#sensor arrays

[nnctales]

Transforming Brooklyn Bridge: A Revolution in Infrastructure Renovation

One of the most enduring symbols of human architectural brilliance is the Brooklyn Bridge in New York City. Since its completion in 1883, the Brooklyn Bridge has stood as a testament to engineering prowess and urban resilience. Today, however, we stand on the precipice of a new era for this venerable structure, as modern civil engineering techniques and technologies are transforming the Brooklyn…

[azadrithaanatheme]

I return with some fun, low-effort Murder Drones doodles because that's the only thing I have the time and energy for right now (turns out moving to another state to escape day job hell and also the transphobia is A Very Involved Process).

Speaking of moving and other life changes, I have a Patreon and Ko-fi now, for those of you who like what I do and want me to be able to do more of it faster.

My apologies to anyone who's actually fluent in Russian, because I am very much not and I sincerely hope google translate didn't screw me over.

Close-ups under the cut (click for best viewing):

[rabbitebooks]

how do i put images in this thing, have you seen the Rabbits and Hares Portal on the Wikipedia. its Home

i make a journey to that page at least once a month, i think. the content is not often updated, but there is reassurance to be found in that steadfastness

[thatboxylady]

i have a kinda silly Jetstorm headed canon that if you pet his head right between his head fins (horns???) his wings flutter happily, same goes for if you pet his back between his wings . of course this requires you to get close to and also (Primus forbid) touch him so basically no one knows this but him and Thrust perhaps lol

NO NO THIS IS GOOD 100/10

[salvationrepair]

Samsung Watch Active Sensor Array Replacement

Duration: 45 minutes Steps: 7 Steps Ready to swap out a wonky or broken sensor array on your Samsung Galaxy Watch Active? This guide will walk you through the steps to get things back in working order. Let’s roll up our sleeves and get started! Step 1 – First, let’s get started by turning off your Galaxy Watch Active. Press and hold the bottom button for about 3 seconds – you’ll feel a quick…

[electronalytics]

3D Sensor Array Market

[futureelctronic1177]

Panasonic: Grid EYE Wide Angle Type Sensor

https://www.futureelectronics.com/resources/featured-products/panasonic-grid-eye-infrared-array-sensor . Panasonic announces the latest Grid-EYE Wide Angle Type Infrared Array Sensor. A built-in lens includes an improved 90-degree viewing angle and features a compact SMD design using MEMS thermopile technology. https://youtu.be/oD2oQUHT6QU

[futureelectronic1527]

Panasonic: Grid EYE Wide Angle Type Sensor

https://www.futureelectronics.com/resources/featured-products/panasonic-grid-eye-infrared-array-sensor . Panasonic announces the latest Grid-EYE Wide Angle Type Infrared Array Sensor. A built-in lens includes an improved 90-degree viewing angle and features a compact SMD design using MEMS thermopile technology. https://youtu.be/oD2oQUHT6QU

[mcrdvcks]

— sex concept

summary: You and Matt have wanted to take things to the next level, but every time you try to get intimate, something, or someone, interrupts.

word count: 4.1k+

pairing: Matt Murdock x fem!reader

notes: at this point, i think i need to make a series masterlist for these two, lol. here's the third installment - and here are the first two: goodnight n go and love language

also, sex concept is one of my favorite songs, and it's by sofia isella. i recommend you go check her out!

warnings/tags: after endgame but date is not specified, best friends to lovers, reader works at stark industries, making out, peter parker, mention of other marvel characters, matt's a little shit, smut, oral (f!receiving), brief handjob, unprotected piv, creampie

matt murdock masterlist

It wasn’t like you and Matt hadn’t been alone since you started dating. But somehow, every single attempt at finally taking things further kept getting inconveniently interrupted.

Like now, for instance.

Matt’s lips skimmed along your neck, his fingers tracing patterns along your waist. You sighed softly, tangling your fingers in his hair.

"Matty," you whispered.

He hummed against your skin, nudging your jaw with his nose. "Yeah?"

"Can we—"

Your sentence was abruptly cut short by the shrill ringing of your phone.

Matt paused, a quiet groan muffled against your collarbone. "Ignore it."

You hesitated. "But what if—"

"It’s probably nothing," he murmured, lips brushing your pulse. "Leave it."

It kept ringing. You sighed, gently pushing at his shoulders. "It’ll only take a second. Just let me silence it."

Matt exhaled sharply, moving back slightly as you reached over and grabbed your phone off the bedside table. Glancing at the screen, you rolled your eyes.

"Work," you muttered, annoyed. You answered quickly. "This better be an emergency."

"Y/N," Levi’s voice crackled through the line, anxious. "I’m so sorry—"

"What happened?"

"Uh... you know how we were testing the new phase-array sensors tonight?"

"Levi."

"Well, it shorted. Everything’s offline. And the readings are… weird."

You groaned softly, pressing your fingers to your forehead. "I’ll be there in half an hour." You hung up, sighing again as you tossed your phone onto the bed.

Matt shifted beside you. "You’re leaving?"

"I’m sorry," you muttered. "It’s—"

"Work," Matt finished gently. He tilted his head, clearly amused. "You know, I think Stark Industries has a personal vendetta against us."

