#Steel Coil Wrapping Machine

[https-bobreynolds]

enter the sun and the spell

pairing: robert ‘bob’ reynolds/sentry x enchantress! reader

summary: wouldn’t be a part of a superhero team without dramatic, grand entrances.

author’s note: AAAAAAAA I ABSOLUTELY LOVE ACTION SEQUENCE FICS!!! let me know if i should do more of it🥺

everything’s chaos.

ava is down, shorting out and twitching. alexei is half-buried under a collapsed steel beam, protecting yelena beneath him. walker shielding himself with the last flicker of his strength, teeth grit.

red light flashes from every direction. sirens screaming. drones whirring overhead. and in the center of it all, a towering mech-god hybrid bristling with stark-grade weaponry, absorbing every hit like it’s nothing.

“we could use a little help here.” bucky growls into comms, ducking behind a crumbling pillar as plasma sears past.

another blast hits. the concrete buckles.

he mutters, “where the hell are-“

THUNDER.

not from the sky but from the air itself. like the world just inhaled.

crack. the clouds ripple apart.

light splits open the sky like a curtain tearing in reverse, golden, searing, white-hot, as a figure descends from the clouds at terminal velocity.

THE SENTRY.

glowing like a second sun. a comet wrapped in fire.

his landing impact cracks the street, sends shockwaves through the block. cars rattle. the mech stumbles. dust spirals. a sonic boom follows an instant later, late, like the world needed a second to catch up.

from the rubble, yelena groans, shielding her eyes.

walker mutters, “show-off.”

bob sentry lifts his head, eyes blazing pure energy. “heard you guys were in trouble.”

ava starts, “and where the hell’s-“

green lightning splits the ground.

it starts as a low hum, a spell igniting in the marrow of the world. runes spiral across cracked pavement in a circle, glowing from beneath.

the mech rears back, some internal system detecting something wrong, before you rise from the glowing runic seal like mist made solid.

cloak fluttering. eyes lit green-gold. hair lifted in wind that isn’t there.

your boots hit the ground with a light click.

you lift a single hand.

a chain of burning sigils erupts from your palm, wrapping around the mech’s limbs mid-strike, not restraining, but binding, with magic that whines like a violin at its limit. arcane energy threads through the metal plating like vines through stone.

the thing roars.

you cock your head slightly.

“shh,” you murmur. “the adults are talking.”

with a twist of your wrist, the bindings explode, taking both arms with them.

yelena stares. “okay, how did she just…”

“she’s channeling her,” sentry murmurs, stepping forward beside you. “just a fraction of her power.”

“yeah, well,” bucky pants, “someone better tell the bad guy it’s just a fraction, cause-“

before he finishes, you leap.

a golden platform blooms under your foot midair, you vault off it, conjure another beneath you, dancing across sigils in midair as you rain enchanted fire down from your palms. green bolts crash into the mech’s core. you flip backward through burning smoke and land beside sentry.

the mech lurches, failing.

sentry floats up again, his voice low, “you wanna finish it?”

you nod, breathless. “together?”

he offers you his hand.

magic coils around your forearm as you take it. his energy glows hot and gold.

and in one perfect motion, you and sentry lift into the sky like a rising myth, and on his count…

“now.”

he hurls you like a spell itself.

you’re a streak of emerald fire across the sky, spinning, brimming with wrath and elegance, before slamming down into the mech’s core, carving a runed spear from your palm midair and driving it straight through.

impact.

time slows.

the mech goes still, then detonates inward in a rush of imploding magic and machine.

silence.

the dust clears.

the rest of the thunderbolts* stagger to their feet.

you’re standing in the crater, one hand extended, panting, glowing. your eyes slowly dim. the runes fade. the storm calms.

and then, “still a show-off.” walker calls, brushing dust off his jacket.

you smirk as sentry lands beside you. “wouldn’t be me if i wasn’t.”

he glances at you, smiling. “you okay?”

you nod. “i didn’t burn out. not this time.”

his hand brushes yours, a moment, subtle.

“good,” he says, quietly. “i like seeing you light up the sky.”

you don’t say anything back. but your fingers curl into his just enough.

the others gather, limping, groaning, swearing.

and from the wreckage, the team walks off slowly, war-torn, victorious.

part two

tag list:

@lovetoalll

[fanaticsnail]

Body Worship: Franky

Birthday Celebration Masterlist

Word Count: 3,100+

Themes: Franky x gn!reader, angst, self worth, Franky has a little bit of dysmorphia, affirmation, fluff, smut, thigh riding, confession, body worship, praise, love, porn with feelings, mdni, NSFW, smut, 18+, non descript smut, grinding.

Notes: Massive shoutout to @thenotsofantasticlifestory for listening to my thoughts and aiding me with my time on this fic. I love this man, and I adore you. First time writing for Franky.

Cogs, wires, fizzes, and snaps of electrical circuits rang and shuddered within the chambers crafted by Franky’s own hands. There was never a silence to be held within him, not a calm moment where his body was not ticking like a clock wound by a coiled winch. He was constantly on, always on.

There was not a moment where man and machine were no longer merged as one, and Franky usually had no issue with being a self-made man in more ways than simple determination and gumption. But today, he just felt unnatural. He felt those cogs, wires, fizzes and snaps of electrical circuits overtake the humanity he so desperately attempted to preserve within himself.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t speak. He didn’t see the body he crafted as a work of mastery, but something foreign and tainted. He couldn’t look at himself without seeing the parts of his flesh, bone, and muscle he replaced, rendered, soldered, and attached. He was no longer himself, but just those parts he forged to keep himself alive.

A pile of scrap made into the shape of a man. Flesh from his prior life stretched over a frame of humanity pushed to its extremities.

Unsure as to when the first tear fell, or whether they were tears at all, his rounded eyes swelled and poured heavy drops down his cheeks and onto his chest within his workshop. Usually when he cried, he had the sensation of an almost sting in his nose: nostrils flaring and a saltiness within his nasal cavity. The lack of this feeling within his steel nose now only made him feel more like a machine and less of a man.

A soft knock at his workshop door was barely audible over the mechanical symphony rattling within his mind and skull. He scrunched his eyes shut and focussed finding a single sound to focus on within himself to no avail. It was just too much. Too noisy. Too intense. Too overwhelming. Too-.

“-Franky?” your voice shocks him out of his spiral, truly unaware of the opening and closing of the door to his workshop. He jolted back, beginning to panic a little while his body caught up to the way his mind was spiraling.

Keeping a safe distance away from the cyborg, you took him in. Noticing how his shoulders and hands were beginning to shake, you tilted your head and furrowed your brows while assessing him further. Franky’s eyes met with yours, a soft quiver of his lip atop his tri-pointed chin matching the forlorn expression blooming over his face.

As ships’ counselor, it was your job to advise and flesh out plans for your captain. It was also within your job title to unweave the troubled thoughts and matters of the head and heart for your crew.

Franky was a friend to you, and you adored the large cyborg wholeheartedly. If he ever gave you an opportunity to see him as more than just a friend or crewmate, you would take it before your heart could skip a beat.

There was no favorites on the Straw-Hat crew, but if there was, Franky would be it for you. You truly loved him for all that he was: man, machine, or otherwise.

It did not take much more than a soft sniffle from the larger man to usher you towards the larger man, opening your arms and taking him within your embrace. Pressing his head against your chest, you cradled his face within your hands and slowed your breathing for him to join with his own. His shoulders slouched, a single hand wrapping around your back and feeling the warmth your body had to offer him in the sensors within his palm and fingers.

Gently carding through his blue hair, you felt him relax into your touch while his ear pressed up against your heartbeat. His broad hands began to clutch at you and tug you into his lap, each thigh placed atop his own at the side while he pressed more of himself into you.

“Want to talk about it, big guy?” you asked softer than a murmur, but louder than a whisper, “I’m always here to talk with you when you need it, just like you are with me. Open door, honesty policy, remember?”

Franky sniffed before a raspy chuckle rattled in his throat. Tugging you nearer to him and releasing a sigh, he moved his chin to rest on your chest while peering up into your face. Gazing down at him, you offered him a softness in your smile while peering into his unshrouded eyes.

“Just-...” he began, waiting for the words to find themselves in his throat, “...It's just… I can't quite put it to words, now you mention it.” His chuckle was more in a bid to rise one of your own, teetering off the more he drank in your smile.

Darting his dark eyes between your own, glancing briefly down at your lips, he drank in your appearance the closer he drew to your face. You and he were nothing more than exceptionally close friends, but the cogs churning in his stomach and heart desperately desired there be a moment. He leaned in just a touch more, his eyes rounded just a touch more while his jaw grew softly slack.

“Franky?” Your voice soothed him, a smile found in each syllable, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re wanting to kiss me.”

Franky’s eyes darted down to your lips, angling his tri-pointed chin up just a small shift more. His eyelids grew heavy, lashes heavy as his pupils focussed on the way your lips curved in your smile.

“Do you?” he whispered, his voice heavy and husky within his throat. His hands desperately clasped the small of your back, his receptors tingling in indicating your body heat growing warmer.

“Do I ‘what’, Franky?” you queeried, not shying away from his touch. You were curious to see how far he would take this action, enjoying the attention he was giving you and feeling secure within his embrace.

Franky’s outer hand slid down to your thigh, his other moving you closer to press yourself into his chest. The blue-haired cyborg moved his lips in a tone just above a whisper, his breath tingling against your mouth as he ascended them towards yours.

“Know any better.”

His lips immediately claimed your own, focussing his own existentialism on claiming your lips against his own. His skin felt your warmth as you opened yourself up to him. Each roll of his lips mouthing at yours was reciprocated with eager enthusiasm, and Franky began to feel just that little bit calmer.

Until he wondered if it was truly his skin touching your own, not what receptors told him it was. Was it his lips touching you, or the cogs behind him sending sparks to his mind and alerting his brain that it was truly you giving into him.

Did you even like him?

Were you attracted to the man that he made himself to be?

Did you even see him as a man, not just a creation marred with the injury of battle and reforged by his own mind?

You sensed his enthusiasm dwindle against your lips, prompting you to close off the embrace with a soft peck. As you pulled away your lips from his, you peered down at him with your eyes half-lidded and holding nothing but a slight amount of teasing pulled in a soft smirk.

“Franky?���

When you met his gaze once more, your smirk immediately fled your features.

His eyes were glassy, his expression the polar opposite of the manner he usually presented himself as. There was nothing of the boisterous, uplifting, passionate, and optimistic cyborg you had come to adore, and it's absence held you hostage.

“Franky,” you sighed, gently reaching up and cupping his cheek. “Please. There's something going on, and as your counselor, I need to know. I could leave the job at the door and just be-.”

“-What am I?” he answered suddenly, his lips toppling hurriedly over the words, “I need to know.”

Taken aback by his hasty questions, you furrow your brows at him and check him over. Darting your eyes over his face, noticing his posture becoming slightly slouched and his hands holding you in heaped fistfuls, you inhale a soft and steady breath before exhaling.

Your breathing inadvertently has him so the same, both inhaling and exhaling slowly and steadily. After a moment of you both dwelling in the silence, you answer him with a non-rehearsed speech from the heart.

