#Automatic Sensor Taps

[katetaps]

Automatic Golden Printed Bathroom Washing Hands Tap Wall Mounted Sensor Tap TG0170

Function: Bathroom Sink Taps Automatic Sensor Taps Feature: Centerset, Sensor Style: Contemporary Finish: Golden Printed Installation Holes: One Hole Valve Type: Ceramic Valve Tap Body Material: Brass Tap Spout Material: Brass

[tapron-uk]

Sensor Taps: A Ultimate Buyer’s Guide

The Tapron guide emphasizes the importance of sensor taps in promoting hygiene and water conservation in both public and private bathrooms. By using infrared technology to detect hand movements, these taps minimize the need for physical contact, thereby reducing the spread of germs and bacteria. The guide also highlights the efficiency of sensor taps in saving water and energy, contributing to a more sustainable lifestyle. For detailed insights and considerations before purchasing, visit the full guide here.

[tinyshyteacup]

• Words of Command •

Tw: Cussing, angst, mentions of blood and grime.

Words of Command - Part 1

The lobby of Stark Tower gleamed with too much glass and not enough warmth for your taste. Sunlight pooled through the towering windows, hitting the polished marble floors and refracting off the chrome detailing of the modern decor.

You sat behind the main reception desk, perched on a tall stool with your legs swinging slightly.

The desk itself was a sleek black curve, embedded with holographic displays and a touchpad that still didn’t always respond when you tapped it with freshly moisturized fingers.

A nameplate identified you only by your first name, the letters tastefully etched in a clean serif font.

At the moment, you were staring at the printer behind you like it had personally offended you. It made a soft whirring noise���then stopped.

A flicker of smoke puffed up from the feeder tray. You yelped.

“J.A.R.V.I.S., I swear, I didn’t even touch it this time!”

"Miss, respectfully, you did attempt to print a double-sided image from an incompatible file format.”

You scowled at the ceiling. “You’re not even here physically. How would you know?”

“I am connected to over 2,000 sensors in this room. Shall I list the ones currently monitoring your error?”

“Rude,” you muttered, grabbing the paper that had jammed mid-print.

You shook it like it was a bad dog chewing your shoes. “This is sabotage. You're trying to make me look bad in front of Mr Stark.”

“Rest assured, Mr. Stark has been made aware of your printer challenges. He found it... 'endearing.’”

Your cheeks flushed.

The sarcasm was biting, but the thought that Tony Stark had discussed you at all—even mockingly—made your stomach flutter in a way you weren’t proud of.

The lobby doors hissed open with that smooth mechanical slide, and you looked up automatically.

When Captain Rogers walked into a room, it was like watching someone pull the '40s into the present. He was tall, and looked slightly rumpled in civilian clothes—a dark blue hoodie stretched over broad shoulders and a plain T-shirt underneath.

He wore jeans like he didn't know what to do with them.

“Hey,” he greeted, voice gentle but somehow carrying in the echoey lobby. “You’re the receptionist, right, the wizz with phones ?”

You nodded quickly and smiled. “Y-Yes, Captain Rogers. Morning.”

He returned the smile, slower, steadier, as if trying to ease your nervous energy. “Please, call me Steve.”

Right. Like that would help.

You stood, still barely reaching his chest, and smoothed down the front of your cardigan. “What can I help you with?”

He stepped up to the desk, pulled something from the pocket of his jeans, and placed it on the counter. A Stark-Phone. One of the newer ones Stark had issued.

You tilted your head, eyebrows lifting.

“I, uh…” Steve scratched the back of his neck, clearly sheepish. “I pressed something and now it’s speaking Korean. I think.”

You gently picked up the phone and pressed the home button. “Oh. You activated the language cycle shortcut. Happens if you triple tap the lock screen.”

You tapped through the settings with practiced ease. “There. Back to English.”

Steve watched you like you were performing magic. “I don’t know how any of you keep up with this tech.”

You smiled softly, meeting his gaze with more courage this time. “Honestly? I mostly argue with the printer. J.A.R.V.I.S. does everything else.”

Steve chuckled, a warm, earnest sound that made your heart thump faster. “Well, you seem to be holding your own.”

As he turned to leave, he paused. “I like your necklace, by the way. It suits you.”

You looked down, brushing a finger across the tiny pendant resting at your collarbone. “Oh. Thank you. It was my grandmother’s.”

He nodded like that meant something to him.

“Thanks,” he says, when you’re done. Then adds, almost sheepishly, “It’s nice to talk to someone who doesn’t look at me like I’m going to throw a shield at them.”

You laugh nervously. “You’re... not that scary.”

His grin is warm, boyish. You find yourself smiling back, unexpectedly grounded.

The elevator dings, and in breezes Tony Stark like a whirlwind in thousand-dollar shoes.

He’s on a call, two steps ahead of his own thoughts, sunglasses on indoors because of course they are.

"Yeah, just tell Fury he can bite me. In Morse code. Bye."

Phone snapped off, sunglasses up, and he zeroes in on you. “Sweetheart. You jammed the printer again.”

“I did not jam the printer,” you say quickly. “Jarvis is just being dramatic.”

“Jarvis is always dramatic, but in this case? He’s right.”

Tony leans on the desk, eyes squinting slightly. “Do you intentionally make the tech hate you? Is this like your rebellion arc Thumbelina? First it's the printer, then you’re reprogramming him to swear in Gaelic.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” you murmur, looking down. Then pause. “Wait... JARVIS can swear?”

Tony smirks. “Atta girl. Knew there was a fire in there somewhere.”

He straightens up, hands in pockets, a half-laugh escaping him as he walks toward the elevator. “Keep her, Rogers!” he shouts over his shoulder. “She’s the only one who’s not afraid to talk back to Jarvis.”

You blink.

Captain Rogers is still standing a few feet away, watching the exchange with something between amusement and... curiosity.

Maybe even admiration.

The city never sleeps, but it sighs in the early hours of morning—hushed traffic, glimmering reflections on wet pavement, a lull between the pulse of nightlife and the rise of commuters.

Neon lights flicker overhead, buzzing faintly, casting long shadows that cling to him like a second skin.

He moves like he’s not sure he’s real.

Each footfall is heavy but hesitant, like the ground might reject him. His hair is a tangled mess, matted and unwashed, sticking to his face and jaw.

The stubble on his cheeks is rough, uneven, and clings to him like dirt. His clothes are soaked in sweat, grime, and old blood—some of it his, some of it not.

His left arm is bare and gleaming beneath a tattered coat sleeve, metal fingers twitching involuntarily, as though searching for a rifle that isn’t there.

He doesn’t remember where he’s been.

Only fragments, screams, commands in harsh syllables, red flashing lights. A corridor. Restraints. Cold.

Oh God that biting cold.

He walks past windows and glass doors, catching glimpses of himself in reflections—a shadow, a haunted smear of what used to be a man.

He doesn’t know his name.

Not truly.

Not right now.

But somewhere, deep under the static in his brain, there’s something.

Maybe he had a name.

And then he looks up.

It rises above him like a monument, gleaming even in the grey blue of pre-dawn. STARK in large, defiant letters. The light at the top pulses. He stops walking, just… stands there.

His breath fogs the cold air, erratic.

His chest heaves, ribs visible through the threadbare shirt beneath the jacket. His boots are worn to the sole.

Everything about him screams survival, but there’s a flicker in his eyes now—recognition.

Stark.

Mission report.

Howard.

December.

Blood.

Sixteen.

Comply.

1991.

Zimniy Soldat.

Soldat.

The words slam into him like gunfire, and he stumbles forward, metal hand clenching hard enough to groan under its own pressure.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing here. He only knows the building is important.

And maybe... maybe someone inside can make the noise stop.

The automatic doors whisper open, parting slowly to let him step into the warmth of Stark Tower’s front lobby. Inside, the polished floors shine, reflecting the subtle glow of the early-morning lighting.

The scent of fresh polish, faint coffee, and recycled air fills the space. It’s clean. Too clean. Sterile like a medical wing, like some place where experiments happened.

He hesitates in the doorway.

The light overhead flickers slightly, casting a quick stutter of shadow across his face—an echo of something dark beneath the skin.

You stand behind the front desk, holding your phone in one hand, uncertain. His body is massive in the entrance, his shoulders squared like a soldier preparing for a threat. That left arm, slick and inhuman, gleams under the overhead light, fingers twitching like they have a mind of their own.

He takes two steps forward.

You don’t move, but your fingers close slowly around the base of your mug—some deep instinct reaching for something solid, something real.

"Hi… I—I don’t think you’re supposed to be in here," you say softly, trying not to let the nervous quiver in your voice show.

He tilts his head.

Not sharply. Not mechanically. Like a man trying to understand.

His lips part. You can tell it’s painful. His throat works around something—speech, maybe, or just the ghost of it. His voice comes like gravel, dry and shredded.

“Pomohgeet-yeh…"  Help.

Your brows knit. You don’t understand the words. But the way he says them makes your chest hurt.

He tries again.

“Gde… eta?"  Where… is this?

The effort it takes him to speak is visible.