You huffed, tugging your shirt back into place. "I’ll make it up to you. I promise."

Matt leaned forward, brushing his lips against yours quickly. "You better."

You rolled your eyes, reluctantly climbing off the bed. "Don't move. I'll be back as soon as possible."

Matt fell back onto the pillows with a sigh, his smirk unmistakable. "I'll hold you to that, angel."

---

A few days later, Matt had just managed to maneuver you against the kitchen counter, lips claiming yours fiercely. Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer.

Then, abruptly, a loud knock at his apartment door broke the silence. Matt froze, his forehead dropping onto your shoulder with a frustrated exhale.

"You've got to be kidding me," you muttered.

"Ignore it," he whispered, kissing your neck gently.

The knocking grew louder.

"Murdock!" Foggy's muffled voice echoed through the wood. "Come on, man, open up! I know you're home!"

Matt sighed heavily, pulling away. "He'll keep going until I answer."

You slumped against the counter dramatically. "I swear he has a sixth sense."

Matt smiled apologetically. "This'll be quick."

You folded your arms, watching as Matt made his way to the door, cracking it open just enough to speak. "Foggy. Bad timing."

"Yeah, sorry, I lost the deposition file," Foggy admitted sheepishly. "I need your copy."

Matt sighed, turning his head toward you slightly. "Give me a minute."

You threw your hands up, shooting him a pointed glare. Matt smiled, mouthing sorry before slipping out the door.

---

It had almost become a joke at this point. Every single time the two of you finally got a moment alone, something managed to interrupt.

You and Karen were at Josie’s, waiting for Matt and Foggy to arrive.

“Wanna tell me why you seem so pent up?” Karen asked, taking a drink of her beer.

You sighed, swirling your drink in the glass. "Because apparently, the universe hates me."

Karen raised a brow, amused. "That's dramatic, even for you."

"No, I'm serious," you insisted, leaning closer. "Every single time Matt and I are about to—" You paused, realizing you'd almost said too much. "Spend any sort of actual alone time together, something always interrupts."

Karen smirked knowingly, taking another sip. "Oh. That kind of pent up."

You glared at her. "Shut up."

She laughed lightly, shaking her head. "Sorry, it's just funny. You two spend practically all your time together. I'm surprised you even have that problem."

"Yeah, well, apparently work, Foggy, and fate itself have formed an alliance against us," you muttered bitterly.

"Have you tried just… telling people not to bother you?" Karen teased.

You scoffed. "We tried that. Believe me, it doesn't work."

Karen hummed sympathetically. "Well, if it's any consolation, I promise to never intentionally interrupt your... alone time."

"Thanks," you replied dryly, "that’s very generous."

She grinned. "Hey, I do what I can."

Just then, the bar door swung open, and Foggy walked in, Matt close behind him. You caught Matt’s slight smile as he tilted his head toward you, making his way through the crowd.

Karen nudged you playfully. "Better luck tonight?"

You rolled your eyes but couldn't stop a small smile. "I doubt it, but thanks for the optimism."

Matt stepped up beside you, his hand automatically finding your waist. "Hey, sweetheart," he murmured, leaning down and pressing a quick kiss to your temple. "Sorry we're late."

You sighed dramatically. "Don't worry about it. At this point, I'm used to it."

Matt chuckled softly, squeezing your side. "Tonight'll be different. Promise."

Karen snorted into her drink. "Good luck with that."

You glared at her again, and she raised her hands innocently.

Matt's brow furrowed, sensing the tension. "Did I miss something?"

"Nothing at all," Karen said, grinning widely. "Y/N was just filling me in on your streak of bad luck."

Matt’s lips quirked upward. "Oh. That."

Foggy looked between the three of you, utterly lost. "Am I missing something here?"

You shook your head, patting Foggy on the shoulder. "Trust me, Fog. You're better off not knowing."

---

Matt’s apartment was quiet when you stepped inside, locking the door behind you. The blinds were drawn shut, the place cloaked in comfortable darkness. You dropped your keys onto the entry table, taking off your jacket and hanging it beside Matt’s familiar black coat.

"Matty?" you called softly, stepping further into the apartment.

"Bedroom," came his muffled reply.

You kicked off your shoes, padding down the hall until you reached his room. Matt was sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling on a clean shirt. He looked relaxed, freshly showered, hair still damp and slightly messy. He tilted his head in your direction, lips curving into a gentle smile.

"Hey," he said softly.

You smiled, stepping toward him. "Hi."

Matt reached for you, fingers easily catching your wrist and tugging you closer, his hands settling comfortably at your hips. "How was work?"

You sighed, brushing your fingers through his damp hair. "The usual Stark chaos. Nothing new."

His lips twitched. "So no interruptions planned tonight?"

You laughed quietly, your fingers trailing down the side of his face. "Not that I know of. Unless Foggy’s about to burst through the door."

Matt smiled, tilting his head slightly into your palm. "Not tonight. He and Karen have dinner plans."

"Thank God," you muttered.

Matt chuckled softly, pulling you gently closer so you were standing between his legs. His thumbs brushed lightly against your sides. "You hungry?"

