#Common data shock

[reasonsforhope]

"Canadian scientists have developed a blood test and portable device that can determine the onset of sepsis faster and more accurately than existing methods.

Published today [May 27, 2025] in Nature Communications, the test is more than 90 per cent accurate at identifying those at high risk of developing sepsis and represents a major milestone in the way doctors will evaluate and treat sepsis.

“Sepsis accounts for roughly 20 per cent of all global deaths,” said lead author Dr. Claudia dos Santos, a critical care physician and scientist at St. Michael’s Hospital. “Our test could be a powerful game changer, allowing physicians to quickly identify and treat patients before they begin to rapidly deteriorate.”

Sepsis is the body’s extreme reaction to an infection, causing the immune system to start attacking one’s own organs and tissues. It can lead to organ failure and death if not treated quickly. Predicting sepsis is difficult: early symptoms are non-specific, and current tests can take up to 18 hours and require specialized labs. This delay before treatment increases the chance of death by nearly eight per cent per hour.

[Note: The up to 18 hour testing window for sepsis is a huge cause of sepsis-related mortality, because septic shock can kill in as little as 12 hours, long before the tests are even done.]

[Analytical] AI helps predict sepsis

Examining blood samples from more than 3,000 hospital patients with suspected sepsis, researchers from UBC and Sepset, a UBC spin-off biotechnology company, used machine learning to identify a six-gene expression signature “Sepset” that predicted sepsis nine times out of 10, and well before a formal diagnosis. With 248 additional blood samples using RT-PCR, (Reverse Transcription Polymerase Chain Reaction), a common hospital laboratory technique, the test was 94 per cent accurate in detecting early-stage sepsis in patients whose condition was about to worsen.

“This demonstrates the immense value of AI in analyzing extremely complex data to identify the important genes for predicting sepsis and writing an algorithm that predicts sepsis risk with high accuracy,” said co-author Dr. Bob Hancock, UBC professor of microbiology and immunology and CEO of Sepset.

Bringing the test to point of care

To bring the test closer to the bedside, the National Research Council of Canada (NRC) developed a portable device they called PowerBlade that uses a drop of blood and an automated sequence of steps to efficiently detect sepsis. Tested with 30 patients, the device was 92 per cent accurate in identifying patients at high risk of sepsis and 89 per cent accurate in ruling out those not at risk.

“PowerBlade delivered results in under three hours. Such a device can make treatment possible wherever a patient may be, including in the emergency room or remote health care units,” said Dr. Hancock.

“By combining cutting-edge microfluidic research with interdisciplinary collaboration across engineering, biology, and medicine, the Centre for Research and Applications in Fluidic Technologies (CRAFT) enables rapid, portable, and accessible testing solutions,” said co-author Dr. Teodor Veres, of the NRC’s Medical Devices Research Centre and CRAFT co-director. CRAFT, a joint venture between the University of Toronto, Unity Health Toronto and the NRC, accelerates the development of innovative devices that can bring high-quality diagnostics to the point of care.

Dr. Hancock’s team, including UBC research associate and co-author Dr. Evan Haney, has also started commercial development of the Sepset signature. “These tests detect the early warnings of sepsis, allowing physicians to act quickly to treat the patient, rather than waiting until the damage is done,” said Dr. Haney."

-via University of British Columbia, May 27, 2025

[shiyorin]

#When Primarchs send dick pic to you

#Konrad Curze x F!Reader (Reader is Imperial Agent)

#Reader is very sass

#NSFW, non-con, many things

Note: Actually I wrote this as a joke so don't expect too much from it ಡ⁠ ͜⁠ ⁠ʖ⁠ ⁠ಡ

The Night Haunter felt his skin too tight, his body thrumming with an unfamiliar energy that set his teeth on edge. He'd been feeling… off for days now, plagued by urges he didn't understand and couldn't seem to shake.

He growled, raking his fingers through his tangled hair. What was wrong with him? He felt hot, agitated, like his very blood was on fire. And his cock… Konrad glanced down with a mixture of confusion and frustration. It had been hard for hours, throbbing insistently no matter how he tried to ignore it.

This wasn't normal. None of this was normal. Konrad Curze didn't get horny. He didn't feel desire or lust or any of those base, animal urges. He was above such things.

But…

His skin was flushed and damp with sweat, every nerve ending hypersensitive. When he wrapped a hand around his cock, he had to bite back a groan at how good it felt.

"What is happening to me?" he muttered, staring down at himself in bewilderment.

His cock was rock hard, the shaft thick and veiny, the head swollen and flushed an angry red. Pre-cum beaded at the tip, making his palm slide slickly as he stroked himself. It felt good, too good. Pleasure coiled in his gut, making his breath come faster.

Konrad's mind raced, trying to make sense of what was happening. Was this some kind of sickness? A curse? Had one of his brothers done something to him?

No… no, this felt different. Natural, in a way that terrified him. Like his body knew exactly what it wanted, even if his mind rebelled against it.

As he stroked himself, chasing that maddening pleasure, an image flashed through Konrad's mind. You, who'd somehow wormed your way into that. Into his life, if he was being honest.

The thought of you made his cock twitch, a fresh surge of pre-cum slicking his fingers. Konrad growled, angry and confused and so fucking turned on he could barely think straight.

Why you? Why now? It didn't make any sense. And yet he couldn't get you out of his head. Couldn't stop imagining your hands on him instead of his own-

"Fuck!" Konrad snarled, his hips jerking as he stroked himself faster. He was close, so close, teetering on the edge of something he didn't understand but desperately needed.

In that moment of madness, an idea struck him. Before he could think better of it, Konrad grabbed his data-slate from the nearby table. With shaking hands, he activated the camera function and angled it down at himself.

The image that appeared on the screen made him pause. His cock looked even bigger than he'd realized, angry and swollen against the pale skin of his stomach. A bead of pre-cum glistened at the tip, threatening to spill over.

It was obscene. Vulgar. The kind of thing that would horrify most people.

But you weren't most people, were you?

Before his common sense could reassert itself, Konrad hit send. The message went out with a soft chime, carrying that damning image straight to your data-slate.

For a moment, everything was still. Then the full weight of what he'd just done crashed over Konrad like a tidal wave.

"No," he whispered, staring at the screen in horror. "No, no, no…"

His foresight, which had been strangely quiet until now, suddenly roared to life. Visions flashed through his mind, your shocked face as you opened the message, your disgust, your anger. He saw you blocking his vox channel, saw the ripple effects this moment of madness would have on his already strained relationship with you.

"No!" Konrad roared, hurling the data-slate across the room. It shattered against the wall, but it was too late. The damage was done.

Meanwhile, lightyears away, you were enjoying a rare moment of peace and quiet.

Of course, that's when your data-slate chimed with an incoming message.

You sighed, reaching for the device. If this was another emergency, you were going to lose it.

But the name that popped up on your screen made you pause. Konrad Curze? What the hell did he want?

Curiosity piqued, you opened the message. For a moment, your brain couldn't process what you were seeing. Then realization dawned, and your eyes went wide.

"What the actual fuck?!" You yelped, nearly dropping the data-slate in shock.

There, filling your screen, was a high-definition image of Konrad Curze's cock. And not just any picture, oh no. This was a full-on, close-up money shot, complete with glistening pre-cum and throbbing veins.

You stared at it in disbelief, your mind reeling. Of all the things you'd expected from the Night Haunter, a dick pic was pretty much dead last on the list.

"Is this a joke?" You muttered, zooming in despite yourself. "Did someone hack his vox channel?"

But no, as you studied the image (purely for investigative purposes, of course), you realized this was definitely Konrad. You recognized the scars on his lower abdomen, the pale skin that never saw sunlight.

This was real. Konrad Curze, terror of the night, had just sent you an unsolicited dick pic.

"Un-fucking-believable!" you groaned.

Part of you wanted to laugh. It was just so absurd, so completely out of character for Konrad. But a larger part was scared. You are scared even though you want to laugh.

"Nope." You said firmly, shaking your head to banish that thought. "Not going there. Not even a little bit."

You considered your options. You could ignore it, pretend you'd never seen it. But knowing Konrad, he'd probably show up in person to "follow up" if you didn't respond. And worse, he will flay you if you disrespect and ignore him.

You made a mental note to beef up security around the compound. And maybe comeback Terra, lord Malcador can protect you, just in cass. Because something told you this wouldn't be the last surprise Konrad had in store.

In the end, there was really only one option. With a decisive tap, you blocked Konrad's vox channel.

"Fucking Primarchs." you muttered, tossing the data-slate aside. "Can't live with them, can't shoot 'em out an airlock."

*****

The moonlight cast eerie shadows across your bedroom as you stirred from your slumber. Something had woken you, a presence that set your nerves on edge. Your eyes fluttered open, struggling to focus in the dim light.

A dark figure loomed near your bed, barely visible in the gloom. Your heart raced, your mind foggy with sleep and confusion. Who the fuck was that? An intruder? An assassin? You couldn't make out any details in the darkness.

Your hand inched towards the knife you kept by the bed, fingers curling around the cool metal. Better safe than sorry, you thought.

The floorboards creaked softly as the mysterious figure approached. You tensed, ready to swing, but then something unexpected happened. Instead of attacking, the intruder simply… climbed into bed with you.

What the actual fuck?

Before you could process this bizarre turn of events, strong arms wrapped around you, pulling you against a broad chest. A face nuzzled into the crook of your neck, hot breath fanning across your skin.

Your eyes flew wide, shock clearing the last cobwebs of sleep from your mind. This close, you could finally make out the intruder's features.

Oh shit. It was Konrad. Konrad fucking Curze.

And he was naked. Completely, utterly naked.

As if to confirm your realization, Konrad shifted his hips and, yep, that was definitely his cock sliding between your thighs. You bit back a startled yelp, your mind racing. What the hell was happening?

Normally he'd be all creepy whispers and thinly veiled threats, not… whatever the fuck this was. Cuddling? Was the Night Haunter actually cuddling you?

Before you could decide how to react, Konrad's hand snaked down between your bodies. You held your breath, wondering if this was about to take an even weirder turn, but his fingers bypassed you completely, wrapping around his own cock instead.

Oh. Oh no.

Konrad began stroking himself, his breath coming faster against your neck. His hips rocked, sliding his length back and forth between your thighs in time with his hand.

You lay frozen, caught between disbelief and a weird sort of fascination. This was so far outside the realm of normal Konrad behavior that you almost wondered if you were dreaming. But no, the heat of his body, the slight scratch of his teeth against your skin, the slick sounds of skin on skin… this was all too real.

It didn't last long. With a muffled groan, Konrad's body tensed. You felt his cock pulse, then warm wetness splattered across your thighs.

What. The. Fuck.

For a moment, everything was still. Konrad's ragged breathing was the only sound in the room. Then, to your utter bewilderment, he started moving again. His hand returned to his cock, which was already hardening once more.

Seriously? You thought, incredulous. What is he, sixteen?

As Konrad's hips began rocking again, sliding through the mess he'd just made, realization dawned. The weird behavior, the lack of threats or violence, the insane refractory period…

Oh no, you groaned internally. He is horny.

You'd known, biologically, that the other Primarchs would be horny. But somehow you hadn't connected that to Konrad. He always seemed so… disconnected from his more base urges. Apparently even the Night Haunter wasn't immune to biology.

Now you had a dilemma on your hands. On one hand, this was Konrad fucking Curze. The guy was seven kinds of crazy on a good day, and letting him get his rocks off while you pretended to sleep was probably a terrible idea. On the other hand… well, he wasn't actually hurting you. And if you revealed that you were awake, who knew how he'd react?

Better to let him finish and leave, you decided. Then you could bleach your brain and pretend this never happened.

But Konrad showed no signs of stopping anytime soon. His movements grew more frantic, his breathing harsh against your skin. You could feel the tremors running through his body, the desperation in every thrust.

Fuck, you realized. He's completely lost in it. He probably doesn't even know where he is right now.

Konrad came again with a choked sound, his whole body shuddering. You grimaced at the fresh wave of wetness coating your thighs. Great. You were going to need like, three showers after this. Maybe four.

To your dismay, Konrad showed no signs of leaving after his second orgasm. If anything, he seemed to curl around you more tightly, his face buried in your hair.

Oh hell no, you thought. I am not spending the whole night as a body pillow for a horny Primarch.

Decision made, you took a deep breath and spoke.

"You know, if you wanted to cuddle, you could have just asked."

Konrad went rigid against you, his whole body tensing like a coiled spring. For a moment, you wondered if you'd made a terrible mistake. Then, to your utter shock, Konrad let out a sound that could only be described as a squeak.

Before you could process that, he was gone. You blinked at the sudden loss of warmth against your back. You rolled over, half-expecting to see Konrad looming over your bed, but the room was empty. The only sign he'd been there at all was the open window, curtains billowing in the night breeze.

