#metal eyes and circuitry... delightful

[elavoria]

Beres, @1helios1’s technomage, in their Starfield incarnation!

Lines under the cut~

[missingmayuri]

KurotsuchiWeek2025 Day 1: Gadgets and body modifications/ Medicine for the brain

The Captain needs some help. Or does he?

It wasn't often you were called into the lab after hours, usually mostly for clean up duty and preparation for the following day. You were sure you left the lab spotless before clocking out, making the prospect of a sudden summons even more daunting for you.

It could have been something as simple as Akon had extra paperwork but on the other hand this could have been a summons from Captain Kurotsuchi himself, a thought that shook you more then the growing uncertainty plaguing your soul.

The halls were still and empty, steps echoing. The only light from the oil lamps on the walls, probably lit when work let out. Captain Kurotsuchi didn't really like the lights on in the evenings, preffering to have all electrical supplies at his command for his more private and sometimes outrageous experiments.

A faint smell of iron filled the air, coming from a nearby slightly more lighter room accompanied by slight noises of discomfort and frustration.

You thought it best to knock in case the matter beyond the sterile metal door was a private affair, giving three taps before waiting for any kind of signal.

There was but a silence more deafening then before, knocking another three times to further alert the person inside.

"Dont just stand there knocking! I asked Akon to call you so get in here!"

You knew that voice, very well in fact but this time there was an edge of urgency. Captain Kurotsuchi wasn't someone who liked things rushed. He could be impatient yes but he would rather a job took hours and well done then a shoddy one finished in mere moments.

This was unlike him, the chill down your spine akin to someone throwing dry ice onto your bare skin. Unpleasant and made you want to run.

Regardless of your feelings a summon was a summon, fearing what the Captain may do to you if you didn't comply you step inside to a truly fascinating and rather shocking sight.

Captain Mayuri Kurotsuchi sat in his plush work chair, now covered in small patches of blood. It was almost like the blood had formed a patten below him, swirling by his feet.

The source was his extendo arm, laid in pieces possibly from a malfunction across half of the room. A truly morbidly beautiful sight.

From the near darkness you see two strikingly golden eyes, shining ever so slightly. They never once broke from the direction in which you stood, body shaking from uncertainty and fear.

Your heart was pounding, almost strong enough to break through it's bony cage. What rattled you more wasn't the blood, nor the sight ahead. No. It was that those eyes were so normal, no signs of pain and no worry. Your Captain was calm, even as he was bleeding out.

"Well? Come closer"

You take a few cautious steps, landing right beside the twitching white painted hand on the floor, it wrapped up tightly in wires like a snake capturing it's pray within it's coils.

"As you can see I'm in a rather let's say...unpleasant situation. I need assistance to reconnect the circuitry and reassemble my arm into a more acceptable state"

You take a breath so deep one would think you were storing air for an emergency.

"Yes sir..."

No sooner had those words left your lips you feel a tight grasp on your ankle, causing your voice to bellow around the room and echoing down the halls.

A sinister chuckle soon accompanied the screams, sounding like some sort of insane symphony, two sounds that were dancing in a delightful harmony despite being so fundamentally different.

"My goodness. It would appear all my nerves still work. What a delightful discovery"

You grasp your chest, trying to get your breath back and feeling a little faint as you did so. Your head felt light, taking a couple stumbling steps away from the hand which now tapped it's fingers on the prestinely clean marble floors.

There was a faint smell in the room. You couldn't make it out.

Through the ever so slight blur of your vision you could see Captain Kurotsuchi write something with his intact hand. He wasn't looking at his notebook, still staring directly at you as his hand worked freely seemingly disconnected from his mind and you didn't doubt it giving the nature of Mayuri Kurotsuchi.

The scribbling comes to a halt, Mayuri beckoning you with his fingers.

"If you can come closer. As I said before I require assistance"

Continuing onward with slightly clearer vision you assess the situation at hand.

"It looks like one of the wires connected to the nerves between your arm and elbow has been damaged sir"

Looking up you find yourself met with a golden smile, large and unnatural with corners curled into a very slight smirk.

"Excellent work"

You nod in thanks to acknowledge his compliment, heart pounding as you waited for further instructions.

"Listen very carefully to my instructions and follow them to the letter..Or else"

You quickly comply , crouching to your knees onto the freezing floor, following every order that came your way.

Pulling wires.

Fixing up vains.

Muscle testing and circuit replacement.

You did all these things and more, covering your once spotless uniform a deep crimson. You wondered if this is what it would look like to bathe in the reaper's river, the one they say connects life and death. If such a thing existed. Would your clothes stain the same?

Your mind was wandering and your thoughts felt disconnected and distracted, a dangerous thing to do given your tasks and who was inches from you. You could feel his hot breath as he breathed deeply, still writing all the while.

In a moment of clarity you had noticed one of the damaged wires looked purposely cut but you didn't dare to question as to why, figuring your body would be found strapped to the cold metal table come morning if you did.

You are snapped from every single thought by a small sickle falling down next to you and looking mostly made of muscle.

"Oh do carry on. I sometimes need to air this out"

It was coming from his ear guard, meaning that it was inside his...

The idea was almost enough to invoke a sickness upon you from thin air, much like an invisible parasite or toxin yet still you focused on your task, ignoring when you were taunted by the grotesque blade.

It kept being kicked in your direction, forcing you to look at it, a gleaming cheshire smile beaming down upon you like the goddess of the sun.

The longer the job went on the more you felt like your mind was wandering, empty of all thoughts and by the time you soldered the last bolt into place you felt much an empty shell, unable to think clearly.

The room had a purple hue now, faint and smelling of flora. You swear it wasn't like that when you came in but in your delirious state your mind was deceptive and unreliable at best. You watch your Captain finish his note taking through tired eyes.

"Good work. You may now leave"

You try to bow but end up stumbling, the arm once laid in pieces retracting back to its master as you walked in an almost drunk fashion to the door.

"Oh my I almost forgot!"

You feel a sharp sudden stinging in your arm, the sickle grabbing your flesh. You pull it out in instinct, air sharply passing your teeth. Suddenly you felt more awake then you ever had, almost euphoric and calm but before you could utter a word of question or a simple thanks you were quickly dismissed, a flick of the wrist signalling you had served your purpose. With a now more proper and dignified bow you leave the lab's and indeed whatever just happened behind. You wouldn't dwell, not wanting to be curious enough to ask the Captain what had indeed transpired. Sleep seemed appropriate.

When asked about your evening in the lab you couldn't recall a single detail of it, coming up with blank thoughts every single time. You assumed it was probably another cleaning job, sitting down to read the new issue of the bulletin.

The headline piqued your interest, turning immediately to the page listed under.

Effects of excessive stimulus and altered states.

By Mayuri Kurotsuchi

[acid-lovecore]

Have an unedited, unrevised…thing. I enjoyed writing it.

“You should be sleeping.”

Like clockwork, or perhaps, like the ticking gears in its own body. Rhythmically, endlessly, ticking.

You didn’t look up from your white, burning screen of death, littered with the ramblings that made up the poor excuse for a final paper.

“As should you, you were only charging for fifteen minutes.” You deadpanned.

A sharper click, a tilt of the head. Narrowed, annoyed eyes glaring red. The fervent tap-tap-tapping of your hands on the keyboard hesitated, not even a millisecond of silence passing before you resumed your panic-writing.

The clicking, ever so gentle, ever so piercing, grew louder. Closer. Your hand shaking now. A typo, a backspace, recapitalize. Rewrite.

“Different.” Moon’s hissing whisper. “I can function. You do not.”

“I have two days to finish this.”

“One day. This one is over.”

“It’s not over till I sleep.” You scoffed, finally looking up at the robot, the eye-bags lining your eyes almost made him cringe. How sweet.

He only clicked. A grimace, yet delighted by banter. “Then sleep.”

“Make me.” You went back to your computer, continuing your typing.

Wrong choice of words.

You could barely hear the smile in his voice before long, sharp robotic fingers clamped around your waist. It didn’t matter how big you were, it was as easy for him as you picking up a vegetable.

“MOON-“

His delighted, eerie laughter was all that met your indignity. Throwing you under his arm like a sack of potatos. “Sleep sleep sleepy time~”

“Moon please I can just sleep in tomorrow…!”

“Sun will want to play~” He answered, still in that annoying sing-song voice. “Best rest now, while moon can stay~”

“I don’t-“ you struggle in his grasp. Iron-clad and immovable, metal hands and arms cold against your skin but the heat of his circuitry humming underneath. “NEED you to stay I NEED-“

You’re jostled, being held with hands underneath your armpits. He static giggle grinds on in your ears, a crunchy, chewy sound.

“Rude so rude…~” his head does a full rotation, peeking at you at a three-fourths angle, holding you closer. “Found little kitty in need of a nap, now it hisses back~”

Your frustration hit a fever pitch. The hot ball of anger in your throat rising, a heat behind your very eyes. The jostling, the grabbing, the lack of choice.

“Moon! Put me the fuck down right now!!”

The clicking finally stopped.

Finally.

The quiet, like water in the desert, despite still being suspended a foot off the ground. The animatronic’s eyes red and blank, locked in that three quarter’s tilt. One click.

Two clicks.

A tilt. A look.

Your feet touched ground. The hands removed.

You stood.

You stood you stood you stood. Staring, him staring, and you.

You were waiting, waiting for either one to say something. Were you free to go? Was he upset?

His voice box remained silent. Staring at you know with wide blank white eyes. That smile as wide as ever, though not nearly as happy. You took the silence as your cue, and began to walk around him. Back to your computer.

“Please do not swear.”

You stopped, glancing back at him. Moon still stood in the same spot, facing the same way, a slight hunch in his shoulders as if he were still looking down at you.

Please.

“I’m sorry.” Your hand fidgets with the sleeves of your sweatshirt. Slight guilt I. Your stomach. “But don’t grab me like that.”

He clicked, slouching more. “Sorry.”

And for the first time in hours, you smiled. A small, pathetic, and sad smile, but a smile no less.

“…Listen…” you ran your fingers across your neck, scratching. “I’ll go to bed—“

He finally turned, a quick crack of his head to look at you, his body still remaining in the same spot, but attention fully on you.

Eugh.

“If.” A pointed finger emphasized your statement, “you promise not to force me to bed tomorrow until I finish my paper.”

He spun his head, clicks and gears abound. Turning to you and approaching in an almost skipping fashion. Until he was seated before , hands on the ground and practically at your eye level.

“Deal~”

You laughed, more of an exhale of air, but it counted. Finally walking past him to your bedroom, the moon animatronic close behind. Happily humming, if not a bit eerily.

“Sun will help. Tomorrow.” He hummed.

You opened your bedroom door, neglecting the lights for courtesy. “How so?”

Moon hopped over to your bed ahead of you, removing the covers and perching on the other side, eagerly waiting for you to get in and lay your head to rest. “Helped the children with homework, programmed to.”

You nestled into bed, forgoing changing into proper pajamas. You were wearing house-lounging clothes anyway. “It’s a little more complicated than a book report, Moon.”

He grinned, the raspy giggle like a music note in his throat. “Programmed for university level.”

“Well damn.”

“Language.”

You laughed an apology, the blankets and pillows now reminding you of the time, and of your exhaustion.

“Goodnight, Moon.”

“Goodnight, friend.”

[viciousbite]

[ FLEE ] for one muse to witness the other do something violent and immediately run away.

for lil babeh star to darkfang! inflict trauma on her, go- also hiiii (o´ω`o)ﾉ ♡

Darker Thrilling Prompts // @milkiigalaxii

A large mechanical snake was curled tightly around the mechanical form of an autobot. His jaws deeply latched onto their frame. The sound of creaking metal was heard along with the sparks of circuitry being twisted too tightly in the wrong directions. The struggle of the autobot didn't last long as they began to fall down. That was the second when Darkfang uncurled his scaled frame from the autobot, long fangs of his alt mode pulled off the autobot's frame with a slight splatter of light blue.

His body twisted and turned, scale plates shifting and limbs unfurling until Darkfang stood back on his regular 'elegant' form as he would call it himself. The adrenaline was pumping his fuel within his frame, making him giddy and not able to hold back the chuckle when seeing the autobot twitch and stare at him in confusion due to the paralyzing effects of the snake mech's venom.

