#Motion Sensor Panel Light

[pankj123]

The ESYSENSE Motion Sensor Surface Panel Light is a modern and energy-efficient lighting solution designed for hands-free convenience. This Surface Mount Round Panel Light automatically turns on when it detects motion and switches off when no movement is present, helping to conserve energy. Its slim, stylish design provides bright and even illumination, making it ideal for hallways, staircases, and entrances. With the Motion Sensor Panel Light, you can enjoy seamless lighting without the need for manual operation. The Auto On/Off LED Panel Light ensures safety, efficiency, and a hassle-free lighting experience.

[andy-15-07]

Elastic Embrace

PAIRING: Reed Richards x reader

WORD COUNT: 2205 | requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist

requestHi I have a request! In honor of the Fantastic Four movie coming out soon, could you do a Reed Richards story? Maybe where the reader has powers too but struggles to control them so Reed helps them? Lots of fluff and cute moments, maybe a bit of smut too if you want!

You slip into the Baxter Building lab well before sunrise, heart pounding as you stare at the humming containment pod. Today’s the day Reed Richards finally tries to help you master your power,your ability to phase through solid matter. You’ve spent the last month learning to dial it down to a harmless shimmer, but every time you try something bigger, you end up halfway through a wall or sinking into the floorboards.

Reed, tall and lean even in his rumpled lab coat, appears behind you as you fidget with the control panel. “Morning, Y/N,” he says softly, blue eyes warm. “Ready for our first session?”

You jump, nearly pressing the wrong button. “Yeah,sorry. I’m just… nervous.”

“Don’t be,” he murmurs, offering his hand. “Nervous is good. Means you care.”

You take his hand and let him guide you to the small training chamber: a clear-walled sphere with an array of sensors. The city skyline glitters outside. “So,” Reed begins, folding long arms, “today we’ll start simple. I want you to phase your fingertip through that steel cube.” He points to a heavy block on a pedestal.

You breathe deep. “Okay.” You step forward, watching your hand tremble. “Here goes.”

“Take your time,” Reed instructs. “Imagine your molecules slipping between the cube’s.”

You close your eyes and feel the familiar tingle. Slowly, your index finger grows translucent… then disappears entirely. A startled gasp escapes you as your hand glides through the cube. You yank it back out, normal again, blinking in triumph.

Reed’s grin is infectious. “Excellent!” He claps once,soft, almost shy,and his eyes sparkle. “See? That was perfect.”

Your cheeks heat. “That was just a fingertip,” you protest. “Not the whole arm.”

“Progress is progress.” He crosses to your side. “Now, try your whole hand.”

You inhale and, guided by his steady presence, glide your hand through, elbow next. Your confidence building, you coax your shoulder forward,and suddenly you’re halfway through the steel. A jolt of panic flickers, but you hear Reed’s calm voice in your ear.

“Control your breathing. Steady,now pull back.”

You obey, phasing out in one fluid motion. Your heart pounds, but you smile,big and genuine. Reed steps forward, envelops you in a hug from behind, and you feel him press a light kiss to your shoulder.

“Great job,” he whispers. “Really great.”

Later, you’re sprawled on the couch in your shared loft,one of Reed’s quieter safehouses,wrapped in his enormous sweater. Across from you, Reed is perched on the armrest, reading through biometric data on a tablet. He glances up.

“How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” you admit, rubbing your temples. “But… good-tired.”

He nods. “Tomorrow we’ll try walking partway through the wall. But tonight, you rest.”

You grin sleepily. “Promise me one thing?”

“Anything.”

“Breakfast in bed?”

Reed raises an eyebrow, but a smile tugs his lips. “Of course.”

Sunlight peeks through the curtains the next morning as you wake to the smell of coffee and sizzling bacon. In the kitchenette, Reed flips pancakes,his arms stretchy enough to handle both spatula and mug at the same time. He turns, grinning. “Morning, Y/N.”

“Wow,” you murmur, sitting up. “You’re domestic.”

He shrugs, pancake in hand. “If I can’t master breakfast, how can I teach you to phase properly?”

You laugh as he brings a plate to you. “Thank you.”

He sits beside you on the floor, leaning back against the island. “So,how’d you sleep?”

“Like a log.” You pop a pancake into your mouth. “This is amazing.”

“Glad you like it.” Reed leans closer, voice soft. “I like this,us,just hanging out.”

Your heart flutters. “Me too.”

He brushes a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “There’s something… cute about your hair in the morning light.”

Heat blooms in your cheeks. “Stop.”

He chuckles. “Never.”

That afternoon, you’re back in the lab, ready to tackle phasing through a wall. Reed programmed a holographic grid on the far surface, so you can see exactly how far you’ve gone. You place your palm flat against the cold concrete.

“Just your hand first,” Reed reminds you, voice calm.

You nod, breathe, and push forward. The grid lines flicker as your hand slips through. You slide your forearm, smile widening… then hesitate at the elbow.

“Steady,” Reed says quietly. “Find your edge.”

You take a slow breath, push your shoulder in,and suddenly you’re in the wall, cement scraping at your back. Your knees hit the barrier too soon, and you stumble, trapped. Panic surges.

“Y/N!” Reed’s voice is urgent. He steps forward, stretching through the solid block until his body reaches you. He grasps your wrist in his hand,his stretchy wrist, but firm all the same,and pulls you free.

You collapse into his embrace, heart racing. Reed holds you tight. “Easy,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

You tremble, tears pricking. “I’m sorry. I did it wrong.”

He strokes your hair. “No, you did great. You just need more practice.”

You sniffle. “I don’t want to keep embarrassing myself.”

Reed tilts your chin up, his eyes gentle. “Y/N, look at me.” You do, and his smile is patient. “Everyone struggles at first. You’re learning a new way of being. I’m proud of you.”

Your tears spill over. “Maybe I’m not cut out for this.”

He brushes a tear away and kisses your forehead. “Yes, you are. And I’ll be here until you can slip through that wall with ease.”

That evening, exhausted, you settle onto the lab’s observation balcony. Reed joins you, handing over two steaming mugs of cocoa. The city lights shimmer below.

“To persistence,” he toasts.

“To… you,” you answer, and laugh when he raises an eyebrow.

He grins. “I like the sound of that better.”

You sit in comfortable silence, sipping cocoa. Reed wraps an arm around you, pulling you close. You rest your head on his shoulder. “Thank you for everything,” you whisper.

He kisses the top of your head. “Always.”

Over the next weeks, your sessions alternate between breakthroughs and setbacks. Every time you feel discouraged, Reed’s there with a patient word, a goofy joke, or an impromptu backrub. You discover that his mind is as elastic as his body,able to stretch around yours, ready to support you in any way.

One night, as you’re heading home, you find Reed waiting at your door. In his hands: a small steel puzzle cube. “Thought it might help,” he says, offering it to you.

You grin. “Is this for…?”

“For phasing practice,” he admits, scratching the back of his neck. “But also…I thought we could…play with it. Together.”

You blink, heart fluttering. “Together?”

He steps closer, eyes warm. “Yeah. We could…take turns. You phase, I grab…or vice versa.”

Your breath hitches. “That sounds…fun.”

He grins, and you lean in. “Okay.”

Inside, he dims the lights and sets the cube on the coffee table. You sit on the couch; he kneels before you. “Ready?”

You close your eyes, center yourself, and press your hand to the cube. Inch by inch, you phase your fingers through. When your entire hand sinks in, you guide it back out, gasping in triumph.

Reed claps softly. “Beautiful.”

Your cheeks warm. “Your turn.”

He places his hand on the cube. In a moment, he phases his fingers through, then laughs. “Easy.”

You giggle. “Okay, smarty. Try the other side.”

He flips the cube around, touches a different face. “Hmm,slightly thicker metal. Let’s see,“

He phases completely into the cube, disappearing from sight. You gasp and reach forward…then he slips out behind you, pulling you into a kiss so soft your breath catches. His hands roam your back; you wrap your arms around his neck.

“Reed,” you murmur against his lips. “We shouldn’t…”

He hushes you with a finger. “Y/N, you’re safe.”

His kisses grow more insistent; his body stretches around yours until you’re both pressed comfortably into the couch. The warmth of his skin, the softness of his lips,it all hums through you. Your skin tingles with residual power, like the last echo of your phasing.

He lifts you onto his lap, carefully, so no awkward creaks of the couch disturb you. You free his lab coat and collar of his shirt, nipping at the warm skin of his chest. He shivers, closing his eyes.

Every stroke, every kiss, is filled with warmth and affection.

He catches your lips again, softer this time, as his hand slides beneath your skirt to rest warm and sure against your inner thigh. Your pulse hammers in your ears, and you part your lips against his, whispering, “Reed… please.”

He smiles into the kiss,an electric flash in those deep blue eyes,then lowers his mouth to your collarbone, trailing slow, teasing kisses up toward your neck. His fingertips press gentle arcs into your thigh, inching ever closer until you can’t help the soft gasp that slips free.

“Y/N,” he murmurs, voice thick with need. He lifts you slightly, guiding you to settle fully onto his lap so your heat is flush against him. His arousal presses insistently against you, and you let your hands roam over his chest,over the firm muscles that ripple beneath elastic flesh.

When he shifts, you feel the slick promise of him at your entrance. You tilt your hips, meeting him halfway. A low, breathy groan rumbles from Reed as he fills you completely, slow and tender. You thread your fingers through his hair, marveling at the contrast of softness and strength in every stretch of his body.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. “So incredible.”

You cup his jaw, your touch somehow grounding you amid the swirl of sensation. “Only with you,” you reply, voice trembling.

He smiles, then pulls you closer, rocking his hips gently at first,drawing out every delicious stretch, every flutter of warmth. You wrap your legs around his waist, pressing him deeper, and lean into him as he picks up the pace. Each roll of his hips sends sparks through you; you moan softly, delighted by how completely he knows you.

“Fuck, Y/N,” Reed says, voice rough. He slides one hand from beneath your thigh to cup your breast, rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Heat flares through you, and you arch against him, biting your lip to stifle a cry.

He answers with a kiss so fervent it steals your breath, his other hand curling around your back, anchoring you to him. You grind down, squirming as your power hums,a gentle warmth, like embers beneath skin,mingling with the heat of his body.

“Do you feel that?” he rasps against your mouth. “Every part of you…”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Every part of me loves you.”

At that, Reed’s pace shifts,deeper, more insistent,pushing you closer and closer to the edge. You cling to him, fingers digging into his shoulders, nails grazing rubbery skin. Your vision flutters, and he hushes you with a kiss at the base of your throat, murmuring, “Let go, Y/N.”

With one final thrust, you shudder, your power flaring softly as your pleasure peaks. You collapse against his chest, trembling, and Reed holds you through every tremor, rocking slowly until the world steadies again.

He eases you down onto the couch cushions, shifting so he can lie beside you, his arms wrapping around you in a protective embrace. You nestle into his warmth, breath still ragged, as he kisses your temple.

“I love you,” he whispers, fingers tracing idle patterns across your back.

You lift your head to meet his gaze, smiling through the aftershocks of bliss. “I love you too, Reed Richards,Mr. Fantastic,master of all things,” you tease, and he laughs, his chest vibrating beneath you.

“Now,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to yours once more, “let’s see if we can’t master breakfast in bed next.”

You giggle, snuggling closer, and as you drift toward sleep in his arms, you know that with Reed by your side,stretching, supporting, loving,you could conquer any challenge: phasing through walls, mastering your power, or even carving out a lifetime of mornings just like this.

The next morning, you awaken in Reed’s arms, sunlight kissing your face. Your powers feel… calmer, somehow, as though his acceptance has soothed the rough edges. You nuzzle into his chest.

“Mornin’,” he murmurs, stretching around you until you’re both upright, spooned together.

“Morning,” you reply, smiling up at him.

He kisses your forehead. “Coffee?”

You laugh. “Please.”

He slides out of bed,carefully, you realize, given his elasticity,and leaves you a note on the nightstand: “Breakfast at Joe’s on me. Meet me downstairs.” You grin, pull on some clothes, and slip out to meet him.

Downstairs in the Baxter lobby, Reed is waiting, hair tousled, smile radiant. He holds two cups of steaming coffee and a paper bag of muffins. “Thought we’d keep the biscuit trend going,” he jokes.

You take a muffin, sit beside him. “Thank you,for last night. For everything.”

He reaches for your hand. “You’re the bravest person I know.” He squeezes your fingers. “Now, let’s see how brave we can be today,in training and…everything else.”

You lean into him, heart full. With Reed by your side, you know you can do anything,even learn to control a power as strange and wonderful as yours. And maybe, just maybe, discover entirely new ones,together.

[wing-ed-thing]

Late Night Study Session (Trafalgar Law x Reader)

Synopsis: You've been studying day and night all week. You can't help but goof off a little.

Word Count: 1.7k

Tags/Warnings: No Reader Pronouns, College AU, Suggestive Language

Notes: I didn't think it'd be here but it's here

“Are you an appendix? Because I have a gut feeling I should take you out.”

”Jesus Christ.”

You thought you just about broke him, your hysterical laugh turning into a wheeze as Law buried his face in his hands. You sat in the study room together. Just about the size of a large closet, the walls of the room were covered in whiteboards. A table, now littered with your laptops and hand-written papers, sat in the center with a large, fancy power strip. 

Law’s coffee sat amongst the empty take-out containers. The caffeinated drinks you had imbibed only contributed to the chaotic table. A warm light glowed overhead, glaring at Law’s scribbles on the whiteboard walls. It glowed a bit brighter than the light panels on the ceiling outside, the motion-activated sensors having dimmed when the new, expensive science building vacated long ago. 

You and Law had your last final together, which unfortunately fell on the last day of finals before move-out. A more advanced anatomy class, your test would encompass all the material you had covered since week one. Of course, this didn’t include the online modules that weren’t covered in class but would also be on the test. Even more, unfortunately, your final exam would make up forty percent of your overall grade. 

Quizzes, notes, and study guides from previous tests sat in a haphazard order across the table, over your empty seats, and pinned to the whiteboards like a detective’s evidence board. Pen ink smudged across the crinkled pages, and a patch of eraser dust lived on the table no matter how many times you tried to brush it away.

You were sure you were the only ones occupying a study room at the hour it was. You had practically been living out of it for the past week in preparation for finals. 

“Are you a heart surgeon? Because I get tachycardia whenever I see you.”

”It’s probably that abomination you’ve been sipping on all night.” Law gestured to one in your small army of drinks. You conjured up a concoction that contained just too much caffeine and sugar. “That stuff will kill you someday.” 

“If it gets me a passing grade, I’ll take ten,” you sighed, perusing a stapled packet of printed questions. You stopped at a page in the middle of the thick collection, taking a moment to think. “You can fill my… caudate nucleus with dopamine anytime.” 

You grinned, looking up at Law, whose already hooded gaze appeared even more narrow. His hand ran across his face, massaging the skin around his eyes. 

“You’ve officially lost it.”

”I lost it a few hours ago; let’s be real.” 

Law paid you little mind, shuffling around his notes before rearranging them in reverse order. For as rapidly as his eyes glanced over them, you knew Law was at his limit. There were only so many times you could look at the same collection of letters scrambled together before your brain fried, and frankly, you and Law had likely overstayed your time in the study room trying to push yourselves. 

You just weren’t afraid to know when it was time to give up.

”Are you a femur? Because you’re… you’re the largest bone in the human body.”

