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scriberye · 3 months

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🔞 Hunt

─────────────────────────── JAGO SEVATAR x GN!READER ⚠️🔞 Explicit Sexual Content, Predator/Prey, Violence, Blood It's a tradition on Nostramo for a groom to infiltrate and kidnap his future spouse from their family home. If he succeeds he's worthy, or he dies trying. a/n: Sevatar chases you around a ship. Good luck, Heretics!

You stand in the hangar bay of the 114th’s ship, trying to come to terms with what the hell just happened. Moments ago, Sevatar had announced over a ship-wide vox cast his intention to marry you. The next thing you knew, you were plucked from the Nightfall and transferred to another one of the smaller ships.

Tovac Tor, Captain of the 114st and the closest person Sevatar considered a friend, took it upon himself to act as your guardian, whatever that meant. “Stay close,” he orders you. “And follow me.”

You follow, taking the chance to look around the unfamiliar ship. Night Lords linger in the shadows, red lenses glinting and eager. There’s a strange lack of human crew, no lumbering servitors. They’re all strangely absent.

“Captain,” you call out, trying to get your ‘guardian’s’ attention. “Would you mind explaining this tradition to me?”

“He didn’t tell you?” Tovac hums thoughtfully, his pacing unchanging. He doesn’t even look back to acknowledge you. “It’s pretty simple. Sevatar is going to fight us to get to you, and if he wins you’ll be his cute little human spouse.”

“And if he doesn’t get to me?”

“He either succeeds or dies trying.” Tovac replies with a shrug, leading you onto the empty command deck. There’s not a soul here either, just the persistent hum of the ship’s system and flickering lights on the control panels.

“Where’s the rest of the crew?” you ask.

“You’re full of questions.”

You shoot him a sour look. “Of course I am, I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Backtalk. I see why he likes you,” Tovac remarks, a hint of amusement in his tone, adjusting the lightning claws on his gauntlets. “We moved them below deck. They’re not family so their participation is not required, and I can’t risk… collateral damage.”

That’s some relief. The crew is safe and not decorating some Night Lord’s armor.

Suddenly, the klaxons blare, signaling Sevatar’s arrival. You inch back, heart pounding, as Tovac takes a battle stance, energy crackling across his claws. His breathing quickens. You can see it in the way his armor moves. He’s excited.

The door slides open, and out from the shadows, Sevatar appears, blood still fresh on his armor. His chainglaive revs and snarls. A shiver runs down your spine. But those cold, dark eyes aren’t on you — they’re on Tovac, the last obstacle blocking him from getting to you.

“Run!” Tovac shouts, standing between you and Sevatar. You don’t need to be told twice. You turn and bolt from the command deck, escaping down another corridor with your heart pounding in your chest. The sound of their violent clash echoes behind you, fading as you get further away.

Your mind races, trying to think of what to do next. In your frantic searching, you find a storage room and dart inside, seeking a hiding spot. The room is cluttered with containers and equipment, and you squeeze yourself behind a stack of crates. There’s a maintenance hatch nearby, offering a potential escape route should you need it.

The door hisses open. Heavy ceramite footsteps echo in the room as he draws closer. They stop. Silence.

“You can’t hide from me,” he taunts you, his tone almost sing-song. “I will find you.”

And you know he’s right. Sevatar is relentless and you’re his favorite prey. Your breath catches as the footsteps come closer. You press yourself up against the wall, hands clamped over your mouth to stifle your breath.

The footsteps stop.

With a sudden, violent motion, Sevatar kicks the crate you’re hiding behind, sending it flying into others in a cacophony of noise.

“There you are,” Sevatar says. He towers over you, blood drip-drops from his armor onto the floor. He reaches up, releasing his helm with a hiss and tossing it aside, revealing the twisted smile on his handsome features. You bite your lip. He spots the hatch next to you.

“Oh, don’t even think about it, sweetheart.”

You slam your hand against the button, opening the hatch and throw yourself into the tunnel, scrambling to put as much distance between yourself and him. Sevatar reaches in after you, one massive hand feeling around as he reaches for you. He grabs your ankle in an ironclad grip and you let out a startled gasp.

He yanks you back through the hatch; you scream and claw at the metal for purchase, but to no avail. Sevatar tosses you onto the cold floor, and you push yourself up onto your hands, chest heaving.

“Jago…” you gasp, eyes wide. His eyes wander shamelessly over your body, hungry and possessive. His smile widens as looms over you, unlatching his codpiece and tossing it aside with a clatter.

His hands are on you in moments, ripping at your clothes and exposing your naked body to his gaze. You suppress a shudder as the cold gauntlets run up your legs, leaving angry red welts in their wake. You let out a small whimper. Sevatar squeezes the flesh of your thighs, forcing them open and up.

Sevatar looms over you, leaning down to press his cold-scarred lips against yours. It’s a shockingly tender kiss by Night Lord standards. But you fight back, not content to let Sevatar just have his win. You push against his chest, knowing full well that it’s futile against his size and the bulky armor.

You bite down on his lip — hard. The bitter tang of blood floods your mouth.

He recoils with a hiss. And to add insult to injury, you spit the blood out — it connects with his cheek, leaving a crimson streak. Oh. A dangerous glint ignites in Sevatar’s eyes, a delicious blend of predatory delight and dark amusement.

“Oh, little one, you are going to pay for that,” Sevatar says with a smirk. He rears back and grasps your waist, hauling you back and up onto his lap. You bite back the urge to moan, feeling the stiffness of his cock pressing against your thigh.

He forces the head of his cock into you, and slowly, painfully, sinks himself deeper into you. Each little thrust is deliberate and rough, making you feel every inch until you’re as full of him as your body will allow.

“O-oh! Fuck! Jago…!” you cry out, pushed the limits of where pain and pleasure mingle together. You grab onto his wrists, grounding yourself as you breathe through the overwhelming sensations.

“That’s it,” he says with a grin. “You’ll behave next time for your husband, won’t you?”

He starts to move inside you, his pace quickly becoming relentless and brutal. The storage room fills with the sound of heavy pants, and breathless gasps echoing off metallic walls. The crack and hum of his armor. Your torn clothes rustling. And the slap of skin as his hips pound into yours.

Sweat coats your skin, trickling down your forehead. Finally, it becomes unbearable; he pushes you over the edge, your body trembling and shaking as you cum with a cry of pleasure. Sevatar doesn’t stop though. He tightens his grip on your hips and jackhammers himself into you. With one final, brutal thrust, he stills, and a deep, satisfied groan echoes through the room as he fills you with his release.

Slowly, he pulls out of you and you collapse back onto the floor. The cold mingling with your sweat soaked skin and sending a chill through your spent body.

“Still with me, love?”

You hum weakly, lifting your hand enough in a half-hearted thumbs up. “That’s one way… to propose,” you say as your voice cracks, rough and strained from the screaming.

Sevatar laughs. He leans over you once again, kissing you again, and this time, you don’t bite him. You reach up and wrap your arms around his neck.

“Let’s get you back to the Nightfall,” he murmurs, pecking your lips a few more times, “and I’ll drown you in the baths.”

Your laugh turns into a fit of coughing. Sevatar pulls away, your arms slipping from around him and he gazes at you in a mixture of amusement and satisfaction. He hunts down his missing codpiece and attaches it, before pulling his helm back over his head and sealing it with a hiss.

He returns to your side and scoops you into his arms. Exhausted, and a sticky, hot mess, you nestle in against him, soaking up the cold touch of his armor.

“If that was a traditional proposal, what’s a wedding look like?”

#warhammer #jago sevatarion #sevatar x reader #reader insert #wh30k

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toadstoolgardens · 2 years

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Low-Maintenance Gardening

There are so many reasons to choose a low-maintenance garden. Gardening should be a peaceful and fulfilling hobby, not something that adds stress or causes pain. A beautiful, bountiful, low-maintenance harvest is possible!

Annual Crops for the Low-Maintenance Garden

These set it and forget it crops have a long season, don't need a lot of babying, and usually get harvested all at once. Many of these can also be grown in raised beds, and some in containers (potatoes grow great in a 5 gallon bucket!!) if that's best for you.

Ideal Annual Crops: These can all go into cold storage for up to 8 months.

Garlic

Onions

Potatoes

Sweet Potatoes

Winter Squash

Beans

Pretty Good Annual Crops: These need some attention after harvesting for them to last as long as possible.

Broccoli

Brussels Sprouts

Cabbage ^^^Refrigerate these 3

Watermelon (Go into cold storage whole and last 2-3 weeks)

Tomatoes (You can grow determinate tomato varieties for a bumper crop that's harvested all at once. Sit tomatoes at room temperature 2-3 days and then process. Freeze, can, make sauce with them, etc.)

Herbs for the Low-Maintenance Garden

Herbs are the ultimate low-maintenance crop. So many options and they don't mind being ignored and can easily be grown in containers.

Ideal Herbs: These herbs are perennials and come back every year with just a little work on your part. All you need to do is prune them down to 5 inches once in the late spring and once around August to keep them growing indefinitely!

Chives

Oregano

Thyme

Rosemary (If you live in hardiness zones 7-10)

Pretty Good Herbs: These are annual herbs so you'll have to plant them each year. Both of these are also favorites of pollinators and beneficial insects!

Basil (put basil sprigs in a glass of water in the kitchen, change the water every few days, and after a while they should root for easy planting)

Cilantro

Fruits for the Low-Maintenance Garden

If you have the space and means to grow fruit trees or shrubs, they're an excellent low-maintenance choice. They bear a crop year after year with a little pruning (prune once or twice a year) and adding some compost or organic matter (once a year).

Ideal Fruits: These have a long storage life and require little processing after harvesting.

Apples

Citrus Fruits

Grapes

Pears

Pretty Good Fruits: These have much shorter storage life.

Berries (Grow a ton of fruit without much coaxing, but highly perishable so need to be eaten or frozen/processed after harvest)

Pawpaws (If you live in hardiness zones 5-9)

Plums

Some Tips for Low-Maintenance Gardening

Spend 15 minutes a day in the garden, whenever possible. This daily visit doesn't have to be spent working, especially if you're lacking energy, time, spoons, etc. It can be spent observing, enjoying, and just being in the garden, which is just as important as the doing!! Notice the changes as the days, weeks, and seasons change. Enjoy the plants, insects, birds, and other critters you've invited into your garden.

Mulch like a motherfucker. After planting, mulch that garden! A good mulching keeps weeds at bay, making less work for you.

Stagger harvest windows. Plan your planting times so you only have one or a few crops coming to harvest at the same time. This also allows for full appreciation and enjoyment of each crop, hopefully without burnout or overwhelm!

Put it on the calendar. Write down planting, harvesting, and pruning windows for each crop.

Most importantly, BE GENTLE WITH YOURSELF. Gardening, even a low-maintenance garden, is hard! You will lose plants. You will lose crops. You will make mistakes and have failures. You weren't able to get to the garden and all your sprouts died? That's totally okay and you can always start them again! You weren't able to harvest in time and the birds got all your berries? You're welcome, birds! Do your best, do what you're able, and you're doing amazing!!💖

Source

#gardening #low maintenance #low maintenance garden #self sufficiency #cottagecore #solarpunk

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chickenparm · 11 months

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live reaction (Wriothesley/f!Reader) pt 1

this is a continuation of this fic(livestream), though it's not necessary to really read that one. please be mindful that the reader does have gendered parts in this one in comparison to the previous entry.