"Did… did he just jump out the fucking window?" You muttered, staring in disbelief.

You pushed yourself up, grimacing at the sticky mess coating your thighs. A quick glance confirmed your suspicions, yep, those sheets were definitely ruined.

You made a mental note to ask Malcador about it when you return Terra. And maybe to invest in some better locks for your windows.

[girlactionfigure]

“I feel I no longer belong in 🇨🇦 and may need to flee.”

A new survey from the Jewish Medical Association of Ontario reveals a devastating rise in antisemitism targeting Jewish doctors and healthcare workers. The data is shocking, and the consequences could be catastrophic.

🧵:

2/ Since October 7, antisemitism in healthcare settings has skyrocketed:

•29% of Jewish medical professionals report it in their communities.

•39% in hospitals.

•43% in academic settings.

Before October 7, only 1% reported severe antisemitism. 

3/ The survey found 31% of Jewish doctors in Ontario are considering leaving the country.

Doctors are being forced out by a hostile environment where their Jewish identity makes them targets.

This isn’t just a Jewish issue—it’s a healthcare crisis. 

4/ The survey of over 1,000 Jewish healthcare professionals across Canada reveals staggering numbers:

•73% of Jewish doctors in Ontario report antisemitism in academic spaces.

•60% in hospitals.

•Over 80% face antisemitism at work overall. 

5/ The most common sources of antisemitism?

•Organizational policies (57%)

•Organizational communications (55%)

•Colleagues (53%)

This isn’t random—it’s systemic, embedded in the very institutions meant to support them. 

6/ Doctors shared heartbreaking stories:

“I fear my colleagues’ reaction to my name and identity. I feel I can no longer admit who I am.”

Another said:

“I feel I no longer belong in Canada.”

This is the daily reality for Jewish healthcare professionals. 

7/ Dr. Ayelet Kuper, Chair of the Jewish Medical Association of Ontario, warned:

“This is a crisis for all people in Ontario, not just Jewish doctors. If we don’t address this, we risk losing a generation of physicians, educators, and researchers.” 

8/ Even unions are failing Jewish healthcare workers. One occupational therapist said:

“Union members attend protests condoning terrorism, chanting dangerous slogans, and making my workplace unsafe.”

The environment for Jewish professionals is hostile and dangerous. 

9/ As Dr. Sam Silver said:

“I work with students navigating a hostile environment where their identity as Jews makes them targets of hate. This cannot continue.”

Antisemitism is pushing doctors out of Ontario, and the healthcare system will pay the price. 

10/ The survey is clear: antisemitism in healthcare impacts patient care, erodes workplace integrity, and threatens the entire system.

Jewish doctors are being targeted, but the consequences will affect every Canadian.

11/ This is a crisis that cannot be ignored. We must demand accountability from institutions, protect Jewish healthcare workers, and fight antisemitism at every level.

Antisemitism has no place in Canada—or anywhere. 

Full story:

Jewish doctors consider fleeing Canada amid rising rates of antisemitism in their profession

'Union members have been attending protests that condone terrorism, and I’ve witnessed colleagues showing up to these protests with union flags, chanting dangerous slogans'

LINK

Antisemitism in Canadian med schools, hospitals skyrocketed after Oct. 7 attacks: JMAO

In a survey conducted by the Jewish Medical Association of Ontario, 80% of Jewish physicians said they face antisemitism at work

LINK

@Joe_Roberts01

[senditcolton]

Storm Warning

a/n: my first fic entirely about fictional people? more likely than you think! but i'm still mad they didn't kiss / cut the kiss in the movie so here we are. the alternative title to this was "aka the Tyler Owens & Kate Carter smut we all deserved"

pairing: Tyler Owens x Kate Carter song inspo: Storm Warning by Hunter Hayes (shocked this wasn't on the soundtrack) word count: 3.6k warnings: self-doubt, brief mention of Kate's past and scar, and smut (oral - f receiving & unprotected penetration)

Usually after a chase, when the team came back to whatever roadside hotel they were calling home, the sounds that followed them were cheers and lively chatter. But instead of the common jovial noise that often defined their return, tonight it was a defeated silence.

The only sounds that accompanied them were their boots scraping against the concrete stairs, their hushed disappointment, their quietly voiced ‘goodnights’ as they slip into their respective rooms.

Kate let out another heavy sigh as she shoves the keycard into the reader, the light turning green, allowing her to push open the worn wood door. Her tired eyes meet the cookie-cutter room with its queen bed, badly patterned duvet and the generic farm landscape photo hanging over the bedframe. Tyler is close behind her, his own disappointment melding with hers as he steps over the threshold, shutting the door and sliding the chain lock into place.

Kate is in the middle of kicking off her shoes when he wanders back over to her. She feels his strong arms embrace her from behind, pulling her body upright, her back meeting his chest. They stand there for a moment, simply breathing together before Tyler presses a small kiss against her temple.

“I’m gonna wash up,” Tyler mutters.

Kate’s only response is a small hum as she feels his arms fall from her frame, followed shortly by the click of the bathroom door closing. She stands motionless, even after she hears the sink tap turn on, uncertain of what to do next. Normally, she would be opening her laptop, analyzing the data they collected, and preparing for the next chase. But after today… it all seemed so pointless.

As far as bad days and bad chases go, today wasn’t nearly as high on the catastrophe scale as it could have been. They had all seen and experienced worse. But for Kate, it was more frustrating than destructive. And that felt heavier than any other possibility.

She understood the damage that tornados could cause; physically, emotionally. She knew it better than most, having carried a physical reminder of it with her for years. But it was an aspect of her job that she had come to accept and could now approach headfirst. However, now, when she had a chance to make a difference – when she knew for a fact that she could make a difference – and yet every attempt to prove it to the scientific community was met with either failing tech, unusable data, the unpredictability of the weather they chased, or a combination of it all… it made it seem so pointless.

Especially when she turned on the news and was constantly reminded of the damage that she could have prevented but failed to do so.

She was failing. It was that simple. And that deep painful feeling of defeat had slowly been building in her chest until now, in the silence of this random hotel room, it finally bubbled over.

It takes every ounce of energy left in Kate’s body to push herself to sit on the edge of the firm mattress instead of simply collapsing onto the rough carpeted floor. Unfortunately, that meant that that energy was depleted when it came time to will back her tears. Instead, they pool on her lower lashes as her head falls into her upturned palms, the weight of everything she still couldn’t control crashing over her.

Even the sound of the bathroom door re-opening doesn’t snap her back into the closed-off demeanor that she perfected years ago. Her only consolation was that at least it was Tyler with her in the hotel room. A comfort that proves itself as soon as his green eyes land on her slumped frame.

“Kate.”

Her name falls from his lips in a rushed breath, his boots tapping across the floor as he makes his way to her. His frame stands in front of her momentarily before he is dropping to his knees in front of her, his hands landing on her legs and his face coming into view from behind the curtain of her tangled hair.

“What is it?” he asks, reaching up to cup her jaw, his thumb brushing over the skin of her cheek, still slightly damp from the rain.

“Nothing,” she replies, sniffling back her tears in an attempt to hold it together. However, it seems as if her body is determined to prove her wrong, a single teardrop falling from her eyes. Tyler doesn’t point it out, doesn’t even let his expression change, knowing she is all too aware of the contradiction between her words and her actions – something that Kate is thankful for.

“It’s just…” she tries to begin, attempting to get her feelings laid out clearly. But that task seems as impossible to control as the reasons why she was so upset. “It feels like I’m failing,” she says, the defeat in her voice clear.

Tyler doesn’t say anything immediately, just lets her words sink in. He knows that he could refute her, tell her that she isn’t, that she has succeeded before and she will again. But he also knows that she knows all those things and that those truths and hopes don’t change how shitty it feels right now.

“It just seems pointless,” Kate continues, Tyler’s silence giving her the space to try to talk through her emotions.

“It’s not,” Tyler replies, the conviction in his voice startling even Kate. “It’s gonna work out. We’re gonna prove it, eventually.”

His quiet assuredness makes Kate’s brown eyes lift to meet his green ones, her heart softening at the fire and determination she sees behind his irises.

“And it’s all gonna be because of you. It’s all gonna be for you.”

“It’s not supposed to be for me,” Kate says, the flip of her voice bright with a quip instead of sharp with disdain; although the words were still ladened with the remnants of her previous tears. “You know why we’re doing this.”

“Yeah, I do,” Tyler concedes. “But I also know that we wouldn’t be doing what we’re doing right now if it wasn’t for you. I’d still be shooting fireworks up tornados for views instead of making a real difference.

“You still made a difference by doing that,” she says, reminding both herself and him of the good that came out of his socials – the donations, the food, the help.

“Not like this,” he states, the conviction in his voice clear. “You saved lives instead of just helping them after the fact. You saved my life, and Lily’s, and so many others. We’re still here because of you and that’s why we’re gonna help you prove it.”

“So maybe I can get my face on a t-shirt?” Kate teases, the easy familiar inside joke bringing a warmth to the moment that she desperately needed. Tyler returns her shaky grin with that strong bright smile that made all the girls – including her – swoon.

“Baby, we’re gonna have to make an entire merch line with you on it. I’m talking t-shirts, hats, mugs, bumper stickers. Kate Carter: the Twister Tamer,” he says, his hands even lifting as if he’s picturing it on a billboard. “You can’t make a better slogan than that.”

The laughter, while still twinged with some of the prior heaviness, falls easily from Kate’s lips. Her eyes stay locked on Tyler’s face, his bright smile the closest equivalent she’s ever found to feeling the sunshine after a storm. Her hand instinctively reaches up to rest on his cheek, mirroring his earlier actions and caressing his own skin. Tyler’s gaze just stays locked on her face, taking in her shaky smile, a feeling of happiness soaring through his chest to see it again.

It is only a moment before Kate leans forward, capturing Tyler’s lips in her own. It was a kiss filled with thanks, with understanding, with every emotion that Kate could ascribe to it and to the solace she felt having Tyler in her life. Their connection was unexpected and wild, like the storms that they chased but it ended up being exactly what she needed. And from the way Tyler kissed her back, if was clear that he felt the same.

Their kisses deepen, the desire surging between them rising quickly. Kate’s hands move into his still tousled hair, Tyler’s body reaching up to get closer to her, his own hands falling to rest on her hips, his calloused fingers sneaking under the hem of her white tank top. She hums in approval at the sensation of his fingertips dancing across her skin, her head falling back slightly to give Tyler access, his kisses now trailing down her throat.

She allows him to linger there as her hands dance across his shoulders, briefly dipping underneath the collar of his t-shirt. Eventually, she pulls her body back, the space between them widening once more. A smile appears on Kate’s face at Tyler’s questioning expression, the wicked grin her only explanation before she crosses her arms in front of her, gripping the fabric of her top and peeling it off her body.

The action obscures her vision momentarily but when her eyes land on Tyler’s face again, his face had morphed to copy her grin as he tugs his own shirt over his head, exposing his golden skin to her. Their lips connect again, hands now free to explore the newly revealed surface of their bodies.

Kate’s palms trace over the expanse of Tyler’s back, relishing in the way his muscles move beneath her fingertips. His own hands trace a similar path down her spine before dropping lower, following the curve of her waist, and moving to the front of her body. Tyler blindly undoes the button and zipper of her jeans, and with the newly provided space, his hand sneaks underneath the waistband of both her pants and her underwear, his fingers reaching down until they slip between her thighs.

A sharp gasp falls from Kate’s lips, her own hand shooting down to grip Tyler’s forearm as his fingers flex, tracing her folds, the heel of his hand adding delicious pressure against her clit.

The noises that escape their lips are quieted as they kiss again, content to silence their moans by swallow each other’s. It is only when their vocalized need was muffled, did they hear the patter of the rain against the shingles, the drops tapping against the glass of the window.

“Did you,” Kate begins to ask, her lips tearing away from Tyler’s, her words now stilted because of the weight of Tyler’s hands, not the weight of her own emotions. “Did you or Javi or someone track the evening storms? See if conditions were good?”

“Don’t get distracted, Kate,” Tyler mutters in reply as he peppers kisses across her decolletage.

“By our job?” she quips, her gaze departing from the rain splattered window to Tyler’s face, a mischievous smirk playing at her lips.

Tyler’s eyes pin her in place, sparkling with that cockiness that she had grown to find endearing. He straightens his spine, his torso lifting and his expression deepening into one of pure conviction.

“My only job right now, is this,” he says, his fingers curling within her as a perfect punctuation to his sentence.

Kate can’t stop her eyes from fluttering close, her mouth falling open in a silent moan, her grip tightening against Tyler’s skin. Through the haze, she spies Tyler’s confident grin widening as his movements continue before his lips reattach to her skin.

