#Design of Complex Machines | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

the-teufort-nine · 5 months ago

Note

may i rq a scenario with any of the mercs where they find reader injured when respawn's down. maybe bc of an accident or an ambush. i like angst as long as its ok in the end

HOLY SAXTON HALE ANON THIS ONE GOT AWAY FROM ME!

This isn't explicitly romantic, but you could definitely interpret it as being romantic if you want! You're def the team's fave <3

Anyways, enjoy about 8400 words of hurt/comfort goodness and the Blu team being pathetic lil meow meow when they think you're dead dead.

Mercs x GN!Reader | Respawn Malfunction

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ Hurt/Comfort | SFW | Cw: starvation, temp character death, excess drinking, animal death ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Featuring:

Everyone! Even Miss Pauling is here!

Scenario: During the last few moments of a match, Blu team's Respawn Machine suddenly malfunctions, with you inside! Left reeling by the loss of their Chemist, the team attempts to cope. A week later, Miss Pauling receives a most unexpected phone call...

There had been no warning.

If there had been, then the sharp eyes of RED and BLU’s Engineers would have certainly caught it. Unfortunately, the Respawn Machine had been just as reliable as ever for the entire match, bringing the mercenaries back from the great beyond time and time again, just as it had been designed to do.

Scout and Soldier had just been revived when it happened; the two men taking a moment to shake off the inevitable rush of nausea that came from going through the unholy machine. An Ubercharged Heavy had taken both them and their teammate, Y/N, known officially as the Chemist, out as the hulking giant made a final push to capture one of their points, and both BLU men knew it was only a matter of time before they heard the biting voice of the Administrator informing them of their failure.

Scout scuffed his sneaker against the concrete floor of the Respawn Room as Soldier launched into a furious rant, leaning against the wall as he waited for Y/N to come through, knowing that they'd been killed only a moment after him. He sighed when felt the gentle pulse of the machine as it vibrated like a speaker, getting ready to return his friend to the world of the living.

SKREEEEEECHHHH- BOOM!

A blast of hot air sent the two men crashing into the wall, stunning them momentarily. It was Soldier who regained his wits first, the BLU quickly pushing up his helmet and looking back at the source of the damage in shock and mounting horror.

“Aeughhhh… what da hell just happened?” Scout moaned, one of his hands rubbing against his throbbing forehead. He blinked, his blurred vision slowly clearing, and as he regained his sight, his eyes began to widen.

Respawn was on fire.

Flames licked hungrily at the walls as they spread out further from the Respawn Machine, with the contraption itself bathed in white and blue hues, the intense heat making quick work of what hadn't been destroyed in the explosion. Shards of complex metals and pools of gleaming Australium were littered all over the room, reflecting the light of the fire.

“HOLY CRAP!” Scout yelped, adrenaline coursing through his body as he attempted to scramble up off the floor.

His voice jolted Soldier out of his shocked state, and he shot a hand out to grab the back of Scout's shirt and yank him along as he made for the door.

“Emergency! Cease fighting immediately!” The Administrator's voice boomed out over the battlefield, the old woman's voice sounding more shocked than stern for once.

Scout finally found his footing as he pulled out of Soldier's grip, spinning around to stare at the encroaching flames. Fear roiled in his gut like an angry serpent as his disoriented mind finally allowed the reality of their situation to sink in. Respawn was gone.

Death was permanent once again.

“Private, this is no time to be standing around! We need to go!”

They could die. For real.

“Scout!”

If they'd come through only a moment earlier, they wouldn't have come back at all.

Wait…

“Solly, where's Chem?”

Soldier paused in his attempt to drag Scout down the hall, his gaze snapping back towards Respawn. He hadn't seen them when he'd grabbed Scout, too focused on getting away from the rapidly approaching fire, but he'd assumed that they were right behind him.

“They probably snuck past us! They're sneaky like that.” he replied. That had to be it! Otherwise that would mean they��

Scout looked down the hall, searching for any sign of the Chemist, before looking back towards Respawn, his face paling. He jerked forward, sprinting towards the blaze.

“Chem! Chem, hang on!” Scout yelled, reaching the doorway in only a few seconds, his eyes desperately searching for where his friend could possibly be.

The room was as empty as it had seemed before. There was no trace of the Chemist, alive or dead, to be found in the room.

They hadn't made it through.

“What in the Sam Hill is goin’ on here?!”

Scout wrenched himself away from the door as he heard his teammates gasp behind him. Engineer was up by his side in an instant, his mechanical hand gripping the doorframe so hard it cracked the material. He pushed his goggles up, and Scout could see real fear in the other's eyes.

“Vhat zhe hell happened? Zhe Respavn Machine vas fine only moments ago vhen I came through!” Medic said, pausing as he looked at Scout, who was trembling. Gently, the doctor led the young man away from the fire, “Scout? Are you alright? Vere you injured?”

“Chem’s gone.” was Scout's quiet reply.

“Vhat?”

“They was suppose’ta come through after me ‘n Solly, but Respawn went up in flames before they could come through.” the runner's voice was shaky and hollow, and he leaned more of his weight against Medic as his legs started to feel less dependable than usual, “They're gone. Like, gone gone.”

The gathered mercenaries went quiet, the only sounds being that of the crackling flames and Scout and Soldier's laboured breathing.

“DAMN IT!” Engineer bellowed, throwing his hard hat onto the ground, “GOD FUCKING DAMN IT!”

Medic closed his eyes, bringing a gloved hand up to his face as a wave of grief crashed down on him. He'd been rather fond of their newest teammate, glad to have someone around who was as interested in risky experiments as he was. The Chemist had often taken up many of the smaller, more neglected duties around the base, such as cooking proper meals and making sure that Medic's less used medical supplies stayed topped up, in case of emergencies. They'd also been of great help in wrangling some of his more… problematic patients, using their charms (or stealth) to herd them into the Medbay for check ups or shots.

He watched them die every day, but this was different. This was permanent. The machine he and Engineer had worked so hard to build, the one that had allowed them to cheat death time and time again, had finally taken its pound of flesh. Y/N had been taken from them, from him, before he'd been ready to let them go.

Now, this usually wouldn't have been a problem; committing sins against both God and nature was something he did quite often and with great delight, and he was sure he could wrest Y/N back from the afterlife, provided that he had access to their body.

And therein lay the problem. There was no body. Respawn hadn't even spat them out half formed or thrown them into the flames, it had simply not reconstructed them. Whatever remained of the Chemist was likely nothing more than a partially formed mist of human remains that had burned up almost instantaneously.

The tenth class was no more, and there was nothing Medic could do.

“Aw, hell,” Engineer gritted out finally, looking back at his teammates with a tired, beatdown expression, “Christ, someone go ‘n track down a fire extinguisher. If we don't get this under control soon, we'll all end up dead.”

Seeing an opportunity to both flee the horrific scene and be useful, Scout ran off like a bat out of Hell, skidding around a corner and disappearing from sight. Soldier, who was being uncharacteristically quiet and still, made to follow him, but Engineer stopped him before he could take more than a few steps.

“Hold on, pardner. I need you to round everyone up and let ‘em know what- what happened.” the southerner swallowed hard, trying his best to push down his emotions for the time being, “The last thing we need right now is to lose someone else because someone did somthin’ stupid and got themselves killed.”

Soldier thought of how often Demo tested his equipment after their daily battles, especially after a loss, and stopped only long enough to give Engineer a salute before rushing off, determined not to lose any more teammates.

“Gott, vhat a mess.” Medic whispered hoarsely, mentally preparing himself for the utter shit show that was inevitably coming their way. The Chemist had been a friend to all of them, even to Spy, who pretended that he didn't care, and losing them was going to be hard on everyone.

Personal loss wasn't something the mercenaries were used to, lulled into a sense of security, of immortality, by the Respawn Machine. After all, why be afraid of death when you knew that you would be back in what felt like only an instant? None of them ever considered that Respawn might fail one day.

“C’mon, Doc. We can't stay here.” Engineer said, leading his co-worker-turned-friend away from the fire.

“Ack!”

You yelped as you tumbled face first out of Respawn, hitting the floor hard and fast. You hissed in pain, pushing yourself up and rubbing a hand over your aching face. Instinctively, you check over the various vials of chemicals you have strapped to your person, praying that your odd tumble hasn't resulted in anything breaking.

A sigh of relief passes your lips as you determine nothing to be out of place or wrecked. You pulled yourself to your feet, stretching and cracking your knuckles. Christ, the RED Heavy must have gotten you good that time, because you felt just awful. Exhaustion made you slouch slightly, and your stomach ached something fierce.

After bracing yourself for the inevitable screech of the Administrator's voice telling you that you had failed, you allowed your eyes to fall open, expecting to see Scout and Soldier's sour faces.

An unfamiliar room greeted you, wooden planks replacing the expected concrete. Dust lingered around the space, and your only company was a chittering raccoon, which startled and ran off upon seeing you.

What the fuck was going on?

“Hell-o?” you called, confusing coloring your tone, “Scout? Soldier? Anyone?”

Silence greeted you. Not even the sound of gunfire and shouting could be heard, only the sound of a fierce wind blowing outside.

Thoroughly confused and more than a little creeped out, you stepped out of Respawn, head constantly swiveling about as you called for your teammates. However, no matter how much you yelled, no one ever responded. No matter how much you searched, you couldn't find anyone. No matter how much you listened, not a soul could be heard.

“What the fuck. What the fuck.” you chanted, rubbing your arms. It was so cold here, and your outfit was designed for the New Mexico heat.

Your breaths came in steamy puffs, and you could feel goosebumps prickling along your arms as you made your way towards what you hoped was the Intel Room. Whatever it was that was going on, you were too tired and too sore to try and puzzle it out. If this was some kind of elaborate prank, you were going to kill whoever was responsible, because the last thing you wanted to deal with after such a rough day was this creepy bullshit.

Finally, after a solid hour of getting lost within this bizarre, wintery base, you managed to find the Intel Room. A phone, blue in colour, sat mounted on the wall only a few feet away. Wasting no time, you dialed the number Miss Pauling had given you to use if there was ever an emergency, or if Engineer and Medic started spending too much time together again. (The last time they'd gone unchecked for too long, the base had become overrun by something they called Spycrabs. It took weeks for you and your team to get rid of them, though you were fairly certain both Spy and Pyro had managed to hide one to keep as a pet.)