”That one doesn’t even make sense,” Law mumbled, still not entirely focusing on his notes despite his unmoving gaze. “The brachial plexus is formed by the anterior rami of the spinal nerves C5 to T1,” Law recited, a bit of forced certainty laced in his voice. 

“Yeah,” you hummed, playing with a pen and an empty coffee cup. 

“And the median nerve innervates the flexor muscles and the thenar muscles in the hand,” Law spoke definitively, crossing off a point of your massive study guide.

”And?”

Law glanced up at you.

”What do you mean ‘and’?” 

“Forearm. It’s mostly the median nerve you’re gonna lose points if you don’t also mention—”

“Ulnar. Fuck.”

Law threw his packet on the table. He hadn’t been this sloppy when you started that afternoon. But since you took a break to eat dinner— you were sure dinners with you in the study room were the only full meals Law had since the finals crunch began— studying had been futile. 

You had about eighty percent of the material sort of under your belt, but even that was shaky, considering the doomed format of your exams. No one in your class (or any of the other sections) received a passing grade during the midterm, and you were more than sure that even the study guide was a rough basis for what would actually be on the exam. 

“Maybe it’s about time we’ve turned in for the night,” you said quietly. 

Law had thrown his head back as he slumped over the table. A hand covered his eyes. His chest heaved a deep breath. 

The final was a lot of material, almost an impossible amount. You were on your own when it came to studying— the study guide (if you could even call it that)— was a miracle in and of itself. 

You knew that no matter how much you studied, you were bound to come across some curveball question about some obscure minutia you read about once. But Law, on the other hand, Mr. 52/100 on the midterm himself, was as stressed as ever. It didn’t matter that 52 was the highest score across all three sections; he was absolutely beside himself.

“Maybe,” he affirmed. Law would never tell you outright if you were right, even as he began to gather his things. 

You also began gathering your things, discarding your trash in the can, and sweeping your written notes unceremoniously back into plopped binders in your backpack. You finished moments before Law and waited by the door.

The bags under his eyes were more severe than usual, and he carried himself like his body was heavy. Law slouched a bit under the weight of his backpack but ultimately joined you at the door, grabbing it from your grasp to head out together.

You weren’t entirely sure why Law insisted on your study sessions to begin with. As serious and studious as he was, you were sure he had some rigorous study strategy he’d want to do alone. But ultimately, Law insisted that you study together and hardly gave you a choice in the matter. Given how much he talked to himself, you assumed he just wanted a warm body to bounce things off of. 

“Are you an ulnar nerve? Because you’ve got me feeling all the right sensations in my hands and my heart.” You placed your hands over the left side of your chest as you made your way out of the building. 

As you anticipated, the halls were quiet, and your voice bounced off the tiles. The motion-activated lights took a moment to flicker as the two of you passed. The sky outside the windows you walked by was pitch black, and the paths were illuminated only by the campus street lights. 

Law shook his head as the most subtle snort of amusement left his nose. His mouth scrunched together to contain his subtle laugh, but the motion was just enough to brighten his demeanor. The energy around you rose like a breath of fresh air had just wafted through. 

“You’re terrible at those,” Law said, holding the door for you as you stepped outside. 

The night air was cool when you left the building, being just chilly enough to prickle your skin. The streetlights lit up a fair amount of campus, illuminating your path back to the dorms. The door to the science building shut behind you, officially locking you out of the building. 

“Like you could do any better!” you laughed, clutching your backpack straps as you stepped out in front of Law. You pivoted on your heel, only to notice he hadn’t moved. You met his dark eyes with a crinkle of your forehead. 

Your face fell in confusion, which only mounted as Law took two wide strides to close the gap between you. Without warning, his hand found the underside of your face, cupping it firmly to tilt toward his. His other hand was shoved in the pocket of his coat. Your breath hitched as he leaned in.

“Wanna exchange genetic material?”

“Law!” you gasped, nearly shrieking his name in surprise, as your first instinct was to roughly shove him away as heat rose under your skin. You stumbled a few steps down the path, trying desperately to hide the embarrassing expression that graced your face. And when you did turn back to look at him— in sheer astonishment— Law was proudly wearing a pursed-lipped smirk.

“You’re the one who challenged me,” Law hummed with an amused bounce of his brows. He followed as you began in the direction of the dorms. 

“I’d hardly call that an anatomy-themed pickup line!” you exclaimed, your voice a pitch higher than usual. Law reached for your sleeve, a shine in his eyes as he slowed your pace. You kept backing up down the path, playfully tugging him along. Law rolled his eyes.

“Is too. You’re just embarrassed that I made you all flustered—”

“You’re just embarrassed that I trounce you at anatomy-themed pickup lines!”

You hardly finished your sentence before Law used the grip on your hand to his advantage, twirling you around into his arms, backpack and all. The movement felt bulky and heavy to you, but Law kept control over your movements, once again trapping you in proximity.

You lost your voice in your throat as you stared into his dark irises. They appeared even darker in the dim lighting, like the glinting gaze of a leopard as nocturnal bugs chirped around you. He raised a brow, his face swiveling cockily as he delivered his line.

“You wanna learn some real anatomy?” 

“Get outta here!” 

You pressed your palm to his forehead, playfully shoving his head back as Law relinquished you as you covered your hand with your face. Law grabbed your sleeve again, moving in front of you to tug you back to the dorms. 

Maybe he won that round after all, but you’d never tell him that. 

Thank you to all who liked, reblogged, followed, and supported. Your support means so much and is greatly appreciated.

"I was pretty sure you'd sleep in and forget to meet me this morning" “Wouldn't have forgotten if I was sleeping with you" “But look at this.. Jesus.. look at this outfit" vibes

[mychlapci]

Ageswap Prowl, having accepted his place as a little cocksleeve for his mentors, devises a plan to convince daddy Springer that he is, in fact, a bottom slut through and through

He puts on his cutest and naughtiest gothic lolita style dress and waits in Springer's quarters, prepping himself on the large bed as he waits for his sire. When Springer returns, he is graced with a slutty dolled up Prowl panting desperately, leaking all over the covers. His holes well spread and glistening

As Springer tries to find his words in that brief moment of shock, Prowl takes the opportunity and starts begging like a proper whore. Crawling forwards on all fours, leaving the massive, wet plug behind on the bed so that he could rub his sopping hole all over his daddy's pedes. Grinding his little ringed cocklet against a strut, desperately fucking his spike duct with a sound, going all see, daddy? His little nubby spike is just another hole to be fucked, there's no way he can be a stud with such an adorable and weak toy

And if Springer still needs convincing, Prowl goes to work showing off just how good he is at sucking cock now. Skillfully laving his pierced glossa all over his panel, teasing slobber into every seam until it tingles, exventing heavily, moaning and groaning seductively as he stares up with an absolutely sinful expression. Optics half lidded and dim, sensor panels hung low, trembling. As if he was already cockdrunk before he even got a taste of Springer's fat cock, painfully locked in under his panels still.

One hand still ramming the sound in and out of his tiny spike, the other tweaking a gleaming nozzle, letting out little gasps when he pinches it. Even as he rubs his leaky pussy against his foot, he's taking care to gyrate his hips, waggling his aft to make those bells on the hem of his skirt jingle cutely.

It doesn't take long for Springer to see the light. His son, no, daughter, has well and truly blossomed into a sultry little minx. A bold little cumslut. Too bold even. Perhaps, if Prowl really isn't meant to be a stud like him, then he should be taught a lesson in trying to manipulate his daddy in such a manner. Well then, if the little slut wants to play, daddy will play, alright

He asks if Prowl really, really wants a taste of daddy's cock. And when Prowl cries out yes, he holds his lips flush to his panel, gripping the mechling by the chevron, and pressurises his spike directly into his intake. Making Prowl's optics roll back as he almost cums from getting his throat tubing stuffed to the brim in one fell swoop. Springer berates his girl for his lack of self control. Without the twins around to keep him in line, he'd be choking on cock all day like a greedy fleshlight, wouldn't he?

Whatever answer that was on his glossa gets fucked back into his tiny mouth as Prowl loses himself tl the rhythm of getting facefucked by his sire's fat, bulging spike. He tries his best to pleasure Springer to show that he's really a good girl. Working his tongue to stroke the indents of each biolight along the shaft. Swallowing around that length to create and undulating motion in his throat. But its to no avail, as Springer's rough thrusts just has him seeing stars, tongue eventually lolling about inside as the Wrecker pressed his spike down on it. Drool spilling out in bursts with each jab

But before he cums down his baby girl's throat, Springer pulls out. He's going to finish inside Prowl. Fill him up like the pretty little cumdumpster he was destined to be. He easily picks the cadet up and lays him out on the bed.

But before he does anything, he retrieves the discarded dildo, and has Prowl suck on it a little. Telling him to get it nice and wet as he reaches down to twist the sounding rod still inside Prowl'ss spike, because that monster of a plug going back inside him. No, daddy's not going to breed his slutty pussy today.

Since he's so insistent on being a little fuckhole, Springer has decided that his fussy girl doesn't need a cock then, since he can't appreciate having one. Though looking at the pathetic little thing, he agrees with the twin's assessment at last: that cute, sensitive spike is indeed, too tiny to be anything more than a toy. There's no way he can satisfy anybody with it. It's basically just another clit for Prowl.

But daddy knows better, and he's decided that his useless spikesheathe would be better as another fuckhole for his babydoll. Prowl's eyes widen in surprise when he realises what Springer meant, but before he could conjure up a protest, it flees his mind when Springer rips the dildo out of his mouth and shoves it under his very short dress, plastering the cockhead right up against his ceiling node. Punching a wail out of his vocaliser as his optics cross.

Dazed, he lies there as his daddy leand in close, ordering him to clench down on that dildo. Keep it inside his pussy. Prowl squeals when Springer starts twisting the sounding rod in very wide circles, tugging his cocklet all around. Stretching his spike duct out.

Springer stuffs a thumb in between his lips as the slowly toys around with the interlocking mechanisms of the mechling's squishy nub. Eventually pulling the rod out and taking the ring off, careful to pinch the base, ensuring that Prowl doesn't get to cum ahead of time. Then he starts teasing the tips of his digits into the rim around the spike housing.

Prowl was basically sobbing around his finger by that point, and he shifts their position a little, moving them onto their side so that Prowl's jaw rested against his breastplate. He pulls his thumb out, and opens his chestplates to offer a nozzle instead. Prowl latches onto the nipple instinctively, head all floaty and fuzzy, obediently keeping his calipers nice and tight around the thick plug in his pussy while his daddy tinkered with his cocklet.

Once he deems it adequately stretched, Springer starta pushing the mechling's spike inwards. Slicking each telescopic mesh pleat over the other with his precum, until its practically flush against the housing. Then he lines his own cock over the circlet, and starts pushing in. Prowl trembles violently as the pressure on his compressed spike mounts, but he holds on to his sire, lips wrapped around his milky. Taking his daddy's cock as it violated his cocksheathe without complaint, like a good mechling.

It felt wrong and a stung a little, but he'd been stretched so well, he can't help but whine from how good the ache felt as that fat cock burrowed deeper and deeper into his core from that unusual angle. Then, they feel it. The snap as the spike's pressurisation mechanism twists inwards, inverting all the mesh pleats at once. Breaking it.

Prowl cums with practically every thrust after that. Squirting uncontrollably in both holes as Springer fucks a new pussy into his array. Before his processor glitches out from all the pleasure, he wonders if Sideswipe and Sunstreaker would be more willing to see eye-to-eye with Springer from now on. Now that he doesn't have to contend with the pressure of being something he's not anymore. Its so much better to be a cute little fuckhole for his daddy and his mentors, after all-🔌

god yes... prowl wanted to show daddy just how big of a slut he is, so springer really turned him into one.

[phantomskeep]

The Early Bird Gets The Worm - Chapter 2

The Early Bird Gets The Worm

Chapter 2 -  A Bird, a Babe, and a Butler All Walk Into a Cave

Written by @agent-sushi-fbi & myself uwu

Read it on AO3 here!

Masterpost | Chapter One | Chapter Three

When Danny had first ventured into the darkened alleyways of this dirty city, he didn’t expect to run into some weirdo in a skin-tight black and blue suit. Fellow dumpster divers? Yeah, sure. He figured that fighting off a family of possums was normal when scrounging around for any scrap of something to fill his stomach.

He didn’t even know where he ended up honestly. Danny got a headache anytime he thought too hard about the details of where he was or how he got there or even who he was. He knew his name was Danny. He knew he was small (he had looked in a mirror, thank you, but it felt wrong somehow, like a funhouse mirror upside down) and he was pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to be small. But thinking about stuff like that hurt a lot–kind of like a metal fist bashing into his skull.

Danny wasn’t really sure how he knows what that feels like, yet he was sure that was the best comparison.

What he certainly wasn’t expecting at tonight's garbage dump feast was being kidnapped by a vigilante. Was it really kidnapping though if he kind of went along willingly out of pure curiosity? 

Although, man, was he glad (not that he'd ever admit it out loud) that this random vigilante decided to kidnap him tonight. After Nightwing had bundled Danny up onto his motorcycle once their meet-up with Batman was done and peeled out of the inner city of Gotham, the bird-themed hero brought him to a hidden entrance in the hills that led to a literal cave. He had watched when they pulled up as a reinforced steel panel lifted into the rocks above their head, leaving a gaping maw that Nightwing just zoomed into. Lights activated with motion sensors as they sped into a huge room that was full to the brim with gadgets and computers that lit up at their arrival. Danny could only stare in awe of how awesome and improbable it all seemed.

Seriously, how crazy were these Fruit Loops?

The man had started explaining some boring stuff about the cave when they arrived, but the massive freaking T-rex had immediately caught Danny’s eye and he stopped paying attention to Nightwing. It was like a switch was flipped, his cautious suspicion he’d been holding onto was thrown out the window, and now all that he could think about was flying himself up to the giant dinosaur and touching it. Danny was sure if you looked at his face at that moment, there was no other thought behind his eyes beyond must touch right freaking now.

Nightwing must have sensed the gremlin energy pouring off of him because next thing Danny knew, the collar of his jacket was being grabbed before he could move from his spot at the entrance. He pouted up at the man, demanding with his eyes that Nightwing let go so he could play on the dinosaur like he was a kid. But wait, maybe he should say because he’s a kid? He is a kid right, being all small? But he still wasn’t sure if that was correct. He mentally shrugged and thought: Eh, who cares? All Danny could see was shiny scales glinting in the fluorescent lights lining the cave.

And Danny? Danny was but a simple man (boy…maybe a crow?). He sees a shiny thing and must have the shiny thing.

“Danny, don't even think about it,” Nightwing intoned. He gripped Danny's jacket a little tighter and pulled him closer to the man's side. He totally did not pout at being squished into the vigilante. One hundred percent, no siree. No pouting here.

“Think about what? What are you thinking that I'm thinking?” Danny shrugged, acting casual while his eyes flitted back and forth between the vigilante and dinosaur. “There's no thoughts going on up here, I can promise you that.” He knocked on the side of his head to prove his point, but Nightwing looked unimpressed.

“Master Nightwing, I presume you brought this child back to the cave for medical attention?” Danny's nose bunched in confusion as he heard another, older and British, voice enter the chat. He turned his head around, looking for the source and spotted an older guy in a butler outfit paired with a mask, much like Nightwing’s, appear around the corner.

“Agent A! Good timing!” Nightwing jovially responded, yanking Danny around like he weighed nothing (shut up, he was a BIG MAN!) and presented him like a scrungly, dumpster-infested gift to Agent A. Danny crossed his arms and attempted to sit criss-cross while hovering in the air in response. He hoped it showed both men how displeased he was being carried around like a kitten.

