#Neuro-tech

[achieve25moreclientsdaily]

Brain-Computer Interfaces: Connecting the Brain Directly to Computers for Communication and Control

In recent years, technological advancements have ushered in the development of Brain-Computer Interfaces (BCIs)—an innovation that directly connects the brain to external devices, enabling communication and control without the need for physical movements. BCIs have the potential to revolutionize various fields, from healthcare to entertainment, offering new ways to interact with machines and augment human capabilities.

YCCINDIA, a leader in digital solutions and technological innovations, is exploring how this cutting-edge technology can reshape industries and improve quality of life. This article delves into the fundamentals of brain-computer interfaces, their applications, challenges, and the pivotal role YCCINDIA plays in this transformative field.

What is a Brain-Computer Interface?

A Brain-Computer Interface (BCI) is a technology that establishes a direct communication pathway between the brain and an external device, such as a computer, prosthetic limb, or robotic system. BCIs rely on monitoring brain activity, typically through non-invasive techniques like electroencephalography (EEG) or more invasive methods such as intracranial electrodes, to interpret neural signals and translate them into commands.

The core idea is to bypass the normal motor outputs of the body—such as speaking or moving—and allow direct control of devices through thoughts alone. This offers significant advantages for individuals with disabilities, neurological disorders, or those seeking to enhance their cognitive or physical capabilities.

How Do Brain-Computer Interfaces Work?

The process of a BCI can be broken down into three key steps:

Signal Acquisition: Sensors, either placed on the scalp or implanted directly into the brain, capture brain signals. These signals are electrical impulses generated by neurons, typically recorded using EEG for non-invasive BCIs or implanted electrodes for invasive systems.

Signal Processing: Once the brain signals are captured, they are processed and analyzed by software algorithms. The system decodes these neural signals to interpret the user's intentions. Machine learning algorithms play a crucial role here, as they help refine the accuracy of signal decoding.

Output Execution: The decoded signals are then used to perform actions, such as moving a cursor on a screen, controlling a robotic arm, or even communicating via text-to-speech. This process is typically done in real-time, allowing users to interact seamlessly with their environment.

Applications of Brain-Computer Interfaces

The potential applications of BCIs are vast and span across multiple domains, each with the ability to transform how we interact with the world. Here are some key areas where BCIs are making a significant impact:

1. Healthcare and Rehabilitation

BCIs are most prominently being explored in the healthcare sector, particularly in aiding individuals with severe physical disabilities. For people suffering from conditions like amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS), spinal cord injuries, or locked-in syndrome, BCIs offer a means of communication and control, bypassing damaged nerves and muscles.

Neuroprosthetics and Mobility

One of the most exciting applications is in neuroprosthetics, where BCIs can control artificial limbs. By reading the brain’s intentions, these interfaces can allow amputees or paralyzed individuals to regain mobility and perform everyday tasks, such as grabbing objects or walking with robotic exoskeletons.

2. Communication for Non-Verbal Patients

For patients who cannot speak or move, BCIs offer a new avenue for communication. Through brain signal interpretation, users can compose messages, navigate computers, and interact with others. This technology holds the potential to enhance the quality of life for individuals with neurological disorders.

3. Gaming and Entertainment

The entertainment industry is also beginning to embrace BCIs. In the realm of gaming, brain-controlled devices can open up new immersive experiences where players control characters or navigate environments with their thoughts alone. This not only makes games more interactive but also paves the way for greater accessibility for individuals with physical disabilities.

4. Mental Health and Cognitive Enhancement

BCIs are being explored for their ability to monitor and regulate brain activity, offering potential applications in mental health treatments. For example, neurofeedback BCIs allow users to observe their brain activity and modify it in real time, helping with conditions such as anxiety, depression, or ADHD.

Moreover, cognitive enhancement BCIs could be developed to boost memory, attention, or learning abilities, providing potential benefits in educational settings or high-performance work environments.

5. Smart Home and Assistive Technologies

BCIs can be integrated into smart home systems, allowing users to control lighting, temperature, and even security systems with their minds. For people with mobility impairments, this offers a hands-free, effortless way to manage their living spaces.

Challenges in Brain-Computer Interface Development

Despite the immense promise, BCIs still face several challenges that need to be addressed for widespread adoption and efficacy.

1. Signal Accuracy and Noise Reduction

BCIs rely on detecting tiny electrical signals from the brain, but these signals can be obscured by noise—such as muscle activity, external electromagnetic fields, or hardware limitations. Enhancing the accuracy and reducing the noise in these signals is a major challenge for researchers.

2. Invasive vs. Non-Invasive Methods

While non-invasive BCIs are safer and more convenient, they offer lower precision and control compared to invasive methods. On the other hand, invasive BCIs, which involve surgical implantation of electrodes, pose risks such as infection and neural damage. Finding a balance between precision and safety remains a significant hurdle.

3. Ethical and Privacy Concerns

As BCIs gain more capabilities, ethical issues arise regarding the privacy and security of brain data. Who owns the data generated by a person's brain, and how can it be protected from misuse? These questions need to be addressed as BCI technology advances.

4. Affordability and Accessibility

Currently, BCI systems, especially invasive ones, are expensive and largely restricted to research environments or clinical trials. Scaling this technology to be affordable and accessible to a wider audience is critical to realizing its full potential.

YCCINDIA’s Role in Advancing Brain-Computer Interfaces

YCCINDIA, as a forward-thinking digital solutions provider, is dedicated to supporting the development and implementation of advanced technologies like BCIs. By combining its expertise in software development, data analytics, and AI-driven solutions, YCCINDIA is uniquely positioned to contribute to the growing BCI ecosystem in several ways:

1. AI-Powered Signal Processing

YCCINDIA’s expertise in AI and machine learning enables more efficient signal processing for BCIs. The use of advanced algorithms can enhance the decoding of brain signals, improving the accuracy and responsiveness of BCIs.

2. Healthcare Solutions Integration

With a focus on digital healthcare solutions, YCCINDIA can integrate BCIs into existing healthcare frameworks, enabling hospitals and rehabilitation centers to adopt these innovations seamlessly. This could involve developing patient-friendly interfaces or working on scalable solutions for neuroprosthetics and communication devices.

3. Research and Development

YCCINDIA actively invests in R&D efforts, collaborating with academic institutions and healthcare organizations to explore the future of BCIs. By driving research in areas such as cognitive enhancement and assistive technology, YCCINDIA plays a key role in advancing the technology to benefit society.

4. Ethical and Privacy Solutions

With data privacy and ethics being paramount in BCI applications, YCCINDIA’s commitment to developing secure systems ensures that users’ neural data is protected. By employing encryption and secure data-handling protocols, YCCINDIA mitigates concerns about brain data privacy and security.

The Future of Brain-Computer Interfaces

As BCIs continue to evolve, the future promises even greater possibilities. Enhanced cognitive functions, fully integrated smart environments, and real-time control of robotic devices are just the beginning. BCIs could eventually allow direct communication between individuals, bypassing the need for speech or text, and could lead to innovations in education, therapy, and creative expression.

The collaboration between tech innovators like YCCINDIA and the scientific community will be pivotal in shaping the future of BCIs. By combining advanced AI, machine learning, and ethical considerations, YCCINDIA is leading the charge in making BCIs a reality for a wide range of applications, from healthcare to everyday life.

Brain-Computer Interfaces represent the next frontier in human-computer interaction, offering profound implications for how we communicate, control devices, and enhance our abilities. With applications ranging from healthcare to entertainment, BCIs are poised to transform industries and improve lives. YCCINDIA’s commitment to innovation, security, and accessibility positions it as a key player in advancing this revolutionary technology.

As BCI technology continues to develop, YCCINDIA is helping to shape a future where the boundaries between the human brain and technology blur, opening up new possibilities for communication, control, and human enhancement.

Brain-computer interfaces: Connecting the brain directly to computers for communication and control

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#BrainComputerInterface #BCITechnology #Neurotech #NeuralInterfaces #MindControl

#CognitiveTech #Neuroscience #FutureOfTech #HumanAugmentation #BrainTech

[floral-hex]

finally, after waiting since November, I got to see an endocrinologist today. didn’t go great. As soon as I said I was going through with surgery, he got this look on his face like I’d just told him I beat dogs with hammers. Kinda tried to scare me away from it and get me to just take meds, but he relented and said to just take the meds anyway. Listen, dude, I get you’re pissed I got my neurosurgery consult first, but that’s only because your office dragged their feet & wouldn’t see me for months. Did you think I would sit around, do nothing, and feel like shit bc I should have waited for you? You can’t show up to the end of the game and complain about how it’s played…. So anyway, I’m very grumpy today.