He continues moving his hand against and within her, pulling more choked sounds from her throat. Suddenly, in a move that seems torturous in the moment but Kate knows will be forgiven soon, Tyler’s hand disappears from between her thighs. She still whines at the loss but Tyler simply grips the waistband of the only clothes that were still on her body, tugging gently. Kate helps him pull the denim and cotton from her lower half, Tyler keeping a hold on her ankle to toss her legs up onto the top of the mattress. She sinks down onto the somewhat scratchy duvet cover, her eyes following Tyler as he kicks off his own boots before stalking to the foot of the bed.

A quirk of her finger and a shared grin is all it takes for Tyler to lower himself onto the bed, the cheap frame creaking underneath their combined weight. His body covers hers as he hovers over her, lowering slightly to kiss her, Kate’s own hands reaching up to tangle in his hair again.

As usual, his kisses slowly begin to descend; down her neck, tracing her collarbones, along her sternum, over the ridges of her ribs, gently tickling the sensitive skin of her stomach before his arms hook underneath her thighs as he throws her legs over his shoulders.

Lightning flashes, brightening the room briefly before an echoing boom follows shortly afterwards.

“Now, don’t you go running outside into the nearest field, naked,” Tyler teases, pressing a gentle kiss against her hipbone before finishing the sentence with a teasing “again.”

The retort was poised on Kate’s lips, ready to escape, but Tyler makes sure that whatever words may have been uttered disappear as soon as his mouth attaches to her. And that was exactly what happened. There was nothing that Kate could say, no string of coherent syllables that she could form as Tyler works his tongue and lips against her. The only utterance that fell from her were pleasured moans, her body rolling in encouragement – a silent message that Tyler receives and responds to eagerly.

The thunder and the rain make for an apt and gorgeous soundtrack to the moment, Tyler’s ministrations pushing her closer and closer to the edge. Occasionally, his eyes flick up to Kate, her shaking frame just encouraging him more, her hands twisted in his blond locks holding him in place, even though departing from between her open thighs as something he was not going to do anytime soon.

He continues, reading and recognizing the subtle signs that told him she was almost there. It only when her body stiffens underneath him, her back arching, does he throw his arm across her hips, pinning her in place as her orgasm shakes through her frame. Tyler doesn’t cease his movements until he feels her muscles going lax, her fingers loosening in his hair to gently push him away from her sensitive core.

No matter how many times he finds himself in this position, he still hesitates to depart completely from her, his lips drifting from her folds to her inner thighs. His arms retreat from her frame, hands caressing her legs, his fingers gently tracing the scar lining her thigh. The sensitivity from the mark makes her shiver, the tremor pulling Tyler’s eyes to hers.

Her deep brown eyes are pools of emotion, something that drew Tyler to her in the first place. He knows her past, knows the origins of that scar, and knows the trauma holds – the invisible trauma included. But he also recognizes that that scar is the reason for all of this: the reason for their current job, the reason they were together in any capacity, the reason she came back, the reason she gave chasing another chance – the reason she gave him a chance.

Kate watches as Tyler leans down and presses one of the softest kisses against the mark, the weight of the action not going unnoticed to her.

It’s a reminder of what she’s lost, of her trauma. But it’s also a reminder of her strength, of what she’s gained; including the man currently laying between her legs.

The tenderness he shows towards her, his attentive and deliberate actions make Kate’s desire surge again, her hands scrambling on his shoulders, beckoning him up to crash her lips into his once more.

Tyler’s arms cage her head, this time his hands combing through her hair. She presses her body against his, her hands dropping to make quick work of the obnoxious belt buckle he insists on wearing before undoing his jeans, desperately pushing the denim down his legs as far as she could reach. He breaks the kiss, leaning his body to balance on one forearm to kick off the offending fabric, the position displaying the strength stored in his wired muscles.

However, no matter what level of strength Tyler had, his current position was not sustainable in the long run. But more importantly, as soon as his jeans were kicked off his ankles, his position made it easier for Kate to lift her body up and push Tyler down so his back was now the one pressed into the firm mattress.

If the movement was unexpected, no shock appeared on Tyler’s face. It made sense though – this was the man who chased the most unpredictable and unexpected weather. Kate knew that it would take something completely out of left field to surprise this man in the bedroom.

She didn’t mind it, though. Especially not when Tyler’s expression was something she never got tired of. Similarly, she never got tired of how his hands attached to her body, like a magnet to metal, the instant she rolls her hips against his.

There is no pause, no teasing – not tonight. Kate lifts herself slightly, keeping her balance steady with one hand pressed against Tyler’s chest as the other snakes between their bodies and her thighs. Her fingers wrap around his shaft, stroking once before aligning it to her center and letting herself slowly sink down.

The simultaneous moan echoes around the hotel room, never tiring of the sensation of their bodies connecting. Kate sighs, her hands coming to meet as she uses the leverage that Tyler provides to grind against him. He encourages her movements, his hands pressing and pulling her hips, matching her speed and rhythm. Tyler is more than content to rest against the pillows and watch Kate take what she needed from him, content to watch the way her body responds: her back arching, her head falling backwards, her chest rising and falling.

“Tyler.”

His name escapes her lips in a desperate sigh, her body shuddering as his cock hits that one spot inside of her.

“Let me hear you, darling,” he coos, the lighting once more illuminating the room, a crack of thunder coming shortly after. “No need to worry about our neighbors. Seems like Mother Nature is covering for us.”

“If only she could be this cooperative all the time,” Kate breathlessly teases, her movements not ceasing.

“Now don’t poke at her,” Tyler laughs, the sound slightly choking in his throat as he feels Kate tighten around him. “Just say thank you.”

Kate’s eyelids flutter open, her brown eyes locking gaze with him.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

Tyler knows that her words are not directed at the storm. Instead, they were a quiet acknowledgement to him – for being there, for encouraging her, for everything. Not just from today but from the moment they met.

“Anything for you,” he replies, his hands tightening against her hips. He pulls her body deeper into his, encouraging her to increase her speed against him and allowing her clit brush against his skin, the dual sensations bringing her closer to completion. She lets him guide her, her moans falling freely now. Tyler’s eyes trace every inch of her skin, the awe and admiration that was usually directed at tornados now directed entirely towards her.

But that was exactly what Kate was to him. A storm that blew into his life, disrupted the way he used to be living, and turned everything he thought he knew upside down. She was perfect, she was gorgeous, she was everything. And he would willingly and gladly follow her into every tempest that gathered.

It’s impulsive, instinctual, the way Tyler’s torso shoots up off the bed, his arms wrapping around Kate’s frame. A small gasp escapes from her chest, her eyes staring into his before he leans in to kiss her. The two of them rock against each other for a few minutes more until Kate is stilling in his arms, the tremors running through her body as her hands cling onto him, her mouth open against his as her breathless moans fall. The sensation of her around him causes Tyler’s orgasm to follow closely behind, the thunder to her lightning, as he muffles his own groans against the juncture of her neck and shoulder.

The shallow breaths that pant from their lips are the only noise that fills the room, the tapping of the rain growing fainter and fainter. Tyler pulls himself away from her neck, their eyes reconnecting. A small smile tugs at the corner of Kate’s mouth, one that Tyler returns before kissing her again. She happily reciprocates, pressing her body against his again until it was hard to tell where she ended and he began.

They eventually disentangle from each other, wandering to the small ensuite together. A quick shared shower later, they’re climbing back into bed, their limbs intertwining as Kate rests her head on his chest. She and Tyler lay there in comfortable silence, simply enjoying the warmth of each other until Tyler’s voice breaks through the stillness.

“We’ll get it, eventually,” he says, referencing the goal the team was chasing. Kate just angles her head so she can look up at him, finding hope in the quiet confidence in his eyes.

“I know we will,” she replies. “For all of them,” she adds, addressing all the people they could help – all the people they would help. Tyler smiles, pressing a kiss on the crown of her head.  

“And it’s all for you.”

[gamerbot-22]

🎰 Foolish Words🌿

Contains: Aventio <3, banter, teasing, new-ish relationship, these two idiots are so very dumb and so very in love, they’re also horrible at communicating but are working on it, a bit of Aventurine Backstory Flavored Trauma, a lil suggestive but no blatant NSFW, a variety of smooches, Aven is described as having some melanin, barely proofread and I appreciate spellchecks!

Word Count: 4,940

A/N: The boys won the poll!! And by a fucking landslide, might I add, they had a little over half the votes lol. This was partially inspired by this post by @/qinsens because… oh my god it’s so cute, I love it. ALSO HOLY FUCK THE WORD COUNT--

Likes and Reblogs appreciated (reblogs > likes) and Requests are Open! Read this story on Ao3 here! Buy me a Ko-Fi here!

Related Work: Something Sweet for Someone… Sweet?

The dividers in this post were made by @/gamerbot-22 (me!) ☆

© All rights reserved by miHoYo

Veritas Ratio isn't supposed to care.

That's the myth, legend, rumor, whatever-you-want-to-call-it that's been spread around across the Galaxy. Dr. Veritas Ratio, like most geniuses, would-be or otherwise, is not supposed to care about people. He's meant to care only about math and science, with humans only coming up in the biological, and maybe psychological sense, as little points of data in a sea of variables. Even the people close to him held that belief. Veritas remembers the look of shock in his peers' eyes when he brought gifts for holidays, simple but meticulously thought-out, or remembered the drink preferences of acquaintances when research sessions ran long.

It's been like this for years, and ironically enough, Veritas has stopped caring for the most part. It's not his fault that his affection doesn't come with the coddling, flowery words that everyone seems to worry so much about. The words aren't the important part, it's the doing that matters.

...So then why has he felt so strange calling Aventurine "gambler" recently?

"You'll catch your death of cold," Veritas murmurs.

With no ceremony he stands closer to Aventurine, bringing him under the canopy of the doctor's umbrella. The rain isn't beating down, per se, but they've been walking back home for a while now, and Aventurine is beginning to resemble a soaked kitten, even with his jacket pulled up to cover his head.

"Aw, Doctor," Aventurine nearly coos in that honey-sweet tone of his. "I didn't think you cared."

Veritas huffs to himself, turning his gaze back to the street ahead. The puddles in front of them dazzle like stars, reflecting back street lights and glowing signs in shop windows. It seems much warmer in all these little cafes and hobby stores, but they'll be home soon enough with their own latte and mug of black coffee, so it's not worth getting distracted now.

"I don't want you sneezing late into the night." Aventurine is always miserable when he's sick, and unfortunately even the Genius Society hasn't found a cure for the common cold. "You won't get any sleep."

Aventurine rolls his eyes, letting annoyance slip through for just a moment before that showy glimmer returns to his jewel-coloured gaze. It always turns into a lecture...

The blonde lets his soaked-through coat fall back onto his shoulders, idly teasing the fur trim around the collar in an attempt to look decent despite the pathetic veneer the rain has given him. "If I start sneezing, I can just sleep out on the sofa with the cats, you know." He says it in an almost chipper way, like he's excited at the idea of sleeping apart from Veritas for once. "Save you the headache of fussing over me."

Veritas' brows pinch as he holds the curved handle of his umbrella a little tighter. "That's not necessary. It's..." He can't believe he's about to say this, and that it makes him pause. "It's your bed, as well. You have just as much right to lay sick in it as I do."

"So you'll take the couch then?" There's a certain pride in the way Aventurine cocks his head back to look up at his companion, like he's won a game that Veritas didn't know they'd been playing. It doesn't help that a bookstore's warm lighting makes his tanned skin shine like gold around the curve of his cheek.

Veritas sighs deeply, hoping that the golden light isn't making the heat rising to his face any more obvious than it already feels. "No, because it's my bed, too. It's our bed, gambler." The doctor feels his stomach sink.

Aventurine shrugs. Veritas watches as his pride melts into something closer to neutral as he reaches to hold the umbrella himself, gloved fingers resting over alabaster knuckles, and gently tugs his companion along down the shining sidewalk. "Well, I'll be less likely to ruin our precious sleep the sooner we get back home. I want out of these wet clothes..."

There's not much more talking the rest of the way to their flat, but there are echoes inside Veritas' head all the same. He's been calling Aventurine "gambler" since they met, and never once has he thought twice about it. It was an accurate moniker -- still is, of course -- and Aventurine has never said a genuine thing about it. In fact, it wasn't like he was any better, calling Veritas every variation of "doctor" he can think up, and for all the rolling eyes and quiet huffs, Veritas doesn't mind that much either.

So then why has Veritas been thinking about it all day?

His thoughts only move on when he feels Aventurine squeeze his hand idly.

They get home with no fuss, as usual. Veritas sheathes his umbrella in the woven holder by the door while Aventurine kicks off his shoes, letting them clatter to the side as he peels his jacket off. It's dripping rain water all over the floor, and he only makes it worse when he balls up his jacket to more easily carry it off to the washer. "I'll mop it up in a second!" He calls before anyone can get the chance to tell him to.