“Aperture Bakery, where the cake definitely isn't a lie! This is Tammy speaking, how can I help you?” an obviously fake cheery voice greeted you after only two rings, and you smiled slightly.

“Jesus, Pauling, I think that's your worst ‘wrong number’ persona yet.” you groused, no real venom in your voice.

“...Y/N?” Miss Pauling’s voice suddenly became very soft and disbelieving, something you'd never heard it do.

You frowned, your brow furrowing. “Yeah, that's me, last I checked. I thought you were supposed to call me Chemist, though?”

“Holy shit, you're alive?!” she shouted, the volume causing you to pull back slightly, “How are you alive?!”

“Uhhhhh,” you stammered, completely at a loss as to how you were supposed to respond, “I… I breathe? And eat? And sleep? Jeez, Pauling, I don't know what you want from me here.”

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line, one that lasted so long, you began to worry Miss Pauling had hung up on you.

“Hello?” you tried.

“Oh! Shoot, sorry, I'm still here! I just-” there was a sound like papers being moved, “Chemist, what is the last thing you remember?”

“Losing the point and getting shot to pieces, why?” Was this a test? Had you already failed somehow?

“Right, yeah, okay that makes sense.” Miss Pauling took a deep breath, and you shifted uncomfortably, sensing that something was wrong.

“Chemist, Y/N, you've been declared dead for just over a week now.”

The phone slipped from your grasp, and it was only years worth of training and quick reflexes that kept it from smashing into the wall. You gripped the phone right, pressing it tightly into your ear as you spoke. “I'm sorry, I don't think I heard you right, Miss Pauling. Would you mind repeating that?”

“You were dead, Chemist. Something happened to BLU’s Respawn Machine, and it was completely destroyed before you could come back. I- I don't know how or why it took so long for you to come back this time, but I'm so glad you did.”

You all but collapsed onto the wall, your free hand tangling itself in your hair. You'd died? Like, died for real? The thought made your stomach turn, and you had to suppress the urge to vomit.

“Pauling, Christ, I-” you swallowed, breathing in through your nose, “Is everyone else okay? Oh God, please tell me no one else… died.”

“No, no, no! Everyone's- well they're not fine, but they're all alive. The Administrator called for an emergency ceasefire the minute she saw what happened, and both teams got the message pretty quickly that something was wrong. The ceasefire is still in effect, since everyone needs to be relocated to one of the other base locations.” Miss Pauling replied.

You audibly sighed in relief, tension leaving your body as you uttered a soft ‘Oh, thank God.’ “I think that's where I ended up. One of the other bases, I mean. It's fucking freezing here, Pauly.”

“Shit, you're that far out?” Miss Pauling sucked in a breath through her teeth, “Okay, just- just stay put, alright? There's not going to be any supplies there, so just fine somewhere warm and try not to move too much. I'm going to come get you, okay?”

“Okay.” you replied, smiling slightly as you heard her immediately begin to gather various items on her desk, “Thank you, Miss Pauling. I know you're busy.”

“I'm never too busy for my mercenaries, especially when they manage to defy all logic and cheat death more than they usually do.” a warm, fuzzy feeling settled in your chest at her words, and it remained even after you hung up. There was something so viscerally pleasing about being wanted, about having someone care for you.

Worn out from your return to the living world, you peeled yourself away from the wall and wandered around the base a bit, before locating what had to be the common room. A couch and a few chairs were tucked in around an unlit fireplace. There wasn't anything around to burn, and you didn't feel up to going out to find something suitable, so you chose instead to simply curl up on the couch. Once you laid down, it was as if all of your strength left your body. The aches and pains that plagued you became more apparent, and your stomach growled and gurgled loudly. You were starving, but as Miss Pauling had said, there was no food at the base, and you certainly weren't going to be able to hunt any animals that might be scuttling around.

Resigning yourself to a fitful sleep and an empty stomach, you closed your eyes and pressed yourself in closer to the back of the couch, slowly drifting off into a light slumber.

The BLU base had never been so quiet. It was not a calm quiet, like one might find if they walked into a library, or in a room full of people simply enjoying each other's company while they entertained themselves, but rather a tense, unnatural quiet. A mercenary base with nine men living in it should have been full of noise and movement, but each member of the BLU team seemed more than happy to break away from the norm today.

Engineer was holed up in his workshop, pouring over blueprints, both new and old, determined to find some flaw, some imperfection, some failure, that could give him an answer as to why the Respawn Machine had gone up in flames. He needed to find the problem so that he could fix it. He couldn't leave things as they were; everyone, even the RED team, once they'd found out what had happened, felt unsafe going through any of the Respawn Machines, since no one knew what exactly had gone wrong.

Medic was working himself to exhaustion right alongside him, while also fretting over packing up his birds and equipment on such short notice. They weren't due to rotate out to another base for another month, but the accident had pushed the timeline up to a few days. What's more is that he needed to review the applications for a new Chemist, though he'd been putting that particular task off for as long as possible. He'd never once needed to replace a teammate, nor had he ever expected to. The process of both finding someone who was Respawn compatible and willing to fight and die everyday was an arduous one indeed, and Medic could feel a stress induced migraine begin to come on whenever he even glanced at the paperwork.

Heavy had been trying his best to help Medic prepare for the move, but he, like everyone else, was feeling the effects of their friend's sudden death. He kept expecting to hear their voice coming from the kitchen, or to see them waltz through a door with some manner of bubbling condition held in their arms. Often, he caught himself setting out the supplies for two sandviches, only realizing his mistake when he had plated the food.

Pyro had firmly planted themselves in the Chemist's room, taking special, delicate care to pack up their things into neat little boxes. When Medic had gently floated the idea of reusing their supplies for the next Chemist, Pyro had chased the doctor around the base with their fire axe. There were drawings of the two of them taped carefully to the wall, gifted to the Chemist by the resident firebug, and Pyro left them for last, wanting to keep pretending that they were simply packing up to move like the rest of them. When they'd nearly finished, Pyro noticed that the Chemist's uniforms, which had been folded up on their friend's bed, had mysteriously disappeared. They'd panicked for a moment, before the faint smell of cigarette smoke filtered through their mask.

Sure enough, the clothes were returned the following morning, freshly washed, dried, and without any wrinkles. Any and all holes or rips had been carefully hand stitched with expert precision. There was also a single rose lovingly tucked into one of the pockets on the outfit the Chemist wore most frequently.

Demo could often be found in the company of Soldier, sitting out on some roof or bridge, nursing his tenth or so bottle. Soldier didn't drink nearly as much, but when he inevitably did get drunk, only he and Demo knew about the few tears that would slip down his cheek. Neither acknowledged it, nor the sinking fear of having to inevitably go through Respawn again that sat like lead bullets in their guts.

Scout ran to ignore that same sense of fear and loss, to push it down into the deepest parts of himself. He ran from sunrise to sunset, pausing only when he absolutely needed to. Sometimes, when he would stop, panting and sweating and one small breeze away from toppling over, if he was in just the right spot at just the right time, he'd catch a glimpse of Sniper, tucked away on some far off cliffside or peering down from a tall, rickety building. The marksman hadn't been seen in the base proper since the accident, but he was always around somewhere, watching day and night to ensure nothing happened to his remaining teammates during the ceasefire.

So it was no wonder that it was him who first spotted a frantic looking Miss Pauling as she parked her scooter and dashed off towards one of the base entrances.

Curious, Sniper pushed himself up out of his hiding place, ignored the burning sensation that rippled through his taunt, stiff muscles, and started to make his way down to the base. He didn't make any attempt to soften his footsteps, but he also didn't call any attention to himself. The dark haired woman had been heading for Engineer's workshop, so that's where Sniper went.

Just before he could reach the door that led to the workshop, he collided with someone coming down the hall. He let out a quiet ‘oof’ and stumbled back, baring his teeth instinctively when he saw an expensive suit and steely blue eyes. He calmed, however, when he saw that this Spy was dressed in his team's colours

“Bushman.” came Spy's snide greeting. The Frenchman eyed Sniper up and down, “You look like shit.”

“I could say the same for you, mate.” Sniper sneered back, and he really could have.

There were heavy bags around Spy's eyes, and he smelled as though he'd been absolutely chewing through his expensive, imported cigarettes. Clearly, the man had been coping just as well as Sniper had.

“I'm shocked to see zhat you are no longer wallowing in your mobile hovel, or rolling around in zhe dirt, or whatever it is that you've been doing zhese days.” Spy raised a brow, “What has brought you back to zhis cheap imitation of civilization?”

Now, normally, this would be the point in their conversation where Sniper would tell Spy to not-so-kindly fuck off, but the Australian was running on coffee and will, and Spy was good at getting information. If Miss Pauling’s sudden appearance was supposed to be a secret, then Spy would be Sniper’s first choice for a partner in crime.

“Miss Pauling just showed up lookin’ real frazzled, and I want to know why. I didn't get any alerts or messages, did you?” Sniper asked.

Spy pursed his lips. “Non, I did not.”

Both men's gazes flicked towards the workshop door, and before either could contemplate if this was a good idea or not, Spy had cloaked and Sniper was pushing the door open slowly. A conversation came into earshot as the door opened silently.

“Engie! Thank God you're here!”

“Miss Pauling? What are you doin’ here?”

“There's no time, I need to borrow your truck!”

“Whu- mah truck? What for?”

“Listen, I need to get up North. Fast. And my scooter isn't going to cut it for this trip. Also, I think I might need that emergency dispenser you guys built a while back.”

Sniper's eyebrows shot up towards his hairline. Miss Pauling did many things to people, but healing them wasn't something he'd ever heard of her doing.

“Well, now, see that there dispenser is still a prototype. It ain't ready for fieldwork yet- HEY!”

“Sorry Engie! Look, I promise I will bring the truck and the dispenser back, but I really need to get going! If this works, I'll bring back something that will make up for all of this.”

“And just what the hell would that be?!”

“Your Chemist!”

Sniper jolted, his body moving faster than his mind, which was still struggling to understand what he'd just heard. He gripped the guardrails that overlooked the lower floor, arriving just in time to see Miss Pauling putting the pedal to the metal and hauling ass out of the workshop in Engineer's truck. Engineer himself was standing stock still on the workshop floor, hand still raised mid gesture.

A set of hands suddenly grabbed Sniper by the shoulders and spun him around. Spy was staring at him, eyes alight in a way Sniper hadn't seen in a long time.