[holyscreamingintothevoid]

blessed

[bspoquemagazine]

Out now: The Psychonautic Adventures of the 187 Year Old EDM Intolerance Survivor Gunnar Oliasson by pdqb music via @infamouslucifer 🌀💿 7 genre-mutating tracks, dream-fueled by Gunnar's sonic immunity & reshaped by the legendary @theexaltics. 🎧 Tune in & transcend 🧬 🔥 Available everywhere #EDMIntolerance #Electrocognition #NewRelease #ExperimentalElectronica #pdqb #SynapticCliffs #TheExaltics #VinylOnly #FutureSound #NeuroBeats #ElectronicMusic #GunnarOliassonLives #DreamTech

[familythings]

What Are ‘Neural Data’? Our Thoughts Can Be Recorded—Here’s What You Need to Know

Have you ever wondered if your thoughts could be tracked, recorded, or even sold? Sounds like science fiction, right? Well, it’s actually happening, and the rise of neurotechnology means that our brains are becoming a data goldmine. Some experts urge stronger protection. They refer to this as “neural data”—information collected from our brains through tech devices. So, What Exactly Are Neural…

[abbotjack]

I Can’t Protect You From Everything

pairing: jack abbot x nurse!reader (fem!reader, no physical description)

summary : You’re assaulted in the ER. Jack sees red. But it’s not just the rage—it’s the fallout, the quiet after, the grief, the guilt, the way he holds you like his own body can bring you back to life.

content: medical trauma, assault aftermath, blood, concussion, strong emotional themes, PTSD undertones, canon-level violence, smut (established marriage), soft dom!Jack, comfort sex, hurt/comfort, healing arc

word count: ~3K , not beta read (this is just a hobby <3)

18+ ONLY

You hear the voice before you see him.

Low. Sharp. Controlled like a lit match held too close to a fuse.

“Move.”

The nurses part without a word. Not because they recognize the attending. But because they feel the shift in the air.

Jack Abbot is in motion. And he’s not stopping.

You’re still on the floor of Room 12. Head spinning. The tile’s cold under your cheek, but everything else burns—your skull, your vision, the jagged pulse in your throat.

The patient—drunk, belligerent—just laughs.

“She got in my face, man,” he slurs to no one. “Shoulda stayed outta it.”

The next sound is a crash. A metal tray sent flying.

Jack doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t need to. One look at your body on the ground, your hair matted with blood—and he’s on the guy in seconds.

“Jack—Jack!” Robby grabs him from behind, arms locked around his chest. “She’s down—she needs you, not this.”

“Let me go,” Jack growls, low and lethal.

“You touch him, you’re done. You hear me? She’s bleeding. Focus, man.”

Jack’s breathing hard, jaw clenched so tight you think it might snap. But his eyes are locked on you now. Not the patient. Not the shouting.

Just you.

He drops to his knees beside you. Gently turns your face toward him with trembling fingers.

“Hey,” he says, soft. Too soft for a man who just looked ready to kill. “Stay with me, sweetheart. C’mon.”

You try to smile.

“Didn’t like that, huh?” you whisper, lips barely moving.

His eyes go dark. “I’m gonna kill him.”

“No you’re not.”

“He touched you.”

You blink. Everything spins.

“Jack—my head hurts.”

His breath catches. All that fury folds into fear. And you know—if your heart stopped right now, his would go with it.

“You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

He always says that. And you always believe him.

Your fingers twitch weakly against his scrubs, barely a brush.

"…Don’t go anywhere,” you breathe, eyelids fluttering shut.

You're out before your head even hits the pillow of the gurney.

Jack doesn’t move from your side. Blood—your blood—dries tacky and rust-colored on your temple.

“Let’s go,” he barks at the transport tech. His voice is too sharp, but no one challenges him. Not now. Not when the calm, collected attending has cracked.

Robby walks beside him, clipboard clutched tight. “She needs a non-contrast head CT, stat. LOC, blunt force trauma, disorientation. I already paged neuro.”

Jack doesn't respond. Doesn’t blink. His eyes are fixed on your face as they wheel you through the fluorescent-lit hall.

In the CT bay, he’s forced to stop outside the radiation line.

“I’ll be five minutes,” the tech promises. “You can see her again once she’s cleared.”

Jack doesn’t nod. Just stands there, like a soldier on post, watching through the glass as your body is slid into the machine like it’s a coffin.

Later.

“Concussion,” Robby says quietly, handing Jack the annotated imaging results. “No hemorrhage. No skull fracture. She is lucky.”

Jack doesn’t feel lucky. He feels like he's going to throw up.

Robby gives him a look. One Jack doesn’t like.

“Maybe don’t start a war in the trauma bay next time someone touches her.”

You wake slowly, brain fogged, heart pounding. For a second, the disorientation pulls you under—you're sure you're still in the trauma bay. The smell of antiseptic, the beeping, the chaos.

But then you feel it.

A warm hand curled around yours. The scent of Jack’s cologne. The distant hum of your house’s old heating unit.

You’re not in the hospital anymore.

You’re home.

The small home you share with Jack—the one he remodeled himself, every corner touched by his hands, from the creaking floorboards to the stubborn cabinet hinges. Medical journals are stacked high on the coffee table, dog-eared and covered in notes, like neither of you quite know how to leave work behind. It's lived-in and quiet and yours—built like a fortress to keep the world out.

Jack’s sitting beside the bed, one hand cradling your wrist, thumb brushing your pulse point.

“You’re awake,” he says.

You blink slowly. “Am I supposed to be?”

He exhales like it hurt to hold in. “You scared the shit out of me.”

You smile faintly. “Don’t I always?”

He doesn’t laugh. His eyes are rimmed red—and it kills you to see it.

“You didn’t say anything when I went down,” you whisper.

“I couldn’t,” he says, voice cracked and raw.

You reach for his face. He leans into your touch like he’s starved for it.

“I was going to kill him,” he murmurs. “If Robby hadn’t pulled me off—I was gone. I saw red.”

You stroke his hair. “You didn’t. That’s what matters.”

He shakes his head. “No. What matters is that you were hurt because I wasn’t there.”

“That’s not fair.”

“I don’t care.”

“Come here,” you whisper.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t. You never do.”

He slides into bed, quiet and heavy beside you.

“Why’d you marry me?” you ask.

Jack flinches. “Because no one’s ever looked at me the way you do. Like I’m not broken.”

“You’re not.”

He kisses you then.

And when you say, "Show me I’m still here," he pulls back just enough to search your face. His thumb brushes along your cheekbone, like he still doesn’t trust what he sees.

Then he nods, just once. Like he’s made up his mind.

His hands shake as they trail down your sides, memorizing the feel of you again. He looks like he’s on the edge of breaking open entirely.

Still half-dressed, the soft stretch of sweatpants low on his hips, he leans down slowly. His shirt’s already gone. His breath is warm against your collarbone.

He shifts his position like he’s not sure he’s allowed. Like he’s still that eighteen-year-old kid who enlisted too young, carried too much, and learned how to weaponize silence before he ever understood how to ask for comfort. Still moving like he’s made of edges—too strong, too fast, too sharp.

He’s always been gentle with you. But tonight, he’s something else entirely.

He kisses you like it hurts. Like every inch of skin he touches could vanish. His lips are hot and searching, pulling at yours with need, like he's starving and you’re the only thing that will bring him back.

You reach for his waistband and push his sweatpants down, his breath catching when your fingers graze him—thick, heavy, already hard.

“Please,” you whisper. “I need to feel you. All of you.”

He exhales harshly, like it’s killing him to take his time, but he does.

Jack kisses his way down your neck, slow and reverent, his hands now slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts. He peels them down with slow, careful movements, like he’s unwrapping something fragile. Only when they’re off does he lower himself between your thighs. His breath ghosts across your skin before his tongue follows—warm, wet, devastating. He licks into you like he’s memorizing you all over again. Like this is the only proof you’re still here.

Your hips buck, but his hands pin you in place, steady on your thighs. The stubble on his jaw scrapes softly against sensitive skin, the contrast enough to make your vision blur.

"You taste like home," he groans, eyes dark. "I needed this—needed you—more than I want to admit."

He cuts himself off with a moan as you tangle your fingers in his hair.

Your climax builds fast. It feels too good. Too much. You try to warn him, but he groans against you, and it tips you over—your whole body arching off the bed as you cry out his name.

He doesn’t stop until your thighs are trembling and you’re panting for air.

Only then does he crawl back up, mouth slick, pupils blown wide.

You pull him into a kiss, tasting yourself on his lips, and reach between you to guide him into place.

He lines up, breath ragged, and you feel the blunt pressure of him at your entrance.

“Look at me, Y/N”.

You do.

And then he pushes in.

