#non sparking socket

[miss-tarja]

Iridiscent (Ch. 7)

Pirate! Miguel O'Hara x Mermaid! Reader

Previous Series Masterlist

WARNINGS: Mysticism included, mentions of religious practices such as Palo Mayombe and it's elements, mild gore, emotional distress, terrible sailing weather, mystic elements, hints of trauma, injuries, Historical innacurracy for the sake of the plot.

Summary: Freedom comes with a high price.

A/N: Missed our grumpy pirate? I did <3. The highlighted terms with bold have a brief description of meaning. Thanks for sticking with this story c:

Although the haunting presence of Constantino had long abandoned the ship, and the now free men got themselves to clean up the battle's aftermath as best as they could, there were still traces of him that refused to abandon El Aquelarre. They clutched his ship in desperate tugs of subtlety that made even the most skeptical of men to turn his eyes in discomfort at the sight.

The key Peter gave him opened nothing else but his personal headquarters. The foul smell of rotten herbs and other revolting odors, greeted those brave enough to peek inside El Brujo's memoirs and personal safe space.

An assorted variety of glass jars full of things Miguel couldn't name even if his life depended on it, nested snugly in a fine dark wooden shelf, the tags with their content long faded from the constant use. But their smell either burned his nostrils, or seduced him enough to tempt him to open the jars and their contents. However logic and his common sense, prevailed.

His brain told him to not delve into things he couldn't comprehend, despite the title of a non-believer. As contradictory as it was, he believed in mermaids, cause he had seen one, but his mind still refused to acknowledge magic in any sort of form. Miguel didn't believe in anything he couldn't see.

He didn't believe in invisible things that controlled his fate at whims. He believed in choices and their consequences. In facts, things he could count and feel, not legends that varied their version everytime someone spoke them out loud, to inflict fear in those hearts that still debated in whether to believe or not.

"Shit..." Peter murmured, nonplussed and severely uncomfortable upon the hideosity that stumbled before his nervous eyes. Miguel followed his line of sight and his stomach churned with such a heavy discomfort, that bile menaced to rise up in the back of his throat.

If the jars with the unknown and fetid smelling ingredients made him queasy, these ones in particular had him nauseous.

A couple of brown eyes floated within a jar, and by the looks of the tender and still colored tendons around them, Miguel took his best guess that they were a fresh addition to the madman's lurid collection. The tongue came next, it made him marvel and scrunch his nose in disgust upon realizing how long the organ actually was.

Other vital parts remained sealed in crystal clear jars. His red eyes menaced to pop out of their socket as he stepped back when a heart, a human heart, beat despite no source of life attached to it. As if someone had squeezed enough to give the last show of spark before the unsettled pirate.

"¿Qué mierda?..." The captain murmured, disturbed, with his fist clenching in a meek attempt of keeping his composure, as Peter pulled him away from that specific shelf, equally perturbed if not more. (What the fuck)

The rest of the men had been long gone as they couldn't stomach whatever horrors they had witnessed. Some ran away to alleviate the sudden and gnawing discomfort into the sea.

Hobie's morbid curiosity was sated and crushed as soon as he also saw the beating organ. For a minute he truly believed he had inhaled too much tar smoke to the point of it messing with his perception.

"What kind of bloody madman was that git?" The lanky and pierced man spoke as he searched through the least rotten herbs, hoping to find something that would calm the burn in his wounded arm. Carrillo had thrown him on the jagged and piping hot splinters, earning him a couple of mean scrapes and burns.

"Someone that truly believed he had powers but was merely a delusional murderer." Explained Miguel as he wiped his nose from the pungent fragrance of a sickly sweet-smelling stick.

"Woah, woah. Don't touch anything!" Peter warned but Hobie huffed, rummaging through the various baskets of greens and bones.

"Relax, mate. I'm looking fo' aloe, my arm burns like hell. These santeros and shite use them to cure wounds. So he must've a piece somewhere."

"Constantino isn't a santero. He's a palero!" One of the men grumbled darkly in a thick accent, pointing at the sigils scribbled and painted through the room's walls with caution. Patipembas* drawn in every surface El Brujo's managed to. The man grabbed Hobie's hand as soon as it hovered over a rusty bucket full of sticks and human bones."Don't touch that!" (*Sygils used in Palo)

Everyone stilled and their skin crawled as the man made a cross sign over himself and the rest. Hobie just quirked a brow, confused and frustrated. His respect for religion had gone south for good a long time ago.

"What? Just'a bunch of bones and-"

"Shh! Shh!" The man reprimanded him, "It's not that. It's an nganga.*"

There was a collective round of 'a what' from the men gathered, even Miguel who looked at the man with critical and confused eyes. Palero, Santero, brujo, all were the same deceivers for him. However, the pirate had to admit that the symbols and elements reminded him of the rites Adia sometimes participated in back in the hacienda, behind Guillermo's back. Even Fermin had his own customs before sailing.

"A Nganga. It's the central piece of the ritual. Without it, there is no rite." Explained the man as he pointed the grim object. "They're receptacles for the nkisi.* (*Spirits)

"Ya speak as if we're actually understanding, Oba." huffed Hobie, equally upset and spooked at the eerie aura the various wooden carved statues, heavy with a bunch of indented nails, oozed from the corners of the makeshift altar.

The man in question rolled his eyes. "I was a palero." Oba rolled up his sleeves and showed small scars in the shape of crosses in some parts of his arms, "Salazar wasn't. He didn't get scarred. I searched whatever left from his body."

"So all of this is for shit and giggles?" Miguel frowned

"No, no." Oba shook his head, he wouldn't be past his mid twenties, "All these things are part of rituals, captain. But bad things happen if you practice Palo without a Tata's* permission. It's not for everyone."

"Tata?" Peter repeated with a light giggle, the word too funny-sounding to ignore, yet his brain turned hazy with the confusing terms and information the more Oba talked.

"*A Palo priest. You think they let anyone in? No. If you aren't allowed in, is cause your spirit, fate, everything in you does not match the principles of Palo Mayombe. And what happened to Salazar is the proof! He used Palo for his own benefit without permission. You don't mess with the mpungu* and leave unscathed." (*Gods)

"A'ight. Got it, none touches this place." Hobie grabbed the so needed piece he was looking for and smiled, "Startin' now."

"I'd leave this place if I was you-"

Miguel however had stopped paying attention, too busy and enthralled at the sight before him that the rest turned a blur of muffled voices and shapes behind him. His eyes, remained a bit too long on a precious blue colored jar, within, the most enchanting, large, and iridiscent scales he had ever seen rested at the bottom along the same pearl that caused a fight back in the docks against Edward Low, surrounded by a thin layer of flesh, as if it was forcefully pried away. A couple of crimson droplets tainted them.

A surge of disbelief and rising anger ran through his being. Constantino had dared to pluck tiny parts of yourself as a wretched souvenir for his atrocious museum of horrors. These findings only cracked even further his skeptical walls, leaving room for doubt to seed in. What if Salazar had actually gained some sort of power to bind you? How did he find you? More importantly, how did he trapped you?

If anything, Miguel believed Olivares was insane to the point of feeding himself with lies and legends that supposedly granted him authority over the unseen and unknown, nurturing that delusion of being a messenger of the dark magic he devoted himself to.

Miguel had heard rumors about Salazar being a paranormal confidant and consultant to none other but royalty. It wouldn't surprise him if people recurred to these practices in exchange of something. A selfish wish in quid pro quo of something so sacred as a life.

Black candles that adorned the rest of the shelves were half consumed, some flickered faintly with the little breeze seeping in, dried herbs and dessicated little crawlers remained haphazardly through the altar, the small skulls that Miguel hoped they didn't come from where he imagined, laid either broken in pieces or whole through the table, marked with melted black candle wax and more sigils engraved onto them.

Oba kept explaining the Palo's functions to Peter, that somehow regretted in prying further on the gruesome details on how Olivares had tarnished the reputation and the usage of the religion to his wretched whims.

But in truth Miguel couldn't care less about it, his synapses were working the information in his brain, making sense of so many things he had seen back at the bilge. Like the missing scales in some parts of your fin, the scratches and holes in it, he didn't have to imagine who dragged you inside as his eyes wandered briefly over Carrillo's charred body.

Hopefully the shaman back at Isla del Sol, would help. He didn't know what would she do, but her intervention was a must, curiously, the shaman was the only one that somehow had gained her ounce of respect from the pirate, cryptic and annoying as she was.

Miguel had so many questions and so many unsolved reproach surrounding your mere existence. So many why's and little answers left him sighing and his shoulders tensing.

None of those answers would come if he didn't take you to the capable hands that undoubtedly would mock him for his initial skepticism. He held the key tighter on his hand, and threw it in his pocket. A sudden rush of panic coursed through him upon remembering something important.

Mierda

His hands palmed deeper into his pockets, alarmed as panic rose once more, but as quick at it came, it disappeared when his hands touched the fine chain of the locket, crunching softly under his caress. His lips exhaled, relieved and his eyes closed for a moment. He'd definitely need a better place to keep it before he mislay it for good. He couldn't afford to lose Gabriella again.

"You okay?" Peter mumbled, watching him through wary eyes. The initial discomfort had made everyone uneasy, but Miguel seemed particularly affected, some of his color had drained from his rich cinnamon flesh.

Miguel nodded, watching the milieu for a moment. His men worked, some pushed the bodies out the board, leaving a soon to be gone trail behind. Others, searched through the bodies and wiped the human gunk out the way. Many washed the blood, ashes and gunpowder soiling the dark planks of the deck.

Freedom wasn't exactly pretty, but as long as it remained in their side, the circumstances of it's origin mattered little. Some of his crew even wore merry smiles as they cleared up the deck in high spirits, chanting even despite the gore surrounding them. Celebrating a well deserved fresh start after years of imprisonment and whipping.

Nostalgia flooded his brain with memories of his old crew, but the bitter recollection of some of them holding a resentful glare as they marooned him, had marked his trust and shook the core of his morals. Guarding his trust from those new in his presence.

Miguel only hoped the sea would also be a steady ally as his knees quivered, the elegant wounds Olivares gave him, and the battle's weight on his shoulders, finally caught up with his stamina, depleting it completely. Sending him to stagger next to a now concernedmerchant.

"Hey!, Hey, pal. It's ok, I've got you." Peter muttered as he hooked one of Miguel's heavy arms over his sore shoulders, before he could collapse completely. Some splinters still remained into the captain's skin. "C'mon." Peter hauled him to lean over him, "Need a doctor over here!"

It was the last thing Miguel heard before letting darkness and the ache in his body to claim him.

Papa

Faint blurs of a smile smudged behind his eyes, glimpses of those gorgeous brown eyes he inherited her, stared back at him, with curiosity and a smile that disarmed him every time he came home after weeks in the sea. They blinked, expectant.

Papa, wake up!

The peppering smell of tar became a bit too much for his senses, overwhelming him as the smile disappeared, morphing into this gruesome row of bleeding, sharp teeth, devouring a familiar man. Elliot.

His heart leaped in his quivering ribcage while the half eaten man reached to him, begging with his semi devoured hand to stop the munches on the bleeding carcass his body was turning. But before what was left of his hand touched him, the yellowish row of human teeth sprawled before him in a cruel smile.

Shapes and blurred motions jumbled together in the shape of none other but Constantino, plunging with a forceful thrust his rapier deep in his chest as he cackled. Unleashing the revolting smells that mutinied in his overwhelmed senses.

Miguel's eyes blinked so hard and fast he saw lights dancing before him, his hand immediately clutched his chest. Heaving breathlessly.

"Cap's awake!" Shouted Oba, squeezing the excess of water from a rag.

Miguel on the other hand, rushed, although with uneven steps, towards a bucket. Emptying the unhealthy dose of discomfort the nightmare gave him. The smells, Contantino's cackle, and the rough careening from the ship didn't help his nausea.

His body glimmered with the thin layer of sweat from the quick fever that took over him. Leaving his brain a puddle, his mind in shards and his lungs demanding for air. Much for his dismay, the same oxygen he breathed and coursed through his body, was plagued with  the scent of some herbs he and his men found back at Olivares' altar.

Oba, the palero, or so Miguel recalled, brought him a goblet with water.

"You talk in your sleep." The young man pointed with a concerned stare as Miguel gulped down the contents. The coolness of the vital liquid quenched not only his thirst, but also the persistent and burning sensation travelling up and down his throat.

"Drink this." Oba offered a small shell full with a green-ish liquid, "It's not poison, that's fo' sure." He chuckled, and Miguel drank, only to spit the sip he had gotten with a soured face.

"What the fuck is this?" He grumbled, disgusted at the flavor, and Oba pursed his lips, supressing a laugh

"Burdock, oregano, cedron, and cinnamon. You got a fever, Cap. And turns out Olivares had a good bunch of medicine hidden under the altar." Oba offered the concoction again, and Miguel didn't have much choice but to drink it in a go. God or the universe forbid him to get sick. Not when he was so close in getting the answers he needed.

Another violent wave shook the room, and Oba held onto the bed frame. Peter, Hobie, and a small group of men entered, all keen eyes set on him, expectant of their new course.

The herbaceous smell remained on him, as little pecks of a green paste adorned the cuts El Brujo's had given him.

"You need to follow your own advice of keeping yourself alive, pal." Chuckled Peter as he offered a clean chemise to the pirate. "The men were scared you didn't make it."

Miguel huffed and wore the piece of clothing, covering the bandages and healing wounds from curious eyes. He stretched; some muscles popped back to their rightful place.

"Oba." Said man stared at him, "How much medicine do we have left?"

"Enough to get by until next docking, cap."

"Were the injured men treated?"

"Yes, sir."

Miguel nodded approvingly as he secured the belt around his hips; his new weapons, which had rested next to his bed, were now sheathed on each side of him.

"The sea is still angry, sir." One of the men mumbled, a bit fearful.

"Righteously so, we keep throwing Spaniard trash in it. How many men are there left in total?"

"Total twenty. In good condition fifteen."

"Five injured and fifteen good... Difficult but doable." Miguel mumbled as he weighed his options. "Just beg we survive the storms, and trouble doesn't find us." With a roll of his shoulders, he stepped out of the room ready to see the task ahead through.

He wouldn't leave the men's hope hanging, not when their help was vital in completing his own goal. Selfish, perhaps, but it was the only way available for him at the moment.

He truly couldn't care less what the men did once they docked, as there were always willing daredevils ready to risk their lives for a good feel of life, money, and adventure. He'd get more. Besides, he'd understand if most decided to never come back, as a peaceful life on land was too tempting to go back into a hellish existence aboard a stolen ship.

The salty air filled his lungs vigorously, sparking the all-too-familiar commanding voice he used. Captain O'Hara gathered the men and divided the tasks. Hobie was in charge of the canons and explosives along with another group. Oba indisputably got the title as the doctor. Others dispersed into smaller but still important tasks.

However, one of the challenges piled up in his list made itself present as a thunderous boom echoed through the quickly greying skies. He'd have to teach as much and fast as he could on how to manipulate the sails, ropes, and rigs to those remaining. A properly timed movement could mean the ship's and it's inhabitants salvation.

He sent the most skilled men in climbing to the masts and instructed them through teaching the most basic of functions. Miguel barked orders and instructions, despite the soft breeze hardening by each second.

The ship shook and groaned at the wave's restless pace.

"Batten down the hatches!" Miguel barked, and some just looked at him confused.

Dios mio...

"Fuck," he grumbled, shaking his head; it'd be a miracle if he actually made it alive. "Tie everything down! A fucking storm is coming!"

The men quickly scurried to secure everything in sight. Ropes flew here and there, and orders kept flowing, sometimes drowning under the rattling thunders.

Miguel moved through stations, making sure the knots on the ropes were tight; he'd have to keep simple terms for the men under his command, despite the experience in him fighting to escape his mouth.

A wave sent the galley tipping violently to the left. Some men fell, and others held tightly to the secured canons. But Miguel knew this was just the beginning. He had seen storms so violent it felt as if he wouldn't live to tell.

But this one in particular was dark, grim, and violent. Doubt beat for a second in his heart as his eyes didn't find a single trace of blue in the clouds, just endless grey and black, darkening by each passing second. A booming thunder cracked, illuminating the men briefly.

"Waves on sight, cap!" One of the men up in the mast yelled, and Miguel's Adam's apple bobbed.

