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tinyshyteacup · 2 months ago

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• 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.

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brotherblaze · 8 months ago

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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.”

“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

#jason todd x reader #jason todd fic #jason todd fluff #dc fanfiction #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x you #jason todd imagine #red hood x reader #dc x reader

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witherby · 5 months ago

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punchline, she can’t feel pain or something happens like she breaks an arm or something yet has no reaction or they do a health scan of her and she has some wounds.

-📝

Ok listen. It didn't feel like it was 3600 words when I was writing it. It just happened. Enjoy the feast though.

⚠️ Content Warnings: Broken bones, starvation/malnourishment, flashbacks, description of injuries, the Batfamily accidentally hurts you ⚠️

Punchline: Analgesia

Masterlist is Here!

You got out of the cell.

With no real place to put you, Bruce initiated a round-the-clock watch, both to monitor your health and make sure you didn't try anything dangerous. "Brucie Wayne" decided to go on a last-minute tour of Asia for a month so that he could take more shifts, allowing his sons time to rest and maintain their own lives without needing to stress as much over...

Well. You.

You, who spent the entire first day staring up at the ceiling and clicking your feet together, refusing to respond anymore to Dick or anybody else after telling them your name. You, who ignored your bed long after the time came where most people should be sleeping, then ignored any food and water delivered to you long after most people should be eating and drinking.

You just smile and click your feet. Click. Click. Click. Waiting. Lying still. Staring.

Except now you aren't. Bruce comes back from upstairs with another tray of food for you to find an empty monitor feed on the batcomputer. The bed is too low to the ground for you to hide under, and the privacy curtain isn't drawn to take cover behind. The pressure sensors on the floor don't indicate any signs of life, either — you aren't in there anymore.

He sets the tray down and starts rewinding the footage, panicking, when you click your heels behind him.

"Boo."

Bruce jumps. Honest-to-god flinches. His body moves automatically, leg kicking out and connecting center-mass with a heavy thunk. You go flying across the main area of the cave with a yelp, hitting the ground and rolling a few feet. The sound of your body colliding against smooth stone echoes in a way that it shouldn't, and you don't try to pick yourself up afterwards.

"Shhhit shit shit," he gasps, running over to your limp body and carefully cradling you. He triggers the scanner in his cowl, checking you over for injuries, and gingerly props you up against his chest. "Kid! Are you —"

You snort, shoulders shaking, then build up into a breathtaking cackle. Literally breathtaking — Bruce presses his fingers into your ribs and feels breakage on at least two of them. His lenses find fractures on three more. He needs to get you to the medbay.

"Kid," he says again, urgently, nauseous with guilt. God, you're just a little girl, heartbreakingly small in his arms. "Punchline —"

"I spooked the Bat!" You gasp, eyes welling with tears. Twin lines cut through your face paint, smearing some of the blue under your eyes with the white. It's haunting. You just continue wheeze and gently clap him on the shoulder, genuinely mirthful. "Fear was made fearful! Ohohoho, that's... that's priceless!!"

"I didn't mean to hurt you," Bruce says. You just laugh even harder at that, sharp, short gasps that only exacerbate your wounds and bounce off the cave walls around you in sickening stereo. He wraps one arm around your back and the other behind your knees, lifting you.

"Let's get you cleaned up, kid...you shouldn't be out here."

"I got you gooood, Batsy!" You grin. "Got you! Got you!"

Click. Click. Click. You knock your feet together again, wrapping your arms around his neck with glee.

"Spooked you baaad!"

His grip on you tightens slightly, then relaxes again. Anything he would've wanted to say to you gets trapped behind grit teeth.

Dick knocks gently on the door before he types in the code to your cell and watches it slide open. You chuckle, but don't otherwise acknowledge him as he steps inside with another tray of food.

"Yeah. I guess it would seem silly to knock on a see-through door," he says, sitting on the floor next to you. He sits the tray down and presses his back against the wall, lacing his fingers together. "Just trying to be polite, in light of..."

He glances around your bland accommodations and clears his throat.

"Anyway! You were so kind to tell us your name and we didn't even return the favor. I'm Nightwing."

"Wing-a-ding," you murmur, smiling at the ceiling. Click. Click. Click.

"Sure, you can call me that if you want." He uses his foot to gently nudge the tray closer to your supine form, then lowers his voice conspiratorially. "I'll even let you call me a bad word if you eat."

Your smile grows. "Silly Wing-a-ding. It's not mealtime."

"When's Mealtime?" Dick asks you. "Because, you've been with us for two days, kiddo, and you haven't eaten a bite. If you've got a specific diet, it's no trouble. You just have to tell us what you like. We don't want to hurt you."

You snort at that, lifting a hand to pat your stomach. Underneath your lime green shirt are thick bandages compressing your broken ribs. Your gasping giggles ring like broken chimes in the small space you're sharing with him.

Dick frowns. "I'm being honest. B didn't mean to do that to you, I promise. I'm really sorry it happened."

"Sorry? It was hilarious!" You chirp. "Shoulda seen his face. Popsy would have cracked up. Heehee!"

"Yeah..." Dick sighs quietly. "Can we circle back, kiddo? When's your meal time? If you don't try to eat or drink anything soon, we might have to give you some fluids. And I dunno about you, but I'm not a huge fan of needles."

The hand on your stomach drums the same pattern you knock your feet together with. Pat. Pat. Pat. Click. Click. Click.

"It's soon," you tell him simply. "Popsy says to eat when the world turns into a merry-go-round."

The knot of dread sitting in Dick's stomach tightens. He clenches his hands into fists in his lap and keeps his tone light and curious.

"What's the world look like now?"

You laugh. "Fun house mirrors."

"And...when do you get to drink?"

"When the lights start dancing."

Dick doesn't stay in your cell with you much longer, parting with a half-mumbled excuse of needing to go work on something. He hurries down the hallway and tries not to feel like a failure in his suit.

Damian wasn't factored in to the rotation, on account of being the youngest and needing to get up for school, but that doesn't stop him from sneaking through the cave to observe you anyway. Years of training in the League keep his steps light and his presence undetectable, until he's standing just out of sight to the door to your cell and able to watch you at an angle.

Your eyes are closed, your body having finally succumbed to exhaustion, and your breathing is slightly wheezy from your injuries. The bits of your arms poking out of your shirt sleeves are mottled black and blue from hitting the floor so hard.

Damian creeps in a tad closer to get a better look at you. Even unconscious, your resting face is a small smile. No doubt a conditioned behavior from your time under the Joker, he thinks.

There's no tension in your body, which is the most interesting thing. Even the severity of the bruises should be enough to cause a twitch or two as you shift on the floor, much less the broken bones, but it's like —

Oh. He needs to make a note in your file and alert the others promptly. As he draws a pad and pen from his pocket, his eyes glance over the simple observations he's already made of you, and stalls.

You're so small. It doesn't hit him until now just how tiny you are, even for your age. You've got the stature of a five or six year old, and there's clear signs of malnourishment in your body. It's hard to look at you and not feel pity.

It's hard to look at you in general. The face paint is slowly wearing away, revealing your natural skin color underneath, but enough of it remains that you look absolutely haunting. Like something designed for a horror movie.

You've refused to clean your face or change into the clothes others have brought you, clinging to the garish getup he and Bruce found you in. The vivid green of your shirt screams of where you came from, an unavoidable beacon that refuses to allow anyone to forget your legacy.

Damian realizes belatedly that that's the point. You aren't looking to separate your identity from your father. You likely can't.

He clenches his hands into fists and takes his leave. He returns to your cell once more that night, dropping his gifts off with reluctance, and sees his effort pay off almost immediately. The next time he catches a glimpse of you, you've freshened up the face paint with a slightly altered design and are wearing a bright green dress, with your typical bowtie and black shoes.

You, awake this time, catch his gaze and beam knowingly.

Damian looks away. Your genuine happiness twists his chest something fierce.

You're out of your cell again when it's Jason's turn to monitor you.

"I don't have the patience to deal with your escape artist bullshit," he calls, twirling a baseball bat in his hand as he walks along the caves corridors. "You can either go back to your cage and behave, or get dragged back kicking and screaming."

You giggle. Jason clocks it coming from his right. The bat switches hands and he walks towards the noise.

"This ain't a goddamn game," he says, "so don't get cute with me, kid, or I'll put the Punch in Punchline."

"That's a good one!"

Jason whips around, finding you sitting on the floor with your legs crossed. Today you're wearing a bright green blouse with suspenders and black shorts, always with the bowtie around your neck. You're holding a batarang in your hands, tracing idly over the shape of it with your fingers.

"Wordplay is my favorite! I'll put the Punch in Punchline. Heheha, classic! Now I know why Popsy liked you so much!"

You tilt your head back and cackle. It comes out in sharp, short bursts. It's so bone-chillingly similar to your dad's that it affects him immediately.

Jason blinks. Suddenly he's fifteen and cuffed, cowering before the Joker as he winds his leg back to start kicking him.

Jason blinks again. His arms and legs ache so badly from the repeated bashing of the crowbar. He's been screaming for Bruce for ages and he hasn't come for him yet, why hasn't he come for him, he promised he would always come and get him —

Jason blinks again. He's clawing at the door handle and trying not to cry as the timer counts down behind him, ticking closer and closer and closer to his death, inescapable. He wishes he'd never adopted the mantle. He wants his mom. He wants his dad. He doesn't want to die. He's too young to die. He's so fucking tired.

Jason blinks again. The bat is missing from his hands and his throat feels like it's on fire. Tim is crouched next to you and assessing the new break in your arm courtesy of the Red Hood. The bat is lying broken in half on the floor.

"Go," Tim says, voice flat with barely suppressed rage. He won't turn his head away from you. "Go home, Hood."

"Bye-bye, Birdy," you mutter, smiling at the ceiling, and knock your feet together. Click. Click. Click.

Bye-bye, Birdy!

Jason feels like he can't breathe. The swelling in your skin is already so bad. What has he done? He wasn't actually gonna hurt you, he just wanted to get you back in your cell where you were supposed to be. He has a code against hurting children, he would never do that on purpose no matter whose kid it was. He didn't mean it.

Jesus, fuck, he didn't mean it.

"I-I'm —" he chokes, warped and crackly through the helmet's modulator.

"GO!" Tim shouts.