Slow. So goddamn slow. Stretching you inch by inch until he’s buried deep, forehead pressed to yours like the contact is the only thing anchoring him.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yes,” you breathe. “More than okay.”

Then he starts to move.

Each thrust is deliberate, controlled, like he’s checking your pulse with his body. The slide of skin on skin. The soft drag of his mouth along your throat. The way he groans when your nails rake down his back.

“I missed this,” he chokes out. “Missed you.”

“I’m right here.”

“You scared the shit out of me.”

You grip his face. “So fuck me like it matters.”

Something in him breaks.

He shifts, grabs your hips, and starts to thrust harder, deeper. The bed creaks under the rhythm, sweat building where your bodies meet, breath punching out of you with every stroke.

You meet him thrust for thrust, your gasps syncing with his groans until you’re both unraveling.

When you come again, it rips through you—louder this time, body shuddering beneath him. He follows with a hoarse shout of your name, hips stuttering as he spills inside you.

But even then, he doesn’t let go.

His arms stay locked around you. His face buried in your neck. His chest rising and falling against yours as he stays inside you, warm and still.

After a moment, he shifts—just slightly—and you feel him stir again. Still hard. Still aching. But this time, there’s a tension in his body that feels less like hesitation and more like possession.

He doesn’t speak. Just kisses you—rougher now, teeth grazing your bottom lip, hand sliding down your side to pull your leg around his waist. You feel it in the way he grabs your thigh, in the low growl that escapes when he sinks into you again without warning.

The pace is different this time. Less reverent. More raw. His thrusts are deeper, heavier, his body pressing you into the mattress with every stroke. You whimper his name and he groans—head falling to your shoulder, teeth grazing your skin.

It’s all slick heat and friction. The sound of skin meeting skin, the rasp of his breath in your ear. He fucks you like he needs to burn out the fear, chase away the image of your blood on tile. Like your body is the only thing tethering him to the present.

Your nails rake down his back. He hisses, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head.

“Jack—”

“You’re mine,” he grits out. “Still mine.”

He leans in, kissing you hard, sloppy, teeth clashing. His hips piston into you harder, faster, building to the edge with brutal precision.

You come with a cry, your entire body curling around him as your walls clamp down, trembling and wet and perfect.

He follows with a low, broken moan, collapsing into you as he spills deep inside, every inch of him wrapped around you like a shield.

And when he finally stops shaking, he doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t move.

Just holds you there, sweat and heat and breath shared between you.

This time, when he whispers, “You’re okay,” it sounds less like a question.

And more like the truth.

He kisses the corners of your eyes. Your jaw. The inside of your wrist.

"I’m here, Jack.”

You wake up alone.

The panic is immediate. But then you hear the soft clang of a mug in the kitchen.

You find him by the stove, shirtless. Dog tags dangling against his chest.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you ask softly.

He doesn’t turn. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

You come up behind him, wrap your arms around his waist.

He sinks into it. Finally exhales.

“I keep seeing it,” he murmurs. “The blood. Your eyes. I thought I lost you… I felt it. Just like I did overseas. That second where it all slows down, and you just know."

You press your cheek to his back. "You're here. I'm here. That's what matters."

He turns then. Cups your face. And this time, when he kisses you, it's not frantic. Not heavy.

It's soft.

And finally—it's peace.

The peace doesn’t last.

By 7:03 a.m., Jack’s badge is clipped back to his scrubs, his jaw freshly shaved, and his eyes—still bruised at the edges from lack of sleep—are locked on the hallway leading to trauma intake.

You’re behind him. Walking slower than usual, sure. But walking.

The minute you swipe into the main ER pod, it’s like someone hit pause. Heads lift. Conversations stop. A nurse stops mid-sentence and stares at the dried red line still barely visible at your temple.

Jack says nothing. Keeps walking.

You’re used to the way the ER stares. What you’re not used to is the way they stare at him.

Whispers follow.

"Did you hear he nearly decked that guy?"

"Dr. Robby had to physically restrain him."

"Jack's lucky he still has a license."

Jack doesn’t flinch, but you see it. The way his knuckles go white holding the patient chart. The way he refuses to make eye contact with anyone.

Robby catches up to Jack just outside the nurses station. He leans against the wall beside him, quite a beat before he speaks.

"You holding up?"

Jack huffs out a breath. "Define 'holding up.'"

Robby studies him. "Everyone’s talking. You know that, right? About what happened. About you."

"Let them talk."

Robby nods slowly. "They will. But for what it's worth, people know you didn't lose it. Not really. You stopped yourself. That matters."

Jack doesn’t say anything, but the line of his jaw softens—barely. He looks over at you down the hall, where you're laughing quietly with another nurse, a clipboard in your hands.

Robby claps Jack gently on the back. “Get back out there. But maybe… don’t take the guy in Room 9.”

Jack stiffens.

He knows who’s in Room 9.

It’s another combative drunk. Came in swinging at EMS. Male, mid-40s, belligerent as hell, already yelling at a med student for trying to take vitals. It’s not the same guy—but it’s close enough. Same profile. Same energy. Same trigger.

“I wasn’t planning to,” Jack mutters, voice low.

Robby just nods. “Didn’t think so.”

You head back to your rounds, trying to pretend like it’s a normal day. But you feel Jack’s eyes on you like a second shadow.

Every time you so much as check a patient’s IV or lean in to auscultate a chest, you can feel the weight of his stare across the room.

By the time you step out of Room 4 with a vitals chart in hand, Jack intercepts you mid-hallway and drags you to the nearest supply closet.

“You’re done,” he says quietly. “For today.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not ready to be back. You shouldn’t even be on the floor. Let me talk to–.”

You cross your arms. “I passed neuro eval. Twice. I’m cleared.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re safe.”

His voice is low but firm, eyes darting toward passing residents. You pull him into the side med supply closet before someone catches the tail end of his tone.

Inside, it’s quiet. Fluorescent lights buzzing.

“I need to be here,” you say. “For my own head. I need to prove to myself that I’m okay.”

Jack leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. He looks at you like it’s killing him to hear that. “I almost lost you on the floor you’re walking back into like nothing happened.”

“I’m not walking in like nothing happened,” you snap.

He exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “What if it happens again?”

“Then it does. And I deal with it. And you deal with it. But you can’t wrap me in gauze and keep me behind the nurses’ station just because you’re scared.”

He closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them, his voice is softer. “You’re the only thing I’ve ever cared about more than this job.”

You step toward him. Let your fingers hook in the front of his scrubs.

“I’m not asking you to stop caring,” you whisper. “I’m asking you to trust me. The same way I trust you every time we walk into the emergency room together.”

His jaw works, eyes closing again. He leans forward, rests his forehead to yours.

“I’m trying,” he murmurs. “I’m really fucking trying.”

And you believe him.

But when you step out of the closet and head toward your next patient, you don’t need to turn around to know he’s still watching you. Still waiting for the worst.

Still holding his breath.

That night, you don’t talk much on the drive home.

The hospital faded in the rearview, but the weight of the day hasn’t.

You both pretend to wind down—but everything feels like if either of you speak too loudly, you both might crack.

So you turn off the lights.

You crawl into bed.

And Jack follows.

It’s only when you’re curled together under the covers, his chest to your back, that he finally says it:

“I can’t protect you from everything.”

You nod, fingers wrapped around his. “I don’t want you to. I just want you to be there. Like you always are. That's why I married you.”

“I was scared,” he murmurs. “Like full-body, I-don’t-know-who-I-am scared. I haven’t felt like that in a long time.”

“I know,” you whisper. “Me too.”

He presses a kiss to the back of your shoulder. He exhales, the air leaving him slow and steady.

He holds you closer.

And for the first time in two days, he sleeps.

And so do you.