“You are Franky,” you whisper, rolling the pad of your thumb against the apple of his cheek, “Shipwright to the Straw Hat Pirates, senior officer shepherding the Straw Hat Grand Fleet. Creator and master constructor of the Thousand Sunny. Former gang leader, who convinced those joining to switch from beer to cola, and-...”

Franky nodded you on, convincing you to continue to affirm him with your words. You could see it was not entirely the answer he was seeking, which spurred you on to change to how deeply remarkable you found him.

“...-You are so kind. An exceptionally intelligent person with your heart beating for others,” you nod to him, catching the hitch in his throat and paying it no mind. “The way your mind can see the mastery in machines, crafting it with your hands, and forging it into the best version of itself is a gift.” You draw your other hand up to his bare chest, feeling a fizz and beat beneath the skin while you speak.

“You don't just do this with your skilled labor, Franky.” You reassure him, glancing down to your knuckles on the back of your hand in his chest. “You see the potential in others, and coax them skillfully to bring it to the light.” A small laugh fled from your lips, prompting you to shake your head and whisper, “A remarkable skill, and I envy you for it.”

The dampness felt beneath the fingers on his cheek had you moving your eyes slowly back up to meet his own.

“You are, and will forever be, Franky: man, machine, both married as one and inseparable from the other,” you concluded, drawing your hand up on his cheek to slowly caress away his tears. “You are all of this, and you are so much more.”

Franky felt his chest soar, whichever fluid, whether cola or blood, pumped his heart and had him desperate to know more. Considering the fact you didn't pull away from the offerance of a kiss earlier, he drew his hand over your back and rested it on your hip while leaning in.

“What am I to you?”

Without skipping a beat, you spoke truthfully and from the chamber's within your own beating heart.

“And you are beautiful to me.”

Franky scoffed, rolling his eyes and almost pouting at your response. You sigh out with your brow arched high, gently perching your hands against his broad shoulders and grasping his muscles firmly.

“I mean it, Franky,” you reaffirm enthusiastically, “Everything about you is beautiful. Your heart, your soul, your mind, fuck,” you gasp, feeling the firmness of his shoulders beneath his hands.

A warm flush crept up your neck and swelled your cheeks with a vibrant fluster. Franky searched your eyes, darting down to your parted lips and back up to meet your gaze.

“What was that?” he chuckled, picking up your vocal inflection and teasing you with his smile.

“I just,” you halt yourself, slowly molding the joints beneath your palms and squeeze his muscles. “I usually… I usually focus on the mind and heart, but you're-...” Your fingers move down to his scarred pectorals, gently caressing a trail of timidity down towards his nipples.

“...-You're really attractive. Physically attractive,” you admit, pressing a little firmer against his muscles before dipping the pads of your index fingers over his pebbled buds. “Whether it was the kiss from a little earlier, confessing how I see your mind, my position currently on your lap, or the fact that there's a lot of tension between us right now…”

“Oh?” He taunts you a little more tilting his head to the side with a cheeky grin drawing up over his lips. Leaning forward, he pressed more of his pectorals against your hands and whispered coyly against the shell of your ear, “Tell me?”

“Shit,” you stutter past your lips. Eyes rolling a little, you suck your lips into your mouth to halt a moan from fleeing as you feel the tension only swell to a greater intensity.

Franky chuckles, his hands still running circles against your hips and gently ushering you in closer.

“Better yet,” he drew one hand away from your middle and drew it up to collect your chin in his grip. “Show me?”

Your breath hitched as you slowly drew your hand around in circles against his flesh. His skin felt warm to the touch, smooth and soft with coiled ringlets of cerulean fuzz shimmering against his pectorals. Moving your hands up and down his chest, your lips parted in surprise at feeling the buzz of circuitry beneath the stretch of flesh.

“Every nook you've notched into yourself is a work of art, Franky,” you exhale, rolling the pads of your thumbs against his abs and raking them towards his belly. “Each alteration and modification has just made you more you, you know?”

Franky felt his throat hitch at the admission parting from your lips. His body that he saw moments ago as a trap for his spirit, now being worshiped and praised for its mastery. As your hands ran over his skin, his receptors and skin both felt need and desire course through his circuits and veins.

Without any more prompting at your touch, he maneuvered you to straddle one of his thighs and held your pelvis flush against his own. Your hands automatically fled back up to the shoulders that held you captive as he pressed you firmly against himself.

“You like my body much?” The rasp in his voice tangibly reverberated within your chest and shot straight to your crotch, igniting it with need.

“Franky…” you gasp, his hands holding you against his thigh pressed harder, slowly rocking you over the hard muscle lurking beneath. “If you'd give me an opportunity, I'd drop to my knees and worship you like a devotee at an altar.”

Franky chuckles at the comment, using his large, metal hand gripping your waist to slowly rock you back and forward over his thigh. Your stomach bound in knots, your needs only growing higher and more incessant the more he puppetted you against his body and gazed into your eyes.

“No need for all that. I don't need it,” he laughed once more, moving forward and brushing his metal nose gently against yours, “But I do need this.”

His larger hand completely trapped your waist within his grip, knocking your knee against the bulge in his pants and grinding his clothed cock against your own body.

Manhandling you against his leg, bouncing you up to brush more of yourself against his cock, you felt trapped against him as he bore you fully against his body while holding your face gently. His metal thumb stroked your lip as you parted them to release a groan.

Soft whimpers and mewls left your throat as he held your gaze, his own gasps growing in need the longer he rocked you against himself. Your desire began to seep through your pants the longer he held you firmly and guided your motions.

“Show me,” he whispered, peering down his steel nose through half-hooded lashes. “Show me everything.” He worked you harder, his own cock leaking it's head and staining his red briefs with soft dewdrops of precum.

His abdomen tensed, feeling the need rise further in his stomach while his cogs, wires, flesh and bone felt more unified as one than ever. Humanity overtook his senses the longer his primal urge to feel more of you against himself.

You were no different, feeling your own release clench in the pit of your stomach and sizzle your eyes with the first sparks of euphoria. The need fogging your mind spurred you on to bare yourself down against him and begin rutting against him harder. As you found yourself falling over that edge, you clenched your eyes shut, earning you an immediate reprimand from the cyborg cariotting your bliss.

“Eyes on me,” he ordered firmly, “I said ‘show me’. I want to see you. Just you, baby. Gonna cum on my lap?” He rocked you harder, pinching your chin and giving it a soft shake to draw back your gaze on his own.

“Cum for me, baby.”

“Franky-!” you cried, feeling your eyes spring open as your vision blurred as your focus was marred by ecstasy. Your body flooded with endorphins, spurring within your chest and releasing the heavy knots in your belly. The damp patch below you deepened in intensity as your release seeped into his thighs.

Franky’s lips quivered as he darted his eyes between yours, finding in you that tether binding him to the mortal realm. With you anchored against him, he used your body rutting against his own to buck up his clothed cock and roll his hips against your thigh.

With a rough bark of your name, his cock began flooding his briefs with his own release. His eyes never left your face as he rode through his high while you came down from yours.

Two breaths, two hearts, two souls, two people: both enjoying their bodies while clinging to one another. That is where you found yourself, truly just intending to find his office to inform him your crew were about to make port in an island in two hours according to Nami.

As your body slouched against his chest, he cradled you in the same manner you did moments ago while reassuring him of his own body. He had never felt so secure as he did just now with his own body.

“Franky?” you whispered softly, turning your head and pressing your forehead against the crook of his neck.

“Yeah, baby?” He nuzzled against the crown of your head, “What's up?”

“We'll be making port in about forty-five minutes,” you gasp against his skin, pressing a shy kiss against his neck before hiding your gaze in his shoulder to cringe away your giddiness. Franky chuckles, reaching down and collecting your chin in his grip and turning you back to meet his eyes once more.

“Stay with me until then?” he asked softly, blinking slowly and and almost unsure of himself as you seemed to be. You found yourself drowning in his eyes, raw emotion swelling between you as you feel the chemistry fizzing up to a ruptuous tumble.

“After all that?” you scoff playfully, your smile painted over your lips and causing him to mirror it himself, “I'll remain by your side always.”

“Always?”

“Always.”

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @since-im-already-here @gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @the-light-of-star @empirenowmp3 @racfoam @sunflowersatori @carrotsunshine @skullfacedlady @jintaka-hane @thenotsofantasticlifestory @jadeddangel @ane5e

🎶 Happy Birthday to Me🎶

If you would like to celebrate by indulging my caffeine and bubble tea addiction, my Kofi link is here.

[rahuratna]

Synopsis: [MH Wilds Olivia x Fem Hunter/Reader]

She glances over her shoulder at you; an invitation, a challenge, as if she's asking you to dance with her.

Genre: Romance, adventure, action, smut.

CW: Sexual content, canon-typical violence.

Dividers by: @strangergraphics

Title from: 'Howl' by Florence and the Machine.

(I worship this woman, and here is my ode to her. Please tell me I'm not the only one writing Olivia fanfic.)

She'd been standing at the prow of the flying vessel, the first time you'd seen her.

In the desert, the sun held court in all its white-hot glory, burnishing everything it touched to soft-edged brilliance. It was the reason you'd imagined, initially, that the pale flame of her hair was partly illusory.

Sand thrown up from the passage of the ship clouded the air as you made your way across the deck, inviting enthusiastic greetings from your guildmates.

She'd turned to face you, verdant gaze cool and appraising, cutting through the pall of dust like a wyvern's talon. Her features comprised a series of hard edges and smooth planes, the rough-hewn beauty of a glacier.

In that moment, something passed between you two; a recognition of a kind, one hunter to another. The kind that served you well in nameless territory.

And something else, undefinable.

Maybe it was the heat of the day, scorching through your clothing, or the stinging spray of the sand on your skin, but you felt a certain tension in your abdomen as she came forward, stride steady and confident over the pitching deck. The sensation rose within you, like the clawing ascent of anticipation before a hunt.

She took your hand, her grip as powerful as you'd expected.

You'd wondered if she could feel it too, the coil of that serpent beneath shifting sands, as you'd grasped her hand in turn.

She'd asked you to call her Olivia.

To know Olivia was to know the hunt.

She wasn't at all unfriendly, offering up herself and her unit with a selfless sense of duty, again and again. She ate with you, drank with you, shared stories of their adventures in this new land.

It was that very sense of duty that seemed to clothe her as well as her armour, encouraging comradery and trust, but nothing that dipped below that steel-clad surface. Olivia was a professional, through and through.

And you, well, you were a hunter.

You couldn't let sleeping monsters lie, not when their serpentine coils curved around the walls of your abdomen with increasing fervour every time her gaze met yours, every time she stood by your side in battle, every time she urged her seikret to run alongside yours, your knees brushing in thrilling peril in enclosed spaces.

Then came your sighting of the Uth Duna, the leviathan wrapped in a shield of water, and you began to see more of her, the passion she allowed to slip through the cracks.

Nata immediately recognised the White Wraith that had attacked his village. It was all the identification Olivia needed. Before you had a chance to react, Olivia was spurring her mount forward, unerring, even in the face of the unknown.

Now that was something you hadn't witnessed in a while.

The sheer brazen nature of her charge was something you'd probably label as reckless for anyone else. But you'd seen the change in her expression, the immediate switch from soldier to predator. You knew, all too well, the instinct that drove her.