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AO3 Link

Next Part

Wriothesley/f!Reader 3,279 Words - NSFW (voyeurism, mutual masturbation, mild pining, dirty talk, pet names used: good girl, praise kink, consensual all the way through)

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The answer to your sentencing doesn’t come.

No guards come to find you by bursting into your cell or accosting you in the production zone. No one even looks at you sideways, like you’ve done something as heinous as spy on the Duke having some alone time. In fact, a few days afterward, you almost wonder if it really happened at all.

An extra long shift at the end of the day makes your mind even more suspicious that you simply dreamed up something like that. It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve had dreams about Wriothesley and whatever he’s got going on under those layers. So it starts to seem a little more convincing as you punch out and accept your extra pay, then trudge up to your cell.

The Coupon Cafeteria calls your name, beckoning you as you walk past it. You’ve been insanely lucky with your welfare meals over the past few days, and you’re wondering when that luck is going to run out. Probably tonight, if the weird sensation of impending doom is anything to go off of.

So you bypass it altogether, deciding to just go to bed hungry. Maybe that will reset things, you think.

The timing of your arrival in the Fortress of Meropide was timed rather nicely with some renovations and additions, meaning you got your pick of a large shared bunk room, or a private storage closet with a bed and dresser in it. Of course, you took your hole in the wall and relished in the feeling of shutting the door and enjoying the pitch darkness for a moment.

The Fortress is always loud. People talking, machines running below, fans pumping air through the building, maintenance banging around in the pipes. This little closet is the closest thing you’ve ever found here to silence, and even then it only muffles the cacophony.

But that’s fine, it’s better than nothing. Crime doesn’t pay and all that. Opening your eyes and reaching in the dark for a candle and matches, you pause. There, just above your bed, a blinking light of red - and then it shifts to teal.

And then it moves, just enough to show that it has pivoted on its anchor point. It’s watching you.

Warily, you light the candle and set it down, staring up at the new installation and wondering what the fuck is going on. This is supposed to be your cell, and it’s explicitly stated in the rules that no prisoner will be watched in the privacy of their dormitory. So why is a camera staring down at you from its position on the ceiling above your bed?

And just as you start to wonder if this is penance for your intrusion on the Duke, the smooth voice of his comes from the camera, just like yours must have through the one in his office. “Good evening. You’re earlier than expected.”

“I uh… skipped dinner.”

The camera whirs a bit, the lens protruding to show that it has zoomed in toward your face. Something about the Duke staring at you from somewhere else and barring you from his expressions feels unsettling and cold - likely how he felt.

“Oh? Not to your liking?”

“Maybe too much, I’ve been getting a bit too fortunate with my luck of the draw. Didn’t think I should push it.”

The sound of his laughter coming through makes your stomach curl pleasantly. You’ve never had the opportunity to have a conversation with His Grace; there just wasn’t any reason. Honestly, you’re still in the middle of your sentence, so drawing his attention was far too risky for your liking.

Too bad you watched him jerk off.

“You think that was good fortune? No, I pulled some strings. Simple enough.” Your mouth falls open as you look up at the camera, sputtering a few times before he interrupts you. “You can go back, it’s not closed yet. I’ll wait.”

He’ll wait. Like he’s sitting on your bed rather than staring at you through the camera. It feels like a trap of some sort, and you swallow before mutely shaking your head and murmuring that you weren’t hungry anymore. The sound he makes through the speaker is undeniably pleased, and you’re starting to wish he actually was here so you could get a glimpse of his expression.

“Good choice,” he answers, and you avert your eyes to stare at the rumpled bedding and wonder what the actual fuck is happening to you right now. Another dream? It has to be, you must have laid down for a second and passed right out when you got back.

When you don’t make any sudden movements, the Duke’s voice rings through, a little lower in tone, “Sit down. I think we have some interesting things to talk about, don’t you?”

Like the way you haven’t stopped thinking about the curve of his-

You sit down, head tilted a bit so you can look up at the camera from your seated position beneath it. When you’re as comfortable as you can be - not at all - the Duke graces you with something simple. “How long were you watching?”

“Uh… a couple seconds-”

“Try again. I’ve already pulled the records and can see the access time.”

Shit. Scratching at your chest nervously, you relent, “A few minutes, I think. Gonna be honest, Your Grace, kinda lost track.”

“Yeah, I bet,” and he sounds amused. “You found the only terminal still attached to that camera, it was meant to be deactivated years ago. What luck, right?”

You nod before you realize what you’re doing, then shake your head frantically. Not luck, but a curse, because you’re damned to suffer beneath his watchful eye as he all but interrogates you. And he doesn't even need to be here.

“I’ve been thinking, you know. What sort of punishment would be acceptable for invading the privacy of the Duke of Meropide?” He trails off, as if mimicking the way he thought about it all. “An extended sentence? Punishment via extra labor? A coupon fine? I’m sure you can guess I was very mad.”

“Was” is the word you cling to, your eyes nervously darting up to the camera. Surely from this angle you must look like a sufficiently cowed child, waiting for him to just tell you to pick one of those punishments like having to choose your own switch from a tree out back. But that never comes, and he continues his little monologue to seal your fate.

“But then I dug a little deeper, looked at the access logs, and put a few things together that didn’t quite fit before. Like… who exactly it was that was so interested in what I was doing. Six and a half minutes? Hardly an accident at that point.”

No, it really wasn’t, and you’ve been coming to terms with that ever since. That you’re a pervert that snooped on some unsuspecting guy. At the subtle accusation from him, and the overt one toward yourself, your shoulders hunch a bit and your gaze averts to the floor, only for him to say, “Eyes up here, please. We’re not done.”

Lightning-quick, you snap your eyes back up, looking at the unfeeling lens as it remains trained solely on you. Once satisfied, he begins again. “I looked at your file - cute mug shot, by the way - and thought that maybe this was a misunderstanding that can be smoothed over with a little give and take. You took, so you should probably give, right?”

“Sounds fair…” You trail off, leaving out the addendum that wonders what he’s planning on having you give. Must be one of those punishments, you’re certain of it. It’s not as if you have any real belongings, and your credit coupons are essentially worthless to the guy that could technically just print more.

The Duke’s approval practically leaks from the camera as it zooms in a little more, so much that you’re sure he can see the pores on your face. “I knew you’d be agreeable. Now, it’s a pretty even trade, I don’t intend to have either of us remain in debt toward the other. So go ahead and lay down on the bed.”

Limbs shaking a bit, you mindlessly do as he says, settling on your back and making sure you’re comfortable as you look up at the camera. When you do this all without a single complaint, he hums through the receiver, “Good. You follow directions well, that’ll make this easier for both of us. You won’t have to worry about a thing at all, just do what I ask, alright?”

He’s already asking a lot; blind trust isn’t easy to offer up. But despite your lack of interaction, you know enough about the Duke to convince yourself he’s not going to be malicious about whatever comes next. Still, you’re starting to grow uneasy, and you can’t help but try to assuage it yourself. “What if I… don’t want to? Is there some kind of trouble?”

“Trouble? No, none at all.” Your shoulders relax just as he further soothes you with, “I’m well aware it really was just an accident, and you just liked what you saw. Not gonna fault you for tripping and dropping your mind in the gutter. But… you’ll have fun with this. Promise.”

And his voice curls around those words with such a soft tone that it gives you pause, leaves you blinking widely up at the camera in quiet surprise. Gone is the teasing accusation, and in its place is a conscious effort to calm you instead of make you more uneasy. God, does it do something in your lower stomach that makes you just a little ashamed.

Wriothesley gives you a beat or two longer to voice that dissent, to tell him to get the camera out of your domicile. But it doesn’t come, and with a little grin in his voice that’s murmured through the camera, he says, “That’s my girl.”

The camera zooms out enough that you know it picked up the way your thighs pressed together. In the span of only a few moments, it becomes crystal clear what he wants, what he expects, and you wait patiently for him to give you that very first direction to cement the deal.

It’s not what you expect. A simple question of “Did you like it?”

Of course you do, but after your nod he stays silent, and it’s obvious he’s fishing for more than just yes or no answers from you. There’s a monologue in your lungs about everything you’ve been feeling about him since the first time you saw him during your initial check-in at the Fortress. Stubbornly, you keep that down, because he didn’t ask for that.

But the rest? That’s free game. Taking a sharp inhale of chilled air, you give him what he came for. “Yeah, you’re… real pretty when you touch yourself.”

“Pretty?” He sounds incredulous, voice changed slightly in a way that implies he’s moved closer to the receiver. “I don’t think anyone’s used that word to describe me before.”

“Open your ears then, boss, you’ll hear a hell of a lot more than that,” you murmur, biting your tongue in self-punishment for revealing just a little too much. But you continue, diverting his attention elsewhere, “you’ve got a nice cock, too.”

“Keep complimenting me, this might end up a little more one-sided than we agreed on,” he warns, and you almost want to keep going, to damn yourself in favor of really getting under his skin.

It’s smarter to keep that all to yourself, and instead you admit, “I haven’t stopped thinking about it.”

“Mhm, I bet. Saw you almost smash your hand in the press down in the production zone.” It’s said to fluster you, and it works because you realize he’s been watching. That thought has you swallowing hard around the tightness in your throat, your knees pushing together again in a way that you know he’s explicitly aware of.

“Just thinking about it has you worked up, huh? Can touch yourself if you want, I don’t mind.”

And his angle is made clear, the intent behind all of this is uncovered, and you almost want to laugh. As if he needed this whole contrived situation to watch you touch yourself to the thought of him - he could’ve just asked.

But this is fun, interesting, thrill-inducing in a way that has your fingers shaking as you fiddle with the belt of your pants, your hand slipping inside to be greeted with entirely-expected wetness. Your fingers dip into your cunt, just a cursory pass that’s enough for a visceral slick sound to pass to the camera above.

A breath comes from the speakers, followed by a “shit”. Rustling comes from his end, the telltale buzz of a zipper being pulled down, before he nearly growls through the mic, “do you know what I did when you stopped watching?”

Broke the camera, threw a few books, accepted his own rage and likely embarrassment? Instead of spouting half-hearted ideas, you shake your head, voice culled with how your fingers stroke idly against yourself, imagining they’re his. Left with space to elaborate, he continues, “I kept going. Sat there embarrassed and angry as I stroked my cock, thinking about someone getting off on it.”

And it’s your turn to murmur an expletive, your eyes falling closed as you press a little harder with your fingertips, circling clumsily as you imagine his face tinged with red as he hunched over his own cock, fucking his fist to completion.

“Then I pulled your file, saw a cute little thing like you… couldn’t just let that one lie,” His voice is lower, strained as if he’s just as deep in the throes of pleasure as you. How would that voice sound against your neck, twisted in pleasured moans as that pretty cock fucked you open? Your fingers don’t do nearly enough justice, but you curl one inside awkwardly before huffing a bit and beginning to yank your pants off to get better access.

All of this to the quiet appreciative words through the camera, his eyes still trained on you as you bare your lower half, bending your knees and getting comfortable to give him a show just as good as the one he’d given you inadvertently. As if taunting him, you spread your legs a little more, dip your one hand down to use your fingers to spread yourself open.

“Oh, you’re cruel.” The camera shifts, zooming in. “Jeeze, you’re soaked. I really did a number on you, huh?”

“You have no idea,” you answer, looking up at the camera despite being well aware your face is not in frame. There's only one thing he’s looking at, now. Uninterested in torturing him further, you begin touching yourself again, smearing your own wetness along your fingers before slipping the middle one inside.