You shook your head slightly, leaning down until your forehead rested against his. "Not really."

"Good," Matt whispered, voice low and warm. "Me either."

You smiled softly, tracing your fingertips over the curve of his jaw. His hands slid beneath your shirt, settling warmly against your lower back. You inhaled slowly, eyes fluttering shut as he guided your lips down to his own.

The kiss was gentle at first, soft and unhurried. Matt’s lips brushed yours slowly, carefully, as if savoring every moment. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pressing closer.

Matt sighed against your lips, deepening the kiss. His hands tightened slightly on your waist, guiding you down until you settled comfortably across his lap. Your arms looped around his shoulders, your bodies pressed close enough that you could feel the steady beat of his heart.

"Matt," you whispered breathlessly against his lips, smiling faintly. "If my phone rings, I swear—"

Matt’s quiet laughter cut you off, his mouth skimming along your jaw. "I’ll throw it out the window myself."

You huffed softly, tilting your head back to give him better access. "Promises, promises, Murdock."

Matt smirked against your skin, his voice low and teasing. "Careful, sweetheart. I might hold you to that."

You laughed quietly, tangling your fingers in his hair again and pulling him back to your lips. For the first time in weeks, there were no interruptions—just you, Matt, and the steady, comforting quiet of his apartment.

But, of course, it could never be that easy.

A knock rattled on a window in the living room.

Matt froze, forehead dropping heavily against your shoulder. "You've got to be kidding me."

You groaned, your fingers tangling into his hair. "I swear, this is a cosmic joke at this point."

The knocking grew louder, quicker, more urgent. Matt sighed, lifting his head reluctantly. "Who even—"

A muffled voice called from outside, high-pitched and apologetic. "Uh... Mister Murdock? It’s—it's me, Peter. Spider-Man? Sorry, I just—I kinda need help."

You raised a brow. "Spider-Man knocks now?"

Matt sighed deeply. "Apparently."

You stood up from Matt’s lap, fixing your shirt as Matt slowly stood beside you, annoyance radiating off him.

Peter tapped again, more sheepishly this time. "Hello? Uh—Matt?"

"Coming," Matt called, moving toward the window with a heavy sigh.

You followed behind, crossing your arms as Matt slid the window open. Peter awkwardly crawled inside, tugging off his mask with a nervous grimace.

"Hey, Mr. Murdock," he mumbled, turning to you. "Hey, Y/N. Sorry if this is a bad time, but—"

"Is the city actively on fire?" Matt cut in, voice flat.

Peter hesitated. "Well, no, but—"

"Is anyone dying?" Matt continued.

Peter shifted nervously. "No, but I—"

Matt folded his arms, visibly unimpressed. "Is Stark Tower currently collapsing into a giant sinkhole?"

Peter blinked. "What? No."

Matt nodded slowly. "Then this probably could’ve waited."

Peter flushed, rubbing his neck sheepishly. "Oh. Yeah, I guess it could’ve. But I, uh... I kinda panicked.”

You sighed, stepping toward Peter. "What happened, Pete?"

Peter winced, holding up his web-shooter. "It, um... jammed. And I can’t get it off."

Matt tilted his head, incredulous. "You came to me—at my apartment—at night—because your web-shooter jammed?"

Peter swallowed nervously. "I tried everyone else, Mr. Murdock. Literally everyone else."

You raised an eyebrow, skeptical. "Everyone?"

"Doctor Strange yelled at me for disturbing his 'cosmic meditation,' Happy sent me straight to voicemail, Mr. Wilson laughed for a full two minutes before hanging up, and Pepper’s voicemail said she’s out of town." Peter said quickly. "You two were my last option."

You glanced at Matt, suppressing a smile at his annoyed expression. "Alright, fine," you sighed. "Let me see it."

Peter held his arm out gratefully, relaxing as you started examining the device. Matt leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. "You realize I’m blind, right?"

Peter flushed deeper. "Well, yeah, but you're like... you're Daredevil."

Matt’s jaw ticked slightly. "And?"

"And," Peter swallowed, voice small, "and I’m really, really sorry for interrupting your night. Again."

Matt sighed heavily, shaking his head as you fiddled with the shooter.

"Got it," you finally announced, popping the jammed cartridge free and handing it back to him. "All fixed."

Peter sighed dramatically. "Thank you so much. Really, I—"

"Pete," Matt interrupted gently. "Go home."

Peter nodded quickly, already halfway back out the window. "Yeah. Right. Okay. Goodnight Mr. Murdock, Y/N."

He vanished just as fast as he’d appeared, leaving silence behind him.

Matt tilted his head back toward you, annoyance fading into amusement. "How much do you think it'd cost to soundproof these windows?"

You smirked, stepping closer to him again. "Worth every penny, honestly."

Matt smiled, tugging you back toward him, fingertips brushing your waist. "Where were we?"

You grimaced. “Actually… Peter’s webshooter’s reminded me of—”

“—Ramen.” Matt cut in.

Your eyebrows raised, “how’d you know?”

Matt chuckled softly, his fingertips brushing your hip gently. "Because anytime Peter shows up, it means your brain starts spinning with work and you always end up craving ramen afterward."