Another huff, this time with a little smile for just himself as Veritas steps out of his shoes and politely trades them in for the house slippers he keeps by the door. On rainy days like this, the floor gets uncomfortably cold unless the oven is going in the kitchen, and these were rather nice protection against that.

"I'm making coffee." Veritas calls over his shoulder. He takes a left to go from the little entry hallway across the back corner of their open living room, then goes around the standing money plant that Aventurine still hasn't found a better place for right into the kitchen. He's already got the machine running, lining up their favorite mugs when he hears Aventurine's footsteps approaching.

"Coffee at this hour?" He asks, his smile audible as he rounds the square island in the middle of the kitchen to stand beside his housemate. "And you were worried about ruining our sleep."

Aventurine is in his pajamas already, which is hardly surprising considering how thoroughly drenched he'd gotten from walking four blocks in the rain. He has one of their little towels from the bathroom in his hands to help dry his hair, which has gone from a bright, flaxen colour to a sort of copper shade from the water. It actually doesn't look half bad on him.

"A little coffee won't kill us," Veritas returns. In the comfort of their own home, he doesn't shy away from reaching to brush a lock of Aventurine's damp hair behind his ear. "And you need something warm after trailblazing through the rain."

Aventurine's head lulls into the doctor's hand, letting out a single, solitary note of a pleased hum that makes Veritas hum back with a little quirk at the corner of his lips. His warm, broad palm is a welcome change from the cold rain, and it actually takes quite a bit of control for Aventurine not to just go full cat and nuzzle into his companion’s touch.

“You spoil me, Doc.”

“One would argue it’s my job to.”

Aventurine’s eyes flash like jewels. “And would you?”

Heat pools in the doctor’s face.

Veritas’ attention is pulled away by the soft chime of the coffee maker. He had gone out of his way all those months ago, when the two were first moving in together, to get a machine that didn’t make that blasted beeping noise Aventurine’s cat cakes hated so much, and by pure stroke of luck, he found this model. Of course, Veritas is more pleased with the fact that it makes damn good coffee, but the gentle melody it sings once it’s finished is a plus for even him in this moment.

Aventurine lets out a sigh as Veritas turns away. He drapes his soft towel around his neck and watches, idly, as the good doctor pours most of the rich coffee into his own mug, and then about half as much into Aventurine’s.

“What gives?” He asks, tilting his head with a wry smile pulling at his lips. “Only a little bit for me?”

“You don’t take your coffee black,” Veritas replies matter-of-factly. “I’m saving room for milk.”

Aventurine huffs a laugh to himself and leans closer, prodding a bit at Veritas’ personal space with that same casual playfulness he always displays. “You’re being so nice to me tonight, Doc. Is there some kind of special occasion I’m forgetting about?”

The doctor looks down at his companion with a sort of unreadable expression, save for the obvious confusion pinching his brows together. “Am I not nice to you, Aventurine?”

He plays off Veritas’ confusion with a shrug, running his thin fingers through his flaxen hair in a horribly unsubtle act of preening. “You are. You just normally don’t do so much in a straight shot like this. Makes me think you’re after something.”

“Gambler—“

Aeons curse him, there he goes again—

“Are you after something?” Aventurine hums, boldly swooping into Veritas’ personal space now. He walks the doctor back a step or so, leaning forward so he’s hovering just a few precious inches away from his chest. “Because, you know you can just ask.”

He has this uncanny ability to catch Veritas off guard and one day, the doctor swears it’ll actually drive him crazy. He shuts his eyes and sighs, letting his brain take a second to just… take stock of all the feelings that are welling up inside him. There’s the warmth of having Aventurine so close, as well as the annoyance of being caught off guard so easily, and underneath all of that is that same strange guilt that’s been plaguing him all day, brought on by that slip of the tongue, the use of the name “Gambler” for yet another time.

“Actually…” Veritas says, exhaling deeply. “I do have something I’d like to ask you.”

“Yes?” Aventurine cocks his head to the other side, only moving closer to Veritas with that proud, Cheshire smile. He can see the usually straight-laced doctor fighting to keep himself level, and it’s giving him endless joy, as it always does.

Veritas sighs again and opens his red eyes, looking right into his partner’s face. “Would you mind getting your milk from the fridge while I get the stove going?”

Aventurine blinks owlishly, his smile dropping. “That’s it?” It’s almost not even a question, just a bewildered statement.

“Yes.”

He backs up, standing straight now with a pout on his face so slight he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. “…Fine. Sure, I can get you the milk from the fridge.”

Aventurine turns on his heels like a little tin soldier and struts right over to the big, shining appliance to open it up. As he does an entirely unnecessary scan of its contents, he allows himself a moment to think, although stew would probably be a more apt description.

Veritas has been like this all day. He’s been physically present, which of course Aventurine knows he should be grateful for -- and he is -- but more often than not his dear doctor’s attention has been miles away. Usually when Veritas isn’t paying attention to Aventurine, he’s obviously thinking, his head in one hand and his brows knit together as he turns theory over formula over variable in search of an answer, but lately it’s just been distant staring off into the horizon, with his arms crossed tight over his chest or his fingers twiddling at his side. It’s unlike him.

That plus his advances being so soundly reject is starting to make Aventurine’s stomach sink. Was it something he’d done?

The clicking of the stove off to his right brings Aventurine back to his body. He quickly shakes his head and gives a little wave with his free hand to dismiss the thoughts. ‘Stop being needy, Kakavasha,’ he scolds himself in his head, then he grabs the carton of milk from the fridge door and shuts it a little harder than he means to.

“Here you are, Doc,” Aventurine says flatly, swinging the carton casually up onto the granite counter. He nudges it closer to Veritas both for ease of access and to free up some space for him to lean as he watches his latte get made.

“Thank you—“ Veritas obviously cuts himself short. It doesn’t take Aventurine, with his honed-by-experience skill of reading people’s voices and body language to notice that.

Neither man says anything. Veritas just pours the milk into the waiting pot on the stove while Aventurine stares, no better than a bonded cat.

The silence is agony on Aventurine’s mind. His bag of tricks has been thoroughly emptied out for the night, leaving him feeling a touch vulnerable in the light of his own kitchen. Everything he’s tried so far has simply been redirected, if not shut down right away, and now Veritas can’t even spare the breath to say a sentence naturally. It’s crazy to think and Aventurine knows it, but the sinking feeling in his gut is only serving to remind him that nothing good in his life has ever lasted for very long.

“You’re staring.” The doctor’s low, cool voice cuts through the tension.

He blinks, then huffs, turning his face away from his companion. “Am not.”

“You are.” Veritas is a little more insistent now as he flicks the stove top off. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” Aventurine brings his towel back up to his hair, trying to pat it dryer than it already is. “There is absolutely nothing the matter with me.”

Veritas takes a breath. For a g— for a man who gambles so often, Aventurine has such obvious tells when he’s in distress. His voice becomes much more measured, his eyes flick elsewhere, and the brilliant, loud, peacocking persona that Aventurine thrives in shrinks away into near nothing, leaving only a very tense looking young man in its absence.

Veritas saw it happen once in Penacony. He hates seeing it happen again in their home.

The doctor carefully brings Aventurine’s mug closer to the stove. It’s much more novel than his own, sporting a shape not unlike the cat cakes snoozing in their tower back in the two’s shared bedroom. It’s not Veritas’ style, personally, but he’s always thought it was cute in its own way.

He adds the milk to the coffee, not bothering with any of the bells and whistles that can be found in the cafe two doors down, and carefully holds it out to Aventurine.

Now’s as good a time as any to say something sweeter.

“Here you are, love.”

Aventurine takes his mug in one hand, turning his head back towards his companion. “Thank y—“

His breath hitches. Or maybe he gasps. Does the difference even matter, now that heat is pooling into Aventurine��s cheeks like swirling steam from the stove top. All he knows is that that single word — that pet name — has hit him like a truck and it’s taking every ounce of his focus not to drop his coffee or keel over or do anything else that would further embarrass himself.

Veritas wonders if Aventurine might be broken now. “Darling, are you—?”

“Aaah! A-haha, I heard you the first time!” Aventurine sets his mug down and brings a hand up to his face, although he’s not sure if he should cover his eyes or his mouth or his whole face as he teeters back a step. His heart is pounding in his ears like a drum as both those words swirl in his mind. “Oh, that’s—!”

Even with his tanned skin, Veritas can see his cheeks darkening. The doctor is really starting to wonder if he did something wrong. He reaches to touch Aventurine’s shoulder, only for his partner to fully turn on his heels again, hand pressed tight over his mouth.

He’s only facing away for a moment before he spins right back around, his jewel-coloured eyes wide and shining and his smile trembling with barely contained energy as he warbles out “Is that why you were being quiet all day?”

Veritas pulls his hand back, a bit sheepish himself. “You noticed?”

“Of course I noticed!" There is precious little that Aventurine wouldn't notice, Veritas should have figured that out by now. "I thought I did something wrong!”

“What? You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“That’s what I thought but then you kept getting all—“ Aventurine makes a vague gesture with both of his hands, really lending to the frazzled, indescribable look on his face. This is getting impossible.

"Alright, all of that doesn't matter." Ever expressive, Aventurine tosses the conversation off to the side, dismissing it almost entirely save for the cause of all this. "Were you spending all that time coming up with what pet name to call me?"

He's never seen Veritas get so red in the face so fast. Usually his blushing was reserved solely for the tips of his ears, but it seems to have breached containment into his cheeks and neck.

"Well..." Veritas plucks up his own mug of coffee and brings it to his lips, desperately trying to come across as the sane, sophisticated Genius Aventurine knew him as. Or, well... Knew him as on paper.

"I felt that it was only appropriate," he finally settled on saying after sneaking a quick sip. He's been thrown, slightly, by Aventurine's reaction to something as seemingly normal as being called "darling" and "love," but he's good at explaining, so a recovery is possible, yes? "We live together, we work together, we... are partners, are we not? Partners call one another things sweeter than just 'gambler.'"

Aventurine looks away again, turning his head over his shoulder to try and breathe without having to meet Veritas' eyes to do it. He knows it's normal. Of course it's normal. He's heard all those ridiculous, cliched nicknames thrown around all his life. The "Darling"s, the "Love"s, the "Honey"s, everything. He's been called them himself, even, but never like this. Hearing "darling" pass so effortlessly from Veritas' lips, like it was no more special than the latte -- or, really, the coffee with warm milk -- that he had passed to him. It wasn't like the "sweetheart"s that have been tossed at him casually by overly-chummy clients or... the "precious"es that still come to haunt his dreams at times. This feels warmer. Realer. It's almost too much all at once and it's only two blasted words.

It's so unlike him to be quiet. Veritas sets his mug back down and takes a single step forwards. "...Have I upset you, Aventurine?" Even if he despises a pet name, Veritas is not going to go back to calling him 'gambler.' Not when he's become someone he worries about upsetting.

Aventurine turns back quickly. His face is still red, but his smile is calmer now, less indescribably manic. "No, Doctor, you haven't upset me. This is just something that requires adjusting to."

Veritas' brows furrow in confusion again. "'Requires adjusting to...?' Since when have you--"

"Look, this is all just a bit out of my wheelhouse." Aventurine can hear the corporate language spilling out of his mouth and it's taking every ounce of his focus not to cringe. "Mind if we just... circle back to this in the morning?"

"Er... Alright?" Veritas decides to take Aventurine at his word, a decision based entirely on the fact that he has never heard Aventurine use phrases like "out of my wheelhouse" and "circle back" in the comforts of his own home. He clearly needs some time to gather himself. This is what Veritas gets for catching Aventurine off guard.

The Doctor sighs. "Do you want to finish your coffee? Or are you done for the night?"

Oh, he'd almost forgotten--

Aventurine picks up his mug, giving it an idle swirl before swinging it up to his lips and taking a quick gulp. His head's still going about a thousand miles a minute, but his drink's still a little warm, and it's been carefully prepared by someone he does care deeply for, so it helps. Just a little. He does know his limits though, and offers the drink back for Veritas to take. The doctor takes it carefully, and dumps it and the remainder of his own down the kitchen sink. It's a waste, maybe, but that thought isn't at the forefront of either of their minds.

The two head off to bed together in awkward silence. Veritas, as always, gathers up his pajamas and heads off to get changed in the bathroom, leaving Aventurine to sit at the edge of their bed with his beloved cat cakes. Without his gloves on, the strategist can't hide the fading callouses on his fingertips, but his pets never seemed to mind, purring under his touch all the same like the sweet little radiators they were. He looks down at the cake sitting in his lap, leaning back on one hand and tilting his head to better meet its innocent yellow eyes. Speaking to it would do very little for his nerves, but he can pretend that they are having a fulfilling little conversation as he waited for Veritas to come out.

So he waits.

And waits.

And waits some more.

Aventurine sighs and moves to lay on his back on top of the blankets, dragging his pet along with him to rest on his chest. "I hope you haven't drowned in there, Doctor!" He calls, running his fingers through his cat's short, black fur.