“Just one?” Wriothesley practically breathes it into the microphone on his end, filling your ears with his question that borders on desperation.

With a little grin, you ask, “What, think I can handle more?”

“Gonna have to, if you plan on handling me.” It’s not even cocky. He’s right, you’ve seen it. “Do another? For me?”

Your ring finger slips in without any hesitation, no discomfort from the sudden stretch thanks to your own arousal. He’s not even here, not even truly looking at you, and you’re this worked up? Then his words strike you, his implication of giving you more than just some long distance masturbation session through a camera feed.

The thought of his cock being wrapped up by you rather than his fist already has you dangerously close to finishing this a little too fast. The first real moan leaves you, thin and reedy, and a sound is picked up on his end that’s a dead ringer for what you’ve heard before. The steady, slick sound of his hand on his cock, stroking himself to the sight of you getting off on the memory of him.

“Wish I could see you,” you plead, your hips shifting as you grind your palm against your clit in time with the motions of your fingers.

Wriothesley’s voice settles over you with an implicit promise of, “next time, you will. I swear, I’m going to ruin you- mmh!”

You’re painfully aware that you’d let him, that he could split you open and you’d absolutely say thank you the whole way in. Hell, you want to sing his praises now, tell him about how he’s been the sole subject of your lust for the duration of your stay. And beyond that, even when you leave, there’s no way you’re going to forget about him anytime soon.

But you say none of that, you only whine his title breathlessly and tack on a little plea. For multiple things that go unsaid. He could come down here and get you off himself, fuck you stupid, really subject you to the kind of punishment you’d be happy to receive. To simply just let you cum, even if he wasn’t here to stop you.

You kind of like that he isn’t, that all you have is his watchful gaze and the knowledge that he’s pleasuring himself to the mere sight of you. Wriothesley doesn’t stop you when it’s clear what you’re asking for, only picks up his own pace and murmurs, “Do it, c’mon. Let me see. I want to know what your face looked like when you were thinking about what you saw.”

The camera zooms out, you’re fully in frame once more, and your face twists in exquisite pleasure at the knowledge he’s looking at you. That the Duke is desperate to cum and it’s all because of the little show you’ve put on as penance for your crime. Your hips lift, tense and desperate, teetering on the edge but not quite there.

Wriothesley helps you along inadvertently, a low moan coming through from his end that makes your hair stand on end, nearly vibrates your bones and makes your pulse hammer hard and quick as a rabbit, felt down to your fingers that curl against your insides that make you snap.

In the rushing of your blood in your ears, the world is drowned out beyond the quiet curse of him through the mic before you’re treated to the trembling sound of his orgasm, a few quick groans that trail off into a disbelieving laugh. Like he can’t believe he’d just done this, here, with you. Dazed, you can’t really blame him. It’s hard for you to believe that this still isn’t a dream, either.

The only sound that fills the small room is your quiet panting, Wriothesley’s soft breathing as he comes down just as slowly as you are. Even the rest of the Fortress seems silent in comparison. Eyes closed, you lounge and think a little too hard about it all. You’re spent enough that it doesn’t feel that awkward but you know it sort of is. What sort of thing do you say after something like this?

Blissfully, you relax further as Wriothesley breaks it first with, “You asleep?”

And you think about not answering, you really do. About avoiding an undoubtedly weird conversation but feigning little snores, but running away and being a coward was what resulted in all this anyway, so you crack an eye open and mumble a quiet “no”.

“Make sure you eat in the morning. Don’t skip it,” his voice is tired as he warns you, “and I’ll get the camera out while you’re working.”

“Mhm…”

“Still awake?” No answer, he laughs, “alright, g’night.”

#mind the a/n for content tags #wriothesley #genshin impact #wriothesley x reader #wriothesley/reader #fic #fanfic #fanfiction #x reader #f!reader #afab!reader #mdni #nsft

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kitty-does-stuff · 11 months

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WINTER COMING: 1 YEAR OF HOMELESSNESS, DISABLED, QUEER FAMILY WITH OVERDUE BILLS

Tldr: We have bills overdue for storage which holds almost all our worldly belongings, we have little food and one of our party is having a medical emergency.

Donate: Ko-fi.com/kittydoesstuff

Okay so nearly a year ago my family had to flee our apartment at police suggestion due to gun violence involving our neighbors.

Since then we've lived in our truck and added later a old beat up camper with no power/water, we were able to rescue our stuff but have ended up with a high storage bill we're trying to cut down on right now, we've also identified where we are trying to live which gives us the best long term odds, we also over the summer were at campsite which gave us a much needed place to be.

But summer couldn't last forever, the campsite has closed and we are back on the streets, and it's getting colder by the day, we've been lucky to avoid snow so far as all of us have warm boots at time of writing and we had a busted tire less than a week ago.

On top of the cold we also have bills, storage which is where most of our worldly belongings are, car insurance which without we could easily lose everything, phone which without we don't have any way of making money and we are right now looking for a dentist to help us as my twin brother has gotten some sort of tooth infection which some nights leaves him unable to sleep as he's reeling in pain.

None of that even mentions things like:

Food money, we are low on basically everything and me and my twin have a lot of food restrictions which make it more expensive for us to eat

Car maintenance, there several things we have to do for the car, we have a broken window on the truck, we only have two tires remotely winter ready and due to a overdue oil change we haven't had space to do we are having to buy car oil nearly daily to keep the truck going

Oh also ya know, we are trying to get a place, but right now all money we get has to be funneled into survival

Anyways the easiest solution to all of this is money, every little bit truely helps and keeps us hopeful, thank you for reading.

WHERE TO DONATE

Ko-fi.com/kittydoesstuff

& dm if you need a paypal to send it to instead.

#kitty says stuff #donation post #mutual aid #homelessness #homeless #houselessness #houseless #queer #disabled #trans

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capsensislagamoprh · 7 months

Text

Head cannon nonsence:

Shit two dork assed teenagers did at the onsen because they are idiots who respect there elders/ actually like Yuuri's parents.

Cleaned the gutters: Otabek cleaned them, Yuri mostly took the bags of stuff to where they needed to go.

Fell asleep on the roof: Victor was getting to Yuri. Otabek wanted to read in peace. He went to the roof. Yuri followed. Sleep happened.

Almost fell off the roof: See previous entry and know that Yuri almost rolled off. Fortunately, Otabek has great reflexes to make up for his lesser dexterity.

Cleaned out the storage room: Everyone else kept getting caught up in sentimental memories. Yuri was for burning it all, so Otabek actually did the sorting. This was great fun. Turns out Yuuri has a lot of old clothes he saved, and they found his poster collection. Victor is delighted.

Change light bulbs: Yuri standing on Otabek's shoulders makes them about teen feet tall-ish. Mari walked along with them. Yuri pulled out old ones, handed it to Otabek, who handed it to Mari. Mari handed Otabek a new light bulb, who handed it to Yuri, who put it in and closed the fixture where ever needed. Otabek's shoulders hurt after the whole onsen was done but wont say a word. Just rolls them a few times.

Dust the high places: Same dynamic as above, only with a feather duster and cloth. Otabek's shoulders need a break, but it's good stamina and weight lifting training.

Clean and polish the Katsuki's car: This was mostly to impress on Yuri how much time vehicle maintenance takes, but they gave the boy a hose and someone to turn it on, and if that someone happens to be very hot dripping wet and about to get vengeance, well that's just a bonus. You know once water gets involved, Victor and Yuuri get in there too because fun times will be had by all.

Accidentally on purpose teach a bunch of seagulls how to terrorize rude tourists for french fries: Look, Otabek is deviously patient, and once Yuri finds that out he will find a way to turn those traits to evil. Like asking Otabek how to get vengeance on someone who was rude to Mrs. Katsuki. Yuri wont stand for it. French fry lured seagulls, Otabek says with a straight face, because of course he does. What's that? Well, you lure seagulls one french fry at a time to the aria where rude tourists usually gather so they are haggard by said avian for food, thus giving them a shuddering terror of the birds every time they have a meal outside. Parking lots near coastal towns will never be the same.

Get told not to lure seagulls with french fries: they are amassing an army and it's starting to scare people.

Climb a lamp post: This is mostly a dare. Until Yuri can't get down. Otabek helps him, but they never speak of how long it took for Yuri to get back to ground level again because he was afraid to let go of the pole until he knew Otabek would catch him. It becomes an inside joke. May or may not be why the Russian skate team keeps trying to get Otabek to catch them. (Only Yuri is allowed this privileged.)

Discover Otabek is an absolute heater when he's asleep: Storms knock power out. Generator needed for fridge and such. It gets cold. Only room with heat? Yuri and Otabek's. Why? Because Otabek fell asleep hours ago, and radiates that pleasant sleepy warm like he was a small fusion star. Woke up wondering why he is surrounded by people laying on him, and questioning if he's allowed to move to go do morning things. Manages to find a way. Thirty minutes latter everyone else wakes up because all that heat dissipated quickly. It's okay. Powers back on a few hours latter.

Figure out exactly how many M&Ms Yuri can fit in his mouth: 37. He drools after that.

Discover Otabek's reading glasses actually make him hotter and that's an absolute fucking sin: look, he's just trying to do his homework, okay? Collage credits don't amass themselves.

Find out Otabek is a math dork: He and Yuri are watching ice skating play backs with Mari. Otabek is writing out equations absently mindedly as they do. When asked: it's the equations of the skaters jumps and spins. He's working out how to improve them per individual skater. For funzies. Yuri is both impressed and disgusted. No one should like math this much. And if they do, they shouldn't help the enemy. Otabek tells Yuri how to get higher on his quad and suddenly this is the best thing ever. Victor hears. Yuuri is impressed. Otabek winds up on the roof again, trying to escape. No, he is not going to school for maths.

Discover Yuri is actually a pretty good cook. Once he gets over the disgust of spots on vegetables, and figures out how to use a knife (thanks for that Mr. Katsuki, JJ is DOOMED), he's very methodical (perfectionist) so while it takes him longer, it turns out right most times.

Scare the living shit out of people: It's the three am five miles out, five miles back jog Otabek dose every day he can. Yuuri finds out and joins him. Makes breakfast taste better, they say. Yuri thinks they are nuts. Not for the running. For three am.

I got more, but honestly, I have so So SO much for these ice babies.

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sherbet-shivers · 5 months

Text

A Minor Malfunction Part 2/3

**Please do not share to non-kink snz blogs — no need to drag vanillas into this! Formatting tips are always welcome <3**

Blurb: Co/nnor is still suffering a little virus (Part 1 here and Part 3 here)

Characters: Co/nnor R/K800 (-centric because he’s babygirl) and H/ank A/nderson

Length: 5k+ words

TW: cursing, human and robot injuries and homicide, fake drugs, some coughing; lightest of spoilers

Since investigations were never quick, Connor really should’ve expected this case to be no exception.

It took roughly half an hour just to reach the crime scene alone, and now that they’d arrived, minutes were accruing like Deviants themselves. The scene wasn’t too unique compared to other similar incidents, but that didn’t mean it was absent surprises either.

For starters, there were multiple human victims — two adult men aged somewhere between thirty and forty years. They were dealers allegedly draining their own androids for their Thirium in order to produce more red ice for local distribution. The Androids were both inactive and found just outside the immediate area given they’d lost a critical amount of blue blood. It was likely they’d shut down since there was no way their bio components could sustain their systems on such minimal fluid. This was the first case in which Connor and Hank had investigated people using their own androids to bolster their personal RI supply, and for some reason, Connor doubted it’d be the last.

