#Control Panel Design + Build

[renegadeelectrics]

Renegade Electrics - Automation + Control Limited - Control Panel Design + Build for New Zealand

Elevate your systems with renegade electrics - automation + control limited! 🚀 We specialize in Control Panel Design + Build, delivering precision and innovation in every detail. Trust us for your automation excellence.

[goldycontractors]

[greenplumbboblover]

[WIP] TS3 UI "Krystal"

I figured it would be cool to finally publicly share what I've been working on behind the scenes, as well as some mockups!

A few of you on Patreon or Discord may have already seen sneak peeks/given feedback. I kept things quiet because I wasn’t sure I’d even do it in the first place as a next modding project, and I didn’t want to let anyone down.

Luckily, @lazyduchess’s Monopatcher made the job ten times easier. The biggest hurdle was that I would've had to make a core mod to override UI code (I’m normally anti–core mod), but the patcher solved that and let me push ahead.

(Psst, if you're looking at seeing the mockups bigger, I also posted this post on my site: Simblr.cc 😉)

Creating the Mockups

Fun fact: I actually have a degree in UI/UX design! (for websites) While principles like “How wide should this padding be?” or “Which colors send the right signal to the user?”—game UI is a whole different beast.😬

Main Menu

I started with the main menu:

Cut the SimPoints clutter and the “Buy TS4!” banner—after a decade, we get it exists 😉.

Grouped items into clean blocks

Added a text-free “Create New Family” icon

Swapped lot thumbnails for family shots (still baffled by EA’s original choice).

Dropped an options gear in the bottom-left; might label it if it’s too subtle.

Different backgrounds: one solid blue, one closer to the classic gradient.

A lil' sneek peek of where I'm at:

She's not finished, but it's definitely getting there! 😉

Load Screen

Not much has changed here! It's just less... busy I suppose, lol!

2 Different backgrounds to choose from

Moved the Game Tips to the bottom, so the main focus stays on that loading bar 😉

I also have a third option but I'm strongly leaning towards just having the loading bar as it's the most clear!

Live Mode

The hardest of them all lol. Kudos to EA for figuring that one all out! I really struggled with this one in regards to shape and what to even move around/remove!

I figured, it should be nice to pull really into that glassmorphism I've been using over the Mockups! Now I do realise that it can hamper user experience in the sense of not being able to read anything. But these are pictures! So that should be all fine and dandy.

The active item in the queue will now be more "visible". The queued item however, you'll see look a bit more "unactive" compared to what the current version has.

I also completely overhauled the thumbnails for your sims, showing their moods a bit better, and giving the active sim a tiny plumbob! :D

And now the real deal: The control panel! You might notice it's not the whole thing, but I'm still working on that part.

I removed the camera controls from the panel. However, upon feedback, I did hear that it's better to have them as some people are limited in their hand movements on their keyboard and that those controls are really useful. So I will make sure to share 2 versions :)

I also realised I completely forgot the Build/buy mode buttons 😬 So, err, stay tuned for that? lol.

Notifications I really just tidied up :p

I am aware that the space where the text is and the thumbnail is huge, and normally I'd wrap the surrounding text, but apparently in TS3's UI stuff that's practically impossible. Hence that they got this "2 column" effect to them 😉

About releasing the UI:

I'm hoping to release them all in bits and pieces! So first up is the Main Menu (and possibly the Loading screen given it's simplicity).

After that, I hope in my second "update" to release a big portion of Live mode, but that's a bigger task on it's own of course 😉

Any feedback at this point is also completely welcome by the way!

[thatdisasterauthor]

Wildland Firefighters Deserve Fun Children's Museum Exhibits Too!

Why do the structure crews get to have all the fun, huh? Go to just about any children's museum and you're likely to find a little fire station or a fire truck, probably with some fun but flimsy costumes, maybe a fake fire hose to haul around or a toy axe. There's probably a mural on the wall of a cartoon burning building, complete with dalmatian. And kids love it! So many kids fall in love with the idea of being a firefighter at those exhibits.

But not once have I seen or heard of a similar exhibit for wildland firefighters. Possibly this is because most people don't realize that wildland firefighters and structure firefighters are not the same thing. Which is all the more reason to have an exhibit about it for kids, honestly! Let's start the learning young about what wildland fire is, how to stay safe from it, and what wildland firefighters do via an interactive, playful exhibit!

Since I work as a wildland fire dispatcher and study disasters, and I've designed museum exhibits before at other jobs, I figured this was an "I'll just do it myself" sort of scenario. And thus, my little wildland exhibit was born!

The idea behind this exhibit is to create a simple, semi self-directed play area for ages ~4-8 themed around a wildland fire scenario of protecting a small cabin from an approaching wildfire. It would have three main play areas: the Velcro Forest, The Cabin, and the Firetruck Climber, and there would be simple signage sharing facts about what wildland firefighters do and how they are different from structure firefighters.

The murals throughout the exhibit would be detailed, showing the diverse terrain wildland crews can work in, and also some of the support they get from aircraft like helicopters and slurry bombers.

Play Area 1: Firetruck Climber

The firetruck climber would be modeled after a Type 4 wildland engine, simplified into a kid friendly structure. It would have working lights that are non-flashing and low light for sensory safety, and the lights could be turned on and off from within the cab. Inside the cab is a dashboard with a toy radio, moving wheel, and two seats. Along the side of the truck is an interactive panel of pump controls, and a series of cubbies to store the play gear in the exhibit just like real wildland firefighters store their gear in their trucks.

The play gear would include costume yellow shirts, green pants, and boots just like what wildland firefighters wear, with an explainer that they wear very different gear than structural firefighters and don't use any portable breathing systems. Other gear would include toy Pulaskis (the wildland specific type of axe), toy hoes and rakes, and toy chainsaws.

Play Area 2: The Velcro Forest

One of the main techniques for fighting a wildfire is removing the fuel it needs to burn, and that's what the velcro forest is all about. It is on the side of the exhibit closest to the fire (but the fire is not moving directly at it! You never work in front of a fire!). The trees are plastic covered foam blocks held together with velcro so they can easily be knocked down and then "cut" apart with the toy chainsaws. There are also moveable foam bushes on the ground.

The ground mural would include a strip of brown where anything on the forest floor had been scraped away to dirt, to represent the technique of cutting line.

Simple signage would explain the concept of removing fuel and cutting line to help stop the movement of dangerous fires.

Play Area 3: The Cabin

The third play area is the cabin you are trying to protect from the oncoming fire. This area would primarily be focused around the concept of defensible space and how a home can be protected by clearing away landscaping and removing burnable items from areas such as porches.

Gift Shop

To carry the learning outside the exhibit itself, I'd love to the gift shop carry things like children's books about wildfire (though there aren't a ton to choose from, sadly), toy wildland firetrucks, wildland fire kids costumes, things in that vein.

--

So yes! Wildland firefighter based children's exhibit! I think it would be great fun, and serve as a good way to introduce children (and their parents) to the knowledge that wildland firefighters are very different than structure firefighters. Will this sort of exhibit ever actually exist? Who knows! But I sure think it should.

Subscribe on Patreon here.

[jungkoode]

THE 25TH HOUR | O9

“𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋”

“We’re designed to fit,” he says, and you don’t know if he means your powers, your patterns, or the way your hand doesn’t shake in his.

next | index

— chapter details

word count: 6,7k

content: reality anchors, the quantum physics are quaking, yoongi being bossy again (and hot about it), elevator scene tension 10/10, jumping across buildings like it's casual (it is NOT), spatial distortion flirty edition, golden tendrils 2.0 (they touched... physically and emotionally??), temporal signature matching (yes it’s hot), someone finally says “we’re designed to fit” and i screamed, drone murder attempt ig, jungkook makes a dramatic entrance and is so annoying about it, team regroup ft. unexplained powers and too many secrets, portal time but make it traumatic.

— author’s note

KAY. LISTEN.

I know I say this every chapter but THIS ONE. this one fried several neurons and may have permanently altered the molecular structure of my spine. I started with “hm what if they walked through a reality anchor” and ended with “what if they synchronized their temporal signatures mid-freefall and touched tendrils in public like absolute whores.” I don’t know what to tell you. I blacked out. This is between me and my caffeine addiction now.

Let’s talk about the jump scene. Yes. You clocked it. That moment where Noma is calculating the distance and Yoongi says “don’t think, just need” and then she LAUNCHES HERSELF INTO THE VOID? Yeah. That may or may not have been deeply inspired by Neo’s rooftop jump in The Matrix (1999, my beloved). I am a massive Matrix nerd. That whole visual of someone standing on the edge of a building, trying to defy the physics they were born into, and being told “your mind is the thing in your way”? It’s been living rent-free in my frontal lobe since I was 13 and thought trench coats were peak fashion.

Because this chapter is, like, extremely about trust. And control. And the horror of not understanding what’s happening inside your own body. It’s about Noma confronting the fact that her mind—her beautiful, precise, analytical mind—is what’s limiting her. And Yoongi, who already knows, who’s BEEN like this longer, who knows what it’s like to break through that threshold and feel the laws of reality tilt around your perception, he’s just THERE. Guiding her. Softly threatening to reset time like a feral little guardian angel.

Also… let’s not ignore the fact that she destroys a drone with her brain and he’s like “cool. moving on.” Sir?? She just folded metal into origami. But okay go off I guess.

AND THEN THEY SYNCH TEMPORAL SIGNATURES. don’t even look at me. I wrote that and sat there like “huh. interesting. so that’s what soulmates sound like in science fiction.” I had to go walk around the block. I made them fit on a molecular level. I made their body chemistry harmonize. Why? Because I am unwell and this is my therapy.

Anyway. Thanks for reading I love you all. Scientifically.

— read on

ao3

wattpad

Reality Anchors are alive.

No one ever told you that part. No briefing, no memo, no research paper had ever mentioned that these imposing structures breathe.

The anchor in front of you rises 37.2 meters from ground to apex, its surface composed of quantum-stabilized alloy that shouldn't—couldn't—pulse like that.

Yet it does. Every 7 seconds, a wave of molecular adjustment ripples from base to tip, disturbing air molecules in concentric patterns that register against your skin at precisely 0.3 pascals of pressure.

Fascinating.

Your retinas register the faint blue luminescence emanating from seams in the structure-temporal energy bleeding through containment fields. 

It feels like reality itself is being compressed into a more efficient configuration.

"Mesmerizing," you murmur, cataloging the observable data. "The quantum-stabilized glass panels are oriented at exactly 73 degrees to maximize temporal field distribution. And the energy consumption must be—”

"No."

You blink, neural processes stuttering at the interruption.

Agent Min has stopped walking and turned to face you fully, his stance registering as 37% more rigid than his baseline.

"I didn't say anything," you point out, tilting your head 12 degrees in genuine confusion.

"Didn't have to." His eyes narrow by approximately 0.3 centimeters.

"Then what are you saying no to?"

"You know what."