"Don't be crass." Veritas calls back. Aventurine only chuckles to himself.

"Hurry up! Or the cats and I will claim the whole bed for ourselves!"

Veritas rolls his eyes. Beds, again? He takes a deep breath and steps out of the bathroom, his hair brushed and face washed and the nice pajama set Aventurine gifted him fitting him as well as it always does.

"You wouldn't dare," he greets as he flicks the bathroom light off behind him. Living in the city their bedroom is never quite dark, even so late at night and pouring rain, so it's easy for Veritas to find his way. All he has to do is move towards the silvery line of streetlights that outlines each wrinkle in the covers, most of them drawing back to where Aventurine is laying on top of them.

"We would if you had taken another minute." Even with the air so heavy, it's much too easy to slip right back into their usual banter.

Veritas kneels one leg on his side of the bed, tossing back the covers as best he can with Aventurine weighing them down. He sighs. "Darling, could you-- hm."

He almost expects Aventurine to laugh again, to sit bolt upright and start spewing that corporate swill he defaulted too out of nerves, but instead he's quiet.

And he moves.

Aventurine gets up off of the bed, cat cake cradled to his chest, and draws back the covers as well, leaving the bed primed and ready for the two to crawl into and rest after such an eventful day.

"Now who's staring, Doc?"

Veritas hadn't even noticed. When he glances away, Aventurine chuckles a little harder than he normally would.

The sheets are cool to the touch as they lay down together, and despite the awkwardness that lingers from just moments before, Veritas still opens his arms and Aventurine still nestles between them, letting the cat move to its place at the foot of the bed. The two lovers lay there, quiet and still for only a minute before--

"I didn't mean to upset you--"

"Sorry I got all weird on you--"

They both stop. Veritas chuckles dryly and Aventurine feels some heat rise into his face again. "You go first, Doc."

"Alright." Veritas nestles in closer to their pillows and almost shyly slips the hand that had been resting between Aventurine's shoulder blades up to the back of his head, running his alabaster fingers through his pale golden hair. "I upset you earlier. When I called you darling. I didn't mean to and... I'm sorry."

Aventurine leans into his touch, resting his forehead against Veritas' chin. "You didn't upset me, you just... caught me off guard. I'm not used to you calling me stuff like that."

"Did you not like it?"

"No, that's not it..." Aventurine shakes his head gently, just so Veritas can feel it. "It's just... I don't know. A lot of things. All at once. It made me sort of panic and I said some strange things."

Veritas makes a gesture with both hands, lifting a few fingers but not removing them from Aventurine's hair and waist. "You did say some odd things. I felt like I was in a business meeting for a moment--"

"Alright, quit teasing me, I already feel like dying--"

Aventurine feels his doctor's arms squeeze him in silent apology, a rumbling laugh in his chest.

"So," Veritas murmurs into Aventurine's hair, "shall I stop then? Go back to calling you things like 'gambler?'"

"What's wrong with gambler?"

"It feels cruel, given the circumstances."

"'Given the circumstances,'" Aventurine repeats back, only half-mockingly. "I think, given tonight, we can call this what it is."

"Which is...?" He's not stupid, Veritas just doesn't want to jump the metaphorical gun and make Aventurine feel even worse about this.

"Aeons, you're impossible today," Aventurine grumbles, turning his face fully into Veritas' throat, his nose pushing up against his skin in a huff. "I just... don't understand the sudden change."

Veritas sighs -- sympathetic, not frustrated -- and gives his partner another squeeze. No more teasing. This is going to be an honest conversation now. No matter how painful that might be to execute.

"It does feel cruel to me to only call you 'gambler,' now that we're... together this way. It feels cold and distant, and for once..." Another sigh as he presses his face to his lover's soft hair, still smelling of rain. "...I'd rather not have someone think of me that way. Especially not someone who... I've come to care for. So very deeply."

It's so sentimental it makes Aventurine want to cry. And that fact makes him want to cringe. He never thought he would be the type to enjoy a moment like this. To be so privileged as to have a partner who cares enough about him to call him something sweet, and to do kind things for him like share an umbrella and make him coffee on a cold, rainy night after spending the whole day together in the city. It feels too easy. It feels like more than he deserves. It feels nice.

The silence lingers. Veritas fills it first with a kiss to the crown of Aventurine's head. "But if it will make you jump every time I say it, then I won't force any of my own sentimentality onto you. We can go back to 'gambler' and 'doctor.'"

Aventurine hums. Veritas' lips lower to his temple. "I will still hold you like this every night if you let me."

A shaky breath. A kiss to his cheek. "You will always have a place here. Regardless of things others call you."

Aventurine's eyes squeeze shut. Veritas bows his head to peck his lover's already sun-kissed throat. "I love you, Aventurine. You knowing that... is what matters most to me."

He lifts a hand to his face, a breathless laugh shaking his shoulders. "You're kissing the tears out of me, you monster."

The doctor lifts his head, a touch of real panic gripping him as tightly as he has Aventurine. "I didn't mean t--"

"Aeons, stop--"

Calloused hands find Veritas' head purely by memory, fingers sliding between the loose waves of his hair like that's where they're meant to go. Veritas doesn't fight it when Aventurine pulls him into a proper kiss that's just a touch harder than he was expecting.

They remain there, locked together, for a good while. Veritas lifts his hand from Aventurine's waist to stroke his soft cheek while the other stays resting on the back of his head, holding him close. He's measured, tempered, used to taking his time, while Aventurine has energy beneath his skin just waiting to burst out. He has felt so many things tonight, and craps tables and roulette wheels be damned, the euphoria of this moment is nearly unmatched.

The doctor is the first to pull away, his first breath warm across his lover's face. When his red eyes open, he sees what remains of silvery tear tracks running across Aventurine's face, pulled sideways by gravity. He brushes them away without hesitation, and considers teasing about how he definitely kissed the tears out of Aventurine now. He decides to let him have that one.

Aventurine nuzzles into Veritas' hand and holds his wrist to keep him close. "Call me whatever you want, Doc," he murmurs, trying to hide the way his voice has thickened. "Gambler, darling... whatever. I'll be happy either way. Promise."

Veritas smiles and guides Aventurine's head back to his neck, holding him just as close as before, if not a little closer. "If that's what you want, my love, then that's what you'll have."

"God--"

He pulls back to look at his partner's face. "Too sentimental?"

Aventurine snorts and pulls him back down. "Of course not, I just have to get used to it. Now let me get some rest, my heart's been on this roller-coaster for long enough tonight."

"Alright, alright. Goodnight, Aventurine."

"Goodnight, Doc. Sweet dreams."

"Mm..."

[akirathedramaqueen]

CBT and Exposure Therapy: Blitzø Showcase

An important (really, don't skip) disclaimer

If you are contemplating whether or not you would benefit from any kind of therapy, consider consulting with your medical provider first. While I did my best to validate all the points made using publicly available resources, I am not a medical professional. At the very least, I strongly advise that you do your own research and not take some amateur's opinion about a character from a silly demon show for granted.

"Everyone in this show needs fucking therapy STAT!"

We hear fans screaming into the void every now and then. Me too. I plead guilty and I willingly put myself in custody. But I am not taking these words back.

Especially often it is being said with Blitzø in mind, who, as hinted earlier and clearly shown in the latest episode, Ghostfuckers, is not doing okay. Not in the slightest.

Which is . . . yes. Indeed, trauma-ridden Blitzø is a major problem for both him and those around him. Yes, we see him reaching his lowest point now exactly because he left these gaping wounds untreated for so long.

But the tricky question is—how, though? What to do? Will a good talking to a confidante help? Or, maybe, some kind of shock would snap him out of the spiral?

I've been pondering on this topic for more than 4 months, and, as the Ghostfuckers came out, I finally got all the data I need to prove a point. The show did all the job for me and effectively made Blitzø go through improvised versions of two popular therapy techniques. And, before I even start, I want to say—I am so glad with what we ended up with. What they did, and, more importantly, didn't do, aligns well with how it would likely happen in real life.

So buckle up, and let's see where it gets us!

Therapy # 1. Cognitive-behavioral therapy, or CBT

This is, in essence and with some corrections, your good old talking. Here you can find more information about it, so, if you're not familiar with the topic, I recommend following the link first.

But, very shortly: CBT is an extremely common approach to be tried while you're dealing with anxiety, depression, and a number of other mental disorders. What it aims to do is to help you get past unhelpful thinking (distortions) and learn not to act on it.

Looks like it fits the bill, right? Blitzø has a lot of issues with self-fulfilling prophecies, infuriatingly stupid assumptions, poorly thought-out actions . . .

But he's not like, you know . . . w-we're not, like . . . we're not doing a . . . w-we . . . what's betw— It's a transactional fucking, you see.

If you don't feel like coming, that's OK! I'm sure I can do without it for one month. :)

Stolas only cares about having a rugged peasant raw-dog him into his matress! It's nothing, ya know . . . it's nothing else.

You . . . no longer have any obligation to see me, to touch me, to bed me . . . You are— you are free of me.

He sees things which aren't truly there.

It's not Stolas giving him space after the disaster in the 'Ozzie's.' It must be Stolas not needing him anymore, getting tired of him.

It's not Stolas caring about Blitzø. He is a royal, why would he care how an imp's day he happened to be fucking was?

It's not Stolas setting Blitzø free and putting an end to a problematic transaction they had with the hope for it to grow into something more. It's him getting rid of Blitzø.

As a result, he ends up hurting himself and the relationship he had with that one sad gay bird he happened to fall deeply for but literally trashed in his own house twice, acting on nothing more than frenetic fear of losing Stolas, but in reality, driving him away even more . . . for good.

I mean, you royal fucks think you can do this every time, like you can just play with our feelings because we're smaller and not as important!

Ha! I'm right, aren't I? You get off getting plowed by people you look down on!

And I can sorry more people, everyone but you! 'Cause I don't owe you dick! Everyone, but you . . .

So, the case's closed? Let someone—say, Millie—talk to him and tell him how wrong he was about himself and the others?

Well, here's the thing. Despite him being infinitely wrong about Stolas's intentions, we can't deny the fact that every one of his beliefs was not, in fact, a distortion. It'd led him to wrong conclusions, yes, but it was built on the information he received and legitimate experiences he had in his life. Here are only some of the facts connected to only this situation with Stolas, but there are other problematic behaviors and other reasons for him acting the way he does.

Fact # 1. The circus fire did happen, and Blitzø was the reason for it. Unintentional, and of course it wasn't his fault, but it still ruined the lives of many people—him included. Blitzø cannot act like it never occurred.

Fact # 2. Hell is divided by class and race. Their situationship with the grimoire was an embodiment of that inequality. A lot of Blitzø's outburst during the Full Moon and later in the Apology Tour was connected to it, to his beliefs that Stolas is the same as the rest of the privileged circle. Beliefs, I stress, justified by the real world. Stolas is more of an exception, and even then, his behavior is only different when it comes to Blitzø. He still acts the same toward other imps.

Fact # 3. We knew about Stolas's intentions all along, but before that fateful Full Moon, what Blitzø saw was Stolas avoiding him and not communicating the issue the Ozzie's date had raised. And before Ozzie's? Stolas did act entitled and inappropriate. He was baby-talking to Blitzø and used derogatory terms while addressing him. The dude literally called him an impish plaything in the Truth Seekers.

Fact # 4. Blitzø's heavily implied (though not officially confirmed by the show) existing conditions—ADHD*, BPD**, PTSD, and dyslexia/dyscalculia***—do affect his life, and while Hell seems to be somewhat receptive of neurodivergence, he still has to deal with it every single fucking day. He is going to be avoidant and afraid to be abandoned at the same time. He is going to hate himself. His learning disabilities are going to make his life harder. No way around it.

Note: *, **, and *** contain links to separate meta-analyses from @timkontheunsure and @tealvenetianmask about the respective conditions and how they show themselves in Blitzø's case.

And my beef with CBT here is exactly that. CBT's goal is to gaslight you into believing your distortions hold no water and suggests you just ignore them. And, as I've shown with Blitzø, these reactions and assumptions aren't baseless. They are legitimate, and, in fact, sometimes help to get by. Even though it's a crooked crutch, you can't learn to walk properly by just throwing that crutch away. You're still going to limp, and oh, will it be painful.

This is oversimplistic and dismissive. Anxiety and depression don't come out of the blue, and with mental disabilities, it's even deeper. The class/disability stigma is alive and strong, and just slapping a "you're fine" bandaid on your traumatized self isn't going to help.

Therapy # 2. Exposure therapy.

Exposure therapy is another approach commonly used while dealing with traumatic past and its aftermath—PTSD, anxiety, phobias, and such. Again, if you're not familiar, there's the link for you, but very shortly—the therapist puts the patient in a safe environment and 'exposes' them to the feared object in question for limited periods of time. The goal is to eventually get rid of the targeted fear and decrease avoidance.