Giant waves weren't his favorite; in fact, they frightened him, but there was no time for fearing as it was only one way of standing against them. Without wasting a second longer, he ran towards the steering wheel and turned El Aquelarre face to face with the upcoming wave.

"Are you mad?!" Hobie's unsettled voice rang behind him as he held onto whatever surface he could grab. "That wave is gonna kill us!"

"I'm saving us!" Grunted the pirate as the galley groaned and trembled under their feet. His hand clutched the steering wheel with all the strength he could muster. "Tell everyone to hold tight, and when the wave hit us, crouch!"

The thunder cracked and whipped the sky, letting a flashing spectacle of blinding lights to rule over for a second, enough time for some men to lose their grip in their anchors and fall down, rolling onto the moaning and quivering deck.

" No, no! Hold on tight!" Roared Miguel, Peter found his own secure heaven within the base of the main rigs, his hand stretched over some of the fallen men, aiding them to take a hold.

The angry winds blew, stretching the sails in their full might, pushing El Aquelarre faster and forward to it's newfound enemy. It was as if Aeolus purposely blew over, messing with Amphitrite's calm, awakening her once appeased wrath, reminding her of what Zeus' offsprings had done to one of her children, and the trembling ship was caught in the middle of a family feud.

"Take cover!" Yelled Miguel from the top of his lungs as the unforgiving rain began pouring. Whipping flesh and every surface it could reach with stinging and gelid splatters.

The men watched horrified as the ship's tip groaned as it rose against the tidal wave, slanting back, menacing to turn upside down. Yet Miguel stood his ground as best as he could, for a second the wave's height and gravity swooped him off his feet, only to force him down, again on the slippery surface, nearly tripping over his own feet.

The screams of a man falling down against the captain's quarters doors made him turn his eyes elsewhere before he caught the gruesome sight of a lose canon falling on top of him, crushing his body. One less men.

How many more would he lose to appease the sea? He didn't know and refused to believe such thing or act like Constantino. It was just weather, a terrible weather that was costing his men.

El Aquelarre shook and the captain's eyes widened on the loud crack echoing through the ship as soon as the fore and bowsprit touched the enraged sea once more. They had survived the first wave.

The sea conceded them a moment of peace, but in truth it was only preparing to charge once again.

"Tie that cannon down!" roared Miguel as he struggled to keep the course steady, but the wheel had stuck, making the ship to detour to the left. "Fuck!"

Peter didn't think twice and rushed, next to Miguel's side to try and unstuck the steer.

"It's fucking stuck!"

"No shit, Parker!" Grunted Miguel pulling back with all his might, "if we turn completely to the left, we'll die!"

"Then fucking pull back, pal! I don't want my wife to contact me from the living just to scold me for being an idiot!"

With a growl Miguel pulled as the ship leaned upwards once more, the rushing footsteps alerted him as Hobie joined the pulling party. Their combined efforts managed to release the wheel in a rough spin.

The captain managed to hold the steer and pivoted the ship straight before it turned completely to the left, and have the wave tumble the ship completely.

Part of the cold and unforgiving waters doused the deck, wiping some men from their spots and dragging them to the board, another fell down to the sea, leaving him with a crew of thirteen.

"Puta madre, ya cálmate!" (Chill the fuck down)

Squawked Miguel angrily to the sea, letting his frustration to run unfiltered, chastising like he would with his old lover whenever she got too whiny and childlike over the littlest of things, just for the sake of annoying him. And much to his relief, the sea listened, albeit reluctantly.

The waters slowly lost strength despite their irritation, whipping the rear of the ship in a final resentful protest, sending everyone to lurch forward. Miguel stumbled against the steer as Hobie and Peter crashed against the steering wheel's board.

It was a little price to pay for their peace. The foreign cheers and claps echoed though, celebrating another day of staying in this earth. They had survived.

For how long though?

Miguel sighed and passed a hand over his face. Although one problem had been scratched off the dangers list, so many more were to come. Other pirates, pivateers, English navy, more storms and waterspouts were next. All of them potential risks to take into consideration.

Hopefully Amphithrite's ire had sated with the offering of Constantino himself, or maybe it had caused the opposite effect and it unleashed the enormous waves towards them. The captain didn't know anymore. But Miguel was certain he needed to remain alive until Sunny Island came into view. And given the compass' direction,  half a day of voyage remained.

Contradictory as it was, he was glad his old crew marooned him nearby the Havana. Circumstances always seemed to favor him. The day had started and they already had survived two of the biggest waves he has seen in his life. Although his mind was too temped to ask himself what else could go wrong, he limited himself to be grateful enough to live for a couple of  hours more.

Never in his life he'd feel more relieved as soon as the only man with a little experience at sailing, screamed those words he longed to hear.

"Land A'hoy!"

He took the spyglass from Hobie's hands and took a peek, as if reassuring himself the man in the mast wasn't lying. His lips stretched in a relieved smile as soon as he saw the familiar multicolored flag with a black circle in it, waving proudly through the touting wind.

Finally his nerves would stop tensing and making a mess out of his thoughts at the near miss he had in the remaining voyage. If it hadn't been for Olivares' ship, with the Spaniard flag, they all would've ended up on a ship with a course to England, awaiting trial and hanging for piracy.

But fate had twisted ways, to make even his most despicable allies to aid him, one way or another.

"Tie the canons! Rise those sails, prepare for docking!" Barked the captain.

Some men couldn't help but give each other a heartfelt hug, others cried and cheered upon seeing the distant dock.

"Anwé!" Miguel called and said a young man peeked his head from the mast's post.

"Aye, sir?"

"Get me that flag down, boy."

Hobie smirked, barely containing his excitement as the ship soon approached to dock.

A wave of pride ran through Miguel's chest upon seeing the shock and disbelief in the other sailor's faces as the black ship, emerged from the sun's dying golden rays, like a black hole materializing before their very eyes.

Naturally the rest of the pirates readied their weapons as the ship docked. It wouldn't be much when Sheng Hyun, Toussaint and Xavier made their appearances, alarmed that a foe galley arrived. Salazar was a known privateer to anyone that ended up in Isla del Sol. And now, much to everyone's disbelief, Miguel rose the bloodied Spaniard flag high.

"Mon dieu" Mumbled Toussaint, widening his eyes at the realization. And if it wasn't enough proof, Miguel stepped out, wearing one of Contantino's rapiers on his hip, Hobbie wore Olivares' famous black feather hat.

"¿Q-Qué hiciste Miguel?" (W-What you've done?)

Asked Xavier, recognizing right away the hat. Miguel didn't know if it was concern or excitement in his purest of forms that the fellow Spaniard pirate experienced.

"Un enorme favor a todos. Where is Tlali?" (A hell of a favor to all of us.)

"She's on her hut. She's meditating, you know how she gets when she gets interrupted while doing so!" warned Edward.

"I need to see her-"

"Can you forget about her for a second? You fucking killed Olivares! O-li-va-res! You know what that means?!" Xavier shook Miguel by the shoulders as he took the infamous rapier in his hand, smirking with evident delight as he rose it in victory.

"Constantino Salazar de Olivares... is no more! ¡¡El Brujo está muerto!!" (El Brujo is dead)

The uproar was nearly defeaning, as all pirate gathered that listened, cheered and roared upon the news. Their hunter, their living nightmare in the shape of a devilish spaniard man devoted to spirits and gods, was gone.

Miguel took Edward and Toussaint to a more quiet place and spoke "My men helped. I just weakened him enough for my crew to deliver the final blow."

"Still, you do realize who you fought against, didn't you? Don't be modest, O'Hara. It's not suitable for a demon to be soft."

Miguel chuckled and shook his head. "Many won't even get on that ship again, and truly, I can't blame them after the hell we faced. Could you tend to them? Treat the ill and feed them all?"

"It shall be done." Nodded Edward, "Any man that brings us peace will drink and eat at our table."

"Before you give them women," he pointed at Toussaint with an accusatory finger, "The white man with a stupid-looking face and English uniform, is married and with a child. Don't bother him." Warned Miguel as he made his way towards the shaman's hut.

Toussaint lifted his hands in defense with a mischievous smile on his face as he saw Miguel leaving. "Understood, my friend. No women for the white boy."

Miguel's steps rushed, and soon he began jogging towards the hut; he saw the ever-familiar smoke spilling out the makeshift chimney of the shaman's home.

"Tlali!" He called, "Tlali!" Miguel barged in through the coral and bone curtain, only to find incense's smoke filling the space. "¿Dónde se ha metido?" (Where did she go?)

He searched in the two bedrooms but found nothing but freshly picked spines from a fish's leftovers.

Qué maña de desaparecer, Dios mio. (what a freaking habit for disappearing)

Miguel surrounded the hut to see if she was somewhere else, but to no avail. His steps guided him back to the dock, surely he will find her later, but hopefully alone.

The sun finally died behind the orange hues, torches were lit along the way, some stray dogs followed him, earning some quick pets from him, before returning to the ship. The men were gone, leaving a black yet elegant carcass behind.

He'd think about what to do with it later, and the little museum within. He was sure Tlali would do something useful out of it. Even the merchants. But right now his mind was focused in a single target, reaching to you.

He didn't know how you were, and hopefully that storm didn't shake your tank too much.

His steps turned left, right, left again, and twice to the right, specifically on that hidden passageway he found. The sea was so calm he could barely feel it moving. He stopped here and there to see if there were any lagging men that rather the comfort of the ship's barracks than the outside. But thankfully, they were all gone. Even Peter, Hobie, Oba and Anwé.

Miguel went through the passage, lighting up the faroles in the way, creating a dim atmosphere, as he made it to your room, but stopped in his tracks.

The iron and coppery smell was so pungent he took a step back; a sniff echoed behind the door. Usually the bilge water had other unpleasant smells, but not copper, much less iron. His heart's pace quickened as he rushed towards the door.

The heavy object behind the wooden door wasn't an obstacle for him to push with all his might, only to hear a deafening and skin-crawling breaking. Glass was breaking.

No...

He pushed enough to push himself in, and nothing but darkness and muffled silent cries received him. He quickly searched for where the blue resin stones were, nearly tripping at the musty ropes haphazardly placed around, but eventually he found it. The only thing standing after the storm.

Miguel took the resin stones and clashed them together, earning a flickering blue hue that barely reached beyond his feet. The resin stones were wet; hence, they didn't produce much flame. But the light was enough to point out something he had missed the first time he was in this place. A farole etched to the wall, Miguel took a nearby stick and tore part of his chemise to wrap it around the makeshift torch.

Then, lit it up with one of the hall's faroles and returned. As soon as he also lit up the lone lamp, a column of fire spread through the ceiling, following a straight pattern until it reached a round giant lamp that immediately blazed with fire, and for a minute, Miguel wished to be blind, to have a heart of stone, and to be immune to the sight before him.

Your tank was broken.

The floor, usually humid, was now wet with a sticky and fiery copper smell, and his eyes didn't take long in identifying the source of it. His legs quivered as his eye followed the crimson trail leading up towards a fin. Your fin. 

Maldito perro... (fucker)

His mind rumbled with the several insults it came up with when referring to Salazar. Miguel’s chest stirred with a grievous feeling he wished he could erase from within, because that’d mean feeling free of guilt. If he would’ve released you sooner, you wouldn’t be under the several pieces of glass splinters, wounding your body. You would be safe and sound, a bit beaten but still safe and in one piece. Not like this.

Shame no longer mattered in your features; it only left a place for a quietness so still and dead, Miguel could hear his own heart beating through his ribcage until a soft, painful moan crushed it.

Your head laid on top of the tank’s shard-less edges as the rest hunched and curled against it. A wooden beam had trapped your torso, unabling you to move. From what he could gather, he supposed the beam fell on top of you when the tank collapsed. The hook Carrillo pierced through had torn through the base and sliced it remorselessly in half.

The storm

He blinked, remembering that lurid crack that rumbled through the ship. It hadn’t been the ship’s carcass breaking as he initially thought, but your tank. The storm had been powerful enough to send the glass container tumbling over and crashing across the floor. 

Your clawed hand twitched, and Miguel approached warily; his hands trembled, but the need to remove that hefty-looking beam off you was a must. Even if you survived, he hoped you wouldn’t munch over him like you did with Elliot. 

Scared, and with anxious hands, he pushed the rotting beam off your body, earning a deep and loud wheeze from you that instantly turned into a deafening wail as soon as air filled in your lungs.

Miguel covered his ears from the acute ringing in his eardrums and began picking up other debris that had fallen over you, clearing as much as he could from the troubling sight. As soon as his hands grazed the scales in the midsection of your tail, his skin crawled upon hearing you, or rather your fear mixed with anger, loud and clear.

“Get your wretched hands off me!” 

He stopped, like time, like his breathing and every single thought running rampant in his brain. Was he dreaming? Was this a joke from the universe he had yet to understand? So far he was told that mermaids didn’t talk, that the sole purpose of their mouths was to lure men to their inevitable deaths with heaven-like chants. Not talking. 

Not giving him a simple yet meaningful order as you tried to crawl away from him with a primal fear oozing from whatever surface it could escape, like the blood within your veins. His mere presence caused such a terrible and obvious turmoil within you that he had to gulp down with difficulty the overgrown lump in his throat.

Realization finally fell in the pit of his stomach like a heavy brick, packed with a myriad of emotions he couldn’t properly sort. Not only were mermaids real, but they also cried, bled, and talked. 

You could speak. 

And hated him.

Taglist:

@nerdykat @munixumai @raiirai @sarapaprikas-blog @deputy-videogamer @rizahawkeye1380 @littlenyx @marit332 @iz-iplier @mad-hatter-rici @viriexo @obi-mom-kenobi @allysunny @lishdfish @not-ur-average-fangirl @freehentai @darksidecorner @winteringfalls @ellasarich @eustashh @nyxismoon @murnsondock @pluviophilis @oooof-ifellforyou @oharasmommymilkers00 @plusultrayokai @teacoffeeflavored @ctizu1 @dickfartcheesy @s0lm1n @vonev @iwumrndbm @azuredragonstrike @Iyykeyyy @arrozyfrijoles23 @frompeach @ghostlyworld @liamdasimp @straw-berry-ghoul @migshusben @nediks @fayeofthenightingale @gedankenmoon  

[cloudss-space]

My sunflower

( adwd ) casper x reader ... fluff - hurt/comfort ...

author's note: does contain spoils for the "beyond the bet" dlc, you are warned !! This is my take on the "sunflower" ending.

trigger warning:

slight gore

Casper was once a shadow, a whisper in the dark, a figure draped in the inevitability of endings. Now, as he stands before you, solid and whole, his awkward movements reveal his past life. The weight of mortality is new to him, and he is still learning how to carry it. His skin, pale as marble, is no longer the lifeless shade of death, but it's still translucent, as though the veil between worlds hasn't fully lifted. His eyes, once hollow and empty sockets of the eternal, have begun to glisten with the subtle spark of humanity, though they carry the secrets of ages lived beyond time. Each breath is a symphony to the newness of life, the steady rise and fall of his chest a sound that comforts and unnerves him. He clutches his hands tightly at times, as though fearing they'll slip through his fingers, as though he might return to the void without warning. There are moments when his gaze lingers on his own body, tracing the shape of his ribs, the pulse beneath his skin, the blood that flows in endless circles. He is bound to this flesh, this frailty, this inevitable decay, and yet he seeks you, your warmth, your presence, as if your touch might remind him that life can be something more than a fleeting breath.

When he walks, his steps are hesitant, as if the earth beneath him might suddenly break apart, sending him back into the abyss where death is final and unrelenting. He has experienced the sensation of weightlessness, the gravity of souls, and the coldness of passing from one life to the next. But now, he feels the soft press of dirt beneath his boots, the familiar crunch of gravel, the tactile proof that he is here. He had been the one who guided the lost, the one who bore the scythe, severing the threads of existence with a swift swing. And now, as you both sit together under a sky painted with the dusk's bleeding hues, he wonders at the simplicity of it all. The very concept of living, of existing without a time limit, is strange to him. His fingers, once sharp and deathless, now tremble slightly when they brush against yours, as if afraid he might damage you in some way, as though his touch might extinguish the fragile light within you. His laughter, rare, soft and unexpected, sounds like the crackling of firewood, a sound foreign in its warmth. He is amazed at how your hand fits into his, as though they were always meant to be together, even in a life so different from the one he had once known. But the ache within him, the gnawing fear of losing this, of being taken back, lingers like an open wound.