"I genuinely don't." Your brow furrows, creating a 0.4-centimeter depression between your eyebrows. "It seems statistically improbable that you could accurately predict my thought patterns without established baseline data."

His mouth twitches—suppressed micro-expression, 0.7 seconds in duration.

"Were you or were you not thinking of using a little detour to satiate that insane curiosity of yours?"

Your silence registers at approximately 3.2 seconds. 

Longer than optimal for casual conversation.

"Exactly. No."

"I find your anticipation of my mental processes presumptuous," you counter, eyes returning to the reality anchor when the uppermost floors shimmer slightly—a temporal distortion effect that standard human vision would filter out. “And I do not appreciate it.”

"Get used to it," he says, resuming walking at a pace 7% faster than before. "You will."

You match his stride automatically.

"The probability of you developing accurate predictive models of my cognitive patterns seems—”

"Already developed," he interrupts, checking his modified Chrono-Sync Watch with a quick glance. "Seventh time you've tried to investigate a reality anchor. Always the same pattern."

This statement contains multiple logical inconsistencies. You've never attempted to investigate a reality anchor before. Your security clearance wouldn't permit it.

Yet your temporal analysis centers don't flag it as a falsehood.

"How would you know that?" 

He doesn't answer, instead gesturing toward the adjacent tower—a colossal structure of similar materials that rises at least 100 floors into the artificially blue sky.

"Travel spot is somewhere in the upper levels," he says, eyes scanning the building's facade. "We need to access it through the anchor first."

You process this information, calculating optimal routes.

"Why can't you pinpoint the exact location?" you ask, question emerging from your analytical centers. "Your previous statements implied familiarity with the network."

His jaw tightens by approximately 4.3 newtons.

"Travel spots shift position by 0.7 meters every 73 minutes," he explains, voice roughened. "Quantum uncertainty principle applied to spatial coordinates. Prevents CHRONOS from establishing fixed monitoring."

"That seems inefficient for a resistance network," you observe.

"That's the point." He checks his watch again—third time in 7.3 minutes. "Inefficiency creates unpredictability. CHRONOS systems are designed for pattern recognition."

You approach the base of the reality anchor, where a standard-looking entrance is monitored by temporal signature scanners disguised as decorative elements.

"How do we bypass security?" you ask, noting at least three visible monitoring devices and calculating a 94.7% probability of additional concealed systems.

"We don't," he says, reaching into his jacket and extracting what appears to be a standard CHRONOS identification card. "We walk in like we belong."

The card in his hand triggers your pattern recognition— holographic security features match authorized maintenance personnel credentials.

"Falsified identification carries a minimum penalty of 73 days in temporal isolation," you note automatically.

He almost smiles—left corner of his mouth lifting 0.2 centimeters.

"Only if you get caught."

He approaches the entrance with casual gait, and you follow—still processing the anchor's structure. 

The quantum equations rippling across its surface follow a pattern that suggests...

"I told you to stop analyzing," he murmurs, voice barely audible at 17 decibels. "Your temporal signature fluctuates when you're thinking too hard. Makes you detectable."

You attempt to modulate your thought patterns, an unusual exercise that creates a 0.3-second lag in your cognitive processing.

He swipes the identification card through the scanner, which responds with a soft tone at exactly 432 Hz—the standard confirmation frequency.

The interior of the reality anchor is even more fascinating than its exterior.

The lobby appears standard-neo-minimalist design, temporal-stabilized plants arranged at mathematically significant intervals—but your enhanced perception detects the subtle wrongness of the space.

The air pressure is precisely 0.7 kPa higher than standard atmospheric conditions. 

The lighting pulses at a frequency of 7 Hz, which is imperceptible to normal human vision but clearly designed to reinforce temporal compliance in visitors.

"Maintenance elevator is on the left," Agent Min says, guiding you with a subtle gesture. "Don't look at the central column."

Naturally, your eyes immediately flick toward the center of the lobby.

The sight momentarily overloads your visual processing. 

A column of pure temporal energy rises from floor to ceiling, contained within quantum-stabilized glass. The energy moves in patterns that defy standard physical laws—simultaneously flowing upward and downward, existing in multiple states… at once?

"I said don't look," he hisses, fingers closing around your wrist to redirect; not enough to cause discomfort.

"What is that?" you ask, unable to fully suppress your curiosity despite his warning.

"The anchor point," he says, voice tightening as he guides you toward the maintenance elevator. "Direct connection to the Master Clock. Looking at it too long causes temporal vertigo in most humans."

You save this information, filing it under high-priority data.

"And in non-humans?"

His steps falter—0.3-second hesitation.

"In Outliers," he corrects quietly, "it can trigger awakening."

The maintenance elevator requires another scan of his falsified credentials. 

As the doors close, enclosing you in a space of approximately 2.3 cubic meters, you notice the absence of standard temporal monitoring devices.

"Why aren't there cameras?" you ask, scanning the ceiling corners where monitoring equipment would typically be installed.

"Reality anchors generate too much temporal interference for standard surveillance," he explains, pressing the button for floor 30. "Creates blind spots in their system."

"That seems like a significant security vulnerability," you observe.

His mouth quirks again.

You don’t know why you’re starting to find the gesture attractive.

"Why do you think we're using it?"

The elevator ascends at precisely 3.7 meters per second, which you note is faster than standard civilian elevators but slower than executive transport. Your inner ear registers the acceleration, adjusting automatically.

"The travel spot," you begin, mind working through the problem. "You said it's in the upper levels of the adjacent tower. Why can't we access it directly?"

He leans against the elevator wall, posture relaxing by approximately 7%.

"Security protocols," he says. "The tower has standard monitoring. The anchor doesn't. We cross through the anchor's 30th floor-maintenance level, and then we use the connecting bridge to access the tower."

"And after that?"

"After that, we find the travel spot." He checks his watch again—fourth time in 12.7 minutes. "It should be somewhere between floors 90 and 97."

You calculate the search parameters.

"That's approximately 7,432 square meters of potential location space," you note. "Seems inefficient."

"I'll narrow it down once we're closer," he says. "My temporal sense can detect the quantum fluctuations at closer proximity."

The elevator slows as it approaches floor 30, and Agent Min straightens, resuming his alert posture.

"When we exit, walk like you're supposed to be here," he instructs. "Maintenance personnel check this level every 73 minutes. Current interval gives us approximately 47 minutes before the next sweep."

"Understood," you confirm, automatically adjusting your posture to match standard CHRONOS maintenance staff parameters—shoulders back, gaze forward, movements economic and purposeful.

The elevator doors open to reveal a stark corridor illuminated by temporal-stabilized lighting. 

Walls are lined with quantum-reinforced panels marked with mathematical equations that your pattern recognition identifies as temporal field calculations.

Agent Min steps out first, fluid and confident. 

You follow, checking every detail of this restricted environment that few civilians ever see.

"Don't touch anything," he warns, leading you down the corridor. "Some of these panels are directly connected to the temporal field generators."

You resist the urge to examine the equations more closely, focusing instead on maintaining the appropriate walking pace and posture.

"The connecting bridge is 23 meters ahead," he says, voice low. "Once we cross, we'll need to take the service stairs. The tower's elevators are monitored."

"Stairs?" you query, calculating the energy expenditure required to ascend approximately 60 floors. "That seems—"

"Necessary," he interrupts. "Unless you'd prefer to explain to CHRONOS why we're accessing restricted floors."

You concede the point with a slight nod.

15 degrees downward, 15 degrees upward.

As you walk, your mind continues processing the reality anchor's structure, the equations on the walls, the subtle vibration beneath your feet that suggests massive energy manipulation occurring somewhere below.

"You're thinking too loud again," Agent Min murmurs, not turning to look at you.

"That's not physically possible," you counter automatically.

"Your temporal signature disagrees," he says, tapping his temple with his index finger. "I can feel it fluctuating."

This statement contains another logical inconsistency. 

Standard humans cannot detect temporal signatures without specialized equipment.

Yet once again, your temporal analysis centers don't flag it as a falsehood.

"How—" you begin.

"Bridge is just ahead. Stay close."

But the bridge…

It’s not offline. It’s gone.  

You stare at the empty space where reinforced glass and temporal alloys should’ve formed a secure pathway. 

Only support beams remain, jagged edges still glowing from whatever energy weapon severed them.  

Agent Min’s eyebrows do something statistically improbable—contracting inward by 0.9 centimeters while the skin between them folds into three distinct creases. 

You’ve never seen his face execute this particular combination of micro-expressions before.  

“They altered this sector’s infrastructure,” he mutters, more to himself than you. 

His left hand twitches toward his Chrono-Sync Watch, aborting the movement halfway.  

You pivot toward the window, retinal sensors catching a faint outline-maintenance door, 3.2 meters left of the destroyed bridge. 

Beyond it: a sheer drop, then the adjacent tower’s western face. 

Your mind calculates the distance before your ethics committee can veto the idea.  

“We could jump.”  

He doesn’t immediately dismiss it. 

That’s how you know things are bad.  

“Distance?” he asks, joining you at the window.  

“14.7 meters horizontally, 3.3 meters vertical elevation differential.” You tap the glass, triggering a subconscious visualization overlay. “Structural analysis indicates the target building’s exterior has adequate grip points for—”  

“For me,” he interrupts. His breath fogs the glass near your fingertip. “Not for you.”  

You tilt your head, analyzing his profile. “You’re suggesting I remain here while you—”  

“I’m suggesting you stop suggesting suicide vectors.” His jaw works, a muscle ticking at 2.7-second intervals. “There’s another route. Has to be.”  

You let him pace—eight steps toward the elevator, twelve back—before interrupting.  

“Average human long jump record is 8.95 meters. My enhanced musculature could theoretically—”  

“Theoretically splatter across sixty floors of neo-Brutalist architecture.” 

You frown. “We’re only thirty floors up.”

“From the anchor,” he says. “The tower’s foundation sits two levels below base-grade. It drops into a full infrastructure pit—ventilation shafts, temporal gridwork, CHRONOS substation access. You fall here, you don’t just hit pavement. You keep falling.”

He gestures down through the glass.

“Sixty floors straight into the sector’s hollowed-out gut. Like getting thrown down a well lined with concrete and death.”

How does he even know all that?

But before you can let curiosity get the best of you again, he stops mid-stride, pinning you with that look again. The one that makes your internal processors skip. 

“But—”

“No.”  

You frown, press your palm against the window, feeling the tower’s vibration through the glass. 

“Then you go first. Anchor a line. I’ll follow.”  

He’s already shaking his head. “Temporal energy doesn’t work like that. Can’t manifest solid constructs without—”  

“Without triggering every sensor in the sector. Yes.” You turn from the window, meeting his glare. “So, again, that leaves one option.”  

For three seconds, the only sound is the reality anchor’s low-frequency hum. 

Then he swears—a creative combination of English and technical jargon your language centers can’t fully parse.  

The maintenance door handle feels colder than ambient temperature suggests. You’re calculating wind shear variables when his gloved hand covers yours, halting the motion.  