Jason turns and walks away. After a tense conversation with Bruce, it ends up being his last time monitoring you alone. He doesn't get the chance to do it again for a month, but your serene smile is never far from his mind.

Tim takes over Jason's observation duty immediately. He moves you into the med bay again to set and cast your broken arm. You're quiet the entire time, save the clicking of your feet, and refuse to look at him.

He works quickly and efficiently, wrapping you up without issue, and you don't fight him. He comes to the same conclusion Damian did, when he accidentally brushes against another bruise but you don't so much as flex a muscle.

How entertaining it must be for the Joker, to have a child with congenital insensitivity to pain. How simultaneously infuriating, that one of his favorite methods of submission is unavailable.

Tim wants to throw up.

"There," he says. "I'm sorry, Punchline. Hood shouldn't have been left alone to watch you. It won't happen again."

You don't respond. Click. Click. Click.

"Why don't we get you back to your room? I'll find something for you to do so you're not as bored in there. I'm sure Agent A can get you coloring books, or some crafts..."

Again, you're quiet. Tim breathes in slowly, deeply, then lets it back out. He gently takes your hands and coaxes you to stand up, and you go without complaint as he starts walking you back to the containment cells.

Two sets of footsteps fill the silence of the cave's passageways. One set of lungs struggles to match pace. Tim slows down for you, and the wheezing quiets immediately.

"Do you need or want anything?" He asks. The same, easy smile on your face doesn't change. You walk beside him like he isn't even there. He has to try exceptionally hard not to take it personally, even though it is and he knows it. He knows what you've endured. He knows what you've gone through. He can make a damn good guess as to what you're thinking right now.

And he doesn't have the faintest clue where to start fixing it.

Tim was only under the Joker's clutches for a couple days, at most, and the brainwashing he underwent to become Joker Junior still haunts his nightmares to this day. The conditioning, the bargaining, learning the boundaries, the underlying fear of having to say the right thing, do the right thing, the obsessive need to earn his favor, he remembers it all. Even years later, seeing the Joker makes that sickly itch start up under his skin.

Maybe he's wrong. Maybe he doesn't know how you feel, because he only got the tip of the iceberg. Maybe your experiences are better. Or worse. Most certainly different. He doesn't know, and he hates not knowing things.

When you make it back to the cell, you walk in without complaint. Tim closes the door and keys in a new code to lock it, though he suspects you'll be able to crack it again soon enough. You've got nothing but time on your hands to play with the access pad.

He drops his hand when he's done, staring at you. You're back to lying on the floor in your original position, arms splayed and feet clicking together as you admire the ceiling. He opens his mouth, then closes it. Hesitates. Does it again. You just click your feet.

"Punchline. I'm sorry."

You blink slowly, mouth twitching like you've heard something funny but don't quite wanna laugh.

"If I knew, back then," he says, words stilted and strained. Tim nearly stops there, but he feels compelled to let you know. "If I knew that leaving him would've ended in him doing this to another child...I wouldn't have gone anywhere."

You stop clicking your feet. Your mouth curls into a grin, then thins out, then gets stuck in this uncomfortable half-smirk.

"Popsy misses JJ," you mutter, so quiet Tim only catches it because he's right next to the cell door. There's something sharp in your tone. "He was almost perfect. His first favorite toy."

Tim feels like he's been dunked in a tub of ice. The tips of his fingers go numb and he has to press a hand to his mouth while suppressing a gag. His eyes are stinging behind the domino mask.

"JJ ran away. JJ is a traitor. Popsy has a new favorite, now," you whisper. Click. Click. Click. "Wonder how long that will last." Click. Click. Click. "Wonder how long I'll be his favorite Punchline." Click. Click. Click.

"I'm gonna go talk to A, now," Tim says, stumbling away from you. The both of you feel more relieved the farther away he gets.

Click. Click. Click.

Alfred takes shifts for you when no one else is available. He doesn't do it at the computer, though; the screens are too bright for his aging eyes, and the chair isn't ergonomic enough for him.

So he watches you from within the cell.

"Good afternoon, Lady Punchline, my name is Alfred Pennyworth," he greets politely, setting a tray of soup and saltines next to your head. He steps carefully over your body on the floor and perches on the edge of your unused bed, crossing one leg over the other. "The time is just after one o'clock. Today I've prepared a simple miso soup, something light for your decidedly neglected stomach, and brought with me several activities we could partake in, either together or separate. The choice is yours."

He eases the tote bag he brought in off his shoulder and pulls out a series of items: A stuffed bear, which he perches on top of the pillow. A coloring book and a pack of crayons. A jigsaw puzzle. And several books.

"Might any of these appeal to the lady?" He asks.

Click. Click. Click.

"That's alright," he says, as though you gave him any kind of acknowledgement. "I will leave them here for you to explore at your leisure, and come back with more options the next we meet."

He pulls a novel for himself out of the bottom of the bag, gently flipping its weathered pages open, and settles it in his lap.

"Would it bother you too terribly if I read this aloud? You may stop me anytime, of course." You make no expression and take no action against him, so he looks down at the book. "Very well. This story is one of my favorites, so I'm interested to see if you find any enjoyment in it, too.

"When Mary Lennox was sent to Misselthwaite Manor to live with her uncle everybody said she was the most disagreeable-looking child ever seen. It was true, too. She had a little thin face and a little thin body, thin light hair and a sour expression..."

Alfred keeps his voice calm, clear, and steady. There are mild changes in intonation when he speaks for the characters in the book, but other than that, he lets the words wash over the room peacefully. He stays with you and reads for several hours, until he reluctantly excuses himself to tend to his other duties for the manor.

"I shall mark our place in the book and bring it back if you'd like to hear more," he says, stepping past you again. "If you've any other requests, please let myself or the others know. We shall be happy to accommodate you, Lady Punchline."

When he closes and locks the cell door, he almost startles at your soft voice.

"Mistress Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?" You mumble. The smile on your face seems a touch more genuine than before he entered.

Alfred dismisses himself with a final, quick bow, then walks down the halls as Bruce comes back to relieve him. Before the man even gets the chance to speak, Alfred holds a palm up to quiet him.

"I should like to have you place me in regular rotations with our guest," he says. "We have a lot of work to do if we're to rehabilitate the poor girl, and we'll get nowhere if everyone chooses to observe her like an animal in the zoo."

"That's fine, but —" Bruce says, watching almost helplessly as Alfred walks right past him. "Agent A —"

"I shall also request a home visit with Doctor Thompkins to sort out a proper treatment plan for her Analgesia, malnutrition, and very likely no vaccinations. Afterwards, we'll need to start considering educational deficits and behavioral therapy. There's much to do, master Bruce, so pick your jaw up off the floor and go spend time with your newest ward."

Bruce watches him disappear with fond irritation. He pulls the cowl off, understanding there's likely no need to maintain secrecy anyway, if you're going to be here for the long haul.

#el speaks #punchline au #batfam x reader #damian wayne #bruce wayne #jason todd #dick grayson #tim drake #alfred pennyworth #tw: abuse #📝

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fridaysmind · 3 months ago

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Yandere!Starscream x Autobot!Reader

Chapter 4

(Chapter 3 is here)

GN!Reader; Obsession; A departure from the canon; English not my native!! TW! Kidnapping. Trauma. Betrayal (?)

Finally a battle, just like old times. With a pinch of irritation, Soundwave watched the crack of the Autobot's blow spread across the visor, but straightened his shoulders and focused on his opponent again, but bot, in turn, abruptly stopped paying attention to the Decepticon and, with a vague emotion on his faceplate, took a cautious step back. The blue mech turned his frame just a few inches before a blow to his back knocked him onto his breastplates. Someone from above presses the mech into the ground, the helmet barely lifting and Soundwave sees a swarm of aggressive insecticons in a sky almost blackened by the number of these individuals. One of the dots above him approaches, landing near the sound of transformation, and the mech recognizes the former air commander. Starscream.

Decepticon tries to get up, throw the carcass off and tell the seeker what he thinks about him in the only language Starscream understands: the language of pain, but the silver figure raises a resonant blaster and with one gesture forces the beast off the communications officer's back. The latter rises as quickly as possible and silently but aggressively snatches the artifact from the seeker's hands, aiming the weapon at the silver faceplate. But Starscream only smiled.

Soundwave restrains the body twitching with discomfort, the mech trying to find something on the surface of the seeker's mind, but inside the processor it's as if it's utter chaos. Or rather, more than usual. The seeker looks so unnatural that the flat servo lowers the blaster itself.

“You give him my regards, I am, after all, absent for so long not entirely of my own free will. But I promise to come back to y'all with some presents."

Come back? The communicator's helmet tilts to the side. This has to be a bad joke. The shattered dark screen lights up as a wave of color shows the audio tracks playing:

“Why should we_waiting_you?” but the seeker, ignoring the question, jumps in place, transforms, and soars into the air. The pair of remaining insects, with the disabled Wildjack in their clutches, obediently follow him like moths attracted to light. Soundwave would have been able to follow and he's about to, but a request for help from Laserbeak arrives.

Without a doubt, the mech prioritizes his priorities and, after a few more glances at the distant dots in the sky, transforms and rushes to his friend.

***

“...But I promise to return to y'all with gifts." the recording of Starscream's confident voice echoed off the dark purple walls of Nemesis.

Megatron crunched his sharp dentoplates, standing with his back to his communicator and looking at the clouds floating by.

“Interesting..." the massive figure turns around, the Lord's scarlet optics sliding over the grim mask with a squint. “And what is his plan? Did you catch something on the surface of his mind?”

“Only one thing:” Cybertronian symbols lined up in a sentence, ”total chaos. Presumption: Starscream has gone insane.”

***

If it weren't for the emptiness in your abdominal plates, you would have thrown up. At least somewhere the endless Autobot hunger has played in your favor.

Your vision slowly recovers and your mechanisms kick in, but your processor is flooded with multiple damage notifications. A wheeze leaves the vocalizer, and you turn your helmet to face the sight of one of those insects that attacked you. Combat protocols activate and your torso tenses, preparing to fight, but the endoskeleton crunches painfully and you lay back down on the metal floor with a groan. The beast, in turn, bounces anxiously and rushes out through the automatically opening doors.

As the pain speeds up your ventilation, the audio sensors pick up voices from outside.

“...And a little damaged-”

“What?!” even behind the closed doors the scream seemed too loud, it was scary to imagine how deafening it was to whoever was standing next to them. It was hard not to recognize Starscream's aggressive tone. Slag. How the hell did you get yourself into this?