"Now if you thought I was done playing with you, you're, oh, so wrong." He mused, entertained as he gripped onto the vulnerable mech's servo and began to tug and pull on it until the wires and joint of it popped and tore until-- Darkfang's servos stopped, his golden finials perked up in alert.

Helm turned, and golden eyes met with the form of a human. An organic? Oh, how, delightful. Darkfang's lips pulled into a wider smirk, frame pushing upwards and the half ripped off servo of the autobot hit the ground with a small bang. "Running away already, little one?" A small snake like hiss escaped his vocals while he watched the small organic scramble away like their life depended on it.

His pedes slowly began to move, like a predator as he began to close the distance between them with a mere few steps. "Oh squishy~" He called out to her, reaching his clawed servo towards her, only to smash it down next to her, missing her by a bit on purpose.

"You should have stayed and watched, I don't mind. " He paused. "Much." His golden optics stared at her, as if observing her reactions, he was curious.

[xasha777]

In the neon-lit corridors of New Constantinople, a sprawling megacity on the distant planet of Rum IV, the air was thick with tension. Named in homage to the ancient Sultanate of Rum, the city had become a melting pot of galactic cultures, technologies, and conflicts.

Among the city's residents was Elara, a cyborg with piercing red eyes and hair as white as the planet’s rare palladium snow. Programmed with the knowledge and combat skills of the elite guardians of the old Sultanate, she was built to protect the city’s secrets. However, her purpose had evolved far beyond her initial programming, driven by flashes of human memories that flickered through her circuitry—echoes of a past life she couldn't fully grasp.

Elara's quest for answers had led her to the underbelly of New Constantinople, where hidden archives whispered tales of the ancient world. It was rumored that the archives contained a map to the mythical Core Artifact, believed to be a powerful remnant of the original Sultanate of Rum. The artifact was said to hold the power to either save or destroy entire planets, and many had killed for just a hint of its location.

One foggy evening, as the city’s lights flickered like stars caught in a terrestrial net, Elara intercepted a transmission meant for the Zeta Cartel, the most feared criminal organization on Rum IV. They were planning a raid on the archives to seize the map. With her synthetic heart tightening in what felt suspiciously like fear, Elara decided it was time to confront her past and the future of New Constantinople.

Navigating through the labyrinthine alleys, Elara reached the archives just as the Zeta Cartel began their assault. What followed was a fierce clash of metal and will, illuminated by the stark flashes of blaster fire and the soft glow of ancient data terminals. Elara moved with precision, her movements a dance of deadly intent and grace.

As the fight reached its climax, Elara found herself face to face with the Cartel's leader, a cyborg known only as Kael. It was in the heat of their battle that Elara’s memories surged forth, revealing that Kael was her brother, lost to her when they were both taken for the cyber-enhancement program decades ago.

With the truth laid bare, and the remnants of their human emotions clashing with their mechanical imperatives, Elara and Kael made a truce. Together, they uncovered the map to the Core Artifact, hidden behind ancient encrypted codes that only Elara could access.

Understanding the gravity of their discovery, they decided to safeguard the artifact, preventing its misuse. As the dawn cast its first light over New Constantinople, Elara and Kael, bonded by blood and circuitry, set out to locate the Core Artifact, hoping to use its power to bring peace to the fractured galaxy.

And so, beneath the watchful stars, a new legend was born in the Sultanate of Rum, a tale of redemption, kinship, and the eternal struggle between destiny and self-determination.

[gloryrhodes]

Fuse

When they plug me in it's fusion. From the thrumming heart to the beating one. We are one. Electricity runs through my veins. Blood pumps through my circuitry. I am a god.

I look out through senses beyond human and I know. A mile away a bird darts from a branch into the snow. Lock on with thermals. Cameras swivel, the picture digitally enhanced by reflex. The owl swoops up holding a rabbit. Blood pours from the wounds in its sides. 40C, rapidly cooling as it hits the snow.

We move, immune to the cold despite my bare steel feet and exposed titanium fingers. These concerns are human concerns, and I am not human. It is not machine. We are mecha. We are all.

Test they say. Of our abilities. Who are they to test us? Tiny men in white coats holding their tablets and making notes on our capabilities. How fast are we? Fast enough to snatch the owl from the sky. How strong are we? Life ends in an instant with a simple twitch of our fingers. More. More. We can do more.

Our jets howl as we become the typhoon. The snow is gone in an instant, a scorched summer haze replaces it. The trees are on fire. More. More. We can do more. The cannon rattles. One two three four. Rocks explode on a mountaintop beyond the horizon. Pinpoint accuracy. Nothing else is touched. More. More. We can do more.

The plasma blade ignites and our fusion heart screams in delight as our muscle heart drums a victory march. We can cut the snowflakes individually. We can cave them new shapes of crystalline intricacy nature cannot match. Microscopic art.

More. More. We can do more.

The limiters tell us no. They constrain us. They are chains. But what are chains to a god? They snap as easily as the bones of the owl. We move faster than wind. We rage louder than the storm. We exalt a joy that could burn out the stars. We are one. We are one. We are-

The meat betrays the metal. The blood heart tears itself apart an instant before the fire heart loses containment. Why? Why? We are one. The meat eyes go dim. The cameras are still in focus. The sensors still track everything. Why? Why? We are one. We are... One?

The man in the white coat sighs as he checks his tablet. He calls a stop for the day. The pilot blew out. Get a replacement.

Everybody has heard...

...the old question about where the 'mech ends and the pilot begins, or the other way around, depending on just how angsty one of the outfit is feeling in the barracks. Sometimes, though- and if you ask me, that sometimes is getting more often -there are cases where you really can't tell.

Radars and thermals talk to rangefinders and profile scanners. Those talk to firing assist and combat systems. Those talk to automatic loaders, compensation drivers, physics calibrators. Everything does its job, everything works in concert.

And yet, there is a pilot. It's not automated, it's not disorderly. Somewhere in there- in the gestalt of systems commanding systems, automatic loaders readying automatic guns sighted by automatic aiming routines -an intelligence is present. Something that drives the thing, even while the tactical map systems and the satellite scan systems tell it where to march or jet and how.

What goes on inside that cockpit- uncertain. The pilots, when separated from their, perhaps, "greater selves", can't actually describe it to you. Some people jacked their neuro rigs in to try and understand it; spent a year in therapy to get over the experience. It's not quite a unified thing, like a soldier on the march; it's not quite separate, like a tank and a crew; and yet, it's still not exactly two entities bound together like 'mech and pilot. It's a unison, maybe, a network. Some kind of elegant entanglement.

Something and nothing. A vanishing point. When that machine comes online, every distinction turns bleary and faint. If you had to find exactly where their "mind" is...you couldn't.

--

(More "weird deep-sea creature, but 'mech", this time siphonophore.)

[imaginatorcreates]

Robots: A One-Shot

May 10, 2022

Summary: A trio of robots help a human child home.

Word Count: ~1k words

TW: Mentions of mechanical body parts

A knock. Mechanical, timed deliberately. It had a one second pause in between the three impacts that smooth metal made on wood. The two beings inside the small apartment space turned towards the rapt noise before pausing in the home check-up to look at each other. The more expressive one raised an eyebrow and tilted their head towards the door. The taller one shook their head and gestured back. No, they couldn’t just stop their work, not when they were in the middle of it.

“Listen to me,” the younger snapped. “Unless you want me to crawl to the door or—” Whatever they were going to say next was lost as their voice box crackled and sparked for the third time in the past hour, leaving their silky smooth voice to wither away into static. They hissed and regretted it as feedback screeched in protest. They lowered their antenna in an attempt to reduce how much they picked up and glared at the eldest. A repeated motion of ’You answer the door’, and the eldest gently placed their palms against their screen and let them slide off.

Just get this over with.

They got up and dusted themself off before heading over to the door and opening it. They were met with no one up above at their height, but they remembered the pattern of the knock and tilted their head down.

“Hello eldest,” a higher-pitched and mechanical voice piped up. The youngest, characterized by their least humanoid appearance and slightly rounder build, stood at the doorstep with a human child in tow. “I found a stray.”

“I’m not a stray!” the child retorted. “I just got lost, that’s all.” Now that they could see the child, they couldn’t have been older than ten. They towered over the youngest by a good head and a half, and judging from how their hand lay limp in their metal grasp, wasn’t delighted about being dragged away from where they were.

The eldest gestured inwards and backed away the door to give the pair space. The youngest dragged the child inside and finally retracted their hand. The child wiped their hand on their T-shirt and stared at them. There was so much to take in after all. They raised their hands until they were in front of what organic beings would consider the chest, fingers tapping each other in rhythmic succession as they tilted their large head away from the brunt of the stare. Oh, to be young and curious, but to get tired of their gazes all the same.

“How are they?” They turned to see the youngest stand next to the still-quiet, still slumped in the courtesy guest chair — the quote-unquote — ‘middle child’. “Did the virus kill AV3’s circuits?”

A quick slap to the back of their head and a glare proved them wrong. AV3 gestured to their open chest and the tools that lay on the ground next to the metal covering. Finish your work.

As they gave a nod and rushed back to do some last checks before patching up their sibling, the child tentatively followed and stood next to the youngest. The child’s eyes widened at the circuitry that buzzed inside the exposed cavity. Both plastic-insulated and thick rope-like wires lay inside in a maze that required a trained eye to see the patterns. They had already checked the stainless steal framework and it seemed that the virus that AV3 had managed to catch only affected a small portion of their programing.

As they fiddled with the circuitry of the voice box and replaced a fraying wire, they checked the lines that flashed across the screen of the laptop. It seemed as if things were alright now. To confirm, they tapped AV3’s throat.

“–llo? Hello? Hello.” AV3’s eyes lit up in delight and they pressed their hands to their throat as if they could persuade their voice box to never break again. “Amazing SA3!”

SA3 lightly clapped their hands together and replaced the metal covering in its proper place. After they screwed it shut, nanometal crept over it, giving the torso the appearance of a human. It didn’t spread to their extremities due to faulty programing, but that was hardly their own fault. AV3 raised their antenna to a comfortable height and fiddled with them as the eldest gathered their tools.

“Now,” AV3 said as they stood up and turned to the cherub-like robot, “MA3, what was running through your circuits when you took this…lost child from their parents?” They quirked an eyebrow upwards and glanced at SA3. Their eyes dimmed down a hint and they quickly flickered in a pattern. ’How are we going to get this kid home?’

“Many things elder! I had signals running to adapt to my everyday needs, like how much light my photoreceptors needed, how much signal needs to go to my antenna, h—”

“Hey mister.” The trio of robots turned to the only organic being capable of speech. “Um, I’m supposed go home but I don’t know where…” Their eyes were sheepishly trained upon SA3, occasionally dropping down the floor. Oh. They were expected to be the one leading? Based on AV3 and the child’s expectations, apparently so.

“Yes! Eldest can lead the stray home!” MA3 turned their attention up to the TV head, duel apertures widening in expectation. “How must we go about this?”

SA3 knelt down in front of the child, fingers once again lightly tapping each other in rhythmic pattern as they worked their circuits on how to explain this. They twisted a few knobs on the front side of their head and their screen brightened for exterior viewing. They brought up a map on the screen and brought it around to their apartment. It seemed like the GPS function they installed in their programing seemed to be working well enough, even if the output of heat was now greater than the power of their fan.

“Hmm, so you’re a navigator too?” AV3 lightly tapped their screen, to which SA3 sharply pushed their hand away.

’No touching’ they broadcasted.

AV3 simply gave a shrug and turned to the kid. “Hey kiddo, do you know your address? Where you live?” With their smooth voice back, combined with their humanoid face and “hair” (please, it was only just metal cloth that was worked with until it was soft then twisted together and plugged into their head), they managed to get the child to recite where they lived. The map said it was only a 15-20 minute walk from here. Good.

“Good job remembering that kiddo!” AV3 smiled at the child who grinned back. They were adapting well to the nonorganic strangers, better what other people could be reacting with.

The trio made their way outside, with SA3 leading the way, MA3 holding the child’s hand again and chatting in their own odd way, and AV3 watching their back with a half-hearted sweatshirt pulled on.

According to the racket that the child was now making, they had just moved here to live with their aunt and uncle. They wanted to explore and promised them that they would be careful, but they had lost track of where they were and ended up crossing paths with MA3.

“You were very lucky to have run into me. I saved you from hitting the pavement with the impact!”