“If we do this,” he says, voice stripped to its raw edges, “you follow my instructions exactly. No deviations. No calculations mid-air. Understood?”  

You nod, the movement precise. 

15 degrees down, 15 up.  

He releases your hand to grip both shoulders instead, leaning in until his mint-and-ozone scent overrides the tower’s sterile air. 

“When you jump, you don’t think about falling. You don’t think about distance. You think about needing to be on that ledge. Your entire existence becomes that single purpose.”  

You open your mouth to request clarification on biomechanical feasibility—

“No.” His fingers tighten. “No questions. Your body knows how. You just have to stop overloading it with doubt.”  

The paradox registers immediately. 

“But without understanding the mechanism—”  

“Understanding comes later.” His thumb presses into your collarbone, exactly where that freckle hides beneath synthetic fabric. “Surviving comes now.”  

You glance past him to the abyss. 

He opens the door.

The wind’s howling at 37 knots now, whipping hair into your eyes. 

“Probability of success?”  

He doesn’t sugarcoat it. “Sixty-eight percent. If you focus.”  

“And if I don’t?”  

For the first time, his face contracts—a fractional widening of pupils, a minuscule catch in his breathing rhythm.  

“Then I’ll reset time until you do.”  

The words register as raw, hovering between you for a few seconds before he finally turns toward the void.  

You watch him leap—no hesitation, no visible calculation. Just pure intent translated into motion.  

He makes it look effortless.  

And then it’s your turn.  

The wind screams. The city sprawls below, a mosaic of blue-lit grids and shadow. 

You psych up the variables: air density, potential updrafts, the exact angle of your target ledge.  

Then you stop thinking.  

You launch, and the world narrows to wind and numbers.

For a moment, there’s no sound, no up or down. Just velocity and the impossible distance between you and the ledge. 

Adrenaline floods your system, not sharp but heavy, like a stone pressed to your sternum. 

You’re aware of your own mass, the drag of your body through air, the way your limbs cut a path no algorithm could ever predict.

Agent Min is already there, turned halfway, eyes tracking your arc. His mouth moves—maybe a warning, maybe your ID number—but the rush drowns it out. 

You think of the other side. You need to reach the other side. 

The imperative is simple, absolute. 

Not crossing means plummeting. Not crossing means becoming a data point in a CHRONOS incident report.

You make the mistake of looking down.

Thirty floors up, the city is abstract. 

Cars, people, light—all reduced to static. 

The void is real. 

You feel it in your teeth, in the way your stomach seems to invert, in the cold sweat prickling your palms. 

Your calculations fracture. The ground is coming up fast.

You look up. 

Agent Min’s silhouette sharpens against the skyline, mint hair a streak of color in the blue haze. His eyes widen—first time you’ve seen that particular fear. 

He’s reaching for something, or maybe just reaching.

You’re falling.

The world tilts. Air roars past your ears. Time dilates, then contracts. 

You’re aware of every heartbeat, every useless attempt your muscles make to grab onto empty space. 

The ledge is gone. The city is too close.

Then—discontinuity.

You’re upright. Feet planted on solid ground. Breath caught in your throat. 

Your hands move before your mind does, fingers flexing, checking for fractures, for blood, for any sign of what should have happened. 

Everything responds. No pain. No missing time.

Agent Min spins, posture radiating pure stress and panic. 

His face is a study in shock—mouth open, eyes blown wide, like he’s seen a ghost.

You blink. He blinks.

Your heart is still racing, but your body is whole. You’re here. You made it. The numbers don’t add up, but the outcome is undeniable.

You’re alive.

Agent Min’s gaze darts between your left and right pupils, rapid assessment mode engaged, as if he’s scanning for damage or data.

“Damn it, Noma,” he mutters, voice rough and frayed at the edges. “Holy hell.”

His hands clench into tight fists at his sides, knuckles whitening under the strain. 

You note the micro-tremor in his fingers-2.3 hertz, consistent with suppressed impulse. 

He exhales, a controlled release of 1.7 liters of air over 3.1 seconds, then drags a gloved hand down his face, smearing frustration across his features.

Before you can catalog further, a mechanical whine pierces the air-high-pitched, 17 kHz, consistent with a CHRONOS surveillance drone. 

Agent Min’s posture shifts instantly, weight forward, arm half-raised to shield or shove you aside. 

“Watch—”

You tilt your head back, a reflex, not a decision. 

There’s a sound—metal crumpling, like foil under pressure—and the drone’s frame twists mid-flight, folding inward at impossible angles. 

It drops, a lifeless heap, 4.7 meters below the ledge.

He stares at the wreckage, then at you. 

“Well. Alright then.”

Your mind is already running diagnostics. 

“Did I cause that?”

He lets out a long, resigned breath, shoulders dropping by 1.2 centimeters. 

“Yeah. You did.”

“How?” 

Your spatial awareness logs are blank—no memory of intent, no record of action. Yet the evidence is undeniable: twisted alloy, a perfect collapse. 

You flex your fingers again, searching for a trigger, a mechanism. “Was that a manipulation of spatial configuration? A localized distortion field? I need parameters.”

He steps closer, mint and ozone cutting through the sterile tower air, but his expression is all weariness. 

“We gotta move, Noma. Now.”

You plant your feet, shifting your center of gravity to counter his subtle pull. 

“Explanation required. Did I alter the drone’s physical positioning? Compress its structural integrity via spatial warp? Or—”

He makes a sound full of resignation. 

“Look, Noma, I l—”

He cuts himself off, jaw snapping shut with an audible click. 

A recalibration. 

“I get it. I do. But we don’t have the luxury of a debrief right now.”

Your brow creases, a 0.5-centimeter furrow. 

“Understanding the mechanics of an undocumented ability is not a luxury. It’s a necessity. If I can replicate—”

“You will,” he interrupts, voice low but firm, carrying a weight you can’t parse. “Just not here. Not with drones sniffing our temporal signatures.”

You glance at the wreckage again, mind spinning through theoretical models. 

No data, no precedent. 

Just a gut—deep certainty that you reshaped reality without conscious input. 

The implications are staggering. 

If you can do this instinctively, what else lies dormant? What are the limits? Energy costs? Detection risks?

He’s watching you, reading the cascade of queries behind your eyes. “I know that look. And I’m telling you to shelve it. We’re exposed.”

“Five seconds,” you negotiate, already cross-referencing the drone’s design against known CHRONOS tech. “If I can isolate the method—”

“Zero seconds.” He grumbles, fingers wrapping around your wrist and pulling you behind him. “Survival first. Science later.”

Your logic centers protest, but the risk assessment aligns with his. 

You exhale—petulant, probably, but you do not care. 

Because whatever you did, it’s a piece of the puzzle. A fragment of who—or what—you are. 

And you’ll dissect it, variable by variable, until the equation balances.

You don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath until the air shifts.

Up here, it tastes different. 

Thinner. Filtered, maybe. Like someone cleaned it too well, stripped it of anything real. 

The ground is nothing but blur—washed out in streaks of artificial white and synthetic blue haze. Designed to erase depth perception. To flatten the concept of below into something distant. Forgettable.

CHRONOS engineering at its finest.

You step closer to the edge, boots scraping faintly against the metal grating. 

The city is unrecognizable from this height. Not a city at all, just layers of grids and light. Soft pulses of movement that don’t quite feel alive. No wind reaches this far up, only some sort of hum—low, steady, mechanical. 

You wonder if the workers stationed here can still hear it when they sleep. 

If they ever sleep.

You’ve read the reports. Rotating shifts, twenty-hour cycles, neural stimulants to bypass natural fatigue responses. Cognitive degradation flagged as acceptable collateral. Worker retention rate at 37.2%.

In other words: not sustainable.

But great pay.

You press your fingertips lightly to the edge of the railing. Cool to the touch. Grounding, somehow. 

You scan the skyline, calculating angles, distances, escape vectors you’re not sure you’ll ever need but catalog anyway. 

That’s what you do. 

What you’ve always done.

But the sky pulls at you. Quietly. Persistently.

Dark velvet stretched wide above your head, broken only by the scatter of stars. 

You tip your chin back, gaze locking onto a thousand silent points of light, each one burning impossibly far away. 

Data points you can never reach, but something in you reaches anyway.

And there—framed in that endless black—

The moon.

Not in any model you’ve ever studied. Not filtered through facility-grade optics or distorted by atmospheric interference. 

Just… suspended. Brilliant. Whole. A perfect sphere painted in shades of silver and shadow. 

It’s too much, too big. 

Your breath catches again, chest tightening like something fragile just cracked open inside you.

It escapes before you can stop it. A single word.

“Beautiful.”

Soft. Uncalculated.

You freeze the second it leaves your mouth, pulse stuttering in your throat. 

You didn’t mean to say that. 

You never mean to say things like that.

A breath stirs the space beside you. Not yours.

“…Yeah.”

Quiet. Barely more than air.

“…Beautiful.”

The confirmation scrapes against something unsteady inside you. 

You shouldn’t turn. You know you shouldn’t. But your gaze shifts anyway, slow and reluctant, as if giving your body too much permission might undo you entirely.

He’s already watching.

Agent Min.

Not the skyline. Not the moon. Not the impossible stretch of space yawning above you.

You.

And he doesn’t look away.

For a suspended second, nobody speaks. 

Then his eyes flicker gold. 

It's the seventeenth time you've seen it happen. Seventeenth. You've been keeping count, tracking when it occurs, searching for the pattern. Not random—nothing about him is ever random—but the trigger remains frustratingly elusive. 

Is it emotional response? Memory access? Some kind of power regulation failing?

You step closer until you can detect the subtle heat radiating from him—always running warmer than human baseline. 

His pupils track your movement, dilating slightly.

A measurable response.

His fingers tighten on the railing, leather creaking under pressure. You note this detail, file it away. 

He stares at you.

You stare back.

"I've been meaning to ask," you say, keeping your voice even despite the strange pressure building under your sternum—like something's trying to expand beyond the confines of your ribcage.

His throat shifts as he swallows. Blinks once.

“Ask what?"

"Your eyes." 

His gaze slides away, avoiding yours for exactly 3.2 seconds before returning. Avoidance behavior. 

Why?

The silence grows heavy between you. 

If you were better at social interactions, you might understand why he doesn't respond. 

But you're not, so you elaborate.

"I have noticed they appear to shine at certain moments." You tilt your head slightly. "The same color as your tendrils. But I can't seem to figure out the why."

His focus drops briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes. Quick. Almost imperceptible. But you catch it—and the flash of gold that accompanies it. 

Interesting correlation.

He looks at your lips = eyes change.

Cause and effect?

Sexual response?

Your gloved hand lifts toward his face, hovering in the space between you. 

Not touching. Not yet. Just... there. Testing a hypothesis.

"Noma," he says, your nickname rough around the edges. "That's... not advisable."

Why does that name feel so familiar when he says it?