Agent A only raised a single eyebrow, humming as he set down the tray he had been holding on a nearby table. Danny felt a little awkward at the look, like the man was able to be disappointed in him for nearly trying to be a brat and was waiting for Danny himself to realize it. 

“Hmm, well Master Nightwing, would you be so kind as to introduce the young Mister to me?” Agent A's attention (thankfully) shifted to Nightwing and Danny huffed a near silent breath in relief. 

Danny shifted uneasily, eyeing the new person. “How do I know you’re not some sort of government spy trying to steal my spleen?”

Nightwing let out a tired sigh, patting Danny’s greasy hair with his free hand. “This is Danny, he’s in need of some medical attention like you said. Starting with an attitude adjustment, I think.”

The young boy spluttered, smacking away Nightwing’s gloved hands. His feet dropped to the ground as he glared up at the vigilante who had finally decided to let him go. “I am perfectly fine, thank you very much! You’re the one who kidnapped me, so what kind of attitude should I have in the first place?”

“You came with me willingly!” Nightwing cried out, throwing his arms over his head in exasperation.

“You bribed me with sandwiches! I see no sandwiches here!” Danny rebutted, tilting his chin up and moving around like he was towering over Nightwing (he decided it was best to ignore his current height).

“Danny, you’ll get your sandwiches after Agent A and I check you over--”

“You’re a dirty liar and I hope you know that I will haunt you in your nightmares.” He squinted his eyes at Nightwing and Danny made a mental promise to himself to follow through with the threat…whether he knew how to do it or not. He would figure it out though if he didn't get the food he was supposed to be shoving in his mouth right about now.

Nightwing just sighed, bringing a hand up to rub the bridge of his nose. “Okay, kiddo. Whatever you say, I'm too tired to argue.” Danny pumped a little fist in the air at his win.

A small cough caught the quarreling black-haired duo’s attention. They both shifted their gazes back to where Agent A was watching them bicker. Danny resolutely ignored how they acted in sync and shifted a few inches away.

“If it may please you, Mister Danny, while Nightwing gets you set up in the medical bay I can make you a few simple sandwiches.” The older man turned a pointed look towards the youngest present. “Are there any allergies or preferences that I should be aware of?” When Danny shook his head negatively, Agent A turned to leave for…wherever he had spawned from before.

“Thank you, A.” The vigilante called to his retreating back before starting to herd Danny over to a well-lit corner of the literal freaking cave with actual bats. He still couldn’t get over it.

Danny glared up at Nightwing, eyebrows scrunched in a face of pure childish pout. “I would like to state that I am doing this under heavy protest.”

“Duly noted.”

The medical bay was stocked full of random bits and bobs of probably important looking equipment. From IV lines to a full x-ray machine, Danny had to take a moment and question just how loaded these guys must be to have this stuff at the ready. None of this looked second-hand or even well-used to his untrained eyes, though he couldn't remember if he really had much of a reference for this stuff. As he was ushered onto a cot, Danny couldn’t help the shiver of fear involuntarily creeping up his spine as he sat down.

Watching Nightwing move around brought a thin feeling of panic racing through his veins. The sterile smell, brightly unadorned walls, and the constant hum of devices plugged into every outlet. There was a mayo cart near the end of the cot he sat on, not much on it but Danny couldn’t tear his eyes away from the larger-than-they-should be tweezers and the forceps peeking out from under the sheet covering it. 

“Alright, Danno, we’re just gonna check you over real quick,” Nightwing told him, bustling around the small space comfortably. Danny felt like he couldn't breathe at the nickname for some reason he couldn’t recall. But that wasn't right? Because he was pretty sure he didn't have to breathe, which is wrong because a human should be breathing, right? He raised a shaky hand to his chest and yep, it was definitely not moving. Danny had stopped breathing at some point without realizing and it wasn’t affecting him, which was weird. But he still hadn't stopped watching the gleaming silver taunting him as though the instruments would start moving on their own towards him. So, he couldn’t bring himself to care about his own unnaturalness. “Now, I'm not the one with a history of medical care and knowledge. I know more than most. but I’ve only got enough in this old noggin for some basic first aid. Agent A will be the one actually looking you over in a bit.”

Nightwing continued to chatter on, but Danny couldn't bring himself to focus on his words until the man stepped in front of the instruments, blocking them from Danny’s line of sight. He sucked in a sharp breath for the first time in minutes, but Nightwing didn’t act like he heard him as he reached over to remove Danny's jacket. 

“Now, real quick I'm just going to do a surface check,” Nightwing rubbed Danny’s hands between his own rapidly. “Jeez kid, you're like an ice cube! We'll get you some warm clothes after we make sure you don't have any injuries. I'm gonna look for any bruises or cuts or anything broken so I can bring it to A's attention. Okay?”

Danny didn't respond. His eyes had started scanning the room and landed on a tiny centrifuge on the counter a few feet away. It looked off, it wasn't spinning at least, but the sight of it caused questions to blur in his mind. Were they going to take his blood? Why would they do that? Lots of reasons he knew, but couldn't name a single one. Why couldn’t he think of them? Would anything happen if they did take his blood? Why was he worried? Was there something that Danny should know, should remember, that he just couldn't? It was important, it had to be important! They were important, they were terrifying, they were his everything, they were his end–!

He felt his mind screech to a sudden halt, narrowing in on the blinking red light of the power button. The centrifuge just taunted him innocently as his mind panicked. Danny felt his chest going up and down, but his lungs still felt empty while his heart beat so fast he could feel it in his throat. He could hear his own heart beating. 

What if he was some kind of monster behind his memories? What if Nightwing and Batman arrested him, handed him over to someone? No, no, no! He couldn't let them! He couldn't go back, not to that place or to them--they hurt him, there was no way he'd go back! Danny refused to be sent back to the—!

Suddenly his thoughts stopped. Danny felt light-headed, all of his questions still swimming in his mind, but not as loud. He felt…calmer, but not at the same time? Who was he thinking of? What was he about to remember?

“Danny? Danny, bud, you alright there? It's not normal for you to be so quiet.” A voice spoke next to him, low and anxious but Danny's mind didn't really register it was Nightwing. He just sat there, his limbs heavy and eyelids sinking in exhaustion. He's not sure why he's suddenly so tired, but he felt his mind drift to the thought of flying through the skies with a blue shape holding onto him tightly–laughter chasing them in the wind.

********************************

To say Dick was panicking would be an understatement…He was absolutely losing his shit. One minute, Danny was perfectly fine (if a little bit nervous) but the next he was dissociating and hyperventilating! But without the very important part where he breathes! His little chest was moving up and down rapidly, but there didn't seem to be any air coming in or out of the boy.

“Danny? Danny, bud, you alright there?” Dick smiled, hoping it was a bit comforting. “It's not like you to be so quiet.” He spoke in hushed tones, but hoped that his goading brought the boy back to his former spunk for even a moment and snap him out of his altered mental state. When he got no response out of it though, which worried Dick even more. 

When Danny’s eyes had rolled back into his head and he passed out, just as Dick was reaching out for him? He felt his heart stop. But when Dick barely managed to catch the small boy before he fell off the cot? That was the final straw. He quickly cradled Danny in his arms and faced the main portion of the cave.

“Agent A! I need your help, come quick!” 

A hurrying of footsteps alerted him to Alfred arriving, but after calling out for assistance, Dick's eyes never left Danny’s face. There was a clatter as Alfred hastily dropped the sandwich tray he had been carrying onto the counter, the older man stopping next to Dick with a distraught expression. “What has happened here?”

“I don’t know, one second he seemed fine and then he just stopped talking!” Dick reached a hand up to gently cradle Danny’s small face, turning his head up to look at his pseudo-grandfather. “I tried asking him a question and he just passed out all of a sudden.”

With a quick nod, Alfred took Danny from his arms and laid him down on his side. Dick couldn’t help but notice just how small the boy looked laying on the adult sized cot. His breathing was short and shallow–nothing like how it was supposed to be when someone was sleeping restfully.

“Get the oximeter set up on him, lad. We’ll need to take his temperature and get a baseline.” With a determined nod, the young man set off to do just that. As he clipped the small, child-sized plastic equipment Bruce kept in the med bay for whatever reason, Dick couldn’t help but run through what had happened prior to him absconding with Danny to the top of Wayne Tower. Did he notice anything wrong with the kid besides the obvious? Did Danny act like he was protecting a wound of any kind while they spoke? He had no idea, but he sure was some detective for not noticing. Dick scoffed at his own thoughts and rushed back to Alfred.

“Was there anything that might have happened to cause any kind of head injury to the young lad?” Alfred questioned as he slipped a thermometer under the unconscious boy’s tongue. He held it there, never looking away from his patient as he questioned Dick. “Any symptoms of a fever or cough that may indicate he is sick or suffering from an underlying issue?”

Dick shook his head, impatiently waiting for the oximeter to give him something. When it continued to show nothing, he felt his heart sink. “Not anything I was there for. The kid was dumpster diving when I found him…looking for food.” He closed his eyes, trying to recall what exactly had happened earlier that night. “He kept swaying around when I got close to him though, like he was exhausted or something but trying not to show it.”

Alfred hummed, pulling the thermometer from Danny’s mouth as it beeped a cheery tune. “His temperature is not where it should be, but not out of the question with the weather and how thinly he is dressed.” The butler gave a sharp nod, depositing the used thermometer off to the side and moving towards the blood draw station. “We’ll need to perform a blood panel on Mister Danny, it’s a very high possibility that his blood sugar is low, as well.”

Dick felt his shoulders deflate, glancing helplessly between the kid he knew he was getting attached way too fast to and his grandfather. “And what if his blood sugar isn't the problem we're having here? What if something else is going on?”

Alfred's eyes softened a little around the edges, his steps a little less hurried, though still confident nonetheless. “Then that is simply one diagnosis we will be able to remove from the realm of possibility. Now, please help me get Mister Danny cleaned up a bit. I daresay, we cannot have the child catching an infection from the street grime finding its way into an injection site.”

“Got it–okay.” Dick pushed his shaking hands to still as he hurried over to one of the cabinets alongside the walls. He opened the drawer housing the many rags they use in these types of situations, a box of alcohol wipes, and a small bucket he filled with water at the sink to take over to Danny’s bedside. Setting them all on the nearby mayo cart, he started gently scrubbing away the thick layer of filth coating the young boy’s arm until the skin turned near pink. Doing his best to not think about just what was happening, the vigilante cleaned up the young boy with Bat-trained efficiency.

“He’s ready,” Dick announced as he swiped an alcohol wipe repeatedly over the now-cleaned flesh. Alfred hummed as the older man wrapped a latex band around Danny’s upper arm, watching as the young boy’s veins slowly thickened with blood swelling. With a gentle precision, Alfred prodded around before reaching a hand out to press lightly above the tourniquet. Instinctively, Dick passed over a needle and syringe to him, keeping the empty tiger tubes in his palm until Alfred asked for them.

Just as the cool metal of the needle began to poke into Danny’s veins, the boy’s fist snapped out, almost knocking the empty tubes out of Dick’s hands. They were shocked enough by the response–both men startled more than they expected–that Dick found himself taking a half step back and Alfred was pulling the needle away from Danny's arm to ensure he didn't poke the boy in the wrong spot by accident. 

“Danny?” Dick called out, his surprise hurriedly making way for relief. “Oh my, Danny! You scared me–” Snarling greeted his approach and instantly stopped Dick in his tracks. His arms were held up in an aborted hug as he watched Danny inch upwards and lean forward so his weight was supported by his wrists. It couldn't have been comfortable, but Dick wasn't sure if Danny even realized as his eyes remained tightly shut–lines appearing around them that made him seem so much older than his young age was.

Danny’s noises intensified when Alfred began to move again, the needle still held tightly within his right hand. Although they didn't open during all of this, Danny's eyes were trained on the gleaming silver as though it personally offended him. Dick’s gaze flitted between the two others for a moment before he had an idea.

Lowering himself a little so he wasn't too tall in this moment, settling into a crouched position that put him eye level with Danny, Dick took a deep breath. “Alfie, I need you to take a step back for me.”

The old butler raised a brow and did not move, keeping his eyes on Danny with continuous aborted attempts to reach the child. “Master Dick, I do not know what you are planning–”

“Sorry Alf, I just need you to trust me,” he held a hand out, interrupting the butler and accepting his consequences for later. “I've got an idea, but I need you to step back a little first.”

Alfred tsked in disapproval, but did as Dick asked and the young man watched as a little bit of tension left Danny's face. “Okay okay, now I need you to slowly lower the hand that’s holding the needle.”

“Now, really Master Dick.” Alfred didn't complain, but he made his displeasure known. “This young man is now my patient, so I must treat him. Would you please allow me?”

Dick resisted the urge to sigh. He felt like right now was not the best time to be arguing, it could only lead to Danny running from them, from him. Dick didn't know how he knew that probability, but he felt it in his very bones. Every second they wasted, he knew that it would lead to Danny running as fast as his small legs would take him.

“Alfred, please, I'm asking you to trust me right now,” he begged. Waving a hand at Danny’s current state as though to prove his point. “There's something happening, and I think that we need to follow Danny's lead here. If I know grunts and growls from B, then this is an angry or scared one. We have to step back, ok?”

Alfred glanced away from Danny long enough to stare into Dick's eyes and sigh under his breath (Dick didn't actually hear the noise, but he knew it happened). But without argument, he moved his arm down slowly, never letting go of the needle–but rather just removing it from Danny's direct line of sight. The snarls didn't completely disappear, but they lowered enough in volume that he could almost say the kid sounded like an old fridge humming to life for the first time in years.

Turning to the (obviously freaked out) child in front of him, Dick put on his best showman's smile for him. “Danno, it's okay, no one will hurt you.” There was no response, not that Dick thought there would be. “No one will ever touch you again without your okay on it, is that alright?” 

A blank stare was the only reply Dick received, making his worry increase. He did his best to not show it, his smile steady and sure as he kept gently talking to the scared boy in front of him. “What’s got you all worked up? Must not like needles, huh, bud?” With the utmost caution, Dick slowly reached out a hand. When Danny’s snarling continued as before without raising in volume, the vigilante kept creeping closer and closer. “Needles are pretty scary. I used to hate getting shots, y’know? Batman would have to bribe me with ice cream to get me to do it.” Dick dropped his voice to a stage whisper as he gently touched Danny’s shaking arm. “He still has to bribe me, even if I’m not scared anymore. It gets me free ice cream, how could I say no to that?”

Alfred chuckled despite himself at Dick's words, no doubt remembering all the times he had to quell Dick's tantrums when he had to get all of his vaccinations after moving in. “It is true, Mister Danny. Master Nightwing was quite the rambunctious child and the main aggressor in Batman's multitude of gray hairs coming in early.”

Dick frowned at Alfred. He wasn't that bad growing up! But before he could protest his angelic childhood nature, he heard a quiet snort. Whipping his head back around from where he was about to defend himself to Alfred, Dick watched as the lines on Danny's face receded a bit and there was a tiny quirk to his lips.

Deciding sometimes it's better to join them than try and beat them, Dick moved forward. “Oh yeah, for sure, I was a total monster! There was this one time where Batman told me I couldn't go on patrol with him after I kept playing with Poison Ivy's plants,” Dick started in a hushed whisper, as though he were telling a secret. Danny leaned forward, his eyes still closed but not as tightly and he thought he could almost make out a sliver of color from them. “Well, I couldn't stand for that, of course! I was all of eight-years-old and totally knew better than Batman himself, so I went out anyway but in the opposite direction of his patrol. I figured if he didn't see me, he wouldn't know.” Dick shrugged casually, leaning back a bit with a faux-cocky smirk.