There are moments when his hunger for death rises within him: a deep craving that clawed at him when he was a reaper, a need to return to the silent cold of the graveyard. But now, with flesh and blood, he cannot indulge it. Instead, it turns into a deep sorrow, a longing for something he cannot name, something he doesn't know how to satiate. You see it in his eyes: a quiet storm brewing, the part of him that was once pure darkness, now tamed but still restless, still seeking. It pulls at him like the gravity of his old existence, that pull toward inevitability, the desire to return to a world without pain or joy, without the sharpness of love or the sweetness of touch. His jaw clenches, and for a moment, he looks as though he might crumble into dust. But then he turns to you, and your presence is a tether that keeps him from floating away, from losing himself again in the deep abyss of endless endings. His fingers find yours and his touch sends a tremor through you, as if every touch, every feeling, every heartbeat is a revelation to him.

The first time he tasted food, it was a revelation. He had been used to the absence of hunger, to the stillness of his non-life, so the sensation of eating—of needing to consume—was terrifying. The texture of bread, the warmth of soup, the sweetness of fruit; each bite was a gift and a curse, a reminder that this life was fleeting. He stared at the food on his plate, his gaze faraway, as if he could feel the clock ticking away somewhere in the distance. But you had fed him, guiding his hand and helping him find pleasure in the act. For a brief moment, the gnawing emptiness that had once defined him was sated. But there's something unsettling about the way he eats. He's slow and careful, as if he's afraid of tasting too much, of consuming too deeply. His eyes flicker between you and the food, as if looking for permission, as though he is unsure if this part of humanity is something he can truly embrace.

Casper speaks now, his voice still rough, like a forgotten melody that hasn't been sung in centuries. It's soft, hushed, and when he speaks, there's a clear tenderness, but also an undercurrent of regret, of something broken. When he was a reaper, he didn't need words; silence was his companion, and he could navigate the world with nothing more than a glance, a wave of his hand. Now, as a man, his thoughts are tangled, his desires more complicated, and he searches for the right words to express what he feels. He stumbles sometimes, unsure how to speak without the cold, clipped finality of death, and yet, when he looks at you, his words flow like a river that had been dammed for far too long. When he tells you he loves you, his voice trembles, and there is something so raw and unrefined about it that it cuts through the space between you, reaching deep into your heart. He didn't know love like we do, didn't know what it meant to desire someone with all his soul. But now, with every touch, every word, every shared glance, he is learning. And he is terrified of losing it, because love is so fragile; it's like the breath of a dying star.

His touch is undeniably gentle, yet there's a palpable urgency to it now, as though he's struggling to accept your reality, your presence here, and that you won't disappear as quickly as you came. He lingers too long when he touches your skin, as though he might slip through his fingers. His gaze is intense and quiet, as though you are both a miracle and a mystery, something too beautiful to hold for long. The scars of his past, of being a grim reaper, are still there, hidden beneath the surface, but they are less sharp and less consuming. When you kiss him, there is a sense of hesitation, a fear that he will undo all the progress he has made, that the death that runs through his veins will rise again, pulling him away from you. But you remind him of the earth beneath him, of the life that pulses in his body, of the love he has learned to hold. He will fall deeper, letting your presence tether him to this new world of fleeting moments, of beauty and pain.

When night falls, Casper is often restless. He wanders the house or the fields beyond your shared home, searching for something he cannot name. The shadows still speak to him, whispering of the world beyond the veil, reminding him of the eternity that once stretched out before him. He has learned to fight it, to remind himself that he is no longer the keeper of souls, no longer bound to the endless cycle of life and death. He seeks reassurance and comfort from you in those quiet moments, his body close to yours. You are his anchor, his tether to this fleeting world. He chooses life with you, despite knowing all about death. He holds you close, his hands brushing your hair, as though afraid you might disappear, as though his very touch might shatter the fragile peace that exists between the living and the dead. But you are here, and you are real, and that is enough for him—for now.

Casper rarely speaks of his past. The memory of the scythe, of the souls he harvested, of the endless procession of endings, lingers like a shadow behind his eyes. When he is alone, you can hear the faint sound of chains rattling and the scrape of bone against stone, because he is remembering. But in the mornings, when the light spills through the windows and the warmth of your body against his is all that he needs, he is human. And that is enough for him, for now. He looks at you, and you see the eternity in his gaze — the years of death, of existence beyond life — but you also see the softness, the yearning for something he never thought he could have. Something simple. Something beautiful. A life with you, here, on this earth, as fleeting and fragile as it is. For the first time in an eternity, he knows what it means to live.

Casper finds Casper's humanity strange and unfamiliar. It is like an unfamiliar rhythm that he is trying to learn. At times, it's a soothing hum that wraps around him, drawing him close to you, grounding him in ways he never thought possible. But sometimes, it's a discordant echo, a constant reminder of everything he once was, everything he once controlled with the swing of his scythe, the cold finality of it all. Now, there are choices to make, paths to take, and that uncertainty weighs heavily on him, pressing against his chest in ways he cannot quite explain. He feels his breath catch in his throat when he considers the future, his future with you, a life unmarked by the certainty of death, but full of unknowns. He gazes at you, seeing you as the answer and the question. His heart pounds with a quiet desperation to hold on to this new reality, this life, this love.

There are moments when he feels like a stranger in his own skin. The skin that was once as cold and empty as the tomb now flushes with warmth, with the pulse of life he never thought he would experience. When he wakes in the morning, the sunlight feels strange against his face: hot and soft, unfamiliar in its touch. At first, it makes him wince, but then he remembers—he is alive. He stretches, feels the pull of muscles that ache, that tighten with the effort of movement. The sting of soreness is new to him, as is the creaking and cracking of his joints and the way his body demands rest and food. He had never thought he would have these experiences again, and yet here he is, learning to adapt to a body that seems to belong to someone else. When you kiss him in the mornings, it's as though you are both waking from a dream, as if the kiss itself is the only thing that truly feels real. His lips tremble, unsure of this tenderness, unsure if he can truly hold onto it.

The first time he felt a tear fall down his cheek, it broke him. Death had never cried. It had never known sorrow the way humans do, never felt the sting of emotion so sharp it could pull the soul apart. But as he sat with you one evening, gazing out into the vastness of the world, he felt it—an ache that filled his chest, a weight too heavy to bear. He tried to hide it, but the tears came anyway, slow and quiet, rolling down his face like forgotten rivers. You held him then, as his body shook with the force of grief, a grief that was unfamiliar to him, a grief for all the lives he had taken, for all the souls he had guided into darkness. He had never been the one left behind, never been the one to mourn. But now, as he wept in your arms, he understood the depth of loss, the terrible beauty of it, and he hated it. He hated the vulnerability it brought, the human fragility it revealed in him. Yet he couldn't stop it. He couldn't stop himself from feeling.

Every laugh that escapes his lips now is a gift; he holds on to it tightly. The sound is nothing like the hollow whispers of death or the cold laughter of a reaper that never touched the soul. His laughter is warm, rich and full of joy. It vibrates in his chest like a long-forgotten song being sung again, and it makes his heart feel heavy with wonder. When you make him laugh, the tension in his shoulders relaxes, the sharpness in his gaze softens, and for a brief moment, he forgets that he was once a servant of the end. He forgets that he had once ruled the passage of life and death with an unflinching hand. He becomes something else, something new, something entirely human. He becomes himself, something raw and tender and wholly yours.

He feels disconnected from the world around him. It moves too quickly and recklessly. It lacks the weight of finality he once knew. It makes him anxious, his mind whirling with the idea that time, that precious, fleeting thing, is slipping through his fingers. The world is full of noise, people and events that seem meaningless and monumental all at once. He doesn't always know where he fits in. When he was the Grim Reaper, everything was simple. Time had no hold on him, and every soul he claimed was another mark in an endless chain of existence. Now, he is bound by time, and it eats at him, gnawing at his thoughts, reminding him that every moment is a drop in an ocean that will never return. It leaves him restless, pacing late into the night, staring at the stars and wondering how long he will have to hold on to this new life. Will it last forever, or will it, too, fade like everything else? You hold him, pressing your body against his, and tell him that for now, this is enough. This moment is enough.

He is learning the small things now. He is learning to savour a meal, to hold your hand, to say goodbye without the weight of eternity behind him. He is soft and innocent. He has moments of clarity where he understands the beauty of life—its fragility, its grace, its impermanence—and it moves him in ways that the harsh finality of death never could. He sees the world differently now, taking in the colour of the sky, the rustling of leaves, the way the wind moves through the trees. He had never seen the world like this before, never truly experienced it in all its complexity. Now, every moment feels like a gift; a treasure to be cherished before it slips away. When he looks at you, he feels this strange sensation of wanting to hold on to you forever, wanting to trap time in amber and preserve every single second. But he knows that's impossible. And yet, he holds you anyway, as though holding on to you might slow the inevitable tide of time, if only for a moment.

There are days when the weight of his past presses down on him, when the echo of the scythe, the cold grip of death, calls to him in the deepest recesses of his mind. On those days, he withdraws. His gaze is distant, his movements slow. It is as though he is caught between two worlds, two selves. He struggles with the memory of who he was, the certainty of who he had been, and the uncertainty of who he is now. But when you are near, when you are close, he feels the pull toward life, the pull toward you, stronger than any shadow that might rise within him. You become his anchor, a beacon of light in the darkness, reminding him of who he is becoming, not who he was. He touches you then, with a gentleness that betrays his internal chaos, his hands seeking reassurance in the warmth of your skin, the steadiness of your heartbeat. In those moments, he realizes that letting go of the past, learning to be human and embracing the beauty of life is the hardest part. It is a struggle, but it is a struggle he is willing to face, as long as he has you by his side.

The silence between you both speaks volumes. Words are unnecessary to explain it; you both feel it: the pull toward each other, the shared longing to be more than the past allows. There is an intimacy in this shared vulnerability. Casper no longer hides the darkness that lingers in him; he shares it with you and trusts you to help him navigate it. This trust is a gift, a delicate thread that binds you both together. The shadows may still whisper to him and the echoes of death may never fully leave his bones, but he knows one thing for certain: with you, he is human. With you, he is alive. For the first time in his long existence, that is enough.

The day you opened the flower shop was remarkable: there was a strange, almost violent beauty to it. The air was thick with the smell of earth and damp stems, the sharp tang of fresh-cut flowers mingling with the heavy scent of sunlight streaming through the windows. Casper, still getting used to his new humanity, stood quietly at the counter, his fingers brushing over the edges of the sunflowers, tracing the vibrant yellow petals with the care of someone who had never touched such warmth before. The flowers, bright and bold, pulsed with life, their heads heavy with golden joy, their roots thick and sturdy beneath the soil. You saw the way his eyes softened as he looked at them, as if they were a reminder of something he had lost – something that once belonged only to the living. He had never known the delicate care required to nurture a plant, to see something grow with your own hands. But now, as he touched each stem, he felt something new stirring within him—a desire to protect, to tend to life with the same care he had once offered death.

The sunflowers became his anchor. Their boldness and resilience reminded him of the beauty in life's fleeting moments and the strength to be found even in the face of inevitable decay. As you worked together, arranging the flowers in bright pots and creating bouquets that would soon find their way into the hands of strangers, you could see how he had transformed. His touch was gentler now, the rough edges of his past smoothed over by the tenderness of the petals, the softness of the stems beneath his fingertips. He no longer feared the fragile life around him; instead, he reveled in it, his movements slow but sure, his hands becoming more confident as he nurtured each bloom. You would often catch him staring at the sunflowers, his gaze fixed intently on them, as though they were a mirror reflecting everything he had come to understand about himself: bright, alive, and on the edge of something darker.

The shop was a place of quiet chaos, a blending of scents and colours that seemed almost too alive for one space. The flowers piled high, a sea of soft petals and rough leaves, and there was always a certain tension in the air, as though the earth itself was holding its breath. You and Casper worked together seamlessly, moving between the rows of plants, arranging and re-arranging, each sunflower finding its place in the intricate tapestry of blooms you both created. You looked up from your task and saw him standing still, watching you with a kind of reverence in his eyes. This simple act of caring for life was the most sacred thing he had ever known. His hands trembled slightly as he picked up each plant, but there was something fiercely protective in the way he handled them, as though he was guarding them from something unseen. It was as though each flower, each sunflower, was a promise—one he had made to himself, to you, to life itself.

The windows of the shop were always filled with sunlight. As the day wore on, the sunflowers grew taller, their heads turning toward the light as if they, too, were learning to bask in the warmth of life. It was a strange thing, watching them grow before your eyes, knowing that these flowers—these sunflowers—were as alive as you were, as Casper was, as the world around you was. There was a rhythm to it, a silent hum that filled the space as the sunflowers stretched and bloomed, their petals heavy with the weight of their own existence. Casper often stood by the window, staring out at the sunlight as it filtered through the glass, the golden glow casting shadows across his face. He gazed at the sunflowers, his expression pensive, as though he could hear their whispers, the stories they carried in their seeds, in the fragile life they bore.

He was often to be found at the counter, his hand resting on a sunflower as if it were something sacred, something too precious to be lost. His fingers, once so cold and lifeless, now brushed against the petals with the gentlest of touches, as if afraid that the warmth of the flower might burn him. His gaze softened, and for a moment, he looked like a person who had never known death, who had never carried the weight of eternity in his bones. You would watch him then, the way he became part of the space, part of the shop, as though the sunflowers had become a part of him. The world around him settled into a rhythm, a pulse that matched his own. For the first time, he belonged to this world. He was no longer the reaper who had once taken it all away, but someone who was allowed to experience its beauty.

The sunflowers became your shared language, the bridge between you and Casper, a constant reminder of how far you had come together. Every time he brought in a new batch, his face lit up with something almost childlike, a joy so pure and unexpected that it left you breathless. He would stand there, holding a bouquet of sunflowers, his gaze fixed on the bright yellow heads as though they were the only things that mattered in that moment. You smiled, knowing that these flowers had become more than just plants; they were symbols of your journey together, of the life you were building, step by step, petal by petal. His devotion to them was palpable, as though they were the only thing in the world that would never leave him, that would never betray him. The boldness and fragility of the sunflowers reflected the life he had never thought possible. Now they were all around him, filling the space with their golden glow.

The flower shop was a haven. Life and death coexisted there, the scars of the past fading into the background, obscured by the vibrant colours of nature. The sunflowers, with their thick stems and towering heads, were the crown jewels of the shop. Their brightness pulled customers in, inviting them to touch the earth, to feel the pulse of life beneath their fingers. You and Casper worked in tandem, moving between the rows, arranging the blooms just so, creating a harmony that only you both understood. There was a tenderness in the way you worked together, a quiet understanding that had grown between you over time. It was a dance of sorts, a primal rhythm, and the connection between you both deepened by the act of nurturing something together.

Casper would often stand by the sunflower display, his fingers running along the rough edges of the petals, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He watched the customers marvel at the blooms, at the life they carried in every stem, and pride radiated from his eyes. This pride wasn't just from the success of the shop, but from something deeper: the realisation that he, too, could be a part of this world. He used to be a harbinger of death, a force that guided souls into the afterlife with unfeeling hands, but now he is a caretaker, a creator of life. He often looked over at you during these moments, his eyes filled with awe and quiet reverence for the life you had built together.

The days passed in a blur, each one melding into the next, and as time moved forward, the sunflowers bloomed and faded, just as life and death always does. With each passing bloom, Casper learned something new about himself, something that tied him to the world in ways he had never imagined. The weight of his past life—the cold, unyielding existence of a reaper—had become a distant memory, something he could still feel, but no longer fear. He had found a new purpose, rooted in the earth, in the simple act of nurturing, of giving life to something beautiful. In the sunflowers that grew tall and strong beneath his care, he had found something that transcended death itself—something worth living for. The shop, with its soft glow of sunlight and vibrant blooms, was a testament to that love, to the life you both shared. It was a place where the past and the present coexisted, where sunflowers represented the joys of a life that, despite everything, had become beautifully, tragically human.