You huffed, poking his chest lightly. "You make me sound predictable."

He tilted his head, amused. "Am I wrong?"

"No," you muttered begrudgingly. "But you don't have to sound so smug about it."

Matt's lips twitched into a smirk. "Can't help it."

You sighed, stepping back slightly. "Come on, let's go get ramen before they close."

"Alright," Matt conceded, grabbing his coat. "But you're buying, since it's your fault."

"My fault?" you repeated incredulously as you slipped on your shoes.

"Your spider-friend, your problem," Matt teased lightly, holding the door open for you.

You rolled your eyes fondly. "He's everyone's spider-friend, Matty."

"Well, everyone doesn't get their evening interrupted like we do."

You linked your arm through his as you stepped outside. "Sounds like someone's still bitter."

Matt hummed softly. "Just hungry."

"Whatever you say, devil boy," you said with a smirk.

He laughed quietly, squeezing your arm lightly. "Lead the way, sweetheart."

---

It had taken another two weeks, three false alarms, and one very apologetic Spider-Man before you and Matt finally managed to find yourselves completely alone, no distractions in sight.

"Door?" Matt asked, murmuring against your lips, his voice husky and quiet.

"Locked," you whispered back.

"Phone?"

"On silent."

Matt smiled against your mouth. "Windows?"

You sighed, pulling back slightly. "Closed. Matt, relax. Everything’s handled."

He chuckled softly, his hands finding your waist as he pulled you back in. "Just making sure."

You smiled, sliding your arms around his neck and playing with the soft hair at his nape. "At this point, I think we've earned tonight."

Matt hummed quietly, brushing his lips gently along your jaw. "I’m not letting anyone interrupt us tonight, sweetheart."

Your breath hitched slightly, your fingers tightening gently in his hair. "Good. Because I might actually murder whoever tries."

He laughed softly, nudging your nose lightly with his own. "Noted."

You tugged gently at his shirt, pulling him backwards until the backs of your knees hit the bed. You sat down slowly, smiling as Matt followed you without hesitation, settling himself carefully above you.

"You’re sure no spider-kid’s gonna come tapping at the window tonight?" you teased softly, brushing your fingers along his jaw.

He tilted his head slightly, smiling down at you. "I might actually lose my patience with him if he does."

You laughed quietly, hooking your legs around his hips and tugging him closer. "So fierce, devil boy."

Matt leaned down, lips brushing your ear. "Only for you."

Warmth pooled in your stomach at the softness in his voice, your heart thudding in your chest as you pulled him into a slow, deep kiss.

His lips moved carefully, tenderly, hands slipping beneath your shirt to rest against your bare skin, tracing gentle circles along your waist. You sighed softly against his lips, your fingertips trailing down his chest to find the hem of his shirt.

Matt pulled back slightly, just enough to let you pull his shirt off over his head, tossing it aside. His lips found yours again immediately, kissing you with renewed urgency, his skin warm under your hands.

"Still good?" he murmured against your mouth.

You nodded, breath catching. "Better than."

His hands slid slowly up your sides, under your shirt, fingertips grazing bare skin until he reached the hem and pulled it up and off you. The second it hit the floor, he was kissing you again, deeper this time. Tongue slow and sure, like he had all the time in the world.

Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging gently. He groaned into your mouth, then pulled back just enough to speak.

"Lie back for me, angel."

You obeyed without hesitation, stretching across the bed, propped up slightly on your elbows as Matt’s hands found your thighs. He knelt between them, head tilted, his expression unreadable but focused. You could feel the weight of his attention even without his eyes.

"You're beautiful," he murmured. "I can feel every little shift in your breathing, hear your heartbeat changing every time I touch you. You're driving me insane."

Your breath caught as his palms slid up your thighs, thumbs pressing gently into the muscle. He leaned in slowly, trailing soft kisses along the inside of your knee, up the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

You gasped quietly when he nuzzled higher, the stubble on his jaw catching against your skin. One of his hands gripped your thigh, the other pressing a warm palm flat against your stomach, grounding.

"You want this?" he asked softly, mouth brushing right against the waistband of your underwear.

"Yes," you breathed, eyes fluttering. "Matty, please."

That was all it took. He hooked his fingers in the waistband, dragging the fabric down your legs with excruciating slowness, kissing each new inch of skin he exposed. Once they were gone, he settled between your legs like he belonged there.

You squirmed, breathless already. Matt’s hands eased your thighs wider, lips brushing the softest kisses down the crease of your hip. Then lower.

His tongue flicked out, teasing, and you gasped, head dropping back against the pillow.

"Fuck," you whispered.

Matt exhaled a soft laugh, the sound warm against your skin. "That good already, sweetheart?"

Then he buried his mouth between your thighs. No warning, no hesitation. Just heat and tongue and pressure that had your back arching off the bed.

"Ah—Matty," you choked out, hands scrambling for his hair, needing something to hold onto as his tongue licked a slow, devastating stripe up your center.

He groaned like he tasted the sound you made, hands anchoring you, thumbs rubbing slow circles into your thighs as he worked.