He trembles.

Not with fear, but exhaustion. His whole body is strung tight like a stretched wire, ready to snap. One wrong move and he could bolt. Or lash out. Or break down.

You hold both hands up in that gentle, universal please-don’t-run gesture. “I—I don’t know what you’re saying. But I want to help. I can call someone. Or—I can get Mr. Stark if you want, or—”

At the name, something sharp flickers behind his eyes.

Stark.

He flinches like you’ve slapped him.

Suddenly, he shifts—too fast. That metal arm raises slightly, just a fraction. You freeze. Not because you think he’s going to hurt you—but because for a moment, he doesn’t look like a man anymore.

He looks like a ghost wrapped in combat training, forged in violence.

His eyes dart around the lobby—scanning exits, angles, security cameras.

His stance changes subtly, weight shifting onto the balls of his feet, as though he’s ready to take someone down.

And you—you’re just standing there.

He opens his mouth again, lips cracked and barely moving.

“Ne khochu… drat’sya." I don’t want… to fight.

You still don’t understand the words.

But you understand the tone.

Soft. Strained. Pleading.

“uh-huh,” you whisper.

You take a slow step around the desk. Not too close. But enough that he can see your hands, see your face.

You keep your voice low. “You look like you need help. Food? Water?”

He doesn’t answer. But his eyes track your hand as you slowly lift your bottle and offer it to him.

He reaches for it with his metal hand—but stops. There’s shame in the hesitation.

Holy Shit, is that metal ?

The faintest flicker of emotion across his dirt-streaked face. He switches to his right hand and takes it.

He drinks.

Not quickly. Like every swallow might be a mistake. Like he doesn’t trust it not to hurt.

As he drinks, you take him in quietly.

He looks... wrong in this space. The marble floor, the sleek design, the soft hum of Jarvis’ systems in the walls—it makes him look like something out of time. Like a soldier in a museum.

And then it hits you.

There’s something familiar about him. Not just the metal arm. Not just the way he looked at the building. But something in the jawline. The eyes.

You move slowly back to your desk, heart thudding as you open a file of security images.

"Who are you?" you whisper to yourself.

He doesn't answer.

He just watches you.

You move quietly to the comm panel, still keeping one eye on the man sitting stiffly in the chair near the lobby’s edge.

Tony had given you a comms piece to use in emergencies, is this a emergency ?

Stranger, built like a fridge, with a metal arm ?

Definitely.

The stranger in question hasn’t spoken since you gave him the bottle of water. His fingers—bare and bruised on one hand, cold steel on the other—grip it like it might disappear. He hasn’t drunk again. Just stares at the wall like he's trying to make sense of what a wall is.

Your voice is hushed as you speak into the receiver.

“Captain Rogers? I—I’m sorry to bother you. But there’s someone in the lobby. A man. I don’t know who he is, but I think… I think you should come down ... please.”

You don’t say that he’s filthy, trembling, starved.

You don’t say you’re afraid of how quiet he is.

You don’t say that even Jarvis, hasn’t spoken a word since he arrived.

As though the building itself is holding its breath.

You hear him before you see him—the heavy, purposeful footfalls of combat boots against tile. The automatic doors open with a whoosh, and Captain Steve Rogers steps into the lobby like a storm arriving with restraint.

He stops dead in his tracks.

You watch the expression on his face collapse.

From soldier to friend.

From Avenger to broken-hearted brother.

“...Bucky?” he breathes.

The name falls into the room like a thunderclap.

But the man in the chair doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t even look up.

“Bucky,” Steve tries again, stepping forward slowly, cautiously, as though any sudden movement might spook him.

The man’s eyes track Steve—but only briefly. Recognition doesn’t register.

No emotion flickers. Just calculation.

The Winter Soldier, watches Steve Rogers like he’s a possible threat. Like a target.

You step back instinctively, not out of fear, but because the air has changed. Thickened.

Like the moment before a fight. Or before someone remembers something too painful to hold.

Steve is trying. You can see it.

“Bucky, it’s me. It’s Steve. Steve Rogers. Brooklyn. 40s. We grew up together.” His voice cracks.

But there’s nothing behind those eyes. Not the kind of nothing that comes from confusion.

The kind that’s been scraped clean.

Programmed.

Buried.

The man’s body tenses. A tic in the jaw. A breath held too long.

His fingers flex on the water bottle, crack—plastic gives under his grip.

Then, that guttural voice “Ne znayu tebya." I don’t know you.

Steve flinches. Not physically. Not visibly.

But you feel the break.

He kneels in front of him, ignoring the metal arm, the set jaw, the violence in his posture. His voice lowers to a whisper, so raw and aching it doesn't feel meant for anyone else to hear.

“I thought I lost you. I never stopped looking.”

The soldier’s gaze doesn’t soften.

His eyes scan Steve like he’s a file to be decrypted. A puzzle, not a person.

He shifts in the chair.

Not toward Steve—but away. Just a few inches. Enough to feel like a rejection.

The lobby is quiet again. Bucky? Or The soldier?—or the shell of him—sits in the corner like a statue draped in rags. His posture stiff, eyes half-lidded but never soft.

Like a soldier awaiting deployment, tension simmering beneath his skin.

Steve touches your arm gently and gestures toward the hallway off the reception desk. His voice is low, heavy with something that feels like grief soaked in guilt.

“That’s Bucky,” he says. “James Barnes. We grew up together. He enlisted before me.”

You blink up at him, trying to marry the image of the blank, cold-eyed man in the lobby with the idea of someone’s best friend.

Steve swallows hard. “But… that’s not who he is now. Hydra got to him. They—”

He stops. The words taste wrong in his mouth.

“They erased him. Broke him down and rebuilt him into something else. A ghost with a gun. They called him ‘The Winter Soldier.’”

A pause. His jaw tightens.

“They didn’t use his name. They called him Soldat." Steve whispers, making sure only you hear.

You murmur the word aloud without thinking, testing it, you feel disgust claw at your spine at the idea of someone being stripped so bare.

“Soldat…?”

The sound barely leaves your lips. Just a sound.

But across the lobby—the man moves.

Fast.

Sudden.

Mechanical.

The chair clatters backwards as he rises in one sharp, fluid motion. Spine straight, feet planted.

His metal arm clenches, whirring softly. His eyes, once clouded with the fog of confusion, snap into unnatural focus.

Like a trigger has been pulled.

His gaze lands on you.

Not Steve.

You.

Then, in that same guttural, rasping Russian:

“Gotov k vypolneniyu." Ready to comply.

Your heart lurches. You don’t know what he said—but the tone tells you enough.

Cold.

Obedient.

Trained.

Steve steps forward sharply, hand raised. “Bucky—no! She’s not—”

But Bucky isn’t listening. His head turns ever so slightly toward you, chin dipped in rigid respect, but eyes locked like a weapon sighting a command post.

Then, another word in Russian.

“Rukovoditel’" Handler.

Shit. SHIT

You freeze, mouth slightly open, eyes wide as you stare at the man before you.

He’s taller than you by what feels like a foot, broad-shouldered and imposing, hair tangled, blood on his temple not yet dried. But it’s not his appearance that terrifies you.

It’s how still he is now. How controlled. How conditioned.

Like someone flipped a switch inside him.

Steve’s hand is on your shoulder suddenly, protective, grounding.

“He thinks you’re his handler,” Steve says softly. His voice is tight, like he’s struggling to remain calm. “Hydra trained him to respond to words 'Soldat' must have triggered it.”

You glance at the Soldier—and feel a cold chill crawl down your spine.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just waits.

As if he’s expecting you to give him an order.

You whisper, almost afraid of your own voice, “What do I do?”

Steve shakes his head. “Don’t give him commands. Don’t say anything that sounds like one. We’ll get Bruce or Tony down here, maybe they can—”

The sound of polished leather shoes and the hiss of elevator doors heralds Tony Stark’s arrival.

He strides into the lobby like he owns every inch of it—which, of course, he does. A tailored charcoal suit, sunglasses he doesn’t need indoors, and a cup of coffee he’s already bored with. His tone, dry as ever.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the Tin Man himself.”

Tony stops a few paces from the soldier, surveying him like a potential weapon. Or worse, a ticking bomb.

“You gonna sing ‘If I Only Had a Brain,’ or…?”

No response.

The Soldier—still as a statue—doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just stands in that unnatural way. Tense. Straight-backed. Alert. His metal hand twitches faintly at his side, barely noticeable unless you’re watching for it.

And you definitely are now.

You stand just behind Steve, hands clasped nervously in front of you like you’re trying to shrink into the floor. But you feel the weight of his stare. Not Tony’s. Not Steve’s.

His.

The Soldier.

His eyes, dark and unreadable, are pinned on you.

Tony raises an eyebrow and leans toward Steve. “So this is the guy you were willing to punch me in the face over?” He eyes the torn tactical gear and matted hair. “Charming.”

Steve doesn’t rise to the bait. His voice is firm but quiet. “He’s not well. Hydra programmed him. We think he… believes she's his handler”

Tony turns toward you, glancing you up and down, not rudely, just… curious. “She gets winded carrying a bag of flour.”

