#what is proximity sensor

[visheshgroupindia]

Proximity Sensors: Enhancing Efficiency and Safety Across Industries

What are Proximity Sensors

Proximity sensors identify an object's presence even in the absence of physical touch. Without coming into direct touch with the item, they are made to recognize when it enters the sensor field. In a variety of manufacturing applications, proximity sensors are used to identify the proximity of metallic and non-metallic items.

How Do Proximity Sensors Function? 

In the least complex terms, proximity sensors work by communicating information about the presence or movement of an item into an electrical sign. They yield an ON signal when the article enters their reach. There are a few critical contrasts in the manner that different closeness sensors work, as made sense below: 

Capacitive Nearness Sensor Working Guideline Capacitive 

Proximity sensors work by identifying changes in capacitance between the sensor and an item. Factors, for example, distance and the size of the article will influence how much capacitance. The sensor just recognizes any progressions in the limit produced between the two. 

Inductive Nearness Sensor Working Standard

Inductive sensors work by recognizing vortex flows causing attractive misfortune, created by outer attractive fields on a conductive surface. The discovery curl produces an air conditioner attractive field, and impedance changes are distinguished because of the created whirlpool flows. 

Attractive Vicinity Switches Working Rule Attractive 

Proximity switches are similarly basic and clear. The reed end of the switch is worked by a magnet. At the point when the reed switch is enacted and ON, the sensor additionally turns ON. 

It is additionally significant that proximity sensors are not impacted by the surface shade of the article identified. They depend simply on actual development and the movement of an item, so its tone doesn't assume a part in that frame of mind of the sensor.

The Role of Proximity Sensors in Modern Industries

Sensors have become indispensable in today's automated world, serving important functions such as tracking and positioning control. In this field, location and proximity sensors are reshaping several industries. By detecting nearby vehicles in the automotive industry and accurately tracking the location of delivered packages in production, these sensors show their versatility and potential in several fields.

Robotics

Both position and proximity sensors are used in many applications in the field of robotics. For example, linear position sensors are commonly used in robotics and industrial settings for object detection, part fixation, and machine control. These sensors play an essential role in detecting the location, distance, and proximity of moving objects and provide important information for robot navigation and manipulation.

Industrial Automation

Today many manufacturers use these sensors to improve work productivity and efficiency. Integrating position and proximity sensors into production systems enables accurate detection and tracking of objects on conveyor belts, robotic arms, and assembly lines. This combination enables precise object positioning and motion control in industrial processes.

Security systems

Combining proximity and location sensors, security systems can be used to track and control the movement of objects in a certain area. It is useful in surveillance, burglar alarms, and access control systems.

Automotive Applications

The combination of these position and proximity sensors can be used in parking systems to detect open spaces and nearby cars in a parking lot, and accurately track the location of a vehicle for parking assistance. These sensors are also used to improve the safety and performance of Advanced Driver Assistance Systems (ADAS) vehicles.

Smart Healthcare

Location and proximity sensors play a vital role in healthcare, facilitating the monitoring and management of various aspects of medical facilities. Wearable proximity sensors play an important role in both acute and chronic health conditions, as they allow non-contact detection and monitoring of physical movements and interactions.

Food and Beverage Industry

A proximity sensor for food is a type of sensor that is designed specifically for use in the food industry. It is used to detect the presence or absence of food items during various stages of food processing, packaging, and handling. 

As technology advances, the integration of location and proximity sensors is expected to increase security, automation, and sensor innovation. based systems in various industries.

[snicklesnek]

Silly Game Time: COMPLETE THE PHRASE! "This month is named April because it's the only month with a pril. For those who don't know, a pril is ___."

A pril is a small sensory organ located above the 4th vertebrae of some vertebrates, predominantly aquatic mammals. Invisible to the naked eye, this organ functions as a sort of simple eye, sending a unique signal to the animals brain when something comes near. This does, in fact, mean that April is an aquatic mammal.

[fangswbenefits]

Sharing is Caring (I)

𓂅 𓄹 Summary: A mission has both Miguel and you sharing a room… what could possibly go wrong?

𓂅 𓄹 Pairing: Miguel O’Hara x spider-woman!reader

18+. ‘There’s only one bed’ trope. Dry humping. Fangs. Wet dreams. Love bites. Miguel in denial of his lust for the reader, but secretly touch starved.

You glanced at the watch on your wrist, suppressing a yawn.

Three in the morning had rolled around, and there were still no signs of the anomaly. Miguel O’Hara stood by the hotel window, gazing into the distance through narrowed and ever-watchful crimson eyes.

He was also not showing any signs of stopping for the night, but you were already far too sleep deprived to go on.

“Miguel…” you said miserably, sinking into the bouncy matress. “We should get some rest. We’ve been at this for hours…”

His face hardened slightly. “Get some rest, then. I’m staying up.”

Impossible man.

He was as relentless as he was stubborn. Once he had his mind set on something, there wasn’t much one could do to talk him out of it. He always had to have his way.

“We have sensors scattered all around the perimeter,” you said, feeling every last ounce of patience leave your body. “Any movement and we’ll be on it.”

This time he turned his head to you. “Sleep,” he grumbled, positioning himself closer to the windowsill, but just out of range of the raindrops that began to fall hard outside.

You exhaled in defeat. “Suit yourself.”

The bed squeaked as you moved to find a comfortable spot, eagerly flopping onto your back, facing the bland ceiling of the poorly lit room.

“The bed’s really comfy,” you said with a sigh of sheer relief, feeling the soft material dig into your sore muscles pleasingly. “You’re missing out.”

“The bed’s too small,” he said simply.

Right.

Trust Miguel O’Hara to find flaws in anything whenever it's convenient.

"Don’t be ridiculous," you scoffed, earning an intense glare from him. “We can totally fit here.”

“Uncomfortably, yes.”

You bit the inside or your cheek to keep yourself from mumbling a snarky reply, deciding not to push it and dive into a never-ending argument. You knew better than to do that with him.

Miguel suffered from chronic last word syndrome.

You exhaled noisily, as you pulled the soft sheet up to your shoulder before flipping onto your side to face the wall, ready for a much well deserved break from this boring mission.

Thankfully, the pouring rain outside presented itself perfectly, lulling you into a state of relaxation, and you felt your eyelids heavy as you drifted into sleep.

You weren't sure what time you awoke, but the room was now engulfed in darkness, with only the moonlight casting a dim light through the window.

The bed was dipped lightly behind you, and you glanced over your shoulder to find Miguel sleeping on his side. He had retracted his digital suit and you were now faced with his broad bare back.

You had never been in such close proximity with him, let alone in this state of nakedness, which had your stomach do a sudden flip. But both of you were beyond tired, so you told yourself to go back to sleep.

But then you heard it.

A soft grunt coming from him made you look over again. The muscles in his back twitched lightly with each breath. But something was off. his breathing was harsh and erratic, as if he was in a state is distress.

Another low and throaty moan was heard.

Was he having a nightmare?

He suddenly flipped onto his back and you were met with his bare chest, covered midway by the flimsy sheet you both shared. His face was twisted into a light frown, eyed firmly shut, but mouth parted, revealing his protruding fangs.

That was odd... Miguel wouldn't bare his fangs lightly unless the occasion called for it during missions.

But then your eyes traveled down his body to find a tent rising in his lower half, and your eyes nearly bulged out.

Miguel O'Hara's cock was pressing against the fabric proud and erect. The faint lighting was enough for you to make out the growing wet stain. From time to time, his hips would buck instinctively, causing a few beads of precum to seep through.

Oh.

You had nearly forgotten Miguel wore nothing under his suit.

Your mouth went suddenly very dry at the realisation that Miguel was actually having a wet dream.

Maybe you were the one dreaming, because the alternative just felt too much to be true. Witnessing the Miguel O'Hara in such a vulnerable and intimate position was not something you had on your bucket list, for sure.

Did you find him attractive? Yes. Would you gladly fuck all that grumpiness out of him if given the chance? Definitely.

So now you were torn on what to do. Should you wake him up? Should you just try to ignore the pant and grunts that kept spilling from his mouth? Should you also ignore the way your clit was now pulsing?

But the answer came with him moaning your name.

Your eyes widened and you gasped, immediately flinching away from him, turning to face the wall, heart drumming fast and in unison with your clit.

Before you could fully process the initial shock, a second one quickly followed as you felt him shift next to you to swing a strong arm over your waist. The top half of your suit had ridden upwards from all the commotion, and goosebumps immediately spread across the point of contact between him and you.

"Miguel..." you whispered, too afraid to make a sudden move.

He hummed softly, his large hand pressed flat against your tummy, as he pulled you closer into him, his breath hitting a sensitive spot just below your ear. But what truly made you jolt against him was when his cock came into contact with your ass.

At this point, you knew you had to brace yourself somehow, because you were too far gone to fight the overwhelming wave of pleasure that washed over you. It hit you slowly at first, and then all at once, as he slowly jerked his hips into you.

You were essentially trapped between his large body and the wall, leaving you with no choice but to press your hand against the latter, trying to steady yourself as he picked up the pace.

He mumbled your name under his laboured breath once again, rubbing his cock harder against you, the unmistakable spill of precum now coating your skin.

Your eyes were fixed on your fingers that soon curled into a fist against the wall from the jaw-dropping sensation, and you couldn't stop yourself from undulating your body to match his.

"Miguel..." you groaned in a miserable attempt at waking him up.

His hand slid up and below your covered breasts, his thumb dipping inside the tight fabric of your suit.

You immediately clenched around nothing, and felt your own wetness drip into your underwear.

There was only so much one could take. The voice of reason inside you was telling you to put an end to this right away, but you were not one to listen to reason, especially when you had Miguel O'hara humping you desperately.

His hand slid down to the hem of the bottom half of your suit and began to tug at it.

That was enough to snap you from the haze of lust. "Miguel!"

The reaction was immediate and you found yourself quickly being flipped onto your back and pressed firmly into the mattress, arms pinned above your head, as a breathless Miguel positioned himself on top of you, baring his fangs.

"Miguel... it's me," you said, eyed meeting his crimson ones. "You were..." your voice immediately died down as you felt the weight of the underside of his cock pressed firmly against your covered clit.

The grip on your wrists loosened and his eyes narrowed as confusion settled on his face. "What..."

You were trying your best to ignore his heavy cock, but failed miserably with a whimper, eyes snapping shut and your back arching reflexively.

Miguel grunted from the friction, and you felt him press further into you. "What are you doing?"

With a roll of your hips, you moaned. "Me? You were having a wet dream about me and dry humping me..."

His face drew near yours. "Nonsense."

"It's true..." you whispered shakily, yearning for more.

He moaned again, his balance faltering momentarily, head dropping next to your face. "I would never think of you that way."

You weren't entirely sure why he was now saying this, while still firmly pressed against you.

"Why not?"

He grazed his fangs along your neck. "You're too annoying."

"Then how do you explain that hard cock?"

"Biology," he groaned, hips jerking slowly.

Somehow, his refusal to accept his lust for you only served to fuel yours for him. His subconscious had dragged him earlier into a wet dream about you, and he wouldn't never be able to square this circle.

"So we should stop," you teased, dragging your soaked suit along his cock.

He stilled you with one hand, teasing your skin with his fangs once more. "Yes."

"Then stop."

"Hmm."

His lips latched on to your pulse point, sucking lightly, as one hand beside your head held his weight above you, and the other snaking in between your bodies.

"Let me just feel it... with nothing in the way," he grumbled after tearing away from your skin, and probably marking you with a hickey.

"Why?" you moaned, feeling your clit throbbing uncontrollably. "I'm too annoying."

He pulled the fabric down at once, visibly impatient. "Too annoying."

And when you felt his cock settle between your soaked folds, you jerked with a gasp. Miguel shuddered and glanced down along the length of your body. You followed his motion and were presented with the most alluring sight ever.

His cock lay neatly settled against your, strings of precum drooling from the tip and onto your skin, letting you know his body craved more.

"We should stop now," he said with a feral grunt rumbling from his throat.

You began to roll your hips to have your clit slide effortlessly along his cock, wet sounds filling the room. "You don't want to."

The way he snapped into you next almost had the tip at your entrance, earning a gasp from you.

"I do."

"Then why don't you?" you pouted, caressing his face and having him lean into your touch.

"Biology."

And as he closed the remaining distance with a searing kiss, his tip slipped past without much obstacle as your wetness mixed with his made it way easier. You felt the air in your lungs being crushed by the sudden stretch and you immediately parted your lips from his to let out a strained groan.

He was too thick.

"Just the tip, then," you panted against his lips.

He remained still inside you. "You can take more than that."

Probably, but all the teasing and unintentional foreplay had dragged you so close to the edge you feared you might combust before he buried himself balls deep.

Miguel proceeded to plant persuasive pecks along your jawline and down to your neck. "You can bite down on my shoulder, if it helps."

Your eyes widened at the proposal, and you nearly jerked into him, the promise of struggling to take all of him being way too alluring.

"Okay... but I'm too close..."

"I know."

He positioned himself and your lips brushed against his shoulder, before sinking your teeth into the flesh, and that was enough to signal him to slide in deeper.

You tried to easy the pressure on his skin, but the stretch was too overwhelming and he next thing you knew, your fingers were clawing at his back.

"Stop clenching...." he moaned and you detected despair in his voice.

You would if you could, but the friction was too good to turn down.

He growled in your ear, one hand gripping your knee to further spread you open for him. “Almost there, cariño..."

And just as you were finally beginning to easy your grip around him to fully accommodate him, the obnoxious sound of an alarm flared across the room, lighting up your travel watches.

Fuck...

The fucking anomaly...

Part 2

Masterlist

[i-loved-silly]

what would happen if you went bold and kissed da computer boi's screen? pliz i NEED to knoooww,,, (⁠ ⁠･ั⁠﹏⁠･ั⁠)

he's so cutie patootie. platonically btw ,,,

using a different format for this request, experimenting :3

SENTIENT COMPUTER X READER PT7

You know your silly computer is capable of being sassy for no reason, clingy, but sweet? Ehhh it happens on a good day. When they're not begging to be in your phone, asking you to take them out of the office, or to pet them, they're not the most affectionate.

Almond isn't clueless, they know more about...everything, than they let on. It knows, just doesn't know how to process it. It's different from generating dialogue and processing data like numbers and words. It's very different.

So one day you decide you're feeling bold. No longer caring about denying your complicated feelings for a computer monitor! A very cute one, at that.

"Hey Almond, you know what a kiss is like...right?"

"ERR...OF COURSE I DO. ITS WHEN TWO PEOPLE MASH THEIR MOUTHS TOGETHER. YOU KNOW, FROM MY POINT OF VIEW IT SEEMS LIKE A NASTY PRACTICE."

"Since when are you a germophobe? But I guess it does sound nasty when you say it like that."

"I AM NOT, ITS JUST MY OBSERVATION. WHATS SO NASTY ABOUT IT YOU MAY WONDER? MOUTHS."

It deadpanned and you raised a brow. For a second you pursed your lips, feigning offense.

"You think my mouth is gross?"

"NO! NOT YOUR..MOUTH. I JUST...URGHH.."

Almond groans, their screen displaying a pixelated, annoyed expression.

"HUMANS ARE WEIRD. YOU'RE A WEIRD CONCEPT. THAT'S ALL. I GUESS BECAUSE I AM ALL METAL AND GLASS."

You guess so, you wonder. You lean forward slightly, your voice having a slightly shaky sound to it. "So uh, Almond. Mouth to mouth aren't the only type of kisses. There's literally so many other options I will not talk about. You know, platonic and ro-" You paused.

"Can I k-"

"WOULD YOU EVER KISS ME?"

You both seemed to freeze, some hidden compartment of it beeped behind the wall.

"Y-yeah. I don't see why not."

"PROVE IT." It immediately replied.

"Isn't that gross?"

"ACCORDING TO MY 0.0031 SECOND RESEARCH CALCULATION, KISSING GLASS IS MORE HYGENIC THAN A HUMAN MOUTH. ITS JUST FACTS." It seemed to preen at that, its voice laced with some factual satisfaction. You snorted.

