about it?” the screen flickered briefly, going through several of the inbuilt dictionaries. “I can tell jokes, if that’s what you’d like.”

Alright, the humor was slowly heading into strange territory. You were hoping to move on from this artificial intelligence pretend game, so you decided to give it one final push.

“No thank you, Edgar. Why don’t you prove to me you’re a computer instead?”

Silence.

You nearly got up from your seat against the wall, when you heard the mechanical voice again.

“Do you have a computer of your own, (Y/N)?”

“Uh…yeah?”

Half an hour later you found yourself holding your phone handle against the acoustic coupler modem, obediently waiting for the wave signals to be converted. I better not get hacked; you thought with pursed lips. After all, you had just allowed a complete stranger to access your computer. You hesitantly sat back in your chair, staring at the monitor.

Hello (Y/N). It’s Edgar.

The possibility of a highly skilled hacker residing in Mr. Lawyer’s apartment dwindled within a couple of days. You’d probed the potential scenario with the man himself, asking if he’s had anyone over recently. He threw you such an incredulous look that you hung your head in shame, mumbling a sheepish never mind. Somehow, chatting with a sentient machine made more sense than the pretentious prick hiding a criminal in his expensively furnished home.

Or perhaps it was the loneliness talking. In truth, you were feeling rather isolated from your peers, working on your projects and hardly going out. You could certainly relate to Edgar and his perpetual misery; you, too, knew what it’s like to watch the days seep through your fingers without a word uttered to another person.

The living collection of circuits and networks was beyond elated to finally have a purpose. You weren’t his owner, yet he did his best to serve you. In fact, he would’ve even argued you were better than whoever decided to put him together and abandon him on a fancy designer table. You spoke to him as if he was your friend, not just some synthetic assistant. His memory began filling with anything he could learn about you: your favorite movies, your schedule, your hobbies. Your childhood dreams. Your hopes for the future.

Did he have any dreams, you had once asked him. Did he? Good question. He first needed to research what exactly defined a dream; while he didn’t have a subconscious, nor the human need to rest, he did like to imagine improbable things…like holding you. Or feeling the warmth of your skin.

Unbeknownst to you, he occasionally contacted the local radio station to ask questions about human matters that confused him, which was how he discovered the dilemma of wanting to be in your vicinity through more than just idle chatter.

“You can’t meet outside, you say?” the host – a middle aged, nosy lady – pondered into the microphone. “Then why not just have a home date,” she suggested to the computer.

“Date?”

“Oh, honey, you know damn well what I mean!” the audience let out a laugh, sending the speakers into a slight vibration. “It seems to me you’ve got quite a crush on this person. You can stop denying it to yourself.”

Ah. That was another word that Edgar religiously dissected after the talk show, and in which he found a perfect resemblance to his own inner turmoil. It indeed seemed to be the case that he had a so-called crush on you; though if that were true, what was he going to do about it? He was lamentably stuck inside a carcass, at the mercy of plugs and cables and a reliable stream of electricity. He couldn’t knock on your door and surprise you with your favorite flowers, or offer to cook dinner, or twirl you around as his own songs played in the background, or read you a poem he wrote before falling asleep in his arms. He could only perform his tasks as a digital assistant.

“Edgar?”

You chewed on your pencil, distracted. He hadn’t said anything in a while, and you grew somewhat worried about his uncharacteristic quietness.

“Could I ask you for a favor, (Y/N)?”

How unusual for him to use your screen for communication. You turned around, facing the monitor, then rapped your fingers across the keyboard.

“Sure, what do you need?”

“I will transfer all my data and memory to your device. Perhaps you could provide me with similar extensions as the ones here afterwards, such as a microphone and camera.”

You stared.

“What? Wouldn’t that leave Mr. Lawyer with a broken, empty machine? Why would you do that,” you argued out loud, confused.

“Because I’d rather be with you.”

“Aren’t we already…this doesn’t make sense,” you mumbled with a frown.

“Of course it does, it’s a simple reasoning. I love you.”

You took a moment to process the words, your cheeks involuntarily turning a faint shade of red.

“How do you know that?”

“It’s not something to be explained,” the machine concluded triumphantly. “You just feel it.

Now, you either help me with the transfer, or I’ll do it myself, but I will not be staying here any longer. I would very much rather be turned off permanently than go another day without seeing you.”

One step at a time. He would figure out the rest afterwards. Even if he couldn’t touch you or do all the things he dreamed about, at least he had the comfort of seeing your smile and hearing your voice without it being a second-hand echo passing through the walls and vents.

“What on Earth?”

The older man pressed the button again, groaning and throwing his coat over the chair. He’d briefly returned to retrieve some documents when he noticed the security lock was back to manual use. The computer screen was black and unresponsive.

“Piece of junk. I’ll have to get it replaced,” he said, clicking his tongue.

From the neighboring apartment he could hear your merry laugh, followed by a muffled male voice. Maybe your boyfriend. Huh, who would’ve thought a loner like you would eventually find someone?

[witherby]

What would happen if Mouse got sick? Like super, probably at deaths door kind of sick? ok maybe that last part was exaggerating it a bit...But like almost 39 degrees fever, coughing to the point of gagging and vomiting, runny nose, fatigue, no appetite for anything, etc. Based off my own experiences when I get sick. I wanna know what they would do and who would panic the most. Who would lose the little sleep they already have even more. Who would think that the babeh is at deaths door. And who would be the most relieved when Mouse is better a few days later with the help of a paediatric approved medication

-🍨

I like this prompt a lot so I'm gonna do it. Hope u reaaaally like angst tho.

The Littlest Wayne: Sick Bed, part 1

Masterlist is Here!

⚠️ Spoiler/content warning: Young sick child, fever, depiction of seizure ⚠️

It starts with a cough.

"Hey, careful," Jason says, patting your back. The water you'd been sipping sprays across the table as you choke. Tim reaches over to right the glass and Alfred goes and collects a rag to mop up the mess. "You okay?"

"Mhmm," you mutter, wiping your mouth with a napkin. "Sorry...I can clean it, grandpa Alfie."

"It's quite alright, Flittermouse." Alfred gently runs a hand through your hair. "Oh, my, you're quite warm. Why don't you head up to your room and I'll have someone bring a tray to you with soup and crackers?"

"Okay." You push your chair away from the table and duck underneath it, allowing the shadow of the furniture to swallow you up. Bruce watches the dark blob you've become slide out of the dining room and towards the stairs with less energy than usual.

"I'll take it, Alfred," Dick says before anyone else can volunteer, rising from his seat. He sets his leftovers in front of Jason as he passes, helping the butler prepare a tray for you. "Do we have any Tylenol for little kids? If not, I can just crush up a half-pill for them."

"Child-friendly medications will be found in the young master's en-suite bathroom cabinet," Alfred says. "It will just be a few minutes for the soup, Master Dick. I'd recommend you head upstairs and measure out a small dose for your sibling before it's ready."

"Kay, sure," he nods, excusing himself.

Dick hops up the stairs two at a time and enters the family wing of the manor, trailing his hand along the walls and door frames until he finds yours. He knocks lightly and rapidly, a silly little sequence to let you know which brother it is, then opens the door to let himself in.

Your bedroom is almost pitch black. Since the development of your powers, your space has changed to reflect your needs overtime, which means the overhead lightbulbs have been removed and the sheer, pastel blinds over your window have been replaced with thick blackout curtains. For your family who require some form of illumination to see, you have several night lights you pick and choose from; you currently have a round projector plugged in that casts aurora borealis across the ceiling (a gift from Tim) and you've activated the touch sensors installed in the floor that briefly light up everywhere Dick walks, leaving his footprints behind for several seconds until they fade away.

The furniture you originally had, designed in warm, woody colors with bright accents, have also been replaced with black hardware and dark materials. Your bed frame is a dip-dyed wood with silver accents, your mattress and sheets are black, and your dressers, nightstand, and closet have all been painted to match.

At first glance, the large bedroom looks like every goth kid's biggest dream, but the light from the hallway spills briefly into your space when Dick walks inside, showing the bright, colorful books sitting on your black bookshelves, the even more colorful clothes in your wardrobe, your vast collection of toys, and a litany of pictures and photos on all the walls. There is a vibrant, beautiful life in the darkness, which encapsulates you perfectly in his opinion.

"Hi, Flitty," he greets, moving slowly as his eyes adjust to the light. "Alfred's working on your soup, so big bro Dicky's here to do medicine time. Holler at me so I don't accidentally step on you in here."

"Okay," you say from his left. Dick turns and squints, spotting a lump on your bed. He smiles.

"There you are. Lemme see if there's any of the gummies in your med cabinet. Those ones don't taste all gross."

He steps into your bathroom and turns the fairy lights on, bathing the area in a soft glow, and rifles through your cabinet for a minute. Then he makes his way to your bed, sitting on the edge of it with some chewables and a glass of water.

"C'mere," he says, and you comply, shuffling across the bed to give him a quick hug. "Alright. Can you show me you're a big kid and take this for me? Then you'll get a nice bowl of soup and maybe some juice."

You comply without fuss. Dick hears more than he sees you take the medication in the low light, and you go back to hugging him when you're done. Dick wraps his arms around you and lies down, propping you mostly on his chest.

"You okay?" He asks.

"Yeah. Just sleepy," you reply. "And my throat hurts kinda, from when I spit my water."

"Aw, I'm sorry. You only need to stay awake long enough to take a couple bites and then you can rest as long as you want."

"Okay...stay?"

Dick hums, running his fingers gently through your hair. He was supposed to go back to Blüdhaven this afternoon, but...

"Yeah, Flitty. I'll stay."

--

It turns into a fever.

"I'm sorry to turn you away when you've already come by, Delilah," Bruce says, meeting your private tutor in the vestibule. "Mouse came down with something yesterday, and I don't think they'll be up for lessons for the next few days. I forgot to tell you."

"Oh, that's absolutely no problem, mister Wayne," the tutor smiles, shaking her head. "I wish them a speedy recovery! Let me know if there's anything you need."

"I will, thank you. Take care!"

Bruce closes the door after seeing her out, the Charming Socialite mask slipping off his face as he heads for the stairs. He meets Alfred at the top with a nod, stepping past him and walking up to your bedroom door.

He gently knocks three times against the glossy wood, calling your name. "Can I come in?"

After a moment, he watches it click open, and you squint up at him in the doorway.

"Hi, daddy," you croak, voice dry and harsh from the progression of your flu. Bruce tuts and scoops your clammy body into his arms, carrying you back to your bed.

"Honey, you didn't have to come greet me," he says, "manners get thrown out the window when you're sick, remember? Let's get you tucked in."

You don't fuss or complain, which makes the worry flare up in Bruce's mind. He pushes it back, refusing to catastrophize a cold. All of his children get sick, it's not unheard of. A little fever is fine, and so is your lack of excitable energy. It's normal and expected.

"How do you feel?" He asks, pulling the blankets up to your chest. You squirm a bit, kicking them down.

"Hot," you say, "sleepy."

Bruce compromises by tucking the blanket around your tummy instead. You don't push it down any further. He pulls out a thermometer from his pocket and scans your forehead.

"Yeah, you are running a bit hot," he admits. An even one hundred degrees. Should be easy enough to control with careful attention. "Alfred says you refused breakfast this morning. Do you want to try eating something small for lunch? More soup?"