You open your mouth to protest, but then The Soldier moves.

Not toward Tony.

Not toward Steve.

Just… a slight shift. He angles his body protectively between you and Stark.

And then he speaks. Russian again.

“Rukovoditel"

His voice is hoarse, barely a growl.

Tony snorts. “Let me guess. That means ‘fearless leader’?”

Steve sighs. “It means ‘handler.’ I told you Tony, he thinks she’s his handler.”

Tony takes off his sunglasses, eyes narrowing. “Oh, great. We’ve got a murder machine who’s latched onto Thumbelina.”

He turns back to The Soldier, then tries his best Stark-brand sarcasm. “Hey, RoboCop. You like shawarma? Puppies? The Bee Gees?”

The Soldier doesn’t react.

His gaze stays locked on you. Like Stark isn’t even in the room.

“Gotov k vypolneniyu" Ready to comply.

Tony paces a bit, muttering to himself.

“Okay, okay… Steve brings in a half-feral Hydra brain bomb who only listens to the human equivalent of a cupcake, and I’m just supposed to—what—build him a bunkbed?”

Steve steps between them, voice low and serious. “He’s not dangerous to her. You saw that.”

“Oh yeah, I saw it,” Tony shoots back. “Saw him zero in on her like a guided missile with a crush. Only she’s not trained. She doesn’t even speak Russian. What happens if she says the wrong thing?”

You flinch a little at that, the weight of it finally settling in your chest.

Tony softens for a half-second. Just a breath. His eyes flick to you. “No offense. I’m sure you’re a lovely hostage.”

Then, toward The Soldier again. “You got anything else in that scrambled brain of yours? English? Stark tech? The weather?”

The Soldier’s only movement is the subtle tightening of his jaw. The slight widening of his stance—defensive. Watching Tony too closely now. Like he’s assessing threat levels.

But then… his eyes return to you.

You whisper, half to yourself, “He’s waiting.”

Tony raises a brow. “For what?”

You shrug helplessly. “An order. I think.”

The lobby feels heavier. Like a suspended moment, stretched too tight.

Tony watches the two of you, something calculative slipping into his expression.

“This is a problem,” he murmurs. “Because if she’s his focus, and we can’t get through to him otherwise—he’s not just broken. He’s tethered.”

Steve crosses his arms. “Then we don’t break the tether. We use it. Let her anchor him.”

Tony scoffs. “Oh, sure. Let’s just traumatize a receptionist, make her the sole translator for Hydra’s favorite murder puppet. What could go wrong?”

But even he can’t ignore the truth, the Winter Soldier isn’t reacting to threats, or commands, or charm.

Only you.

Fuck.

[brotherblaze]

the big freeze — jason todd

summary: Jason appears at your door in the middle of the night. Who are you to turn him away?

cw: implied claustrophobia

wc: 1,5k

note: you ever get stuck in an elevator and realize 'oh this is a closed metal box hanging in the air on the 13th floor' and then it takes the combined efforts of 3 people on different floors to get you out bc the wrong elevator keeps opening?

The TV switches to a commercial break featuring an ad for a late night hotline just as your phone buzzes. You reach for the remote to mute it and bring your phone to your ear. No sane person calls you at this hour. Which only leaves…

“Yes?”

“Can you…” there’s a pause on Jason’s end, and you use the moment to glance at the time. 1:38 AM. Yeah, not a sane time, arguably not a completely sane person, if judging by what his family gets up to back in Gotham. “I’m downstairs.”

“I gave you a keycard and the code for the security system.”

He sighs and the sound rattles in your ear. “I know, I—I’ve been waiting for someone to come by for like 20 minutes.”

“Well, in their defense, it’s way past 1AM.” You slide your feet into your slippers and stand, turning the TV off as you go. “Normal people are usually asleep at these times. On Tuesdays, no less.”

“Yeah? And what’s your excuse?”

“I’m an occasional insomniac.” You press the phone between your shoulder and cheek as you grab the black sweater draped over the back of your couch.

Still, the hallway is cold, all exposed brick and bright overhead lights. The chill bites at your cheeks and invades through the soft wool of your sweater. Jason’s sweater? It’s hard to tell anymore; so many of his things are at your place and so many of your things are at his place. The elevator arrives with a quiet ding. Goosebumps rise on your skin as you step inside, avoiding the large wet patch on the red carpet.

You don’t let the call drop, but neither of you are speaking anymore, either. The numbers on the small screen on the elevator wall count down.

Jason is standing by the large automatic doors at the entrance of the building. He has his leather jacket slung over his arm. You can faintly make out droplets from the rain still clinging to the surface of the leather. There—just as he spots you—a smile blooms on his face, almost boyish, as he cuts across the empty foyer in long, near-silent footsteps. He wraps his arms around your waist, presses his face into the crook of your neck. His hair is damp and you feel the water slide under your collar. The tip of his nose is cold, resting over your pulse. His wet jacket presses against your side, soaking your sweater.

Instead of the chill from the fall rain, there’s a steady warmth simmering beneath Jason’s skin. It spurs from his chest and spreads to his extremities, arms wound tightly around your body, to his fingertips pressing under your sweater and into your skin.

You nearly yelp at how cold his fingers are.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“We gotta take two steps to the left — my left,” you clarify. Jason does not unwind himself from around you, but he does take a step to the side and then another until you can reach the elevator keypad. You tap your keycard against the sensor and hit the button for your floor. The elevator doors drag closed and it begins its ascent.

Jason’s pulse jumps and his grip around you tightens. You don’t say anything, don’t pry him off or tell him to get his shit together—instead, you place a hand on the back of his head, curl the rain-damp strands of hair around your fingers. Jason’s lips part involuntarily in a silent sigh.

“Need a haircut, eh, bub?”

He chuckles, barely audible over the jingle playing from the elevator speakers. “What if I buzz it all off? Military style.”

You make a disgusted sound in the back of your throat.

The elevator slides to a stop, the lock mechanism clicks into place, and the doors open.

“We’re here,” you say, voice soft and light.

Jason takes a long breath in, inhaling your strawberry-scented body lotion. He’s the one that got it for you as one of your many gifts last Christmas (thank you, Babs, for being his sniff-tester) and it makes him giddy to know you still use it. He untangles himself from you, not fully, though, and guides you towards your apartment, an arm around your waist.

He toes off his boots and hangs his jacket in its usual place as you re-arm the security system.

“You should really start arming that thing even if you go down for pizza or something,” he says and bends over to pick up the black ball of fur rubbing against his leg. “Hi, hi, hi, yes, hi to you, too,” he tells your cat, nuzzling his face into her fur. He looks up at you, raises a brow when you open your mouth to say ‘this is Metropolis, nothing bad happens here,’ because you’ve had this exchange twice now. “Just saying, if I was 9 again and I knew someone left their apartment full of stuff you could easily pawn unlocked…”

You sigh. “Okay. I’ll remember to do that.” 

Because for Jason, it isn’t about the things in your apartment, not really.

“Thank you.”

You retreat into your bedroom and Jason carries your cat around like she’s a baby as he laps around your apartment. He stops at the tall windows in the living room and starts pointing out Metropolis landmarks as if said cat hasn’t been living in Metropolis longer than he has.

When you return, a pair of gray sweatpants and one of his shirts in hand, he’s telling your cat about how ‘Aunt Lois deserved that Pulitzer prize so much more than uncle Clark’. 

“Sorry if I’m interrupting something…”

“Oh, no, no, just reinstating how Clark got a Pulitzer before Lois even though she’s a much better writer than he is.”

“Right.” You hold out the change of clothes to him. “I got you a new toothbrush; the other one was getting old.”

“Thank you.” Jason accepts the change of clothes and beelines it towards the bathroom to change, your cat still in his arms.

Once he emerges (after quite loudly announcing to your cat how one should brush their teeth), his damp clothes left in the dryer to run first thing in the morning, you’re already nestled between the sheets. There’s an extra pillow and duvet spread out next to you. Jason releases your cat, who skitters to her bed on the windowsill to watch the rain droplets race down the glass, and climbs into bed, pats his pillow until it’s of satisfactory height.

You turn off the bedside lamp on your nightstand, turn on the cat-shaped nightlight and shimmy between the sheets. Then you pause, grab your phone and unlock it.

Jason’s eyes roam your face, the curve of your nose and lips, the heaviness in your tired eyes as you slowly blink at your phone screen. He’s made an effort to commit your features to his memory so he can see your face every time he closes his eyes. So he can keep you with him everywhere. Always. So, once again, he takes his time, going over every one of your features until you lock your phone and place it back on the nightstand.

“I love you,” he says, low and soft, though with all the clarity he can inject into his words.

You stare at him for a moment, then pull your duvet up to your chin, rest your head on your pillow and close your eyes. “I love you, too.”

“Forever.”

“Forever is such a vague concept,” you tell him with a scrunch in your brow. He can barely make it out in the dim red glow of the bedroom but he knows it's there. “Until the end of the universe. And even then you’ll be stuck with me. Like glitter.”