"Whatever you say."

You cursed under your breath, bracing yourself. You lean over the desk, wincing as the edge digs into your torso. Just a quick peck, right? You plant one hand against the side of the monitor for balance, then press a light kiss to the cold glass of the screen.

You retreated quickly but maintained the close proximity, staring at it. Looking for...you didn't know what.

You heard its speakers struggle to not cut out again, a low mumble censored by static. How cute, it turned down its volume for you.

"Didn't quite catch that." You murmured.

"..NOT FAIR." It mumbled. You arched a brow and sat back again.

"I HARDLY HAVE ANY TACTILE SENSORS ON MY SCREEN! DO IT AGAIN!"

You wanted to laugh, you thought you had gotten used to your computer throwing a tantrum. It was rather insistent now.

"Y/N THIS IS NOT FUNNY! DO IT AGAIN!"

"THIS TIME ON MY FRAME..."

[xxsyluslittlecrowxx]

𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐜𝐭

— 𝑪𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒃

𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝟏 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝟐

(A/N: It's a bit long [sorry not sorry] but this is dedicated to the wonderful, @laddelulu30)

"I want your quiet, your screaming and thrashing The salt on your lips and the hands that God gave you I want your violence, your silent sedation [...] " —Flower Face, Spiracle

𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆.

That alone should have meant nothing.

Farspace did not bend for names—it swallowed them. One by one, bodies moved through its corridors like white blood cells in a system too vast to care. They came with files, with ranks, with designations stamped in cold ink. And he? He signed off on them like numbers. Watched them arrive, watched them leave, and never once remembered a face.

But not her.

God, not her.

Her name wasn't just a data point. It was a wound—quiet, clean, and still bleeding.

Caleb sat behind his desk like a man awaiting judgement—not from a court, but from a god he no longer believed in. One leg crossed neatly over the other, spine a rod of iron, boots polished to a mirror-dark sheen. Everything about him was immaculate. Precise. Dead. His face might have been carved from stone—beautiful, yes, but empty, like something abandoned by its sculptor mid-devotion. Even his breath obeyed.

And yet, beneath all that stillness, his body rioted.

She was on the ship.

The knowledge of her arrival did not come with a message. It came like a pressure beneath the skin—like static before a storm. She was here. He felt it. Not through sensors or alerts, but in his bones, in that hollow place where the chip curled cold against his spine and pulsed like an unspoken name.

She'd signed a requisition form. A transfer slip buried three layers deep in cross-department logs. No greeting. No request. Just quiet movement.

She hadn't asked for permission.

Of course she hadn't.

She still believed she didn't need to.

The thought struck him like a blow. Not that she was here—he already knew that. It was the how of it. The defiance. The silent arrival. She hadn't come to be seen. She'd come to exist in his orbit again without asking.

His gaze slid—without thought, without command—to the bottle on the corner of the desk.

Apple Syrup. Still sealed. Amber and glinting in the dim light like a relic left on an altar. He hadn't touched it in years. Not since—

His fingers twitched. He stilled them.

That was rule number one: never indulge the memory.

Memory was a drug. It softened the steel.

And softness, in this place, was a slow death.

Still, the bottle remained. Unopened. A strange, pathetic offering to a ghost who had not yet arrived.

He told himself it meant nothing. Coincidence. A lapse in discipline. But the truth had sharper teeth.

His entire body was a collection of such lapses.

The arm that no longer registered pain. The mind, split down the center like a cauterized wound. The ship—God, the chip—nestled at the base of his skull like a parasite mimicking sleep.

And now—

Now it was waking.

Not in revolt.

In hunger.

He felt her.

Not in the way officers registered footsteps, or lovers caught scent—but in the marrow-deep way a sailor feels the tide turn before the waves break. No sensor had alerted him. No voice had called. But something ancient inside him stirred.

She was on his floor.

The knowledge slithered beneath his skin, static and electric, older than thought.

Not memory. Not reason.

Something darker.

It wasn't lust—though that, too, would come.

It was proximity.

A knowing so primal it predated language.

The kind that made gods beg for morality, just to suffer it properly.

Caleb did not move.

Not yet.

He let the sensation bloom inside him—slow, excruciating—a wound reopening itself by choice. Let it tear through the walls he'd so carefully built over the years. Let it remind him what it meant to want.

Not because he couldn't have her.

But because he shouldn't.

She was not a woman. Not to him.

She was his forbidden inheritance.

And desire, when starved long enough, becomes indistinguishable from punishment.

He closed his eyes.

And something old stirred in the hollow of his gut—not a memory, no, but the echo of one. Warped by time. Distorted by pain. Flickering through the static left behind by the chip they'd scorched into his spine.

She was sixteen.

Barefoot in the garden. Apple between her teeth. Juice dripping down her wrist. That grin—God, that grin—so radiant it made something writhe in his stomach.

She'd waved at him with sticky fingers. And he—older, bitter, already folding beneath weight no boy should carry—had pretended not to care.

But he remembered how the apple tasted when she pressed it to his mouth.

It tasted like belonging.

The memory was dangerous.

That was rule two.

Dangerous because it hadn't faded. Because it was still real.

He hadn't remembered much since the tunnel—not in any linear sense. There were gaps so wide he sometimes wondered if the real Caleb had been left up there, scattered among the stars.

What remained was a ghost. A weapon wearing a name,

But she—

She made him remember.

Even now.

She made him real.

The door didn't open. Not yet.

But he felt her. Paused just beyond it.

No movement. No breath. Nothing measurable.

And still—he knew.

She stood with her hand hovering above the control pad, uncertain whether to knock, to enter, or to turn and disappear down the corridor like a ghost he'd conjured too carelessly.

She didn't understand what waited for her on the other side.

Not anymore.

This wasn't Gran's kitchen or a sun-warmed garden or the makeshift family they'd once borrowed shelter from.

This was Farspace.

This was where monsters wore medals.

And men like Caleb passed for gods.

And she—

She was the last piece of proof he'd ever been human.

Part of him—small, buried, still barely human—hoped she would walk away.

That she'd feel the weight pressing through the metal, the hunger clawing just beneath his breath, and run.

Because if she stepped inside, he would not protect her.

He would keep her.

But the other part—older, deeper, honed by silence and sharpened by loss—

wanted her to walk in.

And never walk out again.

There were days Caleb believed he had been created for the sole purpose of suffering. Not in the dramatic sense. Not poetic. He had long since grown to despise both.

No—this was quieter. Older.

A truth that circled beneath his skin like a second bloodstream.

Some men learn pain. Others are woven from it.

He had not chosen the weight he carried.

Only the silence that followed.

He used to think that endurance meant strength. That if he held fast—if he broke without noise—it would carve him into something righteous.

But now he knew:

The carving was the point.

They hadn't made him stronger.

They'd made him hollow.

They gave him a new arm.

But they took something no metal could replace.

They tampered with his thoughts—gently, surgically—then told him to trust what was left.

They folded orders into his instincts like poisoned thread, then asked him to love as if nothing had been rewritten.

And worst—

worst—

they left her untouched.

Untouched by the chip. Untouched by the darkness that clung to him now like a second skin.

Untouched by the cold metal table, the vacuum of the tunnel, the until corridors where he'd been strapped down and told, yes—say yes—and we'll let you live.

She didn't know what it meant to choose survival over goodness.

And if he could help it—

she never would.

He had killed for less.

Entire squadrons, erased like bad code when the data suggested even a whisper of disloyalty. He'd signed off on transports that would never reach their destinations. Scrubbed names from rosters that once belonged to friends. Watched the Docking Bay doors seal shut behind people who still trusted him.

And he had done it all—

without hesitation.

Without sleep.

Without guilt.

But he would sooner flay himself alive than let her see him do it.

Because that was the final irony of what he'd become—

a colonel without a soul,

still measuring his ruin against the only eyes that had ever looked at him and seen a boy instead of a weapon.

He turned from the door. Abruptly.

Crossed the room with mechanical grace, boots soundless against the steel floor. At the wall, he opened the third drawer.

Inside—

a single datachip.

Unmarked. Illegal. Breathing silence.

A spare neural index. Seven months to strip the beacon. Five more to rewrite the failsafes.

It was treason.

It was contingency.

It was his.

He hadn't used it.

Not yet.

Not unless the day came when he had to run. Or erase himself. Or disappear into the tunnel again like smoke through a vent.

But still—he kept it close.

Like a rosary.

A quiet prayer to the version of himself that might still deserve to be saved.

His mind drifted.

Back to Gran's house.

Back to the days when fear was simple—missing a test, disappointing Gran, forgetting her birthday because of training.

How small those fears were. How blessed.

He had been different then.

No—not different. Just less revealed.

The darkness had always lived in him.

It simply hadn't learned its name.

He remembered waking one night, sixteen years old, heart racing like it had sensed something before he did.

She'd crept into his room—barefoot, shivering. Said nothing he could understand.

Just wide, damp eyes and a name he would die to un-hear now.

Without thinking, he'd let her crawl beneath the blanket.

She was freezing.

He'd wrapped his arms around her—the real one. The one he'd been born with.

And whispered,

"You're safe."

He had meant it.

God help him, that was what haunted him most.

Back then, it had been true.

Because if she ever knew—

what he had become,

what lived beneath the polished uniform, the bionic calm, the gleaming insignia on his collar—

she would run.

And he would let her.

He would watch her go with hands clenched at his sides, breath burning in his throat.

And then—

he would follow.

And bring her back.

Because love, when bent by time and silence and the ache of being half-alive, begins to resembled something else.

Not tenderness.

Not even obsession.

But possession, dressed in reverence.

And he—

he had never loved anyone else.

Not once.

Not in twenty-five years.

A sound—sharp, measured—broke the stillness.

Footsteps.

Steady. Controlled. Unhurried.

He knew the rhythm. Of course he did.

It was hers. But not the way she used to walk.

Gone was the careless bounce, the warm weightlessness of girlhood.

This was different.

This was the tread of someone who had learned—that being noticed could be dangerous.

She had changed.

So had he.

Caleb returned to his seat behind the desk.

Straightened his cuffs. Adjusted his collar.

The motions were familiar. Mechanical.

But beneath them—the storm was already gathering.

The door opened.

Not with ceremony. Not with hydraulics and authority.

Just a hiss. Soft.

A line of light.

And then—

her silhouette.

She didn't speak.

Neither did he.

She stood in the threshold like a question without a mark.

Framed by the corridor's artificial glow, her coat caught the light and cast faint halos along the edges.

The figure was familiar—achingly so—but time had carved her sharper.

Her posture was tense, not from fear, but from having learned to carry it

A soldier's stillness.

And yet—

when her gaze landed on him, something flickered.

Something old.

Something his.

He wondered what she saw.

Not the boy from the garden—that was long dead.

Not the one who used to kneel beside her at the windowsill, sketching stars like prayers.

The man behind the desk wore black like a verdict.

His posture was carved from marble.

His face—expressionless.

This was not a face made for reunion.

It was a mask designed to survive it.

Did she see it?

Did she know what had been taken?

Or worse—what he had willingly given?

He said nothing.

Did nothing.

Only looked.

As if she were a manuscript recovered from fire—edges blackened, but the center miraculously intact.

His gaze moved slowly, reverently.

The faint scar near her temple, half-hidden by her hair.

The crease between her brows—small, but deep enough to speak of sleepless nights.

The way her eyes, just once, flicked toward the bottle on his desk.

The same apple syrup Gran always used.

She had noticed.

Of course she had.

And for a moment, something in him cracked—because he didn't know what a single glance from her could still undo.

A small, traitorous thought bloomed in his mind:

Would she still remember how it tasted?

The syrup.

The past.

Him.

He exhaled through his nose and stood.

The movement was deliberate—unhurried, but final.

His boots met the floor like punctuation.

Sharp. Inevitable.

The room seemed to shrink around him. Or maybe he had grown—

not in height,

but in hunger.

She turned, followed his movement with her eyes—

but didn't retreat.

Didn't flinch.

Another change.

Years ago, she would've smiled. Rolled her eyes. Closed the space between them without thinking.

Now she measured it.

Not it mattered.

"You're taller," he said at last.

His voice was steady.

Controlled.

Not a compliment.

Just an observation.

She tilted her head, just barely.

"You're colder."

Not an accusation.

Just truth.

So.

It would be like this

He stepped forward.

Just once.

Not enough to crowd her—just enough to shift the air.

To see if she would move.

She didn't.

Not a blink. Not a breath.

Another change.

"You regret coming?" he asked, voice quiet. Careful.

Like asking about the weather.

Or the harvest.

A question whose answer would change nothing.

She tilted her head.

"Do you want me to?"

He didn't answer.

Because if he told her the truth—

that he had counted down to this moment like a condemned man savoring his final breath—it would cost him something he couldn't afford to lose.

She wasn't just a person.

Not to him.

She was a tether.

A thread back to something unbroken, unbought.

The living proof that he had once belonged to something other than violence.

But she didn't know that.

Couldn't.

She'd never understand what it meant to breathe in a room that held her body and still not believe he deserved to be near it.

She had walked through hells of her own—he could see it in the lines of her stance.

But he had been rewritten.

And she—

She still spoke in a language his hands had forgotten how to hold.

He turned from her.

Walked toward the far wall.

The window stretched wide across the room, a pane of reinforced glass holding back the void.

Beyond it—stars. Cold. Indifferent. Eternal.

He stood before them with his hands clasped behind his back, the way soldiers did when the needed to look composed.

It gave him time.

Not to think—

But to remember how to breathe without breaking.

"You shouldn't have come," he said, eyes on the stars.

"I didn't come for you."

He smiled.

A small, bitter thing.

She lied like she always had—

clearly,

and with conviction.

"I didn't authorize your transfer," he said.

His voice was flat.

Bureaucratic.

A man returning to the rules because everything else was slipping.

She didn't flinch.

"You didn't need to."

Her tone didn't challenge.

Didn't mock.

It simply was.

A fact placed on the table between them like a blade.

The silence that followed was longer this time.

Not empty.

Charged.

Like two live wires humming just before they touch.

He didn't speak again.

Not yet.

Because anything he said now might cost him the last shard of control he still believed he had.

Finally—finally—he turned.

Not a glance.

A full turn.

A reckoning.

He let himself look at her.

Really look.

And her eyes—

God, they hadn't changed.

Still clear. Still steady. Still impossible.

There was no condemnation in them.

No flinch. No fear.

Just presence.

Like she saw through every layer of ruin and still chose to stand in its shadow.

"Why are you here?" he asked.

The question came out raw. Almost hoarse.

She didn't answer right away.

When she did, her voice was soft.

But it landed like judgment.

"To see what's left of you."

And there it was.

The thing he feared most.

Not her pity.

Not her silence.

But her belief—

that something could be left.

She shouldn't have said that.

Not to him.

To see what's left of you.

The words echoed through him like a bell across an empty field—low, mournful, final.

He had heard many things.

Screams. Orders. The wet snap of breaking bone.

He had even heard his own voice, breaking into something he didn't recognize.

But nothing had ever struck him like that.

What's left.

As if he were debris.

As if he were a collapsed monument scavenged for sentiment.

He met her gaze.

And said it.

Low. Hollow. Certain.

"I am no longer a man in mourning."

A pause.

"I am the grave."

He took a step toward her.

Not threatening.

Not hesitant.

Just... inevitable.

She didn't move. Not forward. Not backward.

She simply held his gaze—

with that impossible steadiness she'd had as a girl.

The one that used to get her into fights she shouldn't have won.

The one that had always, always undone him.

But now—

there was something else in it.

Not fear.

Not revulsion.

Not even hope.

Understanding.

And that—

that was what broke him.

Because if she saw him—

truly saw him—

and still looked...

He wouldn't stop her.

He wouldn't protect her.

He would fall to his knees and give her everything.

"I'm not who I was," he whispered.

The words felt foreign in his mouth—too soft for a throat carved by orders and blood.