“How, pray tell, did that end up working out for you, Master Nightwing?” Alfred was smirking. That was never a good sign for any of them. 

Dick looked away from the old butler, keeping Danny in his peripheral as he muttered. “I slipped on some ice that Mr Freeze had left on the ground and slid into the middle of traffic. Batman got a call from Gordon about ‘an extra traffic light the city didn't authorize’ and told him to come get me.” Dick pouted remembering how Bab's’ Dad kept chuckling at him the whole time Bruce gave him a silent lecture on the police station roof. “I was grounded from everything, not just patrol, for a month. A whole month!”

A small huff of laughter caught Dick’s attention, and he could see Danny’s shoulders lower from their tense position. Dick gave a quick glance over him, checking for anything wrong, and just seeing that the little boy was much more relaxed. Within seconds his little head was lolling around like it weighed more than he could handle. Dick jumped up and grabbed hold of Danny's shoulders before he could slump over and fall off the cot. With the same amount of caution one would use to approach a rabid dog, Dick slowly laid the once again unconscious child back down. He stayed still for a few tense moments, waiting for Danny to react negatively at the change in position. When there was no aggressive movement, he breathed a sigh of relief. Turning his head to face Alfred, he spoke in a hushed tone. “Maybe we don’t draw the kid’s blood just yet.”

“Master Nightwing, we need to find out what’s wrong with the young lad.” The old butler set the needle down on a nearby table, locking covered eyes with Dick’s own. “It could be something that needs immediate treatment.”

“Is there any way we could get that information without drawing a panicked child’s blood?” Dick hissed.

Eyes narrowing in displeasure, Alfred spoke with a sharp tone. “Master Nightwing, it would do you well to remember the manners Batman and I taught you.”

Dick sheepishly looked at the ground, mumbling out an apology. “But, A, c’mon. He clearly doesn’t like needles for some reason. Why don’t we just wake him up, or do some tests that don’t involve drawing his blood?”

Alfred twisted his lips in a way only the man himself could, eyes trained on Dick who was anxiously rubbing his hands together, waiting for an answer. When Bruce wasn't here, Alfred was in charge. (Aw, who was he kidding? Alfred was always in charge, but when Bruce isn't here the arguments are a lot easier). 

“As you wish, I will view Mister Danny's current status without the transfer of biological tissue of any kind,” Alfred agreed easily, moving past Dick to properly dispose of the needle he had opened. “But I tell you this now sir, if there is an underlying health issue then I won't be able to do anything if his condition worsens in this situation. So I suggest coming up with an idea for when the young sir awakens.”

Dick nodded while feeling like groaning in misery. He barely knew the kid–how was he supposed to act as a health surrogate for this tiny child right now? The vigilante put his hands on his hips as he watched Alfred work, removing Danny's dirty outer clothing. Alfred’s facade broke for a second as he made a face at the two filthy, thin jackets covering the boy’s still covered arm and the ripped flannel around his waist. The old butler methodically cleaned every part of Danny's arms and face that were covered in dirt, and Dick watched in awe as the most adorable freckles appeared on his round baby cheeks. He needed to squish them and coo at the little boy right that second, having to use every ounce of Bat-trained restraint to not coddle the tiny human.

“Nightwing,” Dick took in a sharp breath, instinctually standing up straight. He hadn’t been expecting Bruce to be back to the Cave so soon, normally the man would stay out as late as possible on patrol. “Report, now.” Bruce's voice garnered no argument, a tone demanding answers. Dick knew that he probably had some kind of traumatic response reasoning or whatever for needing to know literally everything for a sense of control. But Dick had a traumatic response to fight at every turn when being spoken down to.

“Not now B, if you can’t tell there’s something going right now we’re a bit busy with,” Dick grit his teeth as he responded, unable to tear his eyes away from the laceration on the back of Danny’s left arm that Alfred had just uncovered. What could have made that? A kitchen knife perhaps? Dick wanted to get a closer look, but he knew he’d just be in Alfred’s way right now. “So if you could kindly fuck off until later, that would be great.”

“Language, young sir,” Alfred admonished him absently. 

Dick felt his cheeks heat up, but didn’t move from his position in the doorway where he was watching everything that happened. He didn’t want Bruce coming close to Danny. “Sorry A, my bad.”

“Nightwing,” Bruce–no, Batman–intoned. Dick wanted to ignore the man. God, did he want to just flat out pretend he wasn’t there and focus on this tiny bundle of cuteness that filled him with a strong urge to protect said bundle from any and all harm. 

But Batman was someone that couldn’t be easily ignored.

“What part of ‘not now’ do you not understand?” The younger vigilante quipped, trying to play the part of happy-go-lucky-Dick-Grayson everyone always seemed to expect from him. It was exhausting most of the time these days, but somehow easier to just fall into his assigned role than live with the anger brewing in his chest bit by bit.

“I don't have time for your remarks, Nightwing,” Batman scolded. At this point in his life, Dick can tell Bruce's frowns apart as well as he could the grunts. This was an ‘you are lucky you're my kid, otherwise I'd sock you in the jaw’ kind of frown. He didn't earn those too often, surprisingly. “You let an underaged civilian into the Cave without consulting me first. Explain your actions, now.”

Dick’s lips curled, snarling at Batman. “What I did was bring a scared, hurt little boy to a place that I knew would give him half-decent medical attention. It’s better than dropping him off at, I don’t know, Ma Gunn’s?” With an ugly type of satisfaction, he watched as the blow hit its mark. He could read Batman’s body language well enough by now to see the half-hidden wince, the slightest uptick of his shoulders. Hopefully it was enough to make Batman be Bruce for half a minute so they could have an actual conversation, rather than a screaming match.

“You're out of line, Nightwing,” Batman frowned, the creases in his mask deepening as he stalked towards Dick. A dark feeling wormed its way through Dick's chest. It was an awful thing that made him feel like a shit son for being cruel to the man who raised him, but also felt glad he could inflict just a little suffering back at Bruce for his emotionally constipated actions over the years. Dick felt sick at the words that just came out of him. “I suggest you stop now, and let me move past you.”

Dick jutted out his chin, shifting on his feet to broaden his stance and better block off the entry to the medical bay. “Absolutely not.”

The two stared each other down for a moment. Dick didn't move from his post, crossing his arms defiantly as Bruce tried to stand up to his annoyingly taller height in an act of intimidation. Too bad for him, it stopped working after the last time he betrayed Dick's trust, right before he abandoned the mantle of Robin that he had built.

“Nightwing, that was not a request but an order. Move now.” Bruce made to shoulder his way around Dick, but the younger’s lithe form moved to block him.

“I don’t care. I’m not letting you take a kid–who just fainted–out of this cave! He needs medical attention and Alfred’s the best of the best.” Dick argued defiantly. Maybe a little childishly too, if he had to admit it. Dick knew that Danny would do well to be treated properly in a hospital, but after what he witnessed in that room with hardly the basics in medical care? He wasn't letting that kid anywhere near a hospital without his consent right now.

“Alfred, while skilled, is not comparable to a trained doctor who can treat this child and get them the help he needs.” Bruce put his hand on Dick's shoulder and he roughly shoved it off, feeling the skin burn despite layers of kevlar and spandex separating them. “You are acting irrationally right now–”

“I don’t care, Bruce!” Dick shouted, shaking with a barely-contained rage. He felt his chest burning with it, unable to hold the words in and since there were no younger siblings or small children around (and awake), so he didn't stop them. “I don’t care that Alfred’s not a trained doctor. I don’t care that you’re so against this! What I care about is the fact that this little kid trusted me enough to bring him here, to get him help, when he very clearly does not trust anybody!” Dick moved, getting up in Bruce’s face as he went on his tangent. He was so fired up, he couldn't even notice Bruce's dominos widening in shock. “You should know better than anyone what it’s like to have a kid dropped right in front of you and know that you need to help! Hell, how many orphans have come through here, again?”

Dick huffed loudly, his breaths causing a slight mist in the damp cave as he watched Bruce process his words for a moment. The man barely moved the whole time Dick was ranting and he was honestly shocked he got out what he did without Bruce shutting him up. Or Alfred complaining about how they were disturbing his patient. 

“Exactly, Dick,” Bruce agreed. But his voice was low and dangerous, the tone he saved for when he was incredibly angry. Dick only ever heard it when the man was facing Joker or The Riddler after their antics affected large groups of people and led to deaths. “I have seen multiple orphans walk through this manor and through this cave. I have watched as you were consumed by rage and tried to avenge your family with your small hands, still growing as you filled these halls with so much sorrow it couldn't fit in a tiny body.” Bruce's fists clenched at his sides. “I watched as you followed in my footsteps, becoming Robin and channeling your anger before just leaving everything behind. I couldn't stop you.”

Bruce jutted his chin out, the vein in his neck popping as he remembered Dick's younger years. “I watched as…as Jason, so filled with hatred and rage entered the manor. He hid his food and tried to protect himself even when no one was coming after him, and then he took over Robin. He was the happiest I had seen him in those days,” Bruce's voice quieted some, but the steel in his tone grew sharper. “Then I watched as he died. He died because he was Robin, because I took him in.”

Bruce pointed at Dick suddenly, and the accusatory finger felt so strong he took a step back in surprise. “Tim was not one I expected, and I tried to push him away for his own good. He'd have been better off not being Robin for his own sake. Even a life lived like his could have become better than the one he has now, risking his life on the streets when he could be at home developing film or skateboarding with friends. A normal life, without the mission,” Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Dick, I know what it's like to see an orphan child and want to help them, of course I do. But sometimes, even with good intentions, there are people who want to help but in hindsight probably shouldn't. They could end up making the child's life even worse, completely without trying.”

The guilt that Dick had been feeling washed out in a seething tsunami of fury. All throughout Bruce’s speech, the acrobat felt regretful over what he said to Bruce. Maybe the man actually understood how fucked up his relationships with his kids were? He was mentally debating how to apologize to him for what was said and move forward, maybe turn this into an actual conversation for once. Yet, Bruce's words at the end gave him pause. He made some points Dick could find himself agreeing to in other circumstances, but to say that he shouldn’t be around Danny? Because he would make the kid’s life worse? That's just catastrophizing and projecting his own guilt onto Dick!

“I want you to think about how old you were when you took me in, Bruce.” Dick said, slowly and clearly as he stalked closer to his father-figure. “You were only twenty-two. Fresh out of traveling the world, leaving behind all your responsibilities to start out on your own quest to avenge your parents. To lead a one-man crusade against all the bad things this screwed up city has to offer.” The younger man glared up at Bruce, hoping that he was communicating just how royally pissed off he was. “I’m two years older than you were. I have a full-time job as well as having a normal life outside of the suit. I have decent relationships with my co-workers and I have not only successfully led teams, but I have been fighting towards The Mission for most of my life. I have friends inside and out of being a vigilante who would be more than happy to help me if I asked them to. And, unlike someone I know, I would actually ask.”

Dick shook his head bitterly. He felt the insane urge to laugh right now, but none of this was funny. He knew that.

“I know I can take Danny under my wing and raise him well. I have a great example of what not to do, after all. But, what happened to the one kid you ever bothered to actually adopt, Bruce? Where is he now? Would you say that being under your care made his life even worse?” They both knew he was talking about himself, but Dick wanted Bruce to say the words he was always afraid to admit out loud about their relationship.

Dick felt a sick sort of satisfaction still though at seeing Bruce's shoulders shake minutely. There was not a lot that could rattle the man, but bringing up the mistakes he made raising his kids would always do it--you just had to know what signs to look for. If Jason had been here for this, or even Tim, they probably would have tried to stop their fight before it got to this point. His brothers never enjoyed being around him and Bruce at times like these, but it still made him feel awful in a way to speak to Bruce like this. But he was so upset at the situation he couldn't bring himself to care.

He barely managed to dodge the swing Bruce tossed his way, ducking down to his haunches as the man pushed his weight forwards. Sliding around his legs, Dick hooked himself around Bruce's ankle to bring the bigger vigilante down, but Bruce only stumbled a bit. Dick tumbled a few feet away and popped back up, lowering himself into a half-crouched stance in case Bruce came towards him again. But he didn't, Bruce just stood in the entry of the doorway, huffing like an angry bull as he whipped his cowl off and turned burning blue eyes onto Dick.

He peeked around the man's wide shoulders at Alfred, who stood in the background like a sentinel over Danny's quiet form resting on the bed. Somehow the kid was still asleep through all of the noise. If he weren't facing Bruce, Dick would laugh at the sight of the kid’s slack jaw and an ever growing puddle of drool under his chin.

“You have no right to talk about situations you don't understand, Dick,” Bruce ground out, his voice gravelly with the emotions he never let out. “The choices I made were–”

“Really shitty?” Dick quipped as he rose from his crouch. “Because, yes. They were, I agree.”

“They were the best choices I could make at the time,” Bruce corrected, lines deepening on his face and aging the man even more. “I was young and I had a child dropped into my lap–”

“More like yoinked from the cops, but go on.” Dick shrugged at the man, body language loose but his nerves were shot now that he was further from Danny. “Keep digging that hole B, maybe soon it'll be big enough to fit you.”

“Nightwing, stop this now–” Bruce started to lecture. But the step backwards he made caused Dick to snap. He was too close to Danny and Dick was too far. He had to protect!

“No! This isn't Batman and Nightwing time B,” Dick began marching forward, fists trembling in front of him with each step. “This is Dick and Bruce, man and ward time. You and I are talking, it is not you giving me orders!”

Stopping in front of his father-figure, Dick looked him dead in the eyes. Blue met blue. Frown met frown. He stood up to Batman who was keeping him from the child his heart had already claimed.

“So how about we talk, old man?”

[moonmaiden1996]

Pirates Prize

I finished watching the latest episode and some lovely person made a request for some DarkJod. This is where my inspiration took me. Hope you like it! Might do another chapter...maybe

SOME Spoilers

Co-ordinates to At-Attin where not the only thing Jod laid claim to deep in Tak Rennod cave of treasures.

The ancient lair of Tak Rennod loomed before the group, a labyrinth of jagged metal and stone buried deep within a forgotten moon’s crust. Twisted spires of corroded iron jutted skyward, their silhouettes stark against the dull, star-speckled sky. The faint hum of energy barriers and the ominous glint of booby-trap mechanisms spoke of a pirate’s paranoia, layered over centuries. You adjusted your pack, the weight familiar but still pressing into your shoulders, as your researcher’s instincts warred with the adventurer’s curiosity that had brought you this far. You followed Jod and the children into the dark, yawning corridors ahead, the shadows swallowing the group whole.

The children—who you had vowed to protect and bring home—huddled together, their wide eyes darting nervously from wall to wall. Fern, their self-appointed leader, stomped ahead with a determination that belied her small stature. Her sharp voice, pitched with a mix of command and irritation, broke through the group’s unease like a whip crack.

“Keep up, everyone! I’m not waiting for anyone to fall behind!”

“Fern, slow down,” you cautioned gently, glancing at the uneven floor for signs of traps. “This place is full of dangers. We need to be careful. Let SM33 go first.”

“I know,” Fern snapped, throwing a scowl over her shoulder. Her brown hair, tied tightly in a ponytail, swayed as she walked. “But we’re not going to get out of here by standing around like scared babies.”