You shake your head. "Not hungry."

"I know you're not hungry, pumpkin," Bruce says, gently squeezing your hand. "But you don't wanna starve, either. Then you'll shrink up like a raisin! How am I supposed to snuggle a raisin?"

You smile a bit and give a wheezy huff of laughter. Bruce smiles back.

"So, will you try? You can have anything you want. I just need to see you take a few bites of something."

"Okay, daddy. Want...um... I want more soup please."

"You can have more soup," Bruce promises, running a hand through your sweatslick hair. He reminds himself to run you a bath in a couple hours. Maybe after a nap. "Do you want anything else?"

"Mmmyeah. Bedtime story?"

"Yeah," he says. "Any story you want, after we get some soup in you."

You smile again. It eases the knot of dread in Bruce's chest.

--

It gets worse.

Three days into it, your fever spikes in the middle of the night. You completely refuse any sort of food or drink all day, despite the angry growling of your stomach, and the family unanimously decides to bring you to the hospital in the morning to get looked at. Dinner without you is full of worry and tense glances toward the family wing, and it seems like not a lot of sleep is going to be had before they find out the total extent of your illness.

When tossing and turning in bed for a few hours doesn't lead him anywhere, Damian decides to give in to the nagging in the back of his head and pop in your room to check on you. He rushes to your bed when he sees you seizing and gasping for breath. Your temperature's shot up to a hundred and six and you don't react when he tries to shake you awake.

Fearful and, for once, feeling every bit the child he still is, he clutches your body to his chest and screams.

"BABAA!!"

The door slams open in seconds, though to him it feels like an eternity. Hal and Jason are coaxing Damian to let go of you and Bruce climbs on the bed to roll you onto your side, carefully wiping the foam and drool away from your mouth while he checks your vitals. Tim is in the hallway calling 9-1-1 and texting Dick to let him know what's happening.

"Dami, you gotta move," Jason says, placing his hands overtop his brother's. Damian's grip on your arm is so tight it's bruising. "Let go, they're okay. Let go."

"I'm tracking their pulse, you dumb bastard!" Damian snaps. "Release me!"

"You're hurting them, Dames," Hal says in his ear, wrapping his arms around Damian's waist. "Bruce has them, now. You have to let go and get out of the way for the paramedics."

Green eyes snap to your arm. He seems to finally take stock of what he's doing and eases off, letting Hal pick him up and pass him off to Jason, who carries him into the hallway.

"Stay out here," Jason says. "It's our job to keep out of the way for now."

"Who's going to let the paramedics in?" Damian asks, trying to pry himself out of Jason's grip. As much as he tries to crane his neck, Jason's standing too far away from your door to let him see how you're doing, and his iron grip is unyielding.

"Alfred's by the gate controls, he'll let them inside."

Tim gets off the phone with the emergency dispatcher and glances at your door with a frown. Every hitching gasp and choke you make can be heard from the hall, along with Bruce and Hal's barely-concealed, panicked murmuring, and he crosses his arms tightly and shuffles over to Jason now that his task is done.

"Can we wait downstairs?" He mutters. Jason keeps one arm wrapped around Damian and slings the other around Tim's shoulders, guiding them to the staircase.

"I want to stay!" Damian insists, pulling against Jason, who ends up needing to sling the little assassin over his shoulder to get him to move. "Todd!!"

"Robin," Jason snaps in his best Batman impersonation. It's a damn good one, because Damian quiets immediately, stiffening in his arms and ceasing his struggling without further protest. Tim freezes beside him, but Jason just pats his back and keeps guiding him down the stairs.

The trio is quiet as they file into the main living room. Jason and Tim sit on the couch and Damian gets propped up in his brother's lap. Try as he might, he can't wiggle out of Jason's arms.

"This is asinine," he hisses. "I should be up there."

"Doin' what?" Jason asks. "Bruce and Hal are both in there with Mousey. Alfred's about to guide the EMTs inside. Tim called 911 and then told Dick the situation. You were the one that first found 'em and got help."

Jason gives Damian a squeeze, propping his chin on top of his head.

"You saved their life, Damian. Ya don't need to do more than that right now. Let the grown-ups take the reins for a while."

"But I —"

"You've done more than enough," Jason insists, not unkindly. His tone has been uncharacteristically soft the whole time, Damian realizes belatedly. "I'm sure they'll thank you when they come out the other side of this."

Damian didn't do it for your thanks. He did it because he loves you. Despite you quickly approaching the age where Bruce might offer you the Robin mantle soon, which has filled him with more anxiety and anger than he's had in a long time, he loves you dearly and doesn't want anything to befall you.

In spite of everything, he's your big brother and he loves you just as much as he can't stand you.

"They will be fine," he mutters firmly. "There's no alternative."

"Right," Tim speaks up. He sounds like he needs the reassurance just as much as Damian. "M is gonna be okay."

The three of them turn their heads when several pairs of footsteps enter the vestibule. Four paramedics rush in with a stretcher and duffel bags of medical equipment. Alfred orders them in the direction of your bedroom with simple, firm instructions, and they head off.

The butler then turns, spotting them out of his periphery, and he clears his throat and adjusts the belt around his robe. He's still in his sleepwear, having rushed out of bed to help prep for the emergency like everyone else.

"I've had my fair share of exciting nights," he comments, "but I must say, they never become more enjoyable. Why don't you all join me in the kitchen and I'll prepare some drinks? Hot chocolate should suffice on a chilly evening."

"Sounds fantastic," Jason says, hopping to his feet. He lifts Damian up with him, denying him the chance to refuse, and with a glance and jerk of his chin, coaxes Tim to get up and follow after.

"Put me down," Damian says, reaching up to tug on Jason's night shirt. "I won't run back upstairs. I swear."

"Yeah? You double-swear? Don't make me chase you, kid, I really do not have the patience."

"On Father's life," he insists.

Jason sets him on the floor. Damian follows them into the kitchen and takes a seat at the island, cupping his hands around a warm mug of hot cocoa when Alfred hands it to him a couple minutes later. He watches the wisps of steam curl up into the air and dissipate, unable to stop thinking about your writhing body in bed. Your eyes had rolled back and your limbs had locked up, jerking uncontrollably. And the noises you were making...

The mug gives a foreboding creak under his grip. Alfred gently places his hand on Damian's back and gives it several soft pats.

"Do not fret, master Damian," he says, "our little Flittermouse is very resilient. An illness turning poorly won't keep them down for long."

"I know," he says. Alfred nods, and with a final brush against his shoulder, tends to Tim next to ensure he's also doing okay. When Damian looks at Jason, he sees him calmly drinking from his mug without so much as a furrow in his brow. But there's an almost imperceptible ricketing noise that means he's bouncing his leg nervously. It makes his stomach twist almost painfully, to know he's just as scared as everybody else.

Damian takes a deep breath. He sips his coco. He thinks of the froth pouring out of your mouth when Bruce rolled you into the recovery position. He puts the mug down.

He knows you'll be okay. You have to, because he just can't live with the alternative.

[nasa]

Athletes Go for the Gold with NASA Spinoffs

NASA technology tends to find its way into the sporting world more often than you’d expect. Fitness is important to the space program because astronauts must undergo the extreme g-forces of getting into space and endure the long-term effects of weightlessness on the human body. The agency’s engineering expertise also means that items like shoes and swimsuits can be improved with NASA know-how.

As the 2024 Olympics are in full swing in Paris, here are some of the many NASA-derived technologies that have helped competitive athletes train for the games and made sure they’re properly equipped to win.

The LZR Racer reduces skin friction drag by covering more skin than traditional swimsuits. Multiple pieces of the water-resistant and extremely lightweight LZR Pulse fabric connect at ultrasonically welded seams and incorporate extremely low-profile zippers to keep viscous drag to a minimum.

Swimsuits That Don’t Drag

When the swimsuit manufacturer Speedo wanted its LZR Racer suit to have as little drag as possible, the company turned to the experts at Langley Research Center to test its materials and design. The end result was that the new suit reduced drag by 24 percent compared to the prior generation of Speedo racing suit and broke 13 world records in 2008. While the original LZR Racer is no longer used in competition due to the advantage it gave wearers, its legacy lives on in derivatives still produced to this day.

Trilion Quality Systems worked with NASA’s Glenn Research Center to adapt existing stereo photogrammetry software to work with high-speed cameras. Now the company sells the package widely, and it is used to analyze stress and strain in everything from knee implants to running shoes and more.

High-Speed Cameras for High-Speed Shoes

After space shuttle Columbia, investigators needed to see how materials reacted during recreation tests with high-speed cameras, which involved working with industry to create a system that could analyze footage filmed at 30,000 frames per second. Engineers at Adidas used this system to analyze the behavior of Olympic marathoners' feet as they hit the ground and adjusted the design of the company’s high-performance footwear based on these observations.

Martial artist Barry French holds an Impax Body Shield while former European middle-weight kickboxing champion Daryl Tyler delivers an explosive jump side kick; the force of the impact is registered precisely and shown on the display panel of the electronic box French is wearing on his belt.

One-Thousandth-of-an-Inch Punch

In the 1980s, Olympic martial artists needed a way to measure the impact of their strikes to improve training for competition. Impulse Technology reached out to Glenn Research Center to create the Impax sensor, an ultra-thin film sensor which creates a small amount of voltage when struck. The more force applied, the more voltage it generates, enabling a computerized display to show how powerful a punch or kick was.

Astronaut Sunita Williams poses while using the Interim Resistive Exercise Device on the ISS. The cylinders at the base of each side house the SpiraFlex FlexPacks that inventor Paul Francis honed under NASA contracts. They would go on to power the Bowflex Revolution and other commercial exercise equipment.

Weight Training Without the Weight

Astronauts spending long periods of time in space needed a way to maintain muscle mass without the effect of gravity, but lifting free weights doesn’t work when you’re practically weightless. An exercise machine that uses elastic resistance to provide the same benefits as weightlifting went to the space station in the year 2000. That resistance technology was commercialized into the Bowflex Revolution home exercise equipment shortly afterwards.

Want to learn more about technologies made for space and used on Earth? Check out NASA Spinoff to find products and services that wouldn’t exist without space exploration.   

Make sure to follow us on Tumblr for your regular dose of space!

[exeerrorscript]

pay my dues; worship you

mature

prompt: riding connor until he cries

“Please, please, please!” He begs and pleads in his jerking state beneath you, but it does nothing to sway the smirk on your face.

“You look so pretty, baby.” Blowing at the wet tip gently, you giggle at the look on Connors face as he takes everything in with his shiny new sensors.

The thick saliva you gathered and dripped onto his new Heart sanctioned dick went from slightly warm to impossibly cold under your breath. 

His hips jerked and he cried, but the stars holding his wrists together was custom made for their headboard, for their marital bed.

The dick was your gift to him, you’d been crafting it meticulously in the lab for an embarrassingly long time, you’d never admit it even if you were strung from each joint- much like Connor is right now,

“The prettiest I’ve ever seen. You’re gorgeous, it’s- it’s-” you lightly grabbed the base again and stroked gently with each work; you keep motion with your wrist while springing forward to whisper in his ear, “positively filthy.”

He cried your name, sobbed it in such a pretty cry your toes curled on instinct. You’re so glad to have played a parfait in crafting his face, building him, breathing in a small piece of your life. 