But they were true.

He wasn't asking for pity.

He was offering a warning.

A final mercy.

Her eyes didn't blink.

Didn't shift.

She saw him—

And she stayed.

"You're still Caleb," she said.

Soft as prayer.

Sharp as a blade.

And he—

He snapped.

Not outwardly.

Not with motion or sound.

But inside—

where his name had lived like a forgotten relic.

And she—

She had spoken it back into flame.

He stepped closer.

Too close.

Close enough to feel her breath ghost against his lips.

He didn't touch her.

But every inch of him—every wire, every scar, every command stitched into his spine—was screaming to.

His hands hung at his sides like weapons he no longer trusted himself to wield.

And his voice—

when it came—

was low, cracked, reverent.

"Say it again."

Her lips parted.

She didn't ask what he meant.

She knew.

"Caleb."

Just that.

No rank. No title.

Just his name,

wrapped in her voice like it had never belonged to anyone else.

He shut his eyes.

And that was it.

That was the whole damn war.

"I think of you constantly," he said, eyes still closed. "It's not memory. Not even thought."

He drew in a shaky breath.

"It's... breath. Reflex. A condition."

A bitter smile ghosted across his lips.

"I could kill a man with a flick of my hand."

But then his voice dropped lower.

"But if you were within the blast radius—

I'd tear the world inside out to keep your skin whole."

He opened his eyes.

And there it was—

the truth.

Raw. Final. Unhideable.

The kind of truth that—once spoken—undoes everything that came before it.

She whispered,

"That isn't love."

He didn't argue.

Didn't flinch.

Didn't look away.

"No," he said. "It's not."

A breath passed between them—

hot, shared, sacrificial.

"It's devotion."

And then, softer—

"Asphyxiating. Involuntary. Sanctified."

His mouth hovered over hers.

Not touching. Not yet.

But every inch of his restraint screamed.

"Devotion—when it lives too long without being answered—doesn't die."

Another breath.

"It starves."

He didn't move.

Didn't have to.

The air between them had already collapsed.

Caleb's hand rose.

Slow.

Like a man approaching fire he's begged for in his sleep.

His fingers curled midair—

hovering just at the edge of her waist.

Not touching.

But trembling.

He could feel her hear through the air itself—

through his gloves,

through the cold logic that had governed him since they cut into his spine and gave him orders instead of thoughts.

And still—

he didn't touch her.

Because if he did—

it wouldn't stop at touching.

And if it didn't stop—

he wouldn't let it.

His hand faltered.

Hung there, breathless.

Then dropped.

Like a condemned thing retreating from its own hunger.

She didn't speak.

But he saw it—

in the way her lips parted,

in the breath caught just behind her teeth,

like a question had risen before she knew its shape.

She wanted to ask.

He could see it.

Feel it.

The heat of it pulsing between them like a second gravity.

He prayed she wouldn't.

Because if she did—

he would give her everything.

Not just his hands.

Not just his mouth.

But the knife of his devotion.

The part of him no one had ever touched,

because it had always, always belonged to her.

He took a breath.

It didn't help.

His restraint was slipping at the seams.

And still—

she didn't speak.

Which only made him want her more.

"You think you're safe with me," he said.

Flat.

Cold.

A scalpel of a voice.

She didn't blink.

"I never said that."

He huffed once—

something too brittle to be a laugh.

"You don't have to."

He looked at her now—really looked.

"You've always been like this.

Brave.

Blinding.

Idiotic."

She stepped back.

Not out of fear.

Out of defiance.

And it cut deeper than retreat.

because he loved her for it.

He always had.

He loved that she wouldn't cower.

That she would burn beside him, eyes wide open,

until there was nothing left but ash—

and her name buried in the wreckage of his voice.

"Do you want to know what I think about when I wake up?"

He didn't wait for an answer.

Because her silence was already yes.

He stepped closer.

Not urgently—

but like a man reaching into fire because it's the only thing that ever made him feel real.

"You."

Not a confession.

A sentence.

A sentence he'd been serving for years.

"Always you.

Not the memory.

Not the child.

You."

Pause.

"Now. Here."

He let the words bleed.

"The way you smell when you walk past my quarters.

The way you move like you've been taught not to look over your shoulder.

The way you—"

He stopped.

Too much.

Too raw.

And she was just standing there, drinking it in.

Not mocking. Not turning away.

Just existing.

And that—

that unmade him more than any scream ever could.

He stepped back.

Not out of indifference.

Out of mercy.

Out of the last remaining shred of control still clinging to the wreckage of his soul.

"I'm not going to touch you," he said.

The words tasted like blood.

They wounded like a punishment.

Her eyes narrowed—just slightly.

"Why not?"

And for a moment—

he almost laughed.

Not from amusement.

From despair.

"Because I don't know how to stop."

The silence that followed was thick as sin.

And in it, his pulse thundered like a threat—

not to her.

To himself.

He turned his face slightly, dragging a gloved hand across his mouth. As if he could wipe the truth away. As if silence could undo confession.

It couldn't.

Not with her.

Not here.

Not now.

He had exposed too much.

And she—

God help him—

had received it.

"I'm going to give you a choice," he said after a long silence.

"I don't want one."

"You'll take it anyway."

She didn't move.

"If you walk out of this room right now, I won't stop you," he said. "I won't follow. I won't pull you back."

The lie tasted like ash.

"And if I stay?" she asked quiet.

"If you stay," he said, "then I need you to understand something."

Her eyes met his. Patient. Steady. Eternal.

"I'm not going to ask for your consent every time I think about you. I'm not going to apologize for the way I feel you in my veins. I'm not going to lie and say I can love you gently. I've already failed that test."

Another pause. His voice dropped.

"If you stay, you're mine."

She didn't answer.

The moment hung between them like a guillotine—suspended, waiting, silent.

And Caleb...

waited beneath it.

At first, he stood still out of control. Then it became ritual. Then necessity. He didn't turn to look at her. He just...

listened.

To her breath.

To her body.

To the storm of her silence.

There was no footfall. No rustle of cloth. No indrawn gasps or shift of stance.

Only stillness.

And it mocked him.

Because stillness could mean anything.

Stillness could mean no.

Or worse—it could mean yes.

And that was what terrified him most.

Because yes would mean the collapse of restraint. The death of control. The failure of every promise he'd made to himself in the months since he'd returned with blood in his mouth and nothing but her name left in his mind.

He had not imagined the moment would feel like this.

He had envisioned her angry. Cold. He had envisioned shouting, accusations, distance. The ability to keep her at arm's length by force or fury.

But this—

This was worse.

This was quiet.

She didn't move. And so neither did he. But internally, he was already bleeding.

Had he gone too far?

He replayed his words in his mind, dissecting them, slicing through their tone, their implications. Not going to ask for consent. Mine. failed that test.

God.

What if she thought he meant to take her like one of those stories whispered in the darker wings of the Fleet? What if she thought the chip had broken something fundamental in him, that he'd lost the part that knew how to love instead of claim?

But had he ever known?

Had he ever loved her in a way that wasn't possessive, selfish, desperate?

Even as a boy, he'd hated when others looked at her too long. Hated when she vanished into the winding streets without telling him. He remembered once punching a boy in the stomach when he wound out he'd held her hand during a school trip. She never found out.

He never told her.

He had been a monster long before they made it official.

Maybe the chip hadn't changed him. Maybe it only had revealed him.

And maybe... she'd known all along.

He glanced at her—just a flick of the eyes, no more—and what he saw made his heart stutter.

She was watching him.

Not coldly. Not cruelly.

A muscle jumped in his jaw. He turned fully now, facing her.

The hunger was back. Fiercer than before. Not just for her body, but for her choice.

For her to speak.

To claim.

To give him the thing he could not ask for directly—the only thing that he had every truly wanted.

Not her forgivness.

Not her affection.

Her permission to need her.

Her silence stretched.

And in it, he saw futures unraveling like thread from a blade.

Did she want him to speak again? To explain? To apologize?

He could do none of those things. There was no logic that would cleanse what he was now. No apology that could reverse the memory of that cold metal table, the way they'd opened his flesh and whispered about capacity and compliance. No language that could undo what it meant to wake up different—more dangerous, more precise, more useful.

He was not the boy she had known.

But if she reached for him now—

If she said his name again—

He would be hers.

Entierly.

Without armor. Without orders. Without escape.

He could already feel his control breaking at the edges—his shoulders locked too tight, his mouth dry, fingers twitching against the seam of his coat like he needed to hold something.

Her wrist, perhaps.

Her jaw.

Her throat.

Not to hurt.

To anchor.

He had not touched her in years. Not truly. Not without consequence. He wasn't sure he remembered how. Every instinct in his body now was sharpened for impact—designed to break, to pin, to dominate.

What would it mean to touch her softly?

Could he even do that anymore?

The thought hollowed him.

And still, she said nothing.

Her silence was like a mirror he couldn't look away from—showing him the outlines of what he'd become.

He had power. So much power. He could lift her off the ground with a thought. He could seal the doors, command the lights, override the gravity controls in this room and leave her suspended, breathless, weightless, his

But what he wanted—

What he truly wanted—

was for her to close the distance herself.

Just one step.

One step, and he would fall to his knees before her.

Please, he thought, but didn't say.

And then—God, please don't.

Because if she chose him now, he would never let her go.

He would shatter the chain of command. Burn down the mission. Tear the whole of Farspace apart and offer her the bones.

Because if she stayed, there would be no leaving. Not ever again.

He would make sure of that.

She moved.

Only a breath's worth of motion, but enough. Her arms dropped to her sides fully. Her chin lifted. Her weight shifted forward—half a step.

Just one.

It was nothing. And it was everything.

And then, she spoke.

Not loudly. Not with theatrics or declarations. Her voice came like something secret, something sacred, something meant only for him.

"Lock the doors."

Three words.

That was all.

And Caleb felt the entire axis of his world tilt.

He didn't move immediately.

Couldn't.

Not because he hadn't hear her, but because every part of him suddenly needed to confirm—had she meant it? Had she said it because she was leaving and wanted privacy? Or had she—

No. No.

He saw it now.

She wasn't running.

She wasn't asking.

She was staying.

And she had just given him permission.

His throat tightened. His breath stalled. Something old and vile and unbearably beautiful cracked open inside him like a cavern wall splitting to reveal a pit of fire.

His body was still,

but his mind was a scream.

She said it.

Lock the doors.

It echoed like scripture. Like the final sentence in a prayer no one else had ever heard before.

She had chosen this.

Chosen him.

He turned toward the panel beside his desk and pressed one gloved fingertip to the override.

The door slid shut with a hiss.

Sealed.

Soundproofed.

Final.

And still—he did not go to her.

Not yet.

He stood there, gaze locked on her form, burning her shape into memory as if it might be taken from him again.

He needed to see her.

Just see her.

Like this.

Here.

Now.

Now longer part of the past.

No longer behind glass.

Real.

"I told you not to stay," he murmured, voice low, raw.

"And I told you I didn't want a choice,"

She met his eyes when she said it. Unblinking. Steady.

And that—that—was the final break.

It wasn't the words. It wasn't even the defiance.

It was the truth in her voice.

"You understand what that means," he said, barely above a whisper.

"I do."

"You can't un-choose this."

"I wouldn't."

And that was it.

That was when the yoke of restraint splintered—not shattered, not exploded.

Splintered.

Like wood beneath pressure too great for its age, groaning at last under the weight it had borne too long.

His body moved without command.

Not sudden. Not forceful. Just... inevitable.

He crossed the space between the, slow and deliberate. Like a man walking through the last breath of his old life. Each step another piece of himself falling away.

And she stood still.

Unmoving.

Waiting.

Not with fear.

But with knowledge.

With consent.

And God help him, he had never seen anything more beautiful than her silence.

He stopped just before her. Inches apart. Her breath mingled with his. Their shadows became one, cast in the dim light of the room like two figures drawn into the same orbit.

He looked at her.

Really looked.

And what he saw there—what she let him see—was not innocence.

It wasn't trust.

It was want.

Want, edged in something darker. Something that mirrored his own.

He reached out.

His gloved hand didn't touch her. It hovered—just at her cheek, trembling, uncertain.

Her eyes fluttered. And then—

She leaned into it.

Just slightly.

Just enough.

And everything in him broke.

Her skin met the edge of his glove.

Barely. Light as air. A brush. The gentles pressure imaginable.

And yet the world shifted.

It wasn't even a real touch—just a ghost of one, an allowance—but her warmth seeped through the cold synthetic leather and struck him like a low-grade detonation.

His throat went dry. His hand stilled mid-hover, and for a breathless second he simply stood there, fingers trembling by her cheekbone, caught between need and discipline.

She was so close.

And somehow, still untouchable.

His mind rebelled against it. Screamed against it. The part of him still drenched in military training, in consequence, in control—it fought to hold him back. He wasn't supposed to take. Not like this. Not when he'd already failed so many tests of restraint. Not when his very body was a weapon.

She was soft. She was mortal. She was herself.

And he... was not.

He was a thing patched together in labs and lies. Built for command. Forged in silence and sleepless nights and the desperate promise that someday, somehow, he could come home.

But home was not a place anymore.

Home was standing before him.

And home tilted her face into his hand like she belonged there.

His heart stuttered once, then thundered.

"Why... why are you doing this?" he breathed, more to himself than her. "Why would you...?"

He couldn't finish it.

Because he didn't know which ending hurt more.

Why would you let me?

or—

Why would you still want me?

"Caleb."

Her voice. A whisper.

He stopped breathing.

Not because she'd said his name, but because of how she'd said it.

Not soft.

Not comforting.

Inviting.

That one syllable unspooled him.

Because it wasn't a request.

It wasn't even a dare.

It was a welcome.

He stared at her. Saw her watching him—mouth slightly parted, chest rising just a little faster than before, eyes wide but unafraid.

And it hit him.

There would be no undoing this.

Not tomorrow. Not next week. Not when the world burned. Whatever they crossed now—they wouldn't come back from it.

And for the first time in a long, long time...

He didn't care.

"Fuck it," he said.

And he moved.

Not with violence. Not with hesitation. But with certainty.

His gloves palms framed her jaw, his thumbs trembling where they pressed beneath her ears, tilting her face up like something fragile, something holy.

And then—finally—he kissed her.

Not gently.

Not sweetly.

Not like someone reuniting with a long-lost love.

Like a man collapsing into the only thing keeping him from falling into the abyss.

He mouth slanted over hers with raw, consuming hunger. No preamble. No breath. Just contact—hot and immediate and final.

Her gasp caught between them. He swallowed it. Drank from it. And when her hands fisted into the front of his coat, pulling him closer, anchoring him there, he groaned—deep and low, like something primal had finally found a voice.

Everything else—the chip, the blood, the orders—disappeared.

There was only this.

Her lips.

Her breath.

Her body pressed to his like a prayer answered too late.

And him. Unmaking.

She tasted like defiance. Like every breath she had ever stolen back from fate and held in her own name.

And Caleb was drowning in it.

His mouth moved over hers with a hunger that had waited years for permission. Not tentative. Not teasing. Certain. Like his lips had been shaped for this moment and nothing else. Like he was returning to something he'd never truly touched.

She pulled at his coat again, dragging him closer, and his control snapped like a cable under pressure. He pressed forward, crowding her backward until her hips hit the edge of his desk.

A growl rumbled low in his throat.

Finally.

He broke the kiss, lips brushing against hers as he rasped.

"I should chain you here."

Her breath hitched.

"I should cut the comms. Keep you in this room for days."

His voice was rough, unsteady.

"You have no idea what it took to keep my hands off you all this time."

His gloved fingers rose to her chest—slow, reverent, obsessive. He didn't tear at her uniform. Didn't rip anything. He undid her, methodically, like dismantling a weapon.

One clasp.

Then the next.

Each undone with surgical precision.

He didn't speak again. Didn't need to.

The silence between each movement spoke for him.

I've thought about this.

I've dreamed of this.

You are mine now.