Her voice carried more confidence than the rest of her body language. You could see the tension in her small hands, balled into fists, and the way she darted anxious glances at the walls. Despite her bravado, fear lingered just beneath the surface. You couldn’t help but admire her courage, even if her bossy demeanor grated on your nerves. You had worked with Kh’ymm long enough to recognise the weight of responsibility Fern carried for the others.

Your role in this was clear: protect the children and ensure Jod, the unpredictable pirate who’d roped himself into this mission, didn’t abandon or exploit them. Your mistrust of Jod had been well-placed. He was a rogue, a liar, a thief. And yet, there were glimpses—infuriating glimpses—of something more. Something deeper that made you second-guess your own judgment. A dangerous thing in a place like this.

“Stay close,” you said firmly as the group approached a branching corridor. The narrow paths were choked with hanging wires and dislodged panels, rusted metal gleaming faintly under the weak light of your torch. “This place is full of traps.”

Jod chuckled, the low, lazy sound making your skin crawl. His cocky smirk remained etched across his face, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. “You’re scared of a few traps, sweetheart? This is child’s play.”

You shot him a glare that could have melted steel. “Keep your voice down. Or do you want Tak Rennod’s ghost to hear you?”

The children giggled nervously at your words, while Jod’s grin widened, unfazed. Still, he said no more as you knelt beside a wall to decipher the intricate mechanisms carved into its surface. The pirate’s lair was a puzzle, and puzzles were your specialty. Every marking, every wire told a story—a story you needed to piece together to find the safe path forward. Somewhere deep within this labyrinth lay the data stack you were seeking, a treasure trove of encrypted information that could hold the key to returning the children home.

You became absorbed in your work, analysing ancient symbols and hacking into the lair’s decaying information stacks. Time slipped away as you carefully avoided setting off pressure plates and motion sensors. The thrill of discovery overtook you, pushing aside the oppressive weight of the silence—until you realised the chamber had grown eerily still, no arguing children, no gruff Jod, not even the clanking sound of SM33.

“Fern?” you called, your voice echoing off the walls. “Jod? Kids?”

No response.

Panic began to coil around your chest as you hurried back to the central chamber. It was empty. The children were gone, and so was Jod. In their place, SM33 stood by the carved stone throne, its exposed wires sparking faintly. The droid’s single working optic lens swiveled sluggishly to look at you.

“Arrr, yer back, lass,” SM33 rasped, its voice a grating, garbled mimicry of a pirate’s growl. “But the young mutineers be gone. Cap’n Jod’s got his own plans, he does.”

You dropped to a crouch beside the droid, your heart hammering in your chest. “What happened? Where are the children?”

SM33’s optic lens flickered erratically. “The cap’n… he be challengin’ the wee lass Fern for leadership. A duel, aye. The skallywags set off old cap’n’s trap, dropped right down the pit did they. Smart, they were.”

Your stomach dropped. “They’re dead?”

SM33 rattled out a glitchy chuckle. “Don’t be daft, lass. Not yet. They’ll not last long in this devil’s pit.”

Before you could respond, a shadow moved at the edge of the chamber. Your head snapped up, your hand instinctively reaching for your blaster. Jod stepped into the dim light, his silhouette sharp and predatory. His smirk, as infuriating as ever, spread across his face, but his eyes—dark and glittering—were trained solely on you.

“Miss me?” he drawled, his voice smooth and dripping with mockery.

You rose to your feet, keeping your blaster trained on him. “Where are the kids, Jod?”

He raised his hands in mock surrender, though his movements were slow and deliberate, like a predator circling prey. “Relax. They’re alive. Old SM33 told you, didn’t he? They dropped down to a cove below. Smart little crew you’ve got there.” His smirk deepened, his voice turning syrupy with derision. “But they’re stuck. No path out unless they brave the infested waters.”

“You betrayed us. We had a deal,” you said, anger thickening your voice. “We trusted you.”

He stepped closer, his boots clinking softly on the metal floor. His presence seemed to fill the room, heavy and oppressive. “You trusted me? Sweetheart, you’re smarter than that. You knew what I was the moment we met. And yet here you are.”

Your grip tightened on the blaster. “Where are they?”

Jod’s smirk faded, replaced by something darker and more dangerous. “I just told you. They’re alive. For now. But this place isn’t kind to strays.”

“Then help me find them,” you demanded, desperation breaking through your anger. “If you care about anything besides yourself, help me bring them home—like you promised.”

He laughed, low and chilling, the sound wrapping around you like chains. “Oh, I care. Just not about them.” His gaze burned into yours, fierce and unrelenting. “Stay with me. Be mine. I’ll save them. I’ll take them home, if that’s what you want. But you’re the price.”

Your heart pounded. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe,” he said, stepping closer, his voice lowering to a dangerous purr. His hand reached out, calloused fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face, the gesture both intimate and possessive. “But I’ve never lied about what I am. You, though… you’re the first thing in a long time that’s made me want more.”

You shook your head, backing away, but his other hand shot out, gripping your wrist with enough force to make you wince. “I won’t let you use me.”

Jod’s voice turned cold, a sharp edge slicing through the false warmth. “I’m not asking. You’ll marry me, sweetheart. Agree to that, and I’ll make sure the kids get back to their cozy little lives, after I get into that mint of course.”

“And if I refuse?” you whispered, dread pooling in your chest.

His expression hardened, his eyes gleaming with a possessive intensity that made your breath hitch. “Then you’ll watch them die. And you’ll still be mine. But that would mean using my little Force tricks on you.” Instantly, you felt a pull, invisible yet commanding, brushing against your mind. “I could use the Force,” he continued, his tone mockingly sweet, “but we both know you’ll resist, and I would have to push hard and it’ll be unpleasant for us both. I’d rather have you willingly.”

Your hands trembled as you weighed your options. Jod was a monster, but a monster who could save the children. Their faces flashed in your mind—their laughter, their hope. If sacrificing yourself meant saving them…

“Fine,” you said, your voice barely audible. “I’ll marry you. Just save them.”

Jod’s smirk returned, triumphant and predatory. “Good girl.”

As he stepped closer, his grip tightening possessively on your wrist, he brushed a kiss against your cheek, lingering just long enough to make your skin crawl. With his other hand, he unhooked your blaster and tucked it into his belt. “Just in case you have second thoughts,” he murmured, his breath warm against your ear. “Now let’s get going before more hunters find us.”

Jod kept his grip on your wrist as he led you out of the chamber, his pace steady, purposeful. His hand was firm but not painful, though the way his fingers wrapped around you sent a shiver of discomfort down your spine. He didn’t look back, his confidence a sharp, unspoken reminder that he believed you were his—an object claimed, a prize won.

"You’ll see, sweetheart," Jod murmured softly, his voice thick with a tender force. "This doesn’t have to be as bad as you think. In fact, it will be everything you need. Once we get to At-tin and its mint, we’ll have everything. That was the good thing about being imprisoned for so long on Borgo Prime, the planning is all done. Once we have enough we’ll have everything we have always wanted, and you’re going to be right at my side. Traveling the galaxy, we can even explore some of those planets you were researching, if there is anything of any value there anyway."

His words settled heavily between you, you felt sorry for him. There was something different in his voice now—softer, almost desperate. His usual possessiveness was still there, but underneath it, there was a vulnerability, a need that ran deeper than anything you’d heard from him before. How long was he imprisoned for? You couldn’t imagine a pirate prison was very hospitable, yet you felt bad for feeling bad. He was a pirate after all, violent and unpleasant was in the job description and you once again steeled yourself. 

His fingers tightened around your wrist, gentle but unyielding, the touch intimate in a way that unsettled you. This wasn’t just a claim; it was a yearning, an aching hunger for something he couldn’t live without. You could feel the way he was looking at you—not just as an object to possess, but as the one thing that made him whole. It sent an unexpected shiver through you, a mix of fear and something else you couldn’t quite place.

"I’ve been thinking about it," Jod said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, as though confiding in you. "Once the children are returned, we’ll have our celebration. We’ll have our night..." His words trailed off as he leaned in, his breath brushing against your ear. "I can’t wait to feel you completely, sweetheart. I bet you are as soft as Karilini silk. And you feel so warm,” his voice purred." his voice purred. ‘’I cannot wait to take you, truly take you, in every way. The moment I have you, I won’t ever let you go." his voice thick and heavy.

The weight of his words hung in the air, a suggestion so raw, so intimate, that it made your pulse quicken. His desire to possess you completely—physically, emotionally—was suffocating, but in that suffocation, you could feel his need. He wasn’t just imagining it; he was counting on it. And worse, there was a part of him that believed you’d surrender to it eventually. His confidence was unsettling, but it was the tenderness behind it that made it impossible to ignore.

His words hit you like a physical force. There was no anger in them, only a quiet intensity, a need that radiated from him like heat. You fought to keep your emotions hidden, but inside, you were battling a storm of conflicting feelings. The idea of being so utterly adored, so completely wanted, terrified you.

His free hand rose to cup your cheek, the roughness of his palm a jarring contrast to the gentleness of the touch. “You’re mine now,” he said softly, his voice low and dangerous. “Don’t forget that.” The weight of his words settled over you, suffocating and final. You nodded stiffly, not trusting yourself to speak. Jod’s smirk returned, his thumb brushing against your cheek before he turned and resumed walking, dragging you along. The silence stretched, broken only by the faint hum of the lair’s ancient mechanisms and SM33’s metallic clanking.

The softness in his voice, mixed with the weight of his claim, made his words feel less like a statement and more like a desperate plea. He wasn’t just trying to control you—he was trying to pull you into a world where he couldn’t breathe without you. You nodded stiffly, unable to find the words to respond. There was no escaping him now, not in this moment. You were trapped, bound not just by his grip but by the weight of his need for you. It was pitiful really, that he was so devoid of anything in this life that he clung to you, a stranger, flung together by a group of stray children. 

Jod’s lips curved into a satisfied smirk, but the look in his eyes softened, as though he were savoring the moment, treating you like something precious—something fragile.

As you reached the entrance to the lower levels, the dark expanse ahead felt like a shadow closing in on you both. Jod reached into his belt, retrieving a small device that he tossed to the ground. It hummed to life, projecting a faintly glowing map of the area.

“The kids are down there,” Jod said, his finger pointing to a blinking dot on the map. “They seem to have stayed safe. Smart little brats. But don’t worry, love, we’ll get them. Sooner we do, sooner I can get you back to the ship, into my newly requisitioned captain’s chamber. You would like that, wouldn’t you.’’

His words made your heart stutter, a flutter of something you couldn’t ignore. A deep pit forming in your stomach. You nodded slightly, focusing on the map, forcing yourself to ignore the way his words tugged at your chest and the way he was looking at you. 

“Good,” Jod said, his voice low again, inching closer to you, so close you could feel his warmth, feel the possessive edge of each word that made your stomach tighten. “But don’t get any ideas, love. I’m the only one who can get them out alive. You need me.”

His breath brushed against your ear once more, soft and insistent. “I’ll have you in my arms soon, sweetheart. I’ll make you see this is where you belong. No more running.”

You clenched your jaw, fighting to suppress the anger that bubbled just beneath your calm exterior. You couldn’t show him how much his words stung, how much you feared the twisted reality he was creating around you. But deep down, you knew—this battle was far from over, and somehow, with every step, the struggle to break free would only grow harder.

As Jod led you deeper into the lair, his presence beside you was heavy, oppressive, and yet strangely intimate. It wasn’t just the darkness that surrounded you now; it was his need to claim you, to keep you, to make you a part of his world. You weren’t just being led through the shadows—he was drawing you in, pulling you deeper into the darkness- to him.

Please let me know what you think! Or make a request

LIKE. COMMENT. REQUEST.

[fayemouse]

"It will do fine. For its first--"

That's the last thing you heard before the cockpit closed, hermoneu-- herma-- hermes-- whatever, airtight hiss blocking the industrial sounds around you.

You try to make sense of the panels and monitors in front of you and the flashing lights annoyingly blinking at the edges of your vision. You can't turn your head to look at them.

It lurches. You jump in your seat. They certainly didn't give you a briefing on this.

One monitor in your primary vision begins to tell you its story, reporting on something that certainly seems important: parallel lines and perspective in motion.

It takes -- you shrug -- 10-ish minutes for the first light to beg for action. A blue one, blinking fast and brighter than all the rest, in the corner of your right eye. Ugh, that kind of thing always flipped your stomach.

You reach your arm over to block it out. Why did your arm feel so heavy? The low rumble of the machine around you must have lulled you to sleep a little. You can't hold it up for long and it falls to a textured rubber mat.

At least the blinking stopped.

25 minutes pass. Another monitor tells you its story. There's some red dots up high and red dots below. Like an old cat with a light, you lethargically paw at them. Your fingers tap each spot through the film of the screen.

It could have been anything. You shrug off how you knew that the right answer was that they felt your touch, how your touch would cleanse the screen of invaders.

Anyway. Those lights are off now.

37 minutes. An impertinent 565nm diode pulses. You don't even need to unfocus to see it. Your arm doesn't feel like it's moving, but the ulnaris tendon contracts as you thoughtlessly turn a potentiometer.

The hum of the cockpit turns to a higher pitched whine, 782 hz. It stabilizes for 48 seconds then you know to snap the dial clockwise 114 degrees to cut it off.

The diode steadies.

2476 seconds, Handler. Another story being told across multiple screens and readouts. Swiftly moving reticles along virtualized environments, highlighting reinforced concrete in an inversion of brutalist ideals.

The Neo Etruscan government buildings, 5 of them, with occupational capacities ranging from 300 to 2400, each have their structural weak points.

Some are scars from previous tenants -- the governments change so fast. Others are flaws in the very way they were built. Each is enough that a well-targeted 12.7x99mm would lead to unexpected collapse.

Pilots do not need to move. Pilots do not need to consider. Targets are acquired and ordinance is dispatched.

Pilot's aim is true, Handler.

"T+14341, Handler. Sensors reported full structural collapse of 5 Etruscan government buildings leading to no less than 3955 casualties, disabling of 9 defensive turrets leading to an estimated 29 combatant casualties."

Handler's fingers slide through Pilot's sweaty hair as it continues.

"Pilot reports hydraulics failure in B-6 and B-8. Pilot reports compensation necessary and completed per Manual Section 3 Chapter 134 Paragraph 4 through 7."

Handler nods. He retracts his hand. He circles in front of Pilot.

"Attention."

Pilot stands sharply. There is a pooled stain of sweat on the rug where it sat.

"Dismissed."

Pilot gives an about face. Pilot leaves to its quarters.

Hours upon hours dawdle along the path of the day. Lights out comes as it always does. Sleep does not.

Pilot… It… You stare into the darkness of your windowless room.

You swear that you can hear them screaming.

[pancaketax]

What Remains | Chapter 15 Hidden Strain (Tony Stark x M! Reader)

Summary : Exhaustion catches up as you struggle to keep up with Stark’s demanding expectations. Despite Banner and Pepper’s concerns, you push yourself until a critical moment during a meeting where, overwhelmed and lightheaded, you collapse. Stark notices your condition but lets you leave without interference.

word count: 13.7k

Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

And for the first time since this morning, a faint thread of relief pierces the fog of tension gripping your chest. A fleeting instant of respite — barely noticeable, but real. Bruce Banner’s lab stands in stark contrast to Stark’s frigid office: here, everything breathes quiet precision, controlled calm.

The light is soft, filtered by gentle neon panels, and the walls covered in methodically arranged shelves radiate a kind of reassuring order. The machines don’t hum: they purr, like metal cats focused, efficient. On the screens, lines of code and animated graphs dance in silence, casting brief green and blue glows across the walls. Everything here feels under control.