“Yeah? When’s that?”

“We’ll reincarnate an infinite amount of times between now and then,” you say with the certainty of someone who’s gazed far into the future, gazed at the very death of the universe itself. Maybe you have. Maybe you’re a meta—a true meta—unlike him, something that crawled out of his grave in Gotham.

Jason blinks, allows your statement to settle into the marrow of his bones, into his very being. His blood thrums in his veins. He balls his hands into fists to stop them from shaking. “I don’t know; sounds a lot like forever.”

You make a sound at the back of your throat again. It is not a sound of displeasure, nor a sound of agreement, either. “Again; vague. The eventual death of the universe is all but guaranteed; it’ll expand too much and become too cold to inhabit. Probably. There’s like… six different big theories on how the universe will end. Take your pick.”

“But we’ll find each other every time.” It is not a question. Still, you nod.

“Yes. Every lifetime.”

“Promise?”

You open your eyes, take him in—you can barely make out his features in the dark but you can—the mass of dark hair splayed out across his (your) pillow, the curve of his nose and that of his cupid’s bow, the almost milky whiteness of his eyes. This is where your heart has settled. This is home.

“I promise.”

part 2

dividers by @/cafekitsune

[jpitha]

Curiosity

Captain Benimen grabbed the arms of his chair tightly as the gravity struggled to keep up with the twirling and twisting, the ducking and juking his ship was doing to try and avoid the missiles, energy weapons, and slugs being thrown at them.

"Stupid humans! Why did I even agree to this?" He shouts, as a rippling thump runs along the spine of his ship and makes the deck plates rattle.

"To be fair Captain Benimen, we're not the ones shooting." Keli, one of the human engineers brought over by HIDA and the Coalition was also gripping the bottom of her fold-out chair tightly. Human ships have belts in the seats to keep you in place during high maneuvers; there is no such luxury on the Sefigan's ship. "You aren't going to return fire?"

She had a point. It wasn't human pirates that were attacking his ship and attempting to disable his newly installed Flipwarp drive, still he was never one to stop when he had a good rant going.

"It doesn't matter! The moment you show up, trouble follows close behind. Besides, we can't return fire, we have no weapons. Sensors!" he barked, "Who are these pirates anyway?"

The officer at the sensor suite station is barely holding on as the ship bucks and moves. The screen is vibrating so much they can barely read it. "Uh, it might be Whitetail, Captain. It's tough to tell while we're dodging them."

"Whitetail?! What are they doing way out here?" Captain Benimen starts gesturing with his hands as he's yelling, but a bump causes him to lift out of his seat and he scrambles to grab the arms again. "I don't care who it is, Flipwarp us out of here, we'll outrun them." He turns to Keli "Your upgrade had better work."

"Flipping now, Captain" Helm reports, and the ship is suddenly encased in the prismatic field of their new Flipwarp drive and the shaking stops.

Benimen nods to himself and his fur lowers. "Good. Now that that's settled, we can figure out-" Another series of heavy thumps is felt through the deck. There's a puff of atmosphere, and they can all hear the muffled cries of an alarm and the pressure doors slamming shut through the ship. "Ancestors! What was that?"

"Sir! It appears that Whitetail followed our Flipwarp signal and is giving chase. They're behind us!" The sensor suite officer's voice is tinged with panic.

Automatically Benimen looked behind. All he could see was the rear of the Command Deck, and he swore softly. Turning back to the screen in the front, he could see the outline of another ship behind them, also encased in a prismatic field soaring through Flipspace. "How are they doing that? How can they track us?" He turned to Keli. "Do you know?"

Keli looked up at the ceiling in thought for a moment. As she did, she blinked and stared at the lights. "That's not right..." Looking around, she strode over to the wall behind the captain and ran her hand along a seam. She followed it to the door out of Command. "What the..." She stood up and walked over to the helm station. "Can I check something out for a moment please?"

"O-of course, go ahead." The officer stood, and Keli sat, wincing at the chair made for smaller and more cushioned bodies. She started tapping at the panels.

"Ancestors..." she tapped, frowned, tapped some more. There was a sound like someone banging pots and pans under water.

"They're still firing." The sensor officer replied, glancing up at Captain Benimen, their eyes flicking between him and Keli.

"Keli? Anything you'd wish to share with us during our last few moments alive?" Even in the middle of the battle Captain Benimen made time for sarcasm.

Keli waved him off and touched something near her ear. "Greg, come up to Command, you need to see this."

A few seconds later, a human walked in, wearing an armored pressure suit. The command crew swiveled to look as he clanged in and they all looked worried. Greg lifted his helmet. "Some of the ship is in vacuum, that's why I'm in the suit. The Fire teams are working on securing the area and making safe passage from aft to fore." He walked over to Keli. "What's wrong?"

"Look at this, can you see the lockout here? Keli pointed at something on the back of the station. "Look here too, I think this was added later." She ducked under the station and swore. "This was retrofitted! Captain, who did you buy this ship from?"

"Er, it was my Father's ship, and before that, his Uncle's." Captain Benimen's claws slid in and out of their sheaths in irritation. "It's been in our family for more than one hundred solar years. Why does this matter? We're being shot at, if you have forgotten."

"It matters, Captain, because you seem to have a ship made out of another ship." She pointed up. "Greg, look up, what do you see?"

It was difficult to look up in a pressure suit. Greg had to lean back and crane his neck. Almost as soon as he did he said "Those aren't Sefigan lights."

"Exactly! Check out the rear panel behind the Captain too. That's not made of vremnian, it's a different alloy. I'd bet thirty stars that it's polychroma."

Greg smiled. "I'll take your word for it Keli. It's interesting, but I don't see how this will help us."

Keli gestured with her hands and opened her mouth and closed it once or twice. She was having trouble with her words. "This means that it's not a Sef ship, they bought it and retrofitted it centuries ago. They would have most likely bought it from the Draeden."

"I'll take your word for it, Keli, starship history is your hobby, not mine."

"No no! The Draeden were notorious for arming everything. They were more paranoid than we were! So if we can find where they dummied out the old systems and shunt some power to them..."

"Then we can reactivate the Draeden weapons? Keli that's insane. If they're still here, they're under tons of hull and even if they were exposed they haven't been powered in a couple of centuries."

Keli crossed her arms. Another brace of shots punctuated her pose. "So you'd rather get disabled, boarded and killed - if we're lucky?"

Greg sighed. He bent over and with a thrumming woosh, his suit opened like a flower and he stepped out. "What do I need to do?"

She pointed over towards sensors. "Check that wall, look for hatches, panels, anything. She tapped the comm on her wrist and clinked it against Greg's head. "Here's an update to your translator overlay, you should be able to read Draeden; they're old enough they didn't speak Belanic."

While Greg searches, Keli returns to the helm station and crawled underneath. Captain Benimen could only watch as she started ripping fistfulls of wire out from under the station, and the acrid smell of burning insulation filled the deck.

"Keli! Cease this at once! Stop trying to destroy my ship!"

She slid out from underneath and threw a card at him. "I'm sorry, Captain, I'm in command now." And then went back under the helm station and ripped more wires.

Captain Benamin read the card. In no uncertain terms it told him that Keli had the full backing of the Coalition to do anything and everything to continue her mission - including taking command. On the back was the sigil and signatures of all ten administrators. He held the card as if it would burn him, and sat, defeated.

Suddenly as Keli was ripping wires, there was an alarm that sounded on the deck. It was... different. The crew hadn't heard this one before. It sounded older, more crackly, more warbling.

And the voice wasn't speaking Belanic.

"Got it!" Keli sat up in triumph, and her finger started dancing over the screens. "Greg, did you find it yet?"

"Find what, I've been tapping an- oh!" As he was talking, Greg heard the tone of the panel change. He pushed hard, and it popped open, sliding back on very old gas shocks. Inside were two very large levers, caked in dust and grease. Above them was a sign written in the dotted slashed text of ancient Draeden. As Greg focused on it, his overlay translated the text. 'Manual Override.' "Keli, I found some levers marked Manual Override."

"Yes! Those are the ones. When I say, pull them out, twist the handles 180 and push them back, hard. I'm doing to drop us out of Flipwarp in three... two...now"

With an uncharacteristic shudder, the ship fell out of Flip space and was in regular space again. A moment later the Whitetail ship appeared next to them, and began to fire.

"Now Greg!"

Greg heaved on the levers and they came out of the panel with a heavy clang. He turned the wide handles on the end 180 degrees and bending down, pushed them back into the cabinet until they clacked home.

As he finished, the ancient alarm changed. It went from a high warbling tone to a faster, more insistent tone. A voice in a calm, authoritative voice said something and after a moment repeated it. Another beat, and the ever present noise of the ship, the HVAC, the reactors, everything went silent. Even the gravity turned off, and everyone started to rise from their seat awkwardly.

Benimen began to spin slowly in the air. "I swear on the dust of my ancestors human, if you have broken my ship I will-" he started, but then Keli glared at him. Some very ancient part of his brain reacted to her predatory glare and he stopped. Sefigans were omnivores on their original world, but they tended to be opportunistic. They didn't hunt unless that was the only option. His ancient brain knew what a hunter looked like and knew he shouldn't antagonize one.