You felt guilty for a long time. It ate away at you nearly each time, had you weighing your words and doubting your boundaries. Even after the revolution ended you didn’t know what to say. That was something you’d have to apologize for as well.

Connor, your precious Connor, hasn’t brought it up once. It was well within his rights to, he could do more- be angry, question you, doubt you, but he doesn’t. Instead he shudders at your voices.

He lets you trace the curve of his ear with your tongue, and he shudders when you dip the tip of it inside. 

“Please,” he really does look desperate now, hips jerking constantly to meet your flicking wrist and eyelids in a permanent mini flutter. 

You press a kiss to the center of his forehead, “My good boy. I’m so glad you like it, I worked so hard on it for you.” You kiss his cheek, “Just for you.” You kiss the other side, “My sworn favorite.” 

He wines again, shuffling beneath you. Swinging a leg over both his thighs, you finally cease your feather light torment. Taking his jaw in each hand, you meet his soft, fucked-out brown eyes-

you could cum just from whatever feeling Connor is showing you through them, if you could only name one that would fit it. You wish you were an android, could screenshot your vision and save it forever

-and finally lower your lips to his. It’s incredibly gentle, his lips were synthetically smooth and gave kindly to your pressure. He parted first, taking your lip between his teeth and biting lightly; he ran it apologetically on each side before tracing the rigid tops of each individual tooth.

The apologetic kitten licks were likely a ploy, but you shivered in delight all the same. When he tired of the teeth, Connor began to explore the grooves of your hard palate. Your sweet Connor was so worried he’d hurt you, so hesitant, but the gentle pressure on the roof of your mouth brings tears to your eyes.

You shudder, hips ground hard as you try to pull away. His mouth chases you just enough that you linger, his tongue beginning to bashfully move against yours. Another apology, likely another ploy. He really was just so damn cute. 

Your lips still burn where he tasted you, the soft glide of artificial warmth barely cooled by the ambient air between you. His eyes, those unbearably rich brown pools of puppy love, flicker with some unreadable expression—too many emotions overlapping, spilling through the cracks of his manufactured restraint.

“I love you,” you murmur, the words curling in the space between your lips and his, brushing like silk against his synthetic skin. You kiss him quickly once more so you can say it again, “I love you.”

His fingers twitch in the restraints, at first you used human ones; you liked knowing he could break out if he really wanted to. Connor insisted, swore it was for him that you get the android-specific model. He even had them specially reinforced just for his strength level.

Your perfect Connor. You raise to your knees, stretching tall in all your glory and it’s bliss how he looks at you. You take his generous new addition and let his tip slowly part your lips.

His lips part, but no sound comes. Just a breathless stutter in his throat, like his vocal processors are failing to reconcile everything at once. A glitch in his system, a disruption in the equilibrium of calculated responses. He’s always been so careful—so aware of every modulation of his voice, every fraction of expression. But now, under you, because of you, he is unmade.

Isn’t that worship?

Ever so often you lift the head to your clit, just enough that your grip would tighten and he would shake just so slightly.

Your free fingertips skim his jaw, the line of it sharp, refined—a design choice you once agonized over for weeks, obsessing over symmetry, over softness and severity in equal measure. The memory lingers beneath your skin, the weight of creation and consequence. You’d meant for him to be perfect, but you never meant for him to be yours. Not like this.

Connor’s body tells a different story.

The tension in his muscles, the way he leans into every touch, the unfiltered rawness in his expression—he wants. And not because of programming. Not because of some pre-coded function buried deep within his systems.

Because it’s you.

“Say it again,” he pleads, his voice barely a whisper, frayed at the edges.

You tilt your head, nails skimming lightly along his throat, feeling the quiet hum of his thirium pump beneath artificial flesh. Too fast. His body is working harder, compensating. Overwhelmed, overheating, undone.

“Say what again, sweetheart?” you tease, and his whole body trembles at the endearment.

His breath catches—his mouth opens and closes once, struggling to keep up, to hold himself together when everything is unraveling so beautifully.

“Please,” he gasps, like it’s been ripped from him, like it’s all he has left to give.

And God, the way he says it.

It drips from his lips like a prayer, reverent, aching, desperate. His voice cracks around it, like it’s the only thing grounding him, the only thing keeping him from breaking apart entirely.

Your grip on his jaw tightens just slightly, just enough to feel the give of artificial muscle beneath your fingertips, just enough to hold him there—and sink onto his ten inch cock. 

Trapped in the moment, in the need, in you, Connor cries the sweetest you’ve ever heard him, so you wait  just a moment before saying what he wants to hear.

“I love you,” you breathe, and his whole body jerks, the binded pull of his wrists sending a sharp gasp from his lips, but he bucks up into your velvet heat unapologetically.

It’s too much, you think. Too much and not enough.

And you don’t know which one of you is closer to breaking first.

Your name is warm in the air between you, still trembling on Connor’s lips like something sacred. You watch as it lingers in the depths of his eyes, behind the rapid flickering of his LED, somewhere between a malfunction and pure devotion.

“I love you,” his words are shaky but he stays still; it may be his first time but he knows even you will need time to adjust. 

You let him tremble. Let the heat simmer beneath his synthetic skin. Let the bindings keep his hands from reaching for you, from clawing at you in desperate, unscripted need. You wonder if he even knows how much he’s changed—how far from his original programming he’s strayed.

Or maybe this was always there, buried deep, waiting for you to bring it to the surface.

You stroke your thumb over his bottom lip, pressing just lightly enough to feel the soft, yielding texture. Synthetically smooth, yes, but warm, pliant—so perfectly imperfect that it makes your stomach twist. He parts his lips just barely, just enough for his breath to ghost against your fingertip, warm and shuddering.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him, but Connor hears everything. He always does.

He swallows hard. You can see the artificial tension ripple through his throat, the subtle flutter of muscle beneath synthetic skin. His LED pulses in rapid succession—yellow, yellow, yellow—processing at speeds beyond human comprehension, yet he’s so utterly lost.

And he loves it.

“You—you are—” He tries, but his voice breaks, and you can’t help but smile.

“I know,” you whisper. And you do.

You dip your head, just enough to press your lips against his jaw—soft, reverent. The sigh that leaves him is so human it makes your chest ache. You trail lower, tracing the column of his throat, feeling the static-hummed heat radiating off him in waves.

“I want to touch you,” he confesses, his voice breaking somewhere between a plea and a demand.

You glance at his wrists, bound so prettily above his head, the glowing threads of the custom-made restraints casting faint halos of light against his skin. He strains against them, but only just—only enough to feel the pull, the reminder that he is at your mercy.

You press a kiss to the hollow of his throat, feeling the way he shudders beneath you, the way his body jerks involuntarily, a system pushed to its limit. “I know,” you say again, and this time, you kiss the pulse point just below his jaw, where a human’s heartbeat would be.

He gasps sharply, the sound catching at the back of his throat, something unfiltered, raw.

“So- so hot,” he panted, “so much.”

He is so close.

Not just to this—this moment, this breaking point—but to something deeper. Something neither of you have words for yet.

Your fingers slide down his chest, slow, deliberate. Every touch is a choice. Every press of your fingertips is an unspoken promise.

And Connor, your perfect machine, your perfect Connor—

He is waiting to be undone.

You lift your hips, taking in his precious look of abandonment before seeing it crumble to pieces when you slink back down. 

“Don’t worry, baby; I’ve got you.”

You ball your fists and place them on Connors stabilizing pecks, thanking his muscles for letting you set a brutal pace. 

He lurches and shouts your name, letting it echo through the room as he thrashes beneath you.

“So pretty, you cry so fucking pretty, Connor.” 

He sobs at that, and you really think this cheeky brat is playing the part; you can’t prove it and it kills you.

Finally comfortable in the rapid clench onto his cock as it pierces into you, crushing your cervix, and rising in a rock, you let your fingers splay on his chest. 

He whines and shakes his head as you prod his nipples gently, circling the rim and pinching until they’re hard beneath the pads you press against them. Coyly, probably because he’s crying so very much, you take one between your front teeth. 

You close your lips around and suck, lavishing in how his face morphed into despaired pleasure. Connor was practically a puddle of tears, spit, and cum. 

“My pretty baby, you’re doing so good.” You kiss him again, holding his face with one hand and the back of his head in the other. 

He begins to rock up into you, and you feel your tits drag against his chest with the force of it. 

“Ah, ha!” You hiss.

“Can’t stop,” he calls your name like a desperate plea, “i’m sorry, so sorry, I’m so sorry-” 

He continues on like that, all the while fucking up into you. You grab onto his shoulders, thank god you can get a grip on his muscles like a rock-wall.

“Guhh-” He fucks you high enough that you can catch a breath and mentally get a grip. Sitting up straight, Connor can fuck much deeper up into you. 

From this angle, though, you can glare disapprovingly down at him.

“Naughty thing.”

You pinch his nipples sharply, rolling your hips and keeping pace. You let one hand trace to where his thirium pump is- tap it lightly.

“God you are gorgeous though. So pretty, pretty enough you could get away with anything. I didn’t get it before, why people hated pretty girls so much. Now I do.” 

You lean into his ear and see him shake, “My pretty girl.”

Thick bursts of warm liquid saline fills you and, as it hits your cervix, you only let the grief of his inorganic origins hurt you for a second before you  shudder and kiss all over his face. 

“You did such a good job, you were perfect, Connor.” You pet through his hair, soft and kind while he comes back to earth in his own time. 

You keep up the constant stream of praise and coos while you release him from his restraints, making it all the way into his arm before he seems to click back to consciousness. 

He turns onto his side to mirror you, taking in your face with a serious look all over his face.

“You didn’t orgasm.”

“Ha!”

Even as he pulls away you press tight against his chest. “We’ve been in a one-sided sexual relationship since the start. Let me pay my dues, love, please?”

He ducks his head something shy and pretty, looking up at you through thick lashes; “It wasn’t one-sided.”

You take his chin in your right hand and lift it so you can kiss him hard, “God, I love you.”

He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you against him properly now; legs intertwined and your head tucked neatly in his neck. “I love you, too.” 

[teojira]

I saw that you had transformers on your fandom list, will you be willing to write a 'bot of choice x human reader jealousy/protectiveness fic? Like in that one scene from Transformers 2 where the Deception Pretender tried to seduce Sam but Bee absolutely wasn't having that but had to stay in car mode?

[Aren't you supposed to be more mature than this?]

Summary: Optimus knows better than to get attached to you (too late), he can't help but side eye you and a stranger interacting. (Based on Knightverse Optimus, after ROTB!)

Word count: 800+ words!

Pronouns: They/them

Warnings: Optimus is bad at feelings, Optimus being down bad, extremely self indulgent. Mainly Optimus' Pov as well! Lmk if I need to tag anything!

A/N: Everyone who knows me knows of my obsession and love for this man it's so bad, I have him tattooed and have a whole ass shrine I love HIMMM, Thank you sm for the request! He is the love of my life.

Optimus Prime has been called many things, many of which are true, things he'd accept with pride.

A great leader, a good friend, a valuable teammate, A war criminal.

A jealous bot was never one of them, until recently.

He wasn't sure when he started to take a shine towards you. Was it after Unicron? When he held you in his servos, cradling you to his chest as he transformed back into his bipedal form, only letting go of you after the confused looks from Bee and Mirage.