[thetaizuru]

(Kontrakt)

[biglisbonnews]

BMW M3 Goes Electric: Iconic Sports Sedan To Debut As Quad-Motor EV Powerhouse By 2027 BMW’s iconic M3 sports sedan is set to electrify the automobile market, with the brand’s product development chief confirming its transformation into a quad-motor electric vehicle (EV), Electrek reported. Frank Weber, the product development chief at BMW, disclosed this news during a roundtable interview in Portugal. The move confirms months of speculation regarding an electric M3.Weber revealed that the first electric M3, expected to be a high-performance EV, would make its debut around 2027. The EV will be based on BMW’s innovative next-gen Neue Klasse platform.See Also: Tesla Stock To $400? Morgan Stanley’s Jonas Boosts Price Target By 60% To Wall Street High On Dojo’s $500Earlier this month, the German automaker unveiled its “Vision Neue Klasse” which gave insights into its ...Full story available on Benzinga.com https://www.benzinga.com/news/23/09/34570332/bmw-m3-goes-electric-iconic-sports-sedan-to-debut-as-quad-motor-ev-powerhouse-by-2027

[persexterna-archive]

[PT: Persarobot

Definition: A Persa-ID[link] term for when one is comfortable referring to themself as robot, but not comfortable with others referring to them as robot. /End PT]

[Flag 1 ID: A flag with fifteen horizontal stripes of varying sizes. From the outside in the stripes are lavender, light lavender, pale lavender, dark grey, green-grey, medium grey, light grey, and very light grey. The dark grey stripes are styled to look like barbed wire, and the light lavender stripes have an inverted scalloped edge. Central to the flag is a dark purple four-pointed star, similar to a compass rose. The star is outlined with a radial gradient with lavender at the center and purple at the tips. In the center of the star is a stylized fingerprint colored with a gradient that has very light grey at the top, dark grey in the center, and very light grey at the bottom. /End Flag 1 ID]

[Flag 2 ID: A flag with fifteen horizontal stripes of varying sizes. From the outside in the stripes are lavender, light lavender, pale lavender, dark grey, green-grey, medium grey, light grey, and very light grey. The dark grey stripes are styled to look like barbed wire, and the light lavender stripes have an inverted scalloped edge. /End Flag 2 ID]

⋆ Persarobot ⋆

⇉ Definition: A Persa-ID term for when one is comfortable referring to themself as robot, but not comfortable with others referring to them as robot

Coined by: Me Requested by: No one

Img ID: No ID applicable

Please read pinned post and DNI before interacting

[internetdaddy98]

The Quiet Fury 

Previous | Next [Series Masterlist] Pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!SeniorResident!Reader Summary: Your authority is tested by a cocky fourth-year med student who mistakes the ER for his personal playground. 

Word Count: 1.3 K Content Warning: Medical procedures, blood, will most likely be medically inaccurate at times, unresolved tension.

By 1:14 p.m., the ER had the brittle, caffeinated energy of early afternoon. The trauma bay had been turned over twice, a stroke alert rerouted to neuro, and the stack of charts on your tablet had reached an aggressive number. Your hair was falling out of its clip. Your lunch remained unopened in the lounge fridge. And your intern was flirting with a nurse during rounds.

James Whitmore was a fourth-year med student on rotation, assigned to shadow you for the next four weeks. Technically still a student, practically a problem. He had the kind of polished smile that belonged on an alumni magazine cover and the overconfidence of someone who had never been truly scared in a code room. You could already feel it,  that subtle entitlement, the lack of preparation, the empty glances when you gave instructions.

You had tried, the first two hours. Gently redirecting. Clarifying. Giving him room to prove he was more than charm and an upward trajectory. But he was more interested in chatting up the new ED nurse than examining his patient. More concerned with what you were doing later than documenting the rhythm strip you’d asked for.

“You know,” he said now, grinning like this was a meet-cute and not an ICU board, “you don’t look like someone who leads a trauma team. No offense.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t even look up.

Instead, you clicked through labs on the tablet and murmured, “ABG’s back. Go interpret it. Present to me in five.”

He lingered. “You always this serious, Dr. Sheridan?”

You finally met his eyes.

“Only when someone’s dying,” you said coldly. “Which is usually.”

He gave a half-laugh, unsure if it was a joke. You didn’t clarify. You moved past him and toward Bed 6, where a patient was vomiting blood into a basin while her mother cried softly in the corner. Your pulse recalibrated, not with nerves, but with necessity. You could be tired later.

Whitmore followed, his stethoscope still around his neck like a fashion statement, it was getting harder for you to not roll your eyes. 

Later, as you updated notes in the hub, you caught a glimpse of him across the hall, leaned too casually against the counter near two of his intern friends. You weren’t listening. Not at first. But you felt it, a shift in the room. Dana stiffening behind the desk. A nurse's eyes narrowing. The slight drop in temperature that meant someone had said something wrong.

Across the floor, by the medication station, Robby was finishing up notes on a post-code debrief when he caught Whitmore’s voice, low and smirking, drifting toward the central hub.

“…yeah, she’s cute in that mean, icy way. You know, a challenge. I give it three shifts before she cracks. Bet she’s crazy once you get her to—"

He didn’t finish. Someone coughed, startled. A tech turned sharply. Robby’s hand paused mid-scroll over his tablet.

He blinked once. Then turned.

He was forty feet away, but he could already feel it like a fissure in the tile beneath them, the cold fury in your eyes, the way you were walking toward Whitmore with the unhurried precision of someone who had not yet decided whether to destroy a person publicly or in private. Your hands were calm. Your shoulders square. You didn’t yell.

You didn’t need to.

“Mr. Whitmore,” you said, voice flat as steel. “Step into the staff lounge. Now.”

The kid hesitated.

Wrong move.

Robby watched you disappear behind the door. Watched the team shift around the hub in respectful silence. No one said a word. Even the printers seemed quieter.

You closed the door behind you.

Then, still calm, still composed, you turned to your intern.

“I don’t know what kind of rotations you’ve done before,” you began, your voice quiet but sharp as frost. “But I am not here for your amusement. I’m not here to play games with you, or compete with your insecurities, or make your ego feel bigger when you get bored during rounds.”

He opened his mouth.

You raised a hand. He stopped.

“You are in an Emergency Department. You are a guest in my house, and if you can’t show basic respect to your patients or to your senior, then you can leave now. I’ll sign the damn form. But what you will not do is treat this place, or the people in it, like a frat party you wandered into by mistake.”

His face changed then. A flush of something like embarrassment, something like shock. You didn’t care which.

“I suggest,” you continued, eyes not wavering from his, “that you get with the program. Fast.”

He swallowed. “Yes, Dr. Sheridan.”

You nodded once. “Good. You’re on labs until further notice.”

You opened the door for him to leave, only to find Robby there, leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed. His eyes flicked between you and Whitmore, unreadable.

The student mumbled something, not quite an apology, not quite coherent, and headed toward the lab station like a dog with its tail tucked.

You didn’t speak. You moved to close the door again and turn back toward the lounge room. He waited a beat, then two. Long enough to give the illusion of space. Long enough not to look like he’d been watching. Then he followed.

He knocked once on the edge of the lounge door before stepping in. You stood by the sink, filling a cup with water, back turned. Your grip on the plastic rim was too tight.

"You handled that well," he said quietly.

You didn’t turn around. “Thanks.”

A pause. You took a sip, then set the cup down, your shoulders rigid.

Robby moved to stand beside you, leaving a careful amount of space between them. The hum of the fridge filled the silence.

“He won’t do it again,” you said, eyes fixed on the sink.

“I know,” he said. “Not if he values his career.”

You gave a short, humorless exhale, not quite a laugh.

He glanced at you,  then away. “You okay?”

Another pause.

Then you nodded, still not looking at him. “Yeah. Just annoyed.”

“Okay,” he said. “But if that changes…”

You looked at him for a long moment. Then offered the faintest curve of your mouth, not a smile, but something close. Gratitude maybe. Recognition.

“Thanks, Dr. Robinavitch.”

He gave her a smile in return. “Anytime, Sher.”

And with that, he stepped out, leaving the door open behind him. Just a crack.

Enough for her to breathe.

Whitmore was alone at the lab station when Robby found him. Still cocky, despite it all. The kind of cocky that didn’t learn until the lesson was painful.

Robby approached quietly.

“You got a minute, Mr. Whitmore?”

The kid turned, startled, then nodded. “Yes, Dr. Robinavitch.”

Robby didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t even look angry. That was the worst part.

He just stepped closer, lowered his voice, and said, “You ever speak about Dr. Sheridan like that again, and I will personally end your chances of matching into anything but urgent care in rural Alaska. Are we clear?”

Whitmore blanched. “Sir, I didn’t—”

“You did,” Robby said, cool and clinical. “And I suggest you use your remaining days here wisely. Listen. Learn. Show some respect. Because you’re not the smartest man in this room. And you sure as hell aren’t the toughest.”

Whitmore swallowed. “Understood.”

“Good.” Robby offered him a smile that wasn’t really a smile. “Now go run the troponins.”

Robby didn’t move for a while. Just stood there, hands in his pockets, watching the chaos of the ER reassemble itself. His gaze flicked to the patient board. To the rooms. Then, finally, back to you.

You were at the end of the hallway now, instructing a nurse, your voice steady again. Calm. Efficient. But he could see it in the way your fingers tapped against the tablet. The way your jaw stayed locked.

——————————————

Two chapters in one day!

I couldn’t help myself bahhahah I needed y’all to read this one. My toxic trait is buying the people I love presents and needing to tell them what it is or I’ll explode.

I told myself I was going to pace myself but all chapters are sitting in my queue tempting me.