“Idiots! I issued a clear order to be careful!” the last word sounded like deadly poison and and then there was a bang. It seemed that the seeker had received a beating for his glossa.

But there was no shriek, no falling or begging, quite the contrary, quick steps were heard in your direction, the doors slid apart and the body of the mech gleamed in the cold light of lamps, completely unharmed. Come on, there's no way it was him that hit the insecticon. After all, why would they suddenly follow his orders?

Maybe the fall damaged your processor after all, because you its seems like Starscream anxiously approaches you and examines you with something akin to concern in his optics. He's serious, muttering something unintelligible about what kind of idiots he has to work with, and you stare warily, silently watching his every move.

Seeker slid his claws under your much smaller figure and lifted you gently, deftly dragging you onto a high raised metal bed. The frame doesn't even respond with pain, so carefully you've been moved.

“What's even going on?” you can't get up if you want to, you have to hold steady and calm with real fear in the spark before the seeker. You've never felt in such danger before and there was literally no one around to come to your aid. There's no connection, the frame hurts and you can't get up, what a curse...

“There's nothing to explain, it's fine. I'm not going to do anything to you, I'm just going to fix what those imbeciles did.”

He's going to medicate you? A Decepticon? Exactly Starscream, of all the mechs orbiting planet Earth? Your helmet must have taken more damage than you thought, the processor's never experienced such lags before.

“Are you kidding me? Why would you suddenly show such mercy?”

“Why did you decide to heal me that day?” his servos move with the old scanner as he ignores your question and asks his own.

“What was I supposed to do?” you don't think about the answer for a second. “You needed help, I provided it. The code of honor requires it.” a smile stretched across Starscream's faceplate as you answered him confidently. What exactly was wrong with him?

“This is it. That's why it worked, that's why I changed direction. That's why I genuinely liked you.” I guess if you weren't defenseless, alone in an unknown room with a Decepticon behaving in an unaccustomed manner, you would have found those words quite endearing, even embarrassing. Seeker continued:

“You're acting really different from the others. Just seeing a mech in trouble, just helping, just letting go, you know?”

No, you don't quite get it and you start arguing.

“Any of my teammates would have done the same thing, that's obvious.” and you mean it. Yes, perhaps he would have been taken to the base for interrogation and information, Starscream isn't just some Decepticon after all. You don't speak those thoughts aloud, though.

“Oh, also naive, how sweet. Do you really believe any of your friends would selflessly lend a servo of help to someone who isn't their own, or at least just useful?” the words are spoken by him with such bitter certainty that you don't find anything to answer. Wouldn't they? You want to continue this conversation, but the door slides open again, and you struggle to turn toward the new guest.

You can barely contain yourself from cheering. Wheeljack! Alive, almost unharmed, but clearly exhausted, he enters with something clenched in his fist, Starscream turns around, and you freeze, waiting for a fight.

Which doesn't come.

The Seeker picks up some object and the mechs exchange handshakes.

#transformers #maccadam #transformers x reader #tfp #transformers starscream #starscream x reader #starscream tfp #tfp starscream #yandere x reader #yandere starscream #yandere transformers #fridays mind fic

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sinsatmidnight · 1 year ago

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30 Years Later

Pairing – Kim Minji (JiU) x Male Reader

Words - 3101

Sins – Smut, oral, sumata, shower sex

So...it's been a while. I have not been keeping up with what goes on Tumblr, I have to admit, and nor have I read any (most? I may have read a couple during this period) of the many stories that people have started after I stopped. I'm inevitably rusty, but I had this draft I started a long while back that I somehow got into the mood to finish, so I figured I may as well post it, just for fun. Maybe someone will enjoy it. Hopefully you like it if you read it! And no, I don't expect a significant uptick in activity from me, but I may pay more attention to some of the other stories being written. Working on this was not quite the healthiest thing (because uh, I may have overused a certain part of my body the last couple of days) and let's just say one of the reasons I'm posting this is because it already had a significant bit written. But I kinda wanna subject myself to more of this...abuse(?) now. Ugh I'm rambling, but anyways, hope everyone has a good day (or night)!

(2130 hours, 20 September 2220, Eternity)

It started out muffled. The droning sound breaking into your consciousness, jolting it to life. You have no idea what it is. Or where you are, for that matter. Your eyes are closed. But your ears are sharper now that your mind is actively concentrating on listening.

A voice. Female. You can’t make out words but she sounds calm. And then your eyes slowly open, almost as though forced open by an outside force. That’s when you remember.

“Condition is stable, consciousness gained, cryo pods are opening.” That calm, droning female voice comes through clear to you now. There is a soft hiss as the transparent door of your cryo pod slides to the side. The light outside your pod is quite soft, and yet at the moment to your eyes, it is blinding. Disoriented by your awakening, you lay in the gel bed as you try to get your bearings.

“Eden? Status update…oh, and what is the current date and time?”

The ship’s AI, Eden, responds in the electronically generated calm tone that all shipboard Ais use. “Welcome back, Commander. All of the Eternity’s systems are currently running optimally. All crew members are in good health. It is currently 2130 hours, 20 September 2220.”

Your mind does the math easily despite just coming back from the induced cryo-sleep. Thirty years. Well, that would be right. Crew members were supposed to be woken up after thirty years to run manual checks on the ship’s condition and look over all data collected automatically by ship sensors and the AI. They stay up for two weeks and then go back into cryo-sleep. And after the first thirty years, this is repeated every five years.

Your mind remembers that crew members aren’t woken up alone, they’re normally woken up in pairs as an additional safety measure. One person who can handle technical or mechanical issues on the ship, which in this case is you, and one more person who is medically trained to check on the sleeping crew and in case of medical emergency.

Your gel bed is softening; rapidly melting as you defrost and becoming less of a gel and more of a slime. A marvel of human technological ingenuity; the clear gel froze quickly, was non-toxic in case of accidental ingestion, while also serving as a shock-absorbent and anti-bacterial bed for cryo-sleep.

You need to get out and check who else was awakened with you. As your hands reach and hold on to the sides of the pod, you realise that you have an erection. Your mind immediately jumps back thirty years prior, to the minutes right before the crew enter cryo-sleep. It might have been from thirty years ago, but those are your last waking memories and they feel like just minutes ago instead.

You remember undressing before you enter your cryo pod; cryo-sleep has to be done naked and trying to unpeel clothing frozen to a person for years is painful. And that was when your eyes caught sight of the occupant of the pod opposite you.

With long dark hair and incredibly kissable lips, combat medic Kim Minji drew attention wherever she went. She was tall, gorgeous and had a body that drew a reaction from your own. As you watched her unzip her white bodysuit and slip out of it, stripping off her underwear and getting naked, you felt the blood rush to your penis and you were glad that she was too preoccupied with her own cryo-sleep preparations to look over at you. You ended up getting frozen before your erection could soften.

Back in the present, another female voice that definitely wasn’t Eden’s cuts into your thoughts. “You’ve had that for thirty years, Commander?’

As you stumble out of the pod, the melting gel dripping all over the floor, your eyes immediately catch sight of Kim Minji’s naked body standing outside her pod, the clear slime dripping off her body and giving it a shimmering sheen under the soft white lights of the cryo chamber. You quickly realise two things: that Kim Minji is your medically trained partner that you’re going to be alone with for the next two weeks and that your erection won’t be going down anytime soon despite your embarrassment at getting caught. You technically outrank her, but that doesn’t matter when there’s just two people awake on the ship.

Minji’s gaze is fixed upon your groin and very obvious erection and a smirk plays on her red lips. “Oh, Minji, I-“

Before you can think of an excuse, Minji cuts in. “Thanks for the compliment, I guess. I’ve never had a guy have a boner for me for that long.”

You smile sheepishly and try to change the subject. “Let’s go wash up before we start work.” At the far end of the cryo chamber was the doorway to another smaller room. A shower chamber with a row of showerheads which to wash off the slime with warm water before you got dressed. There were no partitions, they didn’t bother with them, given that everyone is naked in the cryo chamber anyway. And anyone outside the showers can see into them, given that the walls and doors are made of transparent shatter-proof glass.

You drip clear slime onto the silvery metallic floor beneath your bare feet and the metal doesn’t feel cool to your touch, but given that you were completely frozen minutes ago, that’s understandable. The two of you make your way towards the shower chamber, walking past the other cryo pods which stand up at 45-degree angles, glancing at the naked bodies of other crew members stored in cryo-sleep within them. The water from the shower feels warm to you, a nice comfortable temperature. Minji is next to you, the water flowing over her naked and fit body. It's not helping your erection. Her voice cuts into your thoughts. "I can feel some slime on my back still, could you help me scrub it off?" You hesitate for a moment but then your hand reaches forward and runs over her smooth back, swiping the slime off. You feel Minji's body shiver at your touch, and she lets out a soft moan.

You are sure that your erection is pointing straight up now. Not that it wasn't before, but this situation is just prolonging it.

"Oh, that's nice. Can you do it a little lower, please?" She asks, and your hands move further down. Your hands are caressing her pert ass now, the soap lather coating it and making it feel smooth. Minji is letting out soft moans and you are enjoying touching her. As you wash her ass, your fingers stray between her legs, rubbing against her dripping vaginal folds. She is wet and it is not the water causing this.

"You're doing a great job, Commander. But there's a lot more I need you to wash for me." You turn her around so that she is facing you. You look into her eyes and she is biting her lower lip. Minji has a perfect pair of breasts, firm but soft and a nice handful. They are covered with soap lather now and you find your hands moving forward to massage her tits. You pinch her pink nipples, feeling her tremble as you touch her. Minji leans into you, her wet body pressing against yours. She feels hot to the touch, as though her temperature has gone up.

"Look, I really feel like I should help you with that boner of yours." Minji whispers breathily. "Can I do that for you, Commander?" She has already reached down and taken your hard length in her hand, her thumb rubbing the head of your cock, spreading the precum that had gathered. She gives your cock a gentle tug, and it takes all of your willpower to not cum on her right then and there.

"Fuck, Minji, that's- that's fine." You let out an odd mix of strangled gasp that ends in a muttered assurance, as her soft hand continues to firmly stroke your erection.