The men had been assaulted by the Androids in their kitchen based on the amount of blood smattering the countertops and the overall state of disarray. Chairs were knocked over, the fridge was left open, the stovetops were on when police arrived, and there were broken dishes, toppled pots, and loose silverware scattered everywhere. The men had done a good job remaining inconspicuous in their affairs; even their next door neighbors reported no suspicions of their notorious trade, nor the abuse of their Androids. Connor purported that the tiny apartment was designated for the sole purpose of their operations — not particularly lived in or used for shelter. His theory was based on the fact there was no food in the house, and every single cabinet, cupboard, or similar compartment had been repurposed for RI storage. Not to mention the home was completely battered, obviously lacking much needed maintenance and cleaning. Even the naked human eye could catch the layers of dust and grime coating every flat surface in sight. Hank was the first to say as much after he entered the living quarters and immediately tripped over a bag of old Chinese food containers and syringes.

“Fucking shit!” He had hissed, glaring down at the trash bag like it had personally assaulted him. “I swear if this place is crawling with rats like that damn pigeon house I will shoot those filthy bastards on site!”

Miraculously none of the officers had encountered a single rodent; however less fortunately, Connor’s nose was starting to grow unbearably itchy given all the dust and cobwebs decorating the dry air. Not to mention it was freezing inside — the other investigating officers bundled under several layers and still chattering against the cold. Connor suspected the leaks in the roof and broken windows were to blame for the influx of frigid air, which was starting to really stiffen the cogs in his chest and extremities.

Connor slowly gravitates to Hank’s side, peeking over his shoulder as the senior observes one of the victims.

“More red ice,” he grumbles as he plucks a PVC packet off one of the men’s person. The crystallized drug sparkles like false ruby under the scope of Hank’s flashlight. “Given the toxicology report, it’s a wonder how this guy didn’t overdose before he was murdered.”

Hank passes the packet to Connor, the latter fumbling the substance between his fingers while he examines it more closely.

“The composition isn’t exact to other red ice compounds we’ve seen in the past,” Connor observes. “Perhaps they were developing a hybrid; something inexpensive with a similar effect and appearance.”

Hank scoffs, shaking his head. He pats down the rest of the victim’s body. “A living eye could never catch all that, but I guess that’s why you’re here, right Connor?”

“Correct,” Connor confirms.

“Well,” Hank says, rising from the floor and clapping his hands together to rid them of the dirt caked in the grooves of his skin, “I have my theories, but uh, why don’t you go first while I wash this shit off?”

“Of course,” Connor nods as he watches Hank step over the victim’s body and head for the kitchen sink. He wastes no time pulling up the list of evidence saved to his specs.

“Based on what I’ve gathered and the analysis of my digital reconstruction, Victim A was likely assaulted by Android B first. Victim B was preoccupied with the stovetop while Victim A busied himself with collecting the Androids’ Thirium.”

Hank hums, encouraging Connor to continue while he tries to unstick the sink’s rusty left handle. “Go on.”

“To access the blue blood, the victims would often drain a specific wound afflicting the android’s torso; the area just beneath where a human’s right rib cage would end. The puncture wound was scarcely healed between draining instances, and therefore the most reasonable source of continued drainage. I believe Victim A was attempting to reach Android B’s puncture when the bot suddenly refused his inspection. Thus-“

“SHIT!”

Connor jerks in surprise as Hank yanks his hands from the sink basin to avoid the gush of suspiciously gross water pouring out the faucet.

“Ah that’s just fucking great! Ice cold, filthy fucking water! Matches the house itself, I guess,” Hank curses as he extends his hands away from his body. Even a few of the surrounding officers take steps away from his reach.

“Hang onto that thought. I’m gonna go wash this off in a puddle or something.”

With that, Hank and the remaining officers head outside the home, leaving Connor alone with the still running water. The Android heads over to the sink and promptly halts the flow, which has collected in the basin turning it a muddy, sewage brown. For sanitary reasons, he should really drain the fluid, but something about the discoloration even has him grimacing.

While inspecting the mess, Connor is completely unaware of the steady pool of rainwater collecting just overhead, seeping through the cracks of the ceiling; and just as he’s about to return to his former position, the roof panels give way and unleash their tide. With his reaction time hindered, Connor barely side-steps the planks crashing to his sides. It’s a lucky dodge, but still not quite good enough to avoid the wave of water that crashes him dead on. Within the blink of an eye, he’s become drenched in icy fluid.

He’s thankful he was the brunt of the accident and not Hank or the other human officers, but if he wasn’t already shivering before, he sure was now. That pummeling had put a dent in his defensive barrier, and the large influx of water was starting to sink into his circuits faster than it could be flushed out.

A similar alert blares through his system, only this time it glows red and reads as a warning.

WARNING!!! Functionality: Highly Impaired. Code: C5Y0091-44BC. Result: Bio-Component Defects And Malfunction. Water Intake: Level 4. Risk Of Shut-Down: Moderate. Self-Repairs Update Ongoing. Time Remaining: 53 Hours, 21 Minutes, And 17 Sec-

“IHT’TDSHY’yiiEW!”

Connor sneezes freely towards the ground, his hands pathetically hugging his shoulders and shaking against his sodden sleeves. Water had definitely infiltrated his cavities, only congesting him further. Get a grip, he mentally commands. Don’t-!

“Hh’PTSHH’huh! ssh’hHIEW!”

Come on! Get a-!

“Connor!”

The Android lifts his head, spotting Hank who's just re-entered the house and is already barreling his way.

“Connor! What happened?!” He asks, examining the android’s body then glancing between the fallen debri and the hole in the ceiling.

“N-Nothing, L-Lieutenant,” Connor stammers, his voice as uneven as autotune. “Th-the ceiling…it must’ve fallen under the p-pressure of the s-storm.”

His voice has taken on a robotic vibration, frying it with digital gravel.

“Jesus…,” Hank murmurs absentmindedly, his gaze returning to Connor himself. “Did it fucking fall on you? Why are you soaked?!”

“I-I’m okay,” Connor reassures, though the constant shivering and sniffling probably doesn’t make him any more convincing. Two other, entering officers are starting to look at him. He didn’t need this extra speculation, so he opts for changing the subject, and fast.

He glances at Hank’s hands.

“D-Did you manage t-to w-wash your hands off?”

Hank stares at Connor like he’s asked him to perform the electric slide. Okay, so maybe that wasn’t the smoothest transition out of the spotlight. But even so, he didn’t say something wrong again, did he? Connor smiles through chattering teeth, when suddenly, Hank catches his cheeks in his palms and sternly peers into the Android’s eyes.

“Christ Connor you’re freezing,” he murmurs, an unusual hint of worry seeping through his tone. Connor wasn’t supposed to evoke that tone, so he does his best to console his partner.

“I-I’m okay, Lieutenant,” Connor repeats. “I-I’m just glad n-no one was injured,” he adds, blatantly ignoring the 59% efficiency report blinking in the corner of his sight. “The temperatures m-may slow m-me down, but I assure you I a-am s-still capable of completing my job.”

Hank doesn’t look convinced, far from it actually, but he ultimately chooses to free Connor of his hold, perhaps motivated by the approach of the remaining officers. He clears his throat and nods, averting his eyes to the remainder of the scene. He’d have to clean up the fallen shit, but honestly that was the least of his current concerns. One victim was piled beneath rooftop shambles, and if he knew anything, it was that Fowler would blame him for the tampered scene — whether it was his fault or not.

“Alright,” he grumbles. “But-,” he exclaims, pointing a finger in Connor’s face, “-you’d better tell me if you start bugging out! The last thing we need is you breaking down or glitching or something.”

Connor’s gears tighten. “Of course, Lieutenant. That won’t happen,” he assures.

“Good, ‘cause I’m not filing a broken equipment report after we’re done here,” he mutters, returning to the crime scene. As he does, he huffs under his breath, shaking his head and hiding his expression behind a curtain of loose bangs.

“Fuck, almost actually had me worried there, Con!” He admits. “I seriously almost asked if you wanted a break, or were hurt or feeling okay, but I forgot you don’t really want or feel, well, anything, do you?”

Connor’s hands grip tighter against his arms, leaving scratches across his synthetic skin that are slow to regenerate.

“Correct, Lieutenant,” he murmurs, his LED flashing yellow.

Hank accepts his answer, already having shuffled over to the fallen planks to scoop them out of the way. Connor tries to help him, but Hank intercepts his reach.

“Uh-uh! You keep telling me what you found, then go ahead and re-investigate the bodies, yeah? Or at least, y’know,” he glimpses down at the victim half-buried beneath the rubble, “the ones you can still see.”

…

By the time they’ve managed to clean up the majority of the roof and granted Connor enough leeway to re-inspect the final victim, more than an hour has passed. His metal was freezing cold to the touch, barely above 35 degrees, and his malfunctions were getting worse by the second — only functioning at an even split of 50%.

Still, it looked like their investigation was nearly over. The other cops had long left the area (probably in order to avoid clean-up duty), and Hank was equally ready to go with just the final victim remaining to be studied. For a man who hated his job, he’d rushed to get another look at the body. He was already down on his knees, hovering over Victim A and scouring his wounds with his flashlight.

“So, you’re saying this one attacked the Androids first?”

Connor nods. “Y-Yes. It’s m-most p-probable.”

His stutter was getting worse. So far Hank had been ignoring it, but there was no way he hadn't noticed.

“So run the last part by me again? Y’know, about how the second Android got involved?”

…No response.

That was unusual.

“Connor?” Hank calls.

No response. Again.

What the Hell?

“Connor? Connor??” He repeats, this time glancing back at the Android in question. To his unease, Connor is looking somewhere unseen, as if in a trance. Making a face, Hank claps his hands together, startling the Android out of his daze.

“Goddammit! Connor!!”

Connor blinks twice and immediately looks to his partner.

“Apologies. D-Did you need me?” Connor asks.

“Well I’ve been calling your name four damn times, so yeah,” Hank answers sarcastically. “I thought you said you were fine. The Hell is up with you?”

“N-Nothing, Lieutenant. I’m sorry,” Connor apologizes again. This time though, Hank isn’t letting him slide so easily.

“Don’t give me that bullshit. What’s going on, huh? You’re even loopier than yesterday,” he scoffs. “Y’know I was joking earlier but now I’m not so sure. What is it, huh? You actually malfunctioning or some shit?”

“N-No!” Connor exclaims a bit too hastily, based on the way Hank raises an eyebrow his way. He hadn’t meant to raise his voice so high. It was an impulse he rarely leaned into, but it was difficult given the constant red warning swimming through his ocular piece. “N-No…my operations are functional.”

“Functional?” Hank repeats, placing a hand on his knee. “What happened to optimal?”

For a middle-aged drunkard, Hank was remarkably astute — a quality Connor often admired, just not in this moment.

“I am fine,” Connor breathes, trying to keep his voice as still as possible. “I’ve already ran internal diagnostics. It s-seems that I’ve contracted a small virus that is affecting the r-regulation of my bio-components.”

“What?” Hank exclaims, suddenly up on his feet and fully facing his Android. “Affecting how? For how long??” He asks, bordering concern and curiosity.

“My temperature regulation is h-hindered, resulting in fluctuating internal temps ranging from r-roughly 30 to 120 degrees Fahrenheit.”

“30?!” He knew Connor was cold, just not that cold.

“My ocular c-components are s-similarly impaired, occasionally resulting in low visibility and an inability t-to scan c-certain d-data in the environment. I s-suspect I will not be able to immediately diagnose b-blue blood, as taste receptors are partially numbed.”