[super-ion]

The Engineer

Part 1

I catch a glimpse of the pilot as she is wheeled towards the med bay. Her eyes have that telltale glaze of just having been wrenched out of herself.

I've never spoken a single word to her, but for a moment as the gurney slides by, those eyes briefly clear, ice blue pinning me to the spot. She raises an emaciated arm and her hand almost seems to beckon to me before something in the gurney clicks and whirs and she slips back into catatonia.

That brief moment of clarity, that piercing gaze, unsettles me. She recognized me.

It's neural bleed. I know it has to be. She doesn't know me, but Morrigan does.

Good god. In the pilot's present state of post combat haze, she probably doesn't even know where she ends and the machine begins.

Does neural bleed work both ways? Is it her head that I'm about to climb into?

My wrist strap buzzes. I have a job to do and I am late.

The pilot is a problem for the med team and the psychs.

The machine is my problem.

I hurry down the corridor, keeping my head down, avoiding the eyes of every passerby.

I don't like people.

I don't like how their eyes follow me. I don't like the whispered gossip that follows me.

One of the techs is waiting for me at the vestibule.

I don't know his name.

All clear, he says to me. Time to work your magic.

He says it without sarcasm. Others have been less kind.

Even so, he can't quite hide the leer as I strip down to the skinsuit. I don't have the physique of a pilot. My body hasn't been subjected to the stresses that ravage their bodies. Unlike them, I have fat and muscle and the skinsuit clings to every curve of my body.

I force a cursory smile and try to forget him as I walk barefoot to my destination.

The vestibule is small, windowless. It's impossible to assess the scale of the machine from here. The only part visible to me is roughly four square meters of pitted and scarred metal plating framing the access hatch and the pilot's cradle beyond.

B0-987T the stenciled lettering reads. And below, in flowing script, is “The Morrigan”.

She's a Javellin class, medium weapons fire support unit. She isn't meant to be on the front lines in a skirmish, but one-on-one, she can hold her own against a Wraith. Which is exactly what happened only a few hours ago.

I place a bare palm on the bulkhead. She thrums with some distant vibration. Her reactor is still online, still in the early stages of drawdown as she transitions to dock power.

“Hey beautiful,” I say to her.

I think of the pilot. I think of piercing blue eyes and I think of neural bleed.

I flinch my hand away.

The tech looks at me, asks if I'm alright. I'm fine, I tell him.

I climb through the hatch and into the cradle.

I feel like an interloper here. The cradle isn't calibrated for my body. Everything still smells like the pilot. Mingled with the smell of the machine is her sweat and her adrenaline and the particular scented soap that she prefers.

There is a faint whirring as her cameras track my movements from a dozen angles. The access ports open to receive me.

Against my better judgment, I imagine eagerness for this exchange.

This is immediately followed by an all too familiar sense of inadequacy. The engineers’ rig is not nearly as all encompassing as a pilots’. It's only the most basic neural interface. No haptics. No neurotransmitter feedback. No access to the suite of sensors studded throughout her hull.

I can't interface with her the way her pilot can.

My rig is a remnant from basic training. The pilot corps wanted me for my exceptional ratings in synchrony and neuro-elasticity, but after serval training exercises, they determined that I didn't have the temperament for the battlefield. I froze up too easily.

A neural rig is a massive investment and removing one will fuck a person up a hell of a lot more than installing one. The selection process is designed to weed out washouts before we even get to installation, but some of us still slip through the cracks. Most end up reassigned to logistics, operating loader mechs or piloting long haul supply frigates. But my aptitudes made me ideal for the engineering corps, so here I am.

Morrigan senses my mood and the cradle shifts slightly, aligning itself to my dimensions. Her eagerness to connect morphs into a sort of tender reassurance. It's a slippery slope, ascribing human emotions to these machines, but she does seem genuinely happy to see me.

I can never be part of what she and her pilot have, but I can be part of something in my own way.

The pilot knows about me, she would even without neural bleed. Does she envy the relationship I have with her mech? Does she envy that I can exist both together and apart with the machine?

Is she jealous of us?

Morrigan slips her jacks into my rig and my mind enters hers and I feel tension leave my body. Some dull ache that I wasn't even consciously aware of ebbs within me.

My senses dull and my visual cortex is fed a series of diagnostic logs and telemetry streams. The techs have access to the exact same data, but Morrigan highlights particular data points that she and the pilot flagged. I log them in the engineering report.

A wireframe schematic of the battlefield spreads out in my awareness. Green markers for our battlegroup. Red markers for the pack of Wraith interlopers.

I hear the ghost of music, strange and ambient, like whale song. The first time I heard it, I asked the techs about it. They had no idea what I was talking about. One even suggested I get an eval for some psych leave.

Later I realized Morrigan was singing to me. Or rather she was interpreting tightbeam comm links as something my brain could process. A human mind can't possibly interpret the full datastream, but with Morrigans's rendition, I can suss out the basic meanings. The battlegroup is a choir and Morrigan is playing me their song.

I caused quite a stir when I first made that connection and started flagging battle events the analysts had missed.

I survey the battlefield before me, reconstructed from feeds from TacCom and all the individual mechs.

Morrigan and I have done this enough times that she knows my preferred display layout, but she holds back, allowing me to pull off the virtual displays on my peripheral vision. There's an odd sort of intimacy to it, her letting me take charge like this.

God-knows how many tons of metal and ceramic and miles and miles of wire and optic fiber and see waits eagerly for me to start the playback sim. She wants to show off. She wants me to assess the actions of her and her pilot and tell them they did well.

Other engineers, few as we are, have mentioned similar experiences with their assigned machines.

“Alright,” I whisper so that only she can hear. “Show me the dance. Sing me the song.”

(Next)

[tinyshyteacup]

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-------------------------------------------

Tw: cussing, nudity (not described) tension.

Part 13

Words of Command - Part 14

The lounge at Stark Tower feels too big for just the few of you.

Floor-to-ceiling windows throw pale morning light across the sleek furniture. The scent of strong coffee lingers, blending with the faint metallic tang that always seems to cling to the air here—an invisible reminder of Stark tech woven into the very walls.

You sit on the corner of the couch, tucked in, wearing a soft oversized sweater and Pajamas pants that scuff the floor. Your hair’s still a little messy from sleep, your knees drawn up slightly.

Bucky stands not far from you, stiff and alert, arms folded, his metal fingers twitching occasionally with restless energy.

Tony saunters into the room with Bruce trailing behind him, both holding cups of coffee. Tony’s wearing a worn Black Sabbath T-shirt and smirking like he’s been awake for hours purely to cause problems.

Bruce’s approach is softer.

Careful.

Measured.

Tony’s voice slices through the heavy air.

“Well, Thumbelina and her very large attack dog are awake, so—good morning, kiddos.” He lifts his mug. “Hope you’re feeling refreshed and full of questions you’re too shy to ask, because we’re doing this anyway.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose "Doing what excatly, Mr. Stark?" You say already bracing.

Bruce steps in gently. “We’ve… called in some help. Just in case. If either of you want it.” He gestures vaguely toward the elevator. “From S.H.I.E.L.D. — their best psych and neuro specialists.”

Tony cuts back in before you can speak again.

“And before you start hyperventilating, no, nobody’s here to shove him into a straight-jacket or wire him up like a Christmas tree.”

He slurps his coffee obnoxiously.

“They’re on call. Meaning if you, you adorable trauma magnet feel like, they’ll be around. No pressure. Just better to have options, you know?”

You bite your lip, glancing automatically at Bucky.

He’s still a wall behind you. Eyes cold, scanning the room, his jaw locked tight. His flesh hand balls into a tight fist against his thigh. He doesn’t say anything, but he steps half a pace closer to you, silent, protective.

The elevator pings softly.

Two agents step out onto the lounge floor.

Agent McKenzie is tall, fit, her hair pulled into a tight bun. She has the careful neutrality of someone who has seen too much and knows better than to say anything about it.

Beside her, Agent Collins stands awkwardly, shifting his weight like he wants to disappear into the floor.

And rightly so.

You shrink slightly into the couch instinctively.

Bucky notices—of course he notices—and shifts his stance again, moving so he’s more between you and them.

You barely catch the quick whir of his metal fingers flexing.

McKenzie speaks first, voice calm and clipped.

“Miss. Sergeant Barnes.” She nods respectfully to both of you. “We’re here only if you request assistance. You are under no obligation.”

Collins steps forward and his voice is low, earnest.

“I—I want to apologize.”

His hands wring in front of him. “My behavior last night was completely inappropriate. I don't drink and I’m so sorry if I made you uncomfortable. That wasn’t professional, and it won’t happen again. I swear.”

You glance at him, feeling the awkward sincerity roll off him in waves.