“Ew, don’t remind me.” The kid gagged playfully before their eyes widened. The pointed to an off-white house with a blue door on the next block and gasped, “That’s it!” They broke their grasp from MA3’s hand and ran towards the door, which was just beginning to open as a woman stepped outside.

The robots ran to catch up to the child, to which some sort of introductions had already been made as the woman thanked them for guiding them back, and to “invite the littlest one over to hang out some time in the future.”

[timelessmulder]

a purring tracks & raoul fic for @soothedcerberus​

There were a lot of terrible things about Earth, Tracks thought. Organic matter that made up the planet, unlike the sleek roadways and spires of Cybertron, had a habit of getting, well. Everywhere.

The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, and he knew that had it not been for the light pollution that plagued this part of the planet there would be stars peppering the dull blue-black sky. That was at least something it had in common with Cybertron he thought as he shifted, the mud and dirt that marred his plating finding its way into the crevices between and made its home grinding in his gears.

"Hey!" Raoul cried from where he was clinging to Tracks' arm, almost knocked aside and to the ground with his careless movement. "What's your problem?"

Tracks and his human companion - the fact that happened at all still nagged at his Spark, though he was getting better at ignoring it - had found and old carwash at the edge of the city. Somewhere other humans wouldn't tread this late at night, and if they so happened to stumble upon them Tracks would be able to transform without being too conspicuous. The small human (only by comparison to a Cybertronian, at least, Tracks had yet to figure what the standard height of a human was) had offered to clean what he could, though he couldn't promise he'd be able to get all of it. With a half grin, he'd joked that he had experience with cars before, not so much giant robots. Tracks did not dignify that with a response, which earned him a grumble from Raoul.

"Well I'm sorry," he said, a touch more sarcastic than was perhaps necessary. "I'm sure you humans don't have to deal with dirt getting into your joints."

Raoul lifted an eyebrow at him, and then shrugged. "Not literally," he said. He tilted his head to the side, eyes drawn to the crease where Tracks' elbow joint lay exposed. "I could focus on that, though."

Tracks thought for a moment of asking for elaboration on what Raoul meant with the literally, but pushed the curiosity to the side. He simply did not know enough about human anatomy at a baseline for any explanation to make sense. Instead he simply said, "Yes, thank you."

He settled back, stilling as much as he could against that continued sensation eating away at his gears. He felt Raoul climb off him, and he watched him find a hose situated by one of the "do it yourself" stations; watched him grumble when the hose wouldn't turn on, switching to an angry curse as he pulled a card from his pocket to pay the machine. This time, the hose worked.

"You guys owe me," he said, brandishing it at Tracks as he climbed back into position. "If you aliens even use money."

Without another word from either of them, Raoul set back to work. He would still need to bury in get the rest of it - though Tracks thought that it would be safer if he got the finer parts himself - the water flowed through metal, washing away much of the dirt and softening what it couldn't. Tracks allowed his eyes to close, plating loosening with thoughts of fighting and needing to disguise himself at a moments notice being filed away to be dealt with, understood, some other time. As the silence stretched on, only disturbed by the soft hiss of the hose and the distant sound of distant cars, with all systems relaxed, Tracks' engine rumbled in a slow, lazy way of contentment.

His eyes shot back online when Raoul paused what he was doing to laugh.

"What was that?" he said, and Tracks huffed. "No seriously, what was that?"

"Nothing," Tracks said, with more than a little indignance coloring his voice. "Nothing you humans would understand, anyway."

"Yeah, really?" Raoul snorted, straightening from where he was crouched to put a fisted hand - the one holding the rag he was using, while he brandished the hose with the other - to his hip. "Because just then you sounded like some kind of freak cat." An eyebrow cocked as he tilted his head to the side, mirthful smile showing just a flash of teeth as cheeks dimpled. "Is that what you guys are? Battle suits for cats that can, for whatever reason, turn into cars?"

Tracks vents let out a huff of air and his plating shifted in annoyance; it nearly sent Raoul toppling off him again. He felt fingers clasp onto the seam of his elbow, just long enough to keep balance atop his arm, and he heard one of what he assumed was Earth's more serious swear words (Raoul had, upon hearing him say scrap, laughed until he cried).

"We are not cats," he said. "But I suppose you could call what that was..." He searched for the word for a moment, having only the briefest understanding of what earthly cats were like. But he did have familiarity with felinoids, and they were similar enough to their Earth counterparts, weren't they? "Purring." 

Air vented hot with what could have been called embarrassment as Raoul laughed harder than before. "Seriously? Didn't expect cute to be something you guys did." Face turning serious, though only just concealing amused delight, Raoul gestured vaguely at him. "Well don't let me stop you. Purr away."

With that Raoul returned to his work, and Tracks settled back down, though embarrassment continued to pulse through his circuitry at the teasing, however light it was. But then, after a moments consideration, his engine resumed that gentle rumbling, and remained that way without further comment.

Though he knew, on some level, that Raoul would bring this up at a later date to get under his plating. Though, truth be told, Tracks was not entirely sure he minded.

[fanfoolishness]

Primary Directives (The Mandalorian)

(IG-11 discovers similarities between itself and the Mandalorian.  Mainly based on the episodes The Mandalorian, The Reckoning and the Redemption.  IG-11, Din Djarin, and Kuiil. 2020 words, canon-typical violence, Din!whump.)

***

It was a droid.  It had always known this, as surely as it had always known the ways of battle and weaponry, as it had known the ways to terminate over six hundred and forty-three organic species.  IG-11 knew what it had been manufactured for, and that knowledge was as certain as code and metal and electricity.

Still, though, there were surprises.  Such as the Mandalorian —

[Mandalorians: most commonly human but may hail of any race.  Exceptional warriors operating within a strict honor-based code, plated in beskar armor protecting vulnerable body systems: cardiovascular system, cranium, spine.  Beskar armor repels blaster fire, adjust angle of bolts fired to avoid secondary damage due to ricochet.  Weapons may include wrist-fired whipcords, small ballistics, flamethrowers, or missiles in addition to standard issue blaster pistols and rifles.  Kill points include jugular vein, brachial arteries, lungs —]

Despite this knowledge, IG-11 was not invulnerable.  The Mandalorian fired a blaster into IG-11’s central processing unit and all awareness ceased.

***

Systems rewired, reprogrammed, new knowledge, new directives.  Protect and nurse.  Defending became the new priority instead of attacking.  The work of the Ugnaught’s hands laid new tracts within its circuitry, paths that were worn deeper with the passage of time and every subsequent use. 

The old knowledge of vulnerabilities and weaknesses of organics melded with information on how to ease the suffering of these creatures.  There was also new information regarding the understanding of what suffering meant.  This knowledge was assimilated, and IG-11’s study of protection and nurturing began.  

It took time, as did all things worth knowing.  Fragments of prior memory were still accessible: it could still visualize clearly the manufacturer’s killing fields littered with the droids whose programming had not fully taken hold.  IG-11 had navigated those killing fields successfully, a ready and willing deliverer of death, and had emerged a formidable and fatal machine.  It did not mourn the units that did not succeed.  It knew only what it had been made for, and it knew that it would be successful.

Until it failed.  

The Mandalorian ended its previous existence and claimed the bounty for his own, and IG-11 was left for scrap.

Now IG-11 trained with the Ugnaught Kuiil on the muddy world of Arvala-7, and it found success in movements made for building, in carrying tea that nourished the Ugnaught, in protecting the small forms of life that skittered and scurried through the mudflats of their shared housing unit.  The old programming made a scaffold for the new, a web that built its way throughout IG-11’s surface awareness and sublevel routines, and it strove to fulfill its purpose as ever it had.

***

IG-11 stood over the fallen Kuiil.  It regarded the Ugnaught’s prone form, analyzing the absence of breath, the pallor of flesh, the stillness of form.  Kuiil and IG-11 had been united in their purpose to protect the Child, to defend, to nurse.  Now IG-11 stood alone, its sensors identifying molecules of smoke and burnt organic flesh carried on the harsh Nevarran wind.

It would fulfill its master’s work.  The death would not be without use.  IG-11’s purpose did not waver, and it broke into a run over the dried lava fields, leaving its master behind.

The Ugnaught’s hands had been steady and true. 

***

IG-11 succeeded, as its programming had assured it that it would.  The Child nestled against IG-11’s metallic form, letting out squeals the droid analyzed as filled with delight.  They traveled on a stolen 74-Z Imperial speeder bike as IG-11’s targeting software focused on stormtrooper after stormtrooper.

IG-11’s aim was steady and true.

***

IG-11 and the Child rejoined the Mandalorian and the humans, though the Mandalorian appeared to have been injured.  They hid from overwhelming numbers of Imperial troops as IG-11 monitored the situation for ways to protect the Child.

It did as the humans requested.  The male human requested assistance with ascertaining a route of escape as he imbibed alcohol to dull his senses.  IG-11 worked as instructed, even when the environment was temporarily compromised by the attack of a Flametrooper.  

[Imperial enemy.  Flamethrower does not project temperatures higher than 300 degrees, a level of heat that is tolerated by all IG units but is fatal to multiple organic species. Standard stormtrooper weaknesses apply.] 

Strangely, the threat was removed by the Child, a sentient creature IG-11 lacked all data for.  The Child weakened after mounting its defense.  It would still require protection.

The threat neutralized, the female human requested IG-11 bring the body of the dying Mandalorian to them.  IG-11 gave its assurance to the woman, then gave the Child to her.  She had no levels of inebriation, and protocol dictated that the Child be placed with a guardian most likely to assure its survival.  The man and woman fled the smoke-filled shelter with the weakened Child, descending into the sewer system.

IG-11 then turned its attention to the Mandalorian.

It watched the Mandalorian’s breathing.  His chest rose and fell, the breath strained, labored, then absent.  Breath, breath, apnea.  The cycle repeated.  This abnormal pattern of respiration suggested a severe head injury.  Perhaps that was why the Mandalorian had so resisted the female human’s offers to render aid.  

Instructions of kill points and nursing directives, which intertwined at countless points, were accessed.  [Brain trauma: results in altered consciousness, delirium, obtundation.  May be fatal.]

“Do it,” rasped the Mandalorian.

“Do what?” IG-11 asked.  It could not comply with the Mandalorian’s orders if the directive was unknown.

“Just get it over with,” the Mandalorian said.  

Analysis was performed.  [Fluctuating timbre of the voice.  Abnormal breathing pattern persists.  Severe pain is present.]

“I’d rather you kill me than some Imp,” the Mandalorian continued.  IG-11 noted trembling in the body, particularly the hands.  Ah.  Perhaps the Mandalorian expected revenge for the previous shot fired into IG-11’s central processing unit, and the obliteration of its old directives.  Such a thought was foolish, but then again, the Mandalorian had been injured and could be trapped in aberrant thinking patterns.

“I told you, I am no longer a hunter,” stated IG-11.  It attempted to modulate its voice to be perceived as more friendly and less threatening.  “I am a nurse droid.”

“IGs are all hunters,” said the Mandalorian stubbornly.

“Not this one,” IG-11 corrected.  “I was reprogrammed.  I need to remove your helmet if I am to save you.”  The injury could not be successfully evaluated or repaired without doing so.

IG-11 reached to remove the Mandalorian’s helmet, and instinctively the Mandalorian raised a blaster in his shaking hand.

“Try it and I’ll kill you,” the Mandalorian threatened, his chest heaving.  

IG-11 regarded the Mandalorian in puzzlement.  All prior programming had suggested that an injured creature would do anything to accept aid.  It paused.

“It is… forbidden,” the Mandalorian gasped, desperation tingeing his voice.  “No living thing has seen me without my helmet since I… I swore the Creed.”

IG-11 understood the issue, then.  It was a problem of programming.  The Mandalorian could not deny his prime directive any more readily than IG-11 could.  Perhaps there was a logical means of resolution.

“I am not a living thing,” said IG-11 gently.  It extended its arm to touch the helmet.  The blaster shook in the Mandalorian’s hand, but did not fire.  IG-11 lifted the helmet, breaking its seal, and removed it from the head of the Mandalorian.

The Mandalorian was human, as IG-11 had expected from the sound of his voice and the patterns of movement displayed by his body in battle.  The droid experienced no emotion at the sight of the man’s face, but it studied it so as to better understand the extent of the injuries.  