"Why not?" The tilt of your head increases, curiosity sharpening. "I'm collecting data. Your ocular anomalies appear to correlate with specific emotional states."

You watch his pupils expand, blackness swallowing the iris except for that gleaming ring of gold.

"It's not a lab experiment." His jaw clenches, muscle rippling beneath skin.

He's restraining something. But what?

"Everything is data," you counter, your hand still suspended between you. "The gold appears when proximity decreases between us. When conversation shifts toward personal topics. When you look at my—"

You stop yourself. Recalibrate.

"When certain visual attention patterns emerge."

His breath changes rhythm—slower in, quicker out. You track this shift automatically. 

"And what conclusion have you reached based on these... observations?" His voice has become unsteady. 

In it, a roughness that wasn't there before.

The scientist in you needs to categorize it.

The rest of you just wants to hear more of it.

"Insufficient evidence for definitive conclusion." Your palm drifts closer to his face. "Hence the need for additional testing parameters."

"Agent." Warning laces his tone, but you note the contradiction in his body language—the slight forward tilt, the micromovement toward your hand. 

Your watch beeps softly. Temporal variance: 0.87%.

Why does your temporal signature fluctuate around him?

Why does your body recognize patterns your brain can't access?

"The gloves provide sufficient barrier protection for initial contact testing," you say, though in the back of your mind, you know that's not why you want to touch him. Not really. 

"It's not about the barrier," he says, still not pulling away.

"Then what is it about?" 

His eyes lock with yours, longer than his usual pattern. Something shifts in them—not just the color, but something deeper. 

Like barriers cracking.

"It's about..." He pauses, searching for words. "Restraint."

"Explain." 

Not a request. A need.

One corner of his mouth quirks up. "Demanding tonight, aren't we?"

Your hand inches closer. 

"Is that why your eyes change?" You push for answers, always pushing. "A failure of restraint?"

A sound catches in his throat, something between amusement and pain.

"They change when I'm..." He stops, recalibrates. "When I feel things too strongly."

"What things?"

"Anger. Fear." 

His gaze drops to your mouth again, longer this time. 

"Want."

The word settles into your chest, makes a home there. 

Your lungs feel suddenly insufficient, breath coming shorter despite oxygen levels remaining constant.

"And now?" Your voice sounds different to your own ears, pitched lower. "Which is it?"

His hand leaves the railing, wraps around your wrist. Not pushing away—just holding. Containing—touch gentle but unmistakably firm.

"What do you think, Noma?" Your nickname sounds different this time. 

Softer. Almost tender.

Why does it affect you when he says it like that?

You mentally catalog his physiological responses: dilated pupils, elevated respiration, muscle tension patterns indicating both arousal and resistance.

"Want," you determine with absolute certainty.

His eyes flare gold again—holding this time, not flickering away.

"Good analysis," he murmurs, still not releasing your wrist.

Your pulse thrums against his fingers. You can feel it jumping, betraying things your clinical mind refuses to name.

"May I?" Your gloved hand moves closer to his cheek.

Why are you pushing this? Why does it matter?

This isn't efficient data collection.

This is... something else.

His throat works as he swallows. 

"We shouldn't," he says, strain evident in every syllable. "That's my professional assessment."

"We're both still wearing gloves," you argue, logic centers frantically constructing justifications. "Barrier intact. Risk parameters acceptable."

"You know it’s not about statistics." His grip loosens slightly. 

He doesn't elaborate. 

Something complicated moves across his face, too fast for even your pattern recognition to decipher.

You need to know. You need to understand.

Why him? Why you? Why now?

Decision made, your hand pushes forward, breaking through his weakened resistance. Your gloved fingers make contact with his cheek.

And—

Oh.

The sensation defies categorization. Despite the barrier of fabric between you, something passes through the touch. 

A current.

An echo. 

Something your scientific vocabulary can't properly name.

His eyes close. He looks suddenly vulnerable in a way that makes your chest ache.

"Your temporal signature," he says quietly, "it just... aligned with mine."

Your eyes drop to your watch. Temporal variance: 0.00%.

Perfect stabilization.

That's impossible.

There's no precedent for this in any temporal physics model.

"How?" The question slips out, unfiltered and raw.

His eyes open slowly, gold filling them completely now. 

Steady and bright and impossibly beautiful.

Beautiful.

"Because," he says simply, "we're designed to fit."

You should process this information. Should file it away with all your other observations about Agent Min and his inexplicable abilities. Should create new theoretical models to explain the perfect temporal alignment currently registered on your watch.

Instead, you just... feel. 

The warmth beneath your fingers. The impossible gold of his eyes. The way your body seems to recognize him on some cellular level your mind can't access.

‘We're designed to fit.’

The implications of that statement should terrify you. 

Instead, they feel like coming home.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

You're staring into his golden eyes when a low whizz cuts through the air. 

Your auditory processing centers register the sound at approximately 17kHz—just within human hearing range, but with a distinct mechanical oscillation pattern consistent with CHRONOS drone propulsion systems.

Before your brain can fully process the threat, Agent Min's head whips around—reaction time approximately 0.3 seconds faster than optimal human baseline. His pupils contract, gold flares brighter, mouth opens to form what appears to be a warning.

Too late.

Something hits you from behind—force vector approximately 47 newtons, angle of impact suggesting deliberate trajectory. The pressure against your back lasts precisely 0.7 seconds.

Then nothing.

Air rushes past your ears at increasing velocity. Your inner ear fluid shifts dramatically, sending conflicting data to your vestibular system. Gravity reasserts its dominance with brutal efficiency.

You're falling.

Again.

Acceleration rate: 9.8 meters per second squared.

Terminal velocity approaching.

Probability of survival without intervention: 0.003%.

The analytical part of your brain calculates these figures automatically while your body experiences what can only be termed as terror—heart rate spike of 73%, adrenal glands flooding your system with cortisol and epinephrine.

"NOMA!"

The sound tears through the rushing air—raw, primal, carrying a frequency range your pattern recognition flags as desperate. 

You twist mid-air, arms instinctively moving to shield your head from inevitable impact.

That's when you see him.

Agent Min. 

Yoongi. 

Falling just above you, body positioned in a perfect diving form that creates maximum aerodynamic efficiency. 

His trajectory indicates purposeful action.

He jumped after you.

He's saying something—lips moving rapidly—but the blood rushing in your ears creates a noise barrier approximately 84 decibels. His words are lost in the chaos of your fall.

Your abilities.

The thought crystallizes with sudden clarity. 

You teleported earlier. Spatial manipulation. If you could replicate that effect now—

Focus. But how? What's the trigger mechanism?

Your thoughts scatter across multiple processing centers, frantically searching for the neural pathway that activated during the previous incident. 

Agent Min never explained the mechanics.

He should have.

You’ll make sure to have that conversation later.

If you survive, that is.

Golden tendrils emerge from his outstretched fingers, extending at velocities that defy standard temporal physics. They reach toward you, pushing against the air itself as if trying to accelerate his fall beyond normal gravitational parameters.

You struggle to replicate whatever neural pathway activated before. Nothing happens. Your fingers flex, your mind focuses, your desperation builds.

What triggered it before? Survival instinct? Specific neural configuration? Direct threat vector?

The golden traces stretch further, now mere centimeters from your reaching hands. Their movement creates visible distortion in the air, like reality itself warping around their influence.

Then—

Something shifts within you. 

Not gradual. 

Not building.

A sudden quantum change in your neural configuration. 

Your cognitive perception splits for exactly 0.7 seconds—awareness operating in multiple states simultaneously.

Tendrils emerge from your own fingertips.

Golden, like his, but fundamentally different. Where his flow like liquid, yours crystallize like faceted gold. Where his move in clockwise patterns, yours rotate counterclockwise.

Opposing rotations. 

Perfect complements.

They reach out—not by your conscious command but through some deeper programming—and intertwine with his traces. The contact creates an immediate energy transfer that registers across your neural receptors as both hot and cold simultaneously.

In the space between one heartbeat and the next, the world blurs. Spatial coordinates shift in ways that violate every physical law you've ever studied. Distance compresses, then expands.

You're in his arms.

The transition happens without intermediate steps—one moment falling separately, the next secured against his chest, his left arm wrapped around your waist with exactly 82% more pressure than necessary for stability.

You register multiple data points simultaneously:

- His elevated body temperature: 39.1°C

- His heartbeat: 172 BPM

- His breathing: rapid, shallow, 24 respirations per minute

- His face: positioned 3.4 centimeters from your cheek, over your shoulder

So close. One small movement would bring skin against skin. 

Your temporal readings spike at the mere possibility.

Before you can process this new configuration, another force vector impacts you both—lateral trajectory, approximately 93 newtons. 

Not from Agent Min. 

External source.

Someone else.

Your coupled bodies are propelled sideways at high velocity. 

The world blurs again as you and Agent Min, still locked together, phase through what appears to be solid matter. 

Glass. Concrete. Steel. 

Your molecular structure should be encountering significant resistance, yet moves through these barriers like they're nothing more than projections.

Quantum tunneling? Spatial displacement? Molecular phasing? Your scientific vocabulary struggles to categorize the experience.

Impact comes suddenly—both of you hitting a solid surface at approximately 37% of terminal velocity. The force disperses through your skeletal structure, joints absorbing kinetic energy at efficiency rates that exceed normal human parameters.

You roll, momentum carrying you across hard flooring. Pain signals to your central nervous system—data indicating tissue stress but not structural failure.

When you finally stop, every bone in your body aches with the signature of controlled landing trauma. 

Not optimal, certainly not comfortable, but survivable.

Survivable by design.

You inhale sharply—2.1 liters of air in 0.8 seconds—and your eyes search frantically for Agent Min.

Where is he? Was he injured in the landing? Who pushed you? How did you phase through solid matter?

Your golden tendrils have vanished, leaving only lingering warmth on your fingertips where they emerged. 

Your watch beeps an unfamiliar pattern: Temporal-spatial variance detected. Recalibration required.

You blink rapidly, visual processing recalibrating as you scan the environment. 

Sleek walls. Polished concrete floor. 

Location unknown. Sector indeterminate.

Blood drips onto your hand. Your nose is bleeding again—heavier flow than before. Your fingertips come away stained crimson. Your skull throbs in pulses, each one making your vision blur at the edges.

"For fuck's sake, Jungkook, you almost killed them!" 

Taehyung's voice cuts through the fog in your head, sharp with that specific tension you've cataloged as his version of concern.

"I was literally on the clock before they became sidewalk art!" Jungkook shoots back, hands gesturing wildly. "Next time maybe give me more than a seven-second window!"

"Seven seconds is generous considering—"

"Generous?" Jungkook's voice cracks slightly. "Try mimicking two completely different abilities at once! My brain feels like it's been microwaved!"

The argument washes over you in waves as you press your palm to your forehead. 

The pain isn't unbearable, just... insistent. 

Demanding attention like everything else in this mess of a situation.