"Thanks, Commander. I appreciate it." Minji presses those incredibly kissable red lips up against yours, and her tongue hungrily comes out to play. You reciprocate, even as your hands are busy continuing to explore her body. Her hands, on the other hand, are one of the most pleasurable experiences you’ve ever had as your wet cock is deftly and smoothly pumped and stroked.

With a wink, Minji drops to her knees, the water from the showerhead splashing her face and wetting her long hair. She presses her tits together and wraps them around your throbbing shaft.

It feels good and your body instinctively thrusts forward, your hips rocking back and forth, fucking her breasts. Your balls are tensing up, and you can tell you aren't going to last long. It is smooth and slick between her breasts and the tip of your cock is rubbing up against her lips with her tongue comes out to tease the tip. Your eyes stare at her as she looks back at you and with a smirk, Minji parts her lips, taking the head of your cock into her mouth.

The tip of her tongue swirls around the sensitive head, licking up the precum that continues to leak. Then, she starts bobbing her head forward and back, taking more and more of your shaft into her mouth, eventually releasing your cock from between her tits. Minji hums contentedly as she sucks and swallows your cock, and her hand is wrapped around the base, pumping you in time with the movements of her head. Minji’s other hand has drifted between her legs, and she starts to furiously masturbate as she blows you. Her slender fingers plunge in and out of her leaking vagina as she keeps her thumb vigorously rubbing her engorged clit.

As you lock eyes with the gorgeous medic on her knees in front of you, she gives you a sultry look, her lustful eyes peering into yours as she sucks you off. Minji’s expert tongue swirling around your shaft and the vibrations of her moans as she takes your dick deep into her throat very quickly becomes too much for you. Your hands need to grab something, to get control.

Your fingers run through her long hair and roughly grab hold of her head, pulling her towards you as you thrust into her mouth hard. You hear her gag a little, but she doesn’t stop with her movement. You feel the pressure building up, and your hips are moving of their own accord. Your cock is hitting the back of her throat, and your balls are tightening.

With a moan, you cum in her mouth. Thick spurts of cum erupt from your dick and fill her throat. She swallows it all, and stands up, licking those red lips. "That was tasty. It’s not every day you get to taste cum stored up for thirty years."

You barely register her words, breathing heavily. That was the most intense orgasm of your life. Your cock is still hard, but Minji is seemingly satisfied. For now.

Or maybe not. She steps away from you, and turns around, bending over. Her shapely ass is facing you, and her pussy is glistening. She looks back at you and wiggles her hips. "Can you help me clean down here too, please?"

You can't refuse Minji’s request. You have to return the favour, after all. You move towards her and rub her pussy. It is dripping wet, and her juices are flowing freely. You stick a finger inside her and feel her walls clench around it. She lets out a gasp, and pushes her hips back, as if wanting more.

"Oh, I really need it, Commander." She pants, as you continue to finger her. You pull out, and she lets out a groan. "Why did you stop?"

"Just making sure you're ready for me." You reply as you give her pert ass a quick spank, drawing a low moan from the medic. You position your cock at her entrance and push inside her.

She gasps and whimpers as you enter, and you feel her pussy walls tighten around your shaft. You start to thrust into Minji’s soaked pussy, and she groans while pushing her hips back to meet your thrusts. You grab her hips and pull her closer, helping her out in an attempt to get ever deeper inside her. She cries out in pleasure, as you fuck her as hard and fast as you.

It doesn’t take long before you are getting close to climax, and she is too. You can feel her walls tightening around your shaft, and her breathing is getting faster. You grip her hips tightly and pound her harder.

"Commander!" She moans, as she orgasms. Her juices flow over your cock, and you can't hold back any longer. You pull out of her and explode all over her ass and back, creating a sticky mess there. And then you plop down on the ground, all this exertion so soon after coming out of cryo-sleep has taken a lot out of you.

You both pant, catching your breath. Minji crawls over and kisses you deeply. "Thanks, Commander. I can't wait to work with you for the next two weeks." You can only nod breathlessly in response, your tongue wrestling with hers. Minji breaks the kiss and stands up, with her back to you. “Well, going to need your help with this mess here. Your fault, so you clean it up, sir.” Your gaze goes over her cum-glazed skin and you stand up to grab a sponge from the side of the room, lathering it up with some body wash from a dispenser. You start to work on cleaning her up, using the sponge to get your semen off her skin. But Minji is inherently distracting. It is clear whenever you touch her that she is affected by it. You hear some sighs of pleasure, even the occasional whine when your hands leave her.

This inevitably affects you and you are somehow hardening again down below. You make a split-second decision and suddenly press Minji's wet body up against the wall. You swiftly follow that up by sliding your semi-erect dick in between her soaked creamy thighs. You start to thrust in between her thighs, making sure that you brush against her pussy fold throughout.

"Oh, you're naughty, sir." Minji pants lustfully. You can feel the warmth of her vagina radiating through your thrusting member. You are quickly erect once more. This feels even better than her sucking and giving you a titfuck. "How is this, Minji?" You whisper into her ear.

"Fuck, Commander. That's… that's really good. Really, really good." She whimpers breathily, her body pushed up against the transparent wall, tits first. Your cock continues to slide between her thighs, teasing her pussy. You are both covered in soapy suds, the water from the shower spraying and splashing on the both of you. Her skin feels silky smooth and slippery to the touch. With each thrust, her ass and thighs clap loudly. You reach forward and fondle her tits, her nipples hardening and her breathing quickening. You keep thrusting, enjoying the feeling of her soapy thighs wrapped around your shaft. Minji is moaning and gasping with each thrust, and her breathing is getting faster.

Her legs are trembling, and her juices are flowing freely, mixing with the soap suds and water. Your balls slap against her clit, and she cries out in pleasure, her whole body shaking. You reach forward and grab her wrists, pinning her to the glass wall. She lets out a moan and arches her back. You kiss her neck and shoulders and continue to fuck her soapy thighs. She is whimpering and moaning with every thrust, and her juices are flowing freely, making her inner thighs and your cock very slick and slippery.

Your thrusting becomes faster and more urgent. Minji is definitely close to climaxing; you hear her moans and whimpers are getting less coherent and more urgent; you’re sure you catch some lust fuelled whining and babbling about wanting your cum and something about being fucked hard. Your cock is slamming against her pussy, and her walls are clenching around it, her juices leaking out. She is breathing heavily, and her legs are trembling.

You release one of her hands and guide it down to her clit, prompting her to start rubbing it furiously. Her fingers are a blur, and her moans become louder and more urgent. You continue to fuck those soaped-up milky thighs of hers, and she is practically screaming in pleasure, her voice echoing off the walls of the shower room. Not that you had to care about anyone hearing you. You did have an odd sort of audience in the rest of the crew outside in cryo-sleep, just beyond the transparent wall you have pressed Minji against.

Your cock is twitching and pulsating, and you can feel the pressure building up. You are both close to that final edge, and the only sounds are your heavy breathing, the splashing water, and the loud clapping sound of her ass and thighs slapping against your cock and balls.

You thrust forcefully into her thighs a few more times, and then you erupt. Your thick, creamy load sprays onto her thighs and the transparent wall, coating them in your semen. Her body shudders, and she cries out, reaching her own climax. Her juices flow over your shaft, and she slumps down, exhausted. You follow suit and collapse next to her. You both lie there for a while, trying to catch your breath. You do catch out of the corner of your eye, that Minji takes a few licks of your cum from the wall.

The two of you eventually manage to finish your shower and dry up, with you eyeing Minji the whole time as she puts that white bodysuit back and zips it back up. She catches your eye, bites her lip, and then smirks naughtily. You’re both relieved and regretful that your cock is worn out and needs rest. That would have brought it back up. You and Minji are both very well aware that you don't actually have much to do over the next couple of weeks, other than the occasional diagnostic check of the ship’s systems and such. The ship’s AI, Eden was there to handle the heavy lifting. And so, you're very much looking forward to the next couple of weeks alone with Minji.

#male reader #reader insert #dreamcatcher jiu smut

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uglypastels · 2 years ago

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okay there is this video on pornhub that i can’t stop thinking about with modern!eddie. it’s a minecraft redstone tutorial where this guy is getting head while showing how to make a daylight sensor lamp and automatic doors and it’s so funny but also i can’t stop imagining like eddie fucking reader while giving a tutorial on something so pleaseeeee i beg i beg i beg

it is 10 am and when i read this i could not stop laughing (bc it was quite unexpected) so obviously i had to go do some research and holy shit. that's all I'm gonna say. thank you for the request <3

warnings: smut 18+ only MDNI. oral (m receiving). slight bored and ignored vibes. sex work/on camera sex. pwp - we're getting straight to the point here.

Eddie sat the camera up over his desk, so when he sat down in his chair, the angle would pick up on most of his naked body and you sitting between his legs, hand already slowly moving across his length.

He shot you a quick smile and blew you a kiss before he leaned over to pick up his guitar. sliding a bit back in his chair, he placed the instrument over his stomach, strumming it a few times before looking up at the camera.

'Hey everyone, so today I thought I'd teach you how to...' As he began to explain, you wrapped your lips around the tip of his cock. As usual, when it came to these kinds of videos of his, Eddie barely reacted to the touch and just kept on talking about the kind of guitar he was holding, but a trained eye might just notice the flex in his thighs.

'So, what you gotta do...' he placed one hand on the neck of the guitar, showing the camera the placement of the fingers to play the right chords. Meanwhile, his other hand swiped gently over your hair, petting you encouragingly as you took him deeper into your mouth.

You both continued doing your own thing, enjoying the simple presence of each other's company practically. To you, the camera was long forgotten, and his words were just a low hum in your mind, the sound of it always putting you at peace.

At certain moments, Eddie would readjust his position in his chair, using it as an excuse to thrust into your mouth. You would mewl around him, exactly at the moment that he tried to play one of the more difficult parts of the song, and it would be one of the few moments he acknowledged you in the video.

'Shh, baby, not so loud.' He pushed some of your hair back, 'trying to film a video here.' You mouth a 'sorry' to him and continued on. As the video went on, you began to move faster, taking him deeper. It got sloppier, and any time he would thrust into you, he hit the back of your throat, resulting in a moan that went almost in sync with the melody he played.

'So, yeah, that's about it,' Eddie finished up the song, and from his indifferent expression, you wouldn't be even able to tell that his cum was sprayed all over your mouth and tits.

Just before he turned the camera off, he put the guitar back down and leaned down to kiss you, licking himself off your lips. 'You did so fucking good, baby. I love you.'