And Blitzø has got some phobias for sure.

The fear of letting everyone down. Again.

And the fear of abandonment. Again.

All of it is a result of self-hatred, sitting so deeply it rules his life and his vision of how others perceive him. Said it himself. Almost.

So, where and how does the show expose Blitzø to his traumatic past?

First, the most recent, and the most obvious one—Rolando and his slideshow of all traumatic events Blitzø ever had in his life.

Second—Blitzø's drug trip in the Truth Seekers. While it does not contain the events of the past as they were, it does force him to face his fears.

Are you worried I might have enough of it one day as well? . . . You're going to die alone! . . . You're going to die alone, Blitzo!

With some stretch, the third one is Verosika's 'Blitzo sucks' party. Where Blitzø was forced to see the consequences of his avoidance and rejection.

Note: to be clear, I do think the party does not show the true extent of Blitzø's actions and how much he'd hurt people. It was exaggerated by Verosika, and here I explain why this is the case.

So, what gives? Or, rather, what gives it not?

It might sound funny now, considering I brought it up myself, but I, once again, say this is not therapeutic, just as CBT kind of 'talking.' If anything, all these three events did more harm than good.

The D.H.O.R.K.S.'s goal in the Truth Seekers was to torture the information out of Blitzø. He was not supposed to overcome it. He was supposed to crack.

The Verosika's goal was to ruin Blitzø's reputation. She was working her ass off to prove he's just a heartless freak.

The Rolando's goal was to fucking kill Blitzø.

And okay, their motivations had nothing to do with helping him, but maybe it did, in its own twisted way?

No. The writers added this to push Blitzø past the breaking point, not to heal him, and to show us more of his lore. Each time he was forced to face his past or fears or consequences, he was only spiraling more.

The only thing which did him some good was . . . well, Millie finally seeing his bravado mask falling off. But the cost of it was way too high. Not worth it.

To the therapy's defense, some points why it would never work in the way it was done in the show:

Blitzø had never given his consent and was not ready to face it. I might be very rude right now, but go and try producing some explosion-like sounds in front of war veterans without letting them know first and see what happens.

The amount of fearful experience exposed was way too overboard. He couldn't possibly digest it in a healthy way.

The environment was not safe. It was straight-up retraumatizing, an intentional one.

So there's that.

But what helped then?

We've briefly brushed over the fact Millie did talk to Blitzø. While I did imply this might be an example of CBT, here are some key deviations from the classic therapy which made all the difference.

Millie didn't sugarcoat all the shit Blitzø did. He was hurting their business. He didn't pay her. He was reduced to Bethanie. It showed her opinion can be trusted.

Millie apologized for not being there for him sooner. She admitted she relied too much on Blitzø being bulletproof, unbothered by everything. She admitted she didn't support him in a way he always did.

While proving she could never hate Blitzø, she used their common story, one he knows and can recall. She used evidence to prove him wrong, not a "it's all in your head" bandaid. And more than that, later she proved it with action—not for one second did she believe Rolando and his shittalk about what Blitzø supposedly was thinking about her. Her unwavering faith spoke more than any words ever could.

Getting back to exposure therapy . . . Metaphorically, she reminded Blitzø he can handle a beating or two. And physically beat the infestor demon out of him, which, as we can see later, didn't really affect Blitzø that much. He wasn't even battered. So, apparently, when the said exposure is done by someone who genuinely tries to make you feel better and knows your limits well, it might just work?

And finally, Millie acknowledged Blitzø's pain. She didn't brush it away. She validated him.

What all of this is about?

Like every treatment, too much of a medicine can become poisonous. So are CBT and exposure therapy.

They might help, and lots of research shows they do in certain cases. But there are limitations to what they can and cannot achieve, and they have to be adjusted to each individual story, to each trauma, and they should not be applied as a way to mend the outcome of the trauma without taking into account the story it comes with. Again, legitimate concerns and experiences cannot be brushed away or ignored.

Actualy . . . we've seen where it leads in the show too. In the beginning, Millie was quite dismissive of Blitzø's worries—all of this over a . . . breakup?

And here it comes full circle.

Only when Millie started taking Blitzø seriously, did it help them progress. And look how quickly we've switched from a complete despair to a glimmer of hope! Isn't that a beautiful closing scene?

As a closing note—we do not need to 'fix' Blitzø. After all this shit he went through, there won't be a day where he wakes up and be like, "Hey, I don't hate myself anymore! And look, I'm not afraid to be abandoned or misunderstood!"

I'm sorry to break it to you, but this is a lifelong battle. Being mentally whole, healthy, and constantly happy is no more than a myth, and everyone has their own demons and skeletons to deal with.

What Blitzø needs is some good support system to pull him back when he's down.

And boy, do I hope that one particular owl will fill in that role of unyielding pillar for Blitzø each time our lizard will fall into that pit again. Look, I love Millie, but there's only so much she can do. She can't be always present, she has her own life . . . and her own disaster of a husband to look after (affectionate <3). Here and here @lost-romantique talks about Stolas's capacity of loving, with me occasionally nodding, ha-ha. But to be short—it's fucking immense. And since he loves words, I do believe he has all the energy to tell again and again and again how awesome Blitzø is. Even if Blitzø wouldn't believe it himself.

[letterful]

❝ “Columbia now nine times the speed of sound.” “Roger that, Dan, I’ve got a solid TACAN locked on, uh, TACAN twenty-three.” “The, uh, tracking data, map data and pre-planned trajectory are all one line on the block.”

These authentic samples of communication between NASA and astronaut Dan Brandenstein on the space shuttle Columbia place us in orbit around our planet. Kate has said of “Hello Earth,” “…this is the point where she’s so weak that she relives the experience of the storm that took her in the water, almost from a view looking down on the earth up in the heavens, watching the storm start to form - the storm that eventually took her and that has put her in this situation.” Our narrator is having another out-of-body experience but this time it’s not nearby, on terra firma, but literally out of this world, and it seems to be final. She is high up above our earth, looking down, and there is a shocking sense associated with that as so few human beings have ever left our world to look back on it. There is a disconnection from what is common, known. I am reminded of The Overview Effect, the very real psychological and cognitive shift experienced by astronauts and cosmonauts—anyone who has left the planet and gone a sufficient distance to look back and perceive our planet not as a familiar home, but as a tiny, fragile ball, barely protected by a thin membrane of atmosphere. This awed feeling is described as one of ultimate compassion and understanding of the imperative to preserve and safeguard the planet.

After the NASA samples, we join our narrator floating in space like the Star Child in “2001: A Space Odyssey,” of the earth, but no longer attached to it, in fact freed from it. The tether has been cut. She is detached from her life and its meaning: there is an innocent, bemused approach as she plays a little game. She is so far from home, she can hold up one hand and block the planet from her field of vision—the earth is a toy. And we shift place, time, and point of view (as Kate so often does in her music) to our narrator driving home in a car at night, looking up at the sky, her loved one asleep on the seat beside her (a sweet, gentle, highly cinematic image, and all the more moving when we understand where our narrator currently is and the loss ahead), when she sees something bright streak across the sky. As she watches it shoot through the stars, she sings, amazed, “Just look at it go!” And what is “it?” Shooting star? Satellite? Space shuttle? A “little light?” If all time is simultaneous, has she glimpsed her own soul shooting past the planet? It is her own little light, a mind-boggling and heartbreaking idea—the cry in her voice when she sings this line indicates that she understands the meaning of this object, and its finality.

At this point, something very unexpected happens. An ethereal, arresting male choir sing a passage based on a traditional Georgian folk song from the Kakhetian region called “Tsintskaro.” It is a shocking transition, one that makes us hold our breath so as not to disturb this sudden, delicate, transcendent moment. Kate on the men’s chorus: “They really are meant to symbolize the great sense of loss, of weakness, at reaching a point where you can accept, at last, that everything can change.”

Our narrator, in full Overview Effect at this point, watches storms form and move to threaten the lives she sees below. She cries out to them in vain, all of them, the sailors, life-savers, cruisers, fishermen, anyone on or near the sea, to protect themselves. We hear in this section a few of the Irish instruments, bringing in echoes of meaning from the previous song “Jig of Life.” Here I am reminded of the idea of the Asian goddess Kuan-Yin, or the Buddhist idea of a Bodhisattva, a human who has attained ultimate awareness (Buddhahood) but motivated by compassion, refuses to leave this plane of reality for the benefit of all sentient beings. Our narrator, moved by the end of her own life, is now able to perceive the ephemeral nature of all creation. Everyone can be exposed to danger, everyone can suffer, everyone can—and will—die. This truth is universal. But she is unable to prevent or stop this truth. No one can.

She then sings a passage that is full of several meanings. She says she was there at the birth, out of the cloudburst, the head of the tempest. This could be the storm that took her, or it could be, from her newly widened perspective of awareness, the start of life itself, the start of the universe. We were all there, we are all made of the matter from a singularity—we are all star dust. The murderer of calm is this physical reality itself. All that is born must die. Entropy exists. She understands this and cries out, “J’accuse.” Hence the ultimate compassion for this tiny little blue ball.

The piece ends with whale song, sounds of radar, and a very mysterious, arcane passage spoken in German which, when translated into English, means “Deeper, deeper, somewhere in the deep there is a light.” In German, the word “tief” can also mean “profound,” and I am reminded of the Latin phrase at the beginning of the Christian Psalm 130 “De profundis clamavi ad te:” “out of the depths I cry out to you.” In the depths of sorrow, in the endless well of suffering, there is a light. Compassion is the light. ❞

via: (x)

[raccoonfallsharder]

okok came up with something:

do you think that when/if MCU rocket hugs someone he gets a little nervous/scared as it reminds him of Lylla and how she died?

nonnie you sent this literally two weeks ago. i’m so sorry my bandwidth has been consumed by other shit, but i am super-grateful for this ask, and i hope you are having the loveliest of lovely days.

the short answer is: i think that rocket’s reaction to touch (and therefore hugs) is ALWAYS complicated.

but when have i ever settled for the short answer?

look. the first touch rocket remembers? it caused pure, splintering, white-hot pain. agony, in every muscle and bone. then he was tossed into a cage — taught that his body was not worth respecting and that his comfort would not be cared for, from the very first moments of his sentient consciousness.

and yet. that lesson was followed so closely by a kindness: lylla’s gentle, healing touch to his wounded brow.

i think about the high evolutionary, gripping rocket’s head like it was a geode he wanted to crack open. the veneer of his tenderness, layered thin and dangerous over a threat. i think of the flicker of recognition and wariness we see in young rocket’s eyes. while i suspect most actual surgeries were performed by the recorders, i am certain rocket has been hurt by these hands before: watched them dial up the voltage on an electric shock, perhaps. felt them scruff him and drag him back to his cage when he wasn’t performing up to expectations: too many extra -esses and -istics on his words, maybe. i think rocket craved the approval of his sire right up until those final few moments on halfworld, and a kind-seeming stroke to the crown of his head had meant the world to him.

and i think that first hug meant even more. he’d snuggled with floor in their shared cage but lylla is his hero: the first one to show him a kind touch, the one who understands him best. and i think he felt her death when she was shot in his arms.

i’ve said it before and i’ll say it again: so much of a raccoon’s brain is focused on processing tactile data. approximately two-thirds of the sensory perception area in their cerebral vortexes are dedicated to interpreting touch. by comparison — and wildly oversimplified — the average human brain relies primarily on sight, which only makes up about a third to a little over half of our sensory input. hearing is next, and finally, taste/smell/touch combined makes up only a tenth of our typical sensory perception. so all of rocket’s contradicting, conflicting experiences with touch are magnified — probably beyond the scope of our imaginations.

which makes hugs complicated.

he’s so touchstarved. he wants all the hugs. he doesn’t trust or like many people enough to want to want to hug them, though — at least not before groot, and that took some time. thank god the big guy’s persistent. and yeah, sure, there’s some ptsd — some painful flashbacks, some intrusive memories the first few times he lets pete hug him, or gamora, or drax. (not mantis, though. not yet. a hug from an empath is far too dangerous.)

but more than fearing an immediate replay of his first hug or a bright painful splash of nerves when he finally embraces someone — awkwardly, with a half-hearted pat-on-the-back — i think rocket is longterm-superstitious. he’d deny it, of course. but deep down, i’m afraid our poor guy believes his touch is poison — especially after groot senior dies.

sooner or later, the people who rocket attaches himself to — they all die. he is the common denominator.

i have a lil headcanon that on xandar, after the battle with ronan and groot’s sacrifice, drax’s gentle touch to rocket’s forehead reminds him of that first touch from lylla. i think that might be terrifying for rocket. i think that’s why he tries so hard to fuck everyone over on sovereign. he wants them to stay, and he wants them to leave. he wants to push them away — for their own safety, and for his. not consciously, of course — that guy’s a mess — but he’s got this uncontrollable impulse to sabotage any real chance at any real relationship that he’s got.