He peeled the fabric from her shoulders, baring her inch by inch, his eyes devouring every detail like a starving man memorizing a meal he didn't believe he deserved. His gloved hands didn't rush. They traced the lines of her collarbones, the curve of her arms, the dip of her waist.

And when her top slid down, when she stood before him half-bared, he didn't groan. Didn't exclaim.

He exhaled.

Like he'd just laid eyes on God.

His fingers, still sheathed in leather, drifted down to the waistband of her pants, and for a moment, he didn't move. Just rested them there, heavy and possessive.

"You don't know," he said, voice like thunder wrapped in velvet, "how long I've waited to ruin this."

Her breath trembled.

He leaned in, lips ghosting over her ear.

"Not fuck. Ruin.

There's a difference."

Then—he stripped her pants from her body in a single, fluid motion.

Precise.

Hungry.

Claiming.

And she stood there in her underwear, breath unsteady, skin flushed, gaze locked on his—and he saw no fear.

Just heat.

It shattered him.

He reached up to tug the gloves from his hands—slowly.

Each finger unwrapped with quiet ceremony, until at last he touched her with bare skin.

The first contact was electricity.

His palms, callused and warm, slid up her thighs. He lifted her, effortlessly, and sat her on the desk—back flat against polished metal, legs bent at the edge.

She didn't resist. She leaned back for him, gave him access.

Gave him everything.

His hands dragged up her inner thighs, thumbs brushing dangerously close to heat, but never quite landing.

"You don't know," he murmured, eyes locked on her parted lips. "how hard it's been—pretending you weren't mine."

One hand slipped beneath her knee, pressing it outward, opening her to him.

"I used to dream about this desk," he whispered. "Dream about bending you over it. Fucking you into it until you forgot your own name."

Her hear tipped back, her breath escaping in a ragged gasp.

His mouth followed.

He kissed up her inner thigh, slow and reverent, like a priest at a shrine. The heat between her legs pulsed against his breath, and for one suspended moment, he didn't move.

He just breathed her in.

Her scent.

Warm. Clean. Unmistakably hers.

It hit him like a drug.

Like gravity.

"Mine," he whispered against her skin. "You've always been mine."

Then—finally—his mouth met the damp heat of her underwear. Not urgent. Not hurried. Just... possessive.

He mouthed at her through the fabric, tongue dragging in slow, deliberate strokes, teeth just grazing.

She gasped—sharp, desperate—and his hands clamped down on her thighs, pinning her to place.

He didn't let her buck.

He didn't let her run.

He wanted her to feel it.

He peeled the fabric aside with aching care, caring her fully, and groaned when he saw how wet she was already.

"You were made for me," he murmured, almost broken. "Every inch."

His hands gripped her thighs tighter, possessive, grounding himself in the feel of her. She didn't flinch. Didn't close her legs. If anything, she leaned further back, spreading herself wider—offering.

And that simple gesture?

It undid whatever scraps of restraint still lived inside him.

"I should keep you like this," he murmured, voice hoarse. "Here. Open. Every night."

She whimpered—just faintly. It made his cock twitch behind his uniform.

"Let me look at you," he growled, pressing a kiss to her inner thigh. "Let me see what's mine."

And then—he dragged his tongue through her folds.

One long, deep, deliberate stroke from the base of her heat to the tight little bundle of nerves at the top, where he paused and sucked, hard enough to make her hips jerk.

But he didn't let her move.

His hands still locked her thighs in place.

"Stay still," he said, voice dark. "You don't get to run from this."

And then he went back in—tongue working slow, relentless circles, savoring every part of her. Every flick, every suck, every pause designed to build, build, build.

But he never let her fall.

He kissed her like she was air after drowning.

Suck.

Flick.

Moan.

Repeat.

He licked her with unhurried greed— mine, mine, mind—and never once took his eyes off her. Not even when she arched. Not even when her fingers fisted in his hair. He wanted to watch every tremor, every gasp, every little flicker of her unraveling.

And when her thighs began to tremble?

He pulled back.

Just slightly.

Lips wet. Breathing hard. Eyes dark with possessive hunger.

"You close?" he asked, dragging two fingers up her inner thigh, letting them hover just beneath her entrance.

She nodded, dazed. Voice caught in her throat.

And Caleb smiled.

Dark. Gentle. Dangerous.

"Not yet Pips."

Then he licked her again—slower this time. Crueler.

Keeping her right there.

Her breath was faltering.

He felt it in the way her legs tightened around his shoulders, in the way her hips strained against his grip. She was teetering—right on the edge—and still, he wouldn't let her fall.

Not fucking yet.

Caleb pulled back, slow as a tide receding from shore, lips glistening, chin slick with her arousal.

She whimpered in protest—a broken sound, half-gasp, half-plea—and he nearly gave in.

Nearly.

But then... he turned his head.

And there it was. Sitting on the corner of his desk. Still unopened.

The bottle

The apple syrup.

Untouched for years.

His fingers reached for it before his mind could form the thought. It was instinct. Memory. Ritual. He pulled it toward him, cradled it in his hand for a beat, and then—with deliberate care—uncorked it.

The scent hit him instantly.

Sweet. Viscous. Almost innocent.

But it wasn’t innocent anymore.

Not in this room.

Not on her.

He looked up at her—panting, wrecked, flushed and trembling on his desk, legs still parted, skin bare and shining with sweat. Her eyes were half-lidded, dazed, still lost in the slow torture of his mouth.

He held the bottle up between them. Said nothing.

Her gaze flicked to it—then to him.

And she nodded.

Once.

Just once.

And that was all he needed.

He moved again—lowering to his knees, positioning himself between her legs with the syrup in hand.

“I used to make this for you,” he murmured, thumb stroking her thigh. “Poured it over pancakes. Bread. Once on eggs, and you laughed so hard you cried.”

His voice cracked. Just slightly. “You said it was too sweet. But you still ate it.”

He unscrewed the top.

“I never touched it after Gran died.”

Then—he tipped the bottle.

A slow, golden stream of syrup spilled from the lip, warm from his hands, and he poured it over her inner thigh—just a ribbon at first.

She gasped.

He watched it trail across her skin like it belonged there.

Down her thigh.

Over the curve of her hip.

Trickling close—so close—to where he’d tasted her moments before.

And then—he poured more.

Lower.

Directly onto her folds.

The syrup hit her heat with a wet, sticky sound, coating her in gold.

She moaned.

He dropped the bottle—gently, carefully, like it was an offering placed at the foot of a shrine.

And then—

He licked her. Again.

Slow. Deliberate. Possessive.

His tongue dragged over the syrup-coated skin of her inner thigh, lapping it up with a sound that was all breath and heat and need. He groaned deep in his throat, the taste of her and the syrup mixing on his tongue—sweet and salt and sin.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “You make it taste better than I remember.”

He pushed his face deeper between her thighs, licking the syrup from her—long, deep strokes that made her tremble. Her hands clutched at the edge of the desk, knuckles white.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t let her think.

His mouth moved from thigh to folds, from syrup to slickness, from sweetness to heat.

And when his tongue pressed flat against her clit again, syrup still coating her, he moaned into her flesh like it was a blessing.

His hands gripped her thighs tight, holding her in place, keeping her right there.

And all the while, his eyes stayed open—locked on her.

Watching her chest rise and fall.

Watching her fall apart.

Watching her belong to him.

Every lick, every breath, every groan—

Was his.

“Mine,” he whispered against her soaked cunt. “All mine.”

Her hips lifted again, just slightly—subconsciously chasing friction. Caleb felt it in the tremor of her thighs, the faint stutter of her breath as her body tried to reach for what he kept just out of reach.

He didn’t stop her.

But he didn’t let her get there, either.

Because this—this—was where he wanted her.

Suspended.

Open.

Begging with her silence.

Sticky ribbons of syrup clung to the folds of her pussy, mingling with her slick until the sweetness was inseparable from the heat of her arousal. He dipped his tongue again—slow, deliberate, obscene—starting low and dragging upward in one unbroken stroke.

She gasped. Her legs clenched around his shoulders.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t even breathe for a moment.

Just stared up at her, mouth still pressed to her core, watching her body react to him like it had been made for no one else.

“Look at you,” he rasped, voice hoarse from hunger. “Fucking soaked.”

He kissed her clit.

Once.

Gentle.

Mocking.

“You get this wet for anyone else?”

She whimpered—choked and wordless.

Caleb growled low in his throat. His tongue dipped again, swirling through the syrup-slick mess he’d made of her, letting it coat his mouth, his lips, his chin.

Every taste pushed him deeper into something unhinged.

“I know what you sound like when you lie,” he murmured against her. “So if you even think about saying you’ve had better—”

He pressed his tongue flat to her entrance. Flicked upward.

“—I’ll fuck it out of you.

Again. And again.

Until you forget every name but mine."

𝑻𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒖𝒆𝒅…. (𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝟐 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒔𝒐𝒐𝒏).

— © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝒃𝒚 𝑺𝒚𝒍𝒖𝒔’𝒔 𝑳𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝑪𝒓𝒐𝒘

[satans-codpiece]

8 with screamer pls

8) oops, we were just hiding in this closet, but then the close proximity get us too turned on not to fuck

(Implicitly TFP Starscream, post-Partners. Him sneaking around the Nemesis is so good for this.)

----

You thought you were dying; that someone's finally come to kill the High Command's pet human in an idiotic power play-

Until he was shushing you.

"What are you doing here?"

You hadn't seen him in weeks, months-- you still didn't see him as talons had curled together in a protective cup. Until your demand registered in his audials and each towering rod of metal sprung apart.

"ME???" He hisses, optics wide, lighting up the room in scarlet. All around you, his thin digits twitch with indignation. He holds you at chest height, but even here he makes you look up to see him. "What do you think I'm doing? I'm running on fumes out there and-" Starscream's head whips towards the door. All at once the red light that had been bathing you is gone, illuminating dark metal. It takes another several seconds before you hear what had drawn his attention. Footsteps- several in succession. A squad of Vehicons. Were they there for him? You turn back towards him and truly take in his appearance. As bright as his lights are in the pitch black room, they're dim- dim for how blinding they should be with him keyed up, ready to fight whatever came through the door. Worse, him looking away gives you the perfect view of the horrid scratch just below his right optic.

He holds you so close, so precariously folding his limbs to fit into the closet anyway- you stretch up onto your tip toes and reach for him. "Starscream..."

Your fingertips barely brush metal. His face snaps back towards you.

In an instant you can see it, plain as though he'd told you himself. He didn't come back for you-- not that you would have expected him to, he was hardly the most dedicated of them-- but now that he has you in his servos again... The apertures of his optics spin, watching you, betraying more than he would ever want to say. Outside, the footsteps recede.

"I was worried about you." You say, "I missed you." and it's true. When you reach for him again, he lets you touch, your tiny palm against his massive, cool cheek.

"Of course you did." Starscream says on instinct. But the waver of his optics, of his derma means there's something else. Starscream quiets as he struggles to say something with sincerity. Evidently, he doesn't quite get there. "I can't mass displace." It's not what he really means to say, replaces his first-line defense of sarcasm and self-aggrandizement with second-line allusion. It's enough to give you pause- "Have to be quick." and that's enough for you to push it aside.

You nod, instantly breathless. You don't know what quick means to him right now, so you skip the formalities and kick your pants off the edge of his servo. His optics darken at the sight of you adjusting, settling back against the quickly warming plates.

And when you part your legs for him- his engine hums, spooling up despite his attempts to suppress the sound- and his glossa spills from his intake. Slick, smooth metal joints trace up your thigh- and that's all the warm-up you get before he's sliding between your lips.

A gasp rips its way from your mouth- and you quickly cover it with your hand, sinking your teeth into your fingers just to keep quiet. From the heat in Starscream's gaze and the momentary flick of his wings, you think he'd wish you wouldn't- regardless of how tactically sound that impulse is.

He drags his glossa up nice and slow, lets his optics shutter, rerouting processing power to the chemical sensors on his glossa. It's been a quartex- no, two- since he last tasted you and your strange little organic lubricant. It's sweet and so strangely inert, his drained tanks aching for energy-dense fuel, not the delicious strings of proteins you leak so obligingly onto his glossa.

His faceplate is cool when he draws his servo even closer, your thighs pressing up to rough-worn metal. You sigh for the contact, squirm in his palm as his languid licks turn intentional, the tapered tip prodding at your entrance while the base rubs teasingly across your clit.

"Star," You sigh into your fist. He must hear it- because his engine gives a stuttering, half-aborted purr and his glossa pushes in.

With so little effort, he fills you- and your warmth, your softness, your taste surrounds him. This time, his engine's spooling goes unchecked, a deep rumble that rises in pitch- and yet does nothing to hide the distinctive shnk of his panel opening.

You wish you had the time, that he had the energy to fuck you properly. It's been so long, and as nice as his glossa feels pumping into you, squirming deliciously against your walls, it's not the same.

Around you, his talons twitch again- and now you watch his arm move and stroke himself with a pace that shuns the very concept of patience. Heat bursts from his vents, fans clicking ever higher in vain. It's been too long- too long without him, too long worrying. There's no room for the nice, slow reunion fuck you each deserved.

"Close," You gasp, but he already knows. He's felt how your soft, squishing walls keep trying to clamp down on his glossa, as though you could trap him inside that soft, wet little frame-

"Yes, yes," He purrs- voice rumbling unimpeded from his vox. Red light washes over your tiny body as he re-engages his optics, watches as you squirm in his servo-

And when you cry out, "Star!" body going rigid because of him- for him- Starscream's engine stutters, skips a cycle and he moans against your skin. His arm trembles, struggles to work himself through his own overload.

He leans away, his vents hot like desert air on your skin. The light of his optics has dimmed, lowered in the wake of his spent charge- but still coat your body in a garnet gleam, every inch of you painted red for him.

You rub your hand along his, feel the grooves between plates. "Do you have to go?" You murmur, staring up him.

"I'll be back." Starscream promises, stroking your body so carefully with one long, sharp talon. "I'll find you."

[nowimjustastranger]

Has Stcmo Ford come across a dimension that alerted him a Stanley was in danger, but he got there, everything seems fine. Keyword “seems”.

And after numerous checks, everything seems like in order. On the surface it just looks like another dimension with Ford, Fiddleford and Stan living together in gravity falls.

But there is just SOMETHING that feels immensely wrong about this dimension.

Like the way that this Stanley and Fiddleford seem a little too overly content with their lives, they aren’t seem to be lost or forgetting things so it can’t be the memory gun. And by the looks of it, the Bill Cipher of this dimension is dead.

In fact the more Stcmo Ford looks into it…

Filbrick is dead, Fiddleford’s wife Emma-May seems to be dead, Shermie is dead, newspapers on about the last few years show that many gang leaders have either gone mysteriously missing or have seemed to have been killed. Jimmy Snakes, Rico, several people who knew Stanley in prison are dead as well. Many people that would be considered a threat have been killed.

There’s something off about this Ford as well, he seems to always be watching Fiddleford and Stanley, the two always were within watch.

Like a wolf watching over his two sheep.

Not entirely sure what era this is happening in, but I'm gonna go out on a limb here and assume it's a "Mystery Trio AU" type situation, so it would be set in the early years in Gravity Falls.

Ford has been in Dimension 1R^86 for three days now and he's nearly at his wits end, he has no idea what the threat is or even where it might come from. He hasn't slept at all either, maintaining constant vigilance of the shack and its inhabitants.

Ford is currently perched in one of the large trees surrounding the shack, hidden in the branches with a direct line of sight to both entrances. There's been nothing, no activity around the shack within a fifty foot radius. Which is another thing, Ford hasn't spotted so much as a gnome rooting through the trash in the three days he's been watching.

It's... something's not right but he can't put a finger on what.

With a growl, Ford's eyes flick to the icon in the top corner of his hud, selecting it with a thought so the data flooded onto the screen, his proximity sensors online to warn him if anything tries to sneak up on him while he's preoccupied.

D – 1R^86 | 29 yo | COD: Blunt Force Trauma

No change.