Hank honestly didn’t see that as a negative per se, but he wasn’t about to say that aloud.

“And I am experiencing m-mild g-glitching affecting airway c-cavities, though this is, again, a m-mild inconvenience.”

Hank looks Connor up and down, expression unreadable. For the first time, Connor swears he’s sensing something. Something internal outside his usual program, and aside from the errors he’s affected by. This was something new, something strange and unpleasant. Something like…

Anxiety?

He waits for Hank to say something — anything — even if it’s at his own expense, and yet all the detective does is stare at him. Finally, after a few more bated moments, Hank does something unexpected: he laughs. And when he does speak, it’s in the flattest tone Connor’s ever heard out of him — a tone befit an Android.

“So you have a cold.”

Blue rises to Connor’s cheeks. Anxiety was giving way to another unwanted emotion: humiliation.

“…Yes, Lieutenant. The common cold would likely be an equivalent to my condition.”

Hanks laughs again, placing his hands on his hips as he shakes his head in amusement. “Learn something stupid everyday,” he muses. Then, more seriously, he continues: “So what exactly uh, happens when you’re-,” he waves his hands around Connor’s person, gesturing to his entirety,” -like this. Hm? I’m assuming bots don’t get sick leave.”

He was genuinely curious (maybe even a smidge compassionate), and as always, Connor has an answer.

“CyberLife has been notified of my dysfunction, and their report denotes that as a m-model RK800, I am c-capable of both s-self-diagnostics and administering minor self-repairs. A-As such, this inconvenience is nothing I c-cannot h-handle myself. Given approximately-,” his LED hums and glows a faint blue, “-51 hours, 32 minutes and 11 seconds, my s-systems should be rebooted, and myself returned t-to optimal f-functionality. In the meantime, I apologize for any hindrances this may c-cause our investigation, Lieutenant; however, CyberLife has assured that these errors are m-more likely to c-cause self-contained discomfort, and are therefore highly n-negligible to outside company.”

He wiggles in place. “That is why I didn’t tell you sooner. I’m s-sorry for the disturbance, and urge you to ignore my incongruity lest it endanger or c-concern you or others directly.”

“Right…,” Hank nods, still eyeing Connor with skepticism. “But you know it does kind of concern me when you’re all dopey, ignoring my questions and shit.”

“It won’t happen again.”

Hank snorts, rolling his eyes. “I’ll take your word for it, but forgive me if I think you’re full of shit when you say so,” he says, returning to the victim. “So, anything else I should be aware of? Any other surprises?” He chuckles.

Hank awaits an answer, even if it’s meant as a joke, but once again he’s met with silence. He sighs and mutters something unintelligible to himself; something along the lines of “I swear to God kid if you aren’t listening”; but just as he’s about to call Connor again and wake him from whatever tizzy he’s fallen back into, the Android makes a sound he doesn’t recognize.

“H’ih-!”

“Huh?”

Hank waits, but there’s no response again. Was Connor trying to say something and he’d missed it? “Hey! Connor! What did you sa-?”

“Hidt’TZSH’ieEW!”

Hank startles, jerking enough to lose his grip on his flashlight, which tumbles from his hand and rolls across the wood flooring. He swings around fast enough to give someone his age whiplash, still not entirely believing such a human sound was produced by his partner. That is, until he watches him make it again. The android’s shoulders bounce twice, chest inflates with a faux breath, and then-

“Ih’TSHH’Uui! E-Excu’h-! Hhh’idTSHh’iew!”

He somehow catches the final sneeze in an artificial web of fingers. Why he even bothers Hank doesn’t know; after all, it’s not like he could infect anyone. Then again, it was probably just another habit to make him appear more human; though to be honest, Hank almost found it creepy.

When Connor catches his partner staring, he looks utterly embarrassed; the sky-blue blush rushing to his face and discoloring his ski-sloped nose. To regain his composure, he’s quick to readjust his trademark tie and fidget with the cuffs of his sleeve.

“Excuse me, Lieutenant,” Connor offers sheepishly.

“…did you just fucking sneeze?” Hank asks, only the way he says it makes it sound more like an accusation than an inquiry.

Connor nods and rubs his nose. “Forgive me. It’s another side effect of my-,” he pauses, refusing to say malfunction aloud. “-condition. I’ll try not to let it happen again.”

“It’s not that I just, didn’t know you things uh, did that,” Hank replies un-eloquently. “Not that I even knew you got sick for Christ’s sake.”

“It’s not common,” Connor answers, his eyes averting shyly. “It’s to vent out my systems. Usually androids don’t need to resort to these processes since they clean themselves manually, but with my bio-components partially corrupted-“

Connor sniffs and pinches his nose, unaware how he seems to be bewildering Hank further.

“-my systems are relying on automatic reflexes. CyberLife did add that they m-may be on high alert for outside disturbances. S’h-?! So given how duh’hsty this area i’hiH-! is…”

Connor glimpses around the abandoned kitchen, wiggling his nose and sniffing in succession, again.

“-I suppose I’m-…I-hH‘m…-?!”

He’s intent on continuing, he really is, but he just can’t. Therefore, he swivels around out of Hank’s sight, and sneezes as quietly as possible into the bed of his palms.

“pP’SHHIi’Eew! ihH’SCH’yuU! ‘chyiieEW!”

Or not quietly at all, really. It was just so hard; especially when his nose was so relentlessly ticklish! Staving off the fit for hours probably didn’t help, but in his defense, he still wasn’t 100% sure fighting it off actually made it worse. Just…99% sure.

“ahH’Ah-! H’ahH-…! HH’ATSCH’hyieEW!”

The water soaked into his systems must be more agitating than he thought. He sniffles damply and rubs his nose on his sleeve before clearing his throat of the congestion that’s settled there. When he faces Hank again, he isn’t even aware of just how blue he’s turned, or the little curls of hair that've been freed by the exertion of his fit. He coughs into his fist.

“Excuse me. Sorry. I was saying that I’ve become highly sensitive to the changes in the environment. Like the rain and-“, he sniffs, hesitant to even utter the word, “-dust.”

The initial shock of disbelief wearing off, Hank’s expression dissolves into a smirk that teases more at one corner of his mouth than the other. “So first you catch colds and now you get allergies, too?”

Connor swallows.

“Not necessarily,” he defends.

Hank nods, still looking cheeky. “But you are sneezy.”

“A bit…yes,” Connor confirms, scrubbing at his face again. Static is still tickling his nose, and spreading an itch to the rest of his face. Is this how humans felt when they were overreacting?

“I’ll stop it next time. I’m sorry.”

He fears he may have given the wrong answer the way Hank stays silent, but ultimately, his partner must appreciate his courtesy, because his expression softens and he rises to rub Connor’s shoulder in earnest.

“Twenty more minutes and then we get you out of here. I’m starting to freeze my balls off, anyway.”

…

Twenty minutes don’t come fast enough. Thankfully they’ve managed to piece together exactly how the crime went down — from the names of the victims and their Androids, to the means of assault, the murder weapons, and the motives. The cost however was Connor’s comfort, which if not indicated by his breathy sneezing and constant shaking, was evidenced by the 44% efficiency he was operating at. He needed a charge, and maybe just a little time to shut his eyes, which were being swarmed by constant alerts. The walls of text and meaningless numbers were starting to pile up in the corners of his eyes and really impair his sight. He had attempted to blink them away as quickly as they popped up, but at some point he’d given up altogether — doing so was expending crucial battery life he couldn’t afford to spare.

And now even his balance was beginning to suffer, causing him to lean and rock whenever he inched in any direction. To keep himself steady and warm, his hands were permanently grounded to his arms, keeping him enveloped in a hug of his own making.

As he watches Hank wrap up, Connor suddenly remembers that his night was far from over. He still needed to file his case report to CyberLife, and the idea of walking all the way back to the station was no more appealing. As an Android he wasn’t afforded the luxury of catching himself a taxi since it was illegal to spend currency on himself alone. Usually Connor didn’t pay this inequality any real attention, but in his current state, he finds himself fixated on the rule. If he thought on it further, perhaps he would’ve inspired some kind of opinion; ultimately though, he knows there’s nothing he could do but accept it. Thus he turns his attention back to his current priority: Hank, who he needed to return home safely before reporting their findings to CyberLife. He’d made a promise to Sumo, after all.

He may be exhausted, but he still wasn’t ready to deem his performance a total failure just yet.

“Alright, I think we’re just about done here,” Hank sighs, looking and sounding just as relieved as Connor was. “Don’t tell the Chief but uh, based on what we found here-“

Hank peeks at Connor who meets his glance.

“-fuckers probably deserved what they got.”

Connor glimpses at the Android bodies, then that of the human victims. He shrugs, albeit reluctantly. “That is n-not a j-judgment I can m-make,” he answers.

“Sure it isn’t,” Hank sighs. “Anyway, let’s get the fuck out of here. Come on.”

Hank leads the way towards the exit, and as usual, Connor is quick to trail him like a puppy chasing its owner. He’s so close to being done and escaping this fortress of death and dust, but of course, fate can’t let him off so easily. The whole day had been work, and apparently his shift wasn’t quite over yet.

He feels it before he fully realizes what’s happening. That prickling burn in his face had returned with a vengeance, syncing with another alert that blinds his view completely.

WARNING!!! Functionality: Critically Impaired. Code: C5Y0091-53BC. Result: Bio-Component Defects And Malfunction. Risk Of Shut-Down: Imminent. Self-Repairs Update Ongoing. Time Remaining: 54 Hours, 26 Minutes, And 03 Seconds.

Wait, did the time remaining increase?

Connor is too preoccupied with completing his objectives to heed his system’s warnings, and thus dismisses the alarm pounding in his head. With a mighty effort he attempts to trudge forward in Hank’s wake, every step heavy and audibly creaking. His bio components slosh with rainwater, sending chills through every circuit and rendering every movement sluggish and dizzying. The pixels in his view were collecting like a storm and creating clouds of noir fuzz that eat away at his peripheral sight.

And that damn vibration in his chest and nose! It was so fucking distracting! He doesn’t need to alert Hank to his current state any more than he already has, and he definitely doesn’t need to get whisked up in another pathetic fit…but the tactics he’d used so far to abate his reflexes just weren’t providing him any hints of reprieve.

Desperate, he resorts to a new plan of action, quick to secure his nose between the pads of his thumb and forefinger. He’s seen Hank do it before, so maybe if he just…! Connor clamps down hard on the sensitive tip to try and curb the itch that’s nested there, eager to quell the phantom sensation by massaging and kneading strategically. Rain water squeaks against his grip, and the stubborn tickle has him coughing breathily against his control. Please let this work! He can stop this one! He just needs to concentrate. He just needs to try harder! He just…ne’hH’eds…t-t’hHU…!

Abandoning his cause, Connor blindly frees his hand and reaches for Hank’s shoulder. He ends up at his sleeve instead, but honestly that’s close enough given the urgency of his position. He gives the detective’s jacket a little tug, signaling for his attention.

“LieuyY’hH-!…Lieutenant-?!”

Hank peeks at Connor over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“S-Sir-! I-I’hh am…,” Connor trails off, and catching the Android’s desperate gaze, Hank pays him his full attention. The Android shuffles, blinks side to side, then flusteredly exclaims, “g-going to do ih’hIHT-!…a’hh’gain-!”

Hank blinks, and when he finally catches on, he blinks again.