“Bushman, you can fit at least four people in your disgusting van, yes?” the man asked, squeezing harder when Sniper's mouth failed to make words come out, “Well?!”

“Eh- ur- yeah mate, that's right.” Sniper nodded finally, still reeling from the idea that Chemist might still be alive, “What's it to ya, Spook?”

“Gather up Soldier, Heavy, and Demo. I will take Medic, Scout, Pyro and Engineer in my car. We need to get going immediately if we want any chance of catching up to Miss Pauling!” he exclaimed.

Sniper's eyes widened as he understood what Spy was saying. The Frenchman wanted to follow Miss Pauling, to see their supposedly not dead teammate for himself, and he knew the rest of them well enough to know that if they didn't take them along, then the others would find their own way to them. That, or they'd simply destroy the base if left alone for too long, and Sniper was willing to bet that Spy didn't want to risk Pyro or Soldier destroying his precious suit collection.

‘Still,’ Sniper mused, ‘It’s nice to see that Spook cares about our feelings, even if it is mostly for ‘is benefit.’

“Right, I'll go round up the boys. You focus on snapp’n Engie outta his stupor, yeah?” Sniper agreed.

Spy nodded, and the two separated, with Sniper wasting no time in flying back down the hall. Obsessively stalking- er, observing everyone over the course of the week had granted him a decent understanding of where they chose to spend their time while in mourning.

Heavy and Medic were up first, and Sniper knew exactly where they'd be. With a swift kick, he burst into the Medbay, startling both the pair and all of the birds.

“Augh! Herr Sniper, vhat do you think you're doing, barging in here like-” Medic started, but Sniper cut him off.

“Can it, Doc! Pauling was just ‘ere, and she says Y/N is alive!” Sniper exclaimed. The other two men's eyes widened, and Medic almost dropped the glass beaker he was holding. “She sped off a moment ago, and we're gonna follow ‘er. Spy's taking you, Scooter, Engie and Py in ‘is car, while I'm takin’ the rest.”

The dynamic duo shook off their shock and nodded.

“Heavy will grab Soldier and Demolitions. Leetle Sniper will find Pyro in their room.” Heavy paused, then fixed Sniper with a stern look. “Be very careful how you tell news. Fire starter has… not been taking loss well. May attack, if they think you are playing joke.”

Sniper gulped quietly. “Think we should hold off on tellin’ them why we're really leaving?”

Medic shook his head quickly. “Nien. Zhough it is not alvays apparent, Pyro is quite intelligent. Lying to zhem about zhis will not end well for any of us.”

The marksman winced, remembering the feeling of fire blasting across his skin. “Too right. Okay, I'll handle Pyro, and Heavy’s gettin’ the drunk bastards. Hopefully they can sober up a bit, because I do not want those two sicking up in my van.”

Suddenly, a thought came to him.

“Oh, and bring yer Medigun. Miss Pauling mentioned something about need’n the emergency dispenser, but Engie didn't seem too confident that it would work.”

Medic's face crumpled up in distress. “And he shouldn't be! Zhat machine is just as likely to kill both zhe Chemist and Frauline Pauling as it is to heal zhem.”

“Shit.” Sniper swore, “We better be quick, then.”

The three men scattered, each one going in a different direction. Sniper hauled ass towards the barracks, eyes flicking to the different class symbols that marked each of the doors. He had only ever been here once, but picking out the little blue and yellow picture of a bubbling vial was easy enough.

He skidded to a stop before the door, taking a second to rap his knuckles against the wood before pushing the door open.

Pyro was where Heavy had said they would be, sitting on their friend's neatly made bed, their stuffed Balloonicorn clasped tightly in their grip as they rocked slightly. Pyro tilted their head at Sniper, communicating their confusion at the man's sudden appearance.

“C’mon, matchstick. We gotta get going right quick now.” Sniper panted, motioning for Pyro to follow, “Miss Pauling was just here, and she seems pretty damn convinced that our Chemist isn't as dead as we all thought.”

Pyro stilled on the bed, their masked face staring right into Sniper's soul. The Australian licked his chapped lips, feeling a sense of unease creep across the nape of his neck. After a moment of relative silence, Pyro seemed to find no deception in his words, and quickly leapt up, pausing only to grab their axe and holster it on their back.

“Huddah huddah huddah!” They yelled, voice muffled by the mask. A thick rubber glove suddenly gripped Sniper's vest, and the marksman found himself getting dragged along towards an exit.

Barely able to keep up with Pyro’s quick stride, Sniper stumbled a bit, all but crashing into the firebug when the large door before them slid open.

“Let's go, let's go, let's go!” Scout's voice carried across the desert base as the young man practically flew towards the workshop, clearly having been told the news, “Py, Snipes, let's friggin hustle! We got places to be, ya bunch a slowasses!”

“Piss off, ya bloody roadrunner! We're goin’ as fast as we can!” Sniper shot back, no real venom in his voice. He knew that Scout had been hit hard by the loss of their teammate, especially since he and Soldier had been the last ones to see them. The kid was more sensitive then the rest of them, especially when it came to someone he cared about dying

Scout slowed ever so slightly, just enough to grab ahold of Pyro's hand. The runner and the arsonist took off together to where Spy was waiting, and Sniper deviated off towards his van.

Heavy was already waiting for him when he arrived, the hulking giant holding both Soldier and Demo over his shoulders. The two had clearly had more to drink than usual, because neither of them were conscious. Sniper contemplated waking them for a moment; this was important after all, and he knew neither man would want to be left out of the loop.

And then he considered how completely insufferable the duo would be if they were awake, and he simply nodded towards the back of the van as he moved to sit in the driver's seat.

Heavy joined him a few moments later, and they were off, speeding down a dusty New Mexico road. Spy's expensive, gleaming vehicle was tearing down the same road as them, the light of the gradually setting sun bouncing off the well maintained blue paint job. He'd told Sniper the name once, while also threatening to gut the marksman if he so much as stepped near the vehicle, but Sniper couldn't be bothered to memorize it.

Sniper had thought that Spy wouldn't ever dare go as fast as he was now, what with all the potholes and tumbleweeds around that could potentially damage the Frenchman's precious ride, but perhaps he'd underestimated how much losing the Chemist had weighed on their most elusive teammate. Spy, for all his aloofness, did occasionally let slip the fact that he actually liked his teammates. Sometimes. Rarely. And usually in some strange, hard to interpret way.

He saw Scout's head pop out of one of the backseat windows, and the lad raised a hand to shield his eyes, like he was trying to see something in the distance. He must have spotted something other than desert, because he pointed towards an upcoming side road before popping back inside.

Sure enough, the car skidded around the corner, and Sniper followed, squinting his own eyes in an attempt to see what Scout had been pointing at.

Tire tracks marred the road, ones that hadn't been caused by Spy's quick turn, but that were also very recent. Sniper grinned and pressed harder on the gas, accelerating until he was only a few feet behind the other vehicle.

He'd never had a target escape before, and Miss Pauling wasn't about to make him break that streak.

Cold.

You were so cold.

You'd awoken to the sound of your teeth chattering, the sound only made worse when another wave of ripples inevitably wracked your prone form. Each breath came as a gasping wheeze, catching on the film of phlegm that had made a home in your throat and chest. Your stomach felt almost alive in your guts, spitting acid on your sensitive middle as it growled and snarled and roared for food that you couldn't give it.

You tried to get up, but your body began to shake and wobble dangerously as you began putting pressure on your forearm. Apparently, all your energy had been diverted to shivering in a, perhaps futile, attempt to keep your internal organs from freezing over. Breathing out a puff of warm air, you slid your hands over your chest and stomach, eyes widening as you realized that something was deeply, deeply wrong.

Gone was your well earned muscles and insulating body fat. You felt dangerously thin, like a starved greyhound. Whatever dark magic and science pulled you back from death had seemingly lost most of your fat and muscle reserves in the process. Truly, it was a miracle that you'd been able to walk at all!

You were in a bad spot, and you weren't sure Respawn would be able to save you again, should the worst happen. After all, no merc had ever starved to death before, and you had no idea what would happen if you did.

‘That’s not going to happen.’ You tried to reassure yourself, ‘Pauling will come to get me.’

How long had you been asleep? It hadn't felt like long, but there were no windows in this common room, and it wasn't as though you could rely on your stomach to tell you that a great deal of time had passed.

With little else to do, you lay your head back down on the cold couch cushions, attempting to curl up closer to the plush, velvety fabric. You tucked your arms into your armpits and folded your knees up close to your chest as you shivered once again. You'd lost feeling in your toes and fingers, but you could still, with great difficulty, wiggle them, which you counted as a win. Your eyes slipped shut as you turned your face down towards your chest, nose buried in the fabric of your uniform in a desperate attempt to seek out any scrap of warmth.

Sleep came easy enough, but it was far from a peaceful rest. Nightmares of endless darkness and being reborn wrong plagued your mind. You woke frequently, but exhaustion dragged you back into unconsciousness just as quickly. Each time you awoke, you were reminded of just how hungry you were, and the urge to gnaw at your own dangerously thin arms grew in intensity. Thirst plagued you as well, and each time your failing mind allowed it, you licked desperately at the inside of your mouth, trying to acquire some moisture for your sandpaper-esque throat.

On your next return to the waking world, as you stared out towards the door that led to the hallway, contemplating drinking one of your fatal mixtures, if only to end your suffering and quicken your return to Respawn, a sound echoed out into the lonely building. You lifted your head, blearily squinting towards the door. Had that been real? Or simply an illusion, a trick crafted by your starved brain?

“Chem? Chem, can you hear me?!”

Miss Pauling.

She did come for you!

You grinned, the action pulling at your chapped lips. You tried to call out, but all you managed was a slight cough. Huffing, you flopped your head back down, eyes locked on the door. You knew that she knew where the phone was in this place; there was no way someone like Miss Pauling didn’t know the ins and outs of every place her mercs set up shop in, so it was only a matter of time before she found you.

Sure enough, after a few minutes passed you began to hear footsteps pounding down the hall. It wasn’t the heavy, familiar footfalls of your team, but rather a lighter, quieter sound. A blurry purple figure entered your field of vision, and after your eyes finally focused, you saw a disheveled, red-cheeked Miss Pauling standing before you.

“Hey there, stranger.” You rasped, wincing slightly when you felt hands suddenly cup your cheeks. Pauling’s hands were warm and slightly calloused, and you blinked slowly, leaning into her touch.