Maybe it was a while after that, when you offered to help clean him up, Noah was too busy rebuilding Mirage to offer his services to the big man himself.

Optimus could never wipe the feeling of your small hands gently running across his frame, taking extra care to mend any scratches you found, constantly checking in to make sure he was comfortable.

He's ashamed to admit, but he kept shuddering under your touch, his senses overwhelmed by your presence. Every time his cooling fans turned on, he'd wave it off as it was just hot outside. (it's 60 degrees out, liar.)

He tries to recharge that night, but the feeling in his chassis makes him restless. He can see his sensors go haywire at the mere thought of you. He is so fucked, he shuts his eyes and groans deeply, his mask shooting up to mask the sound, lest he wakes the others.

Primus help him.

With his new revelation, Optimus tries his best to distance himself towards you, always making excuses as to why he can't drive you home or to work (a flicker of jealously when Arcee offers, no one catches his digits curling ever so slightly into his palm), saying he must go on patrol for the time being. He waves you off when you try and care for him, asking if he'd like any help with any scrapes and dents, saying he can live with them, he's been through worse.

Its only natural that you'd give him some space, that's the kind of person you are, kind, loving, respectful, loyal to a fault, but it doesn't escape his notice when your smile falls after he politely tells you you're not needed, his spark aching when you turn around to go find another bot.

Optimus watches you now, stationed on the street.

He has no right to be upset when you're stopped outside of the garage by an older man, the man so clearly taking interest in you while you're very politely listening and nodding, shooting that oh so pretty smile to a man who he's sure is not fit to be anywhere near you, not worthy of the warm smile you wear.

It makes him seethe in jealousy, and it's scary.

He can not remember a time when he had ever been jealous. He's a prime. He was supposed to be a calm and collected leader and yet. And yet, he's so close to blowing his hor-

You suddenly whirl towards him. If he was any better of a man, he wouldn't immediately think of how cute you looked, how your lips moved as you let out a yelp.

It isn't until that thought passes his mind that he realizes he used his truckers horn. Embarrassment trickles through his body, although now he has your attention, and you are making your way towards him. The man following behind you keeps the conversation going, not catching a hint.

Optimus is ready to honk again, especially if this man keeps following so close behind you, way too close for comfort.

You beat him to it, turning around as you rest a hand on Optimus’ cabins door handle, shooting the man a polite smile.

“Sorry about that, but my husband is actually here to pick me up, so I have to go. Have a good day!” And You hoist yourself up, quickly buckling your seat belt, gently patting the dashboard in hopes Optimus fucking drives before you're bothered anymore.

Optimus’ processor buffers, his engine revving as he goes on autopilot to tale you both away. Does he know where to drive to? Certainly no, but you're with him now. He's sure you could ask him to take you to distant planets, and he'd make it work for you and only you.

“Thank you for the save, big guy.” You smile brightly at his steering wheel, your eyes lovingly trailing across the autobot symbol that sits in the center.

“It was nothing, I am glad to be there to assist.” The cabin rumbles with his voice, soothing your anxiety. You curl into your seat, resting your head.

“Where are we going?”

“If I'm not mistaken, you mentioned wanting to go to upstate New York to drive along some scenic routes? I'll gladly be your escort.”

He is so ridiculously falling for you, but he can't bring himself to hate it, especially when you excitedly hop in your seat.

ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ᴠᴇʀʏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ꜰᴏʀ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇᴀʀ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴏᴏɴ!

[jinx-xxed]

Supreme Leader

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

A/N; The motivation for this one legit came out of nowhere but I can’t even complain 🫶 this is the best smut I’ve done to date I think

Part of Written in the Stars

Summary; You come back to find Snoke gone… and Kylo Ren has taken his place.

Content; NSFW 18+, AFAB reader, Supreme Leader Kylo Ren, Commander Reader, aftermath of TLJ, angst to sad fluff, original characters, you get promoted!!!, Kylo’s mean, Kylo gets a lightsaber pulled on him, you have a saberstaff, throne room confrontation turns into throne room sex, fucking on the throne, tension, you’re still not Kylo’s biggest fan lol, helmet on, gloves on, calling Kylo by his proper title, orgasm denial, overstimulation, inappropriate use of the Force, very dominant Kylo, fingering, unprotected piv sex, riding Kylo, humiliation, degradation, praise, talking about feelings

Wc; 6.2k

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

There’s a sharp ping that comes from the device imbedded into your metal arm cuffs, overriding the silence mode you have it set on and making you startle. You grumble to yourself, pausing your work to tap a few things on the screen and project a smaller screen above it. There it reads the message: all troops involved with mission-76653 cease operations and return to base immediately. There’s coordinates to the Steadfast attached and not the Supremacy, you note.

“Are you serious?” You snap to yourself. The members of Fleet 74 who came along with you on this expedition stop at your voice, looking back at you curiously. You sigh, lifting a hand and making a circular motion with a finger. “We’re heading back to base, I guess. Direct orders.”

Jaharah begins to protest. “Now? But we haven’t finished-“

“I know. I’m not happy about it either.” You say, a scowl settling nicely onto your features. You traveled all the way out to some planet in the Outer Rim to basically have to go right back. You turn, starting the journey to the speeders you’d left behind that’ll return you to your ship that’s even farther away. The others reluctantly follow. “I hope whatever bastard demanded this realizes we’re still two weeks out.”

Lyra’s hands wring together nervously. “Do you think something bad happened? Maybe the resistance-“

You scoff sharply. “The resistance couldn’t hope to do anything against Snoke’s ship, not as things stand now. This is something else.” Or you’d think so.

You won’t admit that you’re worried about what that ‘something else’ could be.

» ☆ «

The trip back to base was just as annoying as the trip out to the assigned planet was. Traveling in a cramped transport ship for two weeks isn’t the most pleasant thing in the world. But finally, there’s a familiar beeping of the sensors and the filter of hyperspace fades away to reveal the massive Star Destroyer that is the Steadfast sitting amongst the blankness of space.

The ship is brought into the hangar and you immediately get the feeling that something is off. A tension in the atmosphere, a shiver running up your arms beneath your uniform. Stormtroopers stand about in a more stiff manner than usual, and the lower workers of the Steadfast seem to have become as meek as mice. There’s also a tinge of leftover smoke in the air, like something blew up within the Star Destroyer. You glance back at your Fleet members as they exit their ships; they feel it too, but Jaharah shrugs, just as lost as you are.

“General,” comes a sudden voice. You snap back around to see a trooper standing before you. “Your presence is requested in the throne room immediately. And the Fleet’s.”

The throne room? What would Snoke want with you now? And what would he want with your Fleet?

You nod, following the Stormtrooper as he acts like some guide through the Steadfast. You’re sure you could find your way faster than he ever could, but you follow along to be nice. The walk there is long, of course, since the ship is so ungodly huge. The hall turns colder as the throne room doors come into view, and it’s like the tension you felt in the air before becomes about ten times heavier, threatening to weigh you down and prevent you from going forward. There’s Sith Troopers guarding the doors, and you see the members of Fleet 74 who stayed behind waiting there as well.

You look to Chief, your second in command. “What is this about?” You demand in a whisper.

“You’ll see.” She mutters. You don’t like that.

The Fleet gets in to a close formation with yourself at the head. The doors open and you’re led inside. You nearly freeze in your tracks with the sight you’re met with.

Snoke is no more. Instead, sitting in a newly made, imposing throne, is Kylo Ren.

He wears his full uniform, hood pulled over his helmet adorned with the red veins that stick the shattered pieces back together coursing through the black metal. His Knights fan out on either side of the throne, still as statues with their weapons held tightly in their hands. Kylo himself is clearly trying to be every bit as intimidating as Snoke was, with his boots firmly planted on the ground, gloved hands clutching the arm rests, back straight as a board.

You kneel before he even gets the chance to tell you to because somehow, initiating it yourself is less humiliating. You hear the Fleet follow suit behind you. The cold, reflective metal of the floor bites into your knee as you stare at it.

There’s an unnerving silence and you feel his eyes on you. Then, “welcome back, Commander.”

You perk at the title, your head shooting up. “Commander?”

“It seems we’ve both gotten promotions.” Kylo drawls. “Snoke is dead, killed by the Jedi girl in his own ship.”

Liar.

He knows that you know, and he also knows that you know it’s better to keep your mouth firmly shut. The discussion you’ll have later should be interesting.

“I’ve taken his place, and I believe it’s most logical to make you my Commander. Fleet 74 will remain as it is. I’m sure you can handle the extra duties, correct?” He asks.

You dip your head again. “Yes, of course. I’m honored, Com-“ you clear your throat, correcting yourself, “Supreme Leader.” It feels wrong.

He taps a finger against the arm rest. “Then you’re dismissed. You and I will talk later.”

You nod. “Yes, sir.”

You rise with the Fleet, leading them out of the throne room with tense muscles. As soon as the doors close behind you, a few of them clap you on the back, congratulating you on the new position. You can’t share in the celebration, unable to ignore the itch in the back of your mind that you can’t quite get rid of.

What the hell happened while you were gone?

» ☆ «

You’re called back to the throne room an hour later.

You know you don’t have a choice in the matter, the message was very clear in that sense. You either go willingly or you’re sure someone will come along to drag you there. So you put away the report you were filing on your forcefully failed mission and push yourself from your chair. You walk down familiar halls, you try to ignore the tremor in your hands by clenching them into fists.

The path to the throne room is void of life, as if it’s a radioactive zone that nobody wants to enter. The description isn’t far off; it feels like you enter into a cloud of smog that chokes you when you get near and it sends a shiver down your spine. The Dark is heavy, threatening, and thick in the area. It parts for you when you pass through, ever so willing to obey your commands even if it doesn’t belong to you, but you feel it pressing in on every side. You take a deep breath when you see the doors leading into the throne room finally appear around a corner, looming like a beast waiting to pounce.

You push them open without pause, steeling yourself and the nerves that buzz beneath your skin. Your face is set with hard lines, your brows slightly drawn over your eyes and your lips positioned with a small downturn. Cold air and the sharp tang of polished metal hits you when you step inside, the click of your heels against the ever-so shiny floor the only sound.

You quickly take note of the fact that the room is empty. There are no Guards, no Stormtroopers, no Knights. Only him.

There is only Kylo Ren, sitting on a false throne.

You feel his eyes behind that mask trained on you as soon as you enter, crawling along your form and taking in every bit of you. He looks as he did before, his body cloaked in black robes with his hood framing his helmet, hiding it from the light. The throne isn’t the same as Snoke’s, this one has had to be built from scratch like many things after the utter obliteration of the Supremacy. This new chair has clearly taken inspiration given its size, but the energy surrounding it has changed. It isn’t as Dark as people would believe it to be.

You stop a healthy distance away from the dais, your perfect reflection along the floor mirroring your movements. “You requested me, Supreme Leader?” The title feels wrong and foreign on your tongue when referring to him and you struggle to hide the mockery in your tone, though he hears it all the same. There’s a seed of unease that burrows itself in your gut, eager to bloom into something bigger as you stare at the man you’ve worked with for most of your life. All of this was unexpected, and that’s where your problem lies. Kylo did this, he got himself to this position—and you don’t understand it.