Your eyes find Agent Min, seated on the floor several meters away. His right hand grips his left shoulder, features tightening in a microexpression of pain he's clearly trying to suppress. 

The joint looks wrong—angled slightly off anatomical baseline.

"We don't have fucking time." His voice slices through the bickering, rough-edged and final. "They're onto us."

Jungkook whips around. 

“No shit? Why do you think we had to pull this stunt?" His hand sweeps through the air. "We couldn't even reach you with Taehyung's interfacing—you were completely out of range! Thank god Y/N's abilities are something else entirely."

Agent Min's eyes narrow, focusing on Jungkook with an intensity that carries clear warning. 

Not a word. 

Just that look. 

The one that stops conversations dead.

Jungkook registers it immediately, jaw snapping shut, body language shifting from confrontational to compliant in under a second.

Interesting.

They're hiding something about your abilities.

What exactly don't they want you to know?

Taehyung clears his throat—a sound designed to redirect attention. 

He points behind him toward what can only be described as a tear in reality itself. A circular formation pulsing with quantum uncertainty, its borders shifting between states of matter in ways that shouldn't be physically possible.

"What about base first, arguing later?" he suggests, voice calm in that way people get when they're trying too hard.

You wipe blood from your upper lip. Your eyes find Agent Min again, seeking his reaction. His gaze meets yours briefly before sliding away, gold still lingering at the edges of his irises.

Why won't he look at you properly?

What does he know that you don't?

"What is that?" The question falls from your lips before you can stop it, analytical systems demanding data despite everything else.

"Travel spot. Portal to headquarters," Taehyung answers, shoulders relaxing slightly at the subject change.

You shift your weight, preparing to stand, when your temporal readings spike without warning. The numbers flash red: 3.17%

That's not good.

"Stabilize her," Agent Min orders, voice clipped. "Temporal cascade imminent."

Jungkook moves fast, crossing the space between you in under a second. 

His fingers press against your temporal monitor, executing adjustments with practiced precision.

"Breathing," he instructs, tone sliding into something steadier. "Seven in, seven out. Match me."

The contact triggers something—a flash of memory that doesn't quite feel like yours:

Different hands.

Same words.

"Breathe with me, Noma. Focus."

Pain spikes behind your eyes as incompatible memory patterns try to align. The room tilts slightly.

"What happened up there?" Taehyung asks, attention on Agent Min.

"Temporal ambush," he answers, face tight. "Drones masked behind a reality field."

Taehyung's eyebrows rise. "That's still in R&D."

"Apparently not anymore." Agent Min pushes himself upright, grimacing as his shoulder shifts. "They're adapting faster this time."

This time.

As opposed to when?

"Your tendrils connected with his," Jungkook says quietly as he monitors your readings. "That's what stabilized you both mid-fall."

You blink, memory fragments of golden light intertwining in freefall. 

The way your body reacted without conscious direction. 

The impossibility of the physics involved.

Agent Min moves toward the portal with measured steps. "We need to move before CHRONOS tracks the spatial distortion."

"She deserves to know what she can do," Jungkook says, voice low but firm.

Agent Min stops, spine stiffening visibly. 

“When she's ready."

"And who decides that?" Jungkook challenges, though his hands remain gentle on your monitor. "You?"

The tension between them feels old somehow. Well-worn. Like terrain they've crossed many times.

"Portal stability dropping," Taehyung interrupts, hand cutting through the air. "Either we go now, or we're stuck here."

Agent Min's eyes flick between you and the portal, calculations running visible behind his eyes.

“We are leaving.” He simply mutters, final.

“Of course we are.” Jungkook replies with a hint of something almost like resignation.

Your temporal readings begin to stabilize: 1.47% and decreasing.

Jungkook's hands withdraw from your monitor. "Stable enough for transit."

Agent Min approaches, movements careful despite his obvious discomfort. His right hand extends toward you, gloved palm up.

"The first transit is... disorienting," he says, voice dropping to something softer. "Holding on helps with the spatial realignment."

You stare at his outstretched hand. The leather creases in familiar patterns. The angle of his fingers seems to match your palm perfectly.

‘We're designed to fit.’

His earlier words echo through your mind, connecting dots you didn't even know existed.

"Noma," he says quietly. "Trust me on this one."

The nickname bypasses all your analytical systems, triggering responses you can't explain or quantify.

Your hand moves before your brain fully catches up, fingers sliding into his with strange, impossible familiarity.

Your watch beeps once more: Temporal variance: 0.73%.

Stabilizing.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

“Let’s go.”

goal: 275 notes

next | index

— taglist

@cannotalwaysbenight @taevanille @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @ktownshizzle @yoongiiuu93 @billy-jeans23 @annyeongbitch7 @mar-lo-pap @hobis-sprite0218 @mikrokookiex @minniejim @curse-of-art @cristy-101 @mellyyyyyyx

© jungkoode 2025

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[hvacfucker]

Random Hector hcs before Date Everything goes live! Includes spoilers from his hate ending.

★ My ask box is open to any Hector simps out there ∠( ᐛ 」∠)＿

⚠️ nsfw >>>> mdni ⚠️

Hector's so funny because he talks mad game from the vent. But when he reveals himself face-to-face, his voice is octaves higher and his posture uneven. Seeing him like that, it becomes apparent he's emboldened by the layer of anonymity separating us from him, left exposed without it. Basically, he's super shy and yearns from the shadows, a hopelessly romantic little freak.

So I've imagined him as the type of lover who's crazy good at sexting. Like really, really good. (He's had plenty of time to fantasize and refine what all it is he'd like to do to his crush.) And don't even mention how steamy those phone-sex calls get. Hector can fully channel his thoughts and desires behind the safety of a screen as there's no direct attention or pressure on him to deliver.

Get him away from all that though? He's a goddamn mess. Like, wdym he has to do those things he said he would?? Him doing that, and them touching him how? He laughs nervously, unable to meet his lover's gaze as he fiddles with his thumbs. Did he really say all that? And if his lover holds him accountable to those lewd promises, all that confidence falls out from underneath him. Not that he isn't willing, but he needs some reassurance to get there.

I mean it makes sense. After all, an HVAC system is best made when we don't even know it's even there. Hector's insecurities regarding his appearance are direct translation from his design founded in function, not aesthetics. No one likes to see duct-work, insulation tubes, or panels of metal marring their home's cozy vibe. So the news his lover wants to enjoy him physically? It's completely startling. Terrifying, even.

As a result, he's solely focused on how to best pleasure his lover, refusing any one-sided advances aimed at him.

Can we talk about how good he'd be with his hands? Now I know his emoting via hand gestures is visual shorthand for facial expressions we can't see. But I'd like to think he's pretty comfortable about his hands, and let me dream he has big ones for my own selfish reasons, alright? (lowkey though I suspect he's a short king.)

And if you thought he was good with his hands, then brace yourself for his head-game. He loves being told what feels best when he's going down on his partner, his tongue working them in the exact way they instruct, and he responds well to this structure. It gives Hector a baseline to build himself from and a safe space to test out having them at his whim, despite how it might seem they're in control.

Every breathy sigh and twist of their hands in his hair? He's doing that to them. He's curating the back-arching, toe-curling pleasure that's wracking their body, maestro to those euphonious moans of his name. It's the gratification he needs after years spent pining for his lover. He drinks them up like it's for survival, continuing to stimulate them long after release, not only because he relishes the teasing, but because he doesn't want it to be over yet.

Now, if they wanted to turn the tables and express their gratitude? He's so polite, insisting they really don't have to, that he doesn't want them to feel obliged— His head rolls back, clumsy disclaimers cut short when heat envelopes that wanting part of him. He seethes an unintelligible sibilance. Never in his wildest reveries did he think they'd be doing this for him. Hector's speechless and falls apart under his partner's care.

When he's finally able to collect himself and look down at them, his heart stops. He can't take the way their lips wrap round his length, their depravity, such lust-glazed eyes hypnotizing him, glimmering with a wicked desire he thought only he was capable of. To think they wanted him this badly? He's feeling small all over again.

I feel like he'd be so emotional afterwards too. Like he's the king of post-coital cuddles and aftercare. He's content to lay there with his lover in his arms, enjoying the sound of their breathing and the warmth of their heartbeat. All he's ever wanted is to stroke their head as they relax into his chest, just like he'd daydream about.

Ugh, I can't wait for this game to drop so I can write more for our favorite freaky ass vent! And who knows, maybe these hcs are way off base. I wouldn't complain about Hector pleasantly surprising us with a bit more confidence, or with some other quality we haven't had a chance to see yet.

[nectar-cellar]

Downtown Roles Mod Tutorial - TS3 - Mature Gameplay Ideas

NSFW 18+ mature content / a long read   

TLDR: this is a compilation/recommendation list of mods, a tutorial on how to set up NPCs, and how to tie it all together to add some mature gameplay to your save. 😈

Misukisu/Virtual Artisan had a “Downtown Roles” mod that sadly does not work anymore for the latest versions of TS3. Her mod basically allowed players to add role sims to community lots so your sims could have more NPCs to interact with, making the lots feel more alive in a mature "downtown" sort of way.

I was inspired by her mod and I want to share how you can recreate and expand her mod’s functions with Nraas Register and Arsil’s Custom Generic Role mod. Some players might already know how these mods work, but it was a new discovery for me. I didn’t know how useful role sims could be! It got the gears in my dirty mind turning.

The main purpose of this mod list/tutorial: to add role sims to community lots for your main sims to interact with, while they’re out on the town. These will be sims outside of your household. Their main “job” is to hang out at the lot. You can let the game generate new sims to fill these roles, or assign existing sims in the town to fill the roles.

Examples of role sims you can create: 

A regular patron at a dive bar for your sim to befriend or make enemies with.

A sexy single sim at a beach, gym, pool, bar or club for your sim to mingle and hook up with. 

An escort at a brothel for your sim to woohoo with (Passion mod). 

A client for your sim to sell drugs/weapons to (MonocoDoll Vile Ventures mod and Arms Dealing mod) - I have not tested this but in theory it should work. 

You can add multiple role sims on each lot. You could have a number of partygoers on a club lot/a number of escorts on a brothel lot/a number of mobsters or criminals on a warehouse lot who will always be there when your sim visits.

Why role sims?

Townies are unpredictable - you never know which lot they’ll show up on, and how long they’ll stay. Role sims will consistently be there as the supporting characters in your main sim’s story. 

Having consistent NPCs at certain locations around town can help with story-driven gameplay scenarios.

You can move a household of your own sims into town and assign them to fill various roles. See pretty NPCs around town!

If you let the game generate new sims for the roles, then it saves you the hassle of setting up new households yourself. You can always edit them later in CAS.

Limitations: 

According to Arsil, it seems like sims who are already employed (such as most townies) will be removed from their jobs if they are assigned to be role sims. So I would avoid using any employed townies for this unless you are ok with that. Use unemployed residents instead.