“Jesus Christ, Chem. You never do anything by halves, huh?” Pauling laughed, though the noise came out more like a sob.

“Can't. I wouldn't be a very good Chemist if I did, right?” You joked softly, your eyelids drooping slowly as you began to relax, “Things’d be spillin’ all over the place.”

“Woah, hey!” A series of quick, rapid taps against your cheeks made you open your eyes again, “Stay awake, okay? You're in rough shape, but I brought- well, stole but that's really not important- Engie's truck and his little mini dispenser thing-”

“You stole Engie’s truck?” You interrupted, voice tinged with a sense of horrified awe, “He's gonna kill you.”

The raven haired woman gave you a half smile as she reached an arm under you, pulling you up to your feet to stand beside her. Your vision swam, and you had to lean heavily into her.

“I think bringing you back will soften him up a bit.” She said, looping your arm around her shoulders, “Come on, let's get you to the truck. You look like you're about to pass out.”

“I might.” You admitted. “Got anything to eat? I'm starving.”

Miss Pauling glanced over your emaciated form. “That… actually might be the case. When Respawn brings someone back, it usually leaves them feeling a little bit drained, and it's why you're all so hungry at the end of a battle. Respawning takes energy, and I'd say this last trip took almost all of yours. It ate right through your fat and muscle reserves!”

“Ah,” You replied, “I was afraid that might be the case. What happens if I Respawn again?”

“It's… it's probably best if we don't test that out.”

The two of you walked through the base in silence after that, with you leaning heavily on Miss Pauling for support. She didn't seem to mind, however; though you often caught her casting worried glances at you. You felt the temperature in the air steadily drop as you reached the entrance to the base, yet you were still caught off guard when a chilly blast of wintry air smacked you in the face. Snow swirled all around you, coating the base and battlefield in white. The first rays of an early morning sunrise were just starting to peak over the horizon, giving you enough light to see by.

In the distance, you could see Engie's truck, the blue vehicle standing out amidst the white. However, something seemed… off about the truck. You squinted, trying to figure out what was wrong.

“Hey P, did you bring a… a dog with you?” You mumbled, tilting your head at the canine shape that stood in the headlights.

“What?” Miss Pauling looked confused for a moment, before she, too, saw the creature. “What is… uh oh.”

“Uh oh? Why uh oh?” You questioned, before taking a closer look at the dog, which was now slowly moving towards the two of you.

Oh.

Uh oh indeed.

It wasn't a dog.

It was a wolf.

The beast was huge, with a thick, ungroomed black coat and amber eyes that glowed a bright, golden color in the early morning. It growled as it approached, and you could see saliva frothing at its mouth.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.” You balked, stumbling as Miss Pauling pulled you both back, “A rabid wolf. Why not!”

“How did it even contract rabies all the way out here?!” Miss Pauling yelped, quickly drawing her pistol. You eyed the small gun, wondering if she could aim well enough to shoot the hulking animal with your dead weight hanging off her.

Left with no other options, you weakly pawed at your coat, trying to locate something that could help you fight off the rabid beast. You had all the ingredients needed to make something truly dangerous, but if you tried to mix them now, you'd just as likely make something that would kill you before the wolf could.

Grabbing something that would at least blind the animal, you braced yourself as best you could, ready to try and help Miss Pauling fight.

“INCOMING!”

You, Miss Pauling, and the wolf all turned your heads as one, eyes widening when Sniper's van suddenly emerged from the snowstorm like the chariot of an angry Australian god. The vehicle slammed into the wolf, sending it flying out of sight. A few seconds later, an expensive looking car skidded to a stop a few feet away, one of the back doors opening before the car could even fully stop.

Scout came barreling out first, slipping on the snow and ice as he tried to regain his balance. Sniper, Heavy, and Spy followed suit, with the other's appearing behind them. They all looked absolutely horrendous; their eye bags had eye bags, Soldier and Sniper clearly needed to shave, and none of them were even remotely dressed for the cold weather of the north.

But they had never looked better to you.

Scout spotted you first, and you hardly had time to blink before the Bostonian was upon you, yanking you out of Miss Pauling's hold and into his arms.

“You're alive! Holy crap you're alive!” Scout cried, spinning you around and pressing his face into your shoulder.

Pyro joined you next, the arsonist all but smothering both you and Scout as they sobbed. You patted their back, leaning into their warm suit, attempting to leech their abundant body heat.

Before you could get a word out, a fierce yell startled you into a defensive stance. Suddenly, you were being held up by your armpits and being shook like a maraca.

“DO NOT PULL SUCH A STUNT AGAIN, MAGGOT!” Soldier yelled angrily, but you caught a glimpse of wet eyes under his helmet, “IF YOU DIE LIKE THAT AGAIN I WILL PERSONALLY RIP YOUR YELLOW-BELLIED SOUL RIGHT OUT OF HELL!”

“Sol, put them down, consarnit!” Engineer chided, smacking Soldier in the side. Once the helmeted man set you back down onto the ground, Engineer pulled you into a warm, firm hug, his flesh hand coming to rest on the back of your neck.

“Hey Engie.” You murmured softly, “Don’t be mad at Miss P, okay?”

“Buddy, ah’m gonna be treatin’ her to a steak dinner after this.” he chuckled, before gently passing you over to someone else, “Here, Demo. Be careful with ‘em. They ain’t lookin’ too good right now.”

“Aye, ya look like shite, dont’cha?” Demo laughed softly, gently ruffling your hair before pulling you into a hug, tucking you under his chin. “Ah, I’m glad yer alright. Ye gave us a right scare, ya wee bastard!”

“Sorry.” You chuckled, leaning into his chest. Demo patted your shoulder, before you were released and spun around to see Medic, Heavy, Spy and Sniper. While Heavy lifted you up into one arm, Miss Pauline began questioning how the mercenaries had found out where you and her were.

Medic descended upon you like a mother hen, fretting about the poor state you were in while simultaneously raving about the unexplored limits of the Respawn Machines. He plucked a few tablets out of a bottle in one of his coat pockets, instructing you to swallow, not chew them as Sniper handed you a well worn thermos. It was warm, and when you opened the lid, the smell of coffee hit your nose. A quick sip revealed that it was made just how you liked, which made you smile, because it meant that the usually unsociable marksman had gone out of his way to make the drink specifically for you.

“Here, mon ami,” Spy strode forward, a blanket draped over his arm. He wrapped it around your shoulders gently, tucking it in tightly, almost like your parents would do for you when you were small, “this should warm you up a bit.”

The tenderness of your usually tough, rowdy teammates made you sniffle, and you snuggled in closer to Heavy, clutching your thermos.

“I love you guys.” You said, your voice wavering with emotion, rather than cold this time, “Seriously. I- there isn’t a better team out there.”

Your praise made the gathered men puff up slightly. It was clear your opinion mattered a great deal to them.

“Hell yeah! We’re da’ freakin’ best!” Scout shouted.

“Leetle Chemist is included in that.” Heavy added, and you blushed slightly.

“Heavy is right, mein Chemiker.” Medic agreed, “Jou have cheated Death more zhen anyone else before jou! It is truly amazing!”

“I don’t feel amazing.” You said, quickly sipping the offered coffee.

“Vell, you are severely malnutritioned, so I am not surprised.” Medic replied. “Ah, don’t drink zhat so fast. Jou’ll just zhrow it back up.”

Once the word ‘malnutritioned’ passed the doctor’s lips, you could practically hear Engineer’s ears perk up. You were sure many home cooked meals with Engie in his workshop were in your future.

“Come on, mate, let’s get em’ outta the cold, yeah?” Sniper suggested to Heavy, gesturing towards his van. Spy snorted.

“Please, you want to have our dear Chemist rest in zhat thing? The last thing zhey need is to be surrounded by piss and crocodile jerky.” he snarked, which drew a disgruntled sneer from Sniper.

“Oi! My van is perfectly clean, and its leagues bettah than your dinky lil’ car! You just wanna hog all their attention ‘cause you’re a needy, selfish buggah!” Sniper shot back.

Heavy sighed deeply as the two men started arguing, before looking down at you.

“Heavy thinks it would be best for leetle Chemist to ride with Engineer in his truck for now. Team is very excited you are alive, and this makes them act-” the two of you winced as Soldier started yelling again, “more like loud idiots than usual, да?”

“At this point, big guy, I’d welcome the noise.” You admitted, “It was… quiet here. And lonely.”

Heavy looked at you with a saddened expression. “How long were you alone for?”

“A… a day, I think. It was hard to tell, since there were no windows.” You glanced over in the direction the wolf had been flung. “Honestly, that might have been for the best, considering what was waiting out here for me and Miss Pauling when we finally got outside.”

“Was wolf, yes? Heavy could not see very well, but it looked like wolf.” The heavy weapons expert said as he started off towards Engineer’s truck.

“Yeah, it was a wolf. A rabid one. You guys showed up just in time. I was afraid it would get close enough to bite us.” You shivered, pulling your blanket in closer.

“Miss Pauling would not have allowed that. She is small woman, yes, but very fierce.” Heavy paused for a moment, looked over at Scout and Soldier, who were talking to Miss Pauling, then leaned in to whisper: “She is better shot than some of the team. Do not tell them I said this.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t say a word.” You winked as Heavy gently set you down in the passenger seat, careful not to jostle you. The seat was still warm from the heater, and you relished in it, almost not even noticing when Engineer slipped into the driver’s seat next to you.

“Buckle up, darl’.” He grinned, reaching to pull the seat belt over your chest.

“Thanks, Engie.” You returned his smile and lay back, resting your head against your seat belt.

As you got comfortable, you noticed that the truck had an extra few passengers. Pyro waved to you from the back as both Soldier and Scout climbed up into the bed. Both men looked visibly cold, but they stubbornly plonked themselves down, dead set on staying near you. Just in case.

Spy and Sniper finally stopped squabbling when they realized that you were no longer around to fight over, and both slunk back to their respective vehicles as Engineer started up his truck. Miss Pauling and Medic followed Spy, while Demo and Heavy trailed after Sniper. Knowing your team, there would be another fight the second you all stopped for gas or food, likely over who you should sit with for the rest of the drive back. Honestly, it was like being back in school, surrounded by a friend group of mentally ill lunatics who fought like spoiled dogs for your attention.

You wouldn’t change a thing. You were, after all, just as needy and clingy as the rest of them, and you knew you’d be even more desperate to be near someone all the time, afraid to be back in that horrid silence.