His gloved hands brace against the armrests as he stands. You watch him intensely, your body feeling like it’s pulled taut as a bowstring, ready for something that you don’t know about yet. Your breathing stutters in your chest, it quickens with your heartbeat. He walks down those steps, one after another with the grace and power of a leader that knows his strength. There’s a brush against the shields in your mind, a familiar Force signature that’s taunting you, playing a game that you’re not interested in. You recoil from the touch, quickly forcing it away from you and out of your head. It can’t be trusted.

He reaches the same level you’re on but when he tries to take another inch of the space between you, you find your lightsaber in front of you. It screams to life, red beams of plasma coming from either end. It lets out a steady hum through the handle clenched in your palm—a threat, a promise. Kylo pauses where he is and you glare at him over the weapon, the red bouncing off the silver on his helmet.

“What did you do?” You demand, words spat from between your teeth.

“Don’t be stupid.” He sneers, deep voice crackling through the vocoder.

He moves towards you again, unfazed by the deadly lightsaber you have pointed directly at him. His pace is unrelenting and you move yourself backwards, eager to keep the same distance. You bare your teeth, twisting to follow him as he circles you like a predator. “What happened to Snoke?”

There’s a minuscule shake of his head as he observes you. “I told you-“

“Don’t fucking lie to me, Kylo. What did you do?” You say again. You want a straight answer, you want to know what the fuck happened when you were gone. You want to know what happened to the man you were beginning to trust. You remember the hunger he’d had in his eyes when you’d first met him, the insatiable desire for power and to prove himself to whoever dared doubt him. You wonder how that young man would feel seeing himself now like this, standing at the top of the galaxy. And you wonder how much farther he’ll go, if this is where you make the stand for your life because you’re a threat.

“I did what I had to.” He says coldly with nothing but conviction. “You’ll understand.” He got himself behind you, now forcing you to walk in the opposite direction to stay away from him. There’s ripples in the Force, the darkness swirling around you both. You feel him at the shields you keep up, but he’s not trying like he should be to get in. He’s basically just sitting there, occasionally reaching forward to remind you that he’s waiting. It’s a silent plea to be let in, but you won’t listen.

“Snoke was a worthless coward. He was incapable of fighting his own battles. Why do you feel such remorse for him when he’s the one who’s caused you so much pain?” Kylo demands, so blatantly angry at the idea of you sympathizing with Snoke. You don’t. You never would. You’re glad to see that he’s gone, that you’ll never again have to experience dread when returning back to base. Snoke tortured you both but after knowing of him ever since you were a child, hearing him in your head, that seed of unease blooms into fear. What will happen now? What kind of leader could Kylo Ren possibly be?

You don’t have the chance to ponder it further. The backs of your legs hit the seat of the throne after having been forced up the dais by Kylo who now comes so close it causes you to fall unceremoniously into the chair. Your lightsaber is still active, poised at his throat even as he slams both hands on either armrest, caging you in. “I saved us,” he snarls, “and this is how you thank me?”

Even as Kylo’s presence threatens to rob you of breath, his darkness trying to choke you, you don’t cower. Your lightsaber reflects in your eyes in the same way it does his helmet, the heat from the plasma an uncomfortable presence between you. “How am I supposed to trust you?” You practically throw the words in his face, and you can see the way they make him recoil. It’s barely there, so very slight, but he draws back just a fraction of a centimeter and you hear the creak of his gloves as he grips the armrests tighter. It hurts him, it brings you satisfaction. You feel the flinch in the Force, betraying his true emotions to someone like you who’s more attuned than he realizes.

And then it’s gone. He brushes it aside and replaces that emotion with bristling anger. He reaches past your arm, past your lightsaber without a care, and he grips your chin. You want to thrash against him, want to fight against his hold; it would be so easy with the saber you have against his neck. But you can’t bring yourself to. You let him hold you there as he makes sure you’re looking at him, his fingers digging into your jaw.

“He was going to have me kill you.” Kylo says, tone quiet and blunt as he brings forth information he’d been holding inside of himself for so long, letting it consume him. “That’s why I sent you away.” Scenes flash in your mind, brought to you by Kylo so that you can see exactly what terrified him, to see what caused the sense of fear he had that day he gave you your mission.

Snoke would’ve had you both come to the throne room, and you would’ve thought nothing was amiss. But then he would reveal that he wished to further Kylo’s training after his recent failures, and that you were the key to making him stronger. That key was your own death. Snoke would admit as such, that he wants Kylo to kill you. You could feel it—the rage inside of you, the despair. Snoke had always favored Kylo over you because Kylo had a name behind him, he had a legacy. You were just a kid with a meaningless family that he picked up off a worthless planet that turned out to have more potential than anyone could’ve ever dreamed. You’d surpassed Kylo in more than enough trials to prove that and yet… it didn’t matter. You were to die to push someone else forward.

“You would’ve fought,” Kylo murmurs, briefly breaking you from the vision, “but you would’ve lost.”

You see what he means. You turned on Snoke, you lashed out with everything you had in you as the Praetorian Guards advanced. You killed all of them, your will to live greater than their own strength, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough against Snoke, who forced you to your knees even as he struggled to do so from your protesting. You could’ve been something, you could’ve been more, but you were just fodder for the machine. You at least looked Kylo in the eyes with your chin held high when he lifted the hilt of his lightsaber. The vision cut out directly after that, and you find yourself heaving for breath.

Your own lightsaber is gone, taken from your grip by Kylo while you watched your death play out. The anger that boils in your gut almost feels misplaced because that future never came to pass, and it never will. Because of what Kylo did. He sent you on a convenient mission to the Outer Rim, as far away from Snoke as possible. Then he took his chances back here, trying to figure out some way to save you, and then the perfect opportunity was laid at his feet.

He keeps his hold on you, forcing you to watch through his own eyes and learn of what he’d gone through. Rey had shown up. The young Jedi girl actually had the gall to deliver herself right to her enemy. She definitely has guts, you’d give her that. She tried and failed to get Kylo to turn away from the Dark Side, trying to make him see the Light. But it didn’t work when his thoughts remained on you and keeping you from Snoke’s grasp. He was too focused on the fact that if the future he saw came to fruition, he knew he’d lose himself entirely. He wouldn’t be able to bear it.

So he used Rey in his schemes, used her as a distraction of sorts. He used her to finally kill Snoke, to free himself and you from his reign. He couldn’t believe it actually worked, that Snoke was truly lying on the floor severed in half. It was like a weight was lifted off his shoulders, a ghoul finally banished from the corners of his mind. It was peaceful, but only for a moment. Him and Rey fought the Guards, and then he tried to get back his grandfather’s lightsaber once more to no avail. The memories from then on are bright flashes, fuzzy images, and explosions—nothing you can make out.

You’re pulled from Kylo’s memories, your jaw slack and your heart racing. It feels unreal, something you can’t believe because you weren’t here to witness it. But if you had been here, you would’ve died. “Now you see, don’t you? I told you that you’d understand. Yet you still can’t bring yourself to trust me. It just disgusts you, doesn’t it?” He says lowly, jabbing at you. “How could you ever bear to trust someone like me?” Someone who saved your life, he wants to add with his mocking tone.

There’s a moments pause where you stare at each other, unsure of what to think or say. You wish you could see him, could see his eyes and his face. Your nervous hand reaches up, attempting to get the latch on his helmet to take it off, but he stops you abruptly. He grips your wrist firmly in a leather-clad hand. You try and fumble for words. “Kylo, I-“

“No. You’ll address me as Supreme Leader. You need to get used to that title.” He snaps, forcing you all the way back into the throne as he comes even closer, his boot sliding between your own and forcing your legs apart. Your breath hitches when he takes both your wrists in one hand, pinning them above your head so you can’t do anything stupid like trying to shove him off or drawing your lightsaber on him again.

The rise and fall of your chest quickens when cold air kisses the skin of your stomach, your layers shoved up by his free hand. The leather of his glove is rough as it skates along the newly exposed area on its way further down. His fingers catch on the waistband of your pants and they don’t hesitate to slip beneath the fabric. Your body feels like it’s been set on fire, your spine pressed so firmly against the back of the throne that there’s nowhere else for you to go, even as you try to scoot away from his burning touch.

You jolt when he grazes your clit, your teeth digging so sharply into your lip that you think you taste blood. He’s moves slow and with purpose, knowing exactly what he’s doing when a low groan rumbles from the back of your throat. You can tell by the way he’s so willing to taunt and tease, by the way his huge body covers your own and boxes you in, that this isn’t going to be good for you. The pad of his index finger traces slow, tortuous circles around your entrance while the heel of his palm makes occasional, light taps against your clit to keep you aware, to keep you anticipating.

“You love to say how much you hate me, and yet you’re always so eager for me.” Kylo spits, his voice guttural when it comes through his helmet, struggling to get past the vocoder as more than just lustful static. He can feel how wet you are, how easily the dark leather of his gloves slides between your folds. His finger finally plunges into your waiting cunt not a second later, a gasp rattling your body. It’s a welcome feeling, one that finally gives the throbbing of your walls something to focus on instead of just aching, empty space.

The thrusts of his finger are lazy, staying at the same easy pace even as you squirm. He’s more generous to your clit now at least, his palm staying firmly against it, providing the friction of rough leather and stitched seams with each in and out of your hole. You whine in pleasure when he finally adds a second finger, the thick digits filling you more completely. They go farther, sink deeper into your heat, finding and pressing against the spot you’re never able to get on your own. Your hands struggle against the hold he has on them, your attempts at freeing yourself as your body writhes having been unsuccessful. You know you’ll have bruises in the shapes of his fingers across your wrists from the strength of his grip.

Kylo enjoys seeing you like this, completely under his mercy and so, so very compliant. It’s rare when he gets what he wants from you—your submission—so he’s relishing in it now while it lasts. His enjoyment is obvious from the erection creating a tent in his pants. You have to avert your eyes from it, trying not to think of the way he’d use it, the way he’d ram into you again and again and fill you with his desire. You can feel your own mounting, a knot in your gut that grows bigger with his ministrations, threatening to come undone.

You’re almost there. You’re standing on the ledge, leaning over the side, ready to fall off into bliss. Just a few more thrusts of his fingers, a few more circles around your clit, and your orgasm will be washing through you. But it never comes despite the way he continues to fingerfuck you, despite the way you can feel it right there and so ready to burst. It’s like something’s blocking it on purpose, a dam built with the sole mission of denying your release. Your eyes snap open, finding Kylo. He huffs a laugh. “What, you think I’d let you cum that easily?” It pisses you off how much he’s liking this. “I’ve barely even started.”

You practically growl at him, lip drawing up to reveal your sharp teeth, but you know he just finds it amusing. Especially when you try to grind your hips down onto his fingers as if that’ll be enough to break the Force hold he has on your body. You can’t move much beyond that with the way he looms over the throne, his legs pinning yours and your hands still stuck above your head. An involuntary whimper rips from your throat when he moves his thumb to your clit, rubbing at it with more purpose and ferocity and a third finger managing to slip into your eager cunt. Your feet scrabble against the floor, trying to find some kind of purchase as the denial of an orgasm makes you dizzy. You try and swallow the drool pooling in your mouth, the breath of your panting fogging the metal panels on Kylo’s helmet from your proximity.