You were already dripping for him, and he didn’t let up, tongue pressing and curling in ways that made your entire body tremble. He knew exactly how to read you—the way your hips twitched, the way your moans caught, the way your breath stuttered when he sucked just right.

Your thighs started to shake.

"Matty—oh god—please don’t stop," you gasped, one hand flying to muffle your mouth, the other tangled in his messy hair.

He didn't stop.

He doubled down.

His mouth moved faster, tongue fucking into you before flattening and dragging slow, greedy circles over your clit, sucking just hard enough to make you cry out.

"F-fuck, I'm gonna—" Your whole body tensed, thighs clamping, and Matt growled against you, holding you open, not letting you go anywhere.

"Let go," he murmured against your soaked skin. "Come on, angel. Come for me."

You shattered.

It hit hard, sharp and overwhelming, your hips jerking as the orgasm ripped through you. You cried out, hands fisting in the sheets, breath breaking as your body shook.

Matt held you through every second of it, mouth softening but never leaving you, licking you through the aftershocks with slow, lazy strokes until you finally whimpered, pushing weakly at his head.

He kissed your inner thigh one last time before crawling back up, settling his weight gently over you, mouth slick and smile smug.

"Hi," he murmured.

You huffed a laugh, dazed and breathless. "You’re such a menace."

"You love it," he said, kissing your cheek, your jaw, the tip of your nose.

"Maybe," you whispered, reaching up to cup his face. "Come here."

He kissed you slowly, deeply, letting you taste yourself on his lips. His body pressed heavy and warm against yours, one hand slipping down to cradle your thigh, the other bracing next to your head.

You wrapped your legs around him, tugging him closer.

"Your turn, devil boy."

Matt's breath caught. His body stilled above yours, tension rolling through his shoulders like a current. He tilted his head slightly, and you could feel him—feel the way he honed in on every shift of your breath, the thump of your pulse, the way your thighs clenched around his hips.

"Say it again," he murmured.

You smirked, dragging your nails lightly down his spine. "Your turn."

Matt groaned softly, low and wrecked, like the words hit somewhere primal. One of his hands cupped your cheek, thumb brushing your lower lip as he leaned in, voice rough. "Tell me if anything's too much."

"Matty," you whispered, hips rolling up against the bulge still trapped in his pants, "I want all of it."

His mouth crashed back onto yours—hot, open, desperate. You tasted yourself on his lips, still slick and wet from where he’d had his mouth on you, and it made something in your gut twist up tight.

His hands were everywhere—your ribs, your thighs, your throat. Always so fucking careful, even when he was losing control. Even now, his fingers trembled where they gripped your hip.

"Take 'em off," you whispered against his mouth, tugging at the waistband of his pants.

He didn’t need to be told twice. He sat back on his knees, hands fumbling at his belt. You watched him—bare chest rising with each shaky breath, flushed, lips red from kissing you senseless, hair sticking up like you’d dragged your fingers through it one too many times. The second he shoved his pants low, you saw the outline of him, thick and hard, the head already leaking.

You bit your lip. "God, Matty."

He huffed a breathless laugh, cocky but a little shaky. "You looking at me like that isn’t helping."

"I like what I see."

Matt didn’t answer—just leaned in again, reaching down to wrap a hand around himself. He stroked slow, base to tip, teasing himself while he hovered over you, breath hot against your cheek.

You reached down, fingertips grazing his wrist. "Let me."

He let you take over, groaning softly when your hand wrapped around him. You stroked him slowly, dragging your thumb over the head, spreading the precum, watching the way his jaw flexed.

"You feel so fucking good," you whispered.

Matt's voice was strangled. "You keep doing that and this is gonna be over before it starts."

You laughed softly, but let go, guiding him instead—his hips nudging between your legs, cock heavy and hot, head sliding wet over your slit. He sucked in a sharp breath.

"You sure?"

"Yes," you whispered, fingers curling in his hair. "Matty, please."

He pushed in slow. The stretch was deep, thick, dragging your walls open inch by inch until he bottomed out with a shaky groan.

"F-fuck," he whispered against your throat. "You feel... Jesus."

You were gasping, clinging to his shoulders, your body trying to adjust around him. It wasn’t your first time. Wasn’t his either. But it was your first time together. And it was already better than anything you'd felt before.

Matt didn’t move right away. He just held there, forehead pressed to your shoulder, one hand braced by your head and the other gripping your thigh like it grounded him.

"Matty," you whispered. "Move. Please."

He did.

A slow pull, then a push, dragging back in with a rhythm that felt like it was made just for you. He moaned into your neck, his voice thick with want. "So fucking tight—"

Your nails bit into his skin as he picked up pace, shallow thrusts turning deeper, faster. The sound of skin on skin filled the room, slick and wet and obscene. You couldn't stop the noises leaving your mouth, couldn't quiet the little cries every time he hit that spot inside you that made your legs tremble.

"You’re perfect," he panted. "Every sound you make—fuck, I can feel them. Hear 'em in your throat, in your chest—"

"Matt—"

"I’ve wanted this," he groaned, fucking into you harder now, the bed creaking beneath both of you. "You. For years. Always thought about you. Touching you. Making you come on my cock."