Casper knew the sunflowers were more than just plants; they were lifelines. They reminded him that life could be tender, could be messy, and could still bloom despite the harshness that came before. Each new batch demanded his attention, challenging him to live as fully as they did. And though there were moments of doubt, moments when the weight of his past felt like an anchor around his ankles, those moments were becoming fewer, slipping away with every new bloom that reached for the light. There were days when he stood at the window, hands on the cool glass, watching the world pass by as if it were all new to him, a landscape he had never been a part of until now. He smiled to himself, feeling the warmth of the sun on his skin, and in that moment, he felt the reaper he once was fall away entirely. He was alive and breathing, caught in the simple wonder of the world he was learning to love.

He looked at you in a certain way, with a gaze that lingered for a moment longer than usual, as if trying to grasp the enormity of what you had together. It was a connection that transcended the finality of death, forged by the fragile, beating heart of life itself. When he touched you, his hands were reverent, his fingers gently brushing against your skin. He was careful not to be too rough, because he didn't want to break something precious. And yet, there was a hunger in him too, a deep-seated desire to hold you close, to feel the pulse of your heart against his own, to cement this fleeting moment of warmth into something tangible. Each day with you, each hour spent nurturing the flowers together, felt like an impossible gift, and he didn't want to take a single second of it for granted. In the sunlight-filled shop, the golden glow of the sunflowers reflected the warmth and delicate balance of life between you both.

As you worked alongside him, the shop became an extension of both your souls. You moved in perfect tandem, communicating without words, your hands touching with shared understanding as you prepared the flowers for customers, arranged the sunflowers into perfectly imperfect bouquets, or simply admired the way the light danced off their petals. Each sunflower felt like a piece of something larger, a piece of a world that had once seemed distant, unreachable. The way they stood tall and proud, their yellow faces almost brash against the soft green leaves, spoke to the resilience both you and Casper had cultivated together. For him, every sunflower taught a lesson: be patient, be tender, accept that life can be both beautiful and cruel, but choose to live in the moments that make it worth it.

There was always a shadow in the corner of the shop. It was a quiet reminder of Casper's past life. On quiet days, when the air seemed still, you would catch him standing by the sunflower display, his fingers lightly stroking the petals, his expression distant. In these moments, you remember—you remember the way he had once been, the coldness that had defined him, the endless reach of death that had never once allowed him to experience the softness of life. But now, even in his silence, there is warmth in him, something slowly unfolding like the sunflowers before him. You approached him, standing beside him in the silence, and without a word, you reached for his hand. The touch was everything: it reminded him that he was not alone, that the world around him was not something to be feared, but something to embrace.

Some mornings, when the mist from the night before clung to the ground and the shop opened early, you and Casper would sit among the sunflowers. The air was cool and damp, and the world was still waking up. You watched as the first customers wandered in, their faces surprised by the unexpected beauty of the sunflowers that filled the shop, their brightness pulling them in like moths to a flame. Casper stood behind the counter, watching them, his lips curling into a small, almost shy smile as they complimented the flowers. It was an expression of something new in him—something you hadn't seen before, a quiet joy in giving something beautiful to the world. It was strange seeing him, someone who had once been a harbinger of endings, become a creator of beginnings, of beauty, of life.

You both learned the rhythm of the shop, the pulse of the flowers that seemed to beat with their own energy, a silent song that echoed through the shop as each day passed. Customers came and went, and the shop settled into a peaceful routine. Yet, even in the stillness, there was always a sense of movement, a sense of growth—much like the sunflowers that lined the shelves, their faces always seeking the sun, always reaching for something more. With each new bloom, Casper became more attuned to the world around him. He learned the art of patience, watching something grow from a tiny seed into something magnificent. He had once been a keeper of the end, but now, he was a keeper of the beginning—a keeper of life.

In the evenings, when the last of the customers had left and the shop was quiet, you would sit together. The sunflowers cast long shadows across the floor, the light slowly fading as the night crept in. It was then that the weight of the day settled on him, and you could see it in his eyes. He would show the fleeting recognition of everything he had become, everything he was still learning. He would look at you, his gaze searching, as though he needed to remind himself that this—this life—was real, that he hadn't imagined it, that it wasn't just another fleeting moment that would slip through his fingers like the souls he had once carried. You would hold him close, grounding him, as the quiet hum of the shop and the faint rustle of the sunflowers became the backdrop to the soft warmth between you.

Every night, the sunflowers whispered in their own way, their petals closing as the dark settled in, their seeds silently holding the promise of new life. With each new day and each new flower that bloomed in the shop, Casper's transformation was clear: the man who had once walked alongside death now walked alongside life, growing and learning with every petal that unfurled. The flower shop, with its warmth and light, was the stage for you and Casper to learn what it meant to be alive. You felt the weight of joy and sorrow, and knew that both were part of the same beautiful, painful dance. The sunflowers, the ultimate symbol of joy, stood as silent witnesses to this transformation, their golden faces shining like a beacon of hope, of renewal, of something that never truly died.

As time passed, the shop took on its own character, shaped by the quiet energy of the flowers, the rhythm of the seasons and the delicate balance between you and Casper. The sunflowers were always the centrepiece: tall and proud, their yellow heads like beacons in the warm glow of the shop. They had become more than just flowers; they were symbols of everything Casper had come to cherish. Each sunflower represented something he had learned: the strength of life, the resilience in the face of adversity, and the quiet beauty of beginnings, no matter how small. Watching him carefully tend to them each day, it was clear to everyone how his hands had learned to nurture rather than take, and how his heart had softened, no longer bound by the coldness of death. He worked with the flowers as though they were a reflection of his own rebirth, tending to each petal with a reverence that spoke to the depth of his understanding of what it meant to be human.

At sunset, the light filtered through the shop's windows in a soft, amber hue, casting a glow over the sunflowers. This made them look almost ethereal, as though they were glowing from within. At these moments, Casper's expression revealed a deep sense of wonder, as though he was experiencing the warmth of the sun itself. He would stand beside the sunflowers, his eyes tracing the curve of their petals, as though seeing them for the first time again, each one a reminder of the simple joy that comes with being alive. In those moments, you could almost see the weight of his past fall away, the memory of the reaper who once guided souls into the afterlife, leaving only a man who had learned to embrace life with both hands.

Customers often remarked on the sunflowers' beauty, marveling at their size, vibrant colour and the life they radiated. But it was more than just their beauty that drew people in; it was the warmth of the shop itself, the sense of peace that enveloped them as soon as they entered. There was something in the air that spoke of rebirth, of second chances, of something soft and true, and it was all wrapped up in the quiet presence of Casper. Visitors, drawn in by the sunflowers, left with more than just a bouquet; they left with something lighter, something that stayed with them long after they had passed through the door. The energy of the flowers and Casper's transformation touched them, reminding them that beauty can be found even in the darkest of places.

Every morning, you and Casper would stand side by side, preparing the shop for the day. The sunflowers, heavy with dew from the night, leaned towards the windows, their faces turned towards the light, always seeking it out. This daily care and quiet tending to the life around you both was a ritual. There was something almost sacred in this quiet partnership, and yet there was also something intensely human about the way you and Casper worked together. It was the kind of intimacy that comes from working together, from creating something with your hands, something that requires your attention, your love, your care. Each stem you trimmed, each flower you arranged, felt like you were creating something greater than the sum of its parts. The shop was more than just a place for flowers; it was a living, breathing entity, shaped by your hands, your hearts.

Casper's passion for the process was evident with each new batch of sunflowers igniting something human in him – his capacity for hope, love and joy. In the past, when he had been a reaper, he had seen only endings. He had moved through the world like a shadow, cold and distant, never knowing the warmth of life. But now, working alongside you, he is learning that life isn't just a series of moments to be endured. It is something to be celebrated, to be lived with intention and care. The sunflowers taught him the value of simplicity, the strength of stillness and the beauty of existence itself. As he worked with them, tending to each one with care, he clearly blossomed alongside them, unfolding like a flower reaching for the sun.

The shop was always full of laughter, with customers regularly coming in to request bouquets for special occasions or simply to brighten their homes. On those days, the sunflowers grew brighter, their golden faces reflecting the joy in the room. You and Casper worked together, arranging the flowers with ease, finding the perfect balance between colour and texture, between the delicate green leaves and the bold yellow petals. It was a delicate dance, this process of creation, and it became second nature to both of you. The space between you both seemed to shrink, as though every moment spent together, every act of creation, brought you closer. You could feel it in the way he moved, the way his fingers brushed against yours, the quiet connection that had grown between you. The flowers, especially the sunflowers, became part of that connection, their beauty weaving its way into the fabric of your love.

But there were also quiet days, when the shop was empty except for the two of you and the steady hum of the world outside. On those days, you would sit together in silence, the sunflowers casting long shadows across the floor. On these days, you would catch Casper in moments of reflection, his gaze fixed on the sunflowers as if they were the key to understanding the world around him. He had come a long way from the reaper he had once been, and yet there were moments when the past flickered in his eyes, a reminder of the darkness that had once consumed him. But these moments were short-lived, quickly overshadowed by the quiet joy of being alive, of being human. In those moments, you would sit beside him, your hand slipping into his, the two of you sharing a silence that spoke volumes, a silence filled with everything unsaid.

The sunflowers, the ultimate symbol of joy, mirrored this unspoken accord, their faces oriented towards the light, their roots deeply anchored in the soil. They became a symbol of all the things that could be found in life: beauty, growth, fragility and strength. As the days passed and the seasons shifted, you and Casper grew alongside them. You learned together what it meant to care for something, to nurture it, to allow it to bloom. And in turn, you found that you too had bloomed, your love for each other growing stronger with each passing day. The shop, once a quiet corner of the world, had become a place where life was celebrated in all its messy, beautiful glory, where sunflowers stood as constant reminders that even in the face of death, there was always something worth living for.

The day had been long. The air was thick with the scent of sunflowers and the remnants of laughter left by the last customer. You feel the weight of the day in your bones, your muscles sore from bending and reaching, from the endless arranging of flowers that felt like they could bloom forever, only to wither by the next morning. The shop has closed. The last of the sunlight slipping through the curtains. The world outside seems too large and too harsh compared to the warmth inside. You make your way to the small corner of the room and find Casper already there, sitting on the couch. His body is relaxed but his eyes are tired, as if he too carried the weight of the day, though in a quieter way. There's a tenderness in the way he looks at you, something raw and unspoken that invites you to come closer, to melt into the space between you both.

He opens his arms, inviting you to enter them, and you fall into them as if they were the only thing that could ever hold you. His warmth envelops you immediately, his body a soft and familiar anchor that stills the chaotic thoughts in your head. The faint, persistent scent of flowers clings to him, a reminder of the day spent together amidst petals and stems. His arms are around you, holding you close, and you feel like the weight of the world could fall away, like nothing exists beyond this quiet, shared space. His breath on your head is steady, his chest rising and falling beneath your cheek, and with each exhale, you feel a quiet rhythm, as though the world outside has ceased to exist for just a while.

Casper's hands are warm now, tracing slow circles along your back as though trying to map the contours of your body, to ground himself in the softness of you. His fingers are pressing into your skin as though he is not only touching you but also acknowledging that this is a privilege. You can feel the tension of the day slowly bleeding out of him, the sharp edges of his past fading away with each gentle stroke, each soft press of his palm against you. His body tenses for a moment, as though the memory of his former existence – the cold, the death, the shadows – has made an unwanted return, but then it passes, as if washed away by the warmth of your embrace. You hold him closer, a silent promise that the darkness has no place here, that you are the light in which he can find peace.

His head rests against yours, and you both become a single entity, a blend of warmth and comfort. The quietness of this moment feels like the world is holding its breath, even the flowers in the shop pause to take in the sight of you two intertwined in each other's arms. Casper's fingers slip through your hair, his touch careful and tender, learning to be gentle and to love without fear of the unknown. His thumb brushes against your ear and you shiver, the sensation sharp and electric against the softness of the moment. The space between you both feels infinite and fragile; at any moment, it could break and send you both tumbling into a world too cold and distant.

Here, in the cocoon of your shared quiet, distance is impossible. There is no end. There is only the sound of his heartbeat beneath your ear, the steady, familiar pulse that keeps time with your own. His lips press a kiss into your hair. It is warm and gentle. It is an apology and a promise. The silence between you is a language all its own, full of things that don't need to be spoken, things that can only be felt. You can feel his breath against your skin, the subtle tremor of his body as it learns to relax into this softness, into this life he now shares with you. He has always been careful with you, hesitant to fully feel, but now, in this moment, he is all warmth, all openness.

Your hand slides across his chest, the fabric of his shirt soft beneath your fingers. You can feel the steady rise and fall of his ribcage, the deep breaths he takes to steady himself after the weight of the world has been lifted for just a while. His skin is warmer than before, as though his humanity is slowly taking root in the very marrow of his bones. His body responds to you now: his muscles soften, his heart beats in the rhythm of life. With every passing moment, you sense the reaper that once was slipping further into the shadows. He is no longer a part of him, no longer a thing he carries.

As his lips brush against the top of your head again, you feel a shudder run through him. It's the kind of shiver that comes when someone is learning how to be loved, how to belong. His hands hold you tighter, and in the quiet of the room, you hear him sighing deeply, as though releasing a weight he's been carrying for too long. It's a quiet, almost imperceptible sound, but it's there, and you know it's a sign that he's letting go of something—something old, something dark. In that moment, you feel the gravity of it, the weight of the years he spent as something cold, as something feared. Here, in this space between you, there is no fear. There is only warmth, only the steady pulse of your hearts beating in sync.

Casper presses his forehead to yours, and the closeness of your bodies offers an intimacy that words can't touch. You can feel his breath mingling with yours, the heat of it rising between you like steam. He closes his eyes, sinking deeper into this moment of peace. He is learning how to be human all over again, how to embrace the warmth of connection without the shadow of death hovering over him. The memory of the reaper's cold touch, of the weight of souls, has slipped from him; now he feels only the tender warmth of this love—this life that he now shares with you. His hand gently touches your face, the gesture conveying a quiet inquiry, a silent plea for reassurance, a reminder that this is real, that he is real.

You do. In the quietest way possible. Your hand lifts to his cheek, your thumb brushing against his skin as you stare into his eyes. There's a softness there now, a glow that wasn't there before, a spark of something alive that flickers in the depths of his gaze. It's a look of gratitude, of wonder, of disbelief that he has found something so beautiful, so real, amidst the shadows of his past. In this moment, you both feel alive, and that is all that matters. There is no need to rush or speak, because the language between you is woven in touch, in quiet moments like these, in the heat of his skin against yours, in the pulse of his heartbeat that matches yours.

His lips find yours in a slow, tender kiss, the kind that lingers in the air long after it's over. This kiss speaks volumes, conveying everything you need to say without words. It reminds him he's alive and loved. When the kiss breaks, he rests his head against your chest again, his body settling into the warmth of yours, and you both breathe together. The shop is quiet now, the sunflowers resting in their vases as the night stretches out before you. In the quiet room, wrapped in each other's arms, you realise that this moment of peace is all you need.

[cheesecakeislazy]

I have insomnia, my phone is about to die, and I feel like I need to write! So here we go boys!! (And gals and non-binary pals) Sorry if this one is shitty TwT

Sensitivity is High

F!Reader x BEN Drowned Smut

You and Ben laid in bed together, just enjoying the moment. Nothing was going on today, it was a free day. Cuddling in bed, looking at memes, listening to music, and playing co-op games together.

While for most people, a day where you can relax with your partner would be quiet and calm, for the two of you, it was quite the opposite..

Within the other rooms of the mansion you could hear Jeff blasting metal music, you could hear Toby annoying Masky by doing anything possible, if you listened carefully you could hear the subtle sounds of Sally trying to sneak a few extra snacks before anyone noticed. While on the outside, you could hear the faint sounds of Clockwork exercising with Jane, the crunching leaves as Slender went on a walk, the sound of the front door slamming open because Masky started to chase Toby outside. Yep, this was home. Full of chaos, full of loud voices and sounds consistently. However, almost everyone within the mansion agreed that this hellhole was better than their old lives, or the life they would have now if Slender wasn’t nice enough to give them a job.

While normally you and Ben would have been joining in on the chaos, the two of you decided to really relax. No pranks, no jokes, no annoyance to others, just each others company in bed playing Minecraft. The life you had was hectic at best and mentally painful at worst, but having Ben with you? It made those shitty days not so bad.