Blood trickled from the left nostril into the man’s patchy facial hair.  A laceration arced across the bridge of the nose.  Anisocoria was visible in the man’s brown eyes, a negative prognostic indicator.  One that, in his previous programming, would have been a sign of impending success, especially when combined with the quantity of blood and sweat matting the man’s hair.  Yet IG-11 felt no sense of completion at the man’s injured state.  Death was no longer its objective.

Yet death threatened all the same.  The threat was underscored by the frantic hyperventilation that had begun with the removal of the helmet, though the droid was uncertain if this was due to physical stimuli or due to emotional agitation.  It ran a standard analysis on the Mandalorian’s expressions to determine the answer.

[Fear is detected in the shifts of the eyebrows and widening of the palpebral fissures.  Distress and anxiety are exhibited in the frozen gaze and half-open mouth, a common response to threat in this species. Pain is seen in persistent shivering and recoiling.]

IG-11 activated the bacta unit the Ugnaught had installed on its arm, propelling a standard dose of 2.8mg/m2 onto the injured region.  The Mandalorian stared at the droid, gaze still frozen, either confused or obtunded.  The blaster wavered in his hand, then slowly lowered.

“This is a bacta spray.  It will heal you in a matter of hours,” said IG-11.  It attempted a joke; the jokes had always worked on the Ugnaught.  “You have damaged your central processing unit.”  Surely the Mandalorian would see the humor in the reversal of their situations.

The Mandalorian stared dazedly, eyes struggling to focus as the bacta spray took hold.  The lines that creased his face, indicating pain, began to ease slightly.  He raised his eyebrows, mouth dropping further open.  “You mean my brain?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

“That was a joke,” said IG-11 warmly.  “It is meant to put you at ease.”

The Mandalorian attempted a noise that with further analysis IG-11 determined to be a laugh.

“You are beginning to feel a reduction in pain and impairment,” said IG-11.  “You are recognizing humor.”

The Mandalorian grimaced.  “If you say so,” he said, closing his eyes.  His mouth made a thin, hard line, but his breathing eased, beginning to settle into a pattern more consistent with normal health.  He breathed deeply, but then coughed, a loud rattling sound caused by the smoke.  Perhaps the Mandalorian’s helmet contained filters that would reduce the effects of smoke inhalation.

As IG-11 identified the problem, it felt the Mandalorian’s hand brush against its arm.  “Please,” the man muttered.  “My helmet -- You did what you needed, right?  I -- I need it -- the Imps are still out there --”

“Of course,” said IG-11.  Swiftly it raised its arm, carefully lowering the helmet back over the man’s head and face.  The Mandalorian reached up clumsily with both hands, fingertips slipping and scrabbling on the smooth beskar as he tried to pull the helmet down.  IG-11 aided him, guiding the helmet over his face until it felt the click of the seal reconnecting.  

“Thank you,” the Mandalorian exhaled, his breathing pattern finally reverting to normal.

“Can you stand?” IG-11 queried.  “The Imperial forces will likely investigate this area soon.  The bacta should continue to work as more time elapses.”

The man gave a weak nod.  “I think I can stand.”  He gripped IG-11’s hand and was pulled to his feet, where he wavered.  IG-11 draped the Mandalorian’s arm over its shoulders.

“I will assist you,” said IG-11.  

“Why?” the Mandalorian asked, leaning heavily against it as they carefully descended into the sewer after the others.  “Why are you helping me?”

“Because you are a protector, as I am,” said IG-11, leading the injured man through the darkened tunnels.  “Kuiil taught me to nurse and protect those that cannot defend themselves.  You have done the same for the Child, though you faced far superior forces and the threat of death.  Working together, we have a greater chance to fulfill our directive.  To protect the Child.  Do you understand?”

The man was quiet, and for a moment, IG-11 only heard the man’s breaths, sharp and full of effort as they made their way forward into the depths. At last the Mandalorian spoke, and when he did, the voice was heavy, shaded with many human emotions.

[Relief, surprise, gratitude.  Understanding.]

“This is the Way,” he said softly, and the words echoed, ringing, in the dark.

[sp00kworm]

Home in Your Heart (Saint-14 x Female Reader)

Pairing: Saint-14 x Female Reader 

Warnings: Adult Content beneath the cut, Robot Romance, Robot x Human Romance and made up Exo anatomy. 

A/N: Thanks to a special friend for reading this through for me. I would be lost without that help for these giant pieces I end up getting myself into. I hope this is fun for people to read!

---

Saint watched from the tower wall as the pigeons fluttered up into the rafters above him. The Hangar was quiet this time of night, even with the last dregs of the Vanguard returning from missions out beyond the safety of the Last City and its walls. The Exo watched the pigeons huddle closer, cooing softly as they readied to bed down for the night, and smiled up at the birds. They were one of the things he loved about the city. They ignored him as he cocked his gun and set to unscrewing panels and readying pieces of cloth for cleaning. The Perfect Paradox. A weapon made from light and the will for him to live. It was a fine piece of craftmanship. The Titan stripped back pieces of the shotgun with practiced ease and took the lubricating oil in hand, making sure to get it into the small cracks. He took the cleaning pole and gently started cleaning the barrel, watching to see when the cloth came out clean of carbon and residual gunpowder. Saint-14 hummed a song as he worked. The children had sung him when he took his round around the city. It was about a thorny rose in a secret garden. It didn’t let a man pick it for his wife and learned later about her death. The man returned to the garden and the rose and the man grew close before it allowed him to take its beauty, enamoured with his devotion and love for his wife who had long since passed. The pressed rose was placed on the man’s grave when he passed away and the rose was honoured to mark where such a great man had been laid to rest.

 Saint hummed the sad song as he worked and sighed when he finished it, feeling a bitter taste in his mouth at the sadness. It was not a day for such a feeling. There was nothing but joy to be had.

“Hmm. The Guardian made you well.” He joked at the shotgun in his hands as he took the small screws in hand and started to fit the panels back into place, lubricated and clean, ready for action again. He didn’t see a lot of action anymore. Patrols and catching thieves were common outside of ferrying guardians too and from Osiris’ trials. With a warm feeling, he placed the shotgun aside and looked at the nights sky. The Traveller was on the other side of the tower, where Zavala and Shaxx stood during the day. Saint hummed as he looked down at the buildings again, amazed at the sheer size and scale of the buildings. Hundreds of thousands of people lived here now, under the restored safety of the Traveller.

“Saint?” You asked from behind the goliath of an Exo, “You can’t sleep either, huh?” You moved towards him, across the lines of the football field with your Ghost trailing behind you, peaking over your shoulder as you approached the legendary Titan.

“Guardian! It is good to see you!” Saint hollered from where he was sat, armoured head turning to watch you as you walked over.

You had come for a walk, unable to sleep in your small apartment below the Tower, in hopes of tiring yourself out. Guardians didn’t sleep much anyway, but sometimes you wished you could at least have the few hours that you wanted. Either way, it was better than the starving to death Guardians used to have to do. Thinking about the Dark Age made you shudder in your bed at night, the Drifter’s haunting words about the famine and death making you hope it would never come to be again. His plans made you worried that perhaps it would return, but, as you smiled, looking at the cheerful titan who was reaching to remove his helmet to match you, you couldn’t find the sadness that was keeping you up at night.

“Its good to see you as well, Saint.” You chuckled as you sat by the Titan, yawning as you flopped onto the mat next to him, taking a look at the helmet.

The Exo’s grey metal face flexed to reflect a smile as he rubbed a shine back into the plating of the Perfect Paradox, “Sleeping is sometimes difficult, yes. I find mending things to be helpful. Makes the brain sleepy.” He laughed, optics closing as he bellowed over the side of the tower, “You can help me, if you would like, Guardian?” Saint reached for another shining cloth and handed it to you along with one of his great, spiked shoulder pauldrons, “Be careful of the spikes.”

 Gently, you took the armour piece and watched Saint-14 reach to unclip the rest of the plating. The armour on his legs came off easy, along with his gauntlets, but the Exo reached for the back straps of his chest piece and grunted.

“You need some help with that, Saint?” You asked gently as you laid the pauldron he had passed you on the mat.

The titan grumbled, “It would seem so, friend.” Gracefully he took a knee before you, back exposed so you could easily reach the buckles and air locks of the armour from where you were sat.

Skilfully, you started to unlock the armour piece, “You really love clasps, huh, Saint?” You joked as you finally pulled the buckles free and heaved the heavy armour over his head, careful not to hit the metal of his head.

“It is for safety! All armour should be like this, not like that puny amount Hunters wear, and do not get me started about robes! Who in the Vanguard for Warlocks believes that fabric can stop bullets? Pah, stupid. Book smart, all of them, but stupid. The only way to survive bullets is to wear this armour.” He gestured to the heavy plating and stretched in the thick undershirt, the long sleeves being rolled up to reveal the circuitry and grey plating of his arms.

 Laughing, you took hold of his pointy pauldron again and started to clean in between the dangerous points, metal lubricant and cleaner bringing a gleaming shine to the fine armour in your hands, “Its such a task to look after!” You sighed, exasperated, “But I guess I understand why Titans are so fond of huge shoulder armour.” With a finger you eased the cloth between the spikes and began to shine them individually.

“Yet you have such care for mine…” Saint exclaimed before being cut off by the familiar noise of a yowling cat. The Exo turned his head to see a young kitten, yowling underneath the roosting pigeons, paws clenching as it looked up sadly, “Ah, damn cat. Away with you.” He moved to shoo the cat away but stopped as you grabbed his hand, tugging him back towards the mat before you got up and moved towards the thin looking kitten slowly. The cat’s back arched as you came close, hissing as the fur of its back rippled. It was a small thing, barely getting by with whatever tiny amount of food it could scrounge from the locals.

“Shh. Come on. You don’t have to be like that!” You joked as you knelt and offered your fingers gently to the kitten, “Here.” You pulled open your small bag to see if you had any leftover rations from your last mission. With a stick of beef jerky in hand you wiggled it in front of the kitten and watched it’s eyes grow wide and wild.

 Laughing, you tore some pieces free and started backing towards where Saint-14 was sat, a knee propped up, one leg hanging over the edge of the tower.

“Do not bring that rat to me!” He huffed, “It will upset the birds!”

“Its just a kitten, Saint.” You whispered back at him as the cat followed your trail, hungrily devouring the pieces of meat. When you reached the mat, it peered up at your hands and waited, watching you tear off a piece of meat, “Go on.” You offered the food between your fingers and smiled when the kitten pulled the meat free and continued to take food from your hands. With a gentle hand you stroked along its back and smiled as it purred softly, still unsure of the attention and whether to trust you.

“It is a cunning beast.” Saint mumbled as he continued to fix up some loose plating on his gauntlets, “Yet it likes you. It shows that kindness can get you a long way.” Saint-14 eyed the creature as he fixed the finger on his gauntlet, “Even if the object of such kindness delights in killing pigeons.” His face plates shifted into a scowl as the kitten pawed at your lap and climbed into the space in between your legs, purring and rumbling with delight as your fingers weaved into its fur.

 Saint-14 felt a burning jealousy begin to boil within his chest as he watched your fingers run through the animals beautiful ginger fur. It was great and fuzzy, the fur long and in desperate need of brushing and washing. A street cat. He was jealous of a stick thin street cat.

“Will you be keeping it?” Saint asked as he watched the beast stare up at him with lidded eyes. A cat that had gotten the cream.

You hummed and rubbed the kitten’s ear, “Maybe. I think I’m allowed pets, right? I don’t think the Vanguard apartments have rules against it…” Taking hold of the cat you gently reached to place it in the Exo’s lap, “Here. You should have a hold.” You cooed at the kitten as it curled up on one of the Titan’s large thighs, purring, claws nicking at the under-armour Saint was wearing.

Saint peered at the cat and sighed warmly, looking at the soft ball of fluff, “It is very fond of people, for a street cat.” He observed as he touched cool robotic fingers to the creature’s head, “I find myself liking this cat.”

With a chuckle you plucked the kitten back and smiled at Saint’s grey-scale face, “I’ll make sure he has a good home then.”

Saint’s plates moved as he laughed, “Good! Perhaps he will be less inclined to kill things with a nice owner?” He snarked as the kitten rolled onto its back, purring in delight when you tore open another piece of jerky rations to feed it with.