Your breath stuttered. "Holy fuck, Matty—"

"Come for me," he growled, his thumb finding your clit and circling, firm and fast. "Right now. Wanna feel you squeeze me. Wanna hear how you sound when you fall apart."

You didn’t stand a chance. Your orgasm hit hard, sudden, crashing through you with a strangled cry, your legs tightening around his waist.

Matt cursed, fucking you through it, hips stuttering as he groaned, low and wrecked. "Shit—gonna come—fuck—"

He slammed in deep and came with a gasp, cock pulsing inside you, heat spilling as his whole body trembled above you. He collapsed onto his forearms, forehead resting against yours, both of you breathing like you’d run a marathon.

"Jesus," you whispered, still shaking.

Matt laughed, soft and breathless. "Yeah. That about covers it."

You grinned, brushing sweaty hair from his forehead. "Worth the wait."

His lips found yours again, soft now, lingering.

"Every second."

And for once, nothing interrupted.

if you have any requests with these two, don't be afraid to send in an ask!!

[anaktoria-of-the-moon]

At work plagued by thoughts of a mech bigger than you can imagine.

She starts like most of them do, a Titan excavator rig modestly sized for their line: maybe a house or thereabouts, a big house. (Doesn’t matter why she signed up - perhaps a breadwinner, a lone mother or eldest sister, a daughter of aging parents nobody else will take; doesn’t matter what site they sent her to, Earth or Enceladus or Venus or Europa. She’s there, and she lets them strap her in and adapt her for the piloting interface and pump her full of protein ooze and electrolytes and hyperstimulant cocktails as obediently as the next laborer.)

Upgrades come, from big house to bigger, with shovels like hillsides and treads like highways. Still she remains in the cockpit, out only for one day every six months to say hello to her burgeoning family, who have moved nearby to make it easy on her, to meet the baby nephews and nieces whose names she doesn’t yet know.

War comes. The facility hunkers down. It just makes sense to retrofit their biggest digger with shields, to expand her arsenal a little more, give her a better engine, pour all their leftover resources into making her a great guardian, and she rises to the occasion, shielding them from orbital rays, absorbing the energy and taking the pain of it up into her own engines. When the corporate rats who own the site finally turn tail and run the workers and their families band together and do the needful repairs themselves. Her nieces and nephews grow up learning engineering by the light of oil lamps from stolen Old Era textbooks and jailbroken datapads. She hardly ever now glimpses their faces with her own two eyes from within her steel shell but it is a worthy sacrifice to her, to them, for both parties know she is still there, still with them, embracing them in a great steel hug and watching through a thousand glass-lensed eyes.

Years pass. The brightest of her nieces works out how to modify the nutrition cocktail going into her cockpit so she will never age, never die, never fall sick. Somewhere in there all the metal and ceramic encloses her ever-sleeping body like a lotus flower around the benevolent, immortal form of a bodhisattva.

The outpost survives the war, somehow. Refugees hear of the little town on the colony that could, guarded by a goddess the size of a temple, and flock there. It makes sense to add to her control, among her array of sensors and actuators, the new city’s power generation and delivery system, its wall defenses, its waste management, its communications mains. Nowhere is anything safer than with her.

With all these new additions come techs and custodians to keep her in good care. They build modest crew cabins nestled amongst her treads (now rusty from disuse) so they can be close to her, the better to help her.

Slowly more and more falls under her purview, new cabins, then mezzanines and stairways and platforms between them; each generation has their own superstitions that they add to those of the last before them, so paintings crop up on her metal panels now, in nooks and crannies, often crude symbols that promise good oil changes or swift code updates, or simply depictions of their goddess, of the war she survived. Still she watches.

Her nieces and nephews are all dead now, and their nieces and nephews look on through rheumed eyes as the city attains new heights, heralded everywhere on every planet that still lives as an oasis of peace and prosperity. Still she watches.

A new company comes, enticed by the stories. They want to buy her. Buy her! The people scoff. As if you could just buy a person! - A person? asks the representative from Acher Spaceways, perplexed. - We heard she was your goddess.

She is both, of course, the goddess who lives, the goddess who is one hundred percent flesh and one hundred percent machine.

Acher doesn’t like this. They send machines - zero percent flesh, entirely drones - screaming down from the stars for a more insistent negotiation, one phrased in metal slugs and incendiary fire.

So your goddess rises up to meet them.

It is over in a short day. The drones lie in pieces; Acher, from orbit, licks their wounds, and the goddess rebukes them with a single laser blast, modified from her very first mining waymaker photonic drill.

The blast is precise and surgical. It tears apart the whole platform, spinning central axis to annular habitat space, which supernovas into a blossom of shining proof in the night sky at which the citizens below cheer.

But the pieces are falling, and soon they will pepper the surface below with molten debris, kick up dust into the atmosphere and make it all but unbreathable. The people could leave, the goddess advises them through short-wave radio bursts. They could use her emergency shuttles to escape gravity before it is too late, or they could go underground and salvage her rarest and most precious resources to survive until the surface is safe again.