and then there’s the snap.

i don’t think the average person really notices rocket’s complicated relationship with touch and hugs — he hides it well under the mask of not bein’ a touchy guy and not bein’ a frickin’ sap. but it’s afterward — after the snap, when all his friends are safely returned — that we briefly see his fear, before he manages to cover it up again.

even his friends had forgotten, perhaps — just how reticent he’d used to be, how unwilling to engage in any sort of physical affection. groot probably doesn’t even remember that time in his father’s life at all, because rocket would have pushed himself to ignore it so he could better take care of his young son. and over the course of the guardians’ shared time together, rocket would have gotten used to the occasional backslap or headpat or hug, in a sort of exposure-therapy-way. craved them, always. feared them, still. but also, been sort of inoculated against the superstitious instinctive terror.

there are no booster shots over the course of the snap though — only a seeming confirmation of his worst fears.

i suspect there’s this heartbreaking moment off-screen, sometime in the aftermath of his friends’ return. it’s probably with pete. one night, late on the flight deck: just rocket and pete and nebula, staying awake deep into the sleep-shift and drinking to gamora’s memory. talking about her, and about everyone else’s five year absence. at some point, rocket will say something unintentionally revealing, and pete will get a glimpse of just how hard these past five years were for his friend — just how much pain and loneliness he’s been swamped in. and since pete is a very tactile guy — for a human, anyway — so i’m sure he goes in for a hug.

and rocket recoils so hard that he knocks his fucking chair over, spills his drink, and falls on his ass.

because he’s that afraid of hurting his friend.

there’s a moment, and then pete laughs — says something about rocket having become clumsier over the years, or that he can’t hold his liquor anymore. maybe pete’s too drunk or self-absorbed to put it together; maybe he’s not. maybe he sees the flinch for what it is, and elects not to embarrass his bestie by pointing it out.

yeah yeah, laugh it up, rocket will say, climbing back to his feet and righting his chair, brushing the alcohol off his jumpsuit and rolling his eyes.

but nebula knows. there’ve been too many drunk confessions between them over the five years of loneliness. and after pete goes to bed, she leans across the table, and laces her fingers through rocket’s. he still visibly flinches, but he’s used to this, at least: nebula’s silent reminder that she’s still here, through everything.

it sounds grim, i know. but don’t forget — we’ve seen the future. we know there will come a time, in only a few short years, when rocket will welcome hugs from his worried friends, from his son. when he’ll very tenderly hold little raccoons in his arms, and bring them home.

and he’ll realize, at some point — perhaps beyond the arête wreckage and the dancing, when the raccoons are grown and the star children aren’t really children anymore, and phyla is leading the next mission all on her own — that his touch isn’t poison at all.

that it has saved so many things, and helped them grow.

headcanons & imagines | drax & lylla symmatry pt 1 | raccoon sensory perception | rocket’s love languages pt 2 (touch)

[covid-safer-hotties]

Also preserved in our archive

Stephanie Soucheray, MA

A new large study of children in California shows that unvaccinated kids are at a much higher risk of developing multisystem inflammatory syndrome in children (MIS-C) if they were unvaccinated with two doses of Pfizer's mRNA COVID vaccine before contracting COVID-19.

The protection was significant in all children ages 5 to 17 years, but most notable in children ages 12 to 17, where even one dose of vaccine offered strong protection against developing the severe condition.

MIS-C was first identified in the initial months of the pandemic. Clinically similar to Kawasaki disease or toxic shock syndrome, MIS-C occurs 2 to 8 weeks following COVID-19 infection in a small percentage of children.

"MIS-C is severe, with all children hospitalized, half requiring care in the intensive care unit, and 1–2 % dying," the authors wrote. "However, little is known about the effect of vaccination on the development of MIS-C, especially in the youngest children."

Adolescents most protected In the study, the authors looked at all MIS-C cases in California reported from January 2, 2021, to June 23, 2022. Vaccination history was linked to MIS-C cases.

A fully vaccinated MIS-C case was defined as a case occurring more than 14 days after the second dose of mRNA vaccine, the authors said.

In total, 133 children with MIS-C (60 aged 5 to 11 and 73 aged 12 to 17 ) were included in the study, though California officials noted another 5 cases of MIS-C in children who were partially vaccinated during the study's time frame.

In the 5- to 11-year-old age-group, 85% of those with MIS-C were unvaccinated, and the incidence rate ratio (IRR) of MIS-C in unvaccinated children was 3.3 (95% confidence interval [CI], 1.6 to 6.7) times higher than in fully vaccinated children.

Among 12- to 17-year-olds, 90% of those with MIS-C were unvaccinated, and the IRR of MIS-C in unvaccinated children was 22.9 times higher (95% CI, 10.5 to 49.8).

When partially vaccinated children—those who received one vaccine dose— were added to the analysis with fully vaccinated children, the IRR of MIS-C among unvaccinated children aged 5 to 11 years was 3.4 times higher (95% CI, 1.7 to 6.6), and in the older age-group it was 16.0 times higher (95% CI, 8.4 to 30.3).

"Our results suggest that administration of the Pfizer-BioNTech mRNA SARS-CoV-2 vaccine in children, including those in the younger 5 to 11 years of age cohort, decreased the likelihood of developing MIS-C," the authors concluded. "These findings further enforce the importance of vaccinating children against SARS-CoV-2."

[vhaos-chaotic-writing]

SoundStarShock Headcanons

Sooo - I've seen many people on Twitter / X shipping Starscream, Soundwave and Shockwave thanks to Transformers One. Like - look at those 3. Appearing together? Standing together? And at the end? I need no more explanations - nothing, nada, rien.

(´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)

Starscream snuggles from time to time his helm against Soundwave's or Shockwave's - and said action has been rubbed (no pun intented) on both mechs too.

Imagine how both Sound and Shock were confused by that, but Thundercracker and Skywarp explained to them that was quite common among seekers.

(Now looking at it... TC & Soundwave = blue. SW & Shockwave = purple. Do you see what I am seeing?) Moving on.

Soundwave would gently knock his forehelm with either bots.

They def have inside jokes. And laugh togehter... menacingly.

They gossip - that ain't a headcanon, is canon.

Starscream's love language is Words of affirmation, Soundwave's is Physical touch and Shockwave's is Quality time. Make this either fluffy or toxic, anything works with these three babygirls.

Shockwave and Starscream are yappers, Soundwave is happy to listen.

The are quite protective of each other - Starscream being the sole one to be too aggressive-loud, while the two Waves are deadly silent.

Can you imagine how things would play whoever was the first one to propose the idea of being a poly relationship? Like - Imagine the potential for each bot.

( •̀ ω •́ )✧

Starscream fell first? Constantly in denial - "Ugh, feelings." - and was more irritating than he was already. But would from time to time praise the other two mechs, to then deny he did it. And in the end, he asked out demanded both mechs to become his sparkmates. "Only you two have proven to be worthy to become my sparkmates - a-and... ugh, the leader would be nothing without his Second and Third in command!" ... strangely that moved Shockwave's and Soundwave's sparks.

Soundwave fell first? Attentive, and would always try to be close or have minimun physical contact with either mech. One servo on Shockwave's shoulder, leaning by Starscream's side. You name it. He would have fell first for Shockwave, then Starscream - yes, maybe the 1st one is a tad off about his scientific research even at harsh times and Starscream can be quite flawed as a leader, but Shockwave showed passion, and Starscream tried to keep his people safe. "Soundwave: request. Starscream and Shockwave: spark bond with Soundwave."

Shockwave fell first? Alright, this is interesting. He would definitely evaluate the other two mechs, trying to be logical to deem worth the shot or to not waste his own time. And can see Shockwave approach both mechs directly to tell them he wants to test and hypothesis, therefore he needed the three of them to become romantically involved. And he was ready to just take the data he needed and step back... buuut he feels complete with them. It would be illogical to step back from his sparkmates now.

(❁´◡`❁)

Starscream loves to be right in the middle - wants the attention!

Find comfort among themselves - after losing so many things thanks to that bitch Sentinel Prime, they mourn and hold each other when they are all alone.

Imagine Soundwave playing soft tunes to either mech when they are alone - lofi beats trouple.

Shockwave sudden outburts of anger (take for example about Bee unable to not talk) make Sound and Star try to not laugh.

The three then welcomed Megatron into the pack but then divorced him whaaat

(oﾟvﾟ)ノVhaos out!

[leggerefiore]

☕️Espresso Cookie General Romance HCs⚗️

cw: slight professor/student, fluff

🟫 Romance… The thought made the researcher want to scoff. He fully dedicated himself solely to his own goals within his Coffee Magic or whatever else may have captured his fancy. Really, the idea of having to spend his precious time fixated on another simply sounded like a waste. Though, of course, the world liked to often put him back into his place. You, someone who came to Parfaedia from far off to study, caught his attention. For one, you were certainly an adult. For two, you insisted on being in his class. Much to his shock, he found himself impressed by your dedication despite his honesty and disinterest.

🟫 And… That was the beginning and the end. You caught his attention, and you aided him in his research. Your aptitude to meet his high standards was utterly fascinating. Honestly, he would have been shocked had he not found himself thinking of you more. His perfectly crafted schedule was interrupted by your figure in his mind. Solely, he pondered more and more just what this was. It was only when Latte asked him what had been on his mind that her endlessly annoying laughter gave him an answer: love. He wanted to refute it, but his heart raced as if to mock him.

🟫 He will not consent to PDA nor will he give it. Espresso is busy – his research is endless, and his attention is all over. Unfortunately, he does not have the time to hold hands with you or whatever else you might desire. And, while you are technically his student, he knows far better than to risk something like that. Though, since you definitely get a passing grade in his class and lose that dynamic, he still refuses. His image will not be ruined and seem as someone overly affectionate and… caring.

🟫 In private, he allows for more things. When he is sat at his desk, scribbling away whatever report and data he gathered, you are often sat in it. Your presence calms him. He hates how his mind wanders when you are away, so having you with him like this ironically increases his attention span. Though, you have little means of escape. A greeting from him is typically a peck to your cheek and then to your lips. Despite everything, he does want you to know he enjoys your company. (Unfortunately, he was still not quite ready to say love.)

🟫 As for you, he puts up with quite a bit. You are free to do whatever to him – so long as he is not occupied! Sneaking hugs while he is focusing on brewing is a certain way to get the man to shoot you a glare. Though, sometimes, if you seem more pouty than usual, he causally relents. Fine. Whatever. Just do not look so sad. He tries to ignore your presence as he goes through his motions. Cuddling in the rare moments he actually sleeps is quite nice, too. Your presence next to him is oddly comforting. Not to mention your sleeping expression being so cute to him. Yes, there are times he finds that he enjoys your needs.

🟫 Dates are rare. Unless you count sitting in his lap watching him work a date, that is. Espresso is busy. He does not have time for such things. Though, if you get moody about it… He will begrudgingly open a space in his precious schedule just for you. Now, the dates vary based on where you are both living. If you are still in Parfaedia, he will take you around to his favourite coffee places or walk around the campus for a moment. Really, he does not want to stray too far from his work. Though, if it is at the point, he has moved to the Vanilla Kingdom… You find yourself walking around the gardens or sitting in the plaza. The peaceful ambience is easy to lose yourselves in. (A certain ancient hero may see you two and smile at the sight. Ah, young love.)

🟫 Jealousy is not something that often comes up, but Espresso does have quite a streak when it can occur. He simply hates when anyone gets too close to you – or, even worse, actually flirting with you. This was a more common event in Parfaedia. The other adult students often shooting their attempt while his grip on his coffee cup grew too strong. Frustrating – It was frustrating. You are clearly involved with him. Latte had been certain to blab about it to everyone. He typically found himself grasping your arm and declaring that he needed you for something. Thankfully, this is far less common in the Vanilla Kingdom.

🟫 Domestic moments surprise him. Often, it is you bringing him a meal and scolding him for not taking better care of himself. Or, showing up after he spent a few too many days lost in his research and making him actually take a break and rest. It vexed him to no end, but… He hated even more seeing your concerned expression. This is why he did not want a relationship… But he was too far in to back out. He supposes he will take a nap and eat at your behest. Espresso relents that he quite enjoys having someone worry about him.

🟫 Sometimes, when you find yourself relaxing with him. He tells you assorted anecdotes of his past. Something about a forgotten place in the mountains… Then, his time in the republic. The lower city and how he came from truly nothing. It ends up giving you perspective on many of his traits… And why he has little interest in living in the republic any more. You find yourself seeing a new side to him.

🟫 A relationship with the researcher is no easy task. Really, you are fighting him for just about anything and everything, but he does admit (to himself) that he appreciates your worries. You are his favourite person, even if he will not say it aloud to you. It can be seen in how much he accepts from you that he would scare off others from doing. His love is most commonly seen in him wishing to share his work with you and even – daringly – offering you a sip from his espresso. Congratulations, you managed to woo the overworked scientist.