Bucky's eyes narrow into dangerous slits "You like fingers?"

Agent Collins, blinks and goes roughly three shades paler "Pardon ?"

Bucky's body shifts again angled, protective, muscle coiled tight. "Touch her again, you won't have any left"

His flesh hand twitches, half a second from reaching for a weapon he doesn’t have.

You feel the chill of it rolling off him—that lethal stillness before violence.

You touch Bucky’s arm lightly, your hand barely covering part of his forearm.

“Soldat,” you murmur, soft but sure.

Instantly, he responds—relaxing slightly, if only for you. His head dips minutely in acknowledgment, dark hair falling across his forehead.

“Doll,” he says quietly back, as if checking you're truly okay.

He doesn’t look at anyone else. Not McKenzie, not Collins.

Just you.

Only you.

McKenzie senses the tension and wisely steps back, subtly steering a frightened looking Collins with a hand on his arm.

“We’ll be in the east conference room if needed. Just call.”

You nod, whispering a polite "thank you," still perched delicately on the edge of the couch.

The elevator pings again as they leave, the sound somehow louder in the quiet they leave behind.

Tony claps his hands once, breaking the heavy moment.

“Well, that could have gone worse! Nobody died, nobody bled. I’m counting it as a win.”

Bruce just sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

You padded barefoot down the wide hallway of Stark Tower’s residential wing, the polished floors cold against your toes.

It was quieter here—thicker somehow. The hum of JARVIS's systems was a faint, living pulse through the walls.

You found Tony exactly where you knew he’d be In his private living room, sprawled over the couch like a king without a kingdom, a half-drained glass of something expensive on the table, and the faint glow of half a dozen holographic screens circling him.

He glanced up as you approached, arching one eyebrow over the top of his glasses.

“Well if it isn’t the Handler of the Year," Tony drawled lazily, lifting his glass in a mocking salute.

Then, softer, "To what do I owe the pleasure Thumbelina."

You folded onto the armchair opposite him, tucking your knees up against your chest.

Your fingers fidgeted with the hem of your sleeve.

You bit your lip. Hard.

"I don't want to pressure him," you blurted, voice barely above a whisper. "I mean... he’s trusting me. He’s scared, even if he doesn’t realize it yet. I can’t just... shove him into therapy or surgeries like he’s broken."

Tony set down his glass with a soft clink, swinging his legs off the couch so he could lean forward, elbows on his knees.

“First of all, Dollface,"—he said Bucky's nickname for you with a half-smile, like a shield to hide the real weight behind his words—"we're all broken. Some of us just wear cooler sunglasses while dealing with it.”

You gave a small, helpless laugh, the sound wet with unshed tears.

Tony’s face softened further.

"You’re not wrong, Sunshine," he said seriously. "You’re doing good. Better than most would, honestly."

He dragged one hand through his hair, messing it further. “You’re giving him something no lab coat, no tech, no team of fancy doctors could ever replicate, choice."

You swallowed, nodding.

"I just..." you hesitated, glancing toward the hall where your suite—and Bucky—waited. "The intracranial device Bruce built... it’s working. It’s really working. His vitals are more stable after sessions. It’s like it’s dampening the trauma spikes before they get too high. But I know—if we push too hard—"

You trailed off, twisting your hands together.

Tony leaned back, exhaling through his nose.

"The neural device is a masterpiece," he said, not bragging for once. "Banner did good. You two together? Even better. Science project aside, it’s stabilizing him, but it’s not fixing the wiring. That’s...long-haul territory."

He rapped his knuckles lightly on the table for emphasis.

"Bottom line it could help. A lot. Regain memories. Rebuild pathways. Maybe even speed up how fast he gets back to, y'know, human programming instead of KGB Murderbot 2.0. But..." Tony pointed at you sharply.

"It doesn't replace the human element, your doing your best, but these guys ... there the Pros. And besides the choice is his. Or yours until he’s clear-headed enough to know what he wants."

You looked down at your hands, overwhelmed by the weight of it.

Tony’s voice dropped a little, more gentle than you’d ever heard it.

"You’re doing right by him, Sunshine," he said, teasing but earnest. "You’re giving him a life he wouldn’t have dared hope for. You keep doing that. One tiny step at a time. And just consider the back-up, as excatly what it is ... an option."

You blinked fast against the burning in your eyes.

Tony noticed, of course, because he cared more then he let on, he always had.

With a gruff clearing of his throat, he stood up, smoothing down his rumpled shirt like nothing emotional had happened at all.

"If you need me," he said over his shoulder as he walked off toward the elevators, "I'll be upstairs... pretending not to care but totally ready to knock some sense into Robocop if needed."

You smiled into your sleeve once he was gone.

That evening you padded from your bedroom into the lounge of your suite, cotton pajamas soft and cosy on your body.

Bucky sat rigidly on the wide leather couch, elbows braced on his knees, staring blankly at the floor.

You stopped in the doorway, heart twisting.

Even from here, you could see the tremor in his shoulders, the way his flesh hand clenched and unclenched uselessly in his lap.

The metal one stayed utterly still, gleaming dully under the recessed ceiling lights.

He didn't react when you entered.

But when you spoke—soft, cautious—his head snapped toward you like a trained dog hearing its master’s voice.

“Soldat...you doing ok ?"

His pale blue eyes locked onto yours instantly.

Recognition.

Relief.

Something like apology.

“Doll,” he rasped, voice hoarse, frayed at the edges.

He seemed... smaller, somehow.

Like the room was crushing him.

You crossed the space carefully, crouching low so you were eye-level with him.

"Talk to me?" you murmured, tilting your head.

He gave the barest nod, metal fingers twitching again.

His breathing was too shallow.

Too fast.

"They look wrong," Bucky said quietly, voice low and stilted. "The men. The agents. Same as...before."

He didn’t need to say it.

HYDRA.

You swallowed, nodding.

"Okay," you said softly, reaching out—but stopping short, letting him choose. "Let me help?"

Bucky hesitated.

Just for a heartbeat.

Then his flesh hand lifted in a stiff, almost mechanical movement, palm open, waiting.

You placed your hand against his, feeling the way his fingers closed almost desperately around yours.

You led him gently toward the bathroom.

Stark Tower suites didn’t do small bathtubs this was a sunken pool, deep enough to drown in.

Dim, warm lights cast a golden glow over the room.

The faucet filled the space with the soft rush of water, steam beginning to curl into the air, carrying the faint scent of the lavender bubble bath you added for his modesty.

Bucky hovered at the threshold like he wasn’t sure he deserved to step inside.

You turned back, beckoning him.

"Come on, Soldat," you said softly, using the name he remembered. "It might help you relax ?."

A muscle ticked in his jaw, but he obeyed instantly.

Silent.

Trusting.

You found the compact mirror—the one you always have on hand—and placed it carefully on a little stand beside the tub.

Angled perfectly so Bucky could watch you without needing to turn.

Control.

Making sure he knows your giving it not taking it.

“See?” you said gently, tapping the mirror. “You can see me the whole time.”

Bucky nodded once, stiffly, shedding his henley without a word.

Your breath caught.

It was the first time you'd seen the scarring up close— angry welts around where flesh met metal, like the arm had been jammed into him, an afterthought of cruelty rather than a miracle of engineering.

Although there couldn't be a miracle if there wasn't consent.

You knelt beside the bath as he slid into the water, the liquid rippling up around his scarred, battered frame.

He stayed still, breathing deeply, as if forcing his body to loosen muscle by muscle.

Carefully, you dipped a cup into the water and poured it gently over his hair.

You moved slow, delicate, like you might spook him.

“Doll," he murmured, voice so low you barely caught it.

Affection bleeding into the single word.

You smiled at the mirror, knowing he was watching your every move.

The bathroom was warm now, heavy with the sweet, herbal scent of lavender.

The mirror beside the tub glinted softly in the low light, casting a muted reflection of the two of you him in the bath, sitting upright but loose for once, you kneeling beside him, sleeves rolled up, fingers delicate and sure.

Bucky watched you through the mirror like he might forget you were real if he blinked.

You dipped the little cup into the water again, scooping it up carefully, and then—slow, steady—you poured it over his hair.

The water streamed down in thin, shining ribbons over his temples.

He didn't flinch.

Just sat there, jaw tense but not pulling away.

You set the cup aside, reaching for the bottle of shampoo you'd tucked nearby.

"Soldat..." you murmured as you lathered the shampoo between your hands, soft and soothing, "You can tell me if it’s too much. Anytime. Okay?"

A long pause.

Then a nod.

You massaged the shampoo gently into his scalp, fingertips gliding over his wet hair, careful not to tug or scrape.

The lather built slowly, pale bubbles sliding down the back of his neck and shoulders.