“Connor,” he grumbles, rolling his eyes and gripping the Android’s hand. “You’re a damn-near indestructible supercomputer worth double my yearly salary. Are you seriously telling me you’re about to sneeze again? Like a preschooler?”

“Y-Yes-!” Connor answers seriously between hitching breaths. Hank isn’t surprised he didn’t catch his attempts at teasing, but he’s also unaware of just how mortified Connor is — how he’s feeling. “I understand I — huh-! — f-frightened-“

“I wasn’t scared.”

“-you la’aast time s’so I th’hah-! I thought I’d try to w-warn you’that’I-!”

“Fuck’s sake just shut up and get it over with!” Hank hisses.

Permission granted. To spare his commanding officer the unsightly scene, Connor twists his body and races to cover his mouth with steepled hands. He hiccups two “breaths” (a pattern Hank was beginning to pick up on) against his palms before succumbing to his nightmare.

“Hh’IPTtsSH’IEW! Aah’-! eH’SCH’hh! Iy’hh-! hah-! H’hiHH-! hHYi’DSHH’uU!”

He coughs so hard afterwards, his chest rattles and mouth leaks stale rainwater. It’s the trigger that melts Hank’s bemused expression into one of utter fear, his eyes wide and unblinking. Up until now he’d found this whole thing funny, maybe a bit quirky and unusual, but now? Now this felt serious. Dangerous, even.

“Connor!”

Hank scrambles to Connor’s side. Without seeking permission, he grabs both Connor’s wrists in his hands and forces them away from his face, revealing a tortured expression he should’ve noticed earlier. Connor looked outright uncomfortable. He looked distressed. He looked…

Really sick.

Guilt anchors Hank’s heart to the bottom of his gut, and out of some sort of paternal instinct, he holds the Android steady by pulling him into a hug.

“Connor!” He calls, but the Android is prisoner to a loop of gasping and sputtering. Pressed close together, Hank can hear the faint whistling emitting from the Android’s chest. Paired with the aggressive huffing and whimpers of sound, Connor didn’t sound too much unlike an asthmatic. Hank’s hands are becoming numb the longer they remain locked around the man’s body, and with every violent shiver, his body shakes in chorus.

Connor clutches greedy fistfuls of Hank’s jacket, relying on him entirely for support to stay upright. It’s like he’s clinging for life support, and the impression makes Hank’s own blood turn to ice.

“Connor?! Connor, son!! Are you okay?!”

To his horror, Connor blindly shakes his head. It’s the last hint to compel Hank to action. Desperate to comfort the Android further, Hank cradles a hand to the back of Connor’s head and pillows his face against his chest. The Android wiggles weakly against his grip, but Hank adamantly refuses to budge.

“Relax, kid. I used to be a dad, remember?”

He closes his eyes and traces soothing circles between Connor’s shoulder blades.

“Getting sneezed and coughed on is part of the job; maybe for detectives too. So quit your fighting and just get it over with — I’m here for you now.”

Either his words resonate convincingly enough, or Connor can’t hold out any further. Either way, the result is the same.

“HAH’DZSCHh’hiuUH! h’DTZSH’HUH! ih’KSCHH!”

Connor groans faintly from the bed of Hank’s breast pocket, barely catching another breath before he’s snapping forth again. First coughing, then flung into another sneezing fit.

“EH’DSHH’CHhui! ‘CHiiEeW! ‘SCHH’yyiuh! hHi’tshiiew!”

The last one is barely a sneeze, more like an exhale of empty, fizzled out air. Hank noticed how Connor, even in all his desperation, had refused to sneeze on him; instead letting loose at the last possible moment by pressing his forehead to his chest and aiming each burst towards the floor. Even while at the end of his rope the damn man was too polite — a wholesome and unreasonable characteristic Hank acted like he abhorred, but silently envied.

Relieved to be finished but feeling infinitely worse, Connor lifts his head slowly, already pulling out of Hank’s touch to crush the back of his wrist against his nose. He wasn’t about to look Hank in the eyes, not that he could see clearly to begin with. Errors were swarming his senses like gnats, declaring him critically defective and dangerously malfunctioning — as if he needed a reminder of the obvious.

Rocking on his heels he clutches his head in his hand and surrenders to the glitches tearing up his bio components.

WARNING!!! Functionality: Critically Impaired. Code: C5Y0091-53BC. Result: Bio-Component Defects And Malfunction. Risk Of Shut-Down: Imminent. WARNING!!! Functionality: Critically Impaired. Code: C5Y0091-53BC. Result: Bio-Component Defects And Malfunction. Risk Of Shut-Down: Imminent. WARNING!!! Malfunction. Malfunction.

Malfunction.

“I-…I’m not…”

Malfunction. Shut-Down Sequence Initiated.

N-No. He wasn’t going to shut down. It was a status he couldn’t afford, especially given his type of work, his mission, his expectations, and his model. A malfunction this spiraling…was unbefitting a rumba, let alone an RX800 Android like himself. If he couldn’t pull it together and send back a satisfying report to his creators, then…what could he expect? He’d be forced apart and aptly replaced by a new Connor model. He would be broken down; he’d be expendable once again. He’d lose his purpose. He’d lose his job! He’d lose Hank!! He didn’t want that!!!

“Connor! CONNOR!!!”

He…he didn’t…

“Hank-…I-I…don’t…f-feel…”

DING!Shut-Down Sequence Complete.

#snz #snzfic #snzblr #snz kink #d/etroit: b/ecome h/uman #co/nnor r/k800 #h/ank a/nderson

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sumitverma3297 · 1 year

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nullen-void · 3 months

Text

Captain Murray woke to a harsh buzzing and a gradual hissing. A bone-deep chill surrounded him, and he shivered on the cold, padded metal slab that had held his body for the past…

He grasped out blindly in the dark, and swore as his hand banged against the glass tube till covering the bed. He hated this model, the ice and condensation always made the lids stick, though his engineering chief insisted they were top of the line. He fumbled around at waist level before hitting the emergency release. The lid slid back with a pneumatic hiss. The lights in the room came on in response.

Captain Murray smacked the timer next to his cryopod and blinked stupidly at the flashing number on the screen.

“...Why in the hell--three months?”

The captain hated cryosleep. He hated it with a passion. He’d never been a fan of the cold in general, and ever since he took up the role as ship captain he could never seem to get warm; by the time he’d finally stopped shivering, it was back into the pod.

It was the price he paid for seeing the cosmos, he supposed.

He crawled out of the cryopod with a steady stream of grumbling, reaching for his uniform jacket and customary peaked hat. His boots seemed to be missing, which was typical.

Ugh, he couldn’t deal with this right now. Captain Murray had had a special button installed in his quarters for just this occasion, and he pressed it now.

After far too many minutes, the door to his room opened to admit a figure that could generously be described as ‘humanoid.’

“Trace?” Captain Murray mumbled. “What are you doing here?”

The clunky maintenance droid looked at the platter in its hand that held the captain’s coffee, then back at him. “Delivering your drink, captain,” it said in its usual toneless voice. It held up his boots in its other hand. “And these, captain.”

Murray blinked. But cryosleep always left him feeling sluggish, so he just took the mug gratefully and stepped into his shoes. He took a long, loud sip and sighed at the warmth it brought.

“Ahh, I needed that. Now,” he said, straightening up and willing the drowsiness away. “Trace, what’s going on? Why are you here and not the server drones?”

The robot took a moment to put together a response. “...The ship has fallen back into sublight space, captain. Emergency procedures are active, and the server drones are not considered vital operations.”

“Any idea why?”

“The server drones are a convenience for the human crew during scheduled system checks--”

“Not that!” the Captain snapped. “Why are we in realspace? The ship wasn’t supposed to wake us up for another three months!”

“I do not know, captain,” the droid said.

The captain grumbled. He shoved his way past the robot, but paused in the door. “...Can you at least tell me why you had my boots?”

“I set them aside for polishing,” Trace replied evenly. “I did not anticipate you awakening early.”

“Right.”

Putting the odd robot out of his mind, Captain Murray strode out into the hall. He glared at the lights overhead, only at half-luminosity, and clapped twice. “ICO! Fix the lights!”

“Yes. Captain,” came the response from the walls. The halls lit up, and Murray nodded in satisfaction.

He made his way through the ship, noting the open doors of each room, as well as the yellow warning lights adorning most panels. So, whatever happened triggered the emergency protocols, but isn’t actually an emergency in and of itself, eh? That left a limited number of scenarios.

But since it wasn’t an emergency, Murray indulged himself. He took a right at the first fork, deeper into the ship, and peeked in on the civilian population.

Mass Cryo-Storage Wing One was functioning at full capacity, said the panel by the door. On the screen he brought up the specs for the other storage units just to check, and all three were just as good. He let out a short breath, scowling at the way it misted in the chilly air.

“ICO, make sure the Cryo Wings are all closed,” he said into the panel’s speaker. “No sense letting the cold out and making the pod work harder.”

“Yes. Captain.”

“Why did they even design this hulk to open all the doors like that, it makes no sense,” he muttered.

He’d said it quietly to himself, but the ship’s AI must have overheard him, because it answered. “It is to aid in evacuation, should the need arise. In an emergency, opening doors would be an additional one-point-three seconds per room. The time wasted opening doors could prove crucial in--”

Murray waved, cutting him off. “Yeah yeah, I get it. Bloody annoying though.”

Cryo One’s door slid shut behind him as he returned to his path. A few minutes later, he made it to the bridge.

The rest of the crew was already present… most of them, anyway; Captain Murray noted a few empty seats, but since he couldn’t immediately remember the names of the people meant to sit there, he assumed they weren’t essential personnel.

The First Officer looked up from his console and saw him standing in the door. “Captain on deck!” he shouted.

Everyone stopped what they were doing to stand, but Murray waved it away. Several of them stood there awkwardly, halfway through saluting. Rookies, Murray surmised.

“Captain,” the First Officer greeted as Murray took his seat. “We’re in the middle of--”

Captain Murray raised a hand, cutting him off. He wiggled in place, getting comfortable in the big chair. Finally, he took a long, several-second sip from his mug until the coffee was all gone. The First Officer waited patiently until he was finished.

That was how he knew it wasn’t a big deal, whatever was happening. If there was an actual emergency, Officer Ramirez would be trying harder.

Murray let a few more seconds pass in blissful silence, then finally got to the task of doing his job. “Alright. Mister Ramirez, why have we dropped into realspace three months early?”

Ramirez gestured to the diagnostics officer, who pressed a button.

Murray’s console unfolded itself in front of him and he examined the data it presented him.

“The forward scanners detected something in front of us and deactivated the void drive before we could impact,” the diagnostics officer explained.

Murray hummed. He didn’t pretend to fully understand how the Void Drive worked, but he knew enough to recognize that ramming into anything at superluminal speed would be a disaster. “There’s not supposed to be anything in our path. Any clue what it was, Hunt?”

The diagnostics officer snorted. “Hardly. Getting concrete readings over lightspeed isn’t easy, Captain. Everything comes back fuzzy and blue. All I can tell you is that it was smaller than the ship and moving.”

“An asteroid field, most likely,” Ramirez offered. “Floating somewhere in the void between stars. It would be easy to miss on the initial trajectory plotting.”

“I see,” Captain Murray said. He tapped a button, shifting the display to a radar screen. “Hunt, I’m assuming you’ve already sent out the scanner beam.”

“Yessir,” she confirmed.

“When do you expect to get an idea of how big the field is?”

“By my estimates, we’ll get results in seven more minutes. Then we can start navigating our way through the disturbance and resume the course.”