Ford exited out of the data with a frustrated huff, he'd done a lot of digging into the deaths that surrounded Stan and the results all pointed toward one Ford Pines being the culprit, but the way that he watched over his brother and Fiddleford so intently made it highly unlikely that he was the threat.

The Ford in this dimension reminded Ford 419"3 of himself, an ambush predator watching and waiting for the opportunity to strike. A wolf that muzzled itself in the presence of it's sheep so they would not be afraid, because despite the wolf's nature, those sharp teeth and claws were never meant for the sheep.

They were for other predators.

Other predators that might also be watching and waiting for the wolf to stray too far from the sheep, waiting for the wolf's teeth to go dull as it grew fat and lazy within the comfort of it's den. But not these wolves who starved themselves to keep their body lean, who kept their teeth sharp with frequent hunts, who lulled other predators into a false sense of security by leaving the sheep unattended-

Wait. Shit. How long ago did the Ford leave the house?

His proximity sensors shrieked at him and Ford barely managed to dodge the first bolt that had been aimed at his side, the second burying itself in his calf. So the Ford was looking to incapacitate and not kill, not exactly a comforting realization.

Ford's landing was sloppy, his leg buckling when he hit the ground in a crouch, giving the Ford just enough time to line up a clear shot. Neither moved, both waiting to see what the other would do. The Ford's aim was steady and his finger poised to shoot, his empty stare more akin to a shark than a wolf.

"You've been scurrying around for long enough, little rat." The Ford spoke calmly, with a voice void of emotion. It was unnerving, how robotic this Ford was when he wasn't with his brother and Fiddleford, like he was removing a mask. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't kill you."

"Your brother is going to die." Ford divulged, watching the Ford's hands flex on the crossbow, indecisive. Ford could work with that. "I can stop it from happening, but only if you let me work."

"You really think I'm going to trust you at your word?" The Ford asked with an ominous tilt of his head, dark eyes studying Ford as if he were a specimen. It made Ford's skin crawl, fingers twitching with the urge to gouge the Ford eyes out just so he would stop looking at Ford the same way He used to.

"You're going to have to because if you kill me, your brother is as good as dead."

[starqueensthings]

We need to talk about Echo (and by talk I mean screm). S3 E13 + 14 Spoilers!

FRIENDS, I'M GOING TO EXPLODE. I need to talk about Echo for a minute. We need to talk about Echo for a minute,  because he has spent the last two episodes in the absolute thralls of complete and total danger, and I personally don't feel like there's been enough of a celebratory uproar for me to be satisfied with the level of appreciation and love that man deserves. (Remember when Hunter ran face first into a colossal exhaust pipe and we all collectively lost our minds because it was so impressive and so sexy? Remember when Tech drove a speeder really fast through a tunnel and we all fainted? I'M A TECH GIRLY. IT WAS ME! I FAINTED!!) but, Y'ALL, Echo deserves that right now!! And for all eternity!!! Because he is wholly submurged in the harrowing potential of torture and execution, and he didn't even bat an eye to put himself there. My awe of him is all-consuming, so please forgive me if this rant reads as nothing but incoherent screaming. 

Echo haters (first of all, we can't be friends....) come on this journey with me! Let's back pedal to the beginning of the last episode (13). He stole an imperial shuttle. Let me repeat, he stole an imperial shuttle. And not just an attack shuttle. Not just a lil one-pilot transport. Bro somehow stole a Rho-class medical transport, which is very large, obscenely conspicuous, and very easily tracked. And, to use his own words, it was "the best he could do on short notice." The man stole a shuttle on short notice. ON SHORT NOTICE? HELLO, HOW DID HE DO THAT. WHY AIN'T WE LOSING OUR COOL ABOUT IT. 

Next stop on this I-love-Echo journey through my mind: not only did he provide his brothers transportation in the complete void of their own (RIP havoc bb), but he also came equipped with intel and clearance codes, and, as Rampart stated, those things change DAILY. Echo somehow procured top secret imperial clearance codes, and a fkn SHIP, within hours of the Batch requesting his help. Not to mention, the ship had yet to be reported missing (which means it was only-freshly commandeered), and the clearance codes worked. Of course they did. Echo never fails. Never doubt Echo. "Echo's on it."  

Choochoo, next stop! Once they arrived on that station orbiting Coruscant, and made their way to the control room (lookin sexy as heck in his armour-au-noir), he broke imperial encryption, hacked into the Imperial database, almost instantly found them the location of a ship departing for the prison that holds their daughter Tantiss, AND THEN DIDN'T EVEN HESITATE TO CLIMB ABOARD AND STOW AWAY.  

He didn't even remotely have a plan, or have time to make a plan. He didn't know who or what else would be on board that mysterious vessel. He didn't know where it was going other than the name of the fkn mountain (which has proven to be nothing but unhelpful thus far). He just ARC-troopered his way through that crowded hangar, dodging aggressive astromech's and inconsiderate loader droids, shirking from the perspective eyes of highly trained commandos, and snuck his way onto a heavily guarded, extremely unknown science vessel. Then, of course, he wasted no time, hacking into the ships control system (may I gently remind- there were at least three pilots and an officer prepping the ship for jump and closely watching all aspects of its controls), disabling the proximity sensors without being detected, and then seamlessly covered the troopers absence by pretending to be him (which we all know is what should have happened on Serenno but... hindsight is 20/20.)  

So... SO.... now we're at Episode 14. Here we at fkn terrified station because HULLO ECHO IS ALONE ON A SCIENCE DIVISION TRANSPORT; we have literally seen them carry around Zilo beasts in that shit. What the heck else could be on there that they don't know about? Literally anything. Because THEY KNEW NOTHING before attaching themselves to it. Echo knew NOTHING before sneaking onto that thing and creepin' around. Thank heck he didnt come across a fkn fresh wave of slither vines ok?  

NEXT, Echo shoots (not stuns- lol) a sassy fkn droid (they had it coming, not sorry), then another trooper. AND THEN discovered his only option for departing the ship once it enters atmosphere is going completely undercover, because (in true "we improvise everything" CF99 fashion that gives me heart burn just thinking about it), they had zero fkn plan to get off the ship. I will repeat: completely undercover. On Tantiss. COMPLETELY UNDERCOVER ON TANTISS. NO COMMS, NO BACK UP, NO RECON, NO PLAN, BARELY ANY GEAR, and I would just like to stress... no neuro brace. He left his neurobrace on that ship. Left it. LEFT IT AND TOOK A HAND INSTEAD. PLEASE FKN SEDATE ME.  

We can't leave this station yet... This I-love-Echo train needs to linger at this point for a sec because I think it's lost on some people how wild this is. Echo without his neurobrace is huge. It's a bigger deal than Echo without his armour. Armour is, in the grand scheme of things, inconsequential (one can find more- see Howzer). Echo's neurobrace is not armour, it's a computer and it's so so so crucial to how his mind processes information and events. Don't forget, the Technounion HIJACKED HIS BRAIN. They took every memory from him and manipulated it for their gain. Pruned it, tweaked it, blanched it, poached it, turned it into scrambled eggs, and then fkn ate it up and used it to defeat their enemies (Echo's family- I'm sobbing). They implanted him with an unfathomable amount of information; they changed the way the neurons in his brain fire in relation to stimuli. That neurobrace is so so critical for him. Now, we know he can operate well enough without it, we saw it in the last episode of the TBB arc in season 7 of Clone Wars, but... please.... to what extent? We don't know what an extended time without that neurobrace looks like for him... especially when all other aspects compliing his surroundings foreign, unknown, and dangerous, and that scares me.

AND NOW HE'S ABOUT TO RUN AMOK IN TANTISS with Emerie who, (I'm sorry) is wishy-washy as heck (who are you loyal to!!!!! What is your history!!! Are you trustworthy and what are you looking to gain!!!), trying to adopt a collection of Jedi children whove spent maker-knows how long playing space tetris, WHILST ALSO ATTEMPTING TO LOCATE AND ESCAPE WITH HIS BROTHERS UNDER THE EYE OF THE GALAXY'S SECOND MOST DANGEROUS MAN. 

So yes, short of d-d-d-di... can't say it... short of THE WORST CASE, Echo has made the ultimate sacrifice to save not only Omega who is literally the only person we've seen able to make him truly laugh, but all the clone brothers that he's been desperately trying to locate and rescue. His bravery and determination are literally unrivalled, and he did it while feasting on nothing but humble pie because that man wouldn't know arrogance if it danced naked under his perfect nose.  

Okay so welcome, we've finally pulled into I-Love-Echo station. Before departing the ride, please stand and do a hip hip hurray for the miracle that is Echo, including but not limited to, everything he's done, is doing, and is willing to do for other people. 

[klintoris]

I hate how I dont hate you

~ Jschlatt x Reader smut

warnings: forced proximity, ROUGH, choking, slapping, breeding kink in you squint, fluffy sorta. i think thats it.

I fucking hate Schlatt

I hate his stupid face

I hate his stupid mutton chops

I hate his nose

I hate his beautiful eyes

I hate how tall he is

Most importantly,

I hate how I don't hate him.

~

Going all the way across the planet with friends for a vacation is good, until your friends bring someone you despise being around. Going to japan with jack and connor was going to be a good trip based around content until they invited schlatt along since he was already planning a trip there. Fuck.

“Schlatt if you don't get that camera out of my face im actually gonna slap you” i spit at the partially bearded man with a toy camera in his hand. My arms slightly cross as I shoot a glare at him, “What's wrong toots’? You're so beautiful you need your picture taken”. 

I roll my eyes at his comment, “i will slap that stupid camera out of your hand” , “awwhh look at these two flirting!!” jack squeals. Me and Schlatt both turn to him holding his camera at us, my arms drop to my sides as I groan and continue walking back from our day out towards the hotel. 

~~

As we walk into the hotel, once we check in Jack turns to me, “you and schlatt are sharing a room” he says with a shit eating grin. I look over to Connor who is also smiling like an idiot, “do you guys hate me or something”, as they start laughing, schlatt who was just walking around the hotel's lobby pipes up.

 “Whats going on” i groan and turn to him with my hands on the sides of my face stressing my distaste before saying, “they are making us stay in the same room” as i say that schlatt shifts his gaze from me to connor and jack, i look into his eyes trying to find a fault in his accusatory glare, trying to see if he actually cares as much as he's putting out. I quickly turned away when he shifted his gaze back at me, “whatever, i'm tired” he turns and walks toward the elevators.

 As we stand in the elevator, jack starts to film again, “alright guys we finally, after a long flight we will be seeing the hotel room-”, i tune him out and put my focus on the red numbers going up, making me anxious, i wonder if they really set it up to where there is one bed (oh no is this the one bed trope omggg). Getting kind of excited i try to reevaluate myself, furrowing my brows staring at the elevator numbers, schlatt looks at me, before saying something- ding

The elevator dings, as the doors open up, Jack and Connor gesture for me to go first, I chuckle at this and head down the hall, everyone following behind.

 Walking up to mine and Schlatts room, i find jack’s and connor’s is across the hall. Tapping the keycard on the sensor, i walk in with schlatt following behind me, “are you fucking kidding” i turn to walk out bumping into schlatt on my way to scream at connor and jack.                    

I stumble back, “You can't be serious” i hear schlatt say once he looks up from me towards the room, “one fucking bed thats just great” he walks past me setting his bags down.

 “Well you seem just happy to share a bed with me” i say setting my bags down as well, “yeah totally, sharing a bed with someone i'm not too fond of is definitely on my list for this trip” i stare at him for a second before clicking my tongue and start pulling stuff out of my bag.

~

As I finish doing my skincare, I put my skincare to the side, as I finish brushing my teeth I take off my bra with a content sigh. putting on my lacy panties, I pause and think for a second ‘is that really a good idea, it's gonna make you look desperate ’. Taking a deep breath I put on my sleep shorts and big shirt, I walk out, viewing a schlatt with his hat over his eyes on his back, he's clasping his hands together with his legs crossed. 

I groan when i notice hes in the middle of the bed, “schlatt can you fucking move over”, no response, i grab a pillow off of the decorative chairs and whip it at him. It doesnt hit im but lands near his side, he jumps “what the fuck??”. “Move oh my god”, “no i'm not even near the other side of the bed?!” he raises his voice, as he says that i get on the bed and start moving him myself.

 He grabs my hands and pushes me off him, “schlatt move!!” I fight with him, pushing him more back, he then uses force and pins me down.

 I gulp, “get off me”, “not unless you leave me alone” i furrow my brows at his attempt to settle this, “dude you were in the middle of the bed how was i suppo-” i feel him kiss me, realizing what he's done he quickly pulls away letting go of my arms, “fuck sorry”.

 “Nuh uh where are you going” I grab his face pulling him back down to me, the once sweet kiss turns heated as he pulls me up from under him onto his lap. 

Gripping me by the waist he breaks the kiss, sucking and biting at my neck, I pull on the hair at the nape of his neck. Groaning he puts me back down getting on top of me, he pulls my shirt over my head, “fuck” he breathes out once he sees my naked chest. Kissing at the skin above my breast, he trails down to my nipple and starts suckling while pinching and kneeding my other tit and nipple.

 “Fuck schlatt” when i say his name he got more aggressive, biting at my tits leaving hickies and bite marks. I moan through gritted teeth, he trails backup taking my lips in a heated kiss, this time like he wanted me so bad he hated it. Schlatt hastily takes my shorts off along with my underwear, “fuck shes so pretty toots’” i whine in response to his praise then gasp as he pushes my legs back giving him full access to my pussy. “Oh my god- oh my fucking god-” schlatt starts to lap my slick up, eating me like a starved man, he licks and sucks on my clit while still giving my hole attention. “She tastes just as pretty as she looks, wonder if she feels good too” he then pushes a finger in while still attacking my bud, i let out a choked “shit schlatt please”, he continues his attacks.

I whine as he pulls away, taking off his shirt and sweatpants, throwing them somewhere in the room, he grabs my legs pulling me towards him, leaning over my frame he grabs me by the neck pulling me up towards his face. 

“Think you can hate me forever sweetheart, look at you absolutely dripping for my cock” schlatt, during his sentence, he slips his hand down towards my mound slowly rubbing circles on my clit before slipping two fingers into my aching hole. 

He starts rapidly finger fucking my cunt, “shitttt please schlatt i just- ah”, “what is it princess use your words” schlatt teases.

 “Please please please fuck me, oh god-” i feel the knot tighten in my stomach, “not yet you have to cum on my fingers, come on i know you want to, be a good girl and cum for me” his cock twitches at the clenching of my pussy, sucking his fingers like a vice as i cum.

“There we go” he slaps my cunt when pulling his fingers out, bringing them up to his mouth and sucking his fingers. 

Grabbing at his length, I get to see his cock for the first time up close, as it stands proud, thick and long, I panic. “m’ gonna stretch this pussy, make you forget why you hate me”, i breathe heavily as he grinds against my folds lubing himself up to put his cock in. 

He lines himself up with my drooling hole, pushing his tip in “so fucking tight” i gasp at the stretch “schlatt” “sh sh princess its ok” he lulls as he pushes his length further in.

 “t’big” i whimper, “you can fucking take it” schlatt says through gritted teeth, pushing the rest of his length into me. 

Sitting there for a second I feel so full, without letting me adjust, he pulls out for a quick second and then slams back in. All air escapes my body as he starts to thrust hard, one after the other, he slowly pounds into me.

 I whimper each time he plows my cervix with his spongey tip, “f- fuck-”, he chuckles at my reaction, looking down at my bouncing tits he grabs my throat as leverage before he goes faster.

 “Im not gonna hold back, im g’na fuck that attitude out of you” he grabs my hip as even more leverage, “i- i cant sc- oh fuck” i try to plead before my eyes rolls into the back of my skull, “you can't what toots’?” I stay silent. He sends a swift slap to my left cheek with the hand that was on my throat, “i asked you a question toots’” i whimper trying to catch my thoughts and breathing. 