How wonderful for you, then, that you had 8 men, 1 woman, and 1 Pyro who would be more than happy to indulge you.

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chocodile · 3 months ago

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Worldbuilding time! Let's talk about vehicular travel in modern day Amaranthine, using the snowmobiles from this recent comic as a jumping off point.

"Prowler" - Ironfrost patrol snowmobile - (year of manufacture: 1912)

These half-track all terrain vehicles are used by Ironfrost soldiers to travel long distances over the tundra. Originally adapted from older, four-wheeled automobiles, the half-track Prowler design became increasingly standardized over the years as eternal winter continued to creep southward. They are capable of operating in a wide variety of terrain conditions and are fairly modular. Common mods include removable skis, hardtop and softtop roofs, gun mounts, and towing attachments.

Like all vehicles, Prowlers are steam-powered. The external combustion engine runs on kerosene. In snowy conditions, feedwater can be obtained automatically through a scraper port on the underside of the vehicle, though manual feeding is required in muddy or dry conditions.

Though not as fast, reliable, or efficient as trains, their agile nature have made them an essential part of life in the far north… and, increasingly, in the middle country as well. The Rising Dawn have stolen several Prowlers for their own usage.

"Aspire" - Classic automobile (year of manufacture: 1890)

Four-wheeled vehicles are an unusual sight in the modern day. Ironfrost-made cars were in vogue among the southern rim upper class for many years, but the worsening climate has made them more and more niche as road conditions outside of major cities deteriorate. The majority of higher horsepower automobiles were converted directly into half tracks, while older, lower-end vehicles were generally scrapped for parts.

The Aspire was the last four-wheeled vehicle widely available to the public. Advertised as a stylish, powerful, modern vehicle for the elite on the go, it boasted a sleek, classy aesthetic, a removable softtop roof, and a powerful steam engine with a large kerosene tank suitable for travel between cities. Preorders were advertised to southern rim wealthy in local papers. However, a series of unusually bad winters soon after its debut scared off buyers, shutting down production early and ultimately spelling doom for the entire four-wheeled automobile industry.

One of those Aspire preorders went to Baroness Jocosa North. Though she has since passed away, her son, Theopolis North, still maintains the now wildly impractical car in near mint condition. It is almost never seen outside of its garage.

"'Icebreaker' Class E 250" - Northern cross-country train (year of manufacture: 1903)

The majority of modern-day overland travel is accomplished via train. Massive long-distance rail lines, laid before the world became quite so cold, connect the remaining cities, allowing (relatively) safe travel and trade across vast expanses of tundra.

Southerly locomotives typically operate with only a basic wedge plow attachment. However, trains that run further north must be fitted with gigantic rotary snowplows. These complex machines require significant maintenance. Though they can and will chew up most things that get in the train's way, encounters with particularly large and bony beasts have been known to jam them.

Ironfrost's line terminates in a massive, sprawling rail yard where Icebreakers are fitted and maintained. Those who have visited it tell of a dark, dreary wasteland of twisted scrap metal and ice where coal dust and smoke have turned both the sky and ground black. All northern trains must pass through that place eventually.

"Chariot of the Dawn" - One-of-a-kind luxury automobile (year of manufacture: 1920)

The only place where four-wheeled automobiles still thrive is the City of the Sun. The eternal summers and paved roads are well-suited to cars and trolleys, though they are, of course, still something of a luxury good. Licenses for ownership and operation are ultimately controlled by the church, with His Radiance having the final say. (His most devout followers, of course, tend to get preferential treatment here.)

The City of the Sun manufactures its own vehicles, adapted from Ironfrost designs in a sort of divergent evolution. Freed from the road and weather concerns of the outside world, their automobiles favor sleek, swoopy body shapes, ornamental trim, low-slung bodies with limited ground clearance, and pastel paintjobs. Additionally, the engines are far less powerful and far more finicky, requiring regular maintenance.

His Radiance himself owns several custom automobiles, all of which are egregiously bedazzled to a degree that would look grotesque to anyone who wasn't used to it. Some are open-top, allowing his loyal followers an audience with his beautiful face and glittering halo, while others feature tinted windows. You know, in case he wants subtlety.

#furry #furry art #cars #vintage cars #worldbuilding #verse: amaranthine #things nobody asked for but I did anyway :P #it is pretty important to have designs for these though the story moves the characters back toward civilization (slowly)#my ocs #alex #ridge #others' ocs #theo #ambroys #(as usual the vehicles are heavily referenced!)

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raffaellopalandri · 1 year ago

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Leisure time

Bloganuary writing promptWhat do you enjoy doing most in your leisure time?View all responses Complex Leisure When most people tell me about their definition of leisure time, they imagine themselves engaged in activities like playing, watching TV, or going for a walk. But for me, leisure is about challenging my mind and pushing myself to learn new things. Photo by Andrea Piacquadio on…

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#Algorithm #algorithm design #Artificial Intelligence #bloganuary #bloganuary-2024-25 #calculus #chemistry #complexity #dailyprompt #dailyprompt-1828 #fun #Language #Leisure #Leisure time #Machine Learning #Maths #Physics #Raffaello Palandri #Statistics

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fabrickind · 2 years ago

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I know the joke is that Ghost Trick fans can't tell you why to play it, just that you should, but here's some spoiler-free reasons to play it:

It's an incredible puzzle game. The puzzles are basically Rube-Goldberg machines, where you manipulate objects in a series to effect change in the overall situation. Do you like complex mechanisms and the concept of the butterfly effect? Play this.

The basic gameplay: you are a ghost. You have the ability to posses and manipulate objects, and move from object to object. Someone bas died. You can go to four minutes before their death to change their fate using your Rube Goldberg powers. Also! The puzzles do a great job of ramping you up in difficulty and teaching you the gameplay, but wow do they get HARD in late game. You can replay any puzzle, and also rewind time as you wish. You can't lock yourself out of things by doing it wrong, since you can redo.

The story is SO GOOD. There's a reason why everyone tells you as little as possible -- it's a compelling mystery that sucks you in. The basic idea: you are dead. You need to figure out who you are and who killed you. This spins out into a tale of political intrigue.

It's by Shu Takumi, the creator of Ace Attorney. It has very similar vibes, in that it's absolutely bonkers characters and situations but also WILL make you cry once it's all revealed. Great mix of serious and humorous tones. Seriously, someone dies when a giant roast chicken statue falls on them and the root cause is because of [serious political events]

The aesthetics. Great music, great character design, have you SEEN what the game looks like? Really good use of color and stylization. Character animations are often hilarious.

Missile is there. You WILL love bestest boy. Don't google him. Just trust.

#ghost trick phantom detective #ghost trick #please play ghost trick #if you saw this reposted from twitter #no you didn't

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ellipsus-writes · 13 days ago

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Each week (or so), we'll highlight the relevant (and sometimes rage-inducing) news adjacent to writing and freedom of expression. This week:

Inkitt’s AI-powered fiction factory

Inkitt started in the mid-2010s as a cozy platform where anyone could share their writing. Fast forward twenty twenty-fuckkkkk, and like most startups, it’s pivoted hard into AI-fueled content production with the soul of an algorithm.

Pictured: Inkitt preparing human-generated work for an AI-powered flume ride to The Unknown.

Here’s how it works: Inkitt monitors reader engagement with tracking software, then picks popular stories to publish on its premium app, Galatea. From there, stories can get spun into sequels, spinoffs, or adapted for GalateaTV… often with minimal author involvement. Authors get an undisclosed cut of revenue, but for most, it’s a fraction of what they’d earn with a traditional publisher (let alone self-publishing).

“'They prey on new writers who have no idea what they’re doing,' said the writer of one popular Galatea series."

Many, many authors have side-eyed or outright decried the platform as inherently predatory for years, due to nebulous payout promises. And much of the concern centers on contracts that don’t require authors’ consent for editorial changes or AI-generated “additions” to the original text.

Now, Inkitt has gone full DiSrUpTiOn, leaning heavily on generative AI to ghostwrite, edit, generate audiobook narration, and design covers, under the banner of “democratizing storytelling.” (AI? In my democratized storytelling platform? It’s more likely than you think.)

Pictured: Inkitt’s CEO looking at the most-read stories.

But Inkitt’s CEO doesn’t seem too concerned about what authors think: “His business model doesn’t need them.”

The company recently raised $37 million, with backers including former CEOs of Sony, Penguin, and HarperCollins, proving once again that publishing loves a disruptor… as long as it disrupts creatives, not capital. And more AI companies are mushrooming up to chase the same vision: “a vision of human-created art becoming the raw material for AI-powered, corporate-owned content-production machines—a scenario in which humans would play an ever-shrinking role.”

(Not to say we predicted this, but…)

Welcome to the creator-industrial complex.

Publishers to AI: Stop stealing our stuff (please?)

Major publishers—including The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Guardian, and Vox Media—have launched a "Support Responsible AI" campaign, urging the U.S. government to regulate AI's use of copyrighted content.

Like last month's campaigns by the Authors Guild and the UK's Society of Authors, there's a website where where you can (and should!) contact your representatives to say, “Hey, maybe stop letting billion-dollar tech giants strip-mine journalism.”

The campaign’s ads carry slogans like “Stop AI Theft” and “AI Steals From You Too” and call for legislation that would force AI companies to pay for the content they train on and clearly label AI-generated content with attribution. This follows lobbying by OpenAI and Google to make it legal to scrape and train on copyrighted material without consent.

The publishers assert they are not explicitly anti-AI, but advocate for a “fair” system that respects intellectual property and supports journalism.

But… awkward, The Washington Post—now owned by Jeff Bezos—has reportedly already struck a deal with OpenAI to license and summarize its content. So, mixed signals.

Still, as the campaign reminds us: “Stealing is un-American.”

(Unless it’s profitable.)

#WarForever

We at Ellipsus love a good meme-turned-megaproject. Back in January, the-app-formerly-known-as-Twitter user @lolt64 tweeted a cryptic line about "the frozen wastes of europa,” the earliest reference to the never-ending war on Jupiter’s icy moon.

A slew of bleak dispatches from weary, doomed soldiers entrenched on Europa’s ice fields snowballed (iceberged?) into a sprawling saga, yes-and-ing with fan art, vignettes, and memes under the hashtag #WarForever.