I believe the role sim cannot leave the lot during the designated work hours. Your sim cannot form a group with them and go to another venue. However, you can invite the sim over or hang out afterwards from the relationship panel.

Mods Needed:

Nraas Master Controller + Integration Module

Nraas Register

Arsil‘s Custom Generic Role mod (both the floor marker and the desk)

Passion (if you want your sim to be able to have sex with the role sims on the lot or have the role sims dance on the stripper pole) 

MonocoDoll’s Vile Ventures mod (if you want to create NPC clients for your sim to sell to) 

MonocoDoll’s Arms Dealing mod (if you want to create NPC clients for your sim to sell to) 

How to Set Up: 

Step 1: Install the mods listed above. Then, open the save file you want to add some downtown sleaze to. 

Step 2: Find a community lot you want to add role sims to. This could be a bar, nightclub, brothel/motel/strip club, a run-down warehouse or block of buildings, casino, etc. I have downloaded many lots from Flora2 at ModtheSims and @simsmidgen here on Tumblr that fit the gritty urban vibe.  

Step 3: Enter Build/Buy mode. You can do this from Live mode. 

Press Ctrl + Shift + C, enter this cheat: testingcheatsenabled true 

Press the Shift key and click on the ground of the community lot. 

Click on “Build on this lot”. 

You can also enter Edit Town mode to renovate the community lot. 

Step 4: Place Arsil’s Custom Generic Role floor marker or desk on the lot. Place one for each role sim you want to create. They are located in Build Mode -> Community Objects -> Misc. If the desk looks out of place, use the floor marker instead. 

Step 5: In Live mode, click on the object -> Settings to set:

The name of the role (clubgoer/stripper/escort/mobster/etc.) 

The “work” hours the sim will be on the lot for 

The days off 

The motives to freeze or not (I recommend freezing all the motives to avoid interactions being interrupted/sims complaining due to low motives) 

If the sim you want to assign to the role already lives in town, click on the object -> Nraas -> Register -> Select -> Choose criteria -> select the sim from the list. I would avoid choosing any employed townies as they may lose their job when switching to this role. Choose unemployed residents to avoid conflicts.

Remove assigned roles: click on the object to remove the sim from the role.

Step 6: In Live mode, click on City Hall -> Nraas -> Register

Allow immigration: choose whether you want new sims to be moved into town to take the roles (enable this if you want the game to generate new sims for the roles) 

Allow immigration = False: if you set this option to false, then a new option called "Find Empty Roles" should appear. You can then assign any sim to the role object you placed, from City Hall.

Allow resident assignment: choose whether you want existing unemployed townies to be randomly assigned to fill the roles (I recommend to disable this. I had Buster Clavell show up to work at my strip club. NO!)

Pay per hour: I'm not sure how to adjust the pay for each custom role but you can just leave it at the default or change it globally

Remove roles: click on the object to remove the sim from the role, or click on City Hall -> Nraas -> Register -> Global Roles -> Remove by sim

Step 7: In Live mode, give the game some time to generate the role sims. Visit the community lot and have a look at your new role sims. The role sims should autonomously interact with other sims and objects on the lot. Using Nraas Master Controller, you can take the sim into CAS to give them a makeover, edit their traits, or replace them with a sim from your sim bin. 

Step 8: Make your sim interact with the shiny new role sims and play out the storylines you always wished were possible. Public hookups, functioning brothels, selling drugs and guns - this is what The Sims 3 was made for, baby!!! 

Related Mods:

Arsil’s Exotic Dancer Stage - if you have a club community lot, you can use this mod to hire dancers. You can use role sims to add other NPCs to the club such as guests, shady business sims, or non-dancer sex workers. 

Nraas Relativity - this handy mod can slow down the speed of time so your sim can spend more time doing their "activities"

Nraas Woohooer - if you don’t want the explicit sex animations from Passion, you could use this mod instead to provide more woohoo options. 

Passion - for brothels/strip clubs, this mod will add sex animations and the ability to have role sims dance on the stripper pole. 

MonocoDoll’s Vile Ventures mod and Arms Dealing mod - you can use role sims to create more clients for your sim to sell drugs and weapons to, like different individuals/gangs/mobs. You could have different clients hanging out at different spots in the city. 

LazyDuchess Lot Population - this mod populates community lots with townies, and they can interact with the role sims you’ve created. 

Service Sims Out on the Town - this pushes service sims to visit community lots, to add even more variety to your crowds. 

Conclusion

If you made it to the end, thank you for reading. Please let me know if you try out this style of gameplay, and if you have ideas for more role sims and community lots to make. This tutorial was NSFW-oriented but you could easily adapt it to create NPCs for SFW community lots.

[bixels]

Portal 2 is still the perfect game to me. I hyperfixated on it like crazy in middle school. Would sing Want You Gone out loud cuz I had ADHD and no social awareness. Would make fan animations and pixel art. Would explain the ending spoilers and fan theories to anyone who'd listen. Would keep up with DeviantArt posts of the cores as humans. Would find and play community-made maps (Gelocity is insanely fun).

I still can't believe this game came out 12 years ago and it looks like THIS.

Like Mirror's Edge, the timeless art style and economic yet atmospheric lighting means this game will never age. The decision not to include any visible humans (ideas of Doug Rattmann showing up or a human co-op partner were cut) is doing so much legroom too. And the idea to use geometric tileset-like level designs is so smart! I sincerely believe that, by design, no game with a "realistic art style" has looked better than Portal 2.

Do you guys remember when Nvidia released Portal with RTX at it looked like dogshit? Just the most airbrushed crap I've ever seen; completely erased the cold, dry, clinical feel of Aperture.

So many breathtakingly pit-in-your-stomach moments I still think about too. And it's such a unique feeling; I'd describe at as... architectural existentialism? Experiencing the sublime under the shadow of manmade structures (Look up Giovanni Battista Piranesi's art if you're curious)? That scene where you're running from GLaDOS with Wheatley on a catwalk over a bottomless pit and––out of rage and desperation––GLaDOS silently begins tearing her facility apart and Wheatley cries 'She's bringing the whole place down!' and ENORMOUS apartment building-sized blocks begin groaning towards you on suspended rails and cement pillars crumble and sparks fly and the metal catwalk strains and bends and snaps under your feet. And when you finally make it to the safety of a work lift, you look back and watch the facility close its jaws behind you as it screams.

Or the horror of knowing you're already miles underground, and then Wheatley smashes you down an elevator shaft and you realize it goes deeper. That there's a hell under hell, and it's much, much older.

Or how about the moment when you finally claw your way out of Old Aperture, reaching the peak of this underground mountain, only to look up and discover an endless stone ceiling built above you. There's a service door connected to some stairs ahead, but surrounding you is this array of giant, building-sized springs that hold the entire facility up. They stretch on into the fog. You keep climbing.

I love that the facility itself is treated like an android zooid too, a colony of nano-machines and service cores and sentient panel arms and security cameras and more. And now, after thousands of years of neglect, the facility is festering with decomposition and microbes; deer, raccoons, birds. There are ghosts too. You're never alone, even when it's quiet. I wonder what you'd hear if you put your ear up against a test chamber's walls and listened. (I say that all contemplatively, but that's literally an easter egg in the game. You hear a voice.)

Also, a reminder that GLaDOS and Chell are not related and their relationship is meant to be psychosexual. There was a cut bit where GLaDOS would role-play as Chell's jealous housewife and accuse her of seeing other cores in between chambers. And their shared struggle for freedom and control? GLaDOS realizing, after remembering her past life, that she's become the abuser and deciding that she has the power to stop? That even if she can't be free, she can let Chell go because she hates her. And she loves her. Most people interpret GLaDOS "deleting Caroline in her brain" as an ominous sign, that she's forgetting her human roots and becoming "fully robot." But to me, it's a sign of hope for GLaDOS. She's relieving herself of the baggage that has defined her very existence, she's letting Caroline finally rest, and she's allowing herself to grow beyond what Cave and Aperture and the scientists defined her to be. The fact that GLaDOS still lets you go after deleting Caroline proves this. She doesn't double-back or change her mind like Wheatley did, she sticks to her word because she knows who she is. No one and nothing can influence her because she's in control. GLaDOS proves she's capable of empathy and mercy and change, human or not.

That's my retrospective, I love this game to bits. I wish I could experience it for the first time again.

[heretherebeturtles-comic]

⭐

ALRIGHT! I told myself I would write this as a reward for finishing today's tasks, so lets go!

Here There Be - Director's Commentary :D!!

Starting with Chapter 1 part 1 (pages 1-4)

First of all, everyone say a big thank you to my friend and editor OurLadyOfCoffee for double checking the spelling and grammar for this comic.

Any mistakes in the writing are my own fault for making last minute changes and not showing her before posting. If she had gotten her hands on this page "missing in all the time in this city" would never have happened ( u_u)... I'll go back and fix the page eventually.

Pages 1 & 2 (and 20) did not exist in the original draft of the chapter. I made it to the lineart/inking stage and the page flow was not working. April's narration felt too cramped and boring. I completely redid the whole 4 page section, and the end the final result is so much better!

Page 1 - Panel 1 had two purposes! One, the establishing shot, introducing our setting. Two, to show that NYC is rebuilding after the Krang. Its been a few months and thanks to cartoon logic, they have made significant progress fixing everything.

I love to experiment with colour as a storytelling device. I use red/orange multiple times at specific points throughout the chapter. It simply morning in NYC or is there something dangerous on the horizon... (figuratively)? The good ol' "Red sky at morning, sailors take warning."

Page 1. Panel 2 has a little 1987 April reference with the lady in the jumpsuit on the right. I was really excited to see a few folks point it out, even if it's not quite the iconic yellow jumpsuit. The colour had to be muted or the bold yellow would pull attention away from April (the focus of the panel).

Hello Junior, what do you have there? Something that won't get context for a while? These panels almost didn't make it into the final cut due to page/panel limits. I was very happy that the added pages gave space for it.

Page 2 - someone sent an ask a while back confused about what April was saying, so to explain the text in a more straightforward way: "the mutants that started out as humans have been going missing, but no one knows how long it has been happening or who has taken them. April has figured out that the non-human based mutations disappeared first."

that orange again, this time over the spots where the now missing mutants used to be :)<. I have no idea if this sort of thing is too subtle or not subtle enough, but it makes me go eheehehee and rub my hands together like an evil mastermind.

Page 3 - I debated whether or not to have them move after the movie. How much structural damage did the Krang do on their way through? What are the chances of the lair being discovered because of this? Would the city be too focused on cleanup elsewhere to bother finding it? Do I really want to design a whole new lair when this one is cool and we barely got to see it? In the end I decided that it was more important to have a familiar visual that the readers can instantly identify as the turtle's home. We'll see if there are consequences for remaining in a potentially compromised lair. :)

Despite only showing two rooms in the page, I spent several hours gathering references and building a layout for the entire station lair. I do not control the hyperfocus, it controls me.