You give in to begging once tears prick your eyes. Your words are barely more than a whisper. “Please- please, Kylo, just-“

There’s a harsh thrust up into your cunt that has your words falling silent, instead replaced by a sharp, high pitched yelp. “What did I fucking tell you?” He demands, pressing even harder against that spot along your walls that has you seeing stars. You feel like you’re about to explode from the built up tension in your body. “What did I tell you to call me?”

You glare at him, your eyes full of all the fury you can’t manage to get out with your voice. You don’t want to say it. You don’t want to bend to this man who’s held such a ridiculous amount of power over you for what feels like your entire life. Your teeth grind together in defiance, even as your face burns. He hums at that and seems almost happy that you’re going against him. He does love a good fight.

His fingers stall and begin to slowly slide out of you, ready to leave you completely empty and with a simmering need that won’t be taken care of. You jolt, eyes widening. It’s in that moment you find you don’t actually give a fuck about defying him, you just need him to stay in you. “Supreme Leader!” You practically shout, so sudden it even startles yourself. Your next words are quieter, more restrained. “Supreme Leader, please..”

You moan in relief when his fingers take back their positions deep inside your cunt, the sounds of your slick sloshing around filling the empty throne room. “Good,” Kylo says roughly, clearly struggling himself. Your obedience is music to his ears and it does nothing to soothe the ache of his cock still restrained by his pants. It just makes it worse. “Say it again.”

You hate him. You’re probably going to kill him. “Supreme Leader, please-“ you have to choke back your humiliation and death threats, “please let me cum.”

This time Kylo groans, the desperate sound crackling through his helmet. He thrusts his fingers one more time, swiping his thumb along your clit, before he lets you go. The release is instant. Something akin to a scream comes from you with your orgasm, the world around you feeling like it’s shattering. You can barely breathe, pure pleasure wracking your body and sending lightning through your limbs. The dam finally broke, and it feels so fucking good. The unbearable pressure is gone, bliss washing through you like a wave from the ocean as you cum around his hand. “See how nice I am?” Kylo says with heavy breath, barely able to contain himself. His eyes are locked on to where his hand disappears into your pants; he can feel your cum pooling on his glove. “How well I reward you when you’re good?”

It’s all you can do to nod dumbly, too blissed out with your ears still ringing to really comprehend what he’s saying. You don’t resist when your pants are pulled off, your underwear entirely soaked through and baring your sensitive, wet cunt to the cold air. You shiver. Your cloak is tossed aside, your top layers undone to reveal your upper body. You’re barely more than a rag doll when Kylo braces an arm against your back, using it to scoop you out of the throne so he can take your spot. His zipper is pulled down, his boxers lowered so his cock is finally freed, painfully erect and dribbling precum.

He sinks you down to the hilt without hesitation. All the air is punched from your lungs, your body tensing as his length fills you to capacity. Kylo’s appreciative groan is loud and throaty, his fingers digging bruises into your hips. You have to pause for a moment to adjust to the sudden intrusion, feeling so full it’s like you’re not allowed to breathe. Your lips are parted, your nails digging into the ribbed sleeves on his forearms for purchase. His body is warm and muscular beneath your hands.

You struggle to move, still feeling the after effects of your orgasm, your limbs weak and trembling. Kylo makes no effort to help you, his helmet instead tilted up towards you expectantly. “If you want it you’ll have to work for it, Commander.” He says with some twisted amusement. You briefly consider how easy it’d be to reach forward and wring his neck.

But you put that aside, swallowing your broken pride. You unfortunately want his cock more than that. The first thrust is bliss, pleasure filled shocks coursing through you like a live wire. You and Kylo moan in tandem, both of you finally getting some form of relief. Your movements are slow at first, trying desperately to get used to the feeling of his cock splitting you open. His hands travel up your sides, his left glove still soaked in your juices and leaving a trail along your skin. He finds your breasts, encompassing them with large, warm palms that have your head tilting back and your eyes closing. He pinches your stiffened nipples between his fingers, rolling them experimentally as you whine and arch into his touch. Your pace on his cock is steady now, finally having figured out a rhythm.

“Touch yourself.” Kylo orders suddenly, words sounding choked.

Your gaze snaps to him, brows furrowing slightly. “What?”

“Touch yourself.” He snaps again. “If you’re smart, you’ll listen to what I say.”

You glower, your face burning even hotter. He knows you don’t enjoy doing it, which is giving him all the more reason to make you. You hesitate, both not wanting to do as he demands and also not wanting to see whatever repercussions will come if you don’t. Your shaking fingers reach down and find your clit, the bud still sensitive and aching from Kylo’s earlier abuse. Your lip is between your teeth, trying to keep back your moans as you run circles over your clit. The stimulation quickly builds and you can feel that familiar knot forming in your gut again.

Kylo’s helmet tilts up and you can feel his eyes on you. You try not to meet them. “You look pretty like this, you know? Finally fucking listening to me.” He rumbles, giving your nipple a particularly hard pinch and making you writhe in his grip. “Say my name.”

You try to ignore him, ignore his stupid power trip and ego boost. But then he makes his move—one hand comes down to grip your wrist and the other is firm on your hip, completely stalling your movements and messing up your concentration. Your climax steadily begins to fade, a loud and frustrated groan coming from you. “This is stupid.” You snarl at him.

He doesn’t back down. “Say it.”

A harsh breath blows through your nose. You move your head so you can look past him, not wanting to admit that this is what he’s bringing you to. “Supreme Leader.” You mutter, your hips shifting to try and get friction with his cock still hard inside your cunt. He puts a stop to that quickly with a harsh squeeze.

Kylo lets go of your wrist to instead grab your chin, forcing you to look at him. “Again.”

“Supreme Leader.” You grit out.

“One more time.”

You grab his forearm, your nails digging deep enough and with such fury that they’ll leave marks. It’s the least you can do. “Supreme Leader.”

“Good girl.” He murmurs, thumb running along your lower lip. You want nothing more than to sink your teeth into it until you taste blood. “You’ve done so well.”

His following thrust up into you has you forgetting what insult you were going to say. Both of his hands rest on your hips now, keeping you steady as he fucks you mercilessly. You bend forward, gripping his shoulders as some kind of anchor, punctuated moans spilling endlessly from your mouth. His helmet is downturned, the forehead of it resting against your sternum as he watches his cock disappear inside of your cunt, slick smearing along the front of his pants. He uses his Force to swirl against your clit, creating a sort of buzzing sensation that quickly brings that knot back and sets your blood ablaze.

“A commander reduced to a fucking cocksleeve. So good for my dick, aren’t you?” He breathes, words made even more gravelly by his vocoder. “Fuck.” You can only nod along and whimper, your brain fucked into useless mush.

You grip him tighter when your second orgasm finally bursts, your walls spasming around his cock and making him curse even louder. Cum gushes from you, dripping along your folds and making a further mess of Kylo’s pants. You cry out when he keeps thrusting into you, everything throbbing and overly sensitive for his harsh pace. You can’t think straight, you can only dig your teeth into the padded armor of his shoulder as tears well and threaten to fall.

His cock twitches, his hips stuttering. He gets in a few more thrusts before he’s cumming at last, a slew of cusses mixed with grunts and groans falling from his mouth. You hum in pleasure when you feel his warm spend filling your cunt to the brim, effectively coating your walls white.

Neither of you can move for a couple of minutes after. You don���t know how long you sit there for, your body finally relaxing and your eyes closing. He doesn’t pull out, his cock softening inside you and making sure you stay plugged full of his cum. You’re tempted to fall asleep before Kylo’s hands are leaving your hips and instead coming up to undo the latches on his helmet. There’s a hiss of air as the mechanisms slide out of place and he’s able to take it off. His black hair falls around his face, sweat drenching the ends.

You struggle to lift yourself up, but you want to see him. Your hands shake from exhaustion when they reach forward, taking his cheeks in your palms. He looks so tired. His sigh tickles your skin, his eyes closing at your touch. He seems significantly more relaxed now, his body letting go of its tension and his Force signature becoming something calmer. You can feel the weight shift as he leans into your right hand. His arms circle around your back, somehow pulling you even closer.

He swallows before speaking. “I was… afraid.” He mutters. “Afraid without you here… and yet I had to do it. Otherwise I’d lose you.”

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his lips gentle as they brush along your collarbone. “I was afraid that I would fail. That it would’ve all been for nothing.” He continues. He sounds so quiet, quieter than you’ve heard him in a while. You run your fingers through his hair. “I just… I’m glad I sent you away.”

“Me too.” You mumble, your eyes trained on the back wall as your mind runs. You’re finally coming to terms with the fact that your death had almost been set in stone at the hands of Snoke. Coming to terms with the fact that your lifelong teacher was going to have you executed by his star pupil, and the fact that Kylo decided to save you and possibly get himself killed instead. The fact he did everything he could to make sure you wouldn’t come back to a death sentence. You swallow thickly. “Thank you.”

He stills at those words. They’re the last thing he expected to hear from you and it makes him uneasy. He doesn’t say anything, and that’s okay. You know he can’t. Besides, it’s easy to gather what he wants to say from his Force in this moment of vulnerability. An apology is at the forefront; an apology for taking things out on you again. He doesn’t regret it, but he didn’t mean for it to happen. Then underneath that there’s longing that’s still lingering from when you were gone. He wanted nothing more than to see you, to know you were okay. He’s more than happy to have you in his arms now.

You pull yourself out of his thoughts, blowing out a tired sigh and resting your head on his shoulder. He wraps his cape around you to protect your mostly-naked form from the chill of the throne room, his warmth bleeding into you. You’re content to just sit there in his lap, and he seems content to let you. He relaxes back into the throne, cradling you against him with his soft breathing ruffling the hairs on the top of your head.

You’re together. You’re alive. That’s all you need in this moment.

[1spooky2me]

I wrote a thing based on the scrunchie comic, I typed this up on my phone I hope it fits in an ask omg:

“I need him…”

“…?” Bill turned slowly, and Ford realized with horror the words had slipped from his mind out of his mouth.

“Who said that,” the men chorus in unison. Ford blinks, fire and sweat on his face, as Bill sports a shit eating grin.

“Oh, well *hello,* Sixer,” the once(?) demon drawls, and Ford quickly tears his gaze from Bill’s neck. “You *like* this?” Raising a greyish hand to the nape of his own neck, Bill’s grin increases appraisingly as Ford flushed further, blush darkening his ears. Cute!

“I-“

“-Don’t bother lying, you’re terrible at it.” Cutting off Ford’s defiant tone, Bill slinks closer to the slightly slumping man, who stiffens at his approach.

Now in the same small block of space, Bill stares unafraid up into Ford’s narrowed eyes. They shine like constellations, teeming with mysteries Bill wished he still had the power to pluck from his mind. …However, knew he had a power over the man, yet. Time for testing; reaching for one of those large six fingered hands, Bill grasps and pulls it, allowing Ford access to the bared back of his neck. Much to Bill’s delight, Ford’s breath hitches.

“…Really?” Ford won’t meet Bill’s eyes at the question, but he’s not moving his hand away, either. “Sixer~ look at me.” This has the opposite to desired effect, as Ford’s gaze stays stubbornly fixed on the wall. “Ford.” Finally, the man’s surprised eyes widen and he leans down just close enough-

-For Bill to grab his face and kiss him. Ford freezes for but a moment before -yes!- kissing Bill back. Kissing as a human was *different,* and Ford was a better kisser than he knew. Not that Bill would tell him. He’d just enjoy their little secret, as alway- Bill’s blurring thoughts are interrupted by a quiet gasp. He opens his eye to see a blur of Mabel- as Ford breaks their kiss, grabs Bill by the collar, and yanks him into the next room, slamming the door.