After three heartbeats, there was a series of sharp clangs running the length of the ship, starting in the front and headed aft. Following that, the noise of the ship started to return, but the reactor sounded different, angrier. The gravity turned on and everyone fell back into their seats. Benimen landed hard on his bottom.

"Captain! We're..." Sensors looked at their screens and boggled. "Captain, we're splitting off from our ship."

"We're what?" He stood up and ran over to the sensor officer. Sure enough, what looked like the cargo bay, the rear maintenance garage and the hangar was floating away. Luckily the crew quarters, the reactor and the front portion of the ship was still intact. They didn't loose anyone when the ship peeled away.

Keli looked over and pointed. "Greg!"

Greg turned and next to the panel where the manual override levers were, another panel spun around. This had a series of screens and levers, all slightly grimy. He concentrated on the text and his overlay translated.

"Weapons suite."

****

"Pow! Zap! Just like that! I would not have believed it myself if I hadn't seen it, but luckily for you, I was." Benimen nodded to himself and took another sip of his drink.

The bartender made a face. "So you're telling us that your creaky old cargo ship that you got from your father was secretly a Draeden-"

"-a group we hadn't heard anything from in nigh on four centuries." the Innari next to Benimen helpfully added.

"Yes thank you Ki. Your ship was decretly a Draeden frigate this whole time, and you never figured it out?"

"Well, I got the ship from my Da, right? He showed me how to work it and that was that. I never dug into it because I didn't need to. I hauled cargo, and it did that well." Benimen's excitement was diminished with the words from the bartender. He did have a point after all.

"But Beni, you didn't even have the curiosity to learn about your own ship?"

"Dammit Rai what do you want me to say? That I was an idiot and never learned more about my ship and it's history? Why would I do that. Why would I learn about the history of a spanner, or a welder, or a compensator?"

"Because sometimes, you learn interesting things." Keli said, walking into the bar. She was dressed in the sharply tailored black uniforms of HIDA now instead of her grubby coveralls. Her long hair was tied back into a simple ponytail and she was grinning. "Benimen, I was coming by to say thank you for letting me take control, and to apologize for breaking your cargo ship."

The Rai and Ki stared at Keli in shock, and then turned to Benimen "You were telling the truth?" they said in unison.

Benimen grunted and took another sip of his drink. "Course I was."

"Captain Benimen, on behalf of HIDA, I am offering you recompense in the form of three hundred thousand stars. That should be suitable to repair and refit your ship, yes?" She handed him a pad and sure enough, he was now three hundred thousand stars richer. The sigil of the Coalition was at the bottom of the document, certifying it as genuine.

He slid off his barstool and stood before Keli. "Keli - I should say, Agent Keli, I thank you for this." He saluted sharply, Sefigan style, with both his paws across his chest with his claws extended. Keli returned the salute, human style. Business concluded, she turned to leave.

"I'm sorry, Agent, Keli?" Benimen called after her.

She turned. "Keli is fine, Captain."

His ears waggled. "Then you have earned the right to use my family name. Call me Hamin. I am wondering though... I've heard that HIDA hires non-humans. Do you have a need for a captain who has recently come into a frigate and some money that could be used to fit it out?"

Keli stood with her hands on her hips, and looked him up and down. "Well Hamin. That all depends. Why don't you come with me, and we'll see what's what."

[infiniteeight8]

Since you mentioned having more Tony & Soul ideas I would love to know what comes next in that verse <3

It’s been awhile since we returned to Tony & Soul! :D 

The rest of the series can be found here: https://archiveofourown.org/series/3910384

For the record, although this ficlet involves shapeshifters, it has nothing to do with Secret Invasion. This whole ‘verse goes AU after Titan, so none of that applies. These are just generic shapeshifters, rather than Skrulls.

-

“They’ve started mimicking us,” Natasha says tensely. “Be careful who you leave at your back.”

Tony swears. These shapeshifters had started off hiding in plain sight as objects and had moved on to copying civilians, which had made them difficult but not impossible to identify. Apparently, whatever it is that enables them to take on a shape had adapted again. “They won’t have comms, though,” he says.

“No, but we’ve already lost contact with Steve,” Natasha says. “We can’t tell a damaged comm from a compromised comm.”

“Tony,” Stephen calls out, flying over. Tony tenses; does the mimicry extend to flight? “They can’t hide their souls from you,” he says when he’s close enough not to shout.

No one but Stephen knows about Soul. Tony relaxes. “Look for people without connections to me?” he guesses, already tapping into the sense that shows him the soul threads. Most of the civilians have cleared out already.

But Stephen shakes his head. “A battle might be enough to establish a connection. You need to look for the shape of their souls, not just their relationship to others.”

“Shape, right,” Tony mutters, but he concentrates, letting Soul help adjust his perception. Suddenly the few civilians still hiding from the battle flare brightly. Tony rears back and curses, automatically shading his eyes even though this brightness has nothing to do with vision. 

“Tony! Are you okay?” Stephen’s hovering close by, and his soul is the brightest of all. Tony is seeing so much, he can’t even process it.

Soul steps in and suddenly everything eases down until he’s only getting a general impression of people. Tony lets out a breath. “I’m okay,” he tells Stephen. “Just a little information overload. I’ve got it now.”

It turns out that aliens have very differently shaped souls than humans. Tony has no trouble at all telling them apart. With Stephen’s help, the remaining shapeshifters are quickly rounded up and secured. 

“How’d you pick them out?” Natasha asks while she, Tony, Stephen, Steve, Sam, and Bruce wait for the appropriate authors to retrieve them.

If he says he adjusted his suit sensors, they’ll want to know how, for the future. But Tony isn’t ready for anyone to know about Soul. Not yet. One day he’ll have to explain, but—

“I cast a spell,” Stephen says. “It took some time to adapt; these shapeshifters aren’t like those I’ve seen before.”

Natasha raises her eyebrows. “There’s more than one kind?”

“Many more,” Stephen assures her.

She shakes her head. “Great. The universe is a wonderful place,” she says dryly. 

“Thanks,” Tony tells Stephen later, when they’re alone in the Sanctum. “For covering for me.”

“Any time,” Stephen says, smiling.

“I will tell them, eventually,” Tony promises. 

Stephen leans forward. “They’re not entitled to know, Tony. Whether or not you share this with them is entirely your choice.”

Tony has to laugh; that’s not an opinion he hears much. But he can feel Stephen’s sincerity, and he can’t help but bask in it a little. “Eventually, someone is going to notice I’m not aging, if nothing else.”

“There are illusions I can cast that would take care of that,” Stephen says. “I mean it: What you share with others is entirely up to you.”

That promise leaves Tony a little breathless. “Thank you,” Tony says again, because he can’t seem to find any other words.

[mychlapci]

Good meowning I was thinking about the mertwins again

Against what everyone has tried to quote as protocol, Prowl brings himself to the access above the red mer's tank again. He needs to prove that he is in no danger and that the sedation is unnecessary.

This time he keeps himself at least a frame's length away from the tank opening, crouching. He's borrowed a mop or something from storage, using the handle to tap at the water's surface. He taps and taps... until he sees blue optics peering at him from under the water.

He watches claw-tipped servos emerge from the water, grasping the edge of the tank and hauling the groggy mer up, his torso now above the waterline.

Maybe it's an error in judgement- Prowl moves closer to grab the mer's forearm. A moment of weakness. He saw the mer struggle and automatically reached forward to help- The mer grabs him back, claws digging into the armour of his forearm, drawing energon and a hiss from the black and white mech.

But the mer doesn't let go. He looks up at Prowl with tired and sad optics. His other clawed servo comes up to grasp at Prowl's arm too, digging into the armour with misplaced strength. Sure, he's in pain, but Prowl can't bring himself to pull away.

The mer whimpers at him. What Prowl had seen to be one of the most aggressive creatures he had ever laid optics on whimpers at him. He can't pull his bleeding arm away.

The mer's optics still look a little unfocused- a side effect of the sedation- as he looks at Prowl with sadness. Longing. He releases one servo from Prowl's arm to paw at his own chestplate. He whines at Prowl and paws and pats at the centre of his chest, right above his spark with a whine.

Prowl's doorwings droop at the display. He doesn't know what this means, but it's desperate. This is also the first record he has of communication from this one. He wishes he knew what it meant.

He tries speaking, a long shot, but maybe the mer would understand. "What do you want? What are you looking for?" he asks, but all he gets in response is more whimpering and harder pawing at the mer's chestplate.

Health checks have shown that the mer should not be in pain, so it is not a physically issue. So what else? His spark? A bondmate, possibly....? Do mers have bondmates? Prowl has not had the experience to truly find out.

"Are you looking for someone?" he tries again, and the mer looks at him sadly. The mer's servo finally lets go, allowing even more energon to leak from Prowl's arm. He brings his servos to the sides of his own head, gesturing again in what would look pretty funny if Prowl was in any less concerned a mood.