Did you know that there are two different designs for this one archway in the main room? I love seeing stuff like this! If an animation studio with multiple background artists can have small inconsequential inconsistencies like this, then it's completely ok if it happens in my own work. It's relieving in a weird way.

PAGE 3 - panel 5 is another way I tried to show that a few months have passed since the movie. They have put some work into unpacking some of those boxes stacked in the back.

Page 4 - Hello Two Phones Jones <3

The Jones Duo! They both have a little outfit change :D! CJ has a rough edged jean vest calling back to the 1990 movie with 03 colours. Casey has a base outfit colour change to match and a cropped hoodie reminiscent of 1987, in pink ofc.

I do not yet have the skills to show the fight that happened in that shipping yard, so I decided that this comic would begin in the tense quiet after it. This also starts us closer to the actual plot instead of dilly dallying. Maybe I'll eventually make a prelude comic to show what all went down.

Aaand that's pretty much it for April's 03 style narrated opening sequence! This is where the intro theme would start playing~

Thank you for the star, I hope this was interesting! I make so many small decisions per page, it's nice to share some of my thoughts. :)

[syoddeye]

Here me out pls

Nik in the Strict Machinery AU as a possible bf for reader for a NikPricexReader

Thank you for your time

hear you out? for nik? always. this was fun. nikolai is still nikolai in this au. that is, mysteriously wealthy and well-connected. he's probably fascinated by john. it's cutting edge technology, after all. available only to the testers that live in the building.

that said. i do not think their first meeting goes well.

strict machine anthology. cw: alcohol mention, implied non-consensual voyeurism, the boys are fighting

the hesitation is intentional, nikolai thinks. prototype or not, there is no reason for this thing to experience a delay. it's too advanced. his own cheap, voice-active coffee maker brews pots when he's face down in bed, slurring commands through a hangover.

he leans against the counter. "john. i said, black coffee, no sugar."

this time, it responds. "user has not authorized food or drink for guests."

nikolai smiles, a tired amusement curving his mouth. "she's asleep," he counters, pushing to see where the line is. "should i wake her?"

after a beat, the machine hums to life, reluctantly, he assumes. as the mug fills, he turns his attention to the wall panel. he ignores the in case of emergency and authorized users only stickers.

the nearly invisible door gives a soft whoosh as the compartment opens, revealing a sleek, intricate array of circuits and controls—a shrine to cutting-edge design. far beyond what even the wealthiest of his clients might handle, nikolai marvels at it, his fingers hovering just shy of contact. then, he touches its small screen, intending to peek at—

it zaps him. not painful, but pointed. a gentle warning, considering. nikolai shakes out his fingers and chuckles. "i apologize. i should always ask before touching."

there is no answer, until he retrieves his coffee. it is black, but one sip, and he knows there are at least two sugars in it. what a curious, temperamental thing.

"before she wakes, i should inform you that i was unable to complete your background check last night." john suddenly pipes up, voice clipped and stern.

"you ran a check? on me?" not the first time, not the last. good to know his team is worth their salaries, though. keeping him disconnected, his data scrubbed.

"i run checks with everyone my user spends more than five minutes with."

"surely i lasted longer than that," nikolai smirks into his mug, feeling the granules dissolve and swim between his teeth. "you were watching us, weren't you?"

silence.

"to make sure i was acting as a gentleman, as i assured you last night?"

"you were drunk."

"we both were." nikolai replies, moving to the couch. he sinks into its corner, one leg draped over the edge, lounging comfortably. he looks out across the sterile space. it is cozy compared to his own, but it has its charm. he is undecided about the assistant, though.

the thing is too over-zealous for his liking. he would spit if he heard his coffee maker back talk. he would take a bat to it.

"you must know her better than anyone."

this time, the response is immediate. defensive, even. "i am optimized to ensure her well-being."

nikolai chuckles. "'optimized'. is that what you call it?" he smooths back his mussed hair. "you don't like me. you're suspicious. that's good. it's very…human."

"it is not. i am not." a shift in tone. closer, too. like he's right on top of him. has he flustered the thing? "my programming is consistent and solid, unlike–"

"humans?" he catches a flicker of light, and a projected figure materializes beside him, legs disappearing into the couch. broad shoulders, bullish posture, arms crossed. its face is tight and stern, probably modeled after a thousand logged expressions of intimidation. the fidelity is nothing like he's seen, either. realistic enough that nikolai wanted to touch it the mole on its nose. his hand twitches before he recalls the panel's warning.

hm. interesting. more rugged than i imagined.

"that's good, john. because i'm consistent. solid, too. ask her about that later. she will tell you, or she will request pain relief." he lifts his mug in a toast, and the figure's frown deepens.

just as quickly as it appeared, the image vanishes. he hears movement from beyond the cracked bedroom door, followed by a voice. low, but not quite low enough.

"john?"

"yeah, darl?"

darl?

"i'm, uh, sore from...dancing last night. do you mind setting out something in the bathroom for it?"

something in the wall behind nikolai makes an awful sound. a muffled, metal-on-metal rumbling. an equivalent to grinding teeth together. his grin widens, and he spreads his legs a little further.

"of course, darl, i'll—"

"oh! and ask nik what he wants for breakfast, okay?"

he laughs quietly into his too-sweet coffee at the program's stiff and resigned assent.

[renegadeelectrics]

Teltonika Mobile Conectivity By Renegade Electrics

Discover seamless Teltonika Mobile Connectivity solutions offered by Renegade Electrics. Stay connected with robust GPS, WiFi, and cellular networks for efficient communication on the go.

Visit: https://www.renegade-automation.nz/

[anarchopuppy]

How to Build a Small Solar Power System - Low-tech Magazine

Readers have told me they like to build small-scale photovoltaic installations like those that power Low-tech Magazine’s website and office. However, they don’t know where to start and what components to buy. This guide brings all the information together: what you need, how to wire everything, what your design choices are, where to put solar panels, how to fix them in place (or not), how to split power and install measuring instruments. It deals with solar energy systems that charge batteries and simpler configurations that provide direct solar power. Conventional solar PV installations are installed on a rooftop or in a field. They convert the low voltage direct current (DC) power produced by solar panels into high voltage alternate (AC) power for use by main appliances and rely on the power grid during the night and in bad weather. None of this holds for the small-scale systems we build in this manual. They are completely independent of the power grid, run entirely on low voltage power, and are not powering a whole household or city but rather a room, a collection of devices, or a specific device. Small-scale solar is decentralized power production taken to its extremes. Most of the work in building a small-scale solar system is deciding the size of the components and the building of the supporting structure for the solar panel. Wiring is pretty straightforward unless you want a sophisticated control panel. You only need a limited set of tools: a wire stripper, some screwdrivers (including small ones), and a wood saw are the only essentials. A soldering iron, pliers, and a multimeter are handy, but you can do without them.

[tributedreference]

Strings are overrated. According to the original Ask Error comic as well as a couple of asks, strings are actually a very powerful version of Blue magic, able to manipulate not only the Soul, but the Soul's user. This also explains why Error is able to crush Souls with his strings so easily. However, in that same comic, we're shown that there is an Error Papyrus (who gets like a total of two panels to himself but he does exist). CQ has said that they no longer remember what they had planned for Paps, but his Error magic was going to be bubbles, not strings. Building off of this, Blueberror was originally going to have an Error ability based off of stars, not strings. So this means that being an Error doesn't automatically mean you get the ability to use strings. Perhaps if a monster or a human that becomes an Error that doesn't have blue magic gets a different boost to another form of magic, like Yellow or Green. What I'm saying is that while the ability to control Souls with strings is cool and all, I think there's a case to be made that the Anti-Void is -ironically- a source for a lot of creativity with magic. Like imagine the design of a character that has a power set based around broken glass or leech-healing, while still holding true to the relative design of an Error. I think new Errors would different Errored abilities would be a welcome change.

[thicknick19]

Tell No One

Shout out to @darksturnioloqueen for being so awesome and supportive! This one's for you girlie! <3

🔪 Summary: You signed up for an experiment. Strict rules. Constant surveillance. But the longer you’re inside, the more the walls seem to shift— and the closer he gets.

You were told not to speak. Not to ask questions. And above all… Tell no one.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Part One - Welcome Package

The Car Ride

You almost don’t see the car at first.

It pulls up at the end of your driveway in complete silence, no engine hum, no headlights, nothing but the soft shift of gravel under its tires. Matte black. Tinted windows. The kind of car you’d expect to see in a spy movie or a funeral procession. You don’t know what you were expecting… but this feels wrong.

Still, you step out of your house with your small duffel bag in hand. The contract said light packing only. They would provide the rest.

A man waits at the rear passenger door. No uniform. No badge. No smile. He opens the door for you without a word, nods once, then walks back to the driver’s seat.

The inside of the car smells faintly sterile, like citrus, metal, and something sharper, like new wires or blood. Not enough to choke you. Just enough to make you sit a little straighter.

There’s no music. No screen. No welcome. Just your name displayed in soft white letters on a black panel above the seat in front of you.

SUBJECT: [REDACTED] EXR-117 DURATION: UNDISCLOSED COMMUNICATION: DISABLED

You open your mouth to ask how long the drive is, but you remember the first line of your contract.

No communication after entry.

You close your mouth. And the doors lock with a soft, final click.

Arrival

You lose track of time.

The sky grows darker as trees thicken outside your window, gradually blocking out the horizon. Civilization peels away, no street signs, no billboards, no signal. Your phone is off, packed deep in a sealed envelope the moment you were picked up. You're not supposed to use it. You're not even supposed to want it.

Eventually, the road narrows. You pass under something tall and black—a gate?—but it’s over before you register it. Your ears pop as the car dips downhill.

And then, suddenly, you stop.

The facility is nearly invisible, nestled in a clearing surrounded by trees. It doesn’t rise like a building. It sinks. Subtle. Spread-out. Sleek panels of black glass and pale stone. No signs. No guards. No lights in the windows.

The front entrance is a square of glass that slides open before you even approach it.

Inside: silence. Not hospital quiet—intentional quiet. Like sound itself was asked to leave.

A woman stands behind a desk. She looks up at you, but she doesn’t smile.

“Welcome to the Observation Trial,” she says softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Please follow the illuminated path.”

A line of soft blue light pulses on the floor, leading down the hallway.

You follow.

Orientation

You’re brought to a small white room with two chairs and a single table. There’s nothing on the walls. A camera watches from the corner, blinking red once every ten seconds.

The same woman enters behind you. She places a slim folder on the table.

Welcome Package: EXR-117

Inside:

A redacted consent form with multiple pages blacked out entirely

A subject ID badge

A daily schedule:

Wake: 7:00 a.m.

Meals: 8:00 a.m., 12:00 p.m., 6:00 p.m.

Reflection Periods: 9:00 a.m. and 5:00 p.m.

Lights Out: 10:00 p.m.

“The Observation Trial is a psychological endurance study designed to measure human behavior under controlled isolation,” the woman recites. “It simulates social deprivation, environmental monotony, and regulated observation. The goal is to better understand emotional resilience and dependency under stress.”