Except you. You’re an anomaly in this clinical ecosystem. A foreign body. You feel like you’re tainting the room just by breathing too loud. You hardly dare move.

— "Take a seat here" Bruce says calmly, motioning to a slightly inclined exam table, covered in sensors and connected to several monitors.

You freeze for a second, surprised by the simplicity of his tone. No barking order. No sarcasm. Just a calm request. Almost gentle. You step forward hesitantly and climb onto the table with nervous slowness. You don’t lie down. You perch at the edge, hands clenched on your knees. The cold metal surface makes you shiver through your pants.

You’re not used to being taken care of like this. Not without judgment. Not without being made to feel like a burden. Bruce, meanwhile, says nothing. He types on a keyboard a few steps away, not casting you a single worried or suspicious glance. Just quiet focus, confident gestures. He adjusts a few settings, taps a code you don’t understand, then turns toward you. And in his gaze, there’s nothing interrogative. Just sincere attention. And fatigue, too — the kind that comes from someone who’s seen a lot.

— "Alright, let’s start with a general scan" Bruce says, approaching with a sensor in hand. "Just to see how your body’s recovering from everything you’ve put it through."

He says it with a slightly teasing tone, almost amused, no real malice. But it pulls an immediate reaction from you.

—" Put it through?" You arch an eyebrow, your gaze sharp. It’s not like I had much of a choice.

Your voice is dry, more defensive than you meant. A jab, out of reflex. You’ve learned to respond like that — to protect yourself. To take back a bit of control where you’ve lost it. Bruce doesn’t rise to the bait. He doesn’t take offense. He just offers a small, calm smile, almost indulgent, and gently secures the sensor around your bruised wrist. His movements are careful, precise, like he’s tending to a wounded animal.

— "You could try listening to your body a little more often, instead of constantly ignoring it."

The comment lands without pressure, like a simple observation. But it hits home. You sigh, irritated. You turn your gaze toward the soft ceiling lights, as if that could help you forget the burn rising in your throat.

You hate being told what to do. Especially when they’re right. The scanner starts with a quiet clicking. A green light slowly sweeps over your body, from head to toe, back and forth. You feel the gentle warmth of the sensors, the muffled hum of the devices around you. You try to focus on that to drown out the embarrassment knotting your stomach. Bruce stands beside you, eyes fixed on a screen. He mutters to himself, almost like a whisper, but loud enough for you to hear.

— "Your wrist is healing... slowly. The tension you're putting it under isn't helping. He pauses, as if debating whether to add something. You should avoid repeated shocks to it."

You tense further, then mutter with tired irony:

— "Great. So I just need to stop living, right?"

Your voice trembles slightly, just enough to make you angry with yourself. It wasn’t supposed to come out like that. Too real. Too close to how you actually feel. Bruce doesn’t respond immediately. He doesn’t lecture. Doesn’t talk down to you. He simply glances up, like he’s heard this a thousand times before, like he recognizes the defense mechanism for what it is: a dented armor he won’t rip off by force. He turns back to his screen, types a few more commands. A quiet silence settles, broken only by the soft whir of machines, the clicking of interfaces, the scanner’s gentle hum.

But after a few minutes, he pauses. You see him hesitate, fingers hovering above the keyboard, like he’s weighing every word to come. Then, without turning his head, still calm:

— "You’re going to need to take off your shirt."

You immediately tense. All your muscles tighten. Like your body knew before your brain what that simple sentence would trigger.

— "What?"

Your voice cracks. High-pitched. Too fast. Bruce turns his head gently toward you. He picks up on your reaction instantly. He doesn’t push, not right away. His expression stays neutral, but attentive. Not intrusive, not judgmental — just… present.

— "The scan’s more accurate without fabric." He explains softly. "I just want to make sure you don’t have other bruises, inflammations, or old untreated injuries that might cause problems."

You’re already shaking your head before he finishes speaking. The word comes out without thinking, like a survival instinct.

— "No."

Sharp. Final. And too heavy to go unnoticed. A dense silence falls. You avoid his gaze, fingers clenched on the edge of the exam table. The cold metal beneath your palms suddenly unbearable. Bruce doesn’t move. He watches you in silence for a few seconds, brow slightly furrowed, like he’s reading between the lines of your frozen posture. But he doesn’t ask. He doesn’t force. And maybe that’s worse.

— "Alright." He finally says. His voice is soft. Not resigned. Just… aware. "But you know I’ll still need to run a check on your muscular and nervous system. If you’re hiding injuries, it could skew the results. And if it skews the results… we might miss something important."

You clench your jaw. You know he’s right. But it’s impossible. You can’t. You just can’t. Not now. Not like this. Not here, even if it’s calm, even if it’s Bruce, even if there’s nothing threatening in his tone. Because the very idea of revealing what’s beneath that fabric turns your stomach. The marks. The bruises. The traces of a past that refuses to disappear. You breathe in deeply, eyes fixed on the wall, like anchoring yourself there might keep you from tipping over.

— "I’m fine." You snap, harsher than intended.

The words bite harder than needed. It slips out, like everything else these days. Bruce doesn’t comment. He leans back against his desk, arms crossed, watching you with that quiet patience that seeks neither control nor submission. Just presence.

— "Do you ignore Stark the way you ignore me, or is it a personal strategy to make your life harder?" He finally says, casually.

You grind your teeth.

— "I said I’m fine."

The silence that follows is thick, nearly tangible. Every second hangs heavy between you, like an invisible threat. Bruce doesn’t look away, but he doesn’t push. No confrontation. No judgment. Just that quiet, steady insistence that says everything. Eventually, he tilts his head slightly, as if letting go — on the surface.

— "Alright."

He straightens up, returns to his screen, types a few commands.

— "I’ll stick with a partial scan. But if something’s off, I’ll know."

You swallow hard, your throat suddenly tight. You don’t answer immediately. When you do, your voice is low, nearly detached.

— "Do what you want."

The scan resumes, with a mechanical hum that suddenly feels too loud. You’re tense as a drawn wire. Every part of you screams to get out of there. Your back stiff, your hands clenched on your thighs. Even your breathing turns short, dry. Like your own body is punishing you for pushing back. And Bruce, for all his quiet kindness, for all his measured tone and clear respect for your boundaries… sees it. He says nothing more, but you know he’s watching. Not like a doctor examines a patient, but like someone studying a riddle he refuses to force open. You hate it. This feeling of being seen without having asked for it.

You stay there, frozen, your gaze locked on some undefined spot on the floor, far from everything around you. Far from the clinical walls. Far from the body you refuse to surrender. Far from yourself. And all the while, Bruce keeps working. Without another word. Because he knows. He knows that what you refuse to show… might have nothing to do with fractures or bruises.

— "You know…" Bruce finally says after a long moment of silence, without even turning his head. "I'm not here to hurt you. Just to make sure you don't fall apart in some corner without anyone noticing."

You don’t react. Your eyes remain fixed on the ground, fists still planted on your thighs. And your voice, when it comes out, is dry. Defensive.

— "That’s not going to happen."

— "You sure?" he asks, no edge in his voice, no challenge. Just that calm, steady tone. Too steady. Like he already knows the answer.

And you hate that. The way he talks like he sees through you. Like he knows. It gets under your skin. You don’t want him to know.

— "Yeah."

A lie dressed in one word.

— "Alright, he says simply."

No comment. No insistence. Just the steady sound of his fingers on the keyboard, crisp, precise. You close your eyes for a second. Inhale. Exhale. Try.

Bruce keeps working, focused on the data streaming across his screen. You can’t see his face, but you feel that nothing escapes him. He doesn’t need to look at you to understand what’s wrong. And maybe that’s the worst part. He doesn’t force anything. He doesn’t raise his voice. He just lets the truth rise slowly, on its own. Like an old wound resurfacing.

— "Your stress levels are abnormally high, he comments after a while, almost under his breath, like he’s talking to himself."

— "No shit." you mutter with dry irony. A short, sharp laugh escapes you, with not a trace of humor.

Bruce doesn’t react. He keeps his eyes on the results, rolling across the screen in real time. When he speaks again, his voice is gentler.

— "You really should slow down. Your body’s constantly in overdrive. You’re running on reserves that won’t last. If you keep this up, you won’t need a fight to collapse."

You nod vaguely, not really agreeing.

— "Yeah, well. That’s not happening anytime soon."

He sighs. A real sigh this time — heavy and sincere. Then he slowly stands, turns toward you. His gaze is steady, but direct. Not harsh. Just honest.

— "Listen. I don’t need you to tell me anything. But if you stay in denial, you’re not going to last. Not here, not anywhere. You can’t just keep taking hits and hope it’ll all disappear. It doesn’t work like that."

You look away, your mind already searching for an exit from the conversation.

— "Funny. I keep hearing stuff like that ever since I got here. But strangely, when it’s Stark, no one tells him to slow down."

A small, almost amused smile touches Bruce’s lips.

— "You’d be surprised" he says simply.

You sigh, tired. This isn’t the conversation you want to have. Not now. Not like this.

— "So… are we done?" you ask, a little too fast, a little too loud.

Bruce watches you for a moment, as if still weighing his words. Then he nods slowly.

— "Yeah. We’re done."

You sit up straight without thinking, and a sharp pain in your wrist drags you back to reality. You grit your teeth to keep from wincing, but it’s already too late — Bruce saw. He doesn’t say anything right away. Then, in a neutral tone, but without irony:

— "Take care of yourself."

You don’t answer. You can’t. You simply walk out of the lab, your heart lodged in your throat, your jaw tight, and your mind even more scattered than when you arrived.

Leaving Bruce’s lab, your nerves are shot. You walk fast — too fast — without even knowing exactly where you’re going. The diagnostics, the scans, the sensors… it all clings to you like a label you can’t peel off. You feel like a walking medical file, a subject of observation to be analyzed from every angle. Like your body doesn’t belong to you anymore. Like you’re just a broken tool they’re trying to patch up before it finally gives out.

Every scrutinizing glance, every well-meaning but intrusive attempt to help makes you want to scream. You don’t want help. You just want to be left alone. To breathe. To be. Even though you no longer really know what that means.

When you step back into Stark’s office, the artificial light stings your eyes. He’s there, in his usual spot, seated in front of his suspended screens, immersed in a dance of holographic schematics that he manipulates with precise gestures. As if nothing else existed. As if your pain, your turmoil, your anger were just background noise.

He doesn’t even look up. His voice cuts through the air, perfectly calm, almost bored.

— "Done with your medical tour or should we just install a permanent hospital bed for you?"

The remark hits like a blade — sharp and cold. On another day, you might’ve let it slide, or thrown back something just as biting. Because it’s Stark. Because that’s how he is. Because you’ve grown used to his barbs, his sarcasm like a dull ache you’ve learned to live with. But now… it doesn’t land the same. Something in you, a fragile dam you’ve been holding up for days — maybe weeks — just cracked. Your throat tightens. So do your fists. You feel your heart slam against your chest, heavy, erratic. You don’t even know if you’re angry, sad, or just… done. You freeze for a second in the doorway. Just long enough for him to finally look up at you. You slam your folder onto your desk, the sharp snap of plastic against wood echoing like a thunderclap through the room. Louder than you meant. More revealing, too.

— "Yeah, I’m done. Sorry I’m not a flawless robot that works 24/7. I’ll try not to be a fucking inconvenience next time."

Your voice is dry, cutting. You didn’t even bother to hide the venom. Your eyes stay glued to your screen, though you're not reading a thing. The text blurs into nothing, your jaw clenched, fingers tight around your mouse like you might lose control if you let go. You don’t want to see him. Not now. Not after that. But you feel it. His gaze. That damn habit he has of scanning you like an unresolved equation. Normally, he’d raise an eyebrow, throw a sarcastic remark, or ignore your mood with polished contempt. But this time… Silence. A heavy, unfamiliar silence. The kind of void that comes before a storm.

He’s watching. You feel it. Like he’s trying to understand what just broke. Because something did break, and it’s not just your patience. It’s deeper. A fault line that opened too fast, too violently. And he saw it. You want him to say something. Anything. An insult. A joke. A jab. It would be easier to handle than this waiting, suspended in the air. Eventually, he leans back in his chair, arms crossed, and looks at you with that half-smile that makes you want to smash something. That amused, provocative tone he wields like a finely honed blade:

— "If that’s your idea of tugging on my heartstrings, you’ll have to try harder."

You finally look up at him, eyes dark. No façade left. Just raw exhaustion, buried anger, and the feeling of running in an endless wheel.

— "I’m not trying to tug on anything, Boss. Just trying to understand what the hell you still expect from me. Because honestly, no matter what I do, it���s never enough."

The silence that follows is thick, almost tangible. You can feel it hanging between you like a tightrope about to snap. For a second, you think you see something shift in his eyes. It’s not pity — Stark doesn’t do cheap compassion — but something else. A flicker of analysis, like he’s recalculating your limits, your breaking point, how much more pressure he can apply before you collapse.

Then, as if that internal evaluation didn’t deserve more attention, he lifts an eyebrow and replies in a flat, almost administrative tone:

— "If you’ve still got enough energy to complain, you’re fit to work. Where’s your project at?"

And there it is. Back to business. Like nothing happened. Like your anger, your exhaustion, your need to be heard were just noise. Like you don’t really exist — just another cog in the Stark Industries machine. You clench your teeth. Your stomach knots, your fist curls involuntarily. You want to scream. But what’s the point? You take a long, heavy breath. It burns your throat a bit, like even breathing has become an act of resistance. Then, without another word, you open your files, eyes fixed on the screen.

— "I’m getting back to it, you say, dryly, without looking at him."

Then you hear Stark mutter under his breath a vague “good idea,” barely audible, like he refuses to give you anything more. But you know. You feel it. The exchange got to him. Maybe not enough to change his methods, but enough that he’s watching you a little differently. You, though — you’re not sure how much longer you can keep this up. Every day wears you down a little more. Every comment, every finished task, every silent effort is another weight added to the load already bending your back. You endure. Again. But the pressure’s building, like a leaking tank, drop by drop. And yet, tonight — against all odds — you finish well before the deadline. Not in a rush. Not with trembling hands and bloodshot eyes. No. You’ve learned. To read between the lines, to anticipate moods, to smooth your work just enough to make it “presentable” by Stark’s standards. Not perfect. Never perfect. But good enough to earn a rare recognition: the absence of criticism.

You reread your project one last time, eyes locked on the screen with stubborn focus. A pale reflection of yourself stares back at you from the monitor, exhaustion etched into every line. You tweak an animation here, adjust a motion curve there, double-check transitions one final time. Every move is careful, almost mechanical. You could keep going, refining forever. But you have to stop somewhere. You attach the file, slowly type out an email as neutral as it is efficient:

Project complete, attached. Awaiting feedback. –

You freeze for a few seconds, the blinking cursor taunting you. Are you sure? You take a deep breath. And click “Send.” The silence that follows is oddly unsettling. Like something detached from you with that simple action. You lean back in your chair, shoulders slowly dropping, your back cracking in protest. The Tower is eerily quiet. Too quiet. The low hum of the servers reaches you, steady like a mechanical breath. The clack of your keyboard has stopped, replaced by the distant ding of an elevator rising somewhere in the structure. Beyond the bay windows, the city pulses softly, its lights beating in time with a world that continues without you.