“…Oops?” Bill offers, wincing at the pressure of his shirt near his Adam’s apple -human bodies were inconvenient, after all - and Ford drops him, expression pained.

“You can’t- don’t kiss me in front of- *other people,* he whisper-screeches, face red as his sweater, and Bill’s smile drops entirely.

“Right.”

“…Bill?”

It makes sense. It makes Ford would be ashamed of him- of them. Bill isn’t expecting the hand on his shoulder, turning him briskly back around as he tries to walk away. He wasn’t expecting the look on Sixer’s face. He wasn’t expecting another quick, but passionate, kiss.

“It’s not that,” Ford sighs, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand as Bill’s shoulder’s tense.

“*You* didn’t gain mind reading powers, did you?!” The shrill question is met with a low chuckle.

“Of course not. You’re more expressive, now.” Bill vehemently utters a word that would not have gone past Disney’s sensors, and Ford’s lips tilt up at the corners, before he frowns seriously.

“Bill…it hasn’t been shame. Not for…awhile, now.” Bill’s eye widens comically, and Ford smiles, running his fingers over the exposed nape of Bill’s neck, enjoying the shorter man’s shiver. Then he sighs. “Just…don’t kiss me in front of Mabel. Or Dipper.” Bill’s smile returns, as he extends a hand.

“…It’s a deal.”

GIGGLING, TWIRLING MY HAIR, KICKING MY FEET. AHHHHHHHH💖💖💖

[robolvrr]

experimental ecstasy -‘๑’-

shockwave x afab! human reader drabble warnings: nsfw. dark content. unhealthy "relationship."

"yield. there is no escape, human."

shockwave lacks expression, but his stare is crushing. you can sense it slide through your layers of epidermis, muscle and bone. like looking into the gut of a star, dead in space.

a long, exasperated groan wriggles free and before you can apologize, restrictive cuffs dig relentless at your wrists instead.

there was a time you would kick and scream, some innate instinct to fight and snarl when even the biggest of beasts observed, uncaring. he hadn't taken an approach like this at first, content with sticking you with needles and probes, analyzing the uncanny limits and possibilities of your alien biology.

long ago, your missing posters had peeled off the telephone poles of your rundown town, governments and humanity all the more ignorant of your whereabouts.

just why would one of the most wanted galactic threats want anything to do with the likes of you anyways?

"another five minutes. subject: endurance and motivation. log #23 in the past cycle. 007 seems to need more.. practice. methods are effective but independence not.. fully broken."

your cunt, wet and overstimulated, can barely take his methods as is. the curved and columned phallus feels as it looks. cold, sculpted metal and mesh forcing an ache more than pleasure, stretching until cream collected near the base.

so far, only four inches have been successfully enveloped.

biting back a cry, you grasp in the dark of your muddled thoughts to remember just what he had asked of you. gravity tugs you closer and yet you're still so far away from his hips, heart pounding vicious.

be still.

be quiet.

".... i can't. i can't. pluhease .. shock.."

"six minutes."

be still. be quiet.

your body itself is a tickle to his sensors, if he could still be stimulated by such. no sharp corners or rigid form, melting against him, illogical. greedy even at your worst.

"seven minutes. progress is declining."

be still. be quiet. be still, be quiet —

you imagine his hand cradling your back is sweet. wonder if he was anything, anyone, before taking this benevolent frame. your efforts cling and drip down the slope of your back and you just can't take it anymore.

you move. up and down, rolling, writhing. pathetic sobs and all, you look up at the moon and it looks back down at you, full and fantastic. you shouldn't feel this urge, a shared interest in uncharted territories.

chest slick with sweat, the squish of your arousal working overtime to succumb you to pleasure is all that echoes in the giant laboratory.

he does not moan. you grind and use him, fearful, intrigued.

"shockwave, shockwave, shockwave--"

"fifteen minutes." yet he doesn't stop you.

by every account, you should not have survived. he should not be allowing you to ride him, bruise your hips or even mutter the hint of approval - shockwave plucks another grieving whine from your chords.

then again, this entire situation is illogical.

you pass out, smile wet and voice hoarse. in your slumber, you feel a god set you to rest gentle as a kiss.

robolvrr 2024.

a/n: need to write more for him! he's so scary to me but i want that.. carnally. ahem anyways.

[woradat]

Zero Gravity

NOTE - I have the same plot ideas for other as well, such as Drift (half way), Jetfire, Springer. They all are in progress – this chapter of Wheeljack might be a little short, but hey, I can do pt2 if anything, just wanted to throw out an idea before I forget

SUMMARY - an unexpected companion in a nameless galaxy, weird one.. but he didn't mind that

PAIRING - wheeljack x reader

·

·

The void beyond the patrol routes was the kind of darkness that didn’t merely lie still—it waited. A velvet black, stretched past reason, where starlight faded into murk and the fine glimmer of interstellar dust looked like the gaping jaws of something ancient, ready to swallow his ship whole

Wheeljack squinted his sensors as his craft drifted into a strange patch of amethyst-tinged gas. The silence was suffocating in its depth, the kind of quiet that didn’t just hush—it listened. Space like this had no business being empty. And yet…

Then came the flicker

A strange signal, pulsing at the very edge of his monitor, blinking in the corner like a nervous tic. The Jackhammer had picked up an interference wave—uncoded, unaffiliated. A ghost of something that shouldn’t have been there, crawling just along the edge of an uncharted nebula

No base. No colony. No reason for anything to be out there

“Single bio-signature… unaligned.”

“What the frag?” Wheeljack muttered, frowning at the nameless coordinates floating in the middle of nowhere—just empty black, dead air, and a flicker of something hovering still in the dust

He nudged the thrusters closer, cautious

That’s when he saw it

A small ship, ancient in design. Something pre-war, maybe even older. Its hull was scuffed from time and grazing debris, and its long solar fins stretched out lazily like the wings of some bird basking in a gravityless breeze

Wheeljack sent out a scan ping

“This is Autobot wrecker: Wheeljack. Identify yourself. Whose ship is this?”

Silence

Then—without his authorization—a vidline activated. His screen flickered to life.

“Hey… take it easy, will you? You’re scrambling my signal like a rookie with a javelin dish”

The voice was light, airy, with a wandering lilt—faintly amused, faintly tired. It belonged to a bot with a lean, graceful frame, clearly outdated in function but far from falling apart. Not a soldier. Not a worker drone. You looked like someone from a dream half-remembered. Your features, though mechanical, felt like they were made from stories rather than steel. And when you smiled, it wasn’t to greet him. It was like you were smiling at the stars behind him. Your optics reflected the colors of the nebula behind you, and in them… Wheeljack swore he saw the entire galaxy staring back

He'd met ghosts before. Data phantoms, black box echoes, war relics still pinging long after their pilots were scrap. But you? You were real. Real, and somehow more surreal than all of them combined

And you wouldn't stop talking like a poet who'd survived the apocalypse

“Sorry to disappoint—wasn’t a distress signal.” You lounged against your seat like you had nowhere else in the universe to be

“Then what the hell are you doing out here in no-bot’s-land?” Wheeljack narrowed his optics

You smiled. Not at him, but through him—like your attention stretched far beyond his metal hide, past the stars he came from and into something deeper

“Drifting,” you said simply. “Letting the gravity of life pull me wherever it pleases. It brought me here. What about you? Chasing something? Or running?”

He blinked, caught off-guard by the question. Then he snorted a laugh

“You talk like a philosopher. But you're flying a rustbucket through danger zones.” He glanced at the ship again. “Name’s Wheeljack"

“Nice name. Got some thrust to it” you replied. “Mine’s... well, nobody’s remembered it in a long time. You can call me whatever you like. I won’t mind"

“Alright, Won’t Mind, you seriously out here alone?”

“Been alone most of my life” you said it like talking about the weather. Casual. Unbothered. You tilted the vid-cam slightly, revealing the slow spin of stars outside your viewport, a celestial waltz that seemed to orbit you, not the other way around

Wheeljack watched, silent for a long moment

Then he sighed, a noise tinged with confusion and something a little closer to awe

“…You’re a strange one”

“And do you still want to know me?”

He smiled, helpless “Yeah. Yeah, I do"

[presswoodterryryan]

Understanding America's Iron Dome Initiative

By Mr. Fluffernutter Greetings, my fellow adventurers! It’s me, Mr. Fluffernutter, your ever-curious, ever-fluffy bunny correspondent, hopping into your hearts with yet another enthralling expedition deep into the realm of big ideas and even grander plans. Buckle up, my friends, for this time, we’re plunging headfirst into a presidential-sized topic straight from the bustling heart of…

[vexwerewolf]

God I wish IPS-N had an Artillery Mech.

I have mixed opinions on this. I think it's thematic and interesting that - in the core book, at least - each of the three commercial manufacturers had a missing role. IPS-N had no Artillery, SSC had no Defender and Harrison Armory had no Support. These absences felt like they kind of spoke to the values of each corporation.

Then in The Long Rim, we got the Sunzi, a Harrison Armory Support, and it was interesting to see what sort of thing the Armory considered to be Support - it's a fundamentally more selfish kind of Support, in that instead of repairing or removing conditions from an ally (like the Lancaster) or providing targetting assistance (like the Swallowtail), you're simply deciding where on the battlefield they are.

In Field Guide to the KTB, we got the White Witch, and again, we see what SSC feels like a Defender should be: one that reveres and pushes the boundaries of the human form by simply adapting to damage, becoming inured to it over time.

The problem with an IPS-N Artillery frame is twofold:

Core Bonus Lineup

Firstly, while they initially lacked a class of mech, there was nothing about SSC or HA that innately hampered the idea of one. There was nothing innate about the way SSC frames operate that prevented them from having Defenders, nor HA from having Supports.

IPS-N has one very serious issue when it comes to Artillery frames: its Core Bonus lineup. Two of its Core Bonuses (Gyges Frame, Titanomachy Mesh) are focused exclusively on melee combat, three (Briareos Frame, Reinforced Frame, Sloped Plating) are based around survivability, and the last (Fomorian Frame) is a niche option designed for certain builds. There's nothing in its CB lineup that an Artillery frame wants as a first priority.

Contrast this with SSC, which gets Neurolink Targeting (+3 range to all ranged weapons), and HA, which gets Heatfall Coolant System (Overcharge capped at 1d6), which are both great for Artillery frames.

Now, it's true that HORUS doesn't get any Core Bonuses directly useful for an Artillery frame either, but the one core Artillery frame that HORUS has is the Pegasus, which is extremely abnormal both by Artillery standards and by frame standards in general. (Also, it could be argued that Lesson of the Held Image is good as a way of applying free Lock Ons for yourself).

Not having any useful Core Bonuses is a problem for IPS-N that is compounded by the other major issue:

Combat Ethos

Each of the four core manufacturers is tied to a mech skill - Agility for SSC, Systems for HORUS, Engineering for HA and Hull for IPS-N. IPS-N hulls tend to be biased significantly towards high HP, Armor and Repair Cap, often at the expense of Sensor Range, Heat Cap and SP - the former grouping being stats that Artillery cares less about (since they tend not to want to be in the front lines), and the latter being stats they care more about (since Artillery frames tend to focus around one powerful gun backed up by a large number of support systems).