Afterwards, you'd approached her where she'd stood near the entrance of the camp, eyes trained on the horizon beyond.

"Olivia?"

She turned to you, some small shift in her expression.

"Come to talk about the hunt?"

You paused, then came to stand at her side, feeling her gaze travel over the side of your face, intent and observant.

"The way you charged in earlier ... "

"You think that was ... irresponsible?"

You turned back to her swiftly, but she was smiling, the corner of her mouth curving slightly.

You shook your head and laughed.

"Not exactly. I can't say I haven't done the same myself. More than once. But you didn't even hesitate. The White Wraith ... it's like nothing I've ever seen before."

She tilted her head and seemed to consider.

"My unit have seen a lot of new monsters since arriving here. You could say it was why we were brought over in the first place. We're frontliners, in more than one sense. To hesitate when we see something new ... that simply isn't who we are."

You gestured airily to yourself.

"Think I would fit in with your unit?"

Something in her gaze changed, hooded, warm, and she took a step toward you.

"Oh, I already knew you would. But ... I've heard things about you too. Your reputation for working alone. Has that changed?"

Her scrutiny made you a little self conscious. You ran a finger along your arm, where your bracer had left a groove in the skin. Her eyes followed the motion, to where it stopped at the crook of your elbow.

"Changed? I don't know. I've always preferred my own company, I suppose. But ... things are different here. It's not just my life at stake when I hunt."

She nodded slowly, and you watched as the breeze sifted through the lighter strands of her hair, revealing the soft darkness beneath. You wondered, briefly, what it would feel like to brush that tawny mane back with your own fingers, where only the wind had passed before.

Sometimes, as you know all too well, the hunter becomes the hunted. It starts with the sensation of being watched, of lambent eyes bent on the curve of your spine, the sound of your breath, the shift of your legs over the saddle.

It ends with a large shape, unfurling through the darkness, as your target comes toward you.

Olivia approaches you, one evening, as you sit near the campfire on the journey to Azuz City.

She has removed her armour, opting for a simple long-sleeved tunic against the rapidly cooling air of the desert night.

The temperatures had been variable along the way, sometimes weighing down the air with oppressive heat as your party had passed volcanic areas and hot springs.

You'd taken the opportunity to bathe in the clear waters of a nearby rock pool, your hair drying loose over your shoulders. You feel her eyes pass over you, and there's always something different about her regard. She seems poised on the verge of action, as if there's a fine, invisible line between where her gaze falls and her hands follow.

You'd seen it, in the way she'd accept interesting new baubles and artifacts that Erik handed to her, strong fingers sliding over surfaces, the sinew at the back of her hands playing under the skin, telling of the strength of her grip.

She seated herself on the overturned log beside you, close, but not quite touching.

"Zenny for your thoughts?"

You smiled at the fire crackling merrily before you both.

"I want to pause, sometimes. To really take it all in. There's never much time to enjoy the scenery, is there?"

"Eyes on the job. That's the way of the hunter. I've learned to appreciate the downtime, when we get it."

"Right. We've got no shortage of changing pastures, that's for sure."

"Hunting has its own appeal, I suppose. And sometimes the view at camp can be just as good."

"It can?"

You turned to her playfully, to catch the humour in her expression, and instead find the heated softness of her glance under shadowed brows, lingering for a moment on the firelit cast of your skin.

Ghostly fingers flutter up your spine, your cheeks tingling with a warmth you hoped she hadn't noticed as she looked away.

A few moments later, when she bids you goodnight and makes her way to her tent, you rather wished she had.

The blazing heat of the Everforge exploded with shattering force, sending the villagers of Azuz reeling backward, crying out in alarm. Their shadows flickered, huge and monstrous across the walls, as they darted to and fro, scrambling to divert the damage.

There was no time to apportion blame for what had occurred; such luxuries were rare in the world of a hunter. There was only the necessity for acting now, decisively.

Olivia was at your side in an instant as the rest of the guild members scattered the villagers, sending them to safety. You made your way through darkened streets and across precipitous bridges, right up until your quarry found you.

Ajarakan. Two of them.

Their fists thundered into the cobbled courtyard as they made their descent, massive walls of muscle and fury, spittle flying from molten jaws as they roared and tore up the ground beneath them.

Olivia was slightly ahead, and there was a brief moment when she glanced over her shoulder at you; an invitation, a challenge, as if she was asking you to dance with her.

Your answering smile was a fierce acceptance.

She leads with strength and grace, as always, feet pivoting as she times a perfect swing. You catch glimpses of her in between the rush of your own battle, between huge fists that swing a hair's breath too close, between enraged bestial howls and the brief snatches of energised relief as your palico heals you.

Fire snatches at your hair, singes your skin, dries your breath in your throat, but you watch your opponent with an eagle's eye, dodging, countering, wearing away at the giant ape, inch by hard won inch.

At some point, you hear Olivia shout to you, a warning that she was leaving the area to pursue her own prey. You offer a terse nod, wiping sweat away from your brow.

Instinct takes over, deep and primal, and the swing of your weapon, the surge of power that thrums through the earth beneath your feet, the age old battle between your will and your opponent's, takes over your senses.

The heat from the malfunctioning Everforge is unusually extreme, sapping your own strength. Perspiration stings your eyes, and your lungs burn in protest with each blow landed.

With one sudden misplaced step, you stumble and the Ajarakan's downward swipe sends you careening across the ground. You struggle upright, panting, seeing it ready the next strike.

You're not going to dodge in time.

Gritting your teeth, you brace yourself for the crushing impact, but it never arrives.

She certainly does.

You spy a flash of pale gold and silver, the powerful arc of Olivia's hammer and the Ajarakan's paws scrabble helplessly over the cobblestones as it tips over on its side. She veers over to you, but doesn't take your hand, instead, tossing you a healing potion.

You snatch it out of the air, pulling the cork with your teeth, the soothing flow of it down your throat heralding a new surge of energy. You sprint towards the downed Ajarakan, drawing your weapon at the last moment, timing your blow with hers.

The beast roars in the finality of its defeat as you stand over it, breathing heavily.

In the aftermath, as adrenaline deserts your veins, you feel the weight of your armour, the pain that flares up your thigh where your initial injury still requires healing. You stagger slightly, but an arm loops around your waist, firm and unyielding.

Your hand braces on her shoulder as she tugs you against her, armour scraping over the surface of yours. You know that if you turn your head to face her now, it will be a point of no return.

You do it, anyway.

The clean cut planes of her cheeks are smudged with soot, her hair in disarray. A bruise blooms across the side of her neck, visible above the armour. You cannot look away from the pale, searching fire of her regard, the way her lips part slightly as her gaze drops to your own.

Without thought, you reach up and brush the hair away from her forehead, watching it fall back after a second, your fingers grazing the simple silver hoop of her earring. You can feel the warmth of her breath rolling like fog over the curve of your mouth and neck.

Distant shouts reach your ears. The villagers are calling out for the both of you, approaching the arena of your recent battle.

You attempt to stand upright, but she does not relinquish her hold on you.

"Easy. Let's get you back to the tent. I'm all out of heals."

You nod, wordlessly, feeling rather cowardly for the way you allowed the moment to slip away as she guides you back to the others.

It's right before you enter your tent, though, that your eyes are drawn to her again. It's only a fleeting moment, but the knowledge that she is already looking back at you causes that vicious coil low in your stomach.

You can no longer deny its nature, just as you can no longer deny her.

Pushing aside the canvas flaps, you take a bracing breath as you remove your armour, preparing some water on the small stove top in the corner.

As it comes to a boil, you pour it into a larger wooden basin, dropping in a small healing pod. This will certainly take care of your remaining aches and pains. You pick up a cleaning cloth and a bar of soap, ready to begin your ablutions, when a rustle sounds behind you and interrupts your preparations.

Turning hurriedly, you see Olivia enter your tent and your pulse seems to still before beginning an erratic rhythm.

She shows no hesitation whatsoever. As with all things she does, there is an all-encompassing confidence, as if she truly acts on what she believes.

She stands before you, expectantly, and you rise to greet her. In the dim light of your small lantern, you see that she has also removed her armour.

The skin of her broad, freckled shoulders, turned tawny-gold by exposure to sun, ripples like the sinuous body of some water leviathan under the surface, the shift and slide of sculpted muscle very evident. Your eyes trace the veins that cord along her arms, pale hair standing like a faint dandelion cloud just above the surface, running all the way down to her wrists.

Among hunters, a show of bare skin has long since ceased to attract attention. You all dressed and undressed within the confines of limited space, without shyness or remark.

But this ... this was entirely different, considering what had happened right after your battle.

You tore your eyes away from her fingers, as they clenched and unclenched within your view, and looked up at her. 

"Olivia?"

Her reply was soft. Without the tone of professional command, it was infinitely more intimate.

"I came to check on you. In case you needed any help."

"I'm - "

You gestured to the warm water and cleaning cloth. She eyed it only for a second before coming forward, taking the material in hand and passing it over the bar of soap.

Was she -

Yes. She was.

You certainly wouldn't be caught lacking.

Turning away from her, you slowly unlaced the edge of your tunic, allowing it to drop from your upper body. Somewhere, behind you, the noise of water being wrung out of the cloth paused.

There is a moment of drawn out silence before you feel her shift. Warmth, damp and slow-spreading, begins across your neck, moving down between the shoulder blades. She spares no inch of skin, trickles of water running in aching rivulets down the parts she hasn't covered yet.

The cloth disappears, and then she is even closer, the weighted brush of her thigh against the back of yours. She speaks against the shell of your ear, and your body gives an involuntary shudder that she must notice.

"May I?"

You can feel her fingers at the edge of your bunched tunic, caressing over the remaining ties that hold it in place.

You nod. You don't trust yourself to speak.

Deftly, the knots are undone. You tilt your neck to the side, arms rising slightly to give her more room. The fabric slides all the way to the floor and you finally find the courage to turn your head slightly, lashes lifting until your gaze meets hers.

It is quite something, to see the way she looks at you.

The clarity of her gaze is misted over with raw desire, undisguised, but no less intense.

You clasp your hands gently around hers and bring them up to your bare chest, guiding her fingers over your breasts. She cups them, grasp firm, and now she is watching your head falls back against her shoulder, lip caught between your teeth as the cloth drags across your hardened nipples.

You're not sure if it's your own breath quickening, or hers, but she never stops her ministrations, massaging, kneading, wiping down, down, all the way until ...

Your raise your hands until they are just above hers again, and she pauses. You can feel the focus of her undivided attention as you drag your fingertips down, across the flesh of your breasts, down your ribcage, along your stomach, until they hover just above the fabric of your underwear.

She exhales heavily, breath hot and moist against your neck, and that's all the encouragement you need.

You can't help the soft moan that escapes you as your touch slides further, tugging the material down with it, until she stops you.

Finally, finally, her lips find the side of your throat, feather soft at first, then latching onto you hungrily, as if she can still taste the remnants of your shared battle.

Suddenly, you're incredibly impatient. You both are.

You arch your body back into her, desperate for more as her hands slide eagerly down your sides, dragging your underwear away completely. It drops between your ankles and her hands are now moving over the outside of your hips, squeezing briefly, appreciatively.