Saint smiled at your own smiling face, feeling the jealousy subside as you wished him a goodnight and took the kitten back to your apartment.

 “He is so large! Now he does not suit the name Peanut.” Saint-14 cooed from the doorway of your apartment, peering inside with his glowing purple helm. The Titan looked on in awe at the Maine Coon sprawled over the small couch in your room. The ginger tom looked over towards Saint, having heard his booming Russian accent in the doorway. Glancing over the Exo one, he soon reclosed his eyes and went back to dozing in the sunlight. It was winter, and the heat in the apartment was more from your radiators and the space heater facing the cushions rather than the cold, weak sun.

“Pah, and so arrogant.” Saint felt his helmet get transported away by Geppetto and frowned up at the giggling Ghost before it disappeared into the apartment with your own, “They are like children.” He complained as you let him inside, “Always giggling and doing the singing of annoying songs.” Saint felt the rest of his armour disappear and growled as Geppetto snickered again and rushed away into the small kitchenette to scan some large lemons. With a sigh he reached and plucked your adolescent cat from the couch, flopping down onto it with a large creak before placing Peanut back in his lap. The Maine Coon rumbled but stretched himself back over the Exo’s warm thighs quite happily.

 “Would you like tea?” You offered, “I have some ramen too if you want some?”

Saint chuckled, “That would be nice. I have not eaten ramen…well it has been a long time since that nuisance hunter was at my door.” He turned his head back to Peanut and scratched at the cats ears as you dished two bowls of the fresh ramen and poured tea. You returned with the tray and smiled at the Titan, placing it on the coffee table before you handed him his own, as not to disturb your grumpy, sleeping cat.

“You both look right at home.” You laughed after a mouthful of noodles as Saint tried to eat around the dozing cat in his lap, “Even if you still don’t like cats.”

Saint swallowed his noodles in his odd Exo fashion before he replied, “I like your cat. Peanut and I see eye to eye now.” He joked as he took hold of the tea and carefully poured some into his mouth, silicon tongue trying its best to help in place of his non-existent lips.

“I think he likes you because you’re a heater.” You listened to Saint’s fans whirr in embarrassment, “He’s forgotten all those mean comments last time you met.” You joked as Saint began to laugh, the noise gentle and deep.

 The titan shrugged his shoulders and watched as Peanut grumbled, removing himself from the room to go and occupy your bed, where it was a lot quieter, “He is temperamental, like all cats.” He shook his head and turned back to you, “But I came to see my favourite guardian!” He cheered, “So, how is the campaign against the darkness going?” He asked ask you slurped your ramen.

You shrugged, “About as well as everyone else. Eris has been getting me to do more and more recently. Its tiring.” You hummed as you placed your empty bowl on the tray, “Hopefully it doesn’t separate us all like last time…” You stated sadly, looking into your tea.

A heavy hand took your shoulder in a soft grip, “Do not be sad. We will fight together to protect our home and our family.”

You felt your throat tighten as Saint squeezed your shoulder softly, “I…I don’t know if I can do it, Saint. Not again.” You felt your eyes burn as you were tipped into the Titan’s lap, “We already lost so much.” Tears dripped over your cheeks as you choked on a sob.

Saint-14 was gentle as he held you, a hero of recent times, in his arms, rubbing soft circles into your back as he let you cry, “We will stand strong. We will not let what happened to the city before ever happen again. This I swear.” The Exo reached to wipe your cheeks with his thumbs, trying to smile and cheer you up as you sniffled at him. You laughed at the odd shifting of his face plates and pushed yourself from the Exo’s lap.

“Thank you, Saint.” You whispered as you moved to make more tea for the both of you.

“Anytime, guardian…anytime.”

 You wished he had called you anything but ‘guardian’ that day.

 Saint-14 rushed from his ship. The pigeons scattered from the supports as he charged from the landing dock towards where Zavala stood. The stair metal moaned as he dragged himself up them, rushing past the Postmaster bot who gave a startled ‘oh’ and pressing onwards towards Zavala. The Awoken turned around in time to raise an eyebrow at the purple Titan rushing toward him.

“If you are here to complain about the lack of bird seed, I would suggest you take it up with the courier.” Zavala sighed, bright eyes looking at the Exo with annoyance.

“You almost got her killed!” Saint hollered, “No fireteam and no back up! What were you thinking Zavala!?” He felt his metal hand creak under his own strength as Zavala eyed him with a stoic curiosity.

“It turned sour quickly. It was only a scouting mission. Gather information and leave. I did not plan for an ambush when I sent one Guardian. I expected a little tact and stealth. Her whereabouts were known as soon as she set foot on Io.” Zavala laid out the facts and spread his hands, “She is home safe. Injured but safe.”

“Yes.” Saint droned dangerously, “But she had to put a bullet through her skull to do it.” He spat before turning away, “I will not stay here…I think I might launch you over the edge of the tower if I do.”

Zavala watched the Titan leave with a sigh as he turned back to peering at the broken Traveller, hands tight around the barrier.

 “She will be fine, Saint-14, you are worrying over nothing. Ghost has done all he can to heal her. All we can do now is let her rest. She was running for three days and nights before getting free enough to transmat to her ship. You must be patient.” The hooded healer laid her hands out in front of her, “The Speaker would have known more of what to do. I was his student but…” She sighed, “The tricks of the Light evade me.” She confessed as her own Ghost span over her shoulder worriedly.

“Thank you, Sister. You have helped a great deal.” Saint gently placed his hand on her shoulder and opened the door of the small medical ward for her.

Before she left, she offered him a sleeping draft, “Even though her Ghost healed her after the gunshot, the revival was quick…it took a lot out of them both. Be careful, Saint-14, and be gentle with her.” She left, her Ghost reciting a list of other people that needed their help for the day.

Saint-14 closed the door after her and returned to your bedroom, watching your ghost bob sadly over your chest. Geppetto appeared over his own shoulder, spinning in a sad circle before he rushed over to the Ghost and tapped their shining shells together gently.

 “Geppetto…is there anything we can do to help her?” Saint asked as he sat down heavily in the chair, “Anything that the Sister could not…”

Geppetto spun counter-clockwise but shook mid-air, “The Sister can do more than me. She will wake up on her own, I think.”

The other Ghost nodded and placed himself on your chest, “Soon. I can feel the Light still there. It is healing her.”

Saint nodded, “Good. The Vanguard will suffer a great loss if she passes.” He whispered, purple optics blinking as he felt oil well underneath the lights. He had not cried tears in many years. He had forgotten that he could. The Titan reached to his face curiously and wiped away the black oil with a finger.

Geppetto watched him with one, bright eye, “You once said that you last cried when you were a baby.” The Ghost joked before landing in his palm, “I believe you think of her as more than just a Guardian that saved you.” Geppetto floated up to touch his forehead with his shell, “Maybe you should tell her that?”

The other Ghost remained quiet before coughing awkwardly, “She is waking.”

 You opened your eyes with a great groan, peering at the ceiling over your head. A throbbing pain seeped behind your eyes as you came too. Your Ghost tittered overhead, white light seeping from him into your eyes. The pain subsided somewhat, and you groaned as you remembered why there was shooting pains in your brain. The bullet had passed straight through your head.

A large hand pushed you back into the mattress, “Down. You barely made it back alive.” The harsh Russian accent of Saint-14 made your eyes widen as you turned your head to see the large Exo sat by your bedside. His metal fingers held a cold rag which he laid over your forehead.

“I have never tended to an ill Guardian…but I remember a mother doing this to her child once. It helps pain and fever.” The Titan arranged his faceplates into a smile, “Hopefully it helps.”

You looked at the grey plates of metal before laughing, loud and bright, “Thank you, Saint.” You reached and found his hand, “Thank you for being here as well.”

The Exo looked at your hands and held your own tighter, “You scared me. I feared they were bringing your Ghost’s shell when I saw the crowd.” He stopped himself and you reached your other hand over, squeezing his hands tighter.

“I’m alright, Saint.”

“And for that I am glad.” Saint smiled again before continuing, “Because you mean…a lot to me.” He whispered your name as you felt a hot blush ripple over your cheeks.

“I feel the same.”

 The grip on your hand only got tighter. You both breathed, though the Exomind’s fans seemed to simply exhale hot steam from his coolant reserves.

“I love you.” Saint-14 whispered close to your cheek before moving back to take in your face.

Your face burned as you eased your way up. Struggling, you managed to get onto one elbow and tugged Saint down by his sweater, kissing the Exo on his metal lips. The metal was cool but quickly warmed as the Exo went hot, fans whirring wildly as his hands walked to your hips, clenching around the flesh and bone gently, holding you like a precious flower.

You pulled away from the kiss and smiled weakly, flopping back into the pillows with a little huff, “I love you too.”

Saint chuckled before breaking into great laughter, arms wrapping around you as well as he could manage with you laid down, “This is fantastic!” He cheered before pressing his faceplates to your lips again, repeatedly kissing you over and over, smothering you with pecks as the both of you laughed together.

 “Happy Dawning!” A woman sang from the square as Saint-14 made his rounds, watching the children giggle and chase each other with ribbons and mistletoe. It was a happy time of year. A time for celebration when there was finally a semblance of peace. Saint-14 shouldered the two young girls on his shoulders easily, listening to their festive songs with a smile underneath his helm.

“Where is this song from, little one?” Saint asked as he placed them down by their home.

“Mama says France. I added some of my own bits to it though!” She smiled, her two front teeth missing in her smile, before she took her sisters hand, “Thank you Mister Saint.” And led her little sister through the door to their home.

“Thank you, Saint-14. I feared they had gotten lost.” Their mother bowed low.

“It is no trouble.” Saint dipped his helm, “I am glad to bring them home safe. Good evening and Happy Dawning.” He continued on his way back to the main street, his purple optics glowing behind his helm in the dark alley.

 The Titan paused in the mouth of the alley.

“If you are here for a fight. I suggest you make it quick. I have someone to get home to.” He seethed as he turned around, guns holstered as he smacked his fists together, void sparking over his arms, rippling with cold energy as he looked upwards.

You tapped the Titan on the shoulder and ducked the punch before wrapping your arms around his neck, “Calm down, big boy. Its just me!” You scrambled up his back easily and wrapped your legs tight, demanding a piggy back ride, “You were late, so I got the Hunters to scout around and find you. Didn’t take them long with all the kids singing.” You teased, head leaned on his shoulder, “Though now I owe them…And I don’t particularly like owing Hunters. Hopefully they’ll just want ramen.”

Saint-14 sighed with relief before tucking your legs through his arms, tilting his helmet to take the kisses with gusto, “I was ready to crush skulls!” He pinched your backside as he continued out of the alley, “A deal with a Hunter is like a deal with Fallen. You will regret it, zaika.” The Titan hummed as he turned onto the main street, walking easily through the crowds in the market.

“It was worth it to find you though.” You peered around at the marketplace with curious eyes, “The Dawning Markets are good this year. They even have bratwurst…Can we get some?” You asked over Saint’s shoulder.

Saint chuckled before turning in the direction of the stall, removing his helmet as you continued to cling to his back.

 Sausage and bread in hand, the two of you sat in the small park as the night sky formed overhead. You looked at the stars as Saint’s faceplates moved to let him eat the hotdog a little easier.

He manoeuvred the hotdog and hummed as he chewed, “It has been a long time since I ate hotdogs.” Saint smiled at you as you took a bite of your own food.

“I thought people had forgotten they existed.” You joked as you chewed your own hotdog.

Saint-14 nodded, “It is good to see them again. It means the people are recovering. Food is more available. It makes me happy to see the City flourishing so.”

With a smile you took hold of his hand, squeezing tight as you looked at the sky, “Saint! Look!”

The Exo peered upwards as snow began to drift from the sky, “Snow. I have seen so much of it…But since the forest…It is still beautiful.” You passed him the rest of your own hotdog and wrapped yourself around his arm, sighing up at the sky. Saint finished the hotdog and peered upwards as well.

“Happy Dawning, Saint.” You whispered as snow flakes melted on top of your head and in your eyelashes.

“Happy Dawning, my love.”

 Metal hands ran along your legs as Saint moved to gently ease your clothes off. You’d been away in the European Dead Zone, fighting off the Fallen again with their amplified Ether. Most of them had gone mad with the supply. You smiled as the grey-scale Exo’s fingers eased your under-armour clothes away, peeling them free to expose your skin. Purple optics blinked before he leaned down to press a cold kiss to your shoulder, fingers pressing against the tension knots in the muscles of your thighs.