You sit there for a while, caught in that suspended moment. You don’t know if what you feel is pride… or just emptiness. Maybe both. Minutes pass. The silence stretches, broken only by the machines’ hum and the soft ticking of a wall clock you’d never really noticed before. You can feel your heartbeat thudding a little too hard, tense like a wire about to snap. Eventually, Stark looks up from his screen. He opens your email, downloads the file, and plays it without a word. You watch him from the corner of your eye, feigning indifference, but you analyze every twitch of his face like your life depends on it. He says nothing. Doesn’t flinch. His expression is unreadable, focused, almost… clinical.

He watches until the very last second. Then he straightens slightly in his chair and says, in a neutral, almost weary tone:

— "You finished before the deadline. That’s… surprising."

No compliment. Not even a hint of approval in his voice. Just a dry, blunt statement, tossed out like a line of code. You cross your arms, your eyes narrowing just a bit.

— "That’s all I get as feedback? I worked faster than expected and you’re just… surprised?"

Stark slowly turns toward you, a crooked smirk forming — never a good sign.

— "Want a medal too? I said it was surprising, not miraculous."

You exhale deeply, running a tired hand over your face, as if to wipe away your irritation.

— "Of course…"

You don’t even know why you expected anything else. It’s Stark. He’s never been the type to offer easy praise. And you knew that. You always knew. He closes your project file, taps a key on the keyboard, then sinks back into his chair.

— "It’s efficient. Clean. Keep this up and maybe you’ll stop being a dead weight."

You grit your teeth. That’s supposed to be encouragement — in his language. A cold validation wrapped in a jab. You don’t have the energy to respond. Not tonight. You just offer a brief:

— "Fine."

And you get up silently, without a backward glance. You leave the office with a strange mix of weariness and relief. Because deep down, even if you didn’t hear it, even if he’ll never admit it… you know you did something right. As you step out of the office, you stifle a yawn behind your hand, as if trying to keep your body from betraying just how exhausted you are. Each footstep echoes softly in the deserted hallway, the ceiling lights casting a harsh white glow that only enhances the pallor of your reflection in the windows. You rub your eyes automatically, but the fog of fatigue clings stubbornly to your eyelids, your neck, every vertebra in your back. Your legs feel heavier with every step, like each movement is an effort too many. You just want to collapse somewhere, stop pretending — even if just for a moment.

Rounding the corner, your eyes catch on two familiar silhouettes. A little further ahead, in the break room, Bruce leans against a counter, arms crossed, while Pepper listens attentively. Their conversation is quiet, contained, but you catch a few words carried by the stillness. Bruce speaks with his usual calm, gestures measured, voice steady. He’s explaining something, probably medical, judging by the way he punctuates his speech with technical inflections. Pepper remains professionally serious, but there’s a faint crease on her brow, her gaze occasionally drifting toward the hallway. Toward you, maybe. Or maybe not. She nods at intervals, like what she’s hearing confirms already-formed suspicions.

You slow down without meaning to. Reflex. You know you’re probably the subject of that conversation. It’d be naïve to think otherwise. Your condition, your injuries, your behavior… You’ve become a case file. A subject to monitor. A problem to solve. You hesitate for a second, thinking of turning back, but something in their body language holds you there. A gesture, a glance — just quick enough to seem deliberate. You’re not certain they’re talking about you… but you feel that familiar tension. That unpleasant twist in your gut. That intuition that never fails. So you walk forward, hands in your pockets, your steps a bit sluggish. Just enough to look casual. Just enough to hide that you’re on the verge of collapse.

Pepper notices you first. She gives you a quick glance — controlled, almost neutral. Too neutral. Like she’s forcing herself to show nothing. Bruce follows her gaze, meets yours, and pauses for half a second. Not much. Just enough to deepen your unease. They were definitely discussing something important. And it doesn’t take long for you to guess what.

— "What are you two scheming now?" you ask, with a smile that rings hollow — a poorly rehearsed defense mechanism.

Pepper gives a polite, practiced smile — not fooled in the least. Bruce stays true to himself: calm, composed, almost disarmingly so.

— "Just talking," he says simply, his hands still resting on the counter.

You raise an eyebrow, your entire body tense beneath a veil of feigned ease.

— "Talking about what?"

Pepper exchanges a quick glance with Bruce — one of those silent looks that says too much. Then she meets your gaze again, more directly this time.

— "About your condition, actually."

There it is. You sigh, already tired of it before she even elaborates. Your condition. Always your damn condition. Like you’ve become a line on a mission report. Like everything can be reduced to a red box labeled ‘monitor.’

— "Great. So I’m a case study now?" you mutter, more bitter than intended.

Bruce shakes his head calmly, in that almost paternal gesture that grates more than it soothes.

— "Nothing dramatic. Just legitimate concern. You’ve had a rough week, and after our conversation earlier, I thought..."

You cut him off. You don’t want to hear the rest. You already know where it’s going.

— "Thought what? That I should rest? Open up? Go see someone? Seriously, how many of you are lining up to tell me the same thing today?"

Your tone rises a bit, carried by fatigue and frustration. You know you’re being unfair, but you can’t keep it together anymore. Not now. Not after everything. Pepper sighs and folds her arms tighter. More guarded.

— "You can’t blame us for worrying. Especially after what happened. Bruce just noticed your physical state isn’t ideal. And frankly, even you could admit that."

You run a hand through your hair, irritation pulsing at your temples. You feel the heat creeping up your neck.

— "Of course I’m exhausted. Not exactly a revelation."

You barely register your volume. But people nearby have started glancing your way. And for the first time in a while, you don’t feel like apologizing. Banner remains impassive, arms still crossed over his lab coat, watching you with that steady calm that only irritates you more.

— "You can push as hard as you want," he says gently, "but your body has limits. Stark might go days without sleep, but you’re not there yet. And if you keep going like this, you probably never will."

You grit your teeth, ready to fire back something sharp. Something like, "So what? I didn’t ask for your concern." But the words freeze in your throat when your vision blurs for a split second. A sudden wave of dizziness — subtle but brutal. Like a deep tremor throwing you off balance. Your hand instinctively presses against the wall. The cold metal helps you steady yourself, but the pounding echo of your heart in your chest betrays the alarm.

It’s nothing. It’ll pass. Just a moment of weakness. But when you lift your head, you catch Pepper’s look. She’s stopped pretending. Her arms are still crossed, but her face has gone still. Not judgmental — just worried. Pure and raw. Bruce doesn’t move. He watches. He assesses. He waits. The silence that settles says more than any comment could. You straighten at once, jaw tight.

— "It’s nothing. I just... haven’t eaten since this morning."

Your voice comes out too fast. Defensive. Like you’re trying to convince yourself as much as them. Pepper gives you a motherly look that’s hard to face.

— "You’re going home," she says simply. "You’re not going back to the office tonight."

— "I still have to—"

— "You’re going," she repeats, firmer now. "We’ve seen enough."

You freeze, caught between shame, anger, and a fatigue so crushing it vibrates in your bones. Banner steps forward slowly, still watching you with that steady gaze.

— "No one’s asking you to be invincible. But if you keep this up, you’ll crash for good. And then, we might not be able to fix it."

For a second, you consider pushing back. Telling them they have no idea what you’re going through. But deep down, you know they’re right. And what hurts most is feeling your body agree before your mind does. You shake your head quickly, mechanically, like you can push the concern away before it settles.

— "It’s nothing. Just a bit of fatigue."

But your voice sounds hollow, even to your own ears. Banner sighs softly, arms crossed, gaze unwavering.

— "Exactly. Which means it’s time to ease off a little."

You look away, fixating on some abstract point on the wall. You don’t want to hear it. Not now. Not again. And yet, a part of you knows he’s right. You feel it in the constant burn of your muscles, the tightness twisting your neck, the persistent sense that you’re right on the edge of collapse.

— "Maybe I need some melatonin, I don’t know… something to help me sleep, maybe."

Pepper and Bruce exchange a subtle glance — one of those silent conversations you hate, because it forces you to face what you refuse to admit: they see more than you want to show. You slump into one of the break room chairs, back curved, elbows resting on your knees. You rub your forehead with your palm, as if you could wipe away the exhaustion with a single gesture. But the fatigue clings to your skin like a second layer you can’t peel off.

— "Melatonin, huh?" Banner says, leaning back against the counter, a slight smile on his lips. "You think it’s just a matter of sleep rhythm?"

You shrug vaguely, the gesture barely perceptible.

— "Can’t hurt, right? If I can stop tossing and turning all night, that’d already be something."

Pepper sets her cup down on the table with a near-maternal gentleness and leans forward, her gaze seeking yours.

— "It’s not just a sleep problem, and you know it."

You squint slightly, your eyes drifting away.

— "Not really in the mood for a psych evaluation, if that’s where this is going."

— "We’re just stating facts," Bruce replies, calm as ever. "You have insomnia, you wake up drenched in sweat, you haven’t recovered in how long now… three, four days? You sleep poorly, don’t eat enough, and overcompensate with work. That’s not nothing."

You nervously fidget with the rim of your coffee cup, the plastic bending under your fingers. The conversation makes you uneasy. Not because it’s aggressive — precisely because it’s not. They’re not yelling. They’re not attacking. They’re worried. And that’s worse.

— "Yeah, well… it’ll pass," you mumble, almost in a sigh, lacking conviction.

— "And if it doesn’t?" Pepper asks, even softer.

You finally look up at her. Her gaze is direct, sincere, not harsh but unflinching. She’s not trying to accuse you. She’s trying to understand. And maybe that’s what hurts most. She doesn’t see you as a burden. She sees you as a kid drowning, clinging to a leaking raft.

— "I’ll deal with it," you say, voice lower now.

— "You’ve been ‘dealing with it’ for way too long," Bruce replies. "And it doesn’t seem to be working."

You don’t answer. You keep tapping the edge of your paper cup, the dry, rhythmic sound echoing like a metronome in the silence. You feel something inside you. Not an explosion. Not a breakdown. Just a weariness so deep it shakes the foundation of everything you’ve built to stay upright. And in that silence, none of you try to deny the obvious.

— "Why do you even care this much?" you finally ask, voice raspy, worn.

It slips out. Not really a question, not really an accusation. Just an admission of exhaustion. A crack. Pepper gives a faint smile — kind, a little sad.

— "Because you work here now. And because we see you every day. We have this habit around here: we don’t let people fall apart without doing something about it."

She doesn’t say it like an obligation or a promise. It’s just a fact. Blunt. Honest. Bruce slowly nods, his gaze still unwavering.

— "You’re not alone here. Even if Stark is… well, Stark… he wouldn’t have offered you the job if he didn’t think you could handle it. But being capable isn’t the same as burning out."

You let out a quiet breath, short, and give a weary, almost cynical smile.

— "Duly noted, Doctor."

Pepper doesn’t respond right away. She just looks at you with that blend of kindness and worry you’re not used to. She knows pushing won’t help. That if you move forward, it’ll be on your own terms.

— "If you want," Banner offers seriously, almost clinically, "I can give you something a bit stronger than melatonin. Nothing heavy. Just… a little nudge so your brain finally agrees to shut down."

You hesitate. Your first reflex would be to refuse, to cling to the shaky autonomy you’re desperately holding onto. But deep down, you’re tired of fighting yourself. So you nod slowly.

— "Yeah… why not."

A barely whispered agreement — but it echoes loudly inside. Pepper rises gently and places a light hand on your shoulder. The gesture is simple, but it carries unexpected weight. An anchor in reality.

— "Take care of yourself, okay? And if you ever need to talk… even if it’s just to complain about Stark, you know where to find me."

You let out a small laugh — tired, but real.

— "I’ll keep that in mind."

She walks away without another word, leaving you in this quiet stillness. Bruce lingers a moment longer. His gaze rests on you like he’s making sure you won’t collapse the second he walks out.

— "I’ll bring it by tonight. In the meantime, try to actually take a break. Even a short one. Even a messy one. You need it, whether you admit it or not."

You give a vague nod, eyelids heavy, throat a little tight.

— "Thanks."

The word slips out before you can stop it. Not flashy, but honest. And Bruce gets it. He just nods back before walking off too. And you stay there. Alone in that warm, silent room, still a little surprised you accepted the help. You’re left alone with your lukewarm coffee and your thoughts. The bitter taste clings to your tongue, but you sip it anyway, more out of habit than need. You don’t have the strength to get up. Not yet. You stay seated, back curved, eyes fixed somewhere between the table and the void, like you could dissolve into that blurry point.

Fatigue is everywhere. In your limbs, your neck, even your eyelids, which you have to force to stay open. It wraps around you like a quiet, inescapable straitjacket. You feel like even your breathing is slower, heavier. And yet, your mind won’t stop. Still running. A cog that refuses to jam. You think of Stark. Of his comments. Of the scan room. Of Bruce. Of Pepper. Of their looks. The kind of stares that stick, even when you turn your head. You’re not used to this. Not used to being seen as anything other than a problem. And even less to people actually caring.

The silence stretches, taut like a wire pulled to the limit. Only the mechanical hums of the Tower nibble at it: the low drone of ventilation, the soft clicks of idle machines, a flickering light barely buzzing… Everything feels suspended. Almost too calm. Like the world is offering you a moment of peace — and you don’t know how to accept it. You close your eyes briefly. Just for a second. But in that second, everything floods back. The assault. The knife. The blood. Mathieu’s eyes. The weight of fear. You snap your eyes open again, heart beating faster. Not a full panic attack — but a jolt. A reminder. You wipe a hand down your face. You need to move. Get out of this room. Force yourself elsewhere. You finally sigh and get up slowly, as if every motion needed permission your body refuses to give. Your muscles ache. Sore, heavy, drained from a day pushed far past your reserves. But, as usual, you ignore the signals. You’re good at that. You never learned how to do anything else.

Your legs carry you almost on autopilot back to your room, faithful to a routine your mind stopped controlling hours ago. When you push the door open, a rush of cool, neutral air greets you. You flip the light on with a sluggish motion, not even thinking.

The room is immaculate. Too immaculate. Nothing out of place, no sign of life. Just clean lines, white walls, functional furniture. A hotel room with no soul, no memory. No book lying around, no photo, no forgotten clothes. Nothing to say you exist here. Nothing to say you exist at all, outside of your work. You stay there a moment, standing like an intruder in your own space. Your eyes drift to the large bay window. The city sprawls beyond, a sea of glass and light pulsing gently under the night sky. It looks so alive from here. So distant. And behind you, there’s that bed. Cold. Immaculate. Too smooth to feel familiar. Too quiet to feel comforting. It waits like a command. Rest. Sleep. Let go. But you know nothing vanishes with sleep. That your brain will keep spinning, even with your eyes shut. Maybe even faster.

You stand still. Halfway between the bed and the window. Caught between wanting to collapse and wanting to flee again. You grab your phone from the nightstand. The cold plastic sticks slightly to your damp palm. The screen lights up in a bluish glare, casting trembling shadows across the white walls. It feels like lightning in a cloudless sky: brutal, silent, almost unreal. You scroll through notifications absentmindedly. Nothing urgent. Nothing serious. Nothing that really needs your attention. Just the world spinning without you. A few spam messages, a software update alert, a weather forecast you don’t even read. The kind of mundane noise that reminds you how much everything goes on without you. Your finger hovers over your contact list. It stops on one name.  Mom.