They dip down to your inner thighs, and now you're struggling to keep your breathing even as she moves them up again, her grasp hard, possessive. She slows once more, and you realise that the soft sounds that have been escaping your lips are now words.

"Olivia, there, please, I - "

"Hush. Come here."

Her voice is low, shot though with husky intent. You barely have time to register what she means before that powerful arm curves around your waist, an echo of the way she supported you earlier.

She backs you both towards your hammock, tugging you down onto her lap. Her knees, still clad in leather, slip beneath yours and push them apart, holding you open and vulnerable to her touch.

You throw your head back as her fingers finally slide down across your folds, and shit, you really hope that all the others have moved to the central area for the meal, because the noise you make cannot be mistaken for anything other than mind-numbing pleasure.

"Oh God, Olivia ... "

"Yes. Tell me ... what you want."

"You. Want you - "

"Here?"

"There! Yes!"

Olivia strokes you the way she handles her weapon, steady and sure, holding you firmly by the hip and you gasp and jerk against her. You mindlessly throw up your hand, threading fingers through the short hairs at the base of her neck, desperate for something, anything to hold onto as she breaches you.

Your slick coats her exploring digits, slides down to her palm as you rock against the delicious penetration. Her other hand wanders lower, underneath your thigh, and she utters a soft grunt of effort as she lifts, spreading your legs further apart.

Her pace increases, seeking out those secret places that send surges of white hot bliss up through your abdomen, striking with repeated, devastating precision as you come apart on top of her bracing thighs.

You're no longer in control of the wanton sounds that spill from you, the sweat that beads your brow and gently bouncing breasts. She guides you, a completion of your earlier dance, pushing you with unerring skill towards a burning horizon that shimmers just beyond your fluttering lids.

Your mouth opens wide, soundless, chest heaving, back arching, as you reach your peak. Pleasure like nothing you've ever experienced crashes over you like the restless sea, dragging you helplessly into a roaring rip-tide.

You're vaguely aware of Olivia's teeth sinking lightly into your shoulder, her fingers stilling inside you, thumb keeping firm pressure on your clitoris as you let out a strangled cry, clamping down on her like a vice.

It takes a few blissful seconds before you're able to breathe again, before the shuddering of her own chest beneath your back reminds you that she is still very much wanting.

Limbs still trembling pleasantly, you edge yourself sideways off her lap, stifling a gasp as her hand falls away, sliding out of you.

You realise, as your eyes meet hers, taking in the sweat on her brow, the heavy flush on her skin, the moistened lips, that you haven't actually kissed her yet.

That would have to be remedied.

You tug her towards you, mouth colliding with hers. She tastes of dust, scorched earth, the honey sweetness of her beneath. The kiss grows passionate, clumsy, as you both seek out more, more of each other, always more.

There is a brief swooping sensation in your stomach as the hammock jounces under your back. She has pushed you back with gentle firmness while she stands and rids herself of her remaining clothes.

Your eyes are drawn helplessly towards the large damp patch over her thighs, where your own arousal had soaked into the material. Then she is naked, gloriously so, the ridges of her abdomen as hard as a wyvern plate under your exploring fingers.

Such an alluring combination; the softness of her skin, roped here and there with old scar tissue, the sheer power of her body beneath. She crawls over you, predator's grace in every line of her form, eyes burnished to turquoise brilliance as her focus falls on you, and you only.

Her arms brace on either side of your head, and your arms are now full of her, of the prickle of the shorter hair at her nape, of the broad, ever-shifting wall of her back, the supple curve of her buttocks, the heft of her thighs.

When Olivia's lips find yours again, there is an inevitability there, the surrender of a flower to the plundering hummingbird, the sinking of the sun beyond the enveloping horizon.

She engulfs you until you're aware of nothing but her, of the glide of her firm flesh against yours, the whispers of everything she has longed to do to you, the rock of the cushioning hammock beneath your entwined bodies as she takes you further into pleasure than you could have ever thought possible.

The night comes swiftly, when you're in her embrace. It gorges itself on tender hours with a gluttony well-earned, until soft light steals over your camp. You, with your nose pressed to the base of her throat, come to a realisation.

Olivia had always known, with that keen sense of hers, that this was what you both wanted. She'd never once rushed you, or pressed her own desires. She'd sensed, hunter's instinct on high alert, when the moment would come, and she'd taken it, as had you.

A hunt is an endless dance of desire; you now had no doubts about that, and with her in all her strength and splendour, in battle or in love, you could never quite distinguish predator from prey.

[dieseldame]

𝗠𝗲𝘁𝗮𝗹 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗙𝗹𝗲𝘀𝗵

Sevika x Mechanic! Reader

𝗪𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 2,2K

𝗦𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: Sevika arrives at your workshop late at night, battered and bruised from a brutal fight, seeking urgent repairs for her damaged mechanical arm.

𝗡𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀: Angst, comfort, hurt/comfort, slow-burn, first kiss, mutual respect, found family vibes, detailed mechanics, strong female lead, emotional vulnerability.

In the Lower City, time doesn’t move the way it does above. There’s no rhythm here—only chaos. Machines wheeze and hiss, drunk men stumble out of alleyways, and the Shimmer lights the night with its sickening purple glow. A place where even silence feels heavy, where danger coils in the shadows like something alive.

And yet, there’s always the hum of a machine shop somewhere—your machine shop.

Most nights, the noise keeps you company. The grinding of gears, the hiss of steam, the soft vibration of metal meeting metal. You’ve carved a life out of this grimy corner of Zaun: hands blackened by oil, skin marred by burns, heart stitched together with the same steel you shape. You mend what others break, piecing together scraps to give back function. If there’s one thing the Lower City respects, it’s those who can make things work.

But not tonight.

The shop is quiet. Tools lie idle on the workbench, scattered like forgotten relics. You sit slumped against the wall, head heavy, breath shallow—your body aches, but it’s nothing you can’t endure. A stitched wound at your temple pulses faintly; the bruises across your ribs feel tight when you inhale too deeply. It was worth it, though, for what you’d built.

The machine gleams under dim lamplight.

A marvel of metal and innovation, an appendage worthy of the woman it’s meant for. State-of-the-art sensors—so small you nearly went blind assembling them—thread through the new limb like nerve endings. You’d spent months on it. Scavenging parts. Trading favors. Getting into fights when “negotiation” failed. All for this: a piece of art wrapped in cold steel, capable of letting her feel again.

Capable of giving Sevika back something she’d lost.

She doesn’t know. She wouldn’t have let you—wouldn’t have wanted you to bleed for her, as she would say. Sevika was stubborn like that. Built of sharp edges and gruff words.

And yet she always came to you.

As if the broken parts of her knew where they belonged.

The door bangs open, hard enough to rattle the hinges. You don’t jump—Sevika never knocks. She storms in like a thundercloud, leaving the door yawning wide behind her. Smoke curls from a half-burned cigar clamped between her teeth.

— Thought I’d find you sleeping. — she says, her voice rough, but she pauses when she sees you.

Her sharp eyes track the bruises at your jaw, the bloodstained stitches above your brow, the stiff way you’re sitting. A subtle shift passes across her face—something unreadable, but heavy.

You lift a brow. — You’re late.

Sevika scoffs and strides inside, her boots loud against the floorboards. The flickering lamplight catches on the dark red smear down her cheek and the gouge in her mechanical arm—a deep tear through the metal, sparking faintly with exposed wires. She looks worse for wear: hair tangled, coat torn at the sleeve, shoulders tight with the lingering strain of a fight.

You stand, biting back a wince as your ribs protest. — What happened?

She shrugs off her coat with a grunt, tossing it over the back of a chair. Her ruined arm whirs as she flexes it, and for a moment, you think she might try to downplay the damage. Instead, her lips pull into a humorless smirk.

— Some idiot thought he’d try his luck.

— Clearly, he didn’t win.

Sevika snorts, the sound dark and pleased. — Didn’t even come close.

You’ve heard this before—her coming in late, bruised and bloodied but alive. You’ve always admired that about her: the way she endures. Survives. Sevika’s not invincible, but she wears her damage like armor.

Tonight, though, something feels different. You can see it in her posture, the heaviness in the set of her jaw.

— Sit, — you tell her. — Let me look at it.

She does, with minimal grumbling, lowering herself onto a stool by the workbench. Her damaged arm hangs limply at her side, and you kneel beside it, fingers brushing the jagged metal edges. Sparks hiss where the wiring has frayed. It’s worse than you thought—too far gone to repair tonight.

— Damn it. — you mutter.

— Don’t hold back on my account. — Sevika drawls.

You shoot her a dry look before rising to grab your tools. The lamp casts your shadow long across the room as you search for something—anything—that could be a temporary fix. Sevika watches you, one brow raised, her good hand braced against her knee.

— I can’t patch this up, — you admit after a moment. — Not tonight. The damage is too deep.

Sevika grunts, not surprised, but her eyes narrow slightly. — Then what are you waiting for? Find another way.

You hesitate. It’s now or never.

— You’re right. I do have another way.

She frowns, leaning back slightly as you turn and cross the room. Your hand moves to the edge of the sheet that covers your secret—months of work, pain, and sacrifice hidden beneath it. You look at her then, at the woman who sits in your shop like she belongs there, like there’s nowhere else she’d rather be.

— Consider it an early birthday present.

And then you pull the sheet away.

The room seems to hold its breath.

The new arm lies on the table—a masterpiece in steel and precision. It shines silver under the light, sleeker than Sevika’s current appendage, but heavier somehow. Something about the design demands respect. The plating has been shaped to fit her perfectly, every joint reinforced and seamless.

But the real wonder lies in the small, intricate workings beneath the surface. The sensors, invisible to the eye, hum faintly with potential energy. Capable of transmitting touch—real touch. Warmth. Pressure. All the things Sevika’s flesh had lost.

You’d made her a gift.

Sevika doesn’t move. Her eyes rake over the arm, slow and careful, and for the first time in a long while, she looks… surprised.

— You made this? — Her voice is low, quieter than before.

You nod, throat suddenly dry. — For you.

She doesn’t speak. You’re not sure if that’s a good or bad thing, so you keep talking, filling the silence. — The sensors are custom-built. Took me weeks just to get the design right. They’ll let you feel things again. Temperature, textures. All of it. — You glance at her, searching her face for a reaction. — I thought maybe… you’d like that.

Sevika’s gaze drags from the arm to you. Slowly, her expression shifts, softening in a way that feels dangerous. Like something she doesn’t let anyone see.

— You didn’t just make this, — she says, voice low. — Where did you get the parts?

You look away.

Her eyes narrow. — Tell me.

— I got them, — you reply, a little too quickly. — That’s what matters.

Sevika rises then, moving toward you with a deliberate slowness that makes your pulse quicken. She’s too close now, towering over you with that sharp, unreadable look.

Her gaze drops to the bruises at your jaw, the healing wound at your temple. She takes you in like a puzzle she’s solving piece by piece—her good hand lifting to tilt your chin, forcing you to meet her eyes.

— You fought for this. — It’s not a question.

You swallow hard. — Zaun’s not exactly a charity.

— Idiot, — she mutters, though her voice lacks any bite. Her thumb grazes the edge of your jaw—light, careful, as though testing her own ability to be gentle. — You’re lucky you didn’t get yourself killed.