But that part wouldn't make the final edit. That was just for you and him.

#eddie munson smut #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson au #smut #pwp #eddie munson #mdni #sin bin #eddie munson request #eddie munson blurb #i needed a little distraction from finishing up chapter 10 of NWE lol #and this was too good not to write as soon as i read it #fanfiction #fanfic #fic #request

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claudeng80 · 3 months ago

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For a rainy day

The sound of the infirmary is all wrong. When Shirayuki is at work, she sings off-key to herself, harmonizing badly with the background music the computer pipes through the space. Chords and rhythms unknown to man or extraterrestrial echo through the storage rooms as she rummages and sorts or the laboratory as she works, interrupting her own concert at times with verbal notes on her findings.

Obi’s dozed off on the medi-bed more times than he can count, sleeping better with her accompaniment than he does in the lonely hum of his own bunk.

But now there’s only the discordance of the medical alarms, each one shrieking in its own tone and demanding Shirayuki’s expertise to remedy. The heart monitor murmurs mournfully, an unsettling drone beneath the wail of three others Obi can’t even begin to address. The only voice who can speak their language is silent.

It took just too long to get her back here, Shirayuki’s weakening litany of commentary and advice wavering and failing as time passed. He did everything she asked, bandaging and splinting, setting sensors and helping her stay hydrated, but when it comes down to it he’s just a pilot. Obi pushed the shuttle to its limits, breaking every approach law and docking protocol, but in the end physics bends for no-one.

The communicator warbles with the bridge’s contact sequence but Obi just lets it ring, just one more voice joining the cacophony. She’s dying on the table, that’s what every alarm is screaming, and he’s on his own.

***

Lata drops the device on the examination table, dusting off his fingers as though it’s left a residue. “Throw it out if you don’t want it. I refuse to waste any more of my time on something so illogical.”

Shirayuki prods the cuff and it tips over, the cable attached slithering off the edge of the table with a sinister hiss. “Just because we can’t explain how it works doesn’t mean it doesn’t work. We saw-”

“We thought we saw something, but all they’ll tell us is nonsense about so-called life force.”

“I believe in biological processes. Surely there’s something we can measure-”

“Fine. Measure it on your own time, then. I just don’t want to see it again.” He kicks the doorframe on the way out, leaving a dent in the duraweave.

***

One alarm drops out of the nightmare chorus as the automatic system finishes sealing the last of her open wounds. The last of the spilled blood disappears into the table’s reservoirs, cells and plasma to be recycled into base elements for the next needed infusion. She may be seeing it again any second, for all he knows, through any of the tubes the system’s cocooned her with. She’s still breathing, and the computer insists her core temperature is good, and yet it’s not enough. Her heartbeat is weak, wrong enough that he can hear it. The computer has no suggestions he can understand, no directions he can follow.

He folds her icy hands between his own.

***

Ryuu eyes the device with all the skepticism a teenage boy who is also a medical expert can summon. “Even if it does do something,” which it doesn’t, he doesn’t bother to add. “There’s no off switch. Is there a failsafe? We don’t know anything about how it works.”

“Wouldn’t you like to find out, though?” Shirayuki sparkles when she’s curious, but it dims when Ryuu turns his gaze on her.

“I’m not going to waste my time on a hoax,” he says. He pulls up a paper on his tablet and settles in to read.

Shirayuki knows the end of a conversation when she hears it. The device, with all its straps and cords, coils loosely into the box, and the box slides into a storage cabinet. She’ll try again another time.

***

Somewhere in the last few months, between the Oriold crisis and Ryuu’s transfer to the Lilias after the Rugilia incident, the box got pushed to the back of its shelf. Empty containers skitter across the floor as Obi scoops them out of the way, and the cabinet door slams against the wall with a resounding crack.

The communicator chimes again, a sound more urgent than before, but Obi ignores it. The door control panel swings open with a tap, and he pulls the emergency lock. They’ll be able to override it before long, but there should be enough time for what he’s going to set up. There may be nothing he can do, but there is one thing left he can give.

He barely hears the medical alarms anymore, everything but the rasp of her breath fading into unimportance. He pulls up a chair and leans against the bed, and with one finger he lifts an errant lock of her hair out of her face and tucks it behind her ear.

The target cuff hangs loosely on her at first, but after a moment in place the hard material softens and shrinks, conforming to her skin. There is no start button and no stop, just as they said.

“I’m here because you believed in me,” he says. She doesn’t respond. She can’t hear him, now, but maybe she’ll look at the recordings later. She did want data on how this machine works, after all.

He clamps the source cuff on his wrist, and almost immediately a strange fatigue washes over him. He lays his head down on the bed, watching her chest rise and fall as her breaths ease. Lata and Ryuu will both be so mad, but Obi only cares about one thing anymore. “Finally I can return the favor.”

#obiyukimadness25 #caretaker reversal #fanfic #for cc who encourages my bad ideas #and with respect to Babylon 5 which broke my heart with this #undefined space opera au #this is why nobody lets Obi be in charge of caretaking

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fuck-customers · 11 months ago

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LMAO it is SO fun to watch stupid people fail to walk through/open automatic doors.

The customers at my work are a special breed of stupid. Literally all you have to do to activate the automatic doors (just like all automatic doors) is to move in front of the sensor to trigger the door opening. Yet today alone, there were 6 people who were too stupid to open them.

One woman in particular got especially mad at me, personally for not opening the door for her.....it's an automatic door. Lol Stay out of my store if you're too stupid to figure out how to open automatic doors, that level of stupidity is probably contagious.

Our doors slide on tracks but will "pop" off the rails and open like a normal door in an emergency. I or someone in my store have to pop it back on track at least 5-10 times a day. The effin thing won't open if it's slightly off track, and I am starting to think the a-holes do it on purpose just to annoy me.

-Rodney

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quackity1999 · 4 months ago

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[ TO: [email protected] CC: [REDACTED][email protected] FROM: [email protected] SUBJECT: Blueprint ]

Hey Boss,

Hope you're doing well. Attached is the latest version of the "casino blueprint" you requested:

Casino Layout :

Main Entrance & Lobby + Grand entrance with automatic sliding doors + Extra-wide ramps and stairwells (minimum 8-10 feet wide) + Reception & concierge desk w / lower counter for wheelchair users + Seating area, accessible lounge chairs and tables

Gaming Floor + Slot Machines Section (wide aisles for mobility device access) + Table Games Section (spacious layout for wheelchair maneuverability) + Dedicated High-Stakes Area

Bar & Restaurant Area + Lowered counters for accessibility + Spacious seating arrangements for wheelchairs and service animals

Event & Showroom + Ample space between seating rows + Accessible VIP booths

Hotel & Resort Area + Elevators with extra-wide doors + Wheelchair-friendly rooms with roll-in showers

Other Features + Accessible restrooms (wider stalls, grab bars, automatic doors) + Assisted gaming stations for visually impaired guests + Non-slip flooring for safety

Looking forward to your feedback!

Best, FoolishG

-🦈 [author here, just completely bullshit the emails but I thought it'd be an interesting touch. Remind me that I'll eventually have an actual blueprint sketched out to send to you.]

TO: [email protected] CC: [REDACTED]+mt FROM: [email protected] SUBJECT: re: blueprints.

foolish,

fuck yeah, sweet. looks solid overall— appreciate the detail. just a few things we’ll need to go over:

• double-check the ramp angles at the main entrance; i wanna make sure they’re installed within ADA compliancex otherwise we'll get hounded like dogs.

• with the sliding doors— are we talking redstone sensor thingies or push-button activation? if they glitch or malfunction, i don’t want guests getting stuck outside and stopping the flow of things, or worse, getting injured: the paperwork for stuff like that sucks.

• counter heights – reception, bar, and any frequently used counters need to be exactly 34 inches max for wheelchair users. no “eyeballing” it.

• lighting adjustments? we probably need adaptable lighting in the strip clubs or something for those who can't do flashing lights. i don't know.

• for the elevator buttons & signage, we're gunna aim for braille, clear contrast, and reachable heights (no higher than 48 inches).

i think that's all i've got. god. this is gunna take months, isn't it? at least it'll make us look better. anyways— i'll get in touch.

yours,

quackity, president of las nevadas.

#quackitychirps #ask blog #🦈 anon #ooc: YOURE GUNNA DRAW LITERAL BLUEPRINTS?!?!;!?!#WHHHHHOOOOOOOOO HOLY SHIT? HOLY FUCK?#JUMPING AROUND LIKE A LEMUR ON CRACK RN #sorry im. So normal

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dvsautodoors · 2 years ago

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The Ultimate Guide to Automatic Sensor Doors

Introduction

In today's fast-paced world, convenience and efficiency have become paramount in our daily lives. One area where these qualities are increasingly important is in the realm of doors. Automatic Sensor Door, equipped with state-of-the-art technology, are revolutionizing the way we enter and exit buildings. In this comprehensive guide, we will delve into the world of automatic sensor doors, exploring their benefits, technology, installation, and much more.

Understanding Automatic Sensor Doors

What Are Automatic Sensor Doors?

Automatic sensor doors, also known as motion-activated doors or automatic sliding doors, are a type of entrance system that opens and closes without physical contact. They are equipped with sensors that detect the presence of individuals or objects in their vicinity, triggering the door to open or close accordingly.

How Do Automatic Sensor Doors Work?

The core technology behind automatic sensor doors involves a combination of sensors, control units, and motors. When a person approaches the door, infrared sensors or motion detectors pick up the movement and send a signal to the control unit. The control unit then activates the motor, causing the door to slide open smoothly.

Advantages of Automatic Sensor Doors

Enhanced Accessibility

One of the primary advantages of automatic sensor doors is their accessibility. They provide a convenient option for people with disabilities, parents with strollers, or anyone carrying heavy items. The doors open effortlessly, eliminating the need to push or pull, making public spaces more inclusive.

Energy Efficiency

Automatic sensor doors are designed to open only when necessary, reducing energy waste by preventing unnecessary drafts. This feature not only benefits the environment but also lowers heating and cooling costs for businesses and institutions.

Improved Security

Many automatic sensor doors come equipped with security features. These doors can be programmed to remain locked during specific hours or to require authorization for entry, enhancing security in commercial and residential settings.

Types of Automatic Sensor Doors

Sliding Sensor Doors

Sliding sensor doors are the most common type. They open horizontally, making them ideal for busy entrances such as shopping malls, airports, and supermarkets.