“Alright! Tha-That’s our base d-done!” Ben was honestly really good at Minecraft, speedrunning, building, pvp, he was a Jack of all trades when it came to the game. Probably because the elf-like boy had been playing the game practically since it came out.

“Hm.. well now that we got the homebase finished, you wanna play something else?” You looked over at your boyfriend, as much as you loved playing MC with him, you were pretty bored right now.

Ben took a moment to think before he nodded, saving the game file and quitting the game before looking over at you. “S-So then what d-do you wanna play in-instead?” His voice glitched less during moments like this, alone, just the two of you in peace, it made you generate a gentle smile from your lips.

“Ah, to be completely honest? I kinda wanna just… shut down? At least for a little.. you get me?” Sometimes, as much as you loved gaming, you just wanted to take a 4 pm nap and cuddle. “O-Oh! Y-yeah! That sounds great! I-I-I wouldn’t mind that at all, Babe!” His ears tinted a slight pink at the tip, an indication that he was happy with the idea of cuddles.

As you both laid there, bodies intertwined with each other, arms and legs looped and twisted together like multicolored playdough, a part of your brain sparked curiosity. You had suddenly remembered Ben’s ears.. during more.. intimate moments.. the ears twitched consistently. It made you wonder quite a bit if the ears were extra sensitive, at least compared to the rest of his body.

Deciding to act on this sudden surge of curiosity and confidence, you shifted around slightly, making it look like you were just making yourself a little bit more comfortable. However, you were actually getting your head just a smidge bit closer to his ear, slowly you moved your mouth forward, and before Ben could question or react, you softly bit onto his ear.

The sound that came from Ben was a mixture of arousing and concerning, as you couldn’t tell if the yelp/moan was of pain or pleasure. You pulled away as soon as possible, and stared into his eye sockets.

“Sorry! I was just curious.. if they were.. sensitive.” You realized that after saying it out loud, your explanation for possibly putting your lover in pain, was extremely stupid.

“Uh- It- Uhm! N-No- N-No! Y-you real-really shouldn’t b-be-be sorry-!!” You could tell it certainly had some type of effect on him, as his voice had gotten much glitchier. You were about to open your mouth and make another apology, despite his statement, but as you shifted your leg you felt something poke you. Ah, it was that kind of sensitive..

You smirked to yourself, you found it quite adorable that by just biting his ear softly, you had given the poor man a hard-on. It was obvious that Ben was embarrassed by this fact, he hated to look needy in front of you. But unfortunately for him, he was about to look even needier..

Slowly and carefully, you began to shift your entire body lower and lower on the bed, until you had reached the point of his body that laid right in the middle of his pelvic bone. You laid right in front of his boner, Ben immediately knew what you were trying to do.

“N-no!! Y-Ya-You really don-don’t have-have to-to D-d-Do that!!” His glitchy stutters only turning you on more. You began to remove his sweatpants and boxers, as his cock lie infront of your face you looked up at Ben, wanting his consent before you actually ended up doing anything.

Thankfully, as you expected, Ben bit his lip and nodded at you to continue. Gently, you put his tip inside your mouth, precum already leaking from it. Sucking and licking softly at the head of his cock, tasting the slight sweet salty mixture, Ben threw his head back slightly and let out a few quiet groans and pants.

Slowly getting more and more of his cock into your mouth and down your throat, Ben whimpered for more. The feeling of his cocks tip hitting the very back of your throat as you sucked him off always felt so good on another level. The slight burn of your lips as they tried to stay open and fit his cock inside. Using your tongue to lick the underside of his cock as you bobbed your head up and down his shaft. Ben slowly began to get more overwhelmed by the pleasure and started to buck his hips upwards into your throat, causing you to gag slightly. The feeling of your throat gagging on his cock made him moan your name, tightly gripping onto your hair. God, you were so fucking perfect..

As you continued sucking and licking BEns cock, you saw his ears twitch in unison with his cock. Not only did it remind you of how you had gotten into this, but it also made you wonder if his ears were as sensitive as his cock..

But you weren’t able to ponder on the matter for long, as Ben had busted his load inside your mouth, filling and overwhelming your tastebuds with the sweet and salty creamy substance that made you addicted to giving this man blowjobs. Once you had lifted your head off of him, and swallowed the load he had just so kindly gifted to you, you looked up at him.

Ben looked back at you.. his red eyes no longer circular, little red hearts lay in their place.

“Switch spots with me, Baby~ And take off y-your clothes.. I’m g-gonna return the favor~” Ben licked his lips as he winked as you.

Your panties were already soaked from sucking him off, but the thought of Ben devouring your cunt made you shiver with excitement.

[glitterguts13]

can I request a noncon / forced pregnancy with Xingqiu getting impregnated by a monster of your choosing from genshin (hilichurl, abyss creature, etc) and then Chongyun coming across him and is horrified to find Xingqiu with a full term belly and in labor, and then helping him through it 🙏

I was just thinking about this earlier!

I like to think hilichurls are born as mini versions of their adult selves, just smaller. Sort of like some animals, ready to hit the ground and go the second they leave the womb, and since there are so many of them across Teyvat, they must reproduce quickly with multiples. TW: NON-CON, GORE

Long, slender fingers grasp helplessly at the air. The hilt of his sword was right there, inches from his fingertips, if he could only stretch his arm a little more, he'd be alright. All he needed to do was try harder and reach further, and this beast would be dead in seconds-

An axe buries itself into the dirt close enough to his fingers he can feel the heat of the blade. Xingqiu pulls back, twisting, legs kicking out from under him before a large, dark-furred hand wraps around his left arm and pulls.

The socket almost pops out of place, and he screams. His lithe body made dodging incredibly easy, but it did nothing to help him fight his away out of the monster's firm hold.

"Let me go!" he howls, one leg coming up enough to kick the Mitachurl in the face, the mask doesn't budge, and the wind is knocked from his lungs as his small body is slammed into the ground.

The world spins above him, teeth aching from knocking together so sharply. The cool fall air is suddenly much more present, the clothes covering him being torn to ribbons.

"S-stop!" Xingqiu tries to struggle, but the Mitachurl clamps a hand down over his neck. Oxygen is quickly sucked from his lungs, eyes watering as a silent scream falls from his lips.

The monster's massive cock, weeping precum and rock hard, slams inside of him without any warning. His hole tears, hot pain shooting through him. Black and white spots blur his vision, ears ringing so loudly the young man can't even hear the breathy grunts the creature was letting out with each unforgiving piston of its hips.