.....fins? Audial fins?

....It cannot be....

Prowl pulls a datapad from subspace and quickly scrolls through it, pulling up an image capture of the yellow mer, and then turns it over to show the red one.

The reaction is instant. The red mer's optics go wide, fins flaring for a klik, before he wails. He scrambles and snatches the datapad from Prowl's servos and clutches it to his chest.

Prowl thought it wouldn't affect him anymore, but the pained and desperate cry from the mer makes his sensor panels fall slightly, a twinge in his spark.

He doesn't get his datapad back that night. The mer wouldn't let go.

Thankfully he has more. He wouldn't admit to it, but he runs to his office, grabbing a datapad and rushing to the front of the yellow mer's tank. He knocks on the glass, something he never does (it disturbs the creatures. It's obnoxious.), until he sees those angry optics and flared fins of the snarling yellow mer.

A quick few taps and swipes across his datapad, and he flips it around, showing the yellow mer an image of the red one. And again, the reaction. Like the first time the mer had seen Prowl's injuries, his optics go wide and all aggression drains from his frame. He is immediately against the glass, servos pressed against the surface, trying to get as close a look at the image as possible.

Sunstreaker bangs on the glass, pointing. He lets out a cry, not one of anger this time, but something longing. This is the only other vocalisation from this mer Prowl has ever heard. There are angry snarls in between, like threats, but they are punctuated with long and soulful cries.

Prowls doorwings drop. Of course. This is what he's been missing. This is what they have been looking for. He separated something. These two have been looking for each other.

His free arm drops to his side, leaking energon dripping onto and staining the floor. But Prowl doesn't notice.

Of course. He has been so stupid. Naive. He separated something. And he didn't notice. He didn't know.

oh god i'm going crazaaay. This is so good. I can't stop thinking about the absolute desperation Sunstreaker and Sideswipe feel knowing that they might be in the same building but no one understands why they need to be together, and the way Prowl is so frustrated with not knowing what's going on that he ends up helping them out, in his... own way.

Finally he gets to see through the violence and threat displays and pitiful self-destruction, and it's time to tell the facility staff that it seems like the two mer need to be put in the same tank... Now, how terrible would it be if, because of their aggression, regulations forbid the staff from dumping them into the same tank... perhaps Prowl would have to take matters into his own hands. You know, he needs to know for sure that he's right about the two needing each other.

But then again, maybe the staff goes oh yeah, and they reunite Sunny and Sides and it's cute and heartfelt and they finally get to heal from all the neglect <3

[zenshigarakilover]

What do you think being in prison was actually like for All For One? We know he lies A LOT, so I don't think he's nearly as unaffected as he's shown or rather not shown I guess 😓

Thinking deeper on afo's imprisonment it's actually a lot more disturbing the more I think about it.

What afo is going through is basically solitary confinement 24/7. Guns constantly pointed at him ready to headshot him the second he tries tapping into his quirk or squirms too much. Unable to move at all from the neck down due to restraints. So many sensors it leaves him either completely vulnerable or overstimulated at worst. We never see him lying down either. He's always sitting which is painfull and extremely detrimental to a person's health and mobility if done for long hours without standing up.

I know he's an S rank criminal and super dangerous because the only person who could defeat him (All Might) retired, but you're telling me this futuristic society couldn't do anything more humane with all that tech other than shoving him into a death trap? (I wanted to call it a Saw death trap, but I never watched any of the Saw films ummm)

There's also the more creepy implication to questions like how does afo go to the bathroom in Tartarus. There's no way they just let him walk up to a toilet/urinal 😨

All For One is no stranger to dehumanization and he takes almost everything in stride even Tartarus from the looks of it, but that one panel where he almost begs All Might to not go always stuck out to me.

Sorry for the long essay. I just wanted to say something about this and chat with a fellow All For One fan.

you don't need to apologize, it's an interesting topic!

I think afo's time in prison affected him more deeply than he would ever admit. look how they had him ->

strapped to a metal slab, not being able to move his limbs at all, alone for hours constantly being watched and he doesn't have access to his quirks that allow him to navigate the world so he's completely blind here. oh let's not forget that if he thinks about activating a quirk or makes a sudden movement the guns pointed at his head will automatically shoot him. also like you said being in a sitting position for a long period of time will end up being detrimental to your health.

tartarus whole existence is a violation of human rights and that's without mentioning the disgusting way the guards treat the prisoners. yes they did evil things, but I think dehumanization of any group of people is a dangerous road to walk on and can lead to horrific things committed against said group because it's easier to justify doing horrid things to others if you think the other party isn't even human. with all the amazing quirks and technology that is available it's a surprise to see that they haven't come up with a better way to deal with imprisoned villains. maybe it's because they don't care to come up with a better solution because once again they don't see them as humans so why should they bother trying to make their living situation more bearable? awful stuff.

too bad we don't see anyone from our main cast really question this type of treatment, but oh well. I guess it's implied some things did change as we see spinner was allowed to write and publish a book while in prison (doubt they let him free to do it). so he's not strapped to a metal chair all day like the other prisoners we saw. unless he's getting some special treatment, I don't know the story doesn't really tell us about what happened with him after his confrontation with izuku. only shows us that he managed to publish his book.

BUT back to the main question, what was being in prison in like for afo? honestly, I think he had to fight to stay sane while down there. being in those conditions for a long period of time will wear down your sanity. you saw how desperate he was for all might to stay and talk with him despite him being someone he hates. probably the thought of getting yoichi back kept him going, after all when he's down there he gets excited when he's able to hear his voice for the first time in over a century. even the guards freaked out because his the monitor tracking his vitals went crazy when he heard it.

still I think the whole experience disturbs him more than he would ever admit and it was traumatic but he just shoves down in order to focus on the goal ahead of him. no time to process any of that he's got a brother to catch

[catloversden]

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Would definitely buy again! ✅

[circinuus-oc]

𝟎𝟏𝟎𝟏𝟎𝟏 | 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐢

➸ codex: synthetic sweetheart; on the run android! oc x reader

➸ prompts: "you're not upset that our alternate universe selves aren't together?"

"You're not upset that our alternate universe selves aren't together?"

Koji doesn't answer outright. The ventilator hums lowly as he tinkers with the obsolete toaster on the kitchen counter.

"It's a hypothetical parallel world."

"So.. you don't care at all?"

He doesn't look up. The rusted cord storage falls off with the screws. "Being together in every universe, that's..."

"—inevitable!"

"—wistful."

You make a face.

Koji has never used abstract, sentimental words. This encounter is about as rare as coming across a functioning vintage tech in a landfill. The floor is cold against your feet when you jump down from the counter, peeking the sad toaster from his shoulder.

"So you do want us to be together in every universe?"

"It's not something that can be proven with what lacking data we have about wormholes." He doesn't deny it. The toaster parts are now neatly lined, ready for serious rust scrubbing. He turns to you at last, cybernetic irises flickering.

"This," he doesn't gesture with his hands; he knows you know, "—was, is a miracle. I won't ask for more."

"Oh, sweetheart."

He doesn't stop you when your arms loop around his neck. Koji was a creature hardwired for violence and swift endings; a confused, fearful weapon in the grasp of gentle hands. He's lost you once, twice, a few happenings far too many. His head tilts down while you tiptoe, keeping visual sensors in direct orbit to your eyes.

"Yes. Sweetheart."

You preen. "Did you pick up my theatrics for sappy words?"

"It's your specialty. I don't see any reason to compete."

A string of laugh rings like a gentle wind. He captures and memorizes everything from the way he drinks in your vision. A marvel, a blessing. Healthy and unmarred in his arms and for once not in a threat of a remote deactivation or a missing bio-machine spare part too obsolete to find replacements of.

"You know, it might've really been a miracle." Your hands are soft against his cheeks." But that doesn't make you any less deserving of me. Of us."

"I know." He does know. You say that everyday. "Thank you." he supplies.

"For what?"

"For everything."

Being in Koji's hold feels like curling in a weighted blanket with an automatic temperature regulator. His hands are tentative against your lower back, so you shove yourself forward and meet his hug full on. He hold reciprocates.

"Thank you too then," you breathe against his shoulder. "For shoving me to that emergency pod before the plane fell. For letting me tail behind you. For putting up with every bad synthetics joke. For letting me stay and for staying too."

His chuckle is something warm and low. You regret how you're not in time to pull back and get a glimpse of the curl of his mouth.

It's still there.

Soft and indulgent, tender in a way it encourages blissful sodium chloride tears solvent or a giddy smile. Rapt like a man staring at the ghost of his dead wife who he has never truly lost. You return it with a blooming heart. This is home.

"Paging my husband! Is he there?" You tap his nose with your thumb, still cupping his face. "I'm here, you see? Real and in no way a holo-projected image."

"I know."

"Mm. You say that a lot. Do you really?"

Koji hums, leaning down to tap his forehead against yours.

"Maybe you need a reminder." Your words are giddy smiles and breathy giggles. Koji says. He always does.