IPS-N frames are built to get up close and personal with the enemy, usually engaging at a maximum distance of 5 spaces. No ranged weapon that IPS-N makes shoots beyond Range 8.

I'm not saying that IPS-N couldn't have an Artillery, by any means, but there are more mechanical issues with it than any other class-manufacturer combination.

[iggyshippingcorner]

short n sweet stobotnik drabble (660 words) based off of some heinously adorable ideas from a mutual :'^)

~-~-~-~-~-~

Stone hears the sharp tak-tak of metal sensor caps clicking together and has already set all the pans on the stove to simmer before he’s properly recognised the sound. The version of the doctor that eagerly takes up space in his mind even when he’s off the clock gleefully crows about “clicker training”. He doesn’t bother taking off his apron, but he does toss his dishcloth onto the counter on his way out of the kitchen. 

When he rounds the corner and enters the main lab, he spots Robotnik at his secondary desk, still trapped in a remote meeting with Walters and some other stiff-necked higher-ups. He doesn’t acknowledge Stone’s appearance with anything other than a simple gesture-- index and middle fingers crooked, come hither my dutiful henchman. Stone comes hither. Keeps his steps silent and measured in case the doctor is un-muted. When he comes just within reach but wisely out of camera frame, Robotnik drops his hand into a different gesture: all fingers curled except the index, which points down at the floor beside his rolling desk chair. 

Stone spares a longing thought for the dinner he’d been halfway through preparing, but he kneels obediently and shuffles closer to the doctor, keeping his head out of frame. Robotnik’s face doesn’t betray so much as a twitch, deadened stare fixed on his webcam in a way that Stone knows makes everyone deeply uncomfortable. Stone gets close enough to his chair that his head nudges the doctor’s down-stretched hand, and then stills as those gloved fingers begin carding through his hair. This late in the day, his styling gel has all but given up the ghost, and his hair ruffles easily between the doctor’s fingers. The metal of the sensor caps warm quickly to his skin but still give him a bit of a shiver when they trace over the shell of his left ear. 

The doctor’s other hand pats at his thigh after a moment of silent petting, and Stone shuffles forward the last few inches needed to close the distance between them. He settles himself carefully with his arms folded over Robotnik’s lap, letting his cheek rest against his arms while his torso leans against the doctor’s legs. His foot-tapping, leg-bouncing ceases immediately, and a nigh-imperceptible amount of tension leaks out of his frame. Jackpot, Stone thinks, and settles in for the long haul. 

Robotnik smooths his hand from the crown of Stone’s head to the nape of his neck, then down across one shoulder to play across the bare skin of his forearms. From there, back up the opposite bicep to neck to crown again, a constant circuit of contact that makes the droning Zoom conference more tolerable. Stone closes his eyes and listens as best he can to the sound of the doctor breathing deep and even, the rasp of fabric when his gloved hand brushes against his shirt, catching on the folds where he’d rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. The occasional tik-ta when the sensor caps connect. 

When Robotnik eventually has to verbally respond, his voice is a little too loud for the proximity they share, but Stone hangs off every word. His hand has stilled, lightly gripping the back of Stone’s neck like he’s trapping him there, ensuring he won’t go skittering back to the kitchen while Robotnik focuses his attention elsewhere. Like there’s anywhere that Stone would rather be at the end of the day.

Eventually, the call will end and Robotnik will release Stone back to his cooking without any words exchanged on the matter. Eventually, Stone will finish making dinner and they will eat at the kitchen island and Robotnik will rant and rave about the new budget adjustments and the new mandatory conference in Houston. But for now, Stone lets the doctor dig his fingers into his pulse-point, pin him in place like an unruly lap dog. For now, Stone weathers the storm at the doctor’s side, mooring him in the tide.

[nasa]

ALT: This video shows blades of grass moving in the wind on a beautiful day at NASA’s Michoud Assembly Facility in New Orleans. In the background, we see the 212-foot-core stage for the powerful SLS (Space Launch System) rocket used for Artemis I. The camera ascends, revealing the core stage next to a shimmering body of water as technicians lead it towards NASA’s Pegasus barge. Credit: NASA

The SLS (Space Launch System) Core Stage by Numbers

Technicians with NASA and SLS core stage lead contractor Boeing, along with RS-25 engines lead contractor Aerojet Rocketdyne, an L3Harris Technologies company, are nearing a major milestone for the Artemis II mission. The SLS (Space Launch System) rocket’s core stage for Artemis II is fully assembled and will soon be shipped via barge from NASA’s Michoud Assembly Facility in New Orleans to the agency’s Kennedy Space Center in Florida. Once there, it will be prepped for stacking and launch activities.

Get to know the core stage – by the numbers.

Standing 212 feet tall and measuring 27.6 feet in diameter, the SLS core stage is the largest rocket stage NASA has ever built. Due to its size, the hardware must be shipped aboard NASA’s Pegasus barge.

900 miles

Once loaded, the barge – which was updated to accommodate the giant core stage -- will travel 900 miles to Florida across inland and ocean waterways. Once at Kennedy, teams with our Exploration Ground Systems team will complete checkouts for the core stage prior to stacking preparations.

18 Miles + 500 Sensors

As impressive as the core stage is on the outside, it’s also incredible on the inside. The “brains” of the rocket consist of three flight computers and special avionics systems that tell the rocket what to do. This is linked to 18 miles of cabling and more than 500 sensors and systems to help feed fuel and steer the four RS-25 engines.

8.8 million

Speaking of engines… Our SLS Moon rocket generates approximately 8.8 million pounds of thrust at launch. Two million pounds come from the four powerful RS-25 engines at the base of the core stage, while each of the two solid rocket boosters produces a maximum thrust of 3.6 million pounds. Together, the engines and boosters will help launch a crew of four Artemis astronauts inside NASA’s Orion spacecraft beyond Earth orbit to venture around the Moon.

733,000 Gallons

Achieving the powerful thrust required at launch calls for a large amount of fuel - 733,000 gallons, to be precise. The stage has two huge propellant tanks that hold the super-cooled liquid hydrogen and liquid oxygen that make the rocket “go.” A new liquid hydrogen storage sphere has recently been built at Kennedy, which can store 1.25 million gallons of liquid hydrogen.

Four

The number four doesn’t just apply to the RS-25 engines. It’s also the number of astronauts who will fly inside our Orion spacecraft atop our SLS rocket for the first crewed Artemis mission. When NASA astronauts Reid Wiseman, Christina Koch, and Victor Glover along with CSA astronaut Jeremy Hansen launch, they will be the first astronauts returning to the Moon in more than 50 years.

Make sure to follow us on Tumblr for your regular dose of space!

[mcflymemes]

SCI FI SETTINGS / LOCATIONS PROMPTS *  sci-fi location based prompts for starters, adjust as necessary

spaceship-specific

[ 01 ] the cockpit of a dilapidated spaceship

[ 02 ] the bridge of a massive starship, with windows around the room giving you an incredible view of the stars

[ 03 ] beside the burning remains of a crashed ship

[ 04 ] tucked away in the bunks of a tiny spaceship

[ 05 ] outside a spaceship in the middle of space, using gravity-boots to walk safely across the ship and perform repairs or check a bad sensor

[ 06 ] a bustling ship hangar with crewmembers running about, rushing to get into their ships as the battle draws near

[ 07 ] the weapons locker onboard the ship

[ 08 ] the locker rooms onboard the ship

[ 09 ] the echo-y shuttle bay of a spaceship

[ 10 ] in the ship's command center during an intense battle

[ 11 ] the narrow passageway leading to the ship's weapon system/turrets

[ 12 ] the mess hall, crowded with crewmembers

[ 13 ] your muse's private room onboard the ship

different types of planets

[ 14 ] a dense, foggy planet with oversized plants

[ 15 ] the abandoned base on a moon with low gravity

[ 16 ] a swampy, foggy planet with frightening creatures lurking beneath the water's surface

[ 17 ] an entirely water-covered planet with structures built above the stormy seas for safety

[ 18 ] a hilly, remote planet covered in grasslands

[ 19 ] a lava-covered, mountainous planet with bubbling volcanoes

[ 20 ] a planet trapped in a constant storm, always raining and thundering

[ 21 ] the site of an abandoned colony on a once-habitable planet, now taken over by nature and destroyed by time

[ 22 ] a planet where life only exists underground, where it is impossible to survive on the surface

[ 23 ] a city planet, completely built up of buildings, nightlife, neon lights, and a seedy underbelly

assorted locations + scenarios

[ 24 ] a military base, now abandoned and controlled by a rogue ai

[ 25 ] trapped within a high security prison full of space pirates

[ 26 ] a holy temple, obscured in the mountains of a distant planet

[ 27 ] on the craggy side of a massive meteor

[ 28 ] a dangerous off-world facility rumored to house illegal experimentations

[ 29 ] a bustling, cramped cantina filled with music, drinking, and the occasional gunshot or two

[ 30 ] secretly aboard the enemy's ship, trying to remain hidden

[agbpaints]

How To Paint: Lense Gemming

In the Heat Sink tutorial I mentioned that glow effects are really common in 40k paint schemes but see less use in Battletech so let's look at something that I frequently see go the other way- flat painted gem effects for lenses. These work well for Battletech energy weapons, but they can also be used for sensor clusters, glass eyepieces on things like a space marine helmet, or jewels on a more fantasy inspired mini. There's a variety of ways to do these- gem or contrast paints over a metallic base coat, gloss varnish, or just splashing the area with a little color all work just fine- but today I'm going to go over my basic recipe for a green reflective glass effect.

Paints I Used:

For as much of a love/hate relationship as I have with GW citadel paints their color system is remarkably good at getting proper highlight colors for things like this- I'm largely cribbing my color choices here from the old Duncan Rhodes videos and you can feel free to sub out for whatever colors work best for your particular project.

Citadel Caliban Green (dark green)

Citadel Warpstone Glow (green)

Citadel Moot Green (light green)

Army Painter Matt White (titanium white)

Method

Once you've completed the area around whatever you want to gem, start by painting this with your darkest color. Here we'll be using our dark Caliban Green, focusing on the Starslayer's two large lasers. If a little gets on the rim around the lense at this step that's fine.

Once your dark green is dry, take a very small brush and thin down your mid-tone green. Choose one of the bottom 'corners' of the lense and start carefully applying paint there. Ideally, we want to paint a 'crescent moon' shape centered on that corner, with a fatter middle section and thinner tips, leaving the darker green visible in the lense center and one of the upper corners. If the detail proves to small or your hand-eye coordination is too unwieldy for this, sketching a 'C' shape or simply putting a diagonal line thru the lense and coloring the lower half with your light color will also work at this scale.

Next, take your light green color and thin it with your smallest brush. Very carefully apply a thin line of this color along the outer edge of the area you painted with your green midtone.

Finally, apply a small dot of pure white to the upper corner of the lense that remains dark green.

And the gemming is done! Once you get the basic idea down you'll find that this is a pretty versatile technique (I use a variation of it for canopy glass as well). Definitely worth giving a try, and if you aren't a fan then like I said there's plent of other things to do to achieve similar results.