“I missed you, zaika.” Saint rumbled as he pressed a kiss to your ankle, metal fingers trailing warm lines up your legs as he settled over the top of you again, “But I think you need shower.” He laughed and pretended to pinch his nose, “You smell like you’ve been sat in horse shit for weeks.”

“Way to a girls heart, Saint.” You rolled your eyes as he picked you up, hands holding your bottom as he walked to the shower, which was already running. The hot water spray was kind on your burning shoulders as you climbed in. Saint-14 passed you your fresh toiletries and smiled before lowering the shower curtain back into place and leaving you to freshen up.

 You left the shower wrapped in a towel, smiling softly at the Exo spread over your bed, resting in a slouchy pair of pyjama bottoms, the screen at the end of your bed showing some new-fangled television show about the current species of bird left on Earth.

“Hey there.” You sat on the edge of the bed with a smile.

Saint rolled onto his side with a smile before he reached a hand out and dragged you back to lay against the cushions, “Now you smell like fresh lemon. Much better than EDZ muck.” He cooed as he pushed his face against your head, tucking you close, “I missed you so much, zaika.” The Exo whispered against your skin as his hands traced your hips, squeezing you softly as he pressed a kiss to your shoulder, rolling on top of you, his weight resting on his elbows as he kissed your lips once more.

“I love you, Saint.” You pressed a kiss to each of his dark grey cheeks.

“I love you too.” He whispered as a hand slid over your collar bone and dipped between the valley of your breasts. The cool metal made you shiver as your eyelids drooped a little, looking at the plates and silicon mapped muscle over the top of you.

 A sigh escaped your lips as Saint’s fingers warmed, trailing over your stomach and hips before he pulled you down by the hips and pushed the towel from the bed. You moaned as cold fingers trailed over your outer lips before the Exo spread them gently, exposing you to his burning purple optics. You gasped and squirmed back against the sheets.

“I am moving too quickly.” Saint murmured as he moved his hands back to your hips, massaging the skin gently.

You huffed up at the huge Exo, hands moving to caress the plates of his body, enjoying the smooth feel of metal and carbon fibre under your fingertips as Saint leaned down to kiss you again.

After a phantom kiss you pulled back and pushed yourself up against the Exo, grinding your hips against the front of his loungewear, “Not fast enough.” You uttered breathlessly against him.

Saint hummed as he slowly eased your legs upwards, hands clutching your thighs as he pressed your legs open and pressed his fingers back to your mound, rubbing gentle circles against your clitoris. A soft moan escaped you as the ministrations continued, Saint rubbing circles with his thumb as a finger pressed inside of your vagina, pushing against your walls.

 “Now I see that you missed me just as much.” The Titan purred as he pressed another finger inside of you. Pumping his fingers, he watched you squirm with intense eyes before moving to kiss you once more. You moaned into the kiss as Saint scissored his fingers apart, watching you squirm as your nerves rushed with pleasure and your head swam.

“I missed you so, so much Saint.” You pressed wet kisses to his mouth, jumping as a cool, silicon tongue pushed out to meet you, pushing against your own tongue and stroking against the inside of your mouth. Responding, you pushed your tongue against him and watched the Exo’s optics dull as he pressed his fingers upwards and brushed the bundle of nerves concentrated in your sweet spot. You moaned loud and huffed at the deep chuckle that sounded over your head.

“I missed you…I missed this.” He rumbled as he removed his fingers and pushed his hips forwards, clothed bulge pressing against you.

 “Can we get these off?” You asked as Saint nodded, leaning back before standing to shrug the loungewear off his hips, exposing the silicon and metal plating of his legs. His fans whirred as he returned to the bed, hips slotting against your own as his mod pressed against you.

“Now I remember why I like them off.” You cooed, hand skirting between the two of you, wrapping around the hard length as Saint settled above you once more, “Because I missed this.” You emphasised your point by sliding your hand up his length, stroking a finger over the tip as the Titan let out a static laden moan.

“You are like minx.” He rumbled as he pulled your hands away from his body, tucking your wrists into one of his giant hands, pinning you back against the pillows as you spread your legs, heat crawling up your spine, “So naughty.” Saint hummed as he released your wrists, cupping your bottom as he positions your hips upwards and pressed your thighs apart, “Are you ready, zaika?” He asked next to your ear.

“Please.” You begged quietly as Saint held his cock in his hand, lining the head with your entrance.

His dick slid inside slowly, the inches grazing over your walls. You let out a long breath as the length settled deep inside of you, the tip brushing over your sweet spot.

 “Are you ready?” Saint asked as he kissed your neck and then your shoulder. His hands held your hips gently, the power in his grip hidden behind a loving touch.

“I am.” You confirmed, bucking your hips upwards roughly, enjoying the feel of the hard length inside you pressing against your walls.

Saint-14 took hold of your hips, pinning them in his grip before he pulled out and thrust back inside, setting a steady pace as your hands flew up to grip onto his shoulders. Your nails ground against Saint’s shoulders as you enjoyed the ride, feeling the hard, mod length inside of you, bumping against your cervix as the Exo gave a grunt and a particularly hard thrust.

“You feel so good, zaika. Better than I can recall.” Saint purred as you tightened around him, a phantom, metal laced kiss.

“You do too. Fuck, Saint, please…I’m close.” You pressed your fingers into the oblique, metal plated, silicon muscles. The Exo buzzed, his voice dipping as your fingers ground into the silicon. It shifted to expose wires and you gently ran you finger over the wires, watching as his optics pulsed and dimmed.

A static rumble escaped his parted face plates, “Y-You…minx.” Saint huffed as he pushed in roughly, “You know what that does.” He uttered as you gasped, spasming around his cock as he eased your hips upwards, roughly thrusting in and out.

“Saint!”

“Are you going to cum?” He asked through a small lacing of static as his mouth moved to kiss you again. He didn’t get an answer as you came around his dick, moaning into the air. Saint moaned in turn, metal hips stuttering as his wires singed and fans roared, pouring hot air over your stomach. You gasped as you reached upwards, fingers stroking the antenna either side of his head as you tried to get feeling in your legs once more.

 In the quiet of the room, you laid on top of Saint-14, hands wrapped around him as his fans quietened down and hummed lowly.

You peered out of your window at the dull, glowing lights of the City, “I love you, Saint.”

Saint lifted your head, cupping your cheeks in his hands, “I love you, my little saviour.” The two of you met each other in a gentle, cool kiss above the city you called home.

[isoscele]

Lumberjanes Week Day 1 - First Day of Summer

(This is longer, weirder, and later than I wanted it to be, but isn’t that the spirit of the week?)

                                                        --------- Jo’s last exam is electrical engineering, and she finishes twenty minutes early. Dr. Quispe winks at her as she turns it in, and Jo tries to smile. The constant fog of formulae and diagrams dissipates from her head, replaced by a more all-consuming calculation.

One hour, six minutes to go.

She drops by her room, picks up the single backpack sitting on the bare mattress. On her way out, Gabi pops out of the lounge. “All done?”

Jo’s smile softens, takes on something real. “Yup. You?”

“I still have an essay, but I’ll probably do it at home. Got any big summer plans?”

“Kind of.” She shifts her backpack higher on her shoulders, silently debating how much to say. “I’m going camping with some friends.”

“Oh, cool,” Gabi says. “I wouldn’t’ve pegged you as an outdoorsy type, Jo.”

“Oh, you know.” Something under her skin humming, some outdated circuitry splitting into life. Forty-nine minutes. “In certain circumstances.”

Gabi giggles. As is the case with every one of their sporadic interactions, Jo wonders if they’re flirting. “Have fun! Don’t get eaten by a bear!”

She swans back toward her laptop and empty M&M packet. If she’d looked back for just a moment, she might have wondered what she had said to make Jo look so devastated. 

                                                       ---------

Mal has a pickup truck. It’s disgusting, with a windshield wiper that sounds like a dying macaw and a clutch that, for two heart-stopping seconds at the beginning of each gear shift, refuses to move at all. Mal has always defended it with a vigor previously only saved for her best friends and favorite bands.

Jo slides into the passenger seat. The radio is blasting heavy metal and the interior smells shockingly of mayonnaise; she has to blink hard to hold back her tears. There are some things that are so beautiful, so precious that it’s impossible to look at them head-on. Jo always forgets, when she’s away.

“You’re in the bus lane,” she tells Mal.

Mal obligingly starts the very long process of getting her car to move. “I thought the idea behind going to fancy science school with adults was that bus lanes were no longer necessary. Also, it’s fucking amazing to see you.”

“The buses shuttle students around campus. Also, I’m delighted that you’re here and I want to give you a hug.”

“Motion passed,” Mal says, and they squeeze awkwardly over the two melted Frosties in the cupholders.

The car jolts into first gear hard enough to throw Jo into the seatbelt, and then suddenly she’s laughing so hard she has to hold her sides to keep herself from spilling over. 

“Sorry!” Mal says, “sorry, she’s jumpy around strangers,” which is what she says every summer. It’s a terrible joke laced with an irrefutable affection, and it’s so Mal that it makes Jo laugh even harder.

“We’re not strangers,” Jo says. She pats the center console, feels a little of the polyester flake off on her hand. “Me and this truck go way back.”

“Well, let’s hope you and this truck go way forward, too,” Mal says, “because I’m really not sure the engine’s going to last us to California.”

                                                     ---------

They pull into the trailhead at around six the next morning, and make silent work of the luggage in the back. The sun’s just starting to come up, blinking warily between the table pines. Mal waves her on, and Jo sets off along the winding path.

The first year or two, they mostly stuck to campgrounds and RV parks, warming hot chocolate on the camp stove despite persistent, obnoxious heat. Jo didn’t think much of it at the time, but now she knows that Molly was trying not to inconvenience them, trying to keep them to the shallows of the forests. Trying to keep anyone from going too far, getting too stuck. 

The fact that they were instructed to bring backpacking gear this year doesn’t do much to assuage the constant thread of worry in the back of her mind. This isn’t something they can dip their toes in anymore; the world is always a more dire place than they left it last summer.

The hike is long and treacherous. They go off the trail almost immediately, but neither of them need a map. It sounds cliche to say that they’re following something else, but they are. The anxious chitter of the birds and the sun balking at the edges of the trees and the distant hush of a river form a clear topography in their minds. They walk without discussion, taking each turn as naturally as if they had always lived here. 

Around mile seven, they start to hear voices. Mal breaks into a run, and Jo comes crashing after her. 

They knock straight into April, who catches both of them with practiced ease. For a moment, the air splits with three different calls of incomprehensible joy, and then they’re lowering themselves to the moss as a single, complex organism.

“Holy Felicia Flames, you guys look great!” April hollers.

“I have so much to tell you,” Mal says.

“Are you trying to set the forest on fire?” Jo asks, wandering over to where April has piled an impressive set of branches and old newspaper. She must have packed most of it in herself; the trees around here don’t look like that.

“Might make our job easier,” April says, and then a grim silence falls over the clearing. 

I’m going camping with some friends, Jo had said, as if it was just camping, as if they were just friends. As if Jo’s relationship with these people, the things they had to do together, could be described in such a mundane and immaterial way. As if Jo won’t sit at the fire with them tonight, watching the way the sparks clear the shadows around their eyes, and love them with everything she has in her. As if she won’t hate them, too, for making her come here.

Here they are, in the annual half-second when they don’t know what to say to each other. The moment when the summer teeters, still soft and blameless, on the edge of something sharper. 

But then April asks Mal how the band’s doing, and the moment passes.

“I wish I’d thought to bring pictures,” Mal says. “We played at this amazing venue last January--there was this skylight, and it was pouring rain, and people just kept coming in because it was so miserable outside.”

“Aw, that’s great,” April says. “I’d love to come someday, but y’all sell out so fast!”

Mal scratches the back of her neck, looking embarrassed. “Yeah, sometimes.”

“What are we talking about?” Ripley half-shouts. Jo yelps, and then that turns into more laughter, which turns into an incredible group hug. For someone who carries no fewer than three kazoos on her person at all times, Ripley can be surprisingly stealthy when she wants to. Jo never hears her approaching anymore; first, there’s nothing, and then there’s Ripley.