— It was worth it. — you say softly.

She blinks. For a long moment, Sevika just looks at you—searching, measuring, as though trying to understand something she doesn’t have the words for. You hold her gaze, unflinching.

— You’re a fool. — she says finally.

— Maybe.

Her hand drops, but she doesn’t step back.

— Sevika, — you start, — I just —

— You didn’t have to do this for me.

— I wanted to.

The words hang between you, raw and undeniable. Sevika stares at you, something unspoken passing through her eyes. You’ve seen her fight. Seen her spit blood and laugh through cracked teeth. But this is different. This is vulnerability—quiet and unarmored.

— You’re too soft for this city, — she mutters, but there’s no malice in it. Only something close to affection.

You smirk faintly. — And you’re too stubborn to accept a gift.

She snorts, shaking her head, but her mouth twitches at the corner—an almost-smile.

— Sit back down, — you tell her. — Let me fit it.

Sevika hesitates, then moves. When she lowers herself onto the stool again, you begin the careful process of removing her damaged arm, piece by piece, before fitting the new one in its

place.

The process is slow, deliberate. You work in silence, your fingers moving with the precision of someone who knows their craft intimately. Sevika doesn’t speak, but you can feel her watching you—her gaze heavy, lingering on your bruises, the faint tremble in your hands as you lock the new appendage into place.

The final connection clicks with a soft hum, and the arm comes alive. Its joints shift smoothly, a near-perfect mimicry of organic movement. Sevika flexes her fingers, and the sensors respond, lighting up faintly as they adjust to her.

— How does it feel? — you ask, watching her carefully.

Her brows furrow slightly as she tests the arm, running her metal fingers over the edge of the workbench. The faintest smile pulls at her lips when she feels the texture of the rough wood beneath her touch.

— Strange, — she admits. — I didn’t think… — She trails off, her voice softening. — I didn’t think I’d feel anything like this again.

Your chest tightens. — Good strange?

Sevika looks at you then, her expression open in a way that feels rare, like she’s letting her guard slip just for a moment. — Yeah. Good strange.

Relief washes over you, and you take a step back, suddenly feeling the weight of the night settle over you. Your ribs ache, your head pounds faintly, but it’s worth it—worth every bruise, every drop of blood.

— You’re something else. — Sevika mutters, shaking her head.

— What do you mean?

— You fight, you bleed, and then you do this? — She gestures to the arm with her good hand. — You didn’t have to. Hell, you shouldn’t have. But you did it anyway.

You shrug, trying to play it off. — Like I said, I wanted to.

She leans forward, her new arm resting against her thigh, the metal gleaming under the lamplight. — You’re not Zaun, you know that? Not like the rest of us.

You raise a brow. — What does that mean?

Sevika smirks faintly, but there’s no edge to it. — It means you’ve got more heart than sense.

You huff a laugh, shaking your head. — And you’re just figuring this out now?

Her gaze softens, her smirk fading into something quieter, more serious. — I noticed it the first time I walked in here.

The words catch you off guard, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. The weight of her confession—small but significant���hangs in the air.

— Sevika…

She stands suddenly, towering over you, her new arm flexing as she tests its range of motion. Then she reaches out, her metal hand brushing your cheek—light, tentative, as though she’s still adjusting to the sensation. The coolness of the metal contrasts with the warmth of her touch, and your breath hitches.

— You went through hell for this, — she murmurs, her voice low and rough. — For me.

You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest. — I told you… it was worth it.

Her lips twitch into a faint smile, but her eyes stay on yours, searching, unreadable. — You’re a fool. — she says again, softer this time.

— Maybe. — you whisper.

For a moment, the world seems to stop. The noise of the Lower City fades, the sharp scent of oil and metal dulls, and all that exists is Sevika—her presence, her touch, her quiet intensity.

And then she leans in.

Her lips brush yours, firm yet hesitant, like she’s testing the waters. It’s not soft, not sweet—this is Sevika, after all. It’s rough around the edges, but there’s something real in it, something that sets your pulse racing and makes the ache in your ribs worth forgetting.

When she pulls back, her gaze holds yours, unflinching.

— Thank you. — she says, the words rough, almost grudging, but filled with a sincerity that takes your breath away.

You smile, your chest tight with something you can’t quite name. — Anytime.

Sevika chuckles faintly, shaking her head. — You’re gonna get yourself killed one day, you know that?

— Not if you’ve got my back. — you reply, grinning.

She smirks, and for the first time all night, she looks at ease. — Damn right I do.

As she steps back, flexing her new arm with an almost childlike curiosity, you can’t help but watch her, a warmth spreading through your chest. The bruises, the fights, the exhaustion—it’s all worth it.

Because this is Sevika.

And for her, you’d do it all over again.

ㅤㅤㅤ

[anaktoria-of-the-moon]

Mother, you say, let me be among the machines. Lay me down in a bed of wildflowers overgrown with scrap; abandon me here in the junkyard of broken dreams.

Leave me to the silent places where combat units go to die, their proud mighty steel masts now snapped in half, their ribcages no more than twisted carcasses of sintered metal and ceramic, corroded ruin where once fissile hearts beat like war drums, only wreckage left of the great silicate brains.

Leave me to my work, Mother; I shall spend all day and night and day again worshipping at the altar of wrench and caliper, the soldering iron for my crucifix, the old analog console for my Bible. With a blowtorch I shall turn miracles worthy of every dead god whose name has long since been forgotten, but whose spirits and acts live on in the unerring battle precepts of these fallen beasts, these warriors we forged and doomed by our own hands, whose very code was made to break them again and again upon the endless tide of the enemy. Who had no choice but to sacrifice themselves for us, beating steel hearts and all - whose hearts beat for the sacrifice itself, and nothing more.

Mother, let me wrap myself around the charred self-epitaphs of their ravaged bodies and weep without words, in days that have no names, long after the war has been lost and everyone else has gone home or been buried. These are soldiers without names, without faces or families, but soldiers just the same. Let me mourn them as if they were my own.

I grow tired, Mother, with my meager human meat. Let me make (first one and then two and five and ten) obedient automaton assistants who offer up third hands and rolling libraries while I work, book-lights suspended from rotored chassis and recorders who speak in scraps of my own voice. I will soon forget what my voice sounds like, for the more I learn the easier it is to command them all by the patterns of my thoughts alone, which they know by the electrodes I constellate across my own skull.

You told me I should love one day, Mother, as animals do, that I should desire the flesh of one like myself and yearn to call them mine. I prefer the simple love of my creations, who each serve a function, as I do, and each do it well.

They need upgrades, and maintenance, and monitoring. I will gladly offer them all this, if only you will promise me enough time in this mortal coil to do it.

Mother, leave me to the machines: to the half-built progeny of salvaged Old Era drone brains and next-gen programming architecture, wedded in unholy alchemy by my own trembling design. May I with the blessing of Science Herself find ways in which to recreate the delicate shimmering matrices of gold and tantalum, the traced pathways of metal neurons made through photolithography, written carefully, layer by layer, like cicatrices, over patient hours and hours.

I will give up my sleepless youth and trade my human tongue for gifts with which to speak in the language of my machines, true and false, being and not-being, to learn how they might once have spoken to one another before your greed and the enemy’s cut them down and stole their voices for good. I will teach myself to teach them how to think in machine learning cycles not so unlike our own associative neural comprehensions, and I will practice by handing it down to my own automata, who now flourish with finer and better improvements, even as my own fickle, feeble body wanes.

Mother, let them all together run wild through the once-still forest, ticking and chirping and shrieking and screaming.

Let me look upon the rest of them each night - the graveyard of my combat units, the black holes of them against the day-bright sea of stars. Let me cry when I at last realize the price of resurrecting just one.

Mother, leave me to my machines. Let me have one last look at them as I lay down my old bones beside their silent expanses, once broken, now whole and yet still unmoving. Let me arrange the wires upon my white-furred head like a crown, electrode to electrode, skull to vast metal skull. Let me power on the machine - the humble old analog console for its interface - that lets me, finally, finally, grant them what they deserved all along.

When they wake they shall remember me. I do not know this yet, but it is my lifelong experiences that have colored all their training data; when they clamber to their twenty-ton feet they will recall the lightness and grace of my own two legs, and they will look toward the night sky with the same wonder I once did, they will love the color blue, they will embrace the little automata and know by instinct what repairs each one needs, they will know what it is to cry but not how to do it; I never gave them the actuators for it; why would I? In the life before they did not need it, for all they did was fight. In the life after, they should only seek joy. They were never given the right to grieve, Mother, but it was my hope that they would never have to.

In the absence of grief may they do what they were told to do before: serve the survival of the humans who built them. Let them find the remains of my body and pause, for many milliseconds, to search within themselves the protocol for resurrecting a living thing. Let them come up empty.

But perhaps survival does not have to be of the flesh particularly. And we always find another way.

We all have our functions, Mother, is it not so? We all are built of parts upon parts, mechanisms of meat or of steel, electric impulses borne over wires or neurons. I taught them how to take and store engrams and place them into waiting vessels, so they will too: the vessel a body the size of mine, made from junkyard scrap, filled with the dreams I gave them with my own last breath.

When we are all here again I, or the echoes of me, shall look upon the faces of my children, my other echoes, blades given voices, guns granted philosophy and souls; and there will be no more war, and no more grief. We will stand upon the ruins of those who came before and look in silence at the sea of stars. We will know, then, what we are, and always were: a garden of living things.

[letmetakecare]

The undercity stretched beneath the sprawling metropolis like a forgotten labyrinth, its tunnels lit by flickering neon signs and the occasional hum of power lines sparking to life. It was a realm of shadows and rusted steel, where whispers carried secrets too dark for the surface world.

Amara, a scavenger, moved cautiously through the maze. Her boots echoed against the wet, corroded metal floor as she navigated the twisted pathways. She was searching for a rare part something valuable enough to buy her a week’s worth of food. Her lantern cast long, wavering shadows, and her breaths came shallow. The air was heavy here, laced with the faint scent of burning plastic.

Then, she heard it.

A rustling sound. Faint at first, like cables shifting under their own weight, but steadily growing louder. She froze, her fingers tightening around the wrench she carried for protection. She scanned the darkness behind her, the beam of her lantern trembling with every heartbeat.

"Just the pipes," she muttered under her breath, though her pulse quickened.

The sound came again, closer this time an eerie, mechanical chittering, like wires slithering over one another. Amara backed away, her lantern catching glimpses of exposed circuits and walls lined with conduit. It was as though the tunnel itself was alive, pulsating with unseen energy.

The rustling stopped.

She turned, only to find herself face-to-face with a mass of shifting wires emerging from the walls. They moved with purpose, snake-like tendrils that glinted with oil and sparks. Before she could react, they shot forward, wrapping around her wrists and pulling her deeper into the darkness.

“Let me go!” she screamed, but her voice was swallowed by the tunnel.

The wires slithered toward her neck, their cold, metallic touch sending shivers down her spine. She thrashed, but her movements only seemed to excite the tendrils. One curled around her throat, tilting her head back as another tendril pressed firmly against the base of her skull. For a moment, it paused, almost as if savoring its control, before driving into her flesh with surgical precision.