It’s not quite X’s answer to Goncharov: It turns out WarForever is some flavor of viral marketing for a tabletop RPG zine. But the internet ran with it anyway, with NASA playing the Scorcese of the stars.

In a digital hellworld increasingly dominated by AI slopification, data harvesting, and “content at scale,” projects like WarForever are a blessed reminder that creativity—actual, human creativity—perseveres.

Even on a frozen moon. Even here.

Let us know if you find something other writers should know about, (or join our Discord and share it there!)

- The Ellipsus Team xo

#ellipsus #writblr #writers on tumblr #writing #creative writing #anti ai #writing community #fanfic #fanfiction #fiction #inkitt #us politics

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marvelstoriesepic · 14 days ago

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Beneath the constellations

Pairing: Tattoo Artist!Bucky x Scared of needles!Reader

Summary: You are a needle-phobic but somehow agree to get a small, meaningful friendship tattoo with your best friends Darcy and Jane.

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: Needle phobia; mild panic; anxiety; physical discomfort; descriptions of a tattoo needle; nervous rambling; comfort

Author’s Note: This again is a request from one of my sweetest mutuals! I adore you, my dear and I hope you like what I did with your interesting and so creative idea ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

Your knee is bouncing. Your heart is racing. The design is folded up in your hands - a little tattoo that is so simple, tiny, meaningful - but your palms are sweaty and you can’t stop assaulting the inside of your cheek with your teeth.

The walls of the tattoo parlor are soft with shadows. Dark navy paint. There is low music humming along but it’s not soothing anything inside you. Sterilization hangs in the air and there’s also ink and something smoky - cedarwood or sage. It stays at the back of your throat like a ghost you swallowed by accident.

The waiting room is actually pretty aesthetically pleasant but you feel like choking on your own spit.

The cold vinyl bench beneath you vibrates with your leg rapidly moving up and down and up and down.

“I can’t do this,” you mutter lowly. “Oh my god. I’m gonna pass out.”

Darcy, sitting on your left, gives you a smile that doesn’t ease you at all. “You’re not getting open-heart surgery, babe. You’ve got to chill your beans.”

Jane, sitting on your right, grabs your leg to still its movement. She probably got annoyed at being shaken with the whole bench. “It’s so small, I’m sure you will barely feel it,” she tries to reassure you.

Darcy nudges you. “And it will stay on your body forever.”

“This is not helping at all, Darc,” you half whine, half grumble. “Can’t we just make this temporary, or something? Like, I don’t know, draw it on with a sharpie?”

“Hell nah,” Darcy complains. “This is for life,” she goes on, pointing wildly at all of you three. “We are going to seal the deal. Make it forever, officially.”

You want to laugh. Or scream. Or run. Or disappear.

A part of you thought this would be fine. That you could sit here like a normal adult with a normal nervous system and be needled with grace and honor. That the tattoo you promised you’d get with your best friends - the tiny one, the subtle one, the one you talked about under a summer sky, lying on your backs in a parking lot eating cold fries - would somehow feel like a small ceremony. Like something important.

Instead, your palms are damp and your stomach is a washing machine of dread and iced coffee. It turns round and round and round in circles, making you instinctively look for a nearby trash bin.

The door creaks open.

And then he walks in.

Bucky Barnes, according to the framed certifications on the wall. Also according to Darcy, who not-so-subtly whispered oh my god he’s hot when you walked in earlier and now leans in to your ear, to whisper “oh my god, he’s even hotter in person.”

He’s broad-shouldered and tall. Black tee, black jeans. Arms inked to the wrists in clean, complex lines. Geometric patterns like armor. You spot a white wolf curled around a blooming branch. A forget-me-not. The tattoo work is detailed. Almost luminous. An artwork of constellations on his skin, coiling like a secret he’s allowing the world to glimpse.

He looks at you.

You stop breathing.

“You ready?” he asks, voice a low rasp.

You make a sound that might be English. Might be a prayer. Might be a dying animal.

He blinks, then smiles. Just a little tug at the corner of his lip.

“Maybe one of you should go first,” you say to your friends quietly, voice barely hanging on.

“It’s not the gallows, babe,” Darcy muses, nudging you again.

“I know, but I-”

Jane cuts you a dry look, interrupting. “You made us matching Google Calenders for this.”

“I was drunk on sentiment and pinterest,” you argue but it’s useless.

“No stalling. You can’t back out now.“

“I’m not backing out,” you grumble. “I’m delegating the trauma.”

But they’re not moving. Not budging.

You indignantly get up. Slowly. Darcy leans over and smiles sharply, mischievously. “Hey, just ask if you can hold his hand during the act.”

You choke. On air. On dignity. On the sudden imagine of his fingers wrapped around yours. And you’re up, throwing her a last glare that lacks all the heat.

You turn to Bucky and he is full-on smirking now. Though his voice is not mocking.

“We can take our time,” he says gently, and gestures toward the door that will, as you can imagine, lead you to the torture chamber. Yes, that’s dramatic. Yes, you don’t care. Yes, you are spiraling.

After sending your friends a panicked look and them not that supportively giving you thumbs up in return while grinning brightly, you follow him as if you’re approaching your own funeral.

You walk like you’re made of wires and wet paper. Trailing behind him into the back room, your chest beating out the morse code for panic.

The chair is deceptively comfortable. Everything is clean and neat and doesn’t smell scary but your heart is beating so loud, you think it’s bruising your ribs.

He sits down on a stool, brings it closer to you with one hand, and adjusts his gloves. He moves slowly, most definitely for your sake.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt. “I’m being ridiculous.”

“You’re not,” he says, soft and even. “You’d be surprised how many people get nervous.”

You inhale. Exhale. Fail.

“I’m Bucky,” he says easily, glancing at you with eyes the color of melted steel and winter storms. You give him your name and he smiles. “What are we doing today?”

You fumble with the paper in your hands, clumsy movements lifting it to show him.

It’s stupid, honestly. Three tiny constellations in a delicate arc. Only a little bigger than a thumbnail. Barely enough to be called a tattoo.

He leans closer to look. His knee brushes yours and you hold your breath.

“I know it’s small. It’s dumb. I mean, not dumb, like-”

Bucky waits.

Silent. Patient. The corner of his mouth tilts up.

“It’s three constellations.” The words tumble out of you, messy and fast. As if trying to explain your favorite dream to a stranger who wasn’t there. “Mine, Jane’s, and Darcy’s. We got stranded once during a road trip, out in the middle of nowhere, and the car battery died. So we laid on the hood, freezing our asses off, and waited for a tow truck under this crazy clear sky. Jane started pointing out stars and we found our constellations. And we just talked. About everything. So we-”

You stop.

Because you’re talking too much. Because your face is hot. Because he’s watching you as if he’s listening.

And Bucky only smiles. Just this small, warm curve of his mouth that feels like praise.

You blink too hard. Look down at your hands.

“It’s silly.” You just can’t help explaining yourself. “I know it’s barely anything. And it’s not even a real design, really. I’m not even supposed to be here, I mean-”

You stop again. Press your lips together.

He’s still looking at you. Calm. Not judging. Not laughing.

“You were saying?” he asks, voice quiet.

You breathe in a shaky breath.

“I’m scared of needles,” you admit embarrassed. “Like. Deeply, irrationally scared. I had to get a flu shot once and almost took out the poor nurse with my bag.”

Bucky huffs out a short and amused laugh, but his eyes are genuine and sympathetic. He nods like that’s the most normal thing anyone’s ever said.

“It’s not dumb, sweetheart. Nor is it silly.” You’d be on the floor if you were standing up. “I like it,” he says earnestly. “Three stars. Three best friends. Kind of poetic.”

“Yeah, it’s-” you stammer. “It means a lot to us.”

“That’s nice to hear.” His eyes rake over you so intensely, so sincere. “Some of the best tattoos I've done were barely the size of a freckle.”

You don’t know if he’s saying this to make you feel better, but either way, you are not sure it helps.

You feel like your skin is trying to slip off your body.

He opens the packaging with quiet and sure movements that still seem to be a little slower than he would probably be normally.

“I tattoo six-foot-tall dudes who pass out cold,” he starts soothingly. “You’re sittin’ here, scared, and still doing it. That’s brave.” He says it so simply.

You stare at him. Try to believe it.

“May I?” he asks, looking up at you, and gesturing toward your arm.

You nod. Too fast.

He reaches out carefully like you’re glass and holy.

His fingers are warm. Gentle. He adjusts your wrist, turning it slightly toward the light. It feels like gravity has shifted. Like the earth tipped a little, just to watch this happen.

His thumb brushes against the inside of your forearm, where your pulse is having a complete existential crisis. His touch might be absentminded but it sparks something that goes way too deep. A tremor. A stormcloud. A sigh under your skin.

“Right here okay?” he asks, voice low.

You swallow. “Yeah. That’s good. That’s perfect.”

The needle glints in the light like a tiny sword ready to tear apart your skin.

“You sure?”

“No,” you say honestly, voice a little unstable. “But I’m doing it anyway.”

He chuckles under his breath and his smile changes, gets softer, younger.

You let out a breath. Try to remember the sky that night, the way the stars felt close enough to kiss. But there’s something else you’d rather kiss right no-

“I’ll go slow. And I’ll be gentle. Promise,” he says, almost under his breath. “Just breathe.”

You nod. Let him see the fear. Let him see you choose it away.

He turns on the machine. Your hand is shaking. The buzz rings in your ears.

He touches your arm again. Carefully. Steadying you. Taking in an exaggerated breath for you to follow.

“Tell me if you need a break,” he states softly, but there is something else in his tone. “Or, you know. If you want to hold my hand.”

You freeze. Not sure if you heard that right. Your brain is a flock of birds flapping around your skull.

“I- What?”

He smiles. Not teasing. Not smug. It’s soft. It’s kind.

“Some people do better with a distraction,” he says like it’s no big deal. So casual, but his undertone makes you promise yourself to punch Darcy Lewis later on.

You stare at him for a second too long, not sure if he is even serious. You feel like you’ve been thrown into a different body. One that’s nervous and melting and acutely aware of every square inch of air between you.

His palm lays open as an invitation. Looking so soft and callous at the same time.

“Can you even do this with one hand?” you ask cautiously.

He smirks. “You bet I can, darling.”

After a patient moment, you reach out, fingers finding his, and he shifts just enough to meet you halfway. His grip is loose and open, letting you decide how much to hold on.

And you do. Not tight. But not soft either.

It’s safe.

He starts.