The sky is grey and the sun is cold outside the safehouse. But he is warm and so is his breath mingling with yours. You hover for a kiss; his exhale stutters, both of you are too content to peel away from each other.

For a stolen moment from the universe, something so small is worth more than any fancy lootables from the nearest black zones around New Terra.

Something bumps against your feet. It whirrs and beeps until you regretfully pull back from your husband. Koji exhales the breath he's been holding, torn in between chasing back the proximity and letting his system cool.

The culprit—or savior? beeps in the name of attention deficiency. Your Roomba dog finally clicks in glee when you pick it up. Still with the old school sleek metal and round model in all of its glory.

"Aw, look, our son misses us. Who's a good boy?"

Koji shakes his head. "It's a cleaning appliance."

"Our son! You know you love him."

Roomba makes another round of whirring noises. It's sensors blinking with intermittent lights. Koji sighs in both fondness and exasperation. The vacuum cleaner—your son beeps when his hand pats the flat surface of its top cover.

You and him might not be together in an alternate universe. But in this one, you, him, and your Roomba vacuum cleaner are one warm family in a cold world of steel and sinew.

[korpuskat]

Auto-Trigger

[Ao3 Mirror] Pairing: Ramattra/Reader (Gender Neutral) Rating: Explicit WC: 996 Warnings: Prompt is "Stalking", using cameras to spy.

On the screen, you move through your quarters. Gathering your data pad before settling onto your bed, you have no idea you’re being watched.

You should, Ramattra reasons. He did not ask for a Talon liaison to observe his progress, to live in his omnium while production continued. You’re here to observe him, it’s only fair he observes you in turn. He doesn’t trust Talon, no matter how much funding they’re funneling into his cause- your observations are just as useful to your superiors as guarantees of progress as they are intel for how to destroy him.

So, he watches. Usually he’s too busy to have only the feed from your room pulled up on his screens, but as it would happen, for once every production line is running smoothly. So it leaves him in his own quarters- not that he uses them much, so little time for rest- with the feed of you.

He’ll close it soon; whatever report you’re typing will be filtered through his firewalls, he’ll read it later. But then- you sigh and stop typing. A tap and it’s sent, a notification appearing in his own HUD. And on the screen you stretch, arching your back outwards, arms extending above your head, twisting to release the muscles there. One hand comes down to cover a silent yawn.

Out of curiosity Ramattra checks his logs; you’ve appeared in key areas and spoken with him several times in the last twenty hours. Yes, it would make sense you’d be fatigued. Living underground with no source of natural light, your circadian rhythms must be altered.

In truth it wouldn’t be so hard to find a way to adapt that aspect of his omnium for you. A timer on the overhead lights, dimming them every twelve hours or so, would be trivial. He won’t, however. He doesn’t need you here, does not need your reports to be accurate or legible. Even if you have… held his attention.

As much as he dislikes the reasons for your presence… it has been some time since he’s been forced to work so closely with someone else, much less a human. Your conversations, when not Talon-related, have been… almost enjoyable. A pleasant distraction from the all-consuming work before him.

It does not mean he trusts you, however.

Hence, he watches as you shift on the bed, sliding down a little further. He does not pay it too much attention, until you shift the datapad to your other hand- and that is odd, isn’t it? Humans avoid their non-dominant hand- while the other…

Ramattra grabs the screen and pulls it closer, pinging the feed to zoom. Your other hand slides over your chest, pausing here and there to caress yourself over your uniform. Is this…? Ramattra’s circuits race, chase any answer but the obvious. Fortunately you provide an even clearer explanation: the hand that roams your chest slips under the cloth of your pants.

Your mouth drops open, eyes fluttering shut, and very quickly Ramatta has realized he’s made a terrible mistake. His arousal subroutine auto-triggers, and Ramattra curses himself to ever leaving it engaged, curses more that it’s you that’s brought it out of its dormancy. A warmth floods his sensors, makes his out plating feel like they’re itching and Ramattra wrestles with it, even as it supplies fairly sound logic: it’ll feel nice, he was going to rest anyway, you’ll never know.

He’s about to kill switch it- when the mic on the camera automatically toggles on, a volume threshold is exceeded and a soft, airy moan rumbles from his display’s speakers.

Behind the last section of his paneling, his cock throbs. Ramattra’s fingers ache to take it in hand, but he resists. You, he fights the haze that clouds his thinking, you might still receive a call about that report. Yes, he can handle himself later, but now… he should be watching-

Your hand moves beneath the cloth, exact movements obscured. With the other hand, you hold up the data pad for a minute more, then drop it on the bed beside you. What were you looking at? The fact he could find it- you’re connected to his network- does not escape him. But it’ll be disappointing, he’s sure, less entertaining than- than you shimmying out of your clothes and delving between your legs again and-

The mic toggles on again.

”Ramattra,”

He- he misheard you. He must've. But his audials replay your voice for him, begging, pleading for something- something from him. He’s burning up, vents popping in a futile attempt to calm his racing circuits.

He nearly rips one of the joints of his panels off. The antarctic air is freezing on his cock, but his moans just at the feeling of his own palm finally surrounding himself. Now- now that he can see you, he doesn’t bother with shame. Instantly he matches your rhythm, his hand keeping pace with yours. You- this is your fault, you should know better, should know he’d be watching you and, oh, when you twist like that you look so-

“Yes, yes,” You pant, just loud enough for the camera to hear it. What was he doing to you in your mind, what did you want him to do? Don’t you know he could’ve heard you, even if he wasn’t watching?

“Ra- Rama-ah,” You cry out, tensing and twitching and-

A quarter of his systems are offline before he even registers the overload has hit, He shudders, makes some distorted noise and surrenders to the wave of pleasure that follows.

He wakes some ten minutes later, if his chronometer is correct. The camera feed to your quarters is still displayed- and his optics fight to refocus into a viable image. It seems you’ve fared about the same, splayed out on your bed, blanket haphazardly drawn over half your body. And you’re fully asleep, if the soft snores are to be believed. At least he can finally get some rest.

[humanradiojmp]

My blind reaction to the Murder Drones Finale Part 1

Contains spoilers

Of course, got to have Cyn’s theme for the world ending. Fitting

Wha- REBECCA?!

The teacher could not care less the apocalypse is happening again. He is such a mood

Well there is no air in space, so it makes sense that there wouldn’t be sound, and that Uzi can’t really talk. communicating with space rocks and screens is a good solution

I like the parental advisory sensor. Do the worker drones have that automatically, or can they remove it at a certain point?

Space ship pilot!!! Makes you wonder though how and why they crashed the first time. got distracted or nervous or something?

I half expected the Wall-e kiss, but forehead taps are still good. got to have that comedic sensor cut off as well. I love this show.

Stop that. get help.

Not the Falling for You theme as they fall back to the surface!

That’s the understatement of the century

The ship being brought in looking like the creepy-ass hand that the solver drones got at the manor is such a nice touch

So J is aware of who Cyntessa really is and working with her. interesting. Like to know her reasoning why

Lizzy could not care less she’s about to die-

Is- is it?

SHE’S ALIVE! V’S ALIVE!!! YEEEEESSSSS!!!!!

Was holding my N-doggo plushy and squeezed him so hard and did leg tappies when I saw she was alive. V is back ya’ll!

With a little bit of Eternal Dream as well. I love this soundtrack and the attention to detail to it so much!

Not the sentinel wearing Beau’s hat. I feel like that’s horrible in a way but matches so well.

I laughed so much when I saw the meme.

And the name for V in Lizzy’s contacts. Wow

So much like V with her initial antagonizing towards Uzi, J sided with Cyn out of fear and a need to survive. She rationalized this was the best course of action, even if it’s siding with the obvious ‘bad guy’. But it’s nice to see J does have some semblance of care for her former team mates. Wonder if she also did it all for their sake as well as her own.

The sunglasses and cool pose. Their so cringe

I really like the animation of how Cyn walks in Tessa’s sink. Like it doesn’t quite fit and she doesn’t have complete control over it. nice touch to the creep factor of her existence

Oh yes, emotional and mental torture and manipulation is simply just ‘hurting his feelings’. It’s tots fine, he just needs to get over it.

And just like with Uzi, he can’t shoot Tessa, even if it’s no longer her. or maybe he knows it won’t work?

Nice little moment, but lesson number one kids – never take your eyes off the enemy, ever. Because then you’re going to get your heart stabbed out of your chest

Trying to push her core back in with no hands is so morbid

Of course she has wings. Why wouldn’t she?

I take back the J cares about her teammates statement. Unless she’s trying to make it less hard on herself?

The callback ping with the hands trying to find them, with N on the verge of a panic attack seeing Cyn clawing him out as well as the manor flashback is just so (satisfied grunting)

And Uzi’s heart trying to leave her chest because of the callback ping, her trying to keep it in but it’s pushing out like the monster from Alien (grunting continues)

Oh shoot, they don’t know she’s alive, and you can see just how traumatized the boy is. I really hope they get therapy after this if they survive. They really need it

You protected her from a trap, but at what cost?