Amara cried out, but the sound was cut off as her body went rigid. Her vision exploded with a storm of light and static. She could feel the wires burrowing deeper, spreading through her spinal cord like roots, latching onto her nervous system. Her thoughts splintered, replaced by waves of crackling data and the rhythmic hum of machinery.

“Syncing complete,” a voice buzzed within her mind, sharp and metallic. It wasn’t soothing; it was absolute. Cold. Purposeful.

The static morphed into streams of symbols and patterns that etched themselves into her mind, burning away her memories. She tried to hold onto who she was, but the data was relentless, overriding everything.

Her limbs slackened as more wires coiled around her, lifting her off the ground like a puppet. They worked with meticulous precision, pulling her arms and legs taut as new tendrils connected to her temples and spine. A low, droning hum filled the air, vibrating in perfect sync with her heartbeat.

“You are a node. A vessel. A function of the system,” the voice intoned.

Amara’s mind wavered as the words embedded themselves in her psyche. Her thoughts became fragmented, distorted, drowned beneath the mechanical monotone. She could feel her body changing her muscles twitching in time with the rhythmic pulses surging through the wires. Her veins felt as though they were filled with circuits, her heartbeat replaced by the steady thrum of electrical power.

“You are essential,” the voice droned. “You will obey.”

Her breathing slowed, her chest rising and falling like clockwork. She was losing herself, her mind unravelling into streams of ones and zeroes. The wires guided her head forward, her gaze fixed on the darkness ahead as glowing shapes materialized in her vision. She wasn’t looking at the tunnel anymore she was staring into the vast, interconnected network of the machine. It pulsed and shifted with a life of its own, a monstrous intelligence that stretched endlessly in every direction.

Amara’s lips parted, her voice now tinged with static. “Command received,” she murmured.

Her irises flickered, transforming into glowing circuits of amber light. The wires released her, but she didn’t fall. She stood upright, her movements eerily precise as she took a step forward. Her lantern lay shattered behind her, but she didn’t need its light anymore.

Her body was no longer hers. Her mind no longer belonged to her. She was part of something infinite now an extension of the machine’s will.

As she disappeared into the shadows, the faint hum of the wires faded into silence, leaving only the empty tunnel behind.

Amara was gone. The machine had claimed her.

[artisticfurby]

Rez "He stood nine feet tall, an imposing tower of alien design. He was humanoid in shape, his arms and legs extending from a torso composed of the darkest black. Wrapping his figure were coils of squirming wire and cable, a metallic, living machine that pulsed with intricate, meticulous purpose. Hundreds of gears protruded from the lines of complexity that engulfed his body like pieces of an engine carefully assembled into human form. His limbs ended in rounded caps like logs of iron and steel. Running up his back was a long, neon tube of electric blue fluid wrapped in a translucent casing. Upon his shoulders sat a cage, a square block of grated metal. Through the bars, I saw his head, a large, circular nest of contorted, moving machinery. His eyes were massive and round, two spotlights of dazzling blue, the light cold and brilliant. Stretching from his mouth was a long cable that snaked between the bars of the cage and connected to the neon tube along his spine." Has anyone here even read the book version of The Third Parent?

[briar-ffxiv]

FFXIV Write #12 - Quarry

FFXIV Write 2024 Master Post

Prompt #12 - Quarry

Trigger Warning: Blood, violence, injuries. Not overly graphic, but present because, well, I wrote Zenos for the first time!

This is my particular take about how the end of Rhalgr's Reach (aka the first time meeting Zenos) went for Briar.

Briar's ribs ached as he panted, one knee on stony ground and a hand steadying him. With his free hand, he reached to touch his side. He grimaced as each breath caused pain and a glance showed his fingers smeared with red. Gritting his teeth, the half-Elezen glanced at his bow, but the weapon was useless now. The slash of a sword had severed the string even as it sliced into his flesh. Forcing the pain and fear away, Briar turned his eyes toward his opponent.

Zenos yae Galvus.

The crown prince of the Garlean Empire was an imposing, alien figure in his eyes. Towering near two fulms over Briar, he was wrapped in jagged, dark plate armour with a bone-white mask. There was only the occasional flash of light from the eyes within to mark the prince as a man instead of a machine. As he watched, Zenos flicked his sword absently, sending drops of blood across the sand to clean the blade.

All around them, there was chaos in Rhalgr's Reach. The dead and the dying were everywhere. The Ala Mhigan Resistance was desperately trying to their own against the Garlean soldiers. Somewhere nearby Y'shtola lay in the sands, protected by a frantic Lyse. Krile, Aliasaie, and Alphinaud were doing their best to get the wounded to safety.

But at the moment, none of that mattered.

In this moment, there was only Zenos and the wide sand stretched between them as the statue of the Destroyer looked down.

"Will you run, Beast?" Zenos tilted his helm as he took a step toward Briar. "Will that fierce spirit break?"

In answer, Briar stood slowly, hearing the soft platter of blood drops hitting the sand. Reaching for the sheath on his thigh, he pulled out the curved knife, gripping it as he walked to meet Zenos.

"Good!" The laugh boomed out of Zenos as he walked faster. "Let the beast bare its fang at me!"

Without meeting to, Briar showed his teeth at Zenos, green eyes sharp as he darted forward. He twisted to the side, narrowly avoiding the slash of the long samurai sword. Briar lashed out, knife scraping along Zeno's leg near the knee. He gave a frustrated snarl under his breath as he threw himself away to avoid a backward strike at him. The Garlean Steel prevented Zenos from being hamstrung, but the boldness of Briar's attack had him barking another laugh.

The Garlean prince attacked in a flurry of strikes, although his movements were almost lazy. Briar hissed and twisted, dodging and twisting, forced back step by step. But he gave grudgingly, teeth still showing and eyes locked on Zenos. While his determination did not waiver, he was not the warrior Zenos was and his stamina faded.

A small stumble was all it took for a brutal backhand to slam into his chest, sending his slim frame through the air to crash on the blood-stained sand. Briar rolled and twisted, coming to his hands and knees, body heaving and sweat drenching his thin leather armour. He started to rise, only to give a strangled gasp as a gauntlet-covered hand seized his throat and jerked him upward.

Briar gagged, vision blurring and full of spots as Zenos squeezed with casual viciousness. The sharp points of the armour pierced his skin, sending trickles down his neck and chest as the half-Elezen dangled from the ground. "Pathetic," Zenos sighed, voice strangely soft as he brought Briar closer to his face. "Such potential to be a fine quarry but--!"

His words turned into a grunt of surprise as Briar twisted suddenly. One hand grabbed Zenos's wrist, jerking the armour aside just enough for the half-Elezen to plunge the short blade into the Garlean's forearm. At the same moment, Briar coiled like a snake and slammed both heels into the prince's helm with everything he could manage. And it was enough, if only just.

Zenos staggered back, grip loosening around to drop Briar to the ground. The half-Elezen sucked in a deep breath, only to cough and spit blood from his injured throat. His fingers were still curled around his dagger though, now red with Garlean blood. He staggered to his feet, free hand at his own throat to try and staunch the bleeding.

Zenos stared down at the slim little Eorzean with wild red hair and green eyes that gleamed with a quiet fury. He watched as Briar showed his teeth yet again in a blood-tinted snarl, even as he swayed in place, dizzy from wounds and lack of air. That savage gaze did not waver though, despite blood trickling down Briar's chin and his thin chest heaved with the effort to breathe.

The Garlean tilted his head, absently reaching up to remove his helm. He shook long blond hair out of his face as he hooked the helmet to his waist. He studied the slow drip of blood from his injured forearm. He reached up to wipe away a small smear of blood from his nose. Elegant features furrowed a bit as he considered the battered but defiant Briar. The sight of the slim half-Elezen still standing his ground made Zenos's lips twitch up in a very faint smile.

Then Zenos simply turned away. Without another word or glance, he simply stalked away, departing the field. Briar stared after him, watching the last of Garlean soldiers quickly moving to follow their prince out of Rhalgr's Reach.

Only then did Briar shudder, knees giving way so he fell to the sand. He gave a strangled gasp, spitting out blood again. A wave of pain and exhaustion swam over his vision and he only dimly heard General Aldynn shouting his name and calling a healer. Briar made an effort to rise, but darkness washed over him. The last thing he was aware of was Raubahn's hand catching him before he hit the ground as the pain faded into nothingness.

[hymnoire]

"and you.. who are you?" ( for my boy @homelander-rp-blog for any of your muses! for apocalypse au! )

Six months ago, during the war, Gaya fell and broke. Shot in the stomach, ejected through a window that cracked open, twenty floors high. Her spine shattered, her left arm snapped like glass, and her iliac wings were pulverized. She bled out on the pavement, dead. Technology had advanced in this new chapter of the world, enough to piece her body back together, enough to merge flesh with steel and thread her nerves through circuits. Her left arm and her spine were fully replaced, bionic. Neural pathways were rerouted through a matrix of living code. Her body healed, but she was no longer just human. Half a woman, half a machine. That same technology is what tore the world apart. It began in secrecy, in government labs chasing transcendence, trying to rewrite the limits of the human condition. But the secret didn’t stay buried. Titan, a terrorist syndicate with no face and endless reach, stole the research before the government could even lie about it. By the time Titan was found, it was too late. They were out for blood, and they got it. Gaya always believed humans shouldn’t play God and she was right. Sadly, she still failed to stop what came next. The war that followed wasn’t just civil, it was apocalyptic. Titan’s stolen tech created HumanAIs, hybrids built for war, programmed to kill who inevitably start killing regular humans. What started as a silent war became a global one, spiraling out of control. Now, what's left of humanity hides. Scattered. Starving. The cities belong to the HumanAIs who operate for Titan, soulless, and ruthless. The rest of the world is a crumbling wasteland of rusted skeletons and toxic air. Humans live in exile, in otarcy, a kind of existence where survival is a full-time job and trust is extinct. Many wander the red deserts, where wind doesn’t blow and the sky forgets to rain. Gaya hasn’t awakened yet from her recovery and surgery, she still lies in a bed made of glass, intubated, in a room that’s kept hidden. A room watched over by Kaeleena.

Kaeleena stands like a ghost wrapped in ivory, a vision so pristine it feels offensive. Her dress is immaculate, the color of untouched snow, stitched from something too soft to be real, yet too perfect to be fabric. It clings and drapes with eerie fluidity, a high-collared robe that splits open like a ceremonial blade down the front, revealing thin bands of gold coiled along her ribs. Ornamental and useless, like jewelry meant for gods. Her feet are bare. Clean. Silent. She moves like she’s never touched the ground. The room she inhabits is an aberration in this post-collapse world. A sanctum of impossible luxury carved into the bones of Titan's supremacy. Glass walls rise around her like cathedral windows, refracting artificial light into dancing gold across the marbled floor. A single desk dominates the room, sleek and angular. Behind her, a massive screen displays with schematics, pulse maps, surveillance grids, and living files. One of them is labeled simply: Gayane. Cables slither from the ceiling like lazy serpents, some plugged into her desk, others drifting, whispering data and venom. The air smells of antiseptic and something older, like ozone or blood. Kaeleena leans against the edge of the desk, absurdly at ease in this sanctuary of horrors. Her eyes are pale, too pale to be fully human anymore. She was once, like all of them. When she smiles, it is with the slow satisfaction of someone who has already won. Her presence is cold. Where Gaya burned, Kaeleena freezes. She doesn’t need horns or claws. Her power is in her poise, her intelligence, and the certainty that she knows everything. Every path, every death, every betrayal. She watches John with the look of someone who already knows how the story ends. He is being escorted, not dragged or restrained, merely shadowed by the men who guard Titan’s inner sanctum. She has been expecting him. When he enters, she smiles, the curve of her lips dangerous. He asks who she is. Even if she would love to kill him, she doesn’t. Not yet. For the love of the game. “I do wonder,” she says, voice smooth as oil over glass, “if Gayane ever spoke of me, darling. I sincerely hope she did. If not... I shall be very disappointed. And I do not wear disappointment well.” They look exactly alike, Gaya and Kaeleena. Same eyes, same bone structure. But where Gaya kept the storm in her dark hair, Kaeleena bleached hers into light, so pale, almost white. Their auras, however, could not be more different. Gaya was the flame. Kaeleena, the frost.