The needle meets your skin sharp and sudden, but it doesn’t feel unbearable. You’re too focused on the fact that you’re literally holding hands with the hottest guy you’ve seen in a long while. Maybe ever. His thumb has started tracing circles on the back of yours.

You’re not sure how much time passes. Minutes stretch and snap and vanish but then it’s over.

The buzz stops. The silence blooms around you.

You blink down at your wrist, skin warm and reddened and wrapped in something tiny and starborn. Three constellations, nestled close.

He wipes it gently, thumb brushing away excess ink with a kind of care that makes you want to cry.

“It’s beautiful,” he says. Quiet. Like it’s just for you.

You don’t even realize he’s still holding your hand until he gives it a squeeze and pulls away to grab a mirror.

You almost say wait.

He places the mirror in your hand.

Your breath is lost somewhere deep when you look down at your inked skin. It’s so small. So perfect. Exactly what you hoped for, only softer now. As if it’s always been there. Meant to stay forever.

You glance up at him.

His eyes are warm. Curious. “Took it like a champ,” he says.

You shrug, a little shyly. “I didn’t faint. So that’s a win.”

He lets out a low chuckle. The sound does things to you.

“I’ve seen people pass out from paper cuts. You’re fine,” he assures.

You don’t know what to do with that or the heat pooling at your neck, so you look down again. Tracing the constellations with your eyes like you’re learning to read a new kind of language.

“Thank you,” you offer, and it’s not just for the ink. It’s for the kindness. The patience. The hand-holding. The compassion. “I love it.”

“No need to thank me, darling.”

He takes a few more moments studying you before peeling off his gloves and standing up.

You stand too. Your legs wobble a little, traitorous and unsure, and his hand hovers near your back.

You don’t say anything.

But you feel it.

All of it.

The warmth.

The hush.

The stars, still burning softly beneath your skin.

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fratttymatty · 2 months ago

Text

The Scent of Rebirth

(All characters are 18+)

James Pritchard adjusted his glasses and tugged at the collar of his too-tight school shirt, already damp with nervous sweat. At eighteen, he had the physique of someone who had spent his childhood indoors, nose buried in fantasy novels and science textbooks. He was overweight, his rounded cheeks permanently flushed, and his thick brown hair always a little too greasy.

Today’s biology lesson was on body types—ectomorph, mesomorph, endomorph. A fascinating subject to James, but not to the other students in the class, a rowdy bunch of roadmen who had only turned up because they had nowhere better to be.

Mr. Patel, their weary teacher, pointed to an illustration of an overweight figure on the board. “This is an endomorph—characterized by higher body fat, a rounder build, and—”

“Bruv, they should just go gym, innit?”

Laughter erupted across the room. The comment came from Kyle, a broad-shouldered sixth-former in an untucked school shirt, a loosened black tie, and a Moncler gilet over his school blazer. His mates, a group of barely engaged, vape-smoking roadmen, smirked and nodded in agreement.

James slouched in his seat, cheeks burning. He felt their eyes on him. They didn’t have to say it. He was the endomorph in the room.

The day dragged on, and by the last period, James was waiting alone in an empty classroom. His friends—Tom and Aiden, two equally nerdy boys—had gone to grab something from the vending machine.

That’s when he heard footsteps.

The door swung open, and Kyle and his boys strolled in. James sat up straight, instantly wary.

“Oi, man’s gotta freshen up, yeah?” Kyle grinned, pulling out a can of Lynx Africa.

“Yeah, dis place stinks of nerd, fam,” chuckled another.

James frowned. “Uh… I was just waiting for—”

PSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Before he could react, the room was filled with thick, choking clouds of Lynx Africa. Can after can was unloaded into the air, the overwhelming, spicy scent clinging to his skin and clothes.

James coughed, eyes watering. His head swam. The room spun. He gripped the desk as a dizzy heat spread through his limbs.

Something was… changing.

James gasped, his voice cracking mid-breath. His stomach tightened, the excess weight melting away as if being burned off by the sheer force of Lynx Africa. His school shirt stretched, then loosened as his chest hardened, his arms thickening into lean, toned muscle.

His spine straightened, shoulders broadening, giving him a confident, dominant stance. His fingers tingled as they toughened, no longer the soft hands of someone who spent hours typing on a laptop.

His face sharpened—his jawline becoming chiselled, his baby fat vanishing. His thick, greasy hair shortened into a trim, textured fade, perfectly styled without effort.

His glasses slipped off his nose. He no longer needed them.

His mind ached as thoughts—intelligent, articulate thoughts—were scrubbed away, replaced by something simpler. Gone were the complex political debates he enjoyed. Instead, his head filled with vague opinions about “immigrants taking over” and “how the left ruined this country.”

His voice deepened, acquiring the rough, lazy cadence of a roadman.

His clothes shifted—his baggy, tucked-in white school shirt became tight and fitted, the sleeves rolled up to show his new toned arms. His school blazer transformed into a black designer puffer, worn over his shoulders instead of properly. His once-neat tie was loosened, and his polished shoes morphed into black Nike Air Forces.

James Pritchard was gone.

In his place sat Bradley, an 18-year-old roadman, lean and toned, with a dumbed-down mind and an arrogant smirk.

The door swung open.

Tom and Aiden walked in, laughing—until they saw Bradley.

They froze.

“James?” Tom stammered, eyes wide.

Bradley frowned. “Bruv, who the fuck is James?” He leaned back in his chair, looking at them like they were a pair of wastemen.

Aiden swallowed. “It’s you, mate. You just—”

Bradley scoffed. “Nah, I dunno what you man are on about. Man don’t know no nerdy James, yeah?”

His voice was filled with swagger, his old polite, nervous tone erased completely.

Kyle and his boys re-entered, grinning. Kyle clapped Bradley on the back. “Oi, my guy lookin’ fresh, you know. Man finally levels up.”

Bradley smirked. “You done know, bruv. These neeks tryna chat shit, yeah?”

Kyle sneered at Tom and Aiden. “Oi, bun these bruddas, fam. Man don’t need no nerds in his life.”

Bradley laughed—a cocky, dismissive laugh. “Real talk.”

Tom’s face fell. “You’re really gone, aren’t you?”

But Bradley didn’t hear him. He had already turned his back, walking over to Kyle’s table. Someone passed him a vape, and without hesitation, he inhaled, exhaling a thick cloud of watermelon-flavoured smoke.

His old life? Forgotten.

Later that day, Bradley sat with Kyle and the mandem outside the school, leaning against the railings, his blazer half-off his shoulders. He took another drag of his vape, exhaling slowly.

“So what you sayin’, bruv?” one of them asked. “Man used to be one of dem lefty neeks, yeah?”

Bradley squinted. He had been a proud liberal, hadn’t he? But that all felt… cringe now. Weak. Pathetic.

“Nah, blud,” he scoffed. “Man clocked the truth. Lefties are soft, fam. Proper wastemen, letting this country get taken over.”

Kyle nodded approvingly. “Real talk, fam. Man’s gotta back Reform UK, innit. Can’t be lettin’ the government keep taking man’s money for them benefits lot.”

Bradley grinned. “Straight, bruv. And real talk? There’s bare foreigners everywhere now. Can’t even walk down my own road without hearin’ some mad language, fam. Man don’t even feel like man’s in England no more.”

The group laughed and nodded, passing the vape around.

He belonged here now.

A few days later, Bradley was posted up outside a chicken shop, surrounded by his new mandem, sharing a vape and talking about nonsense.

Then, she walked past.

Georgina.

The fittest chav in school. Platinum blonde hair, thick fake lashes, tight crop top (despite the uniform rules), and the most insane back Bradley had ever seen.

She noticed him.

“Oi, you Kyle’s boy now, yeah?” she said, eyeing him up and down.

Bradley licked his lips, grinning. “You done know.”

She smirked. “Yeah, you’re kinda fit now, you know.”

Bradley pulled her close, hands on her waist. “You already know you’re mine, innit?”

She giggled. “Obviously.”

As he leaned in for a kiss, the last fragments of James Pritchard were erased.

He was Bradley now. Forever.

#male tf #male tf story #gay to straight #smart to dumb #gym bro tf #scally tf

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makeitmakesomesense · 4 months ago

Text

A Long Time Coming

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Word Count: 2.4K

A/N: This is from a heinous prompt from a heinous friend. It is silliness and then it is smut. It also uses a lovely prompt from @taylorswiftmicrofic for the 9th of January, which is 'jokes'.

Sometimes, when you were caught in a moment alone with Natasha, there was this spark.

Her tongue touching her teeth when she smiled her brightest. Her shoulder bumping yours in elevators. Her dry jokes as you made it through the hardest days.

There were other times too. Crumpled in the kitchen when the darkness got too much. Your hand at the small of her back. Her chin resting on your own shoulder as you gazed out at a world that would never be the same.

There was a spark. If you were honest, there were embers now. A gentle flickering in your lower stomach. A heat that burned gently.

A wanting.

It wasn’t on the table, not for either of you. Maybe five years ago, maybe before everything had fallen apart. Now your lives were about solving the world’s problems not your own.

Natasha was the bravest person in the world. She was efficient too. You’d barely wrapped your head around the possibility of time travel before Natasha had organised the task force to achieve it.

She was the bravest person in the world. That’s why no-one blinked when she volunteered first to save it.

She dressed in the futuristic white suit and stood in the designated place. She glanced at the others and then at you. Her tongue touched her teeth when she smiled wide, she gave you a thumbs up.

The complex machinery, that filled the room, hummed and sputtered.

And, then, Natasha disappeared.

The fallout took its time to be alarming.

The lights in the room flickered uncertainly for a few moments. You waited, trying not to think about Natasha being so far away, so out of time. You waited for Dr. Banner to press the button that would bring her back.

He pressed it at last. And then you watched his brow crease in confusion. He pressed it again. And again.

You started hyperventilating when it became clear.

So far away. So out of time.

Natasha was smaller than people realised. More fragile too.

Dr. Banner and Steve Rogers debated the technicalities of the situation for over an hour.

You paced the room, caught up with a need to search the world for someone you wouldn’t find.

Eventually, you heard them coming to a conclusion. It was her suit. The wires that crossed at the front of the chest, there must have been a fault.

You weren’t as brave as Natasha, you weren’t as efficient either. Still, you did your best. It took another hour for you to be suited up and ready for the hopefully simple mission. They were careful not to change any setting on the machine.