V really was operating on fear, I knew it. I know a popular theory is that V remembered most if not all of what happened before Copper-9 and I wonder now if that theory has been proven true. Because she knew what this thing was capable of, and thought if she were to just follow orders, keep her head low, and not incite any callback of former memories, then maybe, just maybe, everything would be ok. But it never was going to be ok, was it? *draws V in for a hug* you need this. A lot.

Oooh, it was N’s core she was going to eat. Oh no.

Wait, Khan has the solver? Or was that a remote for something? (even watching it back, I’m still not 100% sure)

I really like how Uzi has full control of herself and her version of the solver, and how it’s hinted she has some control over the solver in general with how Cyntessa’s eye flickered purple. I kind of half wished they delved into that a little more in the fight to ensue, as it would have shown a cool mental version of a battle of wills. But…

Second part coming because of character limit

Second part

[hidefdoritos]

So, for Christmas break, I've been staying with a very considerate older couple. When I got here, I found out that they're also...comfortably wealthy. I wish I could have been live-blogging my stay here, but this summary post will have to suffice.

MOSS'S MUSINGS: HOUSEGUEST EDITION.

-Ask which dishes you are allowed to use. I didn't know this would even be a question--I grew up with one set of dishes--but it matters. The dishes we've been using are red with snowmen on them. Tonight I put my soup in a red bowl with Christmas trees around the edge. That was wrong and bad. I have been told that they "prefer I not use that" because it is "for special occasions," and was told to "set it aside so I can hand-wash it." Side note, rich people also own things that can't go in the dishwasher. Thankfully they told me about this ahead of time.

-In general, they make requests when they mean to give you instructions. "I'm having some ladies over tonight, so if you'd like to clean the bathroom, that would be fine." = I, Moss, need to clean the bathroom before I leave for work this morning. They're secret instructions--instructions in a suggestion-shaped suit. I like to think of it as a secret code that I'm very smart for solving. It helps me to not tear my hair out.

-House thing that shook me to the core: They have heat vents on the floors under the sinks! So you can wash your hands or wash dishes and your feets don't get cold!

-Speaking of heat: heated mattress pads exist! It's like a heating pad for your whole body. High settings are nice for muscle aches; low settings are so cozy to sleep on.

-Speaking of mattresses: The guest room has a Sleep Number mattress. I think it's a scam. It's a balloon under your mattress to adjust the firmness/softness. I am 240 lbs. If it isn't over half inflated, my butt's on the bedframe.

-They are weird about trash. All food waste is handled separately and taken straight to the bin in the garage so it doesn't smell. The kitchen trash can lid has a motion sensor. It's automatic. Scared the daylights out of me when I first walked past it to get water at night.

-Speaking of water, ask what water you should use. Tap is not acceptable to some! My hosts have a fridge dispenser. Unfortunately it dispenses cold water. I have worked around this by getting water in advance of my needs and letting it change toward room temp. Also, you can't put drinks on the furniture! Wood is different from the plastic-coated OSB furniture that I grew up with. I must remember now to use coasters because any spills or drips can leave white marks.

-When they start discussing money, try not to let your mouth drop open at the amount of zeroes. One host bought a new car and was bragging to me about how he only paid $28,000, and that was actually $5,000 off for having a certain type of credit card. I just worked the mental math for the discount percentage to keep my brain from exploding. $5k is more than I paid for my entire car. My family motto is "Buy used and drive it 'til the wheels fall off." I did not say so.

-Most importantly, they've been extremely kind and generous to me. They dropped my rent for the month down to almost nothing. They bought any groceries I expressed interest in. I'm going back to campus with some of the best homemade soup of my life, and a coupon for an oil change, and a new appreciation for dark chocolate almonds. When I got here, my hostess had set up a desk for my sewing machine in her sewing room (!! a whole room for sewing!!) and taught me to use a rotary cutter and an iron that's entirely too complex.

tl;dr rich-ish people are super weird about some things you wouldn't expect, and your head will explode a few times, but they're still people and my overall experience has been great.



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[venterry]

the worldbuilding in sayer is so fun – aerolith decides good old sensors on automatic doors are unreliable & inefficient, so instead they install a program that taps into all possible realities to determine the most likely outcome

basically predicting the future for when to open a door and for how long. and this is likely the reason these doors eventually turn into portals to other realities and show up/disappear at random. btw they dont use this tech for literally anything else

[knitasha]

Untitled Solarpunk Story Excerpt

I pulled something in my back while ironing 2 days ago (yes, really) and I've spent most of my time since trying to sit very very still so it stops spasming.

On the down side, it's kept me from my sewing, baking, and socializing plans. On the plus side, it's been good for storyboarding a short solarpunk story I'd like to get out.

Here's a little piece of it. Mostly a brain dump, very little editing. Also you will never convince me that names aren't going to be absolutely ridiculous in the future. Lean into it.

----

The oxygen mask bumped rhythmically against her left leg as she walked down the narrow passageway. She synced her breathing with her steps, keeping her mind on the brief echo of her footsteps and the bobbing of the light from her headlamp and definitely not on the question of just how much dirt and questionable infrastructure sat above and around her.

2 steps, breathe in. When was the last time a real earthquake had come through?

2 steps, breathe out. When was the last time someone had checked the walls down here?

2 steps, breathe in. How long ago did those cracks show up?

2 steps, breathe out. How long would the air down here last if the air pumps stopped? How long would she last until her tank ran out?

Olive’s nails bit into her palms, bringing her mind back to the job, and she quickened her pace.

The next section of lights blinked on as she passed the motion sensor. A cold wave of anxiety churned in her stomach at the idea of the now-empty sections behind her going dark, a seemingly endless tunnel of blackness. Even after a decade of working in the pipes, Olive had to force herself not to give in to the ancient instinct whispering urgently for her to run from the dark and whatever watched and waited in it.

Her eyes scanned for the latest section number. She’d gone deep enough that she should be getting close to the offshoot. 220Z, 221A, there – 221B. Digging her pad out of her tool bag with one hand, she wiped years of grime off the code beneath the number with her other.

The screen flashed to life and the EcoSphere logo appeared, its 10 colored rings pulsing around the Earth, one for each of the services the utility company oversaw globally. Her foot tapped impatiently as the logo dissolved only to be replaced by the AquaTech sector’s logo. Her finger was already hovering over the screen as the authentication prompt appeared. She pressed firmly against the screen protector that was already peeling in the corners and WELCOME OLIVE MCGARDEN greeted her.

“Come on, this century already,” she muttered as the pad struggled to find its connection to the wireless this far from the hub.

Finally in the system, she quickly scrolled to her active work order and scanned the code beneath the section number. She made sure the check-in had registered before stowing the pad back in the bag and pushing the old offshoot door open with a resisting creak that echoed down the hall.

She recalled Apple’s teasing when they had received their work orders that morning. Apple was overseeing the installation of the main pipes for the new office wing on the north side of town – “I’ll bring you back a bar from the fancy new replicator they just installed” – with its brightly lit corridors and smooth automatic doors.

Olive, on the other hand, had been assigned to one of the oldest pipe sections on the flow. Not that she minded. She’d take grimy doors and stale air over running into whatever found a way to survive just under the subscape any day. Nothing survived this deep in the sections.

Stepping into the offshoot, Olive widened the scope and increased the brightness of her headlamp. The AquaTech system could determine there was an issue in the section, now it was up to her to figure out where it was coming from, what was causing it, and get it fixed. The newer pipe areas could self-service most leak alerts, but the maze of aging pipes and narrower tunnels this far down hadn’t been worth the trouble – and cost – to upgrade and so required manual inspection and maintenance whenever a leak alert was picked up.

She spent the next hour walking through the tunnels, looking for puddles and other telltale signs of a leak significant enough to trigger the alert. As the tunnel began branching, she pulled colored flags out of a pocket in her bag and began to mark the forks. Blue for main pipe. Green for first offshoot. Yellow for third. They helped keep the paths organized for future maintenance needs while also making sure she could find her way out when she was done. The fact that there were none down here already here told her she was the first to come down this offshoot in a good, long time.

Expecting the leak to be deeper in the flow grid, she walked past the first dozen branches and picked one at random to begin flagging.

Olive had just pulled out a purple flag to mark the newly found fourth offshoot in her branch when her foot stepped on something soft. Flinching back, she shone her light down where she’d stepped, expecting to see some long-dead remains. Instead, she found a small green patch of moss.

She strained her hearing, listening around the sound of her pulse knocking in her ears. There it was. A thin but steady dripping noise echoed dimly down the branch towards her.

“Found you.”

She quickened her pace, stopping only to hang a fresh flag as new branches popped up to show her path forward. As she hung the last of her purple flags, she made a mental note to pick up more when she checked back in at HQ later and forged ahead regardless, determined to find the source of the leak after coming so far.

Olive pulled up short as she came to a fifth branch, her head whipping around to stare down the narrow tunnel. Her headlamp showed nothing and yet she could have sworn… Taking a deep breath, she turned the light off.

But where she expected suffocating darkness, a dim glow greeted her at the end of the branch and the trickle of water sounded like laughter calling her name.