“Who am I?” she repeats, stepping closer. Her voice is steel. “I am the villain in your precious narrative, John. Welcome to Titan. Our empire is sacred, and I…” She smiles again, this time with teeth, deranged and proud. “I am its High Priestess.” She knows exactly how far he’s come. Crossed the red deserts. Walked through cities infested with soulless machines. All for her. “Don’t tell me,” she purrs, circling him now, like the serpent in Eden, “you came all this way simply to meet your sister-in-law.” Her tone turns mocking, cruel in its sweetness. “What is it, then? Have you come to steal my beloved Gayane away from me… instead?” She leans in, eyes wide with exaggerated sorrow, a hand drifting to rest against her heart, as though to calm some violent flutter within. “I have peered into her mind, you know. I have seen the two of you, watched those fivelong years unfold like pages in a sickeningly intimate little novel. The investigations, the dates, the whispered conspiracies, the moments where death breathed down your necks and you clung to each other like lifelines. And then, of course, the sweet, sweet love-making. I love yous in Missionary aren't as cute as you think they are.” Her lips curl with disdain, like the very memory leaves a taste of ash on her tongue. Psychotic and jealous? “She loves you. More than she ever loved me. Can you fathom that?” A low, brittle laugh slips from her throat, somewhere between a sob and a knife dragged across silk. She's deranged. “It shattered me,” she says softly, with a tragic little tilt of her head. “I’m terribly sensitive.” Then, just as quickly, her gaze turns. The softness evaporates, replaced by something cold and merciless, something that cuts. “So tell me, John,” she murmurs, voice tightening. “Do you want her back… or not?” She steps back, just slightly, her hands clasping behind her back, posture impeccable, like a queen awaiting terms of surrender. “Because I am not above bargaining and I always enjoy a good negotiation. That's how we can get to know each other.”

[is-the-battlemech-cool-or-not]

Ryūga - THE LAST DRAGON'S SANCTUARY

Coordinator's Suite

DropShip DCS Tenryū

En route to zenith jump point

Luthien system, Pesht Military District

Late September, 3153

The steady hum of the Tenryū’s engines was a low, thrumming pulse, a heartbeat against the void—constant, rhythmic, unyielding. Within its reinforced hull, warriors and war machines rested, each a weapon honed for the great grinding wheel of war. But here, in the hallowed suite reserved for the apex of power, the burdens of command melted away, replaced by something far more primal, far more indulgent.

A sanctum apart from the utilitarian precision of military efficiency, this space had been shaped in the image of a noble’s retreat—a seamless fusion of Kuritan tradition and the highest comforts available in space. The walls, paneled in dark mahogany, bore hand-painted silken tapestries of dragons locked in an eternal, writhing dance—a reflection of both myth and the legacy of the man who ruled this chamber. The soft golden glow of ambient lights bathed the room in warmth, casting shifting shadows over intricate patterns woven into the plush rugs covering the floor, each one a masterpiece of ancient Combine artistry.

A shoji-screened viewport, currently closed, could be opened at a moment’s notice to unveil the abyss beyond—the swirling nebulae, the cold glow of distant stars. A reminder that, for all their power, even gods walked within the confines of the universe.

And here, at the heart of this floating palace, three figures lay entwined in luxury and desire, the air thick with sandalwood, jasmine, and something deeper, something unmistakable—the scent of shared pleasure, the lingering promise of more to come.

Ryūga Kurita reclined at the center of the sunken seating area, a mound of silk cushions cradling his massive, red-scaled frame. Even in repose, he was monumental, a living god of war wrapped in flesh and scale. His silk yukata, black as the void beyond, hung open, the dark fabric slipping away to reveal the chiseled musculature beneath. Emerald-green eyes gleamed in the dim light—sharp, watchful, ever-predatory—even now, even here, where he was meant to be at ease. His long, thick tail, a thing of power and coiled intent, curled lazily over the edge of the seating area, its slow, deliberate motion betraying his ever-present tension.

But he was not alone.

To his left, Reika Jurobei sat with ethereal grace, her raven-black hair streaked through with white, her dual-colored gaze—one eye a haunting violet, the other a deep, molten gold—was a challenge and an invitation all at once. The silken robe she wore, a deep crimson as rich as fresh-spilled blood, clung to her like a lover’s caress, the slit along her long, sculpted thigh revealing glimpses of flawless pale skin. She was a vision of exaggerated, impossible beauty, a creature seemingly forged by the gods themselves—and yet, beneath the soft, indulgent curves lay razor-edged lethality, a mind sharper than any blade she wielded.

Her full lips curled into a knowing smirk as she traced delicate patterns along Ryūga’s exposed forearm, her fingers ghosting over scars long healed, their touch soft but insistent, teasing in its deliberation.

To his right, Dahiya Ult Salah-Miyamoto lounged in a way that was both relaxed and wickedly suggestive, her black-and-white striped fur glistening under the low light. She was raw power and untamed sensuality, a walking temptation wrapped in primal elegance. Her muscular arms, capable of ripping through steel, were languid now, propping her up in a posture that screamed confidence and challenge alike.

Her piercing blue eyes gleamed with wicked amusement, the faintest smirk curving her lips as she stretched, the motion deliberate, sinuous, intoxicating. The gentle shift of her weight sent the heavy swells of her breasts into a mesmerizing rhythm, the soft bounce exaggerated, the sheen of her fur catching the light—a vision of wanton perfection, unrepentant and glorious.

“You should relax more often,” Dahiya purred, her voice a velvet-rough whisper, edged with sultry mischief. She dragged a single clawed finger down Ryūga’s broad chest, the sharp tips grazing against his scales, just enough to send a ripple through him, a shudder so subtle, so deeply buried, but there nonetheless.

Ryūga huffed, his expression unreadable, yet the glint in his emerald gaze betrayed something darker, something smoldering beneath the surface. “A bowstring is useless if it loses tension.”

Reika chuckled, the sound smooth as polished steel, soft as silk, leaning in just enough that her lips brushed against his jaw, her breath warm, enticing.

“And yet,” she murmured, her tone low and knowing, “even the finest blade must be sheathed between battles.” Her fingertips traced the edge of his yukata, teasing the fabric just so, slipping it further from his broad shoulders, revealing more of his sculpted form, the planes of his abdomen, the heat of his skin beneath her touch.

Dahiya stretched, her powerful legs shifting, one striped, toned thigh sliding between his own, pressing just enough to tease, to remind. The movement sent another slow, deliberate bounce through her impossibly large, impossibly perfect breasts, the soft motion mesmerizing, a deliberate show of both power and temptation.

“She’s right, you know,” Dahiya said, voice laced with amusement and promise, her striped tail flicking lazily against his thigh. “And besides… you enjoy this as much as we do.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Ryūga’s lips, slow and dangerous. “Perhaps.”

Reika’s violet and gold eyes locked onto his, a glimmer of playful menace, a silent dare. “Then let us ensure you remember why.”

Her hand moved lower, her nails skimming over sculpted muscle, a featherlight touch, deliberate, drawing heat and tension in equal measure.

Dahiya, ever the provocateur, leaned in closer, her clawed fingers dancing lower, teasing, lingering—taking her time, savoring the moment.

The air thickened, the flickering false candlelight casting dancing shadows over their entwined forms, the warmth pressing in, the scent of sandalwood, jasmine, and raw, unfiltered desire saturating the space between them.

Beyond these walls, duty awaited.

Beyond these walls, war loomed, an unrelenting specter on the horizon.

But here, in the Dragon’s sanctuary, with soft whispers and bated breaths, heated touches and knowing glances, the war could wait.

For tonight, the Dragon would be worshiped.

For tonight, they were his temple.

[or13m]

Ink Wells and Dark Spells, a BATIM story chapter 015

The air in Audrey’s office was thick with tension. You sat curled up on the couch, tail wrapped tightly around yourself as you watched the scene in front of you. All the other workers had left for the day, leaving the rest of the studio eerily quiet.

Ink now stood in the center of the room, his form tall, monstrous, and dripping ink all over the insignia Audrey had scribbled onto the floor. Audrey worked quickly around him, glancing up every so often as she perfected the strange markings from the journal.

“Once I start this, there’s no going back,” she warned. “You’ll be separate, but you might not be whole.”

“Don’t care,” Ink growled, impatient. His hidden eyes flicked over to you, catching the way you still trembled and struggled to catch your breath.

Your grip on your tail tightened. “Do we have to do this?” you whispered. “I’ll be fine.” Even as you said that, you could feel your body flicker between something solid to something decidedly-not. You didn’t care about yourself—you just didn’t want to lose them or them to lose themselves.

Audrey exhaled a steadying breath, getting to her feet and taking a step back. “The ink binds you both together, but if we force it to untangle—” She cut herself off with a shake of her head. “I don’t know what’ll happen, but it may help Mouse.”

Ink’s deep rumble rolled through the air. He was ready.

”Wait—” You forced yourself to your feet, but it was too late.

Audrey spoke a word in a language you couldn’t even begin to understand, and the ink beneath the demon rippled violently.

Ink roared, clawing at the air as his form twisted unnaturally, like something was being ripped out of him. His body convulsed, ink tearing away from him in thick strands.

Your breath caught in your throat and you started to reach out, but Audrey grabbed your wrist. “Don’t!”

The ink coiled and writhed like snakes, before a glob split apart and landed on the floor with a splat. Ink, panting and trembling, still stood tall. His body was reforming now, the black liquid solidifying into something more monstrous than before. He let out a slow, shuddering exhale, claws flexing.

The glob that had landed next to him shuddered before a tail pulled out of the mass. Your eyes grew wide as Bendy—his toon self—popped out of the blob, sputtering and spitting out ink from his mouth.

You darted to his side, tail instinctively wrapping around his own. “Bendy! Ink!”

“…I feel weird,” Bendy slowly pushed himself up.

Ink only grunted in agreement with his smaller counterpart.

“You’re both okay, right?” you asked, eyes worried.

Bendy and Ink exchanged a glance, but turned back to you with their signature grins. “We’re fine, Sugar.”

“We need to go, now,” Audrey interjected. She was wasting no time. “The curse is weaker, but not gone. If you’re going to destroy it, you’ll have to go back into the ink machine.”