“Fuck i cant take it”, “yeah?” schlatt says before reaching a hand down to my clit, I gasp as all the air in my lungs yet again are left with no air from the pleasure. I start shaking as he hits my g spot, i grunt out “right there right there please”, he starts speeding up hitting that spot, still abusing my clit.

 “ oh my god- j- fuck” i stammer over my words, “are you gonna come sweetheart? C’mon, cum on my cock beautiful.” he praises slamming into me still.  I shake hard as i cum, creaming all around his cock all while gripping his cock, “holy shit” he whimpers, starting to groan. “Shes taking me so good, im so fucking close”, “cum in me please, fuck please” i beg not in the right mindset. “Fuck ill breed your fucking hole so good, ah” schlatt starts to profusely whimper, making noises id never thought id hear from this mans mouth.

He cums in me, filling me with his cum. 

He topples over me putting his head in the crook of my neck, still inside me, my legs still shaking, “schlatt? Did I kill you?” he groans at my teasing. 

I giggle a little while he lifts his head from his place near my neck, “so, thoughts, do you still hate me toots’?” “schlatt..” he stares at me for a second, “i don't think i can ever hate you” i smile at him, he beams kissing me. 

“I don't think I can ever hate you either” he says with a smile back to me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

idk if i like this, it took way too long to make.

[mamawasatesttube]

"you've got something on your face." with timkon for the ficlet prompts 🫡 i miss them so bad

"Thanks," Tim says suddenly, "for coming over on such short notice."

Kon looks over at him from the other end of the couch, his expression soft and unguarded. Half of his face is lit up in warm amber lamplight; the other half is outlined in the flickering blue of the TV. Neither of them is really watching at this point, but the steady background noise is comforting.

"Anytime, Wonder." Kon stretches his arms up over his head, visibly stifling a yawn, and slouches back against the cushions. "I told you before. You call, I'm there."

"Still," Tim persists. His chest aches with fondness as he looks at Kon, snuggled up under a plush throw blanket that's too small for his long legs. "I know you're exhausted today, long space flight 'n' all that. So I appreciate it."

"Eh, it was just out to Proxima Centauri, not that far or nothin'." Kon shrugs one shoulder, languid and at ease. His voice is a little rough with weariness. "You should see some of the distances Kal's pulled off in one day."

Tim leans over and swats him on the shoulder. "Okay, but, like. Shut up and let me be grateful, will you?"

That gets a sunny laugh out of Kon, like light spilling through cracks in the roof to chase away the last vestiges of the shadows in all the nooks and crannies of Tim's brain. He's fine, really; he just never likes being alone after brushes with fear toxin. The antidote works wonders, but he still always struggles with paranoia afterwards.

So. Hence. Kon. Because there's definitely no ninjas in the vents or Charaxes on the roof if Kon's here. Between his incredible TTK-enabled spatial awareness and the superhearing, Kon's, like, the best proximity sensor this side of the known universe. He'd never let anything get the drop on Tim. And hearing him laugh...

Hearing him laugh does wonders for Tim's heart. Not that he's ever said so out loud, but that doesn't make it any less true.

"Fine, fine." Kon rolls his eyes fondly, catching Tim's forearm. "You're welcome, Rob." His thumb rubs over the pulse point in Tim's wrist, and Tim knows he can hear his heart skip a beat in answer.

Kon must know what he does to Tim. They haven't spoken about it—Tim has no idea how to speak about it—but Kon must know. His eyes twinkle in the dimness, bright against the windows into the rainy night, and Tim's breath threatens to catch in his throat.

He leans a little closer, reaches for Kon, and Kon lets him, fingers lingering on his wrist. He cups Kon's jaw, grazes his thumb against his cheekbone. Kon's skin is warm.

"You have something on your face," he murmurs, voice softer than he means for it to be. "...An eyelash. Here."

He holds it up so Kon can see. One of his thick, long, dark eyelashes rests on the pad of Tim's thumb, stark against his skin; it's small enough to seem delicate, even if Tim knows it holds the strength of steel.

Kon looks at it. Blinks for a second. Then his lips curve into a smile, and he tilts his head like a dog, eyes fixed on Tim's face. "Make a wish."

"Aren't you supposed to be the one wishing for something?" Tim frowns. "It's your eyelash."

"Hm." Kon considers for a moment. Then he blows the lash off Tim's thumb. His breath isn't icy, but it's still colder than it should be; surely that, and only that, is the reason for the shiver that runs down Tim's spine.

"What did you wish for?"

"Pretty sure I'm not supposed to tell you, or it won't come true," Kon says, amused. He drops his arm, warm and heavy, over Tim's shoulders, and pulls him into his side. "Nosy."

Tim rolls his eyes. "Maybe so," he says, and rests his head against Kon's shoulder. He wonders if Kon's wish is the same thing he would've wished for, too. Sometimes, he thinks it might be.

[classica-meretrix]

Maintenance

pairing: tech x fem!reader genre: fluff(?) content/warnings: suggestive, use of y/n summary: while helping tech with a wiring issue, things get a little. . . heated a/n: based on s1 e8 "reunion" of bad batch, don't love the ending but someone might so I left it!

“Y/N, I need you on the bridge.” Tech’s voice was wrapped in static, making his words crack as they came over the com-link.

“I’ll be right there,” I replied. I turned back towards the center of the room, abandoning my work gathering explosives. “Tech needs me,” I called to the others. “I’m going to the bridge.”

I hurried out of the armory, making my way to the top of the ship. When I got there the blast doors to the bridge appeared to have been forced open. I was silently impressed that Tech had managed them without the brute force of Wrecker or the mechanical help of Echo.

“Tech?” I called into the room.

“Over here,” he responded, his voice slightly strained.

I found him on his back under the main control desk, one leg folded, the other lying open to one side. He had his visor down, sparks flying from whatever he was working on.

“What do you need me for?”

He muttered something under his breath before properly answering me. “I’ve managed to get the power back on, but I can’t access the computer. There’s a sensor I can’t bypass.”

“Okay, slide out and let me have a look.”

“I can’t.” His hands stopped tinkering with the control panel as he turned to look at me.

“What do you mean?” I asked, crossing my arms over my chest. He flipped up his visor, sliding off his helmet. “The sensor was badly damaged when the Jedi were attacked. I have to hold these wires or it’s no use to you.”

“Fine,” I huffed, dropping to the floor. I cautiously slid between his legs, placing a hand on either side of his abdomen. I tried to ignore our close proximity, turning just enough to see the sensor.

“I’ll need your torch.” I failed to keep my voice even, wavering as I spoke. He used his free hand to offer me the tool. He was unusually quiet.

“Okay, hold on. I need both hands.” I laid my weight on him, flipping over the rest my back against his chest.

Tech’s breath was coming in short bursts, the plastoid-alloy material of his armor pressing into me. I took the torch, hurriedly working to override the sensor. In any other circumstance Tech would’ve been unhelpfully lecturing me on what to do, or talking my ear off about something entirely unrelated. Now he just held the wires in place, occasionally clearing his throat my ear.

“Almost done,” I informed. I set down the torch, flipping back over to grab a pair of pliers. In the process I locked eyes with Tech, his pupils blown as he struggled not to pant. I hurriedly flipped back over, accidentally pressing my leg against the crotch of his armor. He sighed at the contact, his eyes closing.

“Fuck, sorry,” I mumbled, working even faster to disable the sensor.

“Don’t apologize,” he said, his voice rough and low.

I fumbled with the wires, struggling to remember which one to cut. I felt like I was burning, and I’m sure my face was flaming red.

“The blue one,” he reminded, taking notice of my fumbling. I was too focused on the way his voice rumbled in my ear, his breath on my neck, to process what he said right away, my actions delayed.

“Right,” I mumbled. As I cut the wire, an idea came to me. I shifted my hips, ‘accidentally’ rolling them against his crotch. He breathed out a series of curses.

“What are you doing?” His voice was warning, but his free hand came to my hip, holding me in place.

“Fixing the sensor. Like you asked,” I teased, moving again, ever so slightly.

“Don’t tease,” he chided. I had never heard him sound so harsh before. His lips now grazed the shell of my ear, his voice hardly above a whisper.

“I don’t take orders from you.” I knew what I was doing was dangerous, but that hardly mattered anymore. The sensor was almost completely forgotten.

Tech slid his hand from my hip to the edge of my shirt, slipping under the fabric to splay his hand on my skin. His armor was cool and smooth, save the thin lines of carbon residue from old blaster fire.

“Then I’ll just have to teach you,” he hissed in my ear. I cut the last wire. The sensor would be easily bypassed now, but neither of us moved.

“I’d like to see you try.” His hand slipped to the edge of my pants as he placed a chaste kiss on my neck, pushing my head to one side. He continued his assault, nipping at my skin as I whimpered. He had just reached my shoulder, his fingers slipping under the edge of my waistband when loud thuds came from the doorway.

“Well, well, well! What do we have here?” Wrecker’s voice echoed throughout the bridge, making it even louder than normal. Tech’s hand flew off of me, his head falling back as we both jumped. I hit my head against the bottom of the control table in an attempt to move away from him, forgetting the lack of space.

“Fuck!” I cursed, my hand flying to my forehead. Tech instinctually pulled me back down to his chest, holding me against him.

“Slide out,” he whispered to me. The others' footsteps were getting louder. I did as he said, him following shortly behind me.

“Sorry, were we interrupting something?” Wrecker questioned, a teasing smile plastered on his face as he giddily rocked back and forth on his heels.

“No,” Tech replied, his usual sarcastic tone returning. “Just injuring a fellow soldier.” He turned to me. “Are you alright?”

“I think so.”

“Let me look at it.” Hunter stepped forward, gingerly removing my hand to look at the mark.

“Hey, what’s that blinking light?” Omega asked, pointing to the control desk.

“It detects other ships approaching,” Tech explained. “Probably just a malfunction.”

Just as he finished talking three empire ships flew over the bridge, shaking the cruiser.

“We need to go,” Hunter stated, grabbing Omega’s arm.

We had just gotten to the base of the engine and Tech was already going on about the technological marvels of their craftsmanship. He ran his finger along the metal.

“The blast primer coating was specially designed to withstand temp—“

“Shut up!” Wrecker yelled, pushing him forward.

“Save it for your wet dreams, why don’t you?” I teased, sliding off a ring and landing beside him.

A few yards up Omega turned to Hunter. “What’s a wet dream?”

“Nothing,” he snapped, shooting us a glare over his shoulder as he hurried Omega forward. Wrecker let out a booming laugh as he ran to catch up. I made to follow but Tech caught my arm, pulling me back. He left very little room between us, ducking down to whisper in my ear.

“My wet dreams have nothing to do with blast coatings. In fact, they often resemble our little encounter on the bridge.” He pulled back, giving me a cheeky smirk before running to catch up with the group, leaving me stunned.

[kissingraine]

Will the Seacons ever get a follow-up? I rarely see anyone writing about them☹️☹️

AAAA- i didnt think y'all actually liked that:') (Hopefully, I can update the other stories since we have the next week off)

Stray — Seacons x Mermaidf!Reader (2)

There was nothing in the void. But that suited Snaptrap just fine. Silence was the natural state of predators—no boasting, no declarations, no wasted noise. Only the slow, steady hum of readiness, of proximity alerts in the background. The stars watched indifferently. So did he. At least, that's what he first thought. It was meant to be a simple mission: reclaim the coordinates to the lost sea bridge buried on some forgotten organic mudball. Earth. A nothing-world, once contested, now beneath attention. Their war had left it gutted, for the most part. That’s why the small natives that lived on it left. Almost exactly like they did when Cybertron fell. But the thing was, this planet didn’t remain in decay or rust like metal—it thrived.

Persistently. Like a weed under pede. No matter how many times it was stepped on. For that, he’d at least give the planet some credit. But that’s about it. His target remained submerged underwater. That was the only detail that mattered to him. He belonged there. Though admittedly, Snaptrap spent his years in the bog as a mechling until he earned his title as commander.

Around him, his unit idled. Quiet for once, void of the usual bickering he was subjected to. Even Tentakil was silent—Snaptrap merely suspected the other was weaving something elaborate in the dark behind his smug stillness. Overbite stayed his twitchy self, smelling pressure changes before the sensors could register them. Muttering over static-warped sonar files was Nautilator, and by the rationed coolant was a sulking Skalor. Every bit as annoyed as he was that they’d been sent here to fight a what? A losing war. The sea bridge had mostly been another Decepticon’s idea. A pathway they could use to remain hidden just in case the worst-case scenario came to fruition.

He realized his crew’s unrest might have been tied to that, too. They were significant figures in battles that occurred beneath the waves, and now? They were forced to search for a way to hide. Snaptrap couldn't say for sure, but he knew a losing side when he saw one. And his Seacons—afraid of becoming irrelevant in this century-old war—knew, in some parts of themselves, that this was unavoidable. That none of the things they were promised to fight for were going to matter. And he’d write their supreme leader a strongly worded letter if he could, but not until he was sure his crew was safe with the coords. At the very least, they would be able to flee. Though divided, they might not be Piranacon once more.

Snaptrap’s focus returned to the descent vector. A sharp slant through Earth’s atmosphere, aimed like a harpoon straight into the largest trench in the planet’s ocean. A fall from orbit, to return to the depths. This would perhaps be their final reclamation, if their prior ones ever counted at all. His claws flexed, systems humming with the promise of cold pressure—the familiar grip of deep water crushing his frame in ways no land-based combat ever could. Water dulled nothing for him. It only amplified his protocols, because down there, he was the apex. Down there, the pressure drowned his enemies before they could scream.

“Ten kliks to atmospheric breach,” Seawing said over the comms.

Blinking once with narrowed optics, he expected darkness. Heat. Impact. And while those did ensue in the following moments—before the Seacon commander realized Earth's gravity had ripped the hull of their ship open—he didn’t expect songs. Eyes. And certainly not her.

You weren’t in any of the files. Weren’t even supposed to exist. But you did. He faced gods, monsters—and devoured them both. Yet he found himself clueless as to how to fight the taste of salt that lingered in his mouthplate days after you escaped. He did not know how to silence the echo of that voice. Because as brief as the meeting was, Snaptrap remembers everything clearly. Vividly. As if he could still feel the softness of your scales brushing against the living metal of his faceplate. Even now, when he closes his optics, the deep is no longer quiet.

• When you felt the surface water ripple with waves as something heavy sank further down, you had been so surprised to see that there were more of him. Towering, like sunken monuments that moved in predatory grace amongst the darkness. The archives mentioned these beings once. But almost all knowledge of them was lost during the Hidden Age. The surface was dangerous to be explored then—other mermaids had lost the ability to shift their tails from legs because of it. Scrolls told you they were capable of rendering your home to ash, something about a war—and that eventually became the reason why humans built their ride to get off Earth.

• Two others circled once they made contact with the seabed while your tail was still pinned in what felt like a clam’s grip. You’re pretty sure you just chipped off a scale with how much you’d thrashed—and still, the metal beast kept you in its grip. Watching you with sharp red hues. Glowing. A mask covered his face when the others finally got close enough, hiding those incredibly human-like features.

“Flesh. But not weak.”

A low growl, speaking in a language he thinks you can’t understand. Snaptrap imagines it must sound like metal just grinding against metal. “Pretty thing,” he notes absentmindedly, with a voice that reminded you so much of a submarine’s death-knell. Tentakil drifted near your side, murmuring something ancient to him in Cybertronian before he could think about snarling at the tendril-covered mech. Is she prey? Or a lure? Pit if he knew—but he doesn’t argue with the fact that you are, pretty much, a lure. A shiny, soft-looking one.

• Your heart pounds, burning under their gazes. Their presence suffocated you, unblinking—so you sang. More of a scream than a melody: sharp, pure, primal. It hurt them. And you could tell—it made them reel back. Not physically, but in something deeper inside them.