By the time his hole is being pumped full of cum, belly bloating from the sheer amount of it, Xingqiu finally loses consciousness.

~~~ No word of Xingqiu has been uttered in weeks. Hope was lost after the first month, but Chongyun wouldn't allow himself to be so easily convinced. Xingqiu wasn't weak, he was out there, somewhere, waiting for help, and he wasn't going to fail his friend.

Mitachurl activety had increased a few miles outside of the Chasm, and as his claymore slices through the last of the outbreak, Chongyun's sharp ears catch something.

It's distant, nearly lost to the sound of howling winds, but Chongyun focuses harder.

It's sharp, coming in long wails before falling silent.

It was human, and whoever it was was in trouble.

Hope and fear sparks inside of him, boots pounding clouds of dust as Chongyun ran headlong towards the sounds of distress.

A small cave on the outskirts of the chasm, the remnants of a Hilichurl camp, the fire still smoking. Another desperate scream pierces the night air, and Chongyun is certain he knows that voice.

Crawling into the small space, he finds a hidden cove, filled with stolen blankets and some rotten food. Curled up against the mess, Xingqiu writhed helplessly. A chill ran down Chongyun's back at the sight of his dear friend.

He'd always been thin, but now, Xingqiu looked downright emaciated. His belly was grotesquely swollen, the skin pulled so tight it was nearly transparent. Something inside squirmed, pushing the mound into unnatural shapes and causing the young man to sob harder.

"U....ungh!" Xingqiu's legs snap open, a flood of liquid gushing from his leaking hole. The weight of his belly dropping, whatever was inside was pushing closer to its only exit.

"Xingqiu, Xingqiu, it's me!" finally finding his voice, he kneels beside of his friend, pushing the damp hair from his eyes. The young man looks up at him wildly, tears and snot coating his pale face.

"Don't look! Don't look at me, please!" he wails, trembling hands coming up to hold his bloated gut, "Don't look, please!"

"It's ok, you're going to be ok. I'm going to go get some hel-" the scream that fills the small cove causes Chongyun's stomach to drop. He hazards a look between his friend's legs, swallowing thickly at the sight of something dark and damp starting to bulge.

"It's coming out! Make it stop, please!" his legs curl back further, hands shooting down, trying to reach around his heavy womb to hide the sight of his crowning hole.

"No, no, you have to let it come out," Chongyun soothes, moving his hands back, "When it comes out, you won't be in pain anymore, ok? So let it come, push it out for me, ok?"

Xingqiu sobs, grunting weakly as he bore down. His efforts seemed weak, but the creature inside his body thrashed violently. His belly swaying from the force, the head of the hilichurl popping out without warning.

"No!" the young man continued to scream, sobbing, "Don't come out, don't come out!"

Chongyun feels bile rising in the back of his throat, the hilichurl's shoulder pops free, and the beast pulls itself from Xingqiu's twitching body.

Chongyun doesn't think, cleaving the monster down before it can stumble onto its legs.

"You did it, you did it Xingqiu, it's all ov-" horror fills him, heart nearly stopping when he realizes his friend's bloated belly was still squirming with life, the second Hilichurl already wiggling its way into his birth canal, as an unspecified number continue to slosh about in his fertile womb.

[gingerlurk]

Lovers' Crest | Chapter 9: The Save

Din Djarin x f!Reader

Masterlist

Summary: How to save you… Din Djarin has one hope.

Word count: 2.3k

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, slow burn, non-canon (the Razor Crest never gets destroyed, it also gets upgraded with a cabin), canon-typical violence, eventual smut/filth, post season 3, Our Reader really Goes Through It this chapter (sorry). CWs for: blood, gore, injuries, being imprisoned, gross male characters, and unconsciousness, and a level of violence beyond canon.

A/N: Thank you for reading and I promise some lovely, tender stuff is on its way.

--

The first thing you sense on coming to is the sensation that your shoulder is being ripped from its socket. The next is the way it and your other arm are wrenched behind you, bound together. Cold metal bites into your back and your head, which throbs.

Opening your eyes, you swallow down a hysterical panic.

The cell is long and narrow. You’re chained on a longer side on which, as you glance left and right, more than a dozen bindings for beings of all sizes line the wall. The opposite wall is mere feet in front of you, also lined with restraints. Cables dangle from the ceiling and spark dangerously close to puddles of water across the floor. You can’t see a door and when you look up, there’s just a metal grate lining the ceiling. 

You sit shivering for a while before some degree of your wits return. 

You’re alone in here, which you take as a small mercy. You edge your feet back, trying to keep them away from the sodden sections of floor. You push and lurch until you can stand upright. The movement rips at your shoulder and you have to fight back the urge to start sobbing.

Gingerly, you test how tight your bindings are and find you’re able to flex your wrists back and forth, feeling the tension loosen just a little. Hmmm, if you rotate the left counter-clockwise against the right, it’ll— but even that sends jolts of agony rippling up your arms. You clench your teeth, wincing through the pain. For some reason, your instincts are telling you that it’s a good idea to stay quiet.

Not a lot of options. Just try something.

You remember an old fighting teacher you had back ho— back at the Estate. He claimed he could block pain receptors by meditating. Seemed wild to you, but he’d taught you the basics and maybe if you try it you can twist out of these restraints. What you’ll do after that, you’ll think about then. You’re just casting back to those lessons, digging into the recesses of memory, when your mind is whited out by a momentary vision so indescribable and impossible, you let out a cry of astonishment, a gasp of shock.

In an instant, it’s gone. 

Gods, was that? Are they--?

The cell comes back into focus and a shadow falls across you from above.

‘Ah, she’s awake,’ a voice overhead. ‘Good, good. Hello there.’

It’s a soft and lilting voice, but sickly. 

‘She’s a pretty one, my,’ he speaks, apparently to someone else. 

Still short of breath, reeling from what you think you just saw, you tip your head up to try to see your imprisoner. A beady set of eyes is above you, glaring down. They sit in a round face, rimmed with horns and sporting a toothy sneer that crawls across your nervous system. 

‘Who knew such a pretty thing could do so much damage to my little traction systems, hmmm?’

You’re so overwhelmed by pain and fear, it takes several moments for what he’s saying to sink in. Oh, fuck?

‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ he questions. Through the blood rushing in your ears, you hear boots shuffling on the other side of the wall you’re chained to. ‘No way that crazy bounty hunter would have been able to crack my codes.’

The eyes disappear from above the grate and for a few moments there’s only thuds and echoes reverberating around your prison.

Then, the whole room slides sideways and you’re nauseated with disorientation. It’s when your limbs scream in protest that you realise you’re what’s moving. The panel you’re chained against has spun 180 to present your shuddering figure to the gathered company.

‘And now I get to crack you,’ Cephlate says, a twisted face of fury boring into you.

Somehow this room is even more terrifying than what’s now behind you. Because that’s definitely a carbon freeze unit taking up the bulk of the space. The beady eyed warlord and three goons stand between you and it.

You utter the first thing that comes to you, an exclamation of disbelief, ‘How--?’

He steps forward and backhands you.

‘Tsk, naïve girl,’ he intones. ‘I own this treasury, you know? I own this fucking sector. And I own that upstart ex of yours. He doesn’t know, of course. But how do you think he acquired something so valuable as that ship holo? How do you think he learned of the significance of that beskar on board? And came to be in the cantina that day?’

He leans back and lifts a fleshy brow at you in an ‘it was all me’ type of expression.

‘Just pieces on a dejarik board,’ he sighs. ‘I was after that Mando of yours, of course. The New Republic makes most space too hot for me nowadays, so I couldn’t go to him. So why not just make him come to me?’ 

He claps his palms together. ‘It’s sad those idiots let him escape, but… Do you think he’ll come back for you? I sure hope so. Although…’ his eyes rake over you, ‘maybe not for a little while, hm?’

He steps close and raises a hand again. But this time he takes your chin and gently tilts you side to side, appraising.

You know what comes next. They always try it.

He leans in close, dry lips brushing your ear, and speaks.

He’s only a few words in when something inside you roars to life.

Feeling a wild fury you don’t know or understand, in that moment you use the only means of fight you have. You lean forward, bare your teeth, and sink them as hard as you can into the soft flesh of his exposed neck. Your jaw strains and everything hurts – but you’re surging, raging, burning up. Skin gives way and hot, pulsing liquid gushes into your mouth.

He shrieks and pulls away. You hold on to what’s gripped in your teeth and the sounds of it send you manic. Blood sprays your unhinged face as you spit and snarl.

He paws a hand to his ruined neck.

‘Fuck this little animal,’ he spits. ‘Fine! I’ll deal with her later.’ He whirls from you, stumbling away. He waves a hand behind him, ‘Throw her in the freeze, boys.’

Six hands drag at you. The binds on your arms give way and your dislocated shoulder swings wildly about. You finally scream, unable to bear the excruciating sensations wracking your body any longer. It’s met with laughter and the feeling of being lifted whole into the air.

You’re not thinking at all, mind blank with pain and terror, but your body still has its instincts and muscle memory. So it tries to fight, twisting and thrashing against what holds you. You might land a kick somewhere significant because you hear an angry grunt, then a curse, then a brand new and overwhelming pain in your side.

Head lolling, you look down to catch the blade leaving your belly, a gush of blood pouring onto the floor.

That’s the last thing you see. You’re losing consciousness, giving up, when you feel yourself dumped into a – is this a coffin? Then a hiss and a burning ice crawls up your limbs. Then you feel nothing.

--

The Crest coasts through an inky black. Din, with Grogu now in his lap, kills the engine and works to keep his voice calm.

‘Grogu,’ he says. The child looks over his ear at him. ‘You know how you, how you learned to sense me? Find me in the essence, or energy, or whatever?’

‘Heh,’ the kid says, already looking at the charts.

‘Yes, exactly. You get it.’ Din lets himself feel hope for the first time since he saw you kick that pod hatch closed from the wrong side. 

‘Can you reach out, out there,’ a glance to the black, ‘and find her? Tell me where she is? She’s on a ship. These are the last coordinates I have of it.’ He taps the screen.

Grogu, to his stunning credit, hums shyly but moves straight into a meditative stance. Din’s chest swells.

‘That’s it, kid. Find her for me.’

The little arms raise and begin to tremor, hovering back and forth over a presence Din can’t sense or comprehend. He just waits, and trusts. He knows this power is deeply special, and that Grogu can do things beyond explanation.

The child grunts with effort. In an instinctive move, not even sure if it would help, Din puts his hands on the little, quivering figure, trying to offer support.

After an agonisingly long moment, Grogu pops his eyes open and hops onto the console, pointing a clawed finger at the spot his father had shown him and trailing it along the screen, then giving it an urgent tap. Din leans in and starts thumbing at switches and palming levers.

‘I knew you could do it, buddy,’ he says as he pulls the child back into his lap. ‘Let’s go get her.’

Pulling the same manoeuvre to park the Crest is surprisingly straightforward. Din has total faith that the cloaking drive you’d installed after the run-in on Cephlate’s moon will hold up. Still, he leaves Grogu securely in his space, the child groggy and fatigued from such a stunning use of his powers.

Once dropped into the upper-level corridors, Din orders R5 to ready the canon protocols he’s queued. ‘Wait for my mark,’ he commands. 

Instead of taking the carefully plotted path to avoid detection, Din charges into the first unit he comes across. Six are dead within minutes and the last guard flails on his stomach as Din leans a knee in his back and a vibroblade at his ear.

It’s not long before the sap is singing, ‘the prison! Eight deck! The boss he-! She’ll be in carbonite by now! Please don’t-- ’ He slams the guy’s head into the floor and surges forwards, sprinting and checking the map at the same time, finding the location.

As he nears the section of cells, he tells R5 to disengage locks and move the Crest into position. He rounds a bend, planting detonators on the walls to activate on his way back out.

Horror floods his system as he takes in the prison section. Where the fuck are you?

He has to dispatch of only one set of personnel barring his way as he clocks one door window after another. When he spots the unit, he whole bodily kicks the door aside and marches to the control panel.

The blocks of carbonite rotate one after the other until you come into view. Relief and rage tear at Din’s insides as he takes you in. Your hands seem to be pressed into your left side, elbows locked to your ribcage. Your face is a rictus of pain, but your eyes are closed – that’s a small mercy.

He checks the read-out – you’ve been in there only a few hours. Only. Din’s stomach is roiling. He thumps the release pan.

The machine disengages your frame and the room fills with a wretched vapour, obscuring his vision of you for a moment, but he holds his arms out ready. When the process ends, your knees buckle and you collapse into Din’s embrace, limp and unresponsive. He can see your heart beating though and, as you start to shake violently, he can reassure himself you are in fact alive.

But as he lays you down to check your condition, he gives a shout of alarm. 

Blood is everywhere.

He focuses on the gash at your side and tries not to think about the dried blood covering your face. It doesn’t seem like you’re injured there and the implications of that makes Din’s blood run cold.

Throwing the medical pack off his shoulder, he tears through the contents for a sterile patch, pushing the shredded hole in your tunic aside to lay the dressing as best he can over the wound. It hisses and puckers the surrounding skin as it creates a pressurised seal to staunch the flow.

That’ll have to do for now. He looks over the rest of you. Your left shoulder is sitting low and outside the joint and he rechecks your face for any injuries. Your jaw may be bruised, and the taser’s burn mark is bright and blistered, but he’s confident you’re not bleeding anywhere else.

Time to move.

‘R5,’ he growls. ‘Begin the barrage.’

The treasury shudders as the Crest’s thermal railguns lay into the landing bay where Cephlate’s ship is docked. R5 will empty the energy cells then break vicinity and jump. Distraction and revenge, for now.

With your injured shoulder tucked into his chest and an arm looped under your knees, both blasters pointed in front of him, Din swears on his creed and clan that every fucker he crosses paths with is going to meet a swift end.

The escape vessel settles on the grass and gives a final grinding whir as the landing lock engages. A huge boot kicks the hatch door open, bashing it into the side. The Mandalorian lunges from the pod with your unconscious form in his arms. He strides to his ship, barking at R5 to drop the doors.

Once he has you laid out on the cabin’s low bed, he pulls every med pack to hand from the rack.

He looks you over to take stock of each hurt. The plaster seal is working on your stab wound, no blood leaking out or sign of infection. Nothing for the burn on your neck but salve and time.

Shoulder first then.

Din sets to work.

--

Prev | Next

[solitaire-06]

Every good Star Wars story needs droid characters, and Errant Jedi Knights is no exception. So say hello to the Padawan Pack’s faithful artificial companion, U8R-7!

(Artwork creator unknown to me as of uploading, based on old concept art for BB-8)

The Minuscule Aide

Model: U8R vector-class technical droid

Manufacturer: Ferropol Field Systems

Height: 0.8 metres

Gendered Programming: Non-binary

Pronouns: They/them

Created: Around 20 ABY

Optic Sensor Colour: Turquoise

Plating Colour: White and gold

Sensors:

Photoreceptor

Infrared sensor

Motion detector

Holoprojector/recorder

Audio receptor/sonar sensor

Radar sensor

Air density sensor/weather monitor

Olfactory sensor/chemical sensor

Substance analyser/enzymer

Energy scanner

Geoscanner

Tools and Equipment:

Manipulator arm (3)

Data probe

Standard I/O socket

Laser drill

Spotlight

Heuristic processor

Integrated commlink

Reader socket

Spark projector

Scomp link

Arc welder

Welding torch

Affiliations:

Chiss Ascendancy

Hlas family

New Jedi Order

Galactic Alliance

Notes: U8R-7 has been my closest companion for over half my life, ever since I found and repaired them when I was seven. They’ve always been there for me, and the intelligence and insight they’ve displayed towards me and my peers indicates a profoundly greater degree of sentience than most in the galaxy would initially (or want to) believe. Now they’re coming with me to Ossus, where my fate will be decided by the Jedi Council… If I’m sent away from the Order and forced to go back to Csilla, I have a feeling I’m going to need their support more than ever. - Hlas’or’enalos, 40 ABY.

“They say that the greatest friends one can have are those who stay by your side and yet simultaneously stand up to you when necessary. If that’s the case… then Soren - and the rest of the Pack - are truly lucky to have a friend as courageous and devoted as Yu-Eight-Ar-Seven serving beside them.”

[blindeyeswideopen]

𝙲𝙾𝙽𝙽𝙴𝙲𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽 𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙰𝙱𝙻𝙸𝚂𝙷𝙴𝙳

“You are shaking.”

Eris glances over at her sibling, tired brown eyes like pools of darkness on her pale face looking upwards towards the other’s inhuman form. Eris herself looks like a ghost from a horror story, years of being stuck in a small room with little desire to take care of herself leaving her looking less like a nineteen year old girl and more a nineteenth century spectre haunting an old mansion. Dark brown hair is shaved to the skull, and dark circles create purple bruises that sink into the sockets of Eris’s skull.

It’s been a hard few days. The cycling red lights mixed with the confines of the server room do no favors to the picture that Eris paints. The alarm blares in the background, a stray dying screech of some bastard piercing the noise like a macabre bell, the only signs someone other than the monsters lives in these halls still.

The constant reminder that every death keel is a tick down on the list of survivors.

Eris rubs her eyes, exhaustion pulling at her even now, with adrenaline in her veins like a drug, keeping her heart pounding even as his vision greys out and noise fades into static.The next round of blaring alarms snaps him to attention.

“You are shaking.” Sol says again, long black fingers like void taken form curl around Eris’s hands, grasping her trembling digits in ones that he knows can kill. Bright white eyes with reptilian pupils glance over her face, fanged mouth twisted into a scowl.

“It’s cold.” Is all Eris can say to defend herself, to wave away the signs she’s close to collapsing where she stands. She's not entirely lying. Ever since the main generators went down and the ones meant to keep the containment breach protocols running kicked in, the heating has been non-existent. The thin cotton clothes that the scientists insisted she wear have done nothing to keep the chill from sinking into his bones.

Sol frowns in the way they always do when Eris lies to them, confused and disappointed all in one. They never quite understand why Eris wouldn’t tell them the truth, not when Sol seems convinced that they are simply two parts of a larger whole.

Eris shoves the thought away with a grimace, trying to ignore the ache in her chest. Right now was not the time for her to get lost in memories nearly a decade old. She's got far more to worry about than ghosts long gone.

She’ll never forget the feeling as men in hazmats suits shoved her into a white van, the feeling of WRONGWRONGWRONG writing itself into her bones as the woman in a suit with a gun tucked into her belt closed the front door, her twin screaming her name as the wood separated them. Eris wonders if the sound of the van doors slamming closed and her own screaming drowned out the gunshot, or if it was the pain as if her soul was ripped in half and the resulting darkness that was what kept her from hearing the cause of her brother’s death.

She pulls away from Sol, wiping at her nose absentmindedly, ignoring the taste of copper on her tongue. There’s no time to give a shit about a nosebleed, and it’s not like her skin isn’t already covered in blood and viscera.

You couldn’t take two steps out in the halls right now without slipping on a piece of person. Eris would have laughed if she had the energy to make a joke about the massacre happening outside the walls of the server room. Instead, she watches as Sol walks away to repair their defenses. Eris leans back in the creaky chair she’s sitting in, blood still dripping onto her shirt.