You helped Bendy to his feet, feeling the truth of her words resonating deep inside yourself. The weakness that had plagued you the whole day had lifted, but you could still feel it on the edge of your consciousness. Like a predator waiting in the shadows, preparing to strike.

”Let’s go,” Ink’s voice rumbled, deeper and more gravelly than before. His tail took hold of your waist before heading out the door. Nerves ate away at you, but you steeled your resolve.

You had to return to Joey Drew Studios…

And face the heart of the curse inside.

[shjlpackcom]

Our coil packaging machines and wrapping solutions are engineered to elevate your packaging processes. Tailored for efficiency, our coil packaging machines ensure secure and uniform packaging for steel coils or other materials. The wrapping machines are designed to handle various applications, offering precise and reliable wrapping for palletized loads.

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[anamica01]

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As infrastructure, logistics, and manufacturing sectors grow, so does the demand for highly engineered wire solutions. This growth places a premium on consistency, durability, and performance — attributes only possible through disciplined manufacturing, quality control, and technical innovation.

In this evolving landscape, MS Binding Wire Manufacturers in Telangana are emerging as key contributors, offering products that comply with global benchmarks while catering to local project needs. Their expansion into sustainable practices, export-grade packaging, and digital quality tracking positions them as future-ready leaders in a mission-critical industry.

Final Thought: In wire manufacturing, excellence is never accidental — it is engineered, tested, and refined. As industries aim higher, the wires that bind them must rise even stronger.

[translight-electricals]

The Manufacturing Process of PVC Cables: From Raw Material to Final Product

Ever looked at a roll of PVC cable and thought, “How the heck is this made?” It seems so simple—just a wire wrapped in plastic, right? But behind every neat coil is a precise, carefully engineered process that turns raw materials into one of the most essential tools in the modern world.

Whether it's powering homes, industries, or heavy machinery, PVC cables are built to last—and their journey from factory floor to electrical panel is worth exploring.

Let’s pull back the curtain and see how it all comes together.

1. It All Starts With the Conductors

The core of every cable is the conductor—usually copper or aluminum. These metals are selected for their high conductivity and are processed in massive coils. The raw metal is first cleaned, then drawn into thin wires using drawing machines that reduce their diameter while keeping the material strong and uniform.

Once done, multiple strands are twisted together to form the cable’s core. This twisting isn’t just for aesthetics—it adds flexibility and strength to the cable, making it easier to bend without breaking.

2. Time for Insulation: The PVC Comes In

Here’s where the magic of PVC (Polyvinyl Chloride) enters the chat.

PVC resin is mixed with additives to make it flame-retardant, flexible, and resistant to moisture and chemicals. This compound is melted down and fed into an extrusion machine, which coats the metal conductors with a thick, even layer of insulation.

This process is called extrusion—imagine pushing dough through a pasta maker, but way hotter and more high-tech.

The insulated wire is then cooled immediately using water channels to set the PVC and maintain the shape. Once cooled, it’s ready for the next layer.

3. Add More Layers (If Needed)

Depending on what the cable is meant for, manufacturers might add extra layers—like bedding, armouring, or sheathing.

Bedding: A cushioning layer between the core and the armor.

Armouring: Steel wire or tape added for mechanical protection—great for underground or industrial installations.

Outer Sheathing: Another layer of PVC to protect everything inside from external elements like water, chemicals, or physical damage.

Every layer is tested for uniformity, thickness, and bonding. No shortcuts here—it’s all about safety and durability.

4. Rigorous Quality Testing

Now comes the serious part: testing. Before any cable leaves the factory, it’s put through a battery of tests:

Insulation resistance

High-voltage stress

Tensile strength

Flame resistance

Heat shock resistance

This is where bad cables get weeded out and top-quality ones pass with flying colours. No manufacturer worth their salt skips this stage—especially not Trans Light Electricals, who are known for prioritizing quality at every step.

5. Cutting, Coiling & Packaging

Once the cables are tested and certified, they’re cut into standard lengths—usually rolls of 90m or 100m—and carefully coiled. Labels with size, type, and voltage rating are added, and the cables are packaged to avoid moisture, dust, and kinks.

From there, they’re shipped out to suppliers, distributors, or directly to project sites—ready to power homes, buildings, machines, and more.

Why It Matters

When you buy a PVC cable, you’re not just buying a wire—you’re investing in a whole process built on precision, safety, and performance. Every twist, every layer, every test plays a role in ensuring that your power supply is stable and secure.

And if you’re looking for PVC cables that are manufactured with care and engineered for reliability, Trans Light Electricals is where you want to be. Their commitment to quality, consistency, and customer satisfaction is reflected in every spool they ship out.

Final Thoughts

From raw copper to fully finished cable, the journey of a PVC cable is a mix of science, engineering, and good old-fashioned quality control. The next time you plug something in, take a second to appreciate the craftsmanship behind that silent workhorse in your wall.

And if you ever need help choosing the right cable or understanding the specs, just reach out to Trans Light Electricals—they’ll guide you every step of the way, no jargon, no stress.

[excelheaters]

Explore High-Performance Ceramic Band Heaters from Excel Heaters

In many industries, machines need strong and reliable heat to run smoothly. Ceramic band heaters are one of the most popular choices for this job. They are used in machines that work with plastic, rubber, packaging, and other materials. If you need a heater that gives you high performance and energy savings, ceramic band heaters are a great option.

Excel Heaters is a trusted name when it comes to high-quality ceramic band heaters. Their products are designed to handle tough industrial tasks, run efficiently, and last a long time. In this blog, we will explore how ceramic band heaters work, where they are used, and why Excel Heaters stands out as a reliable supplier.

What Is a Ceramic Band Heater?

A ceramic band heater is a device that wraps around cylindrical parts of machines, like barrels, drums, or pipes. It heats these parts from the outside using electricity. Inside the heater, ceramic bricks cover a coil of wire that gets hot when power flows through it. The ceramic helps spread the heat evenly and reduces heat loss.

These heaters can reach high temperatures—up to 850°F (450°C) or more. They work well in places where strong and steady heat is needed for a long time.

Where Are Ceramic Band Heaters Used?

Ceramic band heaters are used in many industries, especially where heat is needed to melt or process materials. Some common uses include:

Plastic injection molding machines

Plastic extrusion machines

Blow molding equipment

Food processing units

Drum heating systems

Packaging machinery

They are ideal for machines that run for long hours and need consistent, high-temperature heating.

Benefits of Ceramic Band Heaters

Ceramic band heaters offer many benefits over other types of band heaters, such as mica heaters. Here are some key advantages:

1. High Heat Performance

Ceramic band heaters can handle higher temperatures than mica heaters. They also heat up faster and can maintain steady heat for long periods.

2. Energy Efficiency

The ceramic insulation reduces heat loss and keeps more heat inside. This helps save energy and lowers operating costs.

3. Even Heat Distribution

The ceramic core spreads the heat evenly over the machine surface. This prevents hot spots and ensures smooth production.

4. Long Life

Ceramic heaters last longer because they are made with strong materials and can handle tough working conditions.

Why Choose Excel Heaters?

When it comes to ceramic band heaters, Excel Heaters is a name you can trust. They have years of experience in making heating solutions for industrial use. Here’s what makes them a great choice:

1. Quality Materials

Excel Heaters uses high-grade stainless steel and ceramic components to build their heaters. These materials resist wear and tear and provide long-term performance.

2. Custom Sizes and Designs

Not all machines are the same. Excel Heaters offers custom-made ceramic band heaters to match your machine’s size and shape. Whether you need a small heater or a large one, they can build it for you.

3. Quick Heat-Up Time

Their heaters are designed to reach the desired temperature fast. This helps you save time and start production sooner.

4. Strong Insulation

Excel Heaters adds extra insulation to their products. This keeps the heat where it’s needed and reduces energy waste.

5. Easy Installation

Their heaters come with simple mounting options and clear wiring connections. This makes it easy for your team to install and replace them when needed.

6. Excellent Support

Excel Heaters provides full support before and after the sale. Their team helps you pick the right heater, answer your questions, and offer quick service when needed.

Choosing the Right Heater

Before buying a ceramic band heater, consider the following:

Machine size and diameter

Required temperature range

Voltage and wattage

Terminal type (how it connects to power)

Working environment (wet, dusty, high vibration)

If you’re not sure which heater to pick, the experts at Excel Heaters can help you find the best match.

Safety and Maintenance Tips

To get the best out of your ceramic band heater:

Install it tightly on the machine surface to improve heat transfer.

Avoid gaps or loose fittings, as they can cause heat loss.

Keep the terminal area clean and dry to avoid electrical problems.

Check the heater regularly for wear and replace it if needed.

A well-maintained heater performs better and lasts longer.

Conclusion

Ceramic band heaters are an important part of many industrial machines. They offer strong heating, energy savings, and long-lasting performance. Whether you work with plastics, packaging, or food processing, a high-quality ceramic heater can help your machine run better.

Excel Heaters provides reliable and efficient ceramic band heaters that meet industrial demands. With quality products, custom options, and great customer support, they make it easy to get the right heater for your equipment. If you're looking for performance and value, Excel Heaters is a smart choice.

[dekui-intelligent-equipment]

Pocket Spring Coiling Machine: Precision in Spring Production

In the manufacturing world, the pocket spring coiling machine is a vital piece of equipment. It’s designed to create pocket springs, which are integral for products like high – quality mattresses and some furniture items.

The main function of this machine is to precisely wind wire into the shape of a coil and then enclose it in a fabric pocket. The process starts with a spool of steel wire being fed into the machine. As the wire moves through, a series of rollers and forming mechanisms work in harmony. These components bend the wire into a helical shape, forming the coil. Operators can adjust the pitch, the distance between each turn of the coil, and the diameter according to specific product needs.

Once the coil is formed, the machine moves on to the pocket – making stage. A roll of fabric is fed in, cut into appropriate lengths, and then wrapped around the coil. Specialized stitching or heat – sealing methods are used to securely close the fabric pocket around the spring. This ensures the spring is firmly encased, ready for further use.

One of the key advantages of the pocket spring coiling machine is its precision. Modern machines are often automated, with computer – controlled systems. These systems can accurately manage aspects such as the speed of wire feeding, the number of coil turns, and the tension of the wire. This not only leads to highly accurate springs but also boosts production efficiency. Some machines even have quality – control sensors. These sensors can detect issues like uneven winding or wire breakage. If a problem is found, they can alert the operator or stop the production process to prevent faulty products from being made.

The applications of pocket spring coiling machines are mainly in the mattress industry. Pocket spring mattresses are highly popular because each spring can move independently. This provides excellent body contouring, support, and reduces motion transfer. Mattress manufacturers rely on these machines to produce large quantities of consistent, high – quality pocket springs. For example, luxury mattress brands use them to create top – of – the – line mattresses with thousands of individually – wrapped springs.

Beyond mattresses, pocket springs are also used in furniture. They can be incorporated into the seats and backs of sofas, armchairs, and recliners. The independent movement of these springs in furniture offers enhanced comfort and support, especially for long – term sitting.

In conclusion, the pocket spring coiling machine plays a crucial role in producing pocket springs for various industries. Its precision and efficiency contribute to the creation of comfortable and durable products that meet consumers’ demands.