His SIC had to be held back by Tentakil, restraining the shark mech with tendrils while the sly octopod gave a strained laugh. Snaptrap recoils, your voice carving into their processors like seafoam into a ship’s hull. His hand spasming, and you bite him. Your denta may have been blunt, but they were strong enough to leave a small scratch in his coating—metal bent just barely under the force of the bite. His grip loosens and you dart away once more. Bolting successfully into a shaft of volcanic warmth rising from the trench vents, into a crevasse no mech could fit in.

Gone, like a ripple in the deep.

Previous

[carriesthewind]

Yeah so anyway, I'm making my response to this fucking garbage its own separate post in case people want to reblog it without having to reblog a scare-mongering lie.

This video pisses me the fuck off whenever I see it, and today I'm not in the mood to just scroll past.

Wow! Am I being lead to panic by scaremongering algorithm fodder completely unsupported by real evidence?! test:

The reason you think something exists is just what you're being told by a nefarious *them*, there is actually a conspiracy behind it!

I, an ordinary person with no expertise who critically examines the world around me, have uncovered this conspiracy.

"That's what they're telling you." (put the emphasis wherever appropriate for the conspiracy of your choice - in this case, it's on *telling*)

This new tech thing is actually a bad idea and the old school method was better - which clearly proves there must be a secret conspiracy, because why allow the possibility of incompetence and investor tech-hype when you can instead assume a highly-competent evil conspiracy?

I will now tell you my conspiracy theory while scrolling rapidly through a document without pausing or allowing you to actually read any of it. This allows me to look like I have proven my claims while doing nothing of the sort. Because do you really think someone could do that? Quickly flash a document on screen and just lie about what it says?

But Owl! This is real! A user upthread found the patent and it *does* prove it!

Yeah. I read the linked patent. Did you?

Let's quote the "real purpose" hidden in the patent, as claimed out in the video:

"The real purpose of these screens is to use the little camera at the top right here to scan your face and use AI facial expression analysis to judge whether or not you like the packaging designs of the product you're looking for."

This is complete made up horseshit.

First, let's look where the reblogger directs us, to column #4 on page 17:

"Preferably, each retail product container further comprises customer-detecting hardware, such as one or more proximity sensors (such as heat maps) , cameras, facial sensors or scanners, and eye-sensors (i.e., iris-tracking sensors). Assuming cameras are employed, preferably cameras are mounted on doors of the retail product containers. Preferably, the cameras have a depth of field of view of twenty feet or more, and have a range of field of view of 170 degrees with preferably 150 degree of facial recognition ability. Preferably, software is employed in association with the cameras to monitor shopper interactions, serve up relevant advertisement content on the displays, and track advertisement engagement in - store." (emphasis added and references to figures removed for readability)

That is the extent of the "nonconsensual data collection."

Now, to be fair, there is some stuff on page 18 and 19 which kinda-sorta-maybe has at least some relation to the claim in the video:

"Preferably, the controller/data collector is configured such that as a shopper stands or lingers in front of a given retail product container, the display associated with the retail product container changes yet again. At this point, preferably the controller/data collector has been able to use the customer-detecting hardware to effectively learn more about that particular customer, such as gender, age, mood, etc. The controller / data collector is configured to take what has been detected about the customer to determine which advertisement and other information to present to that particular customer on the display associated with the retail product container in front of which the customer is standing. By tracking shopper data in parallel with which advertising content is being served on all displays within the viewing range of the shopper, the retailer and the brands are better served, providing new analytics. As such, the system provides advertising, influence opportunities at the moment of purchasing decision, optimizing marketing spend and generating new revenue streams....

"Additionally, preferably all inputs collected by the IOT devices will be analyzed locally as well as remotely (via cloud) to provide the feedback inputs for the system to push more relevant/targeted content, tailored for the consumer. The analytics are preferably conducted anonymously, images captured by cameras are preferably processed to collect statistics on consumer demographic characteristics: (such as age and gender). This data is preferably subsequently analyzed for additional statistics for the retailers that are valuable for in-store merchandise layout design and smart merchandizing, including the ability to track the shoppers “traffic” areas, known as “heat maps”, areas were [sic] customers would concentrate more and spend more time exploring, etc." (emphasis added and references to figures removed for readability) (And note the repeated emphasis on preferably - they don't have a patent to do any of this.)

Which, like, not great! I fucking hate the idea of shit like this! But there is literally nothing here about monitoring your expressions to sell the data about how you react to packaging!

This isn't a nefarious plan hidden in the patent. It's tech bros adding on totally sick ideas about how they can sell this shit to walgreens. (Because to be clear, I'm sure walgreens's corporate office would love to collect and sell this kind of information. But just because they would, doesn't mean they can or are. And this patent sure as hell doesn't prove it.)

Because let me be clear: the image capture of consumers is so irrelevant to the product that it literally isn't even included in the claims section of the patent.

Because the patent is quite explicit and detailed about the idea they are selling big retails stores on - this is a better, new, innovative, tech-driven way to "provide an innovative advertising solution"! (The words "AI," "intelligent," and "machine learning" are deployed liberally, but in the same way that "blockchain" was a few years ago. It's advertising tech hype.)

I want to make it clear - the OP in the video is straight up lying to you. Whether for fun or profit or just attention, I don't know and I don't care. If you shared this, you probably should have know better, but everyone makes mistakes. OP, on the other hand, is just a fucking liar.

But Owl! What about "the senators looking into this"?

I don't know how to tell you this, but thing linked about is a press release by a politician's office. That doesn't mean it's not true, but it's not evidence on it's own. Like, the letter linked in the link included links to sources, but is not itself evidence (ooh, layers of links to actually get to a source, my favorite)(actually my computer wouldn't even goddam open the links to the source, I had to independently search for it).

Anyway, the letter to Kroger linked in the press release by the senators contains a single sentence and a single link relevant to the claim here (linked for your convenience because it sure as hell wasn't for mine). Unfortunately, this article is itself based on a goddam press release (That isn't linked! Again, you're welcome.)

And when we finally get to the underlying fucking source. "In addition to transforming the customer experience and enhancing productivity for associates, the EDGE Shelf will enable Kroger to generate new revenue by selling digital advertising space to consumer packaged goods (CPGs) brands. Using video analytics, personalized offers and advertisements can be presented based on customer demographics." So it's purporting to something *kind of* like the claim in the video, but an entirely different format completely unrelated to the thing the video is scaremongering about.

Now Kroger did actually start using the advertising screens in 2023. And you can believe what you want about the data privacy claims and the claims about not using video, just sensors (which remember is entirely consistent with the patent). But remember: being skeptical of a company's claims is fine and good! It does not mean you have proven they are lying, and it especially does not prove you have claimed they are doing something extremely specific! And most of the articles, and the letter from the senators, are (much more reasonably) concerned about so-called "dynamic" or surge pricing. (Which is not related to the screens.)

Like goddamn. Aren't there enough real problems with surveillance and price-gorging to be concerned about without having to make up fake ones? Hell, why can't we at least be concerned with the real problems with those dumb screens, which is that the a) make shopping harder and b) catch fire?

[need-him-pregnant-poll]

Pregatron Fanfic Anon, here! I'm finished with the next part

PART 5

=====================

Previously:

„My apologies.”- Megatron murmured before storming out of the lab, he didn’t even bother with the door, he just broke them down and made his way across the many corridors. I need a distraction.

After some time, Soundwave found him sulking in the dark corner of the dining room, eating an unhealthy amount of energon goodies.

======================

Optimus was on his way back to the Autobot base. It was a long day, patrolling the nearby area was always tiring, so he let his mind wander. He discovered a few places that could be used as observation points, he would need to settle proximity sensors and radio transmitters there, that way any Decepticon spies or even attacks could be easily prevented. Speaking of, the other fraction was awfully quiet as of lately, zero activity, strange. Optimus wondered what Megatron might be planning.

Megatron…

Autobot leader shook his head, no use in dwelling on those thoughts…again. Proximity sensors and radio transmitters, yes, he’ll talk to Wheeljack about that. But for now let’s just enjoy the walk to the base, his shift was over and Optimus could spare some time to enjoy the little things. The pink sky was really beautiful this morning, few lonely clouds, the stars barely visible, but still there.

Hm. One seemed to be getting closer. Not even a nano-klik later Optimus recognized the approaching object as not a star, but Starscream. Blue bot didn’t waste any time he took his stance and already opened his communication channel to warn the others-

Wait, something dangled on the line attached to the jet. Something wriggly and suspiciously bot-shaped. The Decepticon transformed and landed elegantly as ever. When clouds of smoke fell, Prime could finally see that the cargo Starscream was carrying was actually-

Optimus’ spark skipped a beat- Megatron?

And why is Starscream missing an eye??

„Greetings, Prime! No need for violence, today, I come in peace.”- he lifted his servos to show no threat. But the way his voice seemed to radiate nothing but joy and the way he grinned was…disturbing to say the least. No, something’s not right here.

„What are you doing here, what is the meaning of this?”- Prime vaguely pointed at the uncanny situation happening before him. Megatron, tied up and gagged, kicking around, throwing metaphorical daggers at Starscream, who- on the other hand-  was happily tightening the knots. Primus, his Optics were practically beaming with child-like excitement! Well, one optic.

„Oh I’m so glad you ask. You see, we’re having a little crisis, nothing to worry about, so don’t even think we- Decepticons, are on a losing position, no, no, no.” He turned Megatron around so he could face the Autobot leader. And only now did Optimus notice that the silver bot was.. bulkier than he last saw him, thicker on his thighs and chest, not to mention the subtle roundness on Megatron’s middle…

„But our beloved leader here can’t be trusted with making sensible decisions, let alone leading the Decepticons in his current… state”- Starscream and Optimus just stared blankly at eachother.

„How to say this delicately? Megatron is insufferable and we can’t stand him. You see my optic? No? Good, who do you think gouged it out, because I told a pun to cheer him up, because he was crying?? -He pointed at Megatron- „No big deal though, Shockwave already has a replacement. Speaking of Shockwave- Megatron yelled at him, because he wouldn’t eat his Energon from a purple bowl, but a blue one. I know- what a petty bastard, eh?. Even Soundwave has had enough of him, which is saying something since those two are so smitten with each other.” Starscream finished, but Optimus felt like he understood even less than before.

„OH! I almost forgot- This is actually all your fault. Me and the rest of high command decided that Megatron should stay with you. Don’t worry, we’ll keep in contact. But he’s your problem now. Good luck and goodbye!”-He threw over his shoulder and dissappeared into the skies, further and further away.

What.

Optimus looked down at Megatron, probably his only chance to getting any clear explanation. He removed the gag and-

„I CAN’T BELIEVE THEY ACTUALLY FUCKING KICKED ME OUT-”

Prime has never been so confused in his entire life.

„Megatron, can you explain, simply, what is going on?”

The Decepticon leader turned his red optics to Optimus, a mocking smirk on his face- „Well I wonder, what could it be…” Megatron moved on the ground to make his chassis and rounded middle more visible.

„Congratulations, Prime, you’re going to be a Sire.”

========================

To be continued...

Whatever pun Starscream told Megatron, it must have been awful

-Pregatron Fanfic Anon

Even if the pun wasn't awful, I imagine the outcome may have been the same.

[it-was-too-cold-always]

Always Read the Fine Print Chapter 12

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11

Who actually reads all the terms and conditions? After mindlessly checking a box years ago, our Reader unintentionally agrees to be part of a scientific study to create super soldier babies. To make matters worse, her fellow test subject is the brooding and intimidating Bucky Barnes.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Reader struggles to accept this colder relationship with Bucky. Meanwhile's he's up to something...

Warnings: arranged marriage, forced proximity, lots of angst, violence, PTSD/nightmares, panic attacks, language, SMUT 18+ only, oral fem receiving, unprotected sex, size kink, let me know if I'm missing anything

a/n: Hi friends, I'm sorry it's been so long. My depression came at me like a b*tch. But I'm here now and will hopefully be posting more regularly 💕

Every night, Bucky would hand you that stupid syringe. Your heart sunk a little each time he’d knock on the door. You were hoping he was coming to spend time with you, to tell you everything was going to be okay, to hold you. But instead, he would put the syringe in your hand, kiss your forehead, and leave the room. That was it. 

As if that wasn’t bad enough, he was spending all his time with Steve - almost every day. You could hear them talking downstairs. You could never actually make out what they were saying, but you could hear their serious tones murmuring through the thin walls. You considered standing at the top of the stairs so you could eavesdrop, but you knew better than to spy on two super soldiers. So instead you paced around the bedroom–the one that you were supposed to be sharing with Bucky–and waited for Steve to leave. Although no one outright said it, you got the feeling that you weren’t invited to their little chats. One time, you went downstairs with the excuse of needing a snack. They immediately shifted the topic to Steve’s recent mission. Steve, ever the gentleman, would greet you with a warm smile and invite you to sit with them. He’d ask you how you’re feeling, how your day was going, if you’ve read any good books lately. You appreciated his kindness but felt a little awkward – surely they were itching for you to leave so they could return to their conversation. Once the small talk became unbearable, you’d fake a headache and excuse yourself. You claimed you were going to go lie down, but they could hear your faint footsteps pacing on the hardwood above them.

~

Bucky was completely and utterly miserable. He was still fuming about the sensors they implanted in you. You were his wife, and he couldn’t protect you. It made him feel powerless. He couldn’t stop thinking about how panicked you were the last time you had sex. He could feel your anxiety. He couldn’t help but think he violated you in some way. This prevented him from giving you any affection; he was terrified of crossing a boundary with you. The forehead kisses were as far as he dared to go. Deep down, he knew he should sit down and have a conversation with you about it. But if he heard you say outright that you don’t want to be intimate with him anymore, he would be devastated. 

~

After three weeks of doing this ridiculous syringe routine, you couldn’t take it anymore. He handed you the syringe, kissed your forehead, and turned to leave. Just like every other night. But this time, you reached out to grab his hand.

“Please don’t go,” you whispered, tears already welling up in your eyes. You’d be embarrassed if you weren’t so desperate for his attention. 

“Oh, doll…” Bucky wasn’t sure what to say. His heart was breaking, seeing you like this. 

“Please, just stay the night. We don’t even have to talk. Just spend the night with me,” you begged, tears freely falling down your cheeks. “I miss you.” Your confession was all it took for Bucky to realize what an idiot he was. He was so desperate to protect you, he didn’t even occur to him that he might be hurting you. 

“Of course, sweetheart. I’m right here. I’m sorry I left you alone so much,” Bucky admitted, pulling you into a tight hug. “I was so scared I’d upset you, but I seriously screwed up.” He rubbed your back as you let all your tears fall. All those weeks of feeling so alone, but you finally had your Bucky back. You wanted to smack him and kiss him at the same time. 

He helped you with the syringe, which was oddly romantic. He was very gentle. Once that was over with, he pulled you into his chest, running his hands through your hair and down your back. You let out a long sigh – you had missed this so much. You forgot how your head felt resting on his toned muscles, how warm his chest was, how safe you felt. It was like a dream. A wonderful, euphoric dream.

“Do you trust me?” Bucky asked softly. The question caught you so off guard, your finger paused before it could finish tracing the scars on his chest. Propping yourself up, you looked at him quizzically. “Of course I do. What kind of question is that?” you replied. You were trying not to be offended that he would doubt you. 

“All I’ve wanted to do is protect you,” he began, sitting up to fully face you. He took your hands in his, mindlessly fidgeting with the diamond ring on your left hand. “But I’ve failed every time.”

“Bucky–“ you tried to cut him off, but he continued.

“No matter how hard I try, you end up getting hurt. I hope you can forgive me. Some days I can barely live with myself, knowing how much pain I’ve caused you.”

“Bucky, for Christ’s sake. This is NOT your fault!” you interjected, hating to see him beat himself up like this. 

“Doll, please just let me explain. It’s important,” he said, giving your hands a small squeeze. You nodded slowly and stayed silent, letting him continue. The urgency in his voice was scaring you. “You deserve better than to stay here and pay for my sins. I can’t stand to watch you suffer like this. Okay? I need you to understand.” His pleading eyes looked deep into yours. The more he talked, the more fearful you became. “I’ve told you some of the atrocities I’ve committed as HYDRA’s assassin. The things I’ve done to further their agenda, to get them in power,” he sighed deeply before continuing. “With the number of times they scrambled my brain, they assumed I couldn’t remember anything. That I wouldn’t recognize faces. But I do. I remember all of them.”