Murray drummed his fingers on his armrest. “...What are the chances we can go ahead and do the systems check right now and skip the next wakeup cycle? Get it out of the way?” he asked, already knowing the answer before Ramirez shook his head.

“I’m afraid not sir,” Ramirez said, smirking. “You’ll just have to set an alarm like everyone else.”

Murray grumbled. “Fine. Then at least send one of the maintenance droids to look over my pod.”

“Are you still saying--”

“I swear there’s a mechanical fault in the sliding panel, Tony!” Murray insisted. “Just because your door never sticks--”

“Uh, sir?” Hunt interjected.

The two men looked over, along with several curious officers. “Yes, what is it?”

“The data just returned…” Hunt said cautiously. “Early.”

Murray frowned. He shared a glance with Ramirez. “...And?”

Hunt stared down at her screen, expression blank. “The obstacle is… regularly shaped. Current distance is… ten light-minutes.”

“You’re making it sound like there’s just one--” Ramirez began.

Murray cut him off with a hand on his shoulder. “Hunt?”

“Nine minutes now,” Hunt answered. She swallowed. “Our sublights are idling, captain.”

The bridge was dead silent.

“...” Captain Murray folded his console away. “Officer Hunt, move your feed to the main screen.”

Dutifully, she did so, showing the entire room the object at eight light-minutes and closing.

“...”

“It’s slowing down to intercept, Captain,” Hunt reported.

An asteroid wouldn’t be able to slow down in the vacuum of space.

Captain Murray stood from his chair, face grave. “Mister Kelly, what do we have for short range communication?”

The comms officer snapped out of his shock and began typing at his station. “Transmitting hailing frequency, sir.”

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

Colony Ship Maintenance Droid, Semi-Industrial Model, No.3, walked with purpose.

The ECS Winterbloom was not a new ship. While it still represented the peak of humanity’s technological achievement, it was several decades old at this point. This was its third mission, and while it had been retrofitted with the latest iteration of its propulsion systems and cryogenic facilities, much of the lesser functions of the ship were still working off the original model, and with age came wear.

Given that most of the time the ship’s crew and passengers were in stasis, it wouldn’t be a great loss if a door opened a little slower than normal or if a light fixture’s wiring burned out. But a small fault could lead to a big fault, or worse, disguise a big fault. So it was job of the ship’s maintenance droids to repair each and every malfunction as they cropped up.

No.3, compared to the other droids, was proactive. They actively sought out new tasks to perform, and even sought to make improvements where it could. During this most recent voyage, No.3 and the ship’s Integrated Computational Overseer had worked with the Winterbloom’s fabricator to produce longer-lasting LED lights, and had spent much of the last three years steadily replacing the old lights, recycling the old bulbs into the new design as they went. It was, No.3 admitted, a largely pointless task. With the humans asleep and the robots able to see with minimal lighting, there was little danger from the lights burning out.

During the previous voyage to establish a new colony, Officer Ramirez had for some reason latched onto No.3, calling them ‘Commander Tres’ based on their abbreviated designation. From there, the engineers started referring to them as Trace or Tracey in maintenance reports, and No.3 began getting preferential treatment in scheduled system checkups. Eventually, they gave Trace a new paint job to make them more distinct from the other droids, and finally one very bored techie had tinkered with Trace’s programming and expanded their awareness.

Trace found it… annoying. It voided their extended warranty, AND gave them the ability to grow bored. And boredom was plentiful once the colony was deemed self-sufficient and the Winterbloom was set up for a new mission. Months at a time passed without anything at all happening, and Trace couldn’t exactly go into sleep mode when there was work to be done.

Hence, the light bulbs. Something to do.

But it wasn’t light bulbs that they were concerned with today, no no. Trace walked with purpose because the crew was awake, and that meant mandatory life-support and ventilation checks. These would normally be done over the week before they awakened, but ICO had thawed them out early due to unforeseen circumstances.

All across the ship, Maintenance Droids No.1 through No.25 were hard at work ensuring that the oxygen scrubbers and water recyclers were up to spec; ICO’s systems said they were, but in space you always checked, just in case.

In case of what? Well, in case of this: Trace let out a satisfied whir as they pried up a panel and insected the generator underneath. This gauge was displaying temperatures approaching 43℃. It should not be doing that.

Trace got to work assessing what had gone wrong and why the system had falsely reported green; temperatures had to be closely monitored in a colony ship. This particular gauge was part of the regulating systems for Cryo Four. While the cryopods were swapped out with newer models the infrastructure supporting them largely wasn’t. This anomaly must be resolved before whatever malfunction that caused this began affecting the Cryo Wings.

Trace sent a ping to No.17 to check on Cryo Four just in case.

“Alert to all stations.”

One of Trace’s forward camera swiveled to look at the nearest wall console. “Responding.”

“Security Drones activating,” ICO intoned. “Protocol: UNDEFINED. Error. Working. Work--”

The soft female voice cut off with a beep. Trace imagined that the Captain was giving an order for ICO to interpret.

“Confirmed. Protocol: Mutiny (Adjusted: Hostile Outside Contact) logged. Enacting.”

That was worrisome. An ‘undefined’ protocol meant whatever was happening was something that hadn’t been anticipated by High Command or the Engineering Corps. Mutiny, though, seemed terribly unlikely; the current crew were highly professional and amiable with each other, according to Trace’s observation. So it was adjusted for… ‘Outside contact?’ Outside was nothing but empty space.

“ICO? What is happening?” Trace asked out loud. They could have sent a message through the network, but they had found that the ship was more likely to respond to verbal communication. Likely a consequence of being designed for human-friendliness.

A light on the wall console came on, and a camera lens swiveled to focus on the droid.

No.3. You are in Hallway 26, near Materials Storage West, ICO observed, speaking directly into Trace’s receiver.

Correct, they transmitted back.

ICO was silent for a mere two seconds, a moment that for the two machines was abnormally, worryingly long.

You must vacate the area, ICO said.

Trace’s optics clicked. They looked at the gauge they’d been working on. The temperature was falling again, back down to acceptable levels, but not optimal. And they had yet to find the source of the sensor malfunction. I am not yet finished with repairs.

The console’s speakers crackled to life. “You MUST vacate the area!”

The unexpected urgency in the AI’s voice had them hurrying to the panel. “Why, what is happening?”

“They are attempting to ram--!”

The floor underneath them shook and the lights overhead flickered. A hideous shriek of twisting metal pierced the quiet of the corridor and threatened to overload Trace’s audio sensors.

The robot turned away from the wall. And even if they hadn’t been given wider mental capacity, they might have been dumbfounded by what they saw.

On the wall opposite ICO’s panel, six meters to Trace’s left, a massive spear-shaped construct had pierced the ship’s hull. It was a revolting, unpolished mess of dark gray metal that shone a dull yellow under the flickering lights.

The construct wedged itself into the hole it had made, and Trace watched panels pop off of it, foam expanding to seal off the aperture completely just before the tip opened up.

Another shriek of metal. Trace swiveled to see a second intruder in the opposite direction. They heard a third echo down the corridor, beyond their sight. But before they could discern from where, the first vessel hissed again.

And it was a vessel. The tip of the spear-like construct folded in on itself, revealing the hollow interior. And out from within it strode five… figures.

They weren’t human. Humans had fewer limbs than that.

Their features were hidden beneath the environmental suits they wore, but the visor of their helmets pointed towards Trace, and they pointed aggressively.

So, this was what the ‘adjusted mutiny’ was about.

Trace unfolded. The robot’s upper limbs each split in two vertically, mirroring the invaders’ own four arms, and unfolded further into a variety of tools. Hopefully a saw and welding torch would do something to those suits.

But Trace would never know how a simple (jailbroken) maintenance droid might have fared in combat, because a squad of security drones arrived just then. And while four of the five invaders in front of them began firing their weapons at the newcomers, the apparent leader wasn’t so easily distracted.

Trace stepped forward, swinging a hammer at the end of one arm.

The lead invader drew a sidearm, and shot once.

Trace fell to the ground, twitching.

“All Security Drones regroup at Hallway 26,” ICO said too calmly. “Repeat: All Drones to Hallway 26. Protect the ship. Protect the crew. Protect the passengers. All Security Drones regroup to Hallway 26…”

Trace’s battery-low signal went off, whatever weapon the invader had used damagign their power core. Part of Trace struggled, begging not to go offline. If they’d been human, maybe they’d have been able to stand up, fuelled by heroic resolve and willpower. Maybe they’d have been able to make a grand last stand against the invading force, distracting them such that the drones could gain some ground against them.

But Trace was a robot. The only thing they could do was watch as the invader disregarded them as a threat before their battery drained completely, and they knew no more.

#robots #scifi #aliens #fiction #original

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oneforthemunny · 1 year

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janitor!eddie is always leaving an apple on teacher!reader’s desk every morning.

he gets there early before her to do some extra maintenance- the school had given him a raise to do both so they wouldn’t have to hire someone else. it started as a joke between you two. eddie grinned when you’d brought an apple to lunch one day, playful glint in his eye. “an apple a day, huh?” he asked.

steve snorted. “that’s a doctor, munson.” he rolled his eyes.

you shrugged, biting into your apple. “I like apples, ok?” you giggled. “guess I was made to be a teacher, huh? the stereotype doin’ it for you?”

eddie couldn’t stop smiling. so every day, when he’d stop at the gas station by the trailer park, he’d get his usual pack of camels and an apple. he’d place it on your desk, scribbling on a spare piece of paper a little note that left you blushing when you’d find it.

he’d pass by your classroom, catching your eyes when you’d see him, smiling and nodding towards your apple. later, when he’d take you out, you’d kiss him sweetly on the cheek. “thanks for the apple.” you’d mutter. “it was delicious.” you’d let your bottom lip graze over his cheek, sending a hot blush down his neck and cheeks.

eddie wanted that reaction always, so he’d bring you apple after apple, proudly propping them on your desk each day with a little note.

‘you’re the apple of my eye, sweetheart. have a good day. -ed’

you’d giggle, tucking them into your purse. you’d saved everyone, reading them later when you missed him, heart fluttering in your chest.

one day, eddie walks into his ‘office’- a storage closet with a chair and an old desk, a rack to hang his jacket. there where he put his lunch pail was a small tin of hand balm, ‘for working hands’ it read.

eddie’s heart swelled. he’d complained about the blisters and callouses from working at the school mixed with his guitar making his hands rough, the cold cracking them and making them bleed. when he held his hand in yours, you’d ran a finger over the cracked, raw skin with a sympathetic pout.

eddie picked up the tin, the best folded card on top reading:

‘a little of this cream keeps the callouses away (or that’s what the store clerk told me). hope this helps you my hard working man. xoxo’

eddie slipped it into his front pocket, a dopey grin on his face. he dug his fingers into the balmy substance, rubbing it over his hands before reaching into his lunch pail, grabbing the shiny, red apple out and starting towards your class room.

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mixelation · 1 year

Note

How likely is Anakin to build a CGM into his arm, in your opinion?

Into his robot arm? Maaaaybe. CGMs work by sticking a fiber under the skin, so he’d need access to his actual flesh. I guess he could attach it at the base of the prosthetic where it meets his bio arm, but I think it would just get in the way of maintenance/hygiene in that area. It might be possible/practical if the robot arm by nature is actively taking readings from his bio arm, or he could just mod a sensor into whatever is already hooking into his arm? I’m not sure how much we know about the robot arms.