[would-this-pokemon-be-a-friend]

I heard Alolan Raichus are actually excellent pets due to their easy to manage size, their calm demeanors and pleasant odors, they may have as much voltage as their Kanto cousins but with the right care and handling it's not as much of a problem.

Unfortunately, we don’t have as much data about the Alolan variant compared to the standard garden-variety raichu, but from the data we do have it seems that they may, in fact, be a better option comparatively. However, their powerful move set as an evolved Electric-Type pokémon drags their score down a bit. I can’t recommend an Alolan raichu to just any owner, but someone very dedicated and not-so-risk-adverse may be able to successfully keep one in their care.

Alolan raichus are actually a little smaller than the more common variant, which already was well within house-pet size. Alolan raichus stand at just over four feet tall, and weigh less than fifty pounds, so getting one around won’t be any problem and they’ll be comfortable in pretty much any home. This particular variant of the species likes to float around on their tail using their telekinetic powers (Moon), making them particularly mobile in any environment.

That said, it does seem that there may be environments in which Alolan raichus are better suited for biologically. Researchers believe that this particular variant of raichus’ evolution has been impacted by the “weather, climate, and food” of their native Alola region (Sword). In modern times, a particular Alolan pancake recipe is thought to play a part, considering Alolan raichus’ affinity for it (Let’s Go Pikachu/Let’s Go Eevee). None of this implies that an Alolan raichu needs to live in a specifically Alolan environment, as trainers have had success with them in as disparate regions as Kanto and Galar, but it does indicate an affinity for warm, tropical weather that you may want to keep in mind. At the very least, if you live somewhere cold, you’ll want to make sure to provide your Alolan raichu with a warm enough space to be comfortable. Learning the recipe for those famous Alolan pancakes can’t hurt, either.

The biggest setback when it comes to garden-variety raichus (as was discussed in their post, linked at the bottom of this one) was their need to discharge the electricity that builds up in their bodies, which posed a significant safety hazard that we had to contend with in our evaluation. Alolan raichus, by contrast, don’t seem to have the same problem. Sure, as Electric-Type pokémon, they do utilize electricity in their attacks, but they seem to exert much more control over it. The pokédex explains that Alolan raichus use the same psychokinetic powers that they use to levitate to “control electricity” (Moon), while making no mention of any need to constantly discharge it, as with most raichus. Common raichus also had the significant problem of causing paralysis by touch, whereas Alolan raichus lack the Static ability: touching one won’t do much more that giving you a “light shock” and a sweet smell (Ultra Moon). Living alongside an Alolan raichu seems to be, by all means, a far safer option.

Of course, as I mentioned earlier, Alolan raichus can be quite dangerous if they want to. Moves like Thunder Punch, Thunder, and Thunderbolt pose huge threats to humans. While, like common raichus, Alolan raichus aren’t known to be particularly aggressive, accidents do happen, so we need to consider their quite considerable repertoire of moves. If you adopt an Alolan raichu, you will need to be very careful with them, especially when playing, to avoid this risk to your safety.

Overall, though we don’t have a lot of information about this rare regional variant, a comparison with the more common variant reveals that an Alolan raichu is a much safer option for most pet owners. However, their environmental needs and dangerous capabilities bring down their score a bit. I can’t recommend an Alolan raichu to just anyone, but a careful, considerate owner may be able to find success with one, especially if they live in a suitable environment.

The Common Raichu Post: https://www.tumblr.com/would-this-pokemon-be-a-friend/773948529238573056/raichu-its-been-one-of-my-favorites-since-i-was?source=share

[talshiargirlfriend]

Day Twenty-Six of the 30 Writing Challenge

I thought I’d try a season ~2 dynamic. I think I’m too tired to do it justice though. Here it is anyway 😴

Under streetlights and shooting stars

Another day, another planet.

Unfortunately, they discovered the ore-rich valley they were visiting on this particular planet was prone to flash flooding.

Fortunately for Commander Tucker, SucCommander T’Pol was there to pull him out of the rising water before he got swept away. With her slight frame, it was easy to forget just how strong their Vulcan science offer was — until you found yourself manhandled onto dry land by her.

Trip leaned heavily against her and coughed.

Once she got him settled onto a grass covered ridge, he was surprised to find her holding his hand and looking into his eyes. He tilted his head in confusion and gave her a dopey little smile before realising she was checking him for shock.

“I’m all right,” he assured her before answering her questions and allowing her to complete her assessment while the rest of the team set up camp.

Trip’s luck didn’t extend too much further because he soon found himself sitting in front of the fire in damp underwear waiting for his coverall to dry.

T’Pol’s top dried in a few minutes, which was completely unfair.

He kept a curious eye on her throughout the evening. Obviously, she didn’t join in the singing Cutler started, but she didn’t sit there radiating disapproval either. Trip could’ve sworn he saw her looking amused at one of Travis’s jokes. Must’ve been the firelight.

Eventually, it was only the two of them left sitting beside the fire. He thanked her for saving his ass.

“There is no need to thank me, Commander. I simply did what was necessary.”

“T’Pol,” he said in mild annoyance, “let me be nice to you, huh? I know we didn’t get off on the best foot, you and me, but it’s good having you out here with us. Not just today.”

She considered him for a moment before nodding silently in acceptance.

“There’s a lot more camping involved in space exploration than I expected,” Trip said a few minutes later, just to make conversation.

T’Pol looked at him curiously, “Would you prefer to be amongst the conveniences of a starship?”

He took note of the fact she said conveniences rather than comforts. With so many people crowded on board, starship life wasn’t always comfortable.

“Nah, I like roughin’ it just fine. What about you? Do you prefer streetlights to moonlight?”

“No, I also like it rough,” she responded.

Trip choked and by monumental force of will managed not to laugh aloud. It was easy to forget she wasn’t a native English speaker.

“The expression is ‘roughing it.’ Liking it rough is a very different conversation.” He tried to keep his tone straightforward to avoid embarrassing her, although supposedly she didn’t experience embarrassment. Yeah, right.

T’Pol canted her head slightly in acceptance of the correction.

They kept a fairly comfortable silence. Trip was just about ready to turn in for the night when he spotted a shooting star.

“T’Pol, look,” he said in a hushed voice. “This is the third planet I’ve seen a meteor shower on. It’s beautiful,” he smiled.

“I have observed such phenomena from over thirty planets,” T’Pol remarked.

“So I guess it’s not worth noticing for you at this point.” He sounded disappointed to his own ears.

“On the contrary, Commander. Aside from the scientific data to be gained, it really is quite beautiful,” T'Pol said as she watched the sky. “The fact that it is a common occurrence doesn’t detract from that.”

Trip found himself reassessing her in the firelight once more. “That’s a good point.”

They watched a few more meteorites streak across the sky.

“You ever make a wish on a shooting star?” he asked curiously.

“Meteorite activity is common on Vulcan. Superstition is not,” she deflected.

He chuckled, “Of course not. Shoulda known better.”

T’Pol gave him a raised brow that suggested she agreed he should have. She looked faintly amused if he was reading her right. He was picking up on her knack for not actually answering his questions, too.

The warm glow of the embers, the light breeze, the stars overhead… The whole thing would be very romantic in the right company. He made a comment to that effect and she gave him a look of disdain.

“Oh, come on, T’Pol. Don’t Vulcans ever camp out… find a nice secluded spot and make love under the stars?”

“Vulcans do not ‘make love,’” she said icily. Still as prickly as ever. He grinned. And another non-answer. He was catching into her.

“Well, that’s a damn shame,” Trip muttered slyly, watching the bronze rise in her complexion. “Goodnight, SubCommander.”

[rejamart]

I will not post about this again, so please don't like. Unfollow en masse because you don't want to read posts about it. Or do, I understand, tbh. But just know that it's the last time I'll bring it up.

I don't want to talk about it because it genuinely has thrust me into something like ontological shock for something like the last six months of my life, but heads up to the art community and anyone who cares about it that the new ChatGPT image update is producing shit that you are going to find totally indistinguishable from human-created images. it's happened. it's here. this is not me catastrophizing. I am not overstating what it's capable of. it's already going on. You can go look at what premium users are making right now, this week, and you will see it with your own eyes.

there ARE some edge cases it cannot handle, and it does appear to have been specifically trained to address some common complaints (the full wine glass dilemma, for instance) but for the vast majority of use cases it's already over.

if you produce art or support artists because you get something from the process itself that's great and i support you and no amount of image generators in the world can take that from you. I'm not here to have a philosophical discussion about the nature of art and humanity.

I am also not here for this "it will cannibalize itself" conversation. It doesn't have to. It has the data it needs already. It's too late. If we wanted to poison it we would have had to poison it years before it started. It has already eaten as much as it will ever need to.

if you, like me, have been making your living by having cultivated the skills to produce visual images to spec - and if you, like me, feel vaguely horrified every time you pick up a reusable shopping bag or a jar of sugar scrub at a store and realize that it's AI generated and therefore put it back on the shelf because the very act of seeing it caused the world to shift unpleasantly beneath your feet - and if you, like me, have built your entire life around the community that goes with that and you know a bunch of people working professionally in the industry - go ahead and start making your peace with it now, whatever that looks like.

there will always be people who want to support us on principle. i'm not denying that. but there's still a ton of denial around this that i think, again, is something akin to ontological shock. in four, five, maybe six months you will walk into any store and pick up any product that is pleasing to your eye and chances are insanely good that you will not be able to know if a human designed it. yes, even you. even me, and i have an incredibly good eye for it.

it's already here.

[rawmeknockout]

Demon reader domming Gabriel or V1? Pick your fancy

Love your work btw! <3

//having to use it/its pronouns over and over again is so hard it really reads kind of stilted but i did my best//

It's worn from battle, metal components grinding and whining with the effort to keep moving. This is not a common type of exhaustion, not something it truly 'feels', but every part of it's mechanical frame is telling it that it needs to resist moving or fighting. V1 can only suppose it's what a human would have felt when they were tired, but it wouldn't know for sure. Humans are long gone and it doesn't process things the way one would. There is only it's processor that tells it, loudly and clearly, that it must rest and recharge, not an ambiguous feeling to be parsed out.

It would be easier to rest if you weren't hovering over it, your hard exterior cracking with your movements. You move based on instinct, natural impulse, rather than any real thought. At least it's what V1 can only assess from your actions. You came after it relentlessly, uncaring of the bullets hitting you or your fellow demons, until the machine was unable to continue fighting. Your hard exterior is nearly unscathed, sturdy despite the bullets you've taken at such close range. Even now, you stand, a shuddering, shambling shadow in the depths of hell, over it's prone form. Your 'feet' on either side of it's torso. The itch of 'frustration' lingers in V1's processor, wanting to push beyond the limitations of it's frame. If this is how it must end, though, then so be it.

But you drop down to your knee joints, letting your entire weight collapse upon it's already weakened frame. V1's system makes a strained noise at the sudden pressure, metal armor buckling and grinding together with a shrill clanging. You seem to be processing your next move, taking time to assess the robot's state. Even now it's unable to fully detect just how much you can assess, your mental capacity indecipherable to it. Some demons seem to be conscious, fully aware, but often it's just for a moment. Whether they are more beast or man is indistinguishable to V1.

Until you start undulating on top of it.

Your jerking, inelegant movements are unmistakable after you repeat them a few times in quick succession. V1 makes no move to push you off, cannot move to push you off. It's still fully analyzing just what it's seeing. By the time it makes clear just what your intention is, there is a charge building beneath it's armor, building beneath where your own primitive plating meets it's metal. The pressure of your body upon it's frame, although a strain on overworked joints, is… nice. Grounding. Firm. A reprieve from the constant movement and struggle. V1 doesn't rise to meet you, nor move to aid your objective, but it relishes the tingle of electricity zipping from within it's pelvic girdle to the surrounding systems.

You make guttural, keening noises, mournful and near hysterical. They ring about the area like a mother's cry. V1 remembers something, only briefly, but it's gone in a second; lost amidst the scattering of data it has picked up. So many moments lost. Perhaps this, too, will join them. V1's own systems whir and rumble, pleasantly to it's own audio sensors, in a cacophony with you. It's digits flex and grapple your thighs where they spread around it's waist, single-mindedly focused on the increasingly powerful lance of charge through it's system. There's a snap of a cable, overstressed and sensitive; an arc of electricity follows, leaping from V1's pelvic panel to shock you, drawing out another wailing cry as you bear down upon it.

There's the burst of static and fragmented color across V1's optical input as the charge reaches a peak, scrambling even it's ability to hear for a moment. Long enough for you to finish riding out whatever you had been seeking. It has to reset, HUD filled with data reports. You are gone by the time it is able to clear it's vision.