Theoretically Natasha had been sent back a decade to New York City. Theoretically that’s where you should be going too.

You were given a quick tutorial on removing the chest-plate from the suit and resetting the wires. If everything went to plan, it would be a simple rescue.

You didn’t bother pretending that it might be.

You stood in the centre of the room and listened to the machine begin to whir and hum. You closed your eyes and opened them somewhere new.

Green.

Your first and only thought as the colour overwhelmed you.

So much green.

Foliage like you’d never seen before. A sea of large fern plants that towered above you.

Definitely not New York City. You spun in a circle as you tried to assess your location. Maybe the rainforest? But surely the rainforest would have more rain and more forest?

Your eyes quickly scanned the landscape, a view of rolling hills that were covered in the strange vegetation that you could not place.

You heard a sudden noise to your left and startled.

Natasha Romanoff was barreling towards you. Dirt spattered her face. Her eyes were wide with uncharacteristic panic. Her bare arms were littered with scratches.

You blinked.

Her bare arms.

She wasn’t wearing her suit. She was barely wearing anything. Your throat tightened as you registered her sports bra and shorts. You didn’t have time to think before Natasha’s hands were gripping your arms.

Her heavy panting filled your ears as she leaned in.

‘Run.’ She said. ‘We have to run.’

You didn’t hesitate. Natasha’s grip on your hand was iron tight as she dragged you lithely through the undergrowth. You did everything you could to keep up and not fall over.

After a few minutes, Natasha finally slowed her pace. Her head swivelled around, ascertaining the safety of your new location.

Abruptly, she exhaled in relief. Then, she turned back to you and wrapped you in the tightest hug.

‘I’m so glad to see you.’ She muttered breathlessly against your shoulder.

You hugged her back, half relieved and half panicked.

‘Natasha.’ You started unsurely. ‘Where the hell are we? When are we?’

Natasha pulled back and held your face between her hands. You stared into her eyes, realising suddenly that her pupils were extremely dilated.

‘I don’t know how to tell you this.’ She said thoughtfully.

You braced your shoulders.

‘Just tell me. Get it over with.’

Natasha took your head and swivelled in 90 degrees. You stared in the direction she'd pointed you towards. You scanned the horizon and tried to understand what you were missing. Your heart leapt in horrible realisation. A giant tree, relatively far away. The tree seemed to be eating its own leaves. You blinked and tried to make sense of it. The tree moved slowly forwards.

Dinosaur.

Your mouth fell open in an ‘O’ shape.

You glanced back at Natasha. She was staring at your open mouth and wearing an expression you'd never seen before. You closed your mouth self consciously.

‘Oh my God.’ You choked out. ‘Oh my God.’

Natasha’s fingers dug slightly into your scalp.

‘I know.’ She breathed, her stare still intent on your lips. You stared at her in confusion. Her breathing was becoming rapid and shallow.

‘Natasha.’ You tried, wondering what kind of trauma could have occurred to make her this distracted. Her gaze glanced back to you. She chewed her lower lip and gave you a small smile.

‘Yeah?’

‘Where’s your suit?’ You asked slowly, feeling increasingly alarmed.

Natasha released your face as she waved her hand thoughtlessly in the air. Her cheeks were still flushed, even though you'd been standing still for several minutes.

‘Back where I landed.’

She gestured vaguely to her right.

‘Just next to the swamp.’ She paused with obvious disorientation then recollected her train of thought. She frowned. ‘It got all sticky.’

‘The suit?’ You checked, keeping your questions as simple as possible. ‘It got sticky from the swamp?’

Natasha shook her head. ‘No. It got sticky from this huge plant.’ Her hands echoed her words with a large gesture into the air.

‘Can you take me there?’ You prompted gently, holding her hand carefully in yours.

Natasha’s stare focused intensely on your joined hands. You squeezed her hand and asked the question again. Natasha’s eyes dragged themselves slowly up your body to meet your stare.

‘Yes.’ She said breathlessly, her thumb rubbing circles on the back of your hand. ‘But it makes me crazy.’

‘What does?’

‘The sticky stuff.’ She swallowed dryly. ‘That’s why I took it off.’

‘Crazy, like dizzy?’

Natasha nodded, a sudden look of panic in her eyes. ‘Yes.’ She lied badly. ‘Kind of.’

‘Kind of.’ You prompted gently, giving her hand another squeeze.

Natasha’s eyes darted wildly from your hands to your face, to your…chest.

‘Horny.’ She said breathlessly. ‘Kind of horny.’

Your mouth dropped into an ‘O’ again, and Natasha crossed her legs uncomfortably. She closed her eyes and took an unsteady breath. You promptly shut your mouth.

‘That must be… distracting.’

Natasha nodded slowly, and her eyes reopened with an obvious kind of longing in them.

You resolved to be decisive. To be professional. This was a mission. You tried to ignore the low burning heat that already lived in your stomach.

‘Well, we need you in the suit to get home.’ You told her seriously. ‘So let’s find it as fast as possible, and try to limit our exposure to whatever that sticky stuff is.’

Natasha nodded again, lips pressed tightly together. Her jaw ticked as her eyes wandered distractedly over your body again.

There was a concerningly loud crash in the distance.

‘Oh.’ Natasha murmured absentmindedly. ‘That’ll be the dinosaurs.’

Her free hand moved to your waist and you felt her nails dig into the firm fabric of the suit. Trying to tug you closer her.

You shook your head wordlessly and started leading her in the direction of the swamp and her missing suit.

Natasha walked obediently just behind you. You turned occasionally to check if you were still heading in the right direction. Every time she nodded, her stare never wavering from your ass.

You forced yourself to keep walking. You had to be the professional.

You noticed the foliage around you darken slightly, a sign of the nearby water source. You tried to keep your focus on the mission. On the very obvious and very real danger that you found yourself in.

You paused to determine your next path. Natasha's hands covered your ass and you pretended not to feel the light squeeze.

As you got closer to the swamp, Natasha started walking faster so she could be next to you. Her arm snaked around your waist again. You could feel the warmth radiating out from her. You could see it in her flushed cheeks. Every time you looked over at her, Natasha flushed harder.

Sometimes, you felt her hand wander downwards along your body. Carefully, you moved it back to your waist.

Eventually you came to a clearing. There were obvious signs that someone had been here before. Natasha’s eyes widened in recognition. After a moment, she pointed to the far corner of the clearing. There, you saw the previously-white suit discarded on top of a small boulder.

You swallowed nervously.

‘The suit needs a repair.’ You told Natasha shortly, her arm still eagerly around you. ‘I’m going to fix it before you put it on.’

You tried to let go of Natasha as you walked over to the suit. But she clung determinedly on. You didn’t bother fighting it, aware now that the best thing to do was get you both home as fast as possible.

When you reached the suit, you saw it was indeed coated in a sticky golden substance. You crouched down and grabbed a nearby twig, using it to scrape away most of the viscous liquid.

Then, you kept your focus steady, barely letting yourself breathe as you popped out the covering and repeated the repair instructions you’d been given by Dr. Banner. You tried not to worry about the stickiness that brushed against your fingertips.

You were putting the panel covering back onto the suit when it started.

An itching sensation across your body. An itching that soon became something else. A burning. Like a thousand sparks against your skin. Fireworks. You were burning. Wanting.

You were wanting.

Her.

You felt yourself shuddering. A sudden dryness in your throat as you tried to swallow. A sudden desperation. A cluttered mind.

‘Oh no.’ Natasha mumbled somewhere above you. 'Are you okay?'

You started panting. You couldn't remember words. All you could do was tug at her hand. The wanting was blinding.

Natasha crouched next to you. Your heart started pounding immediately.

You could feel the sparking electricity from her proximity. As if she was lightning and you were the perfect conductor.

‘Natasha.’ You murmured at last. You heard the obvious neediness in your voice. The wanting.

Natasha smiled widely as she took you in.

‘Oh, good.’ She half-moaned as she moved closer, filling up your vision and your world. You felt her hands tangling forcefully in your hair. You toppled backwards against the forest floor.

Somewhere deep down in the back of your mind, you wondered what kind of insects lived in the mud next to a Jurassic swamp.

Then, Natasha’s tongue ran along your neck and you forgot your own name. Her lips were on you eagerly. Her mouth was kissing and biting as she made her way to your mouth.

Natasha straddled your waist as her tongue entered your mouth. The kiss was long and slow. Then she pulled back, her arms reached over her head as she removed her sports bra hurriedly. You could feel her hips moving, as she tried to press herself against your body.

Automatically, your hand found its way between her legs.

Natasha groaned loudly as she enjoyed the immediate friction of your palm. She leaned forward, her arms resting on either side of you.

Your vision filled now with her breasts. They were bouncing as she moved. A heavy softness that made you tilt forward. Your tongue found her nipple, swirling eagerly over the sensitive area.

You felt the wetness through the fabric of her shorts. Your hand slipped under the material. She was soaking wet, coating your palm immediately.

You understood suddenly. Why she loathed her suit. Why she'd ripped it off. You felt your own hips buck desperately, hopelessly. You paused, trying to remember the way to take off the complicated garment.

Natasha’s hand tugged forcefully at your hair. Your attention flew back to her.

Her eyes shuttered closed with the nearness of her orgasm. Her hips bucked desperately against your bare hand.

‘No.’ She moaned selfishly, biting down hard on her lower lip as she continued to rock. ‘You can come later. Let me finish first.’

You obliged easily. Her breasts pressed themselves closer again and your attention returned to them. You kissed and licked and sucked. The heel of your hand pressed against her clit over and over. Your fingers moved inside her with the rocking of her hips.

Natasha cried out loudly when she came at last. Her eyes were squeezed themselves even more tightly shut.

You startled at the sudden sound, as reality crept briefly back. Then you laughed.

‘I thought that was a T-Rex.’ You told her stupidly.

Natasha smiled happily down at you. Her tongue touched her teeth. Her once braided hair was completely wild. Her breathing was shallow. Her body relaxed.

Her eyes were no longer dilated.

‘Mmm.’ She hummed in pleased thought, her hand trailing down your suit. ‘We should go somewhere with a bed. So we can do that again.’

Natasha was no longer the bravest person in the world.

You were.

You waited 97 million years for an orgasm.

Requests are still very welcome for future January fics. More info in the pinned post if you're interested in requesting. <3

#natasha romanoff smut #natasha romanoff x reader #black widow smut #black widow x reader

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