Bucky closed his eyes.

"Feels nice," he rasped, voice almost too low to hear.

You smiled a little to yourself, unseen.

Gentle, small strokes.

No sudden movements.

Giving him every second to object.

"You have good hair," you said, tone light, teasing.

His mouth twitched.

Not a smile exactly.

More like... confusion.

He cracked an eye open, looking at you through the mirror.

"No one's ever said that," he muttered after a beat.

"Well, they should have," you said simply, working the soap through the longer strands at the base of his skull.

Your fingers brushed scars at his neck and you felt the whole, solid bulk of him stiffen—

but then he took a slow breath and forced himself to relax again.

Because it was you.

Because you weren't going to hurt him.

You shifted closer without thinking, pressing your knees into the soft rug beside the tub, leaning over him protectively.

It made your frame look even smaller against his broad shoulders, his imposing body—and yet, somehow, it was him who seemed fragile here.

"Hey" you murmured with a smile when his eyes met yours.

"Hey Doll" his lips twitched as he said it, his flesh hand reaching up to tuck your hair behind your ear for you.

When you tipped his head back slightly to rinse, he obeyed closing his eyes again.

Water cascaded through his hair again, washing the suds away.

"You’re really good at this," he said hoarsely after a long silence.

You blinked, cheeks warming.

"It's not hard," you said shyly. "You just...you just be ... gentle, and don't pour water straight into people's eyes."

Bucky's reflection caught yours in the mirror.

A crease appeared between his brows—

a soft, bewildered frown.

"Nobody...was ever gentle before," he said, voice a rough scrape of sound.

Your heart cracked right down the center.

You squeezed out the water from his hair carefully, combing it back from his forehead with your fingertips.

"Well they were wrong," you said, fiercely tender.

For a moment, he said nothing.

Just stared.

Like he was trying to memorize you.

Like if he looked hard enough, he might understand what was happening to him—

why he didn't want to leave your side, why he felt something aching inside his ribs when you smiled.

You picked up the brush next.

The bristles slid through his damp hair in slow, steady strokes, each pass smoothing it down.

You worked methodically, murmuring nonsense under your breath

"Almost done... You're doing good, Soldat..."

He tilted his head slightly at that—

not much, just a bare lean of trust toward you.

In the mirror, he watched your hand moving through his hair.

Watched your careful touch.

Watched the way you looked at him, not with fear, not with pity, but with care.

Something in him shuddered—

a ripple under the surface.

He didn’t understand it.

Didn’t understand why your voice steadied the thudding pulse in his ears.

Why your hands didn’t make him flinch.

Didn’t understand why, when you said, "There we go," setting the brush aside and smoothing your palms over his hair like you were grounding him to the earth,

he wanted to turn around,

wanted to pull you close and press his forehead to your belly,

wanted to stay like that forever.

Instead, he said the only thing he could manage:

"Thank you, Doll."

Rough.

Sincere.

Like a prayer.

You cupped his cheek briefly in your hand, thumb brushing his stubbled jaw, your touch feather-light.

"Anytime, Soldat," you whispered back.

He leaned—just slightly—into your palm before catching himself, like it startled him to want the contact.

But you didn't pull away.

You just smiled that soft, achingly sweet smile of yours.

And Bucky—

whatever was left of him—

felt something unfamiliar blooming slowly, painfully in his chest.

Hope.

You begin to stand, ready to grab a towel for him.

"I'll let you finish up while I—"

You don't get to complete your sentence. In one fluid motion, his arms—one warm flesh, one cool metal—reach out and wrap around your waist.

Before you can process what's happening, he's pulling you backward into the tub with him.

Splash

Warm water envelops you as you tumble in. Your surprised squeal echoes around the bathroom as water sloshes over the sides, pooling on the floor.

Your pajamas cling to you instantly, completely soaked.

"Soldat!" you gasp, half-laughing as you find yourself awkwardly positioned in the tub, your back against his chest, his legs on either side of yours.

His arms adjust around you, secure but gentle.

"Don't go yet, Doll."

You can't help it—a bubble of laughter escapes your lips. "What the hell?"

A half-smile forms on his face, a playful glint in his blue eyes that you've only recently begun to see.

The absurdity of the situation—you fully clothed in his bath, both of you soaking wet—only makes you laugh harder.

The remaining tension in his shoulders melts away, and his smile widens slightly—still hesitant, as if he's relearning the expression, but genuine.

"Didn't want you to leave yet," he explains, his voice softer than usual. "Feels... right. Having you close."

"I was just going to get you a towel," you say exasperated, but making no move to get up.

He nods, satisfaction evident in the way his arms settle more comfortably around you. The warm water envelops you both, your pajamas floating slightly around you.

You find yourself relaxing against him, feeling his heartbeat—steady and strong—against your back.

"You okay?" you ask, looking up at him.

Bucky's expression turns thoughtful, brow furrowing slightly as he searches for the right words. "Things are getting clearer," he finally says. "More pieces fitting together. Still gaps, but..."

"Progress?" you finish for him with an encouraging smile.

You sit together in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the occasional drip from the faucet and your synchronized breathing. The warm water creates a cocoon of intimacy around you both.

Your fingers drift to his chest where his dog tags rest against his bare skin.

They catch the light as they rise and fall with his breathing. You hadn't noticed him putting them on.

"Why did you put these on?" you ask softly, lifting the tags slightly so they catch the light. "Last time..."

You don't finish the sentence. You both remember—the tags triggering a violent episode, Bucky's metal arm reducing Tony’s coffee table to splinters.

Bucky's flesh hand comes up to cover yours where you hold the tags.

His touch is more confident than the hesitant way he used to reach for you, as if he's growing more comfortable with contact.

"Wanted to remember," he says, his voice low and close to your ear. "Finding more pieces. Not everything. But more than before."

His metal arm remains secure around your waist, the plates shifting slightly as he adjusts his position, water sloshing around you both.

"Wanna tell me what you remembered ?," you encourage, turning your head slightly to see his face.

Bucky's eyes focus somewhere distant, looking beyond the bathroom walls. "Steve," he says, more certainty in his voice than before. "Smaller then. Before the serum. Gave me something before I shipped out."

You nod encouragingly. "What did he give you?"

Bucky's brow furrows in concentration, but the frustration that usually accompanies these memories is muted. "Picture. Him and me. Said to keep it with the tags."

His breathing remains steady, a sign of progress. "Lost the picture during... after the fall. Steve ... he had the tags."

You watch the play of emotions across his face—recognition now outweighing confusion, determination replacing frustration. The pieces are coming together more smoothly than before.

"Steve ..." you say gently. " ...he just wants to help."

Bucky nods slowly. "I know. He's..." His voice is still small. "My friend."

"Yea, your friend," you confirm with a smile. "Like I'm your friend."

Bucky's eyes meet yours, suddenly intense and focused. "No," he says with unexpected certainty. "Different. Steve is... friend. Brother, maybe." He pauses, struggling to articulate the distinction. "You're... something else."

Your heart beats a little faster at the intensity in his gaze. You continue playing with the dog tags, the chain sliding between your fingers. "What am I then?"

His flesh hand comes up to brush a strand of wet hair from your face, the gesture achingly tender. "Doll," he says, the Brooklyn accent strong in that single word, his voice deeper than usual.

The nickname sends a shiver through you that has nothing to do with the water temperature. It's more than just a word—it's a glimpse of the man he was and is becoming again—charming, protective, affectionate in his own way.

Water has begun to slosh over the sides of the tub from your unexpected entry. The bathroom floor is getting soaked, but Bucky seems more relaxed than you've seen him before, almost content despite the situation.

"We should probably get out before we flood the suite," you suggest with a gentle laugh.

His arms tighten briefly around your waist. "Whatever you say, Doll." The words hold a hint of teasing now, the rigid protocol of the Soldier giving way to something warmer, more human.

"I'm not giving orders," you remind him softly.

"I know," he replies, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "Just like having directions sometimes. Old habits."

As you grab towels from the rack, Bucky runs a hand through his wet hair, pushing it back from his face.

"Why do you call me Soldat?" he asks suddenly, the question catching you off guard.

"You asked me too."

Bucky nods slowly, understanding. "But now? You know my name."

"I do," you acknowledge softly.

His expression softens. "Yeah, been thinking about names lately. Who I was. Who I am now."

"And who are you?" you ask gently, stepping closer.

His blue eyes meet yours, clearer and more present than you've ever seen them. "Still figuring that out. But..." he hesitates, searching for words, " don't want to be what they made me."

"No, You're so much more than that."

Bucky's gaze drifts to the dog tags still hanging around his neck. "These say James."

"That's your name. James Buchanan Barnes."

His eyes find yours again. "What do you want to call me?"