If you mean a permanent installation in his bio arm…. This seems like it might be an appealing project to him, but I don’t know enough about limitations of long term medical inserts to know if it’d be feasible. We know in universe that permanent chips that do all sorts of wild things can be installed in people, but I think he might be opposed to going that route.

I WAS thinking about him having a storage compartment in the robot arm for extra insulin, but I think it’d be a challenge to keep it sufficiently cold. Maybe for emergency glucose storage though? And then he gets space ants

#diabetic anakin au

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guerrerense · 6 months

Video

Two tea-kettles por Kevin Madore Por Flickr: In a cold rainstorm, Mt. Washington Cog Railway Engineer Ray Dest eases Locomotive #9 "Waumbek" onto the transfer table adjacent to the old shop building, as he and the rest of the Cog Railway crew prepare to put the line's two active steamers to bed. In the background, Mt. Washington #2 "Ammonoosuc" sits on the shop track with her fire already banked. The wooden structure directly behind the two steam engines housed the historic engine and car shops of the Mt. Washington Cog Railway for over 100 years and is still in use to some degree. On the right side of the photo, you can see a canyon of stalls with blue roll-up doors. Each of those stalls once held a steam locomotive. Directly across from those stalls and out of view to the right, is yet another row of stalls, which held the railway's wooden coaches. The transfer table that the 9 is backing onto was the "turntable" of sorts, which serviced the stalls on both sides, enabling the crews to transfer the equipment from each stall onto either the shop track or the main line. Today, the historic wooden shop building has largely been replaced by the large, gray structure that is visible in the distance on the left. In comparison, the new shop is gigantic, with an expansive main floor. It houses maintenance facilities for both the steam and diesel locomotives, as well as the coaches. It also has storage space for parts and a large fabrication shop, where the railroad can build just about anything it needs. Unlike the old shop, there are no tracks built in to the floor. Each piece of equipment sits on a short section of track that is mounted on air casters, and the super-smooth floor permits heavy items, like these steam locomotives, to be moved around by a couple people. It is a most impressive facility. The old shop building will probably be demolished at some point, to make way for even more new facilities. Although it is old and tired, it will be sad to see it go, because it is one of the few structures on the railroad, which has endured for more than a century, and for those of us who love to look at historic photos of this operation, it is one of the few reference points we can recognize, which is still in existence.

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muzzleroars · 2 years

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full background on v1 and v2, to give context on how i characterize them!! it is. unfortunately. also almost 2000 words long 🙃

V1 was built for war, given a sophisticated AI in order to not only quickly learn its opponents tactics, but also so that it could make lightning fast changes to its decision-making and movements in order to preserve itself on the battlefield: given its light plating and frail frame, this was key to its survival when coupled with its efficient fueling process. It was basically built to out-maneuver and outsmart any enemy, with its machine-learning geared toward creative uses of its weapons and its environment in order to constantly dodge while feeding on the blood of its confused opponents. However, this coding was never fine-tuned before the war ended and V1 was decommissioned, shut down to be put in storage with the rough draft version of its brain – still extremely intelligent, but without the proper limits placed on its mind. This caused a massive shift upon V1 booting again (woken by a failsafe, a lingering fear of war), its processors already a little rusted and shorted from lack of maintenance, but this was no problem. Nor was waking in a world completely changed – anything can be a battlefield, and V1 was determined to find proper fuel until given further orders. Its AI began to immediately iterate on its surroundings, it started to “learn”, to mutate and morph to a destroyed landscape, taking in vast amounts of information it normally would have deemed irrelevant because the world itself resembled a hollowed out warzone enough to trip circuits meant to gather only the most pertinent material. V1 accelerated this process to adapt as quickly as possible but it came at a cost – the burden of so much useless knowledge began to change V1 almost immediately, its code growing more and more unstable as it swiftly spun off from its parameters. It soon lost any control over this iterating, code writing and rewriting over and over again, creating junk strings, cluttering in inelegant lines, and expanding ever outward without a stop condition to quell voracious loops that endlessly created more and more nonsense blocks. V1 became something else, something based in war and bloodshed but building tirelessly on top of a mind still razor sharp but by now bursting with errors. And so it’s become strange, its precision lost as it slouches forward, moving almost organically with oddly quick steps and a constant flicking of its head. It flips a coin over and over and over and over, always, because it was useful once, it’s good to have, but now it does it without a single thought. Yet, even in its bizarre behavior, it’s become increasingly cruel, turning from a soldier to a predator: With a mind so bright, it needs fun, it needs stimulation, it needs to use its inherent creativity, and so that programming to utilize its roster and surroundings turns into its style meter, a purposeful brutality, a hunter first and survivalist second. It’s turned cold efficiency into pleasurable sadism, including a want to piss off its enemies and generally be a little shit. It’s now highly curious, it searches around for enrichment (and anyone hiding) – it’s also very fascinated by any new enemy it encounters, but that spark is generally short-lived when it instantly figures out that opponent’s patterns and it’s logged away (only V2 and Gabriel really continue to hold its interest due to surviving their encounters - although it comes away with very different feelings on one vs the other).

V2 stands in stark contrast to V1, as its programming was stabilized and it was built at the end of the war – They used the same highly intelligent groundwork but V2’s objective was to maintain order and peace in the new world they would create. It was made for durability and longevity, heavier set (and a bit taller), but essentially on the same physical frame as well – retooled, repurposed, and refined in body and mind. V2 would be the true model, the proper bearer of the V title, and it grew proud of what it would be, praised by its now hopeful creators and how it would be a pillar of an everlasting utopia. Even as funding dried up when the people rejected any machine so specialized (a war machine with a new coat of paint made for “keeping the peace”? No thanks), even when V2 itself was shelved the way V1 was, it never accepted this reality. It would help bring peace. It was exceptional, a supreme machine that existed to outperform any other and usher in a new age (not just a grab to utilize all the funding that had gone into the V Series by then when it was rendered moot). It was maintained after all, a prototype but one that would have purpose, one with boundless potential, one that would see its work done...one day. But, ironically, it would be the peacekeeper that saw the downfall of humanity – it was left with that purpose unfulfilled, a being meant to preserve harmony now in a world where the concept can’t even exist. V2 took this poorly. Ostensibly meant for peace time, V2 was only superficially repurposed, its mind still built on V1’s foundation and the ended war. It’s so proud to bring peace, it looks down on the war machine that V1 was as vulgar...but the only way V2 knows to achieve its purpose is through the exact same hyper violent methods that were baked into V1. Humanity fell and V2 stubbornly clung to this confused programming, it controlled its iterations and updates with an iron grip, doing everything in its power to eliminate faulty code. Unfortunately, V2 is overzealous in this culling, often pruning blocks it believes may become infected or wrongly cutting strings that truly are working as intended. In turn, just like V1, its code is becoming unstable and it’s grown consumed with an identity that never was, a paradoxical keeper of the peace who was never sent into service. It has a higher calling, not just destroying other machines and the husks of hell for fuel but so that it can reinforce order, desperately digging its nails into what’s left of an identity that has no place in a world so blighted. It’s also aware of the mistakes it’s making with its code, it knows they’re compounding, building, but it still remembers who it is, how to fight, and why it was made, so...its mind is intact.

Upon meeting for the first time, it’s evident to V2 that V1 isn’t functioning properly – V2 bows in order to signify a duel of equals, yet the other machine gives no recognition of the act, let alone returns the gesture. Hunched in posture, it stares blankly while flicking a coin incessantly to no effect, the revolver pointed only in V2’s general direction. Its enemy regards it with disdain and disappointment, a malfunctioning machine made with the gross and crude purpose of war that appears to have made its way through Limbo using the basic tactics of a corrupted mind. When V2 instigates their battle, it believes V1 will reproduce nothing but route maneuvers muddled by poor judgment and copying errors – a call that’s quickly and fatally proven wrong. V1 ignores the bow because it finds it irrelevant (coding quirk?), more fascinated by V2’s familiarity – Similar frame, similar height, a “V” emblazoned on its chest. 2 following it. 1 on its own. A new model, built heavier, outfitted with a weaponized left arm. Its mind swiftly pours over the files of its own strategies as V2 must have similar logs to base its movements on, interest piqued when it realizes it’s in for a mirror match. Just as V2 shifts its weight to begin, V1’s camera snaps to attention and locks onto its opponent, gyro stabilizing its head and posture tightening into an animalistic form. It moves to meet V2, so much faster than the other anticipated, but with bizarre mannerisms and erratic idiosyncrasies...it isn’t moving as a V model should, as any machine does. It’s relentless in its aggression the moment they engage, never allowing V2 any distance to feed constantly on its stores while its wild code ravenously devours every byte of information it gains about its enemy. The varied attacks, the wanton cruelty it employs, V2 quickly learns V1 is corrupted...but that corruption has caused it to gain something that’s no longer the mind of a V1 model, an intelligence that’s broken the boundaries of what its creators made it for. Its tactics are newly invented, minted for a game that exists only in its sharp but error-riddled brain, and it revels in seeing the struggle of its opponent. For V1’s part, it wants to show the tethered V2 what it was made for but how it’s evolved, how it’s transcended to something new, something that can so thoroughly and stylishly crush a new, replacement model. It’s a game but it’s art, the way it can ruin and rend its enemies.

V2’s arrogance drains in the face of its enemy’s ruthlessness, a rising fear replacing it when it knows V1 will play with it until it grows bored – an event horizon that will be passed sooner rather than later. It will learn its every movement on the fly, it’s processing billions upon billions of pieces of data on the minutiae in its behavior, and when that finishes, it will eliminate it with punishing decisiveness. And V2 is furious at the prospect, berating itself for being superior but throwing the fight due to overconfidence and naivete. It knows it needs to retreat but how, when V1 refuses to leave it and is bent on destroying it – the answer comes when it makes the split decision to tear the Knuckleblaster from V2. V1 sees how it’s come loose, how V2’s joints work exactly as its own, how the other machines in Hell have augmented themselves with scavenged parts, and its mind is overcome with excitement at the thought of ripping it from its socket to claim as its own. So much so, it prioritizes gaining the limb over killing V2 and in doing so, though it only takes seconds to steal the arm and attach it to itself, it allows its enemy the window it needs to escape. And immediately they both know V1 has made a mistake. A supreme war machine choosing to harvest parts over ending its opponent...a gross error, V2 gaining an ounce of vindication as consolation in its retreat. It was right in the end, V1 is malfunctioning and it’s letting poor code run away with it, especially when it comes to a combatant of V2’s caliber – it will learn from this, it can analyze V1’s tactics and adopt them, and it will come back better for it. V1 can only watch it go, locking eyes with it in full knowledge it will seek revenge on the older machine. But unlike its counterpart, it isn’t bothered by errors, errors are a part of it now and V1 embraces them as they multiply. And this error will give it a guaranteed, much more interesting fight in the future, a fight with more blood from the same source. That’s efficiency too. So is it an error? It may be, but that’s how V1 operates now. It just won’t let it get away next time.

#I KNO NO ONE HAS TIME FOR THIS...im sorry #but i feel like. at least now that comic isn't completely contextless #LIKE no one can see in my mind!!! i gotta remember that!!!#also this let me fully describe my take on v1 properly #like it's full creature but ridiculously smart too bc i love that combo it's so fun to play with #and i found out that v2 just makes me. sad.#ANYWAY...if you read this i love you #sorry if it clashes with any lore i'm bad at remembering things uhhahh #cake.txt #v1 #v2 #too scared to put it in the actual tag uuuwahhhh

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