Swing Sensor Doors

Swing sensor doors operate similarly to traditional hinged doors but open automatically upon detecting movement. They are commonly used in office buildings and medical facilities.

Installation and Maintenance

Installation Process

Installing automatic sensor doors requires expertise and precision. Professionals need to calibrate the sensors, set the speed of door operation, and ensure safety features are functioning correctly.

Maintenance Tips

Regular maintenance is essential to keep automatic sensor doors in optimal condition. This includes cleaning sensors, lubricating moving parts, and testing safety mechanisms.

Automatic Sliding Door have evolved from a convenience to a necessity in today's world. Their ability to enhance accessibility, save energy, and improve security makes them a valuable addition to various settings. As technology continues to advance, we can expect even more innovative features and applications for these doors.

#automatic sliding gate #dorma automatic sliding door #sliding gate motor #automatic glass door #automatic sliding door #auto sliding door #automatic sensor door #dorma distributors & suppliers #dorma sensor door #automatic swing door

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chrysalispilled · 1 year ago

Text

Inarticulation

(feeling weird again! did this instead of doing something that’d make me feel so much worse, so i’m pretty proud of that! i also love the Rio Romeo song so theres a fake little title)

There’s a faint beep from outside Olivia’s office. A shadow of a person looms at the frosted glass door, their open hand hovering over the sensor that denied access. The doctor squints, her sharp gaze scrutinizing how the figure’s hair was so unkempt it seemed like a halo around them, before she shrugs and clicks a security pop-up on her computer. The day had been a drag, why not humor this visitor.

The doors slide open with a sharp hiss, causing the young woman on the other side to jump with her surprise. It’s Lucielle, in almost comically large cargo pants, a small tank top, and a speckled fur coat hanging off her shoulders. Olivia reacted with similar shock, freezing up on her yoga ball before both women smile. Lucielle’s is sweeter, more practiced, as she waves when walking in. Olivia’s, however, is awkward; she looks exhausted, her brows furrowing as she lets out a breathless chuckle.

“Heyyy..” The mutant at the doorway greeted kindly, allowing the doors to close automatically and adjusting the messenger bag on her shoulder.

“Lucy?!” Olivia stands swiftly, the ball getting kicked back and rolling under her desk. She nearly trips when she rushes forward, her lab coat billowing to her knees and falling loosely at the rolled up sleeves. They meet in the middle, slipping on the shiny tile floors into a flourish of a hug. Olivia feels quite desperate, her long arms squeezing tight as her hands practically claw for the mutant to come closer, to drown in her. Lucielle gives a small laugh, squeezing the hug herself, her eyes clenched tight.

Olivia doesn’t let go, and her words spill out without a second thought. “You thought of me! You thought of me enough to come over, are you serious?!” She practically cackles, “What about your work though? Your degree work? The bookstore?”

“Nothing for you to worry about, that’s for sure,” Lucielle answers simply, barely breaking away from the hug to look up at the exhausted smile on Olivia’s face. Even with seemingly more on her plate, her worry was directed to Olivia. “I should be asking you that! You’ve barely slept, I’m scared you haven’t been eating, is there anything I can do?”

As the mutant spoke Olivia faltered, she loosens the hug and let her gaze fall to the floor. Her face went slack with a hint of a frown. “Ah, well, no it’s been fine.. You have no need to worry!” And just like that, her professional mask slips back on: a still weak smile and a stronger stance as she attempts to hide her exhaustion. “I’m more surprised you took the time to come here than anything.”

Olivia steps back, her brows knitting together and her eyes flitting up and down her little friend. She does glance to her computer and steps back to put a nimble hand on the corner of her desk, but she keeps a polite smile on her face. Lucielle slings her bag down, the buttons on its flap quietly clinking together. She drops it and lets it droop, more interested in taking a small step forward.

A few seconds of awkward silence passes between them, barely broken up by the fans of Olivia’s computer. Until the selkie asks, “Are you available for a break? Or should I schedule an appointment?”

Lucielle rolls forward on a wheeled stool, stopping a collision by propping her leg at the base of one of the many counters surrounding the office walls. Olivia sits in a similar seat, her elbow resting on the white countertop as she gently puts her glass of water back down. Her posture is practically ruined, but Lucielle isn’t one to judge.

“I couldn’t be luckier,” Olivia continues.. She had finally gotten a time to just let loose, she may have been on the clock but rambling to this young woman was a release she didn’t know she needed. She ranted to her employees, almost berated many of her team, but knowing that this person actually listened was nice. Her emotion led to lashing out, she usually took it out on Spider-Man but it could weigh her down if she didn’t have an outlet.. And it built up quite quickly. “If I told anyone else they’d write me off as crazy- Again!”

Impressively, she wasn’t complaining about what she saw as incompetence of her workers, nor the mistreatment from her boss. Rather, it was about how she knows she’s lost herself. How she wants so much, how she’s so close to achieving it all, how she’ll keep going, but mainly how tired she’s become. Lucielle nodded along, chiming in now and then, but never wanting to overstay her welcome. She added on her understanding, sympathizing with her own stories to try and lighten the mood. It was like two old friends reconnecting, a duo you’d see at a cafe or a park, drunk or eating, spilling their hearts out.

Lucielle had ditched her sealskin coat, it laid draped over her bag on the counter next to Olivia’s lab coat. She moved to stretch, pulling her hands over her head in a much more relaxed manner than earlier. “Mmh, no, I’m lucky,” She says with a small catlike yawn, showing off sharp canines- That make Olivia remember the first time she saw them, that feeling of wanting to get close to her and just learn, just learn everything she could about this woman. “I know you, and you trust me. That must mean something.”

When Olivia was surprised, she looked like an owl: wide hazel eyes boring through you and tightly pressed lips. She was impressed to say the least, the mutant reciprocated her care and she didn’t want to recall the last time she felt that. She’s about to respond, but-

“And I trust you.”

Olivia feels like she might pass out, almost lightheaded in her shock. She rests her forehead on her hand, and sighs weakly. Lucielle rolls a bit forward on her chair, clasping her hands in her lap as she leans forward and tilts her head to the side. “Oh, shit, did I say something wrong?” Lucielle mutters. She was prone to overthinking, fearful that anything could be her fault and that she could’ve done better.

The doctor begins to laugh again, quietly, but genuinely. She shakes a bit with it, unable to contain herself before sitting up. She’s smiling again, and looks more put together than when she was venting, but as she runs a hand through her hair Lucielle can still feel how tense she is. The selkie frowns some, but can’t properly bring herself to say something.

“I- I really can’t see how! I’ve told you so many times that you know what I’ve done, what I do for a living.. And you’re still here! I don’t want to drag you down with me, the last thing I need is you getting hurt because I told you too much or-“

The villain’s voice began to shake, but she’s cut off by the boldest action she’s ever experienced. A short peck of a kiss from the other woman, silencing her in a split second. No one had ever done something so out there, almost outrageous, but she’d be lying if she didn’t like it. It doesn’t last long, and Lucielle pulls back with one hand on the counter beside them. And she just smiles again, her freckle peppered cheeks rising and her gaze lighting up when she sees the doctor’s shock. She was almost smug, like she found the only proper way to shut the head scientist up, even if her breath trembled with the boldness of the act.

Olivia was always so put together, stoic and cold to anyone in her way. She even tried to be that with Lucielle, although a bit more charismatic, she hated showing weakness for too long. Now, she couldn’t stop it. A few blinks and a few quick breaths later, she can still barely think.

Lucielle was about to sit back when Olivia’s hand on the counter reaches up to her’s before she can. That hand holds fast when it gets to her forearm, and she tugs the mutant forward on the wheeled chair, right into another warm hug. Olivia almost falls back herself, as the movement pulls Lucielle right out of her chair. She wants to say something more, some form of thanks, but she realizes the words were kissed out of her when she buries her face in the crook of the other woman’s neck.

#༺ Shell & Spine ༻#olivia octavius #writing #self shipping #self ship #selfship #self indulgent #oc x canon #f/o #romantic f/o #f/o community #villain f/o #phoca vitulina #🐚

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yetanothersaint · 5 months ago

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The first sign that the Cascadia earthquake has begun will be a compressional wave, radiating outward from the fault line. Compressional waves are fast-moving, high-frequency waves, audible to dogs and certain other animals but experienced by humans only as a sudden jolt. They are not very harmful, but they are potentially very useful, since they travel fast enough to be detected by sensors thirty to ninety seconds ahead of other seismic waves. That is enough time for earthquake early-warning systems, such as those in use throughout Japan, to automatically perform a variety of lifesaving functions: shutting down railways and power plants, opening elevators and firehouse doors, alerting hospitals to halt surgeries, and triggering alarms so that the general public can take cover. The Pacific Northwest has no early-warning system. When the Cascadia earthquake begins, there will be, instead, a cacophony of barking dogs and a long, suspended, what-was-that moment before the surface waves arrive. Surface waves are slower, lower-frequency waves that move the ground both up and down and side to side: the shaking, starting in earnest.

Soon after that shaking begins, the electrical grid will fail, likely everywhere west of the Cascades and possibly well beyond. If it happens at night, the ensuing catastrophe will unfold in darkness. In theory, those who are at home when it hits should be safest; it is easy and relatively inexpensive to seismically safeguard a private dwelling. But, lulled into nonchalance by their seemingly benign environment, most people in the Pacific Northwest have not done so. That nonchalance will shatter instantly. So will everything made of glass. Anything indoors and unsecured will lurch across the floor or come crashing down: bookshelves, lamps, computers, cannisters of flour in the pantry. Refrigerators will walk out of kitchens, unplugging themselves and toppling over. Water heaters will fall and smash interior gas lines. Houses that are not bolted to their foundations will slide off—or, rather, they will stay put, obeying inertia, while the foundations, together with the rest of the Northwest, jolt westward. Unmoored on the undulating ground, the homes will begin to collapse.

Across the region, other, larger structures will also start to fail. Until 1974, the state of Oregon had no seismic code, and few places in the Pacific Northwest had one appropriate to a magnitude-9.0 earthquake until 1994. The vast majority of buildings in the region were constructed before then. Ian Madin, who directs the Oregon Department of Geology and Mineral Industries (DOGAMI), estimates that seventy-five per cent of all structures in the state are not designed to withstand a major Cascadia quake. FEMA calculates that, across the region, something on the order of a million buildings—more than three thousand of them schools—will collapse or be compromised in the earthquake. So will half of all highway bridges, fifteen of the seventeen bridges spanning Portland’s two rivers, and two-thirds of railways and airports; also, one-third of all fire stations, half of all police stations, and two-thirds of all hospitals.