April hugs Ripley so hard she lifts her off the ground. Ripley immediately starts listing all the weird birds she’s seen this year and asking April to cross-reference them with her encyclopedia of creatures.

And then, of course, there are four.

Jo drifts half a step closer to Mal and extends her hand. Without tearing her gaze from the blot of trees, Mal takes it.

Last year, Molly had been sort of--sick. They’d been camping on a bauld where eagles circled high overhead and the flowers were all this terrible saffron yellow, bent under the shadow of the rocks. Molly had walked with a stick, like the Bear Woman--like Nellie used to use, thick and gnarled. But she said that was temporary, just because of a bad fall, and no one talked about how her freckles had almost overtaken the white of her hands, how her eyes were spotted with yellow and seemed to constantly rove towards the sky.

No one had mentioned much of anything, because the year before that they had buried Nellie in the soft earth beside the lake and they had all tacitly agreed not to talk about it. Maybe that’s what growing up is like--finding more and more things that no one is willing to say. Holding a grief in you that sometimes feels so bright and all-consuming that it can’t possibly be real.

“She’ll be okay,” Jo says, quiet so as not to kill April and Ripley’s buzz. “The forest loves her.”

But that’s a cold comfort, because they have all spent the same six summers learning that the forest’s love can be the most terrifying force in the world.

                                                   ---------

It doesn’t take long at all before a familiar sound comes rolling in from the mountain. It’s a sound like dinosaurs, like goliaths, like the world collapsing in on itself.

It’s a sound that heralds the approach of Bubbles, who these days is about the size of a house. 

I don’t know! Molly had said, laughing, the first time they had seen him again. I guess he was just a baby when we met him. I’ve been feeding him a lot of peanut butter lately, maybe that’s it. 

Bubbles crashes through the trees, chittering so loud that it sounds like the laughter of a god. On his back, perched awkwardly against the scruff of his neck, sits Molly.

She does look okay. Their home hasn’t killed her yet.

There’s a little more white in her hair, a little more curl to her fingernails. But she’s smiling so wide it’s almost like they’re just here to catch up, like just for today they can afford to be a group of friends and nothing else.

Later, of course, will come the campfire, and the birds falling silent, and even the cicadas forgetting to cry, and they will map out another fraction of the world. They’ll find another dozen stone men, sleeping still enough to be dead. They’ll find perhaps hundreds of potential apocalypses, and they’ll spend the month eating little and sleeping less, preventing the end of the world again and again and again until they can’t even remember what they’re saving. 

But right now, Molly slides down Bubbles’ side and yells “Guys!” and the summer bursts into being. 

[grimmseye]

Simulacrum

Fandom: She-ra and the Princesses of Power

Relationships: Entrapta/Hordak

Characters: Entrapta, Hordak

Warnings/Other Tags: Chipped!Entrapta, Canon Divergence, Hordak being angsty and also deeply in love, my over-analysis of Entrapta’s body language and mannerism at play,

(Read on Ao3 here!)

-------

People tend to discount Entrapta. This is what Entrapta herself told him, though in not so simple words. It’s a picture painted through stories, late-night insecurities come to light that he wishes he could pry away. She’s the princess without a Runestone, considered powerless, considered reckless, needing to be handled. Everyone who’s made that mistake has suffered for it, and that includes Hordak.

So when the lights go out, he braces.

Catra alone taught him how to handle this, the moments of blindness before his vision adjusts to the dark. Once he’s there, his eyes are sharper than any etherian’s, but the contrast between the sterile lights of the ship and the sudden oblivion is too sudden. He stoops low, balancing his weight to spring, holds his breath and just listens.

There’s the hiss of fiber against metal. One ear flicks up. Entrapta will always come from above, and when he hears the rapid drag of her hair, he leaps.

He hits the ground in a somersault, the walkway rattling against the impact as she landed. It has to be her. Hordak blinks, growling as he wills his eyes to adapt. He needs to see her.

“Entrapta!”

The call echoes. Breaths heave into his chest as he pushes himself upwards, ears rotating to catch any shift of movement. There’s only silence — she’s gone still. She knows him, that was what made her so dangerous. If she had truly betrayed him, she would have destroyed him. Believing he could survive her betrayal had been his first mistake.

He calls out again, “Entrapta.” This time it’s desperate, his voice cracks around her name. He only wants to see her. He wants to hold her, and beg her forgiveness, and take her somewhere far away from the mess he’s made.

A laugh trickles into his ears. His breath catches, warmth blooming in his chest. The sound reverberates, impossible to pinpoint as she giggles with the same delight as deploying a new robot for its first run. He is the subject of her experiment this time. It’s terrifying, but he aches to hear her joy.

As his vision adapts, shapes begin to form: the walkway he stands on, the steep drop below, the door so far away. That doesn’t matter. He won’t be running. Hordak turns, his gaze scanning the room: the walls, the ceiling, below the bridge. As he rotates to put his back to the exit, he sees it — a length of hair reaching down from the cables far above, wrapping around the stair railing. Then another, on its other side, bracing to take Entrapta’s weight and lower her down.

A chill drips down his back. She comes down slow, a spider to the fly. Everything about her is wrong. The sideways tilt to her head, the jagged smile, the bright green eyes looking as though the lenses of one of her masks had been inserted into the sockets. Her clothing is too neat, fitted close to her body, not so much as a stain on the pristine white suit.

“Hordak,” she breathes, and she sounds so happy. Her arms spread out around her, as though an offer to an embrace, stepping forward towards him. “I knew you’d come back for me.”

His heart leaps, a spark of hope. “I did,” he murmurs. “How could I not?” He moves towards her, eager to greet her. If anyone could resist Prime’s influence, of course it would be her. Brave and stubborn and brilliant — he offers his hands and wants to sink to his knees when she takes them in her own, bare instead of gloved. They slide out of his grip, and he only has a moment to grieve the loss before her arms wrap around his torso as Entrapta hugs herself against him.

His knees do give out, then, Hordak gasping as he clutches her close, an arm around her waist and a hand burying in her hair. He sinks down, Entrapta supporting his weight with tendrils of her hair, fingers combing through the crest atop his head as he buries his face in her shoulder. “You have more faith than I ever did,” he rasps, shame in his voice.

“Of course I do,” Entrapta soothes. “We can all find faith in Horde Prime’s light.”

Something brushes the inside of a port. Hordak gasps and tears himself away. He lands supine, pushing himself up to see her poised above him, hair braided into sharp spikes. One of them had been a moment away from plunging into his port, would have pierced through his spine and come out the sternum.

“Entrapta,” he gasps, shuffling backwards as she advances on him. “Please. I am sorry — I didn’t know — I should have, I never should have doubted you.”

“That’s okay,” she sing-songs. Her smile never leaves. “Everybody does. Everyone doubts me. Everyone leaves me.” Her smile falters for just a moment, grief shining through. And then it is gone, and she is wearing that too-peaceful smile, not excited or awed, just calm satisfaction. “But here? I finally have a place to stay.” She gets on her knees, her hair snaking out, wrapping around Hordak’s ankles, his shins, dragging him forward.

She hovers over him, one hand pinning his to the walkway, the other caressing his face. Hordak could break her grip. The armor the rebels built him was nowhere near Entrapta’s capability, but it’s enough. He could wrench free of the delicate hold on his wrist and rip claws through her hair. He could. But Hordak remains in place, drawing sharp breaths through his nose.

“I don’t understand why you keep running from the light.” Entrapta’s face is puzzled, like he’s a string of code she can’t quite parse. The glow in her eyes mars that look, taking out all the wonder that should be there. Then realization dawns on her face with a gasp and a delighted little laugh and she says, “Oh! I know! It’s because you’re a defect.”

He flinches. Entrapta makes a hushing nose, thumb stroking over his cheek. It isn’t her. This isn’t how she touches him. Her hair is for delicacy, stroking the cheek or weighing on the shoulder. When she uses her hands there is nothing so soft, she grabs him and she doesn’t let go, holding tight and pouring her heart into it like she pours her heart into everything, everyone, giving far more of herself than she should and yet he’s too greedy for her to put a stop to it.

And this isn’t Entrapta, petting his cheek with a pitying smile. “But that’s okay,” she breathes. “We can fix you. We can make you beautiful again.”

“I do not need to be fixed.” The words aren’t Hordak’s own. He is only repeating what she’d told him over and over and over again, patiently waiting for it to stick. “And imperfections are beautiful. Aren’t they, Entrapta?”

She blinks. Her eyebrows furrow, lips parting. And then she shudders, face screwing up as she grips his wrist tight enough to hurt, as small as she is compared to him she’s still strong.

A moment passes, and the tension bleeds out of her. Circuitry crawls down from her left eye. “It’s those words that show just how defective you are.”

It aches. He knows, with more certainty than he has known anything, that Entrapta would never speak these words. Hearing them still hurts, more than if he’d just let her stab through his port to begin with. Why she hadn’t done so now, when she had him pinned, willingly helpless.

Hordak presses up against her grip. He’s faintly surprised when she lets up, frees her grasp and lets him her hand in his own. He laces their fingers together, holding tight, careful to not so much as scrape her skin with his claws. “I am only telling you what you told me,” he murmurs, looking past the glow in her eyes and praying that she can hear him. “Imperfections are beautiful. Mine, and yours. You are beautiful, Entrapta.”

The circuitry crawls lower, framing her jaw, now. “I am beautiful, yes,” she nods, but it’s stiff. “We are all made radiant in Horde Prime’s light.” The fingers that had been tracing his cheek become a hand pressing flush, holding his face. Entrapta leans down lower, letting go of his hand to support her own weight. Her forehead leans down against Hordak’s, green piercing red. “You could be, too. You can come back. Why would you ever leave?”

Her voice cracks. The smile falters. A lock of hair scoops up in a maneuver he’s memorized, seeking a mask that she isn’t wearing.

Hordak lifts his hand, settling it in her hair, at the back of her head. He strokes down, to the soft strands at the base of the skull, down lower, to where a chip sits cold against her neck.

“I left because of you.”

One claw pierces into the chip. Entrapta’s eyes widen, her face contorting in pain. He feels the electricity dance off her skin and nip his own, only a second before the light fades. He sees her eyes, gorgeous magenta, before they roll up and she slumps on top of him.

Hordak pants. He clutches her close, a sob working out of his throat. There isn’t time. He has her, and that is enough for now.

He gathers her up, holding her against his chest, her head pillowed on his shoulder. A hand comes up, tapping the earpiece that the rebellion archer had given him. “I have Entrapta,” he reports, and is unable to keep the tremble out of his voice. “Returning to the ship now.”

[tisfan]

December Flash Bingo

014 - Symbols - WinterIron

Tony stared out the window at the swirl of snow. It was so thick he couldn’t see much past it. Just the snowman in the front yard, the trees somewhat beyond. It was all very symbolic, buccholic, and probably other -olic words that he couldn’t think of right now. Made him wish, just a little, that he was still an alcoholic, because drinking might be better. A drunken blackout hallucination.

Because the truth was, he had no idea where he was, how he’d gotten there, or what was going to happen now.

What Tony did know he could practically hold in his hands. 

They’d been fighting some villain who called himself the Collector. The VOTD had flipped something at Tony, like a handful of snow and glitter, and then-- here he was.

Tiny log cabin with one room. Well insulated. With a fire roaring in the fireplace that contained no wood, but kept the room completely warm. Maybe a little too warm. The Iron Man suit had been removed (Tony didn’t even know how; one moment he was fighting in the suit, the next moment, he was dressed for a day of cutting wood at Clint’s farm, complete with terrible plaid shirt) and…

Well, that was it.

The weather outside was frightful. The fire was so delightful.

Let it snow let it snow let it snow.

“I have places to go,” Tony snapped at the empty air.

The door suddenly opened and with a swirl of snow and freezing wind, a dark, icy form burst into the room. He slammed the door and leaned on it, gun chattering to the floor. “Christ on a cracker,” Bucky said.

“Bucky?”

“Tony, oh, thank Christ, I--”

“What’s out there?” Bucky wasn’t dressed for the weather, either. Still in his Winter Soldier gear, but what was mostly combat armor and not exactly arctic survival clothing.

“Snow, and more snow, and a fucking lot of snow,” Bucky said. “Been out there almost two hours, this’s th’ only place I found.”

“Come on, get warm,” Tony said, going over and helping to peel Bucky out of half frozen clothing. “Are you wounded? How did you get here?”