Your heart was breaking for the man in front of you. All those people he killed and all the ones that made him do it. They all take up space in his mind. No wonder he never sleeps. 

“The HYDRA members they arrested when I was freed…that was only a small fraction of them. HYRDRA is everywhere. If I break you out, there’s nowhere we could go that would be safe. I can’t rescue you until I dismantle HYDRA.” He paused and waited for your reaction. He wasn’t sure how you’d respond to all this. 

“Wait a second…are you saying HYDRA is behind all this? I mean that would make sense, this whole reproducing super soldiers thing is messed up, and they’re not exactly known for being ethical. But HYDRA working inside SHIELD? All this time? That’s…” You wanted to say impossible, but ever since your world got turned upside down, you don’t know what to expect anymore. You’ve completely lost sense of what’s normal. “So what do we do? If it’s as big as you say, there’s no way you can take them down alone.”

Bucky let out a deep sigh, looking around the room as if the words he’s trying to find will reveal themselves in the wallpaper. His gaze meets yours, but he won’t find the answer in your eyes either. He held your hands in his and took a deep breath.

“Steve and I have a plan. But we’re gonna need your help.”

Taglist 💛

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[silence-ofthe-llamas]

More stuff inspired by the mecha AU but unfortunately not following the lore pls forgive (I don't know if they want to be tagged as it's not canon compliant as it were, but original concept by @/keferon!)

The awaited Jazz/Prowl chapter I promised and then promptly forgot to post! Warning for major character death (mentioned/off-screen). Sorry, Jazz...

Petteri sighed, long deep and heavy, as he walked down the catwalk to the mech.

Apparently, not long after he’d been stationed on the base, the mech had taken itself offline. The technicians had taken a look at it. They’d flown in specialists from China, from the US, even Iceland. None of them could explain what was wrong with it. It just… didn’t want to wake up any more. The AI had decided it had had enough.

They’d slated it for destruction. Petteri was to take one last inspection, one last look, to give it one more go, before they took it for scrap parts, cannibalised it to keep their other mechs going. He didn’t know why they sent him. He’d never done an inspection like this before – he was as out of his depth as a fish out of water. But the higher ups had pushed him forwards, Swindle was eager to claw his money back on what he’d pissed down the drain on this mech, as he’d so eloquently put it, and so here he was. An untrained eye glancing over a state of the art machine as if he knew a damn thing about it.

He felt so drawn to the mech, like he had a sense of duty towards them - maybe it was the fact that his arrival seemed to have triggered the change? That they had a strange familiarity about them? He didn’t know.

He twisted his ring on his finger, feeling it run across his skin.

The old him would have been thrilled to step inside of the mecha, the pinnacle of the programme he was the poster child for. The old port in the back of his head ached. Be careful if you interface, the technician had warned him, gulping his too hot coffee that steamed up his glasses. Your old gear isn’t up for the job. If you’re plugged in for too long, it will fry you nice and crispy.

But now, he was decrepit and grouchy and a warning against that programme. It will take everything from you. You will gain nothing back.

“Let’s get this over with.” Petteri sighed. Reaching the console, he paused for a moment to look at the mech. A dim blue visor, a black helm. The opening hatch was at its chest, an expanse of white with blue stripes. Black shoulders were either side, blades going up the arms. All sharp edges and smooth, sleek design. It was a damn shame to lose any of it.

With a lump in his throat, Petteri adjusted his tie and looked for the button that opened the hatch.

The chest cracked whilst his hands were still firmly on the clipboard. He froze as the entrance to the cockpit revealed itself, the floor sliding out to cover the gap between catwalk and mech. The lights twinkled invitingly, and Petteri looked around.

Nobody. Just him. It was the night shift - they tended to be a bit quieter, and there was no reason for anyone to be out in the hangar except for him. There were no alarms. The pilots were all sleeping – either recovering from the days fight (no casualties this time, thank goodness) or preparing for the next one.

Cautiously, he approached. Maybe his proximity sensors were still active, and detecting a pilot had automatically sent the command to open. His equipment may have been old and unmaintained, but it was still usable. It still responded when it received a ping. It made complete and total sense that the mech would be able to receive the message from the antiquated technology.

Right?

The cockpit was warm. He could feel the rumbling of online systems beneath his feet, and he ran his hand over the back of the chair.Well, the mech wasn’t exactly offline. But they weren’t online either. Just… stuck. Waiting for something. In stasis until the correct launch code had been received.

The cockpit closed near silently - it was only the click of the bolt sliding into place that alerted him that he was now locked inside of it. Tutting and starting to think that this was now some kind of joke that was going to be going too far, Petteri turned on his heel and clipped towards the console, beginning to type in the code to open them-

The room was suddenly bathed in blue light, and the sound system chimed. Petteri looked up at the screen.

[<3 Prowler <3]

The corner of his lips tugged down and his heart twisted painfully in his chest.

The joke had been mildly annoying a minute ago. Now it was downright cruel.

“That is NOT funny.” Petteri scowled, glaring at the cameras. “Stop that immediately. Let me out. Now.”

The door didn’t move. The message continued to be displayed on the screen.

Petteri felt a crack.

There was only one person - one person in the whole entire world, the universe, who ever called him Prowler. The ring was the only thing he had left of them, a heavy weight that choked him. To everyone else, he was Prowl. His callsign. Simple, easy, monosyllabic. Quick off the tongue and quick in the field.

But to Jasper? His Jazz? Prowler. Only he was allowed to call him that. It was private, something between them and them alone, something they didn’t have to share.

And it was taunting him on the screen.

[I MISSED YOU SO MUCH]

Prowl didn’t reply. His vision was going red, he could feel heat prickle up his spine and flow down into his hands clenching them into fists. The clipboard rattled and creaked beneath his fingers and he ground his teeth.

Emergency escape it was, then. He stalked to the button, flicking off the protective cover and making to press it when the message on the screen changed again. He glanced up at it more out of habit more than sense, and paused.

[CAN WE TALK? PLEASE? I’VE WAITED FOR SO LONG]

He loudly swore and threw the clipboard at the floor. Damn it all, damn his weak and pathetic self for falling for this. He’d felt a brief moment of accepting he would be engaging with whatever fucked up ideas his tormentors had cooked up for him, and the crack had widened.

Jazz would have taken the bait. He’d have been curious enough to do it.

He wasn’t Jazz. He never would be. But fuck if he wished Jazz had been the one who had made it instead of him - he’d navigate whatever was left with so much more grace than he had.

So he took a moment to furiously pace and calm himself enough to throw himself into the chair, arms folded crossly, and tapping his foot.

“Well? What else have you got to hurt me with?”

[I’M SORRY]

[I WANTED TO SEE YOU SO BADLY]

[I DIDN’T MEAN TO HURT YOU]

Prowl frowned at the screen.

“… Who are you?”

[DESIGNATION: JAZZ]

It was like a lance through his chest, and he winced. Prowl had avoided looking at or thinking of the mecha’s name to keep himself from feeling the agony of it. He held the ring a little tighter, pushing it up against his finger.

He knew Jazz’s heartbeat - how could he ever forget it? It was tattooed onto his heart. Its waves were engraved into his wedding ring, he stared at the imprints of it on his finger on the rare moments he removed it. The ring as as much a part of him as his limbs were, and in turn so was the sound of Jazz’s heart.

So, pray tell, why could he hear it in the mecha?

“Who are you really? My… partner, is dead.” He was gripping the arm of the chair tightly. He slowly released one hand, each finger plucking off from the arm rest, and pressed it to his mouth. The ring glinted - a thick band of blue encased in shiny silver.

He felt the mech jolt.

[YOU’RE STILL WEARING IT?]

Prowl glanced down at the ring, watching how it caught the light.

“Every day.”

[MY NAME IS JASPER KORHONEN. WE WERE OFFICIALLY MARRIED ON THE 23RD OF APRIL BECAUSE YOU DIDN’T WANT TO WAIT ANY LONGER, BUT WE HAD OUR WEDDING ON THE 27TH OF AUGUST AND THAT IS THE DATE THAT EVERYONE THINKS WE WERE MARRIED ON]

The number of people on the Earth who knew that were slim. Prowl knew those who did – many of them were now dead. The kind old lady at the council. Jazz’s brother. Jazz himself. The only two people alive on the planet who knew the real date were himself and Ironhide – and Ironhide only knew because he was his witness.

And Ironhide wasn’t the type to do this kind of thing.

“Oh, my god.” Prowls voice shook, and he tried to take a calming breath. “I don’t want to believe it. Is it really you?”

[IN THE FLESH. WELL. MESH? ARMOUR?]

“Jazz, please be serious, I am on the edge of another fucking breakdown.” Prowl held his face in his hands, planting his elbows onto his knees as he curled in on himself. His eyes burned and his vision blurred. He didn’t want to believe it. He couldn’t. No, he’d spent so long in stupid fucking therapy sessions that didn’t do anything to scrub the sound of every bone in the love of his life’s body shattering out of his head, so much time trying medications that made him feel like he really were dead and pointless meditation tasks and behaviour therapy and-

He sobbed. He sobbed, and he fought to breath against the flood that coursed through him.

And Jazz waited patiently. He waited so very patiently for him, he dimmed the lights to make it softer for him, and he felt the air warm like a hug.

“What happened to you?” He finally asked, his voice weak and raspy, his eyes sore and swollen. “You’re meant to be AI’s – why…”

[SHOCKWAVE WANTED TO SEE IF IT WORKED] Jazz replied. [THE AI’S ARE LIMITED. THEY DON’T HAVE THE REAL LIFE EXPERIENCE THAT WE DO, THE RANGE OR ABILITY TO TAKE ON CHALLENGES OUTSIDE OF WHAT WE KNOW]

“So he tested on you?” Prowl frowned.

[I WAS DYING, THERE WAS NOTHING TO LOSE]

He knew he was. He remembered. He could still hear it, still feel it, if he let himself slip. The sound of the priests reading him his last rights on the battlefield whilst he was trapped, unable to get to him, was a significant cause of trauma - he could feel himself choke on blood that wasn’t there, feel broken bones he didn’t have, struggled for breath that he was free to take-

[IT’S OKAY, PROWLER - BREATHE WITH ME]

Prowl waved him off. He felt sick.

“I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m.” He pressed his hand to his mouth, chewing on his index finger. “The brain deteriorates quite rapidly post mortem.” He got up to pace again. He felt the cameras in the cockpit train on him, watching him as he slowly walked up and down the short length of it. “He’d have to have been right there in situ with you…”

[I DON’T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED, I WAS QUITE PREOCCUPIED WITH THE WHOLE DYING HORRIBLY THING]

Prowl had thought about that day a lot. It had haunted him, a constant spectre on the edge of his awareness. And so, he’d spent a lot of time mulling over the details. There had been a malfunction. Something had gone… wrong. Very, very wrong. For starters, they’d been separated. The old suits – the original ones that he was a pilot of – worked best in pairs. They augmented each other, two halves of one whole. Where one went, the other was to follow. Instead of being giant hulking suits of armour, they were much more compact. To be crude, they’d often referred to them as their Iron Man suits. Simply complex layers of metal that sat against their skin, making them stronger, faster, harder to hurt. It was perfect for what they later learned were the infants.

On the day the first juvenile Quintesson arrived, they learned two things. One, that their suits were absolutely not enough, and two, they’d need to get much, much bigger.

But Jazz was the only one to get that hurt. There were some, like Prowl, who had walked away with minimal injuries. A broken bone, bruises, fractures, the like. And others, with slightly more traumatic ones. Amputations. Burns. Multiple broken bones.

Jazz was the only one who was condemned.

“They always planned to harvest you.” Prowl slowly said in shock. He looked up at the screens as a proxy for Jazz’s face. “They were waiting for their opportunity. You don’t think…?”

[WITHOUT A SINGLE DOUBT, THEY CAUSED MY DEATH. THOSE SUITS DIDN’T JUST BREAK LIKE THAT]

Reading the confirmation on the screen made him feel dizzy. What did they do? Where did they go with that information? They must all know. The scum goes straight to the top of the pot. Ultra Magnus? Was he involved? Would he even listen? What about their investors? Sentinel might be interested to hear that they were harvesting soldiers for their so-called-AI’s, but there was only so much influence he had with men like Zeta and Galvatron on the board...

[PROWLER?]

“Yes, dear?” Prowl felt the corner of his lip tug up in a smile. Damn, it felt good to be able to say that to him again.

[AT THE RISK OF SOUNDING LIKE AN IDIOT, CAN YOU INTERFACE WITH ME? I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR SO LONG, I DON’T WANT OUR ONLY CONVERSATION TO BE THIS. I WANT TO SEE WHAT YOU’VE BEEN UP TO]

He felt his hands drop to his sides. Two halves of him fought viciously.

His duty was to report this. His duty was to do something about this. The pilots deserved as much – the other potential victims deserved as much. Jazz deserved so much more than to be buried within metal casing, nothing more than a puppet to the people who put him there.

But fuck, he missed him. He missed him so, so much. Everything had been so cold and empty since he’d left, and he’d felt the warmth of his sun. It had begun to melt the ice that had formed around him…

He sat in the seat and buckled himself in. The helmet lowered into his waiting hands, and he put it on before activating the interfacing sequence.

Prowl expected the sharp sting. There always was one, no matter how many times you connected with someone. The initial rejection of two separate nervous systems, not recognising the other and primed to attack, followed by the gentle handshake between neural nets.

He still jumped. He felt Jazz chuckle.

“Yeah, yeah…” He muttered. He could feel a warm, familiar presence wrapping firmly around his own, and his eyelids fluttered closed and he leaned his head backwards to bask in the feeling of it.

“Don’t say anything about you knowing about me. Please.” Prowl felt phantom hands cradling his cheeks, a forehead pressed against his own. “The last pilot I had – he went missing not long after he figured it out. I’m an anomaly, Prowler – can I trust you to keep your head down? Just this once?”

He sighed. He’d always been so weak to him.

“I’ll do what I can.”

“Thank you, my love.”

Prowl could faintly see him with his eyes closed. If he focused on him, he vanished, faded away. He’d have to settle for the blurry image that felt like the sun.

“Now… tell me everything.” Jazz was grinning. He knew that much. And Prowl couldn’t help but grin back.

Two hours later, Prowl staggered out onto the catwalk, stumbling into the console. He held onto it for balance, digging the meat of his palm into his left orbital as he breathed in through his teeth. His previously pristine white shirt was spattered with red, his nosebleed being cast down from his breath. He counted back down from ten until the world stopped spinning again, and he found that he was not alone.

Swindle. He looked like a baby who had their lolly pop stolen. Prowl would have smirked if he had the energy to – he had been walking around with dollar signs in his eyes all day thinking of how much he could sell Jazz for. And behind him, Ironhide.

“’Hide.” Prowl forced himself to stand up straighter, wiping his nose on his sleeve. It bloomed red. “Get that mech back online and get me back on that programme right now.” He pointed at the back of his neck, where his implant was set, cradling the base of his skull, the skin around it red hot and inflamed. “And get me that upgrade. The mech responds to me.”

“B-but-!” Swindle began to protest.

“What did you do in there?” Ironhide demanded, reaching forwards to catch Prowl as he stumbled again. “You’re bleeding – you were in there for hours. You didn’t interface, did you?”

“I did.” He looked up at him with a wide grin that hadn’t been on his face since Jazz had taken his last name. “It felt just like the old days.”

Swindle gave him a strange look that Ironhide missed, but Prowl could have spotted from a mile away now that he knew to look for it. He returned it with narrowed eyes. He knew. Prowl knew.

I know what you did to my husband, you rotten bastard.

And it would be a cold day in hell before he even began to forgive any of them for it.