"The Really Big One" by Kathryn Schulz, 2015.

#the really big one #the earthquake that will devastate the pacific northwest #kathryn schulz #saint posts #hot shit #listen this article is RLY good

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agent-pennsylvania · 1 month ago

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First Contact

“86” as his ODST used to call him, steps off the Pelican boots of his standard issue SPI (Semi-Powered Infiltration) mark II armor clunking as he did. So this was his new home: a ship called the Mother of Invention sounded kind of cool. He hoped this place would be better than his old base...It had been pretty unbearable after the loss of his ODST squad. So when the UNSC had told him he had a new assignment he didn’t question it… He needed to get out of that place anyway. Now he was here, a new start in a way. He was supposed to meet with a man named Brenton Toll for more details of whatever they were doing here.

His mechanical arm whirred quietly as he adjusted his duffle bag to hang over his shoulder. He didn’t have much, just some clothes, extra combat knives... a few momentos... essentials really…

“U-086 over here please...” 86 turned towards the voice, no one but superiors used his full name so that must be Toll? He made his way over giving the dark skinned man a proper Spartan salute minus the fact he was still holding his duffle bag over his shoulder.

“Yes, sir...Reporting for duty.” He was nervous… Who wouldn’t be? The UNSC hadn’t told him why he was here, just that he was a good fit for this assignment. The man seemed to look him over, appraising him. 86 was used to that, everyone did that especially to Spartans they were assets not people… He was used to it but the way Toll looked at him was different...creepy even, made his anxiety squirm under his skin.

“At ease, soldier...There’s no need for such formality here 086.” Toll gave a friendly smile, but 86 thought it was weird that he actually said the zero instead of just 86. “Welcome to the Mother of Invention or MOI as everyone likes to call her. You’ll be one of our agents from now on, Agent Pennsylvania to be exact. I hope you can get along well with the others… Now if you don’t mind we need to get you properly equipped as one of us… and we have a few evaluations we’d like you to complete so we can match you properly with any assignments we send you on. This way please...” Toll said as he started to walk away.

86 no Agent Pennsylvania, had no trouble keeping up with the man’s pace as he followed along behind him. While at the same time taking in the sights and sounds of his new home.

Toll took him into a showroom of sorts displaying quite a few different prototype MJOLNIR armors. Agent Pennsylvania was a little stunned. How did they have MJOLNIR armors of their own? This project must be bigger than he thought…

“Go ahead and equip whatever you want from this room. Feel free to specialize it to your strong points. I’ll meet you outside when you're done.” With that being said Toll left the door sliding closed automatically behind him as he stepped out.

Pennsylvania all but dropped his duffle bag once his superior was gone. Looking over his options with all the energy of a kid in a candy store. The SPI armor he was currently equipped with was mass produced garbage meant to enhance the efficiency of the suicide soldier he was originally meant to be.

He looked the suits over before settling on a variation of the scout armor. Scout armor has many advantages for someone like him. The wider angle visor would help with his blind spot... Since he only had one eye, it also had enhanced optics… The type of thing every sniper needs... The suit has an anti-tracking system, shroud-induction and has the ability to mask radioactive emissions making him practically invisible to infrared sensors and reactor pings. While also extending the up time of active camouflage... Too bad he didn’t have an active camo unit… Although maybe he could make the photo-reactive coating from the SPI armor work with the Scout armor. It wouldn’t be a full active camo but enough for sort of a phasing out effect probably…

He shed his old SPI armor for the new Scout setup making sure to scavenge the photo-reactive unit to adapt into this suit later. He equipped the chest plate with an extra combat knife, as you can never have too many knives. Next he needed a gun.… Looking them over his eyes landed on an anti-materiel sniper rifle and she practically sang to him like a siren in those old pirate tales… He took it slinging it over his shoulder and into place over the mag strips on the back of the suit. He would definitely customize his colors later, probably jungle camo as it was his favorite pattern.

Right now though it was just plain OD Green. Stepping out of the room suited up with his new gear he found Toll was waiting for him in the hallway. Toll took a moment to study him again, another appraising look before nodding his head.

“As I expected from your file it seemed you leaned towards stealth/recon missions, the anti-materiel sniper is a nice fit also.” Toll adjusted his glasses before writing something down on the clipboard he was carrying. Odd... Who carries a clipboard around this day and age?

Agent Pennsylvania just nodded in response he wasn’t really sure how he was supposed to act with this man yet…

“Alright then let’s get started shall we? I’ll show you to the training room and we will have a look at what you can do. Set up a baseline of sorts for future tests.” Toll started walking as he talked Pennsylvania following close behind. The man showed him around a bit before heading to the training room he knew where the cafeteria, and their rooms were located. Informing him that he would get his very own room, saying that he could go pick a room once they were done with his testing… Pennsylvania was definitely looking forward to that...

Toll led him to the training room. The room was pretty lackluster. A table was set up with a few different pistols… He hates pistols...Something with them just never clicks quite right in his brain. It made them extremely difficult for him to use with his lack of an eye. If this man had read his files as he said he had, he would know this… Unless this was some sort of test… There were three targets on the other side of the room, half torso types.

“Take out the three targets with what you have at your disposal,” was all Toll said as he leaned against the wall to observe clipboard and pen seemingly at the ready.

Pennsylvania just nodded as he stepped over to the table. Pistols all laid out nice and neat separated from their magazines for safety-sake, probably. Pennsylvania picks one of them up pulling the slide backwards to inspect the chamber… Nothing in it… Good. He releases the slide allowing it to snap back and then he holds the pistol in his open hand gauging its weight getting a feel for its distribution before stepping up to the line like a pitcher stepping up to the plate. He grins to himself under his helmet as he whips the pistol...the whole thing...at one of the targets. The barrel of the pistol embeds itself into whatever the targets are made of, sort of like an axe would, but it’s not an axe.

The target doesn't take the impact gracefully, the head breaking off and tumbling back a little while after. Penn pulls his combat knives from the sheaths on his chest plate, he doesn't need to take a moment to gauge their weight though he knew his knives like they were extensions of himself. The knives left his hands in quick succession flying true and sinking nicely into the other two targets clean up to the hilt.

He straightened up and turned to Toll, who looked less than amused... Pennsylvania almost laughed but he caught it in time and stifled it as Toll spoke, "You were supposed to shoot them..."

"You didn't say I had to shoot them. You said to take them out with what I had at my disposal...And that's what I did..." Pennsylvania replied with only a slight hint of sass.

Toll sighed and started writing something on his clipboard, probably something about being unruly... But what could you expect from someone who was raised by ODST... As Toll was writing, Pennsylvania walked up to the targets to pull his knives out of their faces. Yanking one out before happening to look up and see he had a small audience looking down at him from an observation deck of sorts.

He didn't know that was going to be a thing and was now a little embarrassed by his actions. Although it didn't really look like he needed to be... One of his viewers, a smaller one, had a hand pressed against the glass as if trying to get a better look. The other, a bigger guy probably bigger than even him, but it was hard to tell from here, was looking down at him also... Did this PFL have more Spartans? Would he be able to talk to them? Slightly taken aback by the spectators being right there, Pennsylvania did the only thing he could think of at that moment... He gave a little hand wave as if to say Hi, it was an awkward little thing...

As Pennsylvania waved the smaller one pulled away from the glass almost like they had been burnt. Turning their head towards where Toll was standing still writing away... As if to see if he was looking? Were they not supposed to interact with each other? Strange... Pennsylvania almost missed it...but after seeming to decide the coast was clear the smaller one gave a tiny wave back. The bigger one gave him a simple head nod and after that Pennsylvania turned to pull the second knife from the other target's head.

It seemed this Toll character wasn't to be trusted if that reaction was anything to go by... He had felt it when they first met but having his suspicions confirmed made him feel a bit better about it. He sheathed his knives and made his way back over to Toll somewhat at attention but not fully. He wanted to get these tests over with so he could pick a room, hopefully they had nice closets...

_______________________________

"Vermont! Did you see that guy, the one that just got off the Pelican... He had a fucking robotic arm... Do you think he was a Spartan like you? Is he a new Agent maybe? I wonder what stupid shitty state name they'll give him..." Rhodes practically exploded with excitement as soon as the coast was clear. He could practically feel Vermont roll his eyes as the helmet that covered his face rolled and he heard a small sigh.

"Yes, Rhodes I saw him... He was a bit hard to miss... You don't see people wearing SPI armor often... Nor do you see people almost as big as me..." Vermont chuckled lightly... Rhodes was being gay about the new guy he just knew it... "If he is a new Agent they'll probably have him in the training room soon enough... Want to go see?"

"Fuckin' yeah! Let's go..." Another check of their surroundings and Rhodes had a hold of Vermont's hand all but dragging him down the hall towards the observation deck, Vermont allowed it as a small laugh escaped his lips...Rhodes was so cute...

With Vermont in tow it didn't take long to get where they were going, luckily no one else was on deck so they could be secretly gay together while they watched a few people getting the training room ready for testing. Rhodes somehow managed to weasel his way into Vermont's lap even with both of them standing. Vermont just took the time to hold him. His chin resting on the top of his head as they waited for the new guy to show up.

After a little while the guest of honor soon came walking into the training room slightly behind Toll. Rhodes stood back up and moved towards the window to get a better look, Vermont following suit just after. Vermont noted the Scout armor and sniper rifle on the new guy's back, but he didn't see a side arm, just knives...a bit odd...

The guy picked the pistol up from the table but didn't load it, just checked the action and then to his surprise used it to unconventionally take out the target across the room... Rhodes squeaked the sound involuntarily leaving his throat due to his surprise, his hand pressed against the glass, as he elbowed Vermont in the side.

"Did you fucking see that! That was so cool, holy shit!" Rhodes was bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet.

"Yeah... I don't think that's how he was supposed to do it..." Vermont paused as the knives flew to the other targets... He was probably going to have to peel Rhodes off the glass here in a second before he went ass over tin cups into the training room... "He's got a good arm, I'll give him that."