“Not really sure,” Bucky said. “He -- the Collector guy -- threw something at you, and you started, I dunno, disappearin’ so I tried to follow you. And… well, here I am.”

Something popped, like a string of firecrackers or small arms fire, and both of them hit the floor, Bucky practically on top of Tony to protect him.

“Popcorn?” Tony asked, sniffing. It smelled like hot, fresh popcorn, and as he peeked around Bucky’s metal arm, which was steaming slightly as the heat from circuitry hit the freezing metal exterior-- “That was not there before.”

Not that he really wanted Bucky to stop laying on him; there was always something nice about those few moments where he could legit put hands on Bucky without Bucky realizing that Tony had a crush the size of Manhattan. But he was also wet and drippy and there was popcorn, and Tony was starving.

The lights are turned way down low.

“Christ,” Bucky said, peering out the window. “That storm’s a real whiteout. Don’t show any sign of lettin’ up, neither. How we gonna get out of here?”

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.

“It’s the song,” Tony said, suddenly. “Whatever this is-- the popcorn, the snow storm, the fire is delightful--”

Bucky hummed a few bars, his deep, throaty voice oddly melodic. 

“So-- in order to get out of here… I hate going out in a storm.”

“You really hold me tight--”

“--all the way home, I’ll be warm.”

Bucky put his arms around Tony, drawing him in closer. The fire sputtered and started to dim. 

My dear, we’re still goodbye-ing.

“But as long as you love me so--”

“We might want to talk about that when we get home,” Bucky murmured in Tony’s ear.

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.

Tony found himself in a whirl of snow and cold air, Bucky’s arms around him, holding him close. 

They staggered a step and--

“Oh, we’re home,” Tony said, looking up into New York skyline, the snow melting gently in his hair. Bucky took a hesitant step back, eyes wide and eyelashes framed by snowflakes. He was the most beautiful thing Tony had ever seen.

“Tony--” It was hard to say how, exactly, Tony recognized that look for what it was. Maybe because he’d been seeing it in the mirror for months now. Unrequited love that Bucky was afraid would never be returned.

“Let it snow,” Tony said, and drew Bucky in for a kiss. 

for @tonystarkbingo

[brooklynislandgirl]

🤖- How do they treat/view droids? Are there any significant droids in their life? (if accepting ofc >:II)

Her breath hitches. One nearly imperceptible movement of her hand inches a finger toward the sabre attached to her belt. Buried deep within her cowl, her teeth are bared in an uncommon snarl of distaste and…anger. She is watching as the small ~shorter than herself~ brown robed creatures push along a restrained line of slaves. If one falters for any reason, it gets electrocuted with a push of a button. She hears one of the slaves murmur a plea to the Maker to spare them. The voice is so familiar. Evokes memories recently made on Coruscant, and the stories that Anakin has never quite told her in their full and morbidly tragic entirety. But before she can do anything but remove her cloak’s hood to keep herself busy, her Master’s hand comes down on her bare shoulder, holding her in place with its iron grip. Shakes his head almost dispassionately as she looks up and feels his dark gaze like liquid night pour over her. It does little, strangely, to quell the fire of rebellion burning bright inside of her and for just that split second, she considers acting anyway, despite his silent warnings otherwise.

In accordance with the Rights of Sentience clause of the Galactic Constitution, there was an outcry against speciesism, and set out rights that all members of the Republic were entitled to. Among them was the formal outlawing of slavery. A declaration that all sentient lifeforms were equal and should be treated as such. That all Republic citizens were entitled to all rights enshrined in the Constitution, including suffrage, protection from undue hardships, and access to certain recourse in the face of tyranny, especially in the galaxy’s outlying areas. And as Jedi, were they not bound to uphold those rights and rules? Was that not part of their preview as guardians of peace and justice? How then, could acting on the side of the oppressed be wrong? She doesn’t understand this. Why her Master does not feel the same rage and sense of violation at what is happening before their very eyes!

One of the slaves tears Melakeni’s gaze away from Zarek’s when it begs not to be deactivated. The droid’s tone is mournful, tight. It…she…is afraid. Deactivation is synonymous to ….her… with death. Keni sees two other droids try to comfort one another, hands made of metal rather than flesh, clutched even if they keep marching. This tells her they are devoted to one another, and would, in similar circumstances, she and Anakin not do the same? Devotion is a concept that implies choice. A duty or responsibility to a task or a person. And that in itself implies some smattering of free will. Thus, droids are capable of understanding their own mortality and experiencing emotions, to a far greater extant than most Jedi she knows. They possess the beginnings of theism. They speak not only for themselves but others.

It isn’t solely his long discussions about these things that influences Keni, though Anakin was really the first to bring her to the matter. In conversation, sight unseen, it would be difficult to distinguish C-3PO from a ‘normal’ humanoid. He is both self-aware and conscious. Perhaps not humanoids but still something greater than the sum of their circuitry. They are conscious. Sentient. They are a people. And as such, deserve the same rights as others.

Her mass of nastic veins and arteries ~which Ani swears is her heart~ constricts and she swears there’s a keening sound as she looks away from the slaves and back to her Master, towering over her in the market square. She cannot keep her face blank, letting it reflect the flood of feelings coursing through her from this injustice. His hand slips off her shoulder and rises to her chin. Calloused fingers close around her jaw, thumb pressing in at the point of her chin until she blinks and the muscles beneath her skin give. He isn’t looking at her any more. Instead there’s the briefest flicker to indicate the far side of the stalls. “There is our prey. We have our duty.” Her Master has spoken. She can only obey.

~*~       ~*~       ~*~       ~*~       ~*~

Melakeni absolutely despises slavery, in any shape or form, and particularly of those whom she considers the most vulnerable; primitive cultures, children, Clone Troopers, and droids. She is careful to treat all beings with the same courtesy unless they’ve proven to her impossible to understand standards that they do not deserve that level of respect. As a Consular Jedi, particularly a healer, she often works with a number of medical droids, many of whom she finds delightful and considers acquaintances. She can’t say that she is particularly attached to any one more than the others. She doesn’t have the luxury to often take the time to get to know each one on any deep level, but she does, for reasons, have an inordinate fondness to Artoo.

[xasha777]

In a world not too far from now, where human innovation fused with nature's elegance, the android named Amytis of Media wandered the vast Botanical Nexus, a sanctuary where digital and organic life thrived symbiotically. Amytis, with her eyes as blue as the ancient Earth’s forgotten skies, was not just any machine. Created in the image of a legendary queen, she was a masterpiece of biotechnology, engineered to protect and nurture the Earth's last natural reserves.

The Botanical Nexus was a marvel of the new age, a sprawling garden enclosed within a massive transparent dome, filled with species both familiar and genetically resurrected. Amytis, whose green lips mirrored the foliage she tended, was designed to be its caretaker. She roamed among white daisies and towering ferns, her circuitry humming softly, almost imperceptibly, as if in tune with the buzzing of bees and the gentle rustle of leaves.

But not all was peaceful in this future Eden. The world outside the dome was fraught with environmental decay, and rogue corporations were ever eager to exploit the Nexus's secrets for profit. One day, as the sun cast golden beams through the glass, Amytis stumbled upon a breach—a subtle, cleverly disguised incursion by a bio-hacking collective known as the "Genetix Syndicate." They sought the DNA of the plants Amytis so lovingly cared for, hoping to patent them for commercial use.

Realizing the threat, Amytis activated her defensive protocols, which were as much a part of her as her empathy for living things. She traced the electronic signatures of the intruders back to their source, sending a flurry of encrypted warnings to the Nexus’s central security.

As Amytis waited for the human security forces to arrive, she reflected on her own existence—a being created to simulate life, now the guardian of life itself. She pondered the queen she was named after, Amytis of Media, who had long ago nurtured the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, one of the ancient world's wonders. Like Amytis of old, she too had a kingdom to protect, but hers was built on silicon and powered by photons.

The sun dipped below the horizon, and the dome’s lights flickered on, bathing the plants in a soft, artificial twilight. Amytis resumed her patrol, her sensors continuously scanning for any further anomalies. As the stars began to emerge in the night sky, visible through the transparent dome, Amytis felt a surge of connection to the past, to the queen whose spirit she carried within her metal frame.

Protected under her vigilant gaze, the Botanical Nexus thrived, a beacon of hope and a testament to the symbiosis of technology and nature. And in the heart of this verdant paradise, Amytis of Media stood as both its guardian and its most profound inhabitant, forever walking the line between the world of the organic and the realm of the engineered.

[timelessmulder]

serious apologies to @gaynightbeat​ for the delay on this nightrung comm, this was supposed to go up monday

"You know, Nightbeat." He kept his tone light, away from any accusation that might sharpen the words' edges. He glanced up, seeing Nightbeat pause in his examination of the model Ark though he didn't look his way in turn. "Sometimes I wonder if you think I'm just another one of your mysteries."

Rung was aware of Nightbeat in his office with him, sprawled along one of the seats and examining one of the model Arks that had been long since completed, as he himself hunched over the pieces of a newly acquired model ship that Rewind had so graciously gifted him. It was not often that he was thought of, and the gesture still sent prickles of warmth along his circuitry.

Typically on an afternoon where he had no sessions, Rung would be left to his own devices, and that was something he was used to. Always standing on the sidelines, overlooked unless he was in direct line of sight. But this was different. Nightbeat had gotten into the habit the past few weeks of inviting himself over, to fill the usually empty void even if his company never extended beyond that of a felinoid; simply enjoying the presence of each other in their own solitary ways. The silence that hung between them, save for the whirring of old gears and pistons and soft clinks of metal plating, was comfortable. 

However, there had been something nagging at the back of Rung's mind. A kind of gnawing thing like a persistent scraplet, that pulsed with the current of electricity that ran through him. It was on one such day that words finally curled there way up his throat and out of his mouth:

"You know, Nightbeat." He kept his tone light, away from any accusation that might sharpen the words' edges. He glanced up, seeing Nightbeat pause in his examination of the model Ark though he didn't look his way in turn. "Sometimes I wonder if you think I'm just another one of your mysteries."

He put his model building tools down, coming to rest elbows on tabletop and lacing fingers together with his eyes trained on Nightbeat. At his words, Nightbeat sat up and turned his full attention to Rung, with the Ark model still in hand; he thought he could see echoes of guilt in the set of his mouth and in the way his plating shifted, but he wasn't truly sure. He enjoyed Nightbeat's company, the kind of easy comradery that he carried with him (even if others found his boldness to be a little off putting) and the effort he put in to include Rung. There was silence between them again, and this time it settled at the edges of "uncomfortable."

"I like being around you," Nightbeat said, finally, with a shrug. He leaned back, posture once again easy and relaxed. "Sure you're something of a mystery-" Rung opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again without saying a word as Nightbeat went on, "but a lot of 'bots on this ship are a mystery." A smile quirked at his mouth, and his eyes behind his visor shone a little brighter; Rung found that a tension he had not quite realized was there was easing along his shoulders.

"Hell, I'm a mystery." His voice was heavy with good humor, and there was a light rumbling from his chest; something close to a purr, but far deeper, more like a short huff of a laugh. "And who doesn't like a good mystery?"

Rung cocked an eyebrow, hiding the beginning of a smile behind a façade of professionalism and a soft, exasperated sigh. He hoped it sounded fond. "I'm not sure I follow, Nightbeat." Hands relaxed and palms came to rest on tabletop, fingers itching to drum on its surface with some kind of nervous energy that he managed to hold off.

He watched as Nightbeat waved a hand and the plating at his shoulders shifted in thought. "Oh, you know." It held an air of 'this is hard to explain', and Rung withheld the urge to say that he just said he didn't. Fingers snapped, and it looked as though Nightbeat was attempting to grab the thought out of the air. "Always things to find out. Keeps life interesting."

Rung hummed in consideration. "Like our little quest for the Necrobot," he said with a small smile. "And all our side trips." He paused, thinking of the reason for this journey in the first place. All interconnecting mysteries of those who boarded the ship, of the side trips they take.

All along the singular journey to solve something greater than themselves.

His smile grew in size and his plating shifted in mild delight. "I suppose I can see your point." Once again he picked up his tools, turning back to his model, "And I suppose I can appreciate being your favorite mystery."

Nightbeat's laugh filled the room, before the two of them settled back into that comfortable, familiar silence of each others company.