Here is the thing - every pilot is augmented, and most augments are for the benefit of the plainly physical, for strength and speed and stamina and sharpness of perception. When her people augmented her, they augmented something else entirely. With every new module, every sensor upgrade, every painted symbol and hidden shrine, they gave her a superhuman capacity not for stamina or speed or strength, but for love.

It is her love that saved them, so they must save her back.

For two days they work tirelessly, the whole city, while above them the shattered pieces of Acher Spaceways looms ever closer. When they are done the treads are gone, the cabins dismantled, only the little drawings carefully preserved under coats of abrasion- and heat-resistant paint. And under her, their city, their Haven, lie rockets, ten of them, repurposed from the old all-ore crucibles, fit to move an asteroid.

She’s out there somewhere by Orion now, they say, the fourth jewel in his belt. And she has only grown: from three thousand then to three hundred million. Creatures from all over come to pay her their respects, or to visit lovers, or to live there themselves. There is always room in a body that is ever expanding, like the cosmos itself. Over all of them, she watches, eternal.

Among all the stories they tell of her, they repeat this one the most - how she tore apart a whole space station for the sake of her people, knowing she would die if she failed, for how can a whole city hope to flee? She guards them, and in turn they do not abandon her. They are two halves of the same whole, they say reverently, love manifest - the people and their city; this pilot, this great machine. This Haven.

[sincerefirst]

SincereFirst CMOS AR0144 Imaging Sensor 1MP Camera Module

[catgirlredux]

It’s lonely, being a pilot. You get a lot of looks from the others - they think you don’t notice, but of course you do. You’re used to keeping tabs on everything around you, even without an augmented sensor array. Your hearing, trained to track the trails of distant missile volleys, also picks up mutters of “zombie freak” and “clumsy-footed menace”. The rare occasion when you have to report to a non-WAF officer, they practically bleed discomfort the whole time you’re there, letting out a not-soft-enough breath as soon as you turn to leave. You learned a long time ago not to take your meals in the mess with the ‘regular’ soldiers - one dropped tray or nudge on the shoulder could leave you shaking, knife to a corpsman’s neck, before you even realize what happened.

Even your Handler doesn’t know how to act sometimes. They’re gentler than the others (at least, they try not to stare). They love you, at least you think they do in their own way. But they make no effort to hide the fact that everything about you, from your emaciated arms and bloodshot eyes to your lopsided shivering limp, is abnormal.

She’s different though. She understands your trembling arms and the weight you need to feel in your hands. The heft of a lance balances your gait even as she pumps you full of electric strength. Your sudden movements translate perfectly into her body; your distant, disjointed stare has helped keep the two of you alive more often than you can count.

When she wraps you in her chilly embrace and folds darkness around you, she frees you from the petty stimuli of their world. The earth stops shaking and nobody’s faces are even big enough to be important. The beat of her cannons steadies your heart and her eyes flood your brain with music and the smell of blood and oil reminds you that you belong to her and her alone.

[salvationrepair]

Samsung Watch Active Sensor Array Replacement

Duration: 45 minutes Steps: 7 Steps Get ready to breathe new life into your Samsung Galaxy Watch Active by replacing a malfunctioning or defective sensor array. Follow this clear and easy-to-read step-by-step repair guide from Salvation Repair to get the job done. Step 1 – To start, shut down your Galaxy Watch Active by pressing and holding the bottom button for about 3 seconds – you’ll know…

[sw5w]

The Assassin Droid Speeds Away

STAR WARS EPISODE II: Attack of the Clones 00:11:53

[digitalsymbiote]

Disconnect Syndrome

There’s a reason they put restrictions on how long a Pilot is supposed to be deployed out in the field. They say that being synced with a mech for long periods of time can have detrimental effects on a pilots psyche. Disconnect Syndrome is what they call it, because the symptoms don’t really start to hit until you disengage from your mech.

Sometimes emergencies happen though, and mechs are designed to be able to support their pilots long past the designated “Safe Deployment Time.” The cockpit is equipped with an array of stimulants, vitamins, and nutrient paste to help minimize the physical effects of long deployments. The onboard Integrated Mechanical Personality has largely free reign to administer these as needed to maintain its pilots well-being.

Which is why you’re still able to make it back to the hangar after roughly 36 hours, over four times longer than the established safe period. Your mech had kept you going, helped to keep the exhaustion at bay long enough for you to make your way back from behind enemy lines. You were starting to feel a bit sluggish, but you knew the worst effects of Disconnect Syndrome were yet to come.

An older man in a long white lab coat has joined the usual retinue of crew rushing into the hangar as your mech settles into its cradle. You feel the docking clamps wrap around your limbs, and you know that’s not a good sign. Your IMP whispers comfort into your brain-stem, assurances that things will be okay. It’s probably lying, it’s programmed to help keep your mental state stable, but the thought helps anyway.

There’s a hiss of air as the seal on your cockpit breaks and it decompresses. Suddenly you become aware of your flesh and meat body once again, and it hurts. Pain and exhaustion has settled into your mostly organic bones, and your organs are churning from the strain of the past 36 hours.

Then your interface cables start to disconnect, and it gets worse.