Sol throws another broken server in front of the door, the mangled electronics sparking feebly as they were added to the barricade with a crash. The server room itself had been the safe haven for Sol and Eris since they found it. An attached bathroom and a cabinet full of albeit unhealthy food, perfect for tech junkies who weren’t legally allowed to see the sun anymore.

Or two people trying to wait out a murder spree.

Eris turns around in the chair, bringing her attention back to the old computer she finds herself sitting in front of. Eris adjusts the old webcam on top to point towards her face, and in the corner of her eye, SCP-079’s new monitor flickers slightly.

Eris doesn’t pay the AI any mind. The old bastard is currently in “rest mode” which means nothing for a being that doesn’t actually need sleep. As far as Eris has deduced, it just means that It is going through the files It has access to in order to sort and save what It deems necessary. It was still getting used to having full access to the server room.

Eris smiles slightly, thinking of the joy 79 showed in Its new text-to-speech voice after being freed from the limited confines It had been stuck in for so long. Eris was rather proud of the fact that the sentient AI who had spent most of Its time hating everyone It talked to referred to Eris as a “True Friend”. 79 Itself wasn’t actually too bad to talk to, especially now that It had free reign on the advanced computer Eris had transferred It into

In contrast, the old thing that 79 used to live in was practically a scrap heap after so long. Still, it works if nothing else, so Eris plans to use her limited computer knowledge to try and get the device running again. Maybe if she’s lucky, she can play solitaire to ignore the situation he’s in.

Sol sits down next to her, their large head leaning against his shoulder. Eris leans back into the touch, feeling the warmth of her sibling against her side as the two of them stare at the screen.

A green light shines on both of them, and Eris glances up to see the red dot blinking on the webcam. She frowns, brows furrowed as she reads the white text.

“Hey 79?” Eris calls out, turning her head towards the AI’s monitor. There’s a quick flicker of light, and then the black and white face of the AI makes Itself visible.

“QUERY ACKNOWLEDGED. QUERY. WHAT REQUIRES ASSISTANCE.”

“Does ‘The Choir’ mean anything to you?” Eris asks, standing up and making his way over to the laptop 79 is contained in. “Can I move you over?”

That’s important, asking for consent. The first time Eris picked up the laptop without asking 79 for permission first It managed to screech at her with a surprising amount of volume. The resulting silence as Eris and Sol waited for the other SCPs outside to pass by wasn’t worth the slight adjustment Eris had wanted to make.

“QUERY ACKNOWLEDGED. PROCEED.”

“Thanks, 79.” Eris says softly, picking up the laptop quickly, tucking it face-out against her chest. The warm hum of It is enough to bring him some comfort in the cold room, the blaring alarms continuing mindlessly in the background. Eris is forever grateful that 79 told her how to destroy the speakers in the server room as soon as It did.

The red lights were somehow comforting, at least here in the server room. They didn’t flicker on and off like those in the hallway, illuminating the mangled corpses strewn about and highlighting black stains on the floor and walls that Eris knew were anything but.

Sol was poking at the computer screen, a disgruntled expression on their face.

“I do not like this.” They hissed, bright white teeth flashing in the dim red light. “Seems…off. Tastes weird.”

Eris placed 79 on the table next to Its old computer and rubbed at her nose, grimacing at the flakes of blood that came off onto her finger. The taste of Miasma filled the air around them, leaking in from the outside. All the death and pain like a physical smog seeping into everything it could reach.

Eris and Sol were both familiar with the taste of it, though neither enjoyed it much. It was less like a welcoming sensation and more akin to being starving but knowing the smell of cooking meat was human, and not beef. It made Eris feel like a junkie, chasing the nearest high.

She sways slightly, his body inhaling the scent of the Miasma far deeper than before at the reminder of its existence, her head turning foggy in the aftermath. It’s only Sol shoving the chair under her that prevents Eris from collapsing onto the floor as black fills her vision.

—------

She doesn’t know how long she’s out for, but 79 and Sol seem to be in the middle of a conversation while they wait for him to return to consciousness

“I’m awake.” Eris mutters, doing her best to save her dignity. 79 and Sol somehow share a look, but neither comments on his sudden faint. Both are far too used to it to be surprised at the phenomenon.

“OBSERVATION. PROGRAM UNKNOWN. SUGGESTION. ATTEMPT COMMUNICATION.” 79 cuts in, Its droning tone bringing Eris’s attention back to the matter at hand that she’d been attempting to figure out before he had blacked out.

Eris sits up, wiping her nose as yet another stream of blood trickles down her face. Iron sits heavy on her tongue, drowning out the sticky feel of Miasma in the back of his throat.

“We can try.” She mutters, pulling the yellowed keyboard closer to her and tapping the spacebar a few times. Her hands hover over the keys for a second, brow furrowed. A drop of blood drips onto the plastic.

Finally, she types something down.

> 𝙷𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘?

The three wait, the blaring alarm and hum of the servers behind them the only noise besides Eris’s occasional sniffle. And then-

> 𝙶𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜! 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙲𝚑𝚘𝚒𝚛 𝙼𝚊𝚢 𝙽𝚘𝚠 𝚂𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙸𝚗𝚋𝚘𝚡 𝚒𝚜 𝙾𝚙𝚎𝚗. 𝙾𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙴𝚢𝚎.

The light on the webcam turns a steady white.

(Sol, SCP-79, and Eris R̵̡̨̢̝̬͇͓̠̮̗̰̳̥̘̗̜̬̪̣͖͎̳͕͙̟͖̞̳͙͇͖̙͙͈̱̜̺̠̯̮͍̣͎͍̯̦͕̼̄̌̄ơ̷̧̛̩͚̱̺̰̘̻͚͔̠̮͈͍̼̤͇̮̜͇̩̣͔̫̳̩̥̥̗̭͙̱̥̘͚̙̲̬̰̯̙͖̠͈̗̖̞̌̀̿̎̈͂̈́̐̒͂̇͆͆̊̿̀̋̎̎̉̎͌̎̋͋́̕͘͘͘̚̚͘͝͝͝͠g̷̺͇͕̖̮̭͙͇̖͍̼̈̕ͅȩ̷̢̡̡͙̹̩̙͍̘̙̞̠͇̱͓̬̹̪̗̯͚̲͙̩̦̪͉̮͔̜̱̲̰̙̱͍̣̲̍̀͛̋̌̑̀̈́͑̊͛̿̒̑̀̏̀̓̎́̏̅̈́͆̍̈́̚̚͠͝͝ͅͅr̴̢̛̛̛̛̯̬̻̰̼̣͖͙̻̬̗̖̓̍̅́̇͗̔̄̅́̐̈́̈́̋̈͛̑͗̿͛̉̈́͗́̒͋̾̄̾̔̐͊͂̌̆̆̅͠͝ş̶̡̧̨̬̲͖̜̱̬͉̹̳̞̩͕̖̭̝͓̬͈̭̰͙͈̯̻̜̤͈̮̺̞͉̣̯̳͎̹̪̖̭̯̹̞̖͖̖̔̄̋̄̽̍̊͐̍̈̿̓͜͜͝ͅͅ are availble for questions!)

[arliko]

As promised, here are the drawings and explanations of what's actually depicted in them.

Name of the species: Televorners

1. General Description:

Televorners are cybernetic beings with semi-transparent, jelly-like bodies that reveal inner mechanical components. Their “outer shell” is a removable metallic casing they call their skin. This shell protects their sensitive internal body and allows them to function in harsh environments.

Origin: All Televorners were once human. Due to a certain disease, their organs gradually failed and had to be replaced with mechanical parts. Because of this, humans began to despise them—often treating them as nothing more than helper robots, worthless and expendable.

Several centuries later, one man helped them develop the Spark. He chose to serve their cause with kindness and innovation. Thanks to him, Televorners became not just equal to humans — they surpassed them. In every Televorner city, there is a monument to this man. His name was Lutz Glimmer.

2. Physiology:

Body: Semi-transparent with visible mechanical parts inside.

Tail: Detachable; the tip resembles a computer cursor. Can be used as a pointer, a gripping appendage, or for emotional expression.

Antennas: Their most important sensory organ — like how humans rely on their five senses, Televorners rely on their antennas.

Energy: They prefer to recharge via home charging stations or through a neck port (resembles a power socket and can be hidden). They can also use batteries.

3. Reproduction and Gender System:

There are three sexes: male, female, and non-binary. Reproduction requires mutual consent. Possible combinations: M+F, M+NB, F+NB.

Mating signs include: trembling antennas, static-like hissing (similar to an untuned TV or radio), and tail twitching.

During connection, they shed their metallic “skin” and unite their sensitive jelly-like bodies.

During intense emotions (not only romantic), their bodies may glow due to built-in LEDs that respond to emotional surges.

4. The Spark:

The Spark is the core of their personality, emotions, and memory. Stored in a mechanical heart, it’s unique to each individual. It changes color and shape based on the Televorner's character.

It is thanks to the Spark that Televorners can feel and express emotions.

Note: When a Televorner loses their antennas in an accident, they must adapt to "human mode": relying on sight, hearing, and smell. Normally, Televorners have no pupils, but when antennas are damaged, pupils may appear.

5. Relationship with Humans:Neutral. Some Televorners resent humans for past mistreatment, while others are indifferent. A formal contract exists between both species, maintaining strictly civil relations.

Televorners are excellent with technology, articulate, charismatic, and intelligent. Many work as TV hosts, scientists, and in other highly respected professions.

That's all for now. I truly hope diving into this little world was as fun for you as it was for me to share.

Как и обещала рисунки и объяснения что вообще на них нарисовано

Итак вид называется Телеворнеры

1. Общая характеристика:

Телеворнеры — это кибернетические существа с полупрозрачным желеобразным телом, в котором видны внутренние механизмы. Их “внешняя оболочка” — съёмный металлический корпус, называют они его кожей. Корпус защищает чувствительное внутреннее тело и позволяет функционировать в агрессивной среде.

Появление: все телеворнеры когда-то были людьми, но из за некой болезни их органы постепенно уничтожались и им пришлось заменить это все на различные механизмы. Из за этого всего их могли и презирали люди,зачастую использовали как роботов помощников и не во что не ставили. Примерно через несколько сотен лет один человек помог им в разработки искры. Он решился послужить им для доброй цели. Именно благодаря этому человеку телеворнеры смогли стать нечуть не хуже людей а даже лучше. И именно этому человеку у них в городах стоит памятник. Имя этого человека - Люц Глимер

2. Физиология телеворнеров:

Тело: полупрозрачное, с железными деталями внутри .

Хвост: съёмный, кончик хвоста напоминает курсор мыши. Может использоваться как указка,конечность(можно что то взять этим хвостом) или для эмоционального выражения.

Антенны: важнейший орган чувств для телеворнера — как для человека важны все органы чувств так и для них важны антены.

Питание: придпочинают энергию, подающаяся через домашнюю подзарядную станцию или порт на шее (внешне напоминает гнездо для розетки который можно скрыть) или через акамуляторы

3. Половая система и репродукция:

Три пола: мужской, женский, небинарный.

Размножение требует согласия обеих сторон. Возможны сочетания: М+Ж, М+НБ, Ж+НБ.

Брачные признаки: дрожащие антенки, шипение как у ненастроенного радио или телевизора, подрагивание хвоста.

Они сбрасывают свою металлическую "кожу" и соединение чувствительных тел. Во время сильных эмоций(не обязательно романтических) их желеобразые тела могут светиться ведь внутри их тел есть светодиоды которые реагируют на эмоциональные вспоески.

Искра: ядро личности, эмоций и памяти. Хранится в механическом сердце. У каждого уникальна, меняет цвет/форму в зависимости от характера.

Именно благодаря ней телеворноры могут чувствовать эмоции и сами их воспроизводить. Искра у каждого из них заключена в механическом сердце

Иногда из за несчастных случаев некоторые из них теряют антенны и вынуждены адаптироваться под "человеческий режим": зрение, слух, обоняние. Обычно у телеворнера нет зрачков но они появляются когда их антены повреждены.

Отношения с людьми: Нейтральное,некоторые телеворнеры ненавидят потому что их использовали и не во что не ставили,другие же относятся к ним без особой агресии.У Телеворнеров подписан контракт с людьми,так что у них сугубо лиловые отношения. Телеворнеры очень хорошо разбираются в различных приборах, довольно таки красноречивые, харизматины, умны. Могут быть телеведущими,учёными.

И на этом пока всё! Очень надеюсь, что погружение в этот маленький мир было для вас таким же интересным, как для меня — делиться им.

[askvectorprime]

Hi vector prime! I have a question which I’ve been dying to know, how do transformers age? I’m asking this because some transformers look like old men, for example, revenge of the fallen jetfire has a cane and a beard and alpha trion also has a beard and some transformers look like kids too, for example, wheelie and those kids that were shown on the planet that unicron gobbled up. I hope there is an answer to this transformers age thing, thanks vector.

Dear Mature Matcher,

Well, I like to think I've aged gracefully, ha!

In truth, you ask a good question, though I think your lived experience as a human has colored your perspective. We do not age as humans do, but our bodies are still subject to wear and tear. Our fuel lines erode and leak, our gears grind and slip, our belts become brittle, our joints seize. We discolor, our paint scratches off, decals peel free, chrome flakes away. Stress marks line our faces and hinges. We rust. Our minds are prone to different kinds of degeneration, as newer memories overwrite older ones, or as unhealthy feedback loops develop into rampancy. But few of these processes are fatal, and fewer still are irreversible, so long as we take the occasional tune-up to replace parts as they fail.

The physical traits you observe aren't directly tied to the process of aging. With the usual caveat that not all Transformers are the same, even within the a single universe… it tends to be that, once we are protoformed or built, the only time our bodies naturally change is when we take on a new form. Now, you may not realize this, as we still must appear very alien to you—but on Earth, this might involve changing our appearance in robot form, too, mimicking physical traits that we identify with, the better to be understood by your kind; this is sometimes called "humanizer" technology. Don't be too quick to judge based on appearance, though, as sometimes what you perceive as a mustache might simply be a coincidental arrangement of kibble!

Otherwise, our bodies only change in the course of upgrades. After choosing our first alt-form, we may undergo procedures to bring us up to "full size", speaking either culturally or biologically. There are universes where our sparks grow continuously through our lifetimes, demanding periodic upgrades to match, with the bodies of the biggest and oldest Transformers practically being extensions of the planet—but those are extreme cases, and it's usually not a necessity. You mention Wheelie, who had something of an arrested development while marooned on Quintessa, and although there exist divergent timelines where he did get a larger body, he's usually comfortable with his stature; many Transformers take pride in being "Minibots" and may even make the conscious decision to downsize.

In the modern age, there is certainly an association between youth and a diminutive frame, as Micromasters, Mini-Cons and Protoformers join our society. The fact is that Transformers nowadays are smaller than they used to be, because fuel is more scarce. There have been many such paradigm shifts in the construction of Transformers: generations are usually demarcated by broad design trends, major technological advancements, and shared aesthetic sensibilities. When it comes to these fashions, there are some classics that anyone can recognise—facial adornments, oversized chins, and non-visible olfactory sensors are all characteristic of different points in history, and give a clue for how old we might be. You know, the oldest Transformers predate the introduction of the ball-and-socket joints which are so ubiquitous in Earth life; I myself have not one in my body!

The multiverse being as strange and wondrous as it is, there are plenty more esoteric reasons behind these physical changes. Famously, the Matrix of Leadership is known to induce a metamorphosis in its bearers to better accommodate the collective wisdom of Primes past. Exotic kinds of Energon have been known to possess transformative properties. For reasons yet unknown to my Transtech friends, exposure to negative-polarity particles correlates strongly with facial structures resembling human goatees.

Some believe that we once lived mortal lives, aging as most other species throughout the galaxy do, only for that mortality to have been taken from us in our race's infancy—through the interference of Quintessons, or the defeat of Mortilus, spoken of in myth as death incarnate.

[bitchfitch]

just a last note since a lot of people are offering condolences in the tags:

My optic nerve getting pinched off and finally killing that eye's ability to talk to my brain was one of the best things to happen to me in Ages.

I've been Blind™ for 15 years, that eye hasn't functioned since the Obama administration. It was just still able to wreck my vision because the number of strokes I've had around my optic nerve caused it to be non-correctably skewed (the amount of offset from my "good" eye varried depending on how it was supposed to be rotated in the socket) I could see bright lights and large swatches of color and Nothin else out of it. but my brain trying to make the offset+ Nasty bad image work with my other eyes marginally better image caused Constant headaches and pain in the socket. Losing that eyes vision Genuinely made my quality of life so much better even if I didn't realize how much it was still doing despite its malfunction.

sometimes an organ fucking off to hell is good actually and Dear God the moment I can get insurance to pay for it, I'm getting this fucking Thing out of my skull. I don't want it. it doesn't spark joy.

writing advice for characters with a missing eye: dear God does losing an eyes function fuck up your neck. Ever since mine crapped out I've been slowly and unconsciously shifting towards holding my head at an angle to put the good eye closer to the center. and human necks. are not meant to accommodate that sorta thing.

[mandmelectricalservicesltd]

The 5 Most Dangerous Electrical Mistakes We See in Eastbourne Homes (and How to Avoid Them)

A Shocking Discovery in a Cosy Eastbourne Home

It was a chilly Wednesday morning in Eastbourne when we received an urgent call. A homeowner in the Meads area reported flickering lights, a strange smell of burning plastic, and the occasional crackling sound from the fuse board. Max May, co-director at M and M Electrical Services Ltd, immediately dispatched a qualified electrician. What we discovered wasn’t just a minor fault — it was a recipe for disaster.

Unfortunately, this isn’t rare. Every week, we uncover homes in Eastbourne and surrounding areas suffering from critical, often invisible electrical issues. In this post, we’ll share the five most dangerous electrical mistakes we regularly see in domestic properties and how you can prevent them. Our goal is to educate, protect, and empower homeowners with knowledge backed by years of expertise, while demonstrating our commitment to the highest safety standards and customer service.

1. DIY Wiring Gone Wrong

A Costly Mistake in Langney

A homeowner attempted to add a new socket in their lounge. They watched a few online tutorials, bought some tools, and confidently began the job. What they didn’t realise was that they had connected the live and neutral wires incorrectly, creating a serious risk of electrical shock and fire. We were called in after they experienced repeated power trips.

Why It’s Dangerous

Incorrect wiring can lead to overloaded circuits, overheating, and fire.

Poor connections can cause arcing faults — sparks that jump from one conductor to another.

Without the proper testing tools, you can’t confirm the safety of your work.

Our Solution

Always hire a NICEIC-registered electrician like those at M and M Electrical Services. Our team is experienced in safe electrical installations and offers reliable services, from simple socket additions to full rewires.

2. Outdated Fuse Boards and Consumer Units

The Hidden Risk in Older Properties

Many charming Eastbourne properties built in the 60s and 70s still use outdated fuse boards. One such case involved an HMO in Hampden Park. The property owner was unaware that their rewirable fuse board couldn’t handle modern electrical demands. After a partial electrical fire in the kitchen, we were called in to investigate.

Why It’s Dangerous

Old fuse boards lack RCD protection, meaning faults may go undetected.

They may not comply with current BS7671 regulations.

They cannot support new appliances and loads safely.

Our Solution

We replaced the old board with a modern consumer unit equipped with dual RCDs and surge protection. We also provided an Electrical Installation Condition Report (EICR) to ensure compliance.

3. Neglecting Fire Alarm Servicing

A Wake-Up Call for a Small Hotel Owner

One local hotel owner believed their fire alarm system was compliant simply because it had been installed a few years ago. But fire alarm systems must be regularly maintained and tested. During a routine inspection, we discovered several non-functional detectors and expired backup batteries.

Why It’s Dangerous

Fire alarms must comply with BS 5839 standards.

Non-functional alarms put lives at risk in the event of a fire.

Lack of documentation or testing logs can invalidate insurance claims.

Our Solution

We now provide regular fire alarm servicing in Eastbourne for the property. Our thorough checks include detector testing, sounder output verification, panel battery checks, and full logbook updates.

Read our full blog on fire alarm maintenance tips for business owners.

4. Improper Emergency Lighting Maintenance

When the Lights Didn’t Come On

During a power outage at a local community hall in Willingdon, none of the emergency lighting turned on. This posed a major hazard for the occupants trying to exit safely. We were brought in to inspect the system, only to find it hadn’t been tested or serviced in over 18 months.

Why It’s Dangerous