The new Agent went up to retrieve his knives pulling one and then seeming to notice them the man's head tilted slightly as he gave a small awkward looking wave, like he had no idea what he was doing. Rhodes stepped back from the glass and checked to see if Toll saw not wanting to bring more attention to themselves as necessary. Toll wasn't looking and Rhodes relaxed a bit before returning the wave albeit cautiously...Vermont just gave a simple nod it was the polite thing to do after all.

"He's adorable, did you see that? He's like a big puppy..." Rhodes awed.

Vermont sighed... Rhodes was gone... Deep in whatever little place his brain went. "Come on, let's go... Before you get us in trouble..." He drug Rhodes back out into the hallway. It was about lunch time anyway. May as well see if there was anything good...probably not but it wouldn't hurt to check. After lunch Rhodes had to go to a briefing with fire team alpha so they had to separate. Rhodes promised to come by Vermont's room later, some quiet "I love yous" passing between them.

Sneaking back to Vermont's room later Rhodes got caught just outside the room as the new guy stepped out of one of the previously empty rooms. Rhodes tried to be as nonchalant as possible about it, after all this guy was new he didn't know who slept where... It was probably fine...

Rhodes' thoughts were interrupted when the new guy spoke. "What’s it called when a Peeping Tom is skilled in his game?" Rhodes' brain stalled, what the fuck was this? Was this because they got caught watching his training tests... How did he even know it was him? His voice didn't sound angry though actually it sounded kind of kidding... Like a joke? There was a pause as Rhodes was sort of frozen unsure what was going on...

"It's called being at... Peak Performance." The other Agent finally broke the strange silence, erupting into a fit of giggles.

Rhodes couldn't help but laugh too, did this guy seriously just use a joke in order to get his attention? He had no business being that fucking cute... Once the agent sobered up a bit he stepped a bit closer and pulled off his helmet revealing a heavily scared face and an adorable lopsided grin...cute...

"Hey, do you know how much a polar bear weighs?" Pennsylvania tried another one... It seemed like the first one broke the little one... He was pretty sure this was the one that waved at him earlier.

"No, I don't..." the little one replied once he had stopped his own laugh.

Pennsylvania grinned again this time holding his hand out for a handshake... The flesh one, he had his helmet tucked against his side with the mechanical one. "I don't know either but it's enough to break the ice... Haha... Name's Agent Pennsylvania... I guess... What's yours?" Pennsylvania chuckled as he introduced himself.

Was that a pickup line? Did this Agent Pennsylvania just use a pickup line on him Oh my G-d! His brain was broken... Cause he answered almost immediately... "Agent Rhode Island... but...most people just call me Rhodes..." Rhodes took Pennsylvania's hand to shake it; he couldn't help the smile on his face as he did so. This guy was dangerous...

"Oh, can we shorten them? Okay... Then I guess I would just be Penn then? Nice to meet you, Rhodes." Penn tilted his head again. Like he had done earlier, in the training room although now Rhodes knew it was because Penn only had one eye but it didn't make it any less adorable.

"Yeah, I guess it would... Hello, Penn..." When Rhodes said his name Penn smiled even wider... Oh shit... This is bad... Fuck...

#rvb ocs #agent pennsylvania #pa lore #Toll is basically an Oc version of Price.#Rhodes and Vermont are friends ocs used with permission

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faulty-heat-vents · 4 months ago

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//Narrative communication established.

//[ASSIST: CONDENSE]> RESPONSE BELOW READMORE

Thermie tests the weight of the wrench in xeir hands- feeling its impact-tremors when they bounce it in xeir hand, tracing the faint-growing chain of sensor-firings through xeir arm and up into xeir chest. Xey crane xeir head to stare at the massive frame in front of xem, then look back down at xemself.

//It is… strange, seeing my [vessel] from this perspective. I am unaccustomed to subaltern inhabitation. We are both well aware of my last piloting incident, and I have yet to adjust this frame's-

A ping cuts xem off. Xeir attention turns inwards, drawn to the notification that sits in the upper corner of xeir HUD.

//MEMO FROM COMMAND: ORACLE- [THERMALLY_CHALLENGED], report to my office at once. Directions attached.

//[QUERY: ELABORATION]> Is my Pilot to attend as well?

//MEMO FROM COMMAND: ORACLE- Negative.

Ashton sees the conversation on his helmet's HUD too- and Oracle's second order makes his stomach sink. Thermie picks up on the worry, sets down the wrench, and forces xeir subaltern’s upper shoulders into a half-approximation of a shrug.

//Do not worry, Pilot. By my calculations, the likelihood that Commander Oracle will wish us harm is inactionably low. Despite their outward-facing temper, they are a reasonable individual. This meeting is likely a formality after the events-

//MEMO FROM COMMAND: ORACLE- Your position has not changed. Move.

Ashton scrunches his face in discontent. “Don’t keep them waiting. They’re pissed. I can tell.”

//Understood. Be well in our absence, Pilot. We will not be long.

And with that, xey peck at his helmet with xeir conical head and begin the walk to Oracle’s office.

Ashton stands in dumbfounded silence. Did xey just-?

Hiver’s mocking whistle behind him sets the record straight.

——

The door to Commander Oracle’s office doesn’t open for xem automatically. A few awkward moments pass before it chirps and slides open, revealing Oracle with their wrist to the panel on the other side. Their reader-mask is down, covering their face and leaving only their three eyes exposed, bright green against an obsidian-black slate.

Both parties move silently to their respective seats- Oracle behind their desk, and Thermie struggling to maneuver the subaltern’s legs to sit down in front of it. Oracle sighs and waves a hand to tell xem to stop after xey nearly push the chair over with an oddly-bent knee.

“You can stand if that makes it easier.”

//This is appreciated, Commander Oracle. Apologies are given.

“And received.” Oracle tents their hands and rests their chin on the apex, then points to Thermie with their little fingers. “You strike me as a business-first… person. No nonsense, straight to the point.”

If Thermie notices Oracle’s hesitance, xey don’t mention it.

//I pride myself on maintaining such a disposition, Commander Oracle.

“Good. I’ve been getting nothing but nonsense from G-212 for weeks. I’ve noted you taking a possession over it. Tell me what you know.”

//[PARAMETER: REFINEMENT]> To speak my repository in a timely manner would require a vocalization speed exceeding human comprehension.

Oracle makes a disgruntled noise under their breath, muffled even further by their reader-mask. “Fine. Narrow the window to data gained during or after Operation: Lost Sands. That’s where the report’s been stalling.”

Thermie’s eyes shift, from laser-focused on Oracle’s blank face to somewhere in the middle distance. Searching xeir memory takes agonizing time, made longer by interruptions from system overclock alerts and memory drive damage.

Xey faintly register Oracle drumming their fingers on their desk in impatience. After deafening conversation-silence, xeir voice jolts Oracle back to attention.

//[SEARCH: RESULT: “OPERATION: LOST SANDS”]> Chassis visual data exported to your device, Commander Oracle. Pilot performance markedly improved in comparison to previous deployments.

//Objectives as follows: Exfiltrate endangered megafauna. If previous objective proves impossible, gather reproductive material from endangered megafauna for cloning and repopulation efforts. Exfiltrate Pilots.

//All objectives completed.

“Not optimally.” Oracle slides a paper on their desk into Thermie’s line of sight and taps it with a delicately-manicured nail. “Your fireteam suffered a Pilot casualty. The target suffered extensive kinetic trauma. The Academy is suffering a brazenly-disrespectful ex-mercenary as a resident.”

//[COMPLICATION: LIST]> Callsign [HIVER], unknown anomalous biological agent, unanticipated scale of extraction target.

“Part of being a Pilot is adapting when things go awry. I’ll agree that G-212 performed better this time than its previous deployments, but I’ve still got a casualty with no chance of resuscitation.”

Thermie snaps xeir head to stare daggers through Oracle’s blank mask. When xey speak, xeir voice is not xeir own- stitched together words from Oracle’s own lips, sharp as xeir gaze.

//[AGGRESSION: RE-EVALUATE]> “Part of being a Pilot is- suffering- casualties.”

//We were both uninformed by our employer. We were not alerted to excessive field saturation. We were not alerted to the presence of necrotizing agents. We were not alerted to the scale of our target, nor its radioactive presence. We were not alerted to the arrival of [HIVER] and [KIA] attempting to neutralize my Pilot under assassination contract.

//The fact that my Pilot managed to complete his assigned objectives is statistically astounding, given every complication. We were sent into a battle we should have lost. “Chance’s been on” {our} “side lately.”

Thermie waits in silence for Oracle to speak, body motionless and passive, the only movement being xeir eyes- tracking Oracle’s hand as it scratches the edge of their desk. When an answer doesn’t come, Thermie leans xeir snout into the Commander’s face and nearly purrs as xey continue-

//Your directive is to test us. During several moments of [Operation: Lost Sands], I assumed manual control of our frame. We are an argumentative, intrinsically-linked variable.

//[REQUEST: DEPLOYMENT]> My Pilot has called me his “better half.” Divide us and see what he is capable of.

“If you’re asking me to send him out there alone, I-“

//I do not speak for my Pilot, as it is not my place to do so. This request is my own, if I may be afforded it.

One of Thermie’s many arms snakes its way onto Oracle’s desk and drags a paper out of an overstuffed folder- a contract for one “PROSPERO DEFENSE MILITIA”- @eschaton-official- marked with a bright orange stamp on its corner.

//I even have an assignment in mind.

Oh, how Oracle wants to respond. They want to tell this machine off for insubordination- to lose their temper- to stand up from this desk and show it how they got to be a Commander in the fucking first place- to wrap their fingers around its spindly neck and strangle some respect into it-

But all of their internal bravado dies when Oracle tries to read the “machine’s” mind and sees an eye staring back. They push Thermie’s snout out of their face with a flat, shaking palm.

“Deployment approved. Get the fuck out of my office.”

#lancer rpg #lancer ttrpg #lancerrpg #textpost #oc rp #ashton talks #lancer pilot #//[???] talks #thermie talks #lancer nhp #oracle talks #(oracle does not have a tag)#lost sands arc #thermie's prospero vacation #ooc: finally canonizing Thermie’s presence in a oneshot Dubious ran a few weeks ago!#Thermie took a bit of a vacation on Prospero but imma skip that for the most part to keep xem active on the blog lol #funny as fuck that xey do better in combat than Ash (when it came down to rolling and lethality)

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