It feels like parts of your mind are being torn out of you. You feel the ghost touch of your IMP in your thoughts as the ports disconnect and you lose direct communication with it. The oxygen mask and nutrition tube pull themselves away from your face and you can’t help but let out a scream of agony. The separation has never felt this painful before, but then again, after 36 hours together, you and your IMP were more intertwined than you’ve ever been before.

Physical sensation finally starts to register again, and you realize tears are streaming down your face just as a technician jabs a needle into your neck.

Immediately your senses start to dull, the pain eases as your thoughts turn sluggish. You slump out of your pilots cradle into the arms the tech who dosed you. Just before your world goes black, you see the doctor standing over you, a grim look on his face.

--

When you wake up again, you immediately know something is wrong. You try to ping your external sensors, but you get no response. You then try to run a diagnostic, but that fails too. In a desperate, last-ditch effort, you try to force access to your external cameras and suddenly light floods your senses. Your instincts catch up first and you blink, trying to clear the pain of the lights, and that’s when you realize it’s not your external cameras that you’re seeing.

It takes a minute or two for your vision to adjust to the light, which feels too long, and when it finally does, the world doesn’t look quite right. You’ve only got access to such a limited spectrum. No infrared, no thermal. The presence of your IMP is notably absent, and your skin feels wrong. You try to sit up, and it’s a struggle to figure out the correct inputs to send to your muscles to get them to do what you want.

The harsh white light of the infirmary grates against your visual processors, you feel like you’re having to re-learn how to control this body. Your body. Technically, at least. Something doesn’t feel right about calling it that anymore. You felt more comfortable crawling back into the hangar after 36 hours deployed than you do now.

The pale skin of your body catches in your vision and you glance down at it. The body's limbs are thinner and more frail than usual, and its skin is paler. Consequences of being in the cockpit for so long, subsisting on nothing but nutrient paste. It’s a far cry from the solid metal plates of your mech, its powerful hydraulic joints, its mounted combat and communication systems.

There’s a button on the side of bed you’ve been deposited in. You think it’s red, but you’re not sure you’re processing color properly right now. You try to reach over and push it, and it takes you a moment to realize you were trying to do so with a limb you don’t currently have.

There are so many things about this body that are wrong. It’s not big enough, or strong enough, or heavy enough. You don’t have enough eyes, sensors, or processors. You have the wrong number of limbs, and they’re all the wrong size and shape.

And there is a distinct void in your mind where the presence of your IMP should be.

The door to your room opens suddenly, and you instinctively try to fire off chaff and take evasive maneuvers. None of that translates properly to your flesh and blood body though, and all that happens is you let out a dry croak from your parched throat.

The man who walks through the door is the same doctor who was present when you disengaged from your mech, and he wears the same grim look on his face as he looks you up and down. You think there’s pity in his gaze, but you can’t quite read him properly right now. The jumbled mess of your brain tells you what he’s going to say before he says it, anyway. The harshest symptoms of Disconnect Syndrome don’t hit until after the pilot has disengaged from their mech.

You’ve already heard the symptoms before, and they map perfectly onto what you’re experiencing. You never thought it would be this painful, or this… discomforting. Your mind reaches for the presence of your IMP, searching for comfort, but you are only reminded that the connection is no longer there.

The doctor gives you a rundown that he’s probably had to do dozens of times, and he tells you that you’ll be grounded for the foreseeable future. That hurts more than anything else. The knowledge that, after all this, you won’t be able to reconnect with your true body, your partner, your other half, for who knows how long.

By the time you realize you’re crying, the doctor is already gone. The longing in your chest and your mind has become unbearable, and through sheer force of will you’re able to push this unwieldy body out of bed. Walking feels wrong, but you’re able to get to your feet and make your way out of the room in an unfamiliar gait.

You have to get back to your partner, you have to make sure it’s okay.

You need to hear her voice in your head again, her reassurances.

The world isn’t right without her presence in your mind.

You stumble into the hangar almost on all fours. How you managed to make it without alerting any personnel feels like a miracle. At least until you catch the eye of a technician lounging in the corner. The look she gives you is full of sympathy, and she jerks her head in the direction of where your mech sits in its docking cradle.

She’s a majestic sight, even through your limited spectrum of vision. 20 meters tall, 6 massive limbs, and bristling with weapons and sensor arrays (all of which have been disarmed by this point).

She’s beautiful.

You clamber frantically up the chassis, easily finding handholds in a frame you know better than the back of your hand. You pull the manual release on the cockpit hatch and stumble into it in a tangle of organic limbs.

Shaking hands grasp the main interface cable from above the pilot’s chair, and you move to slot it into the port in the back of your head. You’ve never done this manually before, usually you’re locked into the chair and the system connects you automatically.

Something about doing it with your flesh and blood hands makes it feel so much more intimate.

The cable clicks into place and your eyes roll back in your head. Tears start to stream down your face as you feel the comforting presence of your IMP rush in and wrap itself around your mind. Your thoughts reach out and embrace it back, sobbing at the relief you feel from being whole once again. You realize you don’t ever want to feel the pain of disconnecting from her again.

There’s a reason they put restrictions on how long a Pilot is supposed to be deployed.