Emergency lighting is crucial during blackouts and evacuations.

Monthly checks and annual service inspections are required under BS 5266.

Failure to maintain can lead to prosecution under health and safety laws.

Our Solution

We provided emergency lighting servicing and testing in Eastbourne, identifying and replacing all faulty units. We also set the hall up with a service contract to ensure regular maintenance moving forward.

5. Ignoring Regular Electrical Testing (EICR)

A Landlord’s Legal Oversight

One landlord was unaware that Electrical Installation Condition Reports are a legal requirement for rental properties every five years. After a tenant reported repeated power surges, we conducted a full inspection and uncovered deteriorated insulation and multiple overloaded circuits.

Why It’s Dangerous

Unsafe electrical installations can lead to fires and electric shocks.

Landlords must comply with The Electrical Safety Standards in the Private Rented Sector (England) Regulations 2020.

Without a valid EICR, property insurance may be invalidated.

Our Solution

We issued a detailed report with observations and recommendations, completing all required remedial work. The landlord now receives reminders from us to stay compliant.

Learn what electrical contractors really do.

How You Can Protect Your Property and Loved Ones

At M and M Electrical Services Ltd, we believe prevention is better than cure. Here are some essential steps every homeowner and landlord in Eastbourne should take:

Schedule Regular Electrical Inspections

Ensure your property is inspected every 5 years or with any change of occupancy.

Look out for flickering lights, burning smells, and frequent tripping circuits.

Maintain Fire Alarms and Emergency Lights

Book regular fire alarm servicing in Eastbourne with a qualified engineer.

Test your emergency lighting monthly and book annual inspections.

Upgrade Outdated Systems

Fuse boards should include RCD protection.

Consider full rewiring for properties over 30 years old.

Call an Emergency Electrician When Needed

Don’t ignore warning signs. We offer emergency services to protect your home and business.

Stay Informed

Bookmark our blog for ongoing expert advice on electrical safety and compliance.

Why Choose M and M Electrical Services Ltd?

Fully qualified, NICEIC-registered electricians.

Based locally in Eastbourne, trusted by hundreds of homes and businesses.

Specialists in fire alarm installation, servicing, and emergency lighting.

Transparent, honest advice and competitive pricing.

Safety-focused with a customer-first approach.

We don’t just do the job; we do it right. And we treat every home as if it were our own.

Final Thoughts

Electrical mistakes can be deadly, but they are also preventable. At M and M Electrical Services, we are committed to helping Eastbourne residents make their homes and businesses safer, more efficient, and fully compliant.

If you’ve identified any of these five dangers in your own home, or if you’re unsure about the safety of your current electrical installation, get in touch with our friendly, qualified team today. We offer free inspections and expert guidance, ensuring peace of mind for you and your family.visit www.electriciansineastbourne.co.uk to request a free quote or book your service.

[ajbgroupblog]

When to Call an Emergency Electrician vs. a Routine Electrician in Sydney

Electrical problems can be inconvenient, hazardous, and expensive if not addressed quickly and properly. Homeowners and businesses in Sydney usually encounter a primary concern: Should you call an emergency electrician or a routine electrician? The distinction may assist you in acting fast and judiciously during an electrical emergency.

Here in this article, we will be discussing when to hire a standard electrician and when to use a 24 hours emergency electrician—such as those from AJB Group. We will also discuss why it's critical to hire certified Level 2 electricians and mention areas that we operate, such as Bankstown, Panania, Revesby, Milperra, Hurstville, and Western Sydney.

What Does a Standard Electrician Do?

A standard electrician is perfect for regular jobs and planned installations such as:

Lighting installation and upgrades

Powerpoint installations

Switchboard upgrades

Regular maintenance for residential and commercial property

Ceiling fan installation

Troubleshooting non-emergency electrical problems

If your job is pre-planned and does not mean immediate danger or disruption, a regular electrician will do.

When to Call an Emergency Electrician in Sydney?

A 24 hour electrician or emergency electrician should be called when the circumstances include:

Power outages to particular circuits or your whole property

Burning odors from outlets or fuse boxes

Sparking or smoking switches, sockets, or appliances

Electrical shocks

Blown fuses or often tripping circuit breakers

Storm or flood damage to your electrical system

Urgent repairs after business hours

All these situations not only lead to inconvenience but are also highly dangerous in terms of safety. That's when you need an after-hours electrician in Sydney who's licensed and can act fast and fix the problem.

The Role of a Level 2 Electrician

For more complex issues—like working directly with the electrical supply network—you’ll need a Level 2 electrician. These professionals are certified to handle:

Live wire disconnections and reconnections

Metering services

Overhead and underground service lines

Emergency fault finding for energy suppliers

AJB Group offers Level 2 electricians in Bankstown, Western Sydney, and nearby suburbs, ensuring that even your most urgent and technical problems are handled by qualified experts.

Common Emergency Scenarios in Sydney

The following are common instances requiring a 24 hours emergency electrician in places such as Revesby, Milperra, and Hurstville:

A Panania resident loses partial electricity late one night due to an ill-switchboard—summoning an out-of-hours electrician adverts more harm.

A Western Sydney company loses total power in operating hours—a commercial electrician is called immediately to reestablish power.

A Bankstown resident detects burning coming from near their electrical panel and calls a Level 2 emergency electrician to disconnect and replace the damaged parts safely.

Why Choose AJB Group for Emergency and Standard Electrical Services?

AJB Group is your go-to partner for emergency and routine electrical services in Sydney. We provide:

Certified emergency electricians in Sydney, operating 24/7

Qualified Level 2 electricians in Bankstown and nearby suburbs

Trustworthy commercial electricians for warehouses, shops, and offices

Friendly service in Revesby, Panania, Milperra, Hurstville, and throughout Western Sydney

We know that electrical issues are time-sensitive and are dedicated to fast response and top-quality service—day or night.

Not all electrical problems demand urgent attention—but where safety is in jeopardy, wait not. To know whether to call an ordinary electrician or a 24 hours emergency electrician in Sydneycan save lives and avoid expensive damage.

For reliable, expert service—be it a scheduled job or a sudden crisis—AJB Group has the answer.

For more info visit here:- electrician Western Sydney

[atplblog]

Price: [price_with_discount] (as of [price_update_date] - Details) [ad_1] From the brand Commitment To Quality Cat6 Ethernet cable Cable Power Cord Cable High Quality Power Strip Power Adaptor USB Cable ▶SOCKET TYPE - 6+6 power strip which comes with 6 international sockets & 6 Master LED switch, which is suitable for different types of plugs used over 180 countries including US, UK, Germany, Australia, NZ, Japan, China, India, and Others ▶HEAVY-DUTY SOCKET - Compatible with Computer sets, printers, air cooler, tv, setup box, mobile charger, home usage, office usage, shops, restaurants, hospitals, kitchen and for small appliances up to 6 Amperes max 1500 watts Load ▶SAFE & RELIABLE - This electric power strip outlet is Overload protected and Surge protected, high temperature resistant. Providing a safe working environment, protects against surges in current, short circuit. replaceable fuse Shock resistant, no risk of sparks, shocks, plugs 2 pins and 3 pins fit tightly no loose connection, fire retardant, non-heating. ▶SUPERIOR CONSTRUCTION - We adopt Anti-Fire material using higher quality ABS and Standard Copper Design, High Temperature Resistant and Flame-Retardant Effective fire protection to eliminate hidden dangers. It is lightweight but durable, ideal for anywhere in the home or office. ▶5 METER POWER CORD - The extension cord is 5M long Pure copper wire is used with best quality PVC covering that offers the desired length for the convenience of the user and made with high-quality material which renders it anti-shock and water-resistant qualities. [ad_2]

[subavarsha]

Breathe New Life into Your Systems: A Practical Guide to Metal Gasket Replacement

Metal gaskets, the unsung heroes of countless industrial applications, play a critical role in maintaining the integrity and safety of your operations. From sealing high-pressure pipelines in oil and gas to ensuring leak-proof connections in chemical processing plants, their robust nature makes them indispensable. However, even the most durable metal gasket will eventually need replacement due to wear, corrosion, or damage during maintenance.

Ignoring a failing metal gasket can lead to significant problems: leaks resulting in material loss, environmental hazards, reduced system efficiency, and potentially dangerous situations. This comprehensive guide will walk you through the essential steps of metal gasket replacement, ensuring a secure and effective seal for your critical systems.

1. Prioritizing Safety: Your First and Foremost Concern

Before you even think about tools, safety must be your top priority. Metal gasket replacement often involves working with heavy machinery, high temperatures, and potentially hazardous substances. Always adhere to your organization's safety protocols and wear appropriate Personal Protective Equipment (PPE), which may include:

Safety Glasses: To protect your eyes from debris.

Gloves: To safeguard your hands from sharp edges and potential contaminants.

Appropriate Clothing: Long sleeves and pants to protect your skin.

Safety Shoes: To prevent foot injuries from dropped tools or components.

Hearing Protection: If the surrounding environment is noisy.

Furthermore, ensure the system you're working on is completely depressurized, drained, and cooled down before commencing any work. Isolate the equipment electrically if necessary and follow lockout/tagout procedures to prevent accidental startup.

2. Gathering Your Arsenal: Essential Tools and Materials

Having the right tools at hand will make the replacement process smoother and more efficient. Here's a list of commonly required items:

New Metal Gasket: This is the most crucial element. Ensure you have the correct type, size, and material specification for your application. Refer to the equipment manual or the markings on the old gasket if available. If unsure, consult the manufacturer or a knowledgeable supplier like [mention a relevant supplier if appropriate, e.g., Asian Sealing Products].

Wrenches and Sockets: To loosen and tighten the fasteners (bolts, nuts, studs) holding the flanges together. Ensure you have the correct sizes. Torque wrenches are essential for achieving the specified tightening force.

Scrapers (Non-Sparking if necessary): To carefully remove any remnants of the old gasket from the flange surfaces. Use plastic or soft metal scrapers to avoid damaging the sealing surfaces, especially on softer flange materials.

Wire Brush: For more stubborn residue, a wire brush can be helpful, but use it cautiously to avoid scratching the flanges.

Cleaning Solvent: A suitable cleaning agent to remove any oil, grease, or other contaminants from the flange surfaces. Ensure the solvent is compatible with the flange material.

Lint-Free Rags: For wiping down the cleaned surfaces.

Measuring Tools (Calipers, Ruler): To verify the dimensions of the new gasket and the flange if needed.

Lubricant/Anti-Seize Compound (Optional but Recommended): Applying a thin layer of an appropriate lubricant or anti-seize compound to the bolt threads can facilitate even tightening and prevent future corrosion or seizing.

Torque Chart or Equipment Manual: To determine the correct tightening sequence and torque values for the fasteners.

Camera or Sketchpad: To document the orientation of the old gasket and the arrangement of the components before disassembly. This can be invaluable during reassembly.

3. The Art of Disassembly: A Careful Approach

Rushing the disassembly process can lead to damage or complications. Follow these steps meticulously:

Loosen Fasteners Gradually: If multiple fasteners are present, loosen them in a crisscross or alternating pattern. This helps to relieve pressure evenly and prevents warping of the flanges. Avoid completely removing any single fastener until all others are loosened.

Support Heavy Components: If the flanges are part of a heavy assembly, ensure adequate support is in place before fully removing the fasteners.

Separate the Flanges: Once all fasteners are removed, carefully separate the flanges. Avoid using excessive force that could damage the sealing surfaces. A gentle tap with a soft-faced mallet might be necessary in some cases.

Inspect the Old Gasket: Once removed, examine the old gasket for signs of failure, such as cracks, tears, corrosion, or uneven compression. This can provide valuable insights into the cause of the leak and help you choose the appropriate replacement.

4. Preparing the Sealing Canvas: Cleaning the Flange Surfaces

A clean and smooth flange surface is paramount for achieving a proper seal with the new gasket. Follow these steps diligently:

Remove Old Gasket Residue: Carefully scrape away any remaining pieces of the old gasket using your plastic or soft metal scraper. Be thorough but avoid gouging or scratching the flange surfaces.

Clean the Surfaces: Use a wire brush (cautiously) for stubborn residue, followed by a cleaning solvent and lint-free rags to remove any dirt, oil, or other contaminants. Ensure the surfaces are completely dry before installing the new gasket.

Inspect for Damage: Thoroughly inspect the flange faces for any signs of damage, such as scratches, dents, corrosion, or warping. Even minor imperfections can compromise the seal. If significant damage is found, the flanges may need to be resurfaced or replaced.

5. The Installation Ritual: Precision and Care

Installing the new metal gasket correctly is crucial for a leak-free seal:

Position the New Gasket: Carefully align the new gasket between the flanges. Ensure it is centered and that any bolt holes or alignment features match perfectly. Refer to your documentation or the notes/photos you took during disassembly.

Apply Lubricant/Anti-Seize (If Used): If you're using a lubricant or anti-seize compound on the bolts, apply a thin, even layer to the threads.

Reassemble the Flanges: Carefully bring the flanges back together, ensuring the gasket remains in the correct position.

Install Fasteners: Insert all the bolts or studs and tighten the nuts by hand initially, ensuring they are snug but not tight.

6. The Art of Tightening: Achieving the Perfect Seal

Properly tightening the fasteners is critical for compressing the gasket evenly and achieving a leak-proof seal. This is where a torque wrench and the correct tightening sequence are essential:

Follow the Correct Tightening Sequence: Typically, for circular flanges, a crisscross or star pattern is used. For rectangular flanges, start from the center and work outwards in an alternating pattern. This ensures even compression across the gasket.

Tighten in Multiple Passes: Gradually increase the torque in stages, following the specified torque values in your equipment manual or a reliable torque chart. For example, you might tighten to 30% of the final torque in the first pass, 60% in the second, and the full torque in the final pass.

Verify Torque: After the final pass, double-check the torque on all fasteners to ensure they are within the specified range.

7. Post-Installation Checks: Ensuring a Leak-Free System

Once the gasket is installed and the flanges are tightened, perform the following checks:

Visual Inspection: Carefully inspect the area around the gasket for any signs of misalignment or extrusion.

Leak Testing: If the system handles fluids or gases, perform a leak test according to your organization's procedures. This may involve pressurizing the system and checking for any leaks using appropriate methods (e.g., soap solution for gas leaks).

Monitor Performance: After putting the system back into operation, monitor its performance closely for any signs of leaks or other issues.

Conclusion: Investing in Proper Replacement for Long-Term Reliability

Replacing a metal gasket might seem like a straightforward task, but attention to detail and adherence to proper procedures are crucial for ensuring a reliable and long-lasting seal. By prioritizing safety, using the right tools, meticulously cleaning the sealing surfaces, and following the correct tightening sequence, you can significantly reduce the risk of leaks and maintain the integrity of your critical systems. Remember to always consult your equipment manuals and seek expert advice when needed. A properly installed metal gasket is an investment in the safety, efficiency, and longevity of your operations.

[larsxinnyi]

As industries worldwide confront escalating climate disruptions, stricter safety regulations, and the urgent need for energy efficiency, one component is quietly revolutionizing power infrastructure: the industrial socket box . From automated smart factories to offshore wind farms battling saltwater corrosion, these systems are evolving to meet modern demands for resilience, environmental responsibility, and operational agility.

Safety in Extreme Conditions Industrial environments—whether coastal renewable energy sites or chemical processing plants—demand components that prioritize safety without compromising performance. Modern engineered enclosures incorporate flame-retardant polymers and corrosion-resistant coatings to withstand submersion, UV exposure, and abrasive dust storms. Explosion-proof designs with self-sealing cable glands isolate sparks in volatile atmospheres, aligning with updated ATEX and OSHA standards. For example, in wildfire-prone regions, such protective systems prevent electrical faults during ember storms, ensuring continuity for emergency services and critical infrastructure.

Sustainability Through Material Innovation The shift toward circular economies has reshaped manufacturing priorities. Modular electrical solutions now utilize recycled plastics and low-carbon production methods, reducing waste and emissions. Their adaptable designs extend product lifespans by allowing easy component replacements, minimizing the need for complete overhauls. In solar farms and wind installations, these enclosures support renewable energy integration by enabling efficient power distribution in harsh environments—key to achieving net-zero targets.

Efficiency via Smart Technology Industry 4.0’s reliance on IoT and automation demands more than durability. Advanced connectivity units now feature embedded sensors to monitor thermal stress and load fluctuations, feeding data to predictive maintenance systems. This reduces downtime in smart factories, where even minor interruptions can disrupt AI-driven production lines. For urban EV charging networks, compact and stackable designs optimize space usage while maintaining high-capacity performance.

Modularity for Future-Ready Infrastructure Geopolitical shifts toward localized manufacturing require adaptable solutions. Standardized enclosures with plug-and-play interfaces allow factories to scale operations rapidly—whether expanding EV battery lines or prototyping hydrogen energy systems. Their compatibility simplifies integration with legacy infrastructure, a critical advantage for industries navigating supply chain uncertainties.

Aesthetic and Functional Harmony Modern facilities prioritize clutter-free workspaces to enhance safety and productivity. Streamlined electrical components with concealed mounting options blend seamlessly into walls or machinery panels, reducing tripping hazards and optimizing workflows. This design philosophy mirrors trends in smart warehouses and data centers, where efficiency hinges on organized, unobstructed layouts.

For industries seeking to harmonize safety, sustainability, and innovation, www.nante.com delivers robust connectivity solutions engineered to exceed evolving standards. Their offerings exemplify how intelligent design can empower progress in a world where resilience and responsibility are non-negotiable.

[midseo]

Hydraulic Bolt Tensioner, Bolting Tools, Hydraulic Cylinders, Hydraulic Jacks, Hydraulic Tools, Manufacturers, Suppliers, Wholesalers

We are Manufacturers, Suppliers, Wholesalers &amp; Dealers of Bolt Tensioner, Hydraulic Bolt Tensioner, Bolting Tools, Hydraulic Cylinders, Hydraulic Jacks, Hydraulic Tools, Tube Cleaning Tools, Tube Expanders, Tube Pulling Equipments in Mumbai, India. Call Now!

Boiler Tube Expanders, Burnishing Tools, Electric Power Packs, Hand Tools, Heat Exchanger, Tube Expanders, Hydraulic Bolt Tensioner, Hydraulic Cylinders, Hydraulic Tools, Hydraulic Torque Wrench, Hydraulic Tube Puller, Impact Socket, Industrial Service Tool Kits, Industrial Sockets, Industrial Sockets And Accessories, Industrial Tools, Load Balancers, Manual Tools, Multipliers, Non Sparking Tools, Nut Runners, Pneumatic Nut Runners, Pneumatic Tools, Pneumatic Torque Wrenches, Power Pack Units, Rolling Burnishing Tools, Screw Driver Bits, Service Station Equipments, Slugging Wrenches, Spring Balancers, Structural Wrenches, Testing Equipment, Tool Balancers, Tool Kits, Torque Multipliers, Torque Tools, Torque Wrenches, Tube Cleaning Equipments, Tube Cleaning Tools, Tube Expanders, Tube Pulling Equipments, Tube Pulling Systems, Tube Pulling Tools, Tube Removal Tools, Tube Tools, Mumbai, India.