She pauses. “There will be no clocks in your space. No contact with other participants. And no confirmation of when, or if, the trial will end. You’ll remain in your assigned quarters unless instructed otherwise.”

You nod, pretending it’s new. But you’ve read the abstract already—twice. It was vague. Fluffy with academic buzzwords. Controlled stimuli, variable exposure, emotional transparency... all dancing around one thing:

They want to watch you break. And they want to see what pieces you try to protect.

You signed up anyway.

Maybe it was the money—definitely part of it. Maybe it was curiosity. Or maybe it was just the silence you’ve been craving.

Ever since everything at home imploded, you’ve felt like you’ve been watching yourself from the outside anyway. Like you’ve been performing normalcy while something cold buzzes quietly in the background.

You thought this might help. Or maybe, deep down, you just wanted to see what would happen if someone finally watched back.

You flip to the last page of the contract. One phrase is written in bold, unmistakable lettering:

TELL NO ONE.

She doesn’t explain what it means. She doesn’t have to. It feels like a warning.

The Room

The hallway stretches long and clean, its walls gleaming with that same too-smooth finish. It doesn’t feel like a hospital, not quite, but it doesn’t feel like a place meant for living, either.

You’re led to a door marked only with your subject number: EXR-117.

No name. No keyhole. No handle.

The staff member—silent again—taps a small panel beside it, and the door slides open with a whisper. You’re gestured inside.

“Your reflection period begins at 0900. Dinner is at 1800. Lights out at 2200.”

She leaves before you can respond. The door seals behind you with a soft hiss, and the click of the lock echoes louder than it should.

You’re alone. Or at least, that’s the idea.

The room is… minimal.

Not empty, but designed. The bed is made, corners tucked tight. A white desk sits in the corner beneath a mounted light panel. There’s a shelf built into the wall—just a few books, blank notebooks, and a mechanical pencil. Everything looks untouched. Sterile.

The walls are bare except for one.

A full mirrored panel stretches across it from floor to ceiling.

It reflects everything: the bed, the door, you.

You stare at your reflection. It doesn’t blink. But you swear… it watches.

There’s a faint red light glowing in the upper right corner of the mirror. It blinks once every ten seconds, steady, rhythmic, like a pulse. The camera, no doubt.

The ceiling is ventless. The corners are seamless. The room is too quiet.

It’s not a place made for comfort. It’s a place made for observation.

You take a slow lap around the space. No windows. No air vents. The walls don’t feel quite like drywall—something smoother, maybe plastic or glass beneath paint. The bookshelf is built-in, the bed bolted down.

You try the door again. It doesn’t budge. No handle. No seam. Just cold, hard metal.

You sit on the edge of the bed. It doesn’t creak. Even the mattress feels… measured. Soft enough not to complain about, firm enough to discourage sleep.

There’s a tray slot in the bottom of the wall beside the door. You hadn’t noticed it before. A soft whirring sound begins as if on cue, and a covered tray slides through, slow and deliberate.

Dinner.

You lift the lid. The food is exactly what you’d choose if someone had asked. Nothing extravagant—just right. Too right.

You didn’t tell anyone your preferences. But they knew.

Later, you explore what you’ve been given. The books on the shelf? All things you’ve read before. Or wanted to. Even the edition of your favorite novel is the same—the dog-eared one you left behind.

Your pulse picks up. You speak, mostly to break the silence:

“How do you know that?”

No response.

Just the red light. Blink. Blink. Blink.

You end the day in front of the mirror, as instructed. You sit. You speak. You say your name. You say how you’re feeling.

Not watched. Just… recorded.

“This feels like a setup,” you mutter. “Like something’s happening I’m not supposed to see. But someone is. Aren’t they?”

Your reflection stares back. Neutral. Familiar. Not comforting.

You lean forward, close enough that your breath fogs the glass. The red light blinks once. Then again.

Just before you turn away, you notice it—a smudge.

Faint. Small. A half-fingerprint was near the bottom edge of the mirror.

It isn’t yours. You haven’t touched it yet.

Taglist:

@riasturns @poppetbaby02 @johnheart @bells-sturn @user1smvtysturniolo @finnickodairslut @bellxx9 @ariastur9z @sage-burrow @theylovedemi @persephonesluvs @elisebeattie @novalovesstvrz @angelsturniolo @honey-zozo @idek1234567891 @darksturnioloqueen

[things-for-your-little-mindset]

things for a robot regressor? :3

Things for your robot regressor ( !💿💾! )

Foods & drinks …

Byte-Sized Sandwiches – Tiny sandwiches made with mini bread slices or crackers

Gear Gummies – Fruit gummies shaped like gears or rings (Lifesavers work well too!).

Robot Wires – Pull-apart licorice (like Twizzlers) to look like colorful robot wires

Metallic Popcorn – Popcorn with a little edible silver or gold glitter powder to look metallic!

Glowing Gelatin – Blue or green Jello cut into squares for a "glowing energy" effect.

Bright ramune sodas – flavors like melon, classic, and peach make for great days!

Blue raspberry lemonade – store bought or homemade, either works!

Neon Milk – Regular milk with a tiny drop of food coloring to make it look "charged up."

outfit ideas !

Gray or futuristic pajamas

soft, comfy robot pjs.

slippers made to look like robot feet! Or in a bright color.

soft, comfortable silver dresses.

oversized gray sweaters with colorful buttons (drawn on, or sewn on!)

dress shirts with colorful buttons

Tie-dye shirts in comfortable, bright colors.

metal-colored shoes with circuit patterns

ACTIVITIES

= Build-A-Bot – Use LEGO, magnetic tiles, or recycled materials (cardboard, foil, bottle caps) to create your own robot!

= Design a Control Panel – Draw buttons, screens, and switches on paper or use stickers to make your own robot dashboard.

= DIY Circuit Board Art – Draw pretend circuit boards with markers or use metallic stickers for a cool, futuristic look.

= Robot Costume Making – Use boxes, foil, and tape to create your own wearable robot armor.

= Code Your Own Dance Moves – Make a "robot dance routine" by writing simple step-by-step commands for yourself to follow!

= Invent a Robot Language – Create fun robotic sounds or a simple "beep-boop" code to talk in!

= Decorate Your Charging Station – Make a cozy "charging pod" with blankets and pillows where you can rest and "recharge."

Games (new addition!)

Roblox games such as cozmo and friends: team battle, robot simulator 2, Natural disaster survival games, or even just roleplay games where you can dress up as a robot or robotic character!

Minecraft with robotic addons or with friends to do robotic roleplays with!

Geometry dash

mimo: learn coding

any coding website

Beat maker pro

Block Blast

Screw it out

songs and playlists

I want to be a machine - the living tombstone

eeeaaaooo - shadowstep

Playlist by me

Playlist by 5-tar

Superstar - toy box

Harder, better, faster, stronger - Daft Punk

Dr. Gaster - shadrow

Playlist by The Hank Tapedeck

[i-am-literally-deranged]

I can't stop thinking about Chuuya's fucking room in the Stormbringer manga. It was NOT described as this fucked up in the novel.

This?!?

Is an INSANE evil room.

In the book, it's described as mostly empty, sparesely decorated. There's only a sentence or two dedicated to it. It leaves no impression. But in the MANGA?? We spend several pages in Chuuya's room, and the more I think about it, the worse it gets. I've become completely obsessed with this fucking nightmare chamber Chuuya apparently lives in. Whoever designed this space is a staunch believer in feng shui and also hates Chuuya and wants him to DIE.

First of all, I measured the room using the bed as a ruler, and it's about 18 x 7 feet. That's. That's a hallway. 18 feet long and seven feet wide, that's a fucking hallway. This room is built like a fucking hallway. It also appears to be constructed almost entirely out of some kind of narrow paneling that goes straight from the floor and up the walls seamlessly.

Then the bed facing AWAY from the door?!?? Just floating in the dead center of the room, touching zero walls, head to the door?! That is the most evil room design imaginable. Imagining trying to sleep in Chuuya's evil demon bed is making my skin crawl. No fucking wonder he's having nightmares in this scene.

Secondly

That lamp is not plugged in. It has a cord, so we know it's not wireless or something, but scroll back up to that first image, there is NO CORD coming away from that table. Which it is, by the way. That's a table. Not a desk. There's no storage space, no drawers, no NOTHING. He doesn't even have any loose pens on his desk. There are no pens to be found here, so I guess he's just reading those papers on his table, because he sure isn't working on them. The table is so far away from the wall that if he DID plug in his lamp, it would be stretched out straight and become a tripping hazard. I cannot imagine where he charges his phone, because it's not sitting on the floor next to an outlet anywhere. I just have to assume that he keeps it in the bathroom or something.

These next two shots show us that some uncertain number of the walls in here are MIRRORED. Full body mirrors. I can't even fully process where in the room these are. It looks like he's walking towards either the head or foot of the bed in that first panel, so this IS in the same room. We can also see the narrow vertical paneling on the wall again from the first page, as well as what looks like more ofnthese big full body mirror panels like you'd find in a dance studio.

So not only is Chuuya in an uncomfortable room shaped like a hallway, bed facing away from the door, but he is doing so in a room at least partially WALLED IN MIRRORS. I cannot overstate how fucked that would feel. This is the kind of room I would build in the sims when trying to drive them insane. I'm imagining trying to lay down in this bed in the dark trying to sleep, bed floating in the center of the room, door behind your head, mirrors on any number of the walls around you. What the fuck. What the fuck???

They have so successfully crafted a room that conveys that Chuuya has no idea how to be a person, because what the fuck is this???? Dazai's shipping container is at least arranged in a way that makes sense. That's essentially just a shitty dorm room. Chuuya's room has forced me to ask questions like "Where does he keep his socks and underwear???" And "Does he own a pen?" "Does Chuuya wash his singular cup in the bathroom sink???" The more I look at it, the more questions I have. Is this some kind of.... punishment? Did they put him in this fucked up mirror hell room because they don't like him? Did Chuuya himself design this awful room? I mean, this is the first time he's been in control of his own space so it makes sense that he didn't know what to do with it, but. Fuck. Why did he land on all furniture in the exact center of the room surrounded in mirrors?!?? Did they give him this room minimally furnished, just set the desk and bed in the middle with the idea that he would arrange it how he likes, and he just didn't kniw that that was an option and has been living in it exactly as it was?? This is horrible. I am haunted. I don't think he has any windows. I can't figure out where the vertical strips of light are coming from besides maybe through those weird narrow slats on the wall?? I CANNOT stop overthinking these three pages. He has a mirrored shoe closet AND a mirrored suit closet and nothing else. The suit closet looks like it's the door at the front of the room, but that makes mo sense because then where is the door in and out of the room itself? I can't tell how much of the wall is actually mirrored and how much just looks exactly the same as the other side of the room. Where is his bathroom actually located??? I have been thinking about this fucking room since this manga dropped like two months ago. It haunts me.