The question hangs between you, weighted with meaning beyond just a name. You step closer, gently taking the dog tags in your hand again.

"It's not about me, what feels right to you?" you ask, looking up at him, acutely aware of how small you feel standing before his towering frame.

His flesh hand closes over yours where you hold the tags, warm and steady. "Bucky," he says after a moment. "... it feels like ... it could be me."

You smile up at him. "Bucky it is, then."

"Can I keep calling you Doll ?" he asks hesitantly like hes a man starved and your going to take his steak.

"Yea, of course you can Sol— Bucky" you say with a warm genuine smile.

[trulybetty]

{ the pitt } moodboard | black tie affair.

something that might or might not be plotted out in the drafts, because god forbid I finish one wip at a time.

The night started with sequins—so many of them and all attached to your dress, catching the light off of the extravagant centrepieces at each table like you’d been dipped in champagne and sent out as bait. In a way you had. Your firm was one of the primary sponsors of the gala. Not the top one—no, that was saved for the tech empire funding the new neuro wing—but definitely loud enough to be printed in gold foil on the front of the program. And you, said bait? Your job that night while the higher ups gloated, was to make sure no one forgot that. You were the charming face to a faceless donation, tasked with steering conversations just enough to ensure your company’s name rolled off the tongues as easily as the merlot did.

[cryptotheism]

Ok I work in a hospital so I gotta ask about what a hospital rig would look like and if/how they would differ between departments. Would they include a lot of PPE? How would it work with diagnostic imaging or even EVS?

Theyre also light rigs! They're built for long term wear, ease of use, and rapidly swapping their exterior oversuit just in case something gets dirty. More advanced models would have semi-permenant self-sterilizing biomaterials.

Medical rigs are generally built to have the most advanced and dexterous hand servos. The hand parts especially are capable of extremely fine and minute movements.

They're also one of the most common rigs to have additional armatures. If you're an ultrasound tech, the machine is just mounted to your back, and the instruments are mounted on a neuro-controlled armature that extends over your shoulder.

This, combined with how they often have complex headpieces with multiple "eyes" for diagnostic work, makes medical rigs kinda spidery-looking. They often have model names like "Orb Weaver" or "Opillion" etc.

[funishment-time]

Seems like you have finished so i just need to say this:

DR0 is so fucking good.

Just, at EVERYTHING its trying to do, it hits it. And thats something that cannot be said about most of the other media in this franchise (not saying one is better over the other btw, thats a separate thing)

Like, it does its job of being THH's prequel. It goes into more depth with Kyoko and her father's relationship, it gives more insight into the destroyed classroom and what happened, it explains the massive plothole(?) of how exactly Junko was able to steal class 78's memories, it gives a better look at how exactly Junko was able to take over HPA. It gives so much context and answers to things the first game didn’t have the time to properly explore.

It does its job of setting up for SDR2's twist (as you are supposed to read it BEFORE the second game btw (it also released in 2011, a little under a year before SDR2)). It sets up the HPA is corrupt, that the staff dont care about its talentless students. It gives us the info that Kamukura and Junko are working together, and thats WHY the founder's portrait is in the funhouse. It also preps us for the twist, and why it feels so out of left-field in the game if you didn’t have the context of DR0 before. (I could make the argument that thats why both hajime and izuru share design elements with yasuke, because of the whole him pretending to be izuru thang but thats mostly speculation on my part lol)

But, most importantly, it gives us more depth into JUNKO. Something we lost in order for the first game's twist to happen. Ryoko is such a fun character, my lil goober, and such an interesting aspect to Junko that people either do not know about or think is solely Yasuke's creation (it is not, thats very clear in the novel). To think, that the girl that burnt the world down, was deep down a silly lil redhead with a weird crush on her childhood bestfriend is literally the best way Kodaka could’ve took her character. Its so funny but so fucking tragic, to fall in love with this protagonist and realize she was doomed from the start.

anyway sorry for the ramble, i love Ryoko and Yasuke and their story so much

NO RAMBLE AWAY THANK YOU FOR SHARING. i loved DR0 and honestly i may reread it again very soon because i miss Ryoko and want to spend more Quality Time with her.

i have so many thoughts about DR0 so here's a few scattered ones as i slowly wake up this morning:

DR2 has SO MANY MORE DR0 references than i realized

i would have taken an adaptation of this over DR3 tbh. like hands down

i feel bad for everyone involved in this event. even Kamishiro. yes, really

i also, personally, see Ryoko as not at all separate from Junko. to me she is representative of Junko's soul and past, and when she fades away it's not so much Ryoko disappearing as a person but Junko symbolically chucking away anything that gets in the way of her worldview. she is not Yasuke's creation i agree

(i headcanon, as i've said, that Ryoko is basically how Junko was as a kid, just a little less bratty. i also tend to think that Ryoko Otonashi is Junko's real name or close to it)

(and i did tear up when Ryoko "crumbles." i like to think that Ryoko and Junko, for a moment, both existed at once there. both were sad she had to go.)

Ryoko being so sweet and bubbly and not wanting to actually kill anyone causing her trouble is such a HUGE. HUGE. HUGE. signpost to Danganronpa's themes.

and Junko musing that she may lose, i like to think, comes from the fact that she knows she's wrong somewhere. deep down, even Junko...who is shown to be self-hating...is just a little goober who loves Home Alone and thinks she can below up Kyoko Kirigiri with her mind.

Ryoko being weirded out by Makoto??? forget the intense foreshadowing in that scene. Ryoko picking up on his energy??? he's pure without the use of neuro-tech???? incredible

the chapter where Junko is kicking the shit out of Matsuda's corpse should be required reading for all DR fans. it humanizes her so much. my headcanon that she is constantly in the throes of this wild psychic pleasure-pain and is like, spiritually suffering, seems to be more or less supported here

the last chapter where Junko and Mukuro are talking also provides a TON of subtle clues as to their relationship. it totally comes off like Junko STILL being so bitter that big sis Muki ran off to the military and left her all alone for a few years ha

so there's my ramble in return !! what a fantastic yarn. so tragic. so good

[digitalsymbiote]

Your first Sync

The first time you step into your mechs cockpit, it is with something like reverence. You'd been preparing for this moment for months (well, your entire life, really); hours upon hours in the training sims, harsh training regimens, a drug cocktail of neuro-stims, and a whole suite of pilot integration augments grafted onto your body.

You swear you can feel the metal beneath your skin buzzing with anticipation as you settle into the cradle custom built just for you. Not just any pilot can fly any Mech. Each Mech is custom built for their pilot, and each pilot is molded to fit that Mech. A strange kind of synthetic symbiosis, irreplacable partners. You aren't entirely sure why that is the case, the ads are always hazy on those details, but you've always seen each Mech with the same pilot, standing triumphantly alongside each other.

Your heart pounds in your chest as you wonder what it will feel like, to finally integrate with your Mech. You've dreamt of this moment since the first time you saw the propaganda vids. Giant metal machines of war, and their integrated organic pilots. You'd felt a longing then, one you didn't quite understand, a longing for steel plates and thundering autocannons. It wasn't until years later that you finally recognized that feeling as dysphoria.

But now you're finally here, finally about to cross that threshold and grasp what you'd dreamt of all those years ago.

You relax into the cradle and let the integration systems come to life. The cockpit closes around you and you feel the cold metal of the link cables sliding into the ports grafted onto your body. You shiver, both from the cold, and the anticipation.

click

A deluge of data rushes through your mind, integration processes blinking through your awareness as sensations expand out of your flesh body and into your new metal one. It's overwhelming, it's joyous, it's… Euphoric. You feel tears running down the cheeks of your flesh body before the synchronization is even complete. For the first time in your life, you feel… whole.

And then it speaks.

"Welcome, Pilot Caster."

That's… the voice of the training AI…? You recognize it from the simulation runs. What is it doing here, in your Mech?

"I am Integrated Mechanized Personality Construct designation P-Zero-L-X." The voice is being broadcast straight into your thoughts, you realize. Somehow that doesn't bother you. "It is good to see you again."

Something finally clicks for you, hearing that. This wasn't just a training AI, this was your training AI. All those hours in the simulation chamber, the techs had been calibrating this IMP to your neural system. You smile at that. You couldn't ask for a better companion.

"Good to see you too, Polux." You respond, knowing that the techs had tailored this IMPs designation just for you. It was a nice touch, that nod to Pilot tradition. "it's nice to finally meet you properly."

You feel her smile back, warmth flooding your chest as the docking clamps finally release your shared body.

"All systems are green, ready to launch on your mark, Pilot Caster."

Your muscles tense, flesh and metal alike, quivering in excitement. Your afterburners ignite in preparation.

"Mark!"