You stare at the screen, your thumb hovering over your mother’s name. Over a message never written. A call never made. Should you tell them? Let them know where you are? What’s been happening? That you work at Stark Tower now, that you live in a soulless room in one of the most secure buildings in the world — and that despite that… you still don’t feel safe? You could. They’d probably be surprised. Worried. Maybe proud. Or not. Maybe it wouldn’t change anything. Maybe they’d answer with that same detached tone — the one of people who no longer really know how to talk to their own child. You stare at the screen a moment longer, until it dims. Then you sigh. Your thumb retreats. The screen goes black. Darkness settles back over the room, soft and heavy. Only the city’s glow licks the edges of the furniture. You place the phone down slowly, almost ceremonially, like setting down a weight. But it’s not true. Nothing feels lighter. You remain seated in the dark, hands resting on your thighs, your chest a little too tight. You didn’t say anything. And you know you won’t.

You let yourself fall onto the bed without even bothering to take off your shoes. Your body sinks immediately into the mattress, like it's being swallowed by a warm abyss. You don’t move. You don’t have the energy. Your eyes close on their own, pulled down by a devouring exhaustion.

But sleep doesn’t come right away.

Your body is wrecked, but your mind keeps racing. Blurry images overlap: Stark’s gaze, Banner’s hands, Pepper’s words, Matthew’s knife. Flashes, sounds, fragments with no order spinning endlessly. You want to shut them off, you crave a pause, a real silence… but even here, in this bed, you can’t escape.

You inhale slowly, deeply. The air barely reaches your lungs. It feels like something is pressing down on your chest — an invisible anchor, a tension that won’t release. You stay there, frozen, listening to your own breathing, waiting for your body to let go. And eventually… it does. Sleep takes you. Slowly, heavily. Like you’re sinking into a dark sea. A dull thud echoes in your skull. Thick. Muffled. An irregular pulse, almost foreign, merging with the rhythm of your heart. You float, without realizing it, somewhere between the real and whatever lies beyond. Your eyelids are sealed. Glued shut by the weight of a dream too dense, too deep. You want to open them, but you can’t.

And that’s when you feel it. Something’s off. No sound. No voice. Just… a strange tension. A barely perceptible dissonance, like a single instrument out of tune in a familiar symphony. Your unconscious knows it before you do: you’re not alone. Not really. You’re still drifting between two tides. Somewhere, a dull beat keeps echoing against your temple, like the remnants of a black tide that refuses to recede.

And then, suddenly — your eyes snap open.

The room is shrouded in shadow, bathed in a bluish, icy light filtering through the half-open curtains. The city lights cast shifting shadows across the walls, as if the darkness itself were trying to swallow you again. You lie there, frozen, on your back. Your gaze lost in the impersonal ceiling you still don’t recognize as your own. The air is heavy. Dense. A warm dampness clings to your skin, residue of a restless sleep that left only the trace, not the image. Every muscle feels abnormally heavy, stiff. As if even sleeping had drained you.

A ragged sigh escapes you. Your lips are dry, your throat irritated, like you screamed without realizing. A strange sensation lingers in your gut — not pain, but a dull unease, a low tension. The kind of thing you feel after running in a dream and never managing to escape. Like your mind never truly slept. You pass a hand over your face. Your palm meets the clammy heat of your skin, the fine sweat on your forehead, the damp strands sticking to your neck. Your heart beats slowly, but too loud, like your body is still trying to pull you out of a nightmare you don’t remember, only carry the weight of.

You don’t remember. Not clearly. But you know it wasn’t nothing. You know it left something behind. Maybe a void. Maybe a fear without a name. You turn slowly onto your side, as if moving too fast might drag up whatever your brain is already trying to bury. Your eyes catch the glowing screen of the alarm clock on the nightstand.

5:42AM.

You close your eyes briefly. Too early. Way too early. And yet, your body refuses to dive back in. You stay there, lying in the thick dark of early morning, unable to decide whether to try falling asleep again… or just get up and face another day you never asked for. Your heart is still pounding — dull and fast — as if it hasn’t realized the threat, whatever it was, has already faded. As if it refuses to let go, to come down from high alert. You sit up slowly, the crumpled sheets sliding off your damp skin, the mattress creaking faintly beneath you. A shiver runs through you at the touch of the cold floor — dry, sharp, brutal. You sit at the edge of the bed, hunched forward slightly, elbows on your knees, hands hanging. Your breathing is slow, deliberate, like you're trying to convince your body that everything’s fine, that you’re safe.

But nothing seems willing to ease. There’s that weight, right there, lodged in the middle of your chest. Invisible, but very real. You listen. Nothing.

The silence in the Tower is almost unreal. Too total. Usually, even at this hour, you’d catch faint sounds — machines humming, a vent blowing, an elevator in the distance, soft footsteps in the hall. But now… nothing. Just your breath, a bit too rough, and the faint buzz of your own blood in your temples.

Everything feels frozen.

Like reality itself is holding its breath. Your eyes drift, drawn against your will to the mirror on the wall, half-hidden by shadow. And you see it. You. Sitting there, slumped, back curved, features drawn.

Your reflection stares back with that kind of fatigue you can’t hide anymore. Those dark circles under your eyes go beyond normal lack of sleep. It’s deeper. Like every night without rest has dug a little further into your face. Your skin looks pale, almost gray under the cold light. Your hair is a mess, still sticking to your neck, and your shoulders seem narrower than usual. Frailer. Like the weight you carry has worn you down, shrunk you. And in your eyes… there’s not really anger anymore. Not even fear. Just absence. A quiet, unsettling void. You look away. You don’t want to see yourself like that.

A sigh. Another one. It escapes your lips before you even notice, like a reflex, a brief release of everything you’re holding in. You run a hand through your hair, pushing it back aimlessly, then stand up. Slowly. Too slowly. Every movement is a battle. An arm stretching, a leg unfolding, a spine groaning. Your muscles feel like overused cables, worn by sleepless nights and unrelenting days. You feel like you’re dragging your own weight like an armor that’s far too heavy.

You need a fucking glass of water.

The thought becomes almost vital. Mechanically, you start moving, crossing the room on silent steps. The floor, cold against your bare feet, sends a shiver climbing from your heels to your neck. But you keep going. You have to. Move. Walk. Push your body to follow. You open the door without thinking, without checking the time. Honestly, who else would be awake right now? And if someone is… you don’t care. You head toward the common kitchen, mind still foggy, dulled by leftover sleep and dream residue. Your steps barely echo on the polished floor, swallowed by the Tower’s artificial silence. The hallways are bathed in a bluish twilight, LED strips along the walls casting a cold glow. Not bright enough to dazzle, but enough to see everything — or rather, to make everything feel just a little too sharp, a little too quiet.

Each step feels too loud, each beat of your heart echoes in your rib cage like a dull thud. You feel like you're walking through a sci-fi set — clean and motionless, devoid of life. A perfect place… too perfect. Empty. When you finally reach the kitchen, you don’t waste time. You grab a glass from the nearest shelf. The touch of it against your palm is almost too cold, like it belongs to a world you can’t quite grasp. You turn on the tap, let the water run for a few seconds before filling the glass and drinking in big gulps. The water steals your breath for a second, ice-cold against your dry throat.

It slides down like a relief… temporary. Because despite the coolness, despite the instant comfort, it’s not enough. It never is. The pressure in your chest remains, subtle but present, a reminder that everything’s moving too fast, too hard, and you can’t keep up. You set the glass down, lean forward against the counter, arms extended, palms flat on the cold surface. Your gaze locks onto some fixed point, somewhere between the sink and the buzzing fluorescent light overhead. You’re not thinking about anything specific. Just… staying there. Staying upright. Breathing.

Then a sound — quiet but real — breaks the suspension. Footsteps. Slow. Measured. Not the hurried kind of a panicked employee, nor Rogers’ military cadence. It’s something else. A gait you’d recognize anywhere. You turn your head. And there he is. Stark.

He steps out of the hallway shadows, a casual but tired silhouette, a steaming mug in hand. He’s wearing a simple black T-shirt, wrinkled, and matching sweatpants. Nothing like the usual three-piece suit. This isn’t the brilliant, untouchable Tony Stark of conferences or labs. It’s just him, at this uncertain hour, probably dragged from sleep — if he slept at all. He doesn’t seem surprised to find you there, nor particularly curious. He tosses you a glance in passing, one of those quick, almost indifferent looks — but the kind that sees everything. Then he settles at the table without a word, places his mug down, and begins slowly turning it between his fingers.

You stay motionless, frozen against the counter. You’re not sure if you should say something. If he’s expecting anything. Maybe he’s not.

— "You’re into night wandering now?"

His voice is deeper than usual. Rough, almost hoarse. A tone you’ve never really heard from him before. The kind of voice scraped raw by too many sleepless nights. It hits you harder than it should. You shrug vaguely, setting your empty glass on the counter. The dull thud of it hitting the marble rings out in the too-clean silence of the kitchen.

— "Couldn’t sleep."

He nods. Slowly. Like he expected that answer. Like, somehow, it makes sense.

— "Yeah. It happens."

Silence returns. Not heavy, not light. Just there. A pause between two insomnias. Stark doesn’t look at you. He keeps turning his mug between his fingers, thoughtful. And you stay there, not really sure why you’re still standing at five in the morning, sharing a silence with the loudest man in New York. You watch him from the corner of your eye, without turning your head. He doesn’t have that usual posture, that calculated arrogance he wears like a second skin. No. He’s leaning slightly forward, elbows on the table, eyes lost in the quiet black of his coffee. His fingers tap the mug’s edge absentmindedly, an irregular, almost nervous rhythm. For a brief moment, you think you see a crack. A quieter, more fragile version of Stark. Something tired, maybe a little lonely. It lasts only a heartbeat — but you see it.

You sigh, finally yielding to the tension that’s gripped you since waking. Slowly, you sit across from him. The chair barely creaks under your weight. You fold your arms on the table, spine slouched, like your body no longer wants to pretend it’s strong.

— "You’re not sleeping either?"

He raises an eyebrow, barely glances up at you, then smirks — dry, humorless.

— "You think I’ve got time for that?"

You don’t answer. You don’t smile either. Because beneath the joke, you know he’s only half-kidding. If anyone knows insomnia in its most obsessive form, it’s him. Another silence settles. Not uncomfortable. Just there. Like a breath no one wants to disturb. And then, without thinking, without even listening to yourself, you ask:

— "Does this happen a lot? Sleepless nights."

This time, he lifts his eyes, meets yours for a second. He seems to weigh you, or maybe the weight of the question. Then he shrugs — a small, effortless motion.

— "Yeah."

Nothing more is needed. You understand. You nod, as if that answer’s enough. You grab your glass, take a sip of tepid water — bland, useless — but at least it gives your hands something to do.

— "Me too."

He says nothing. You think you see his lips move like he’s going to respond, but silence reclaims its place before any words come. He just nods slightly, then sips his coffee. And there, in that oversized kitchen, bathed in the bluish glow of LEDs and the first light of dawn, you’re two tired silhouettes facing each other. Two insomniacs kept awake by ghosts in a world that never truly gives them rest. But for once, the silence isn’t a wall. It’s not cold, not sharp. It stretches, fluid, almost soothing — a truce neither of you had to negotiate. Stark keeps spinning his mug slowly, absentmindedly. The coffee barely sways, as if even the liquid understands not to make a sound.

His gaze is fixed on the smooth black surface, but you can tell he’s not somewhere else. On the contrary, he’s thinking — maybe weighing his words. You recognize that jaw tension, the slight furrow of his brows. He’s not drifting. He’s here. With you. And that, coming from him, is rare. Then he looks up at you. And it’s not the gaze of Stark the boss. Nor the sarcastic genius. It’s blurrier, more human. Almost hesitant.

— "At least you didn’t scream this time, right?"

The tone is calm, almost neutral. But you’ve learned to read that calm. It’s not disinterest. He’s checking. He’s worried. In his way. You blink, caught off guard. A subtle shiver runs down your spine without you knowing why.

— "What?"

He sets his mug down with a soft clink, then folds his arms and leans back in the chair. The gesture is casual, but his gaze stays locked on yours.

— "I mean… you didn’t wake up half the floor this time."

You freeze for a second, your brain slow to connect the dots. You frown, trying to push through the fog still clinging to your memory. No specific image surfaces. Just that pressure in your chest on waking, the cold sweat, that sense of emptiness… but no screaming.

Not this time.

— "Last night…?" Your voice comes out lower, almost hoarse. "No, I don’t think so."

Stark raises an eyebrow, unconvinced. He watches you a moment longer, like he’s searching for the crack in your response, the trace of a lie or a forgotten detail.

— "You sure?"

You breathe in slowly, but the air seems stuck halfway. You search again, rummaging through the blurry corners of your mind. The cold light of the city. The empty bed. Your numb body… but nothing more. Just that dull feeling that won’t explain itself.

— "Well… I think so."

And that’s when it hits you. It’s not the nightmare that scares you most. It’s not remembering it. Stark doesn’t answer right away. He just watches you, eyes slightly narrowed, like he’s trying to map your state of mind through the micro-movements of your face. You hate the way he scans you, that clinical, precise look that sees past words and through masks. Like he’s searching for a crack in your armor. Like he already knows. You look away, uncomfortable, and shrug in a gesture meant to seem casual, but it rings more like an escape.

— "I mean… I don’t remember a nightmare. Not like last time."

You absentmindedly rub the back of your neck, where tension sits like a knot pulled too tight. You can’t quite put your finger on what’s really bothering you. The abrupt waking? That blurry void between night and morning? That suspicion something happened — and you can’t name it?

— "But now that you mention it… I don’t feel like I really slept either."

Stark nods slowly, fingers tapping mechanically against his mug. His gaze drifts somewhere between the coffee and the void.

— "Yeah. That’s the worst part, sometimes."

He says it quietly, flatly. But you hear the weight in it. You look up at him, surprised by the absence of armor in his tone. It’s not a joke. Not a jab. It’s an admission. Subtle, but real. You sit up a bit, resting your elbows on the table, as if that small movement brings you closer to the truth he’s just brushed against.

— "Speaking from experience?"

A nearly invisible smile flickers across his lips, but it’s hollow. Just there to deflect, like a curtain too thin to hide the open window behind.

— "Let’s say the brain has its own way of warning us we’re spiraling. Even when we refuse to listen."

He takes a sip, unhurried. Like every word he speaks has been measured, sorted, calibrated.

— "Nightmares are one thing. But the real mess is when you can’t even remember if you had one or not."

A faint shiver climbs your spine. Not because of him. Because of what he just stirred. You don’t want to think about it, but you know exactly what he means. That blurry waking. That quiet dread. That heavy heart with no clear cause. That fatigue that never really leaves — even after a full night of sleep.

You stay silent. Because what he just said — it’s exactly that. And you have no idea how to escape it. You press your lips together, lowering your gaze for a moment to your glass of water, eyes fixed on the distorted reflection of light at the bottom.

— "Great," you mutter bitterly. "So I’m breaking down, is that it?"

— "Oh, that’s been happening for a while."

Stark replies immediately, quick and sharp, but his voice is different. Not mocking. Not cutting. Just… honest. Like an old truth he throws out without venom, because lying would be more cruel. You raise an eyebrow, staring at him with a mix of annoyance and weariness.

— "Are you trying to help or just twist the knife?"

He gives a brief, almost mechanical smile, but it fades instantly. His gaze stays fixed on you, unblinking.

— "If I wanted to twist the knife, believe me, you'd feel it."

Silence. Heavier this time. Less comfortable. You feel the unspoken words pile up in the air, like invisible smoke thickening the atmosphere. You toy with the rim of your glass, tracing circles with your fingertip. Your mind keeps looping. This blur, this doubt between sleep and wakefulness, this inability to trust your own nights… it’s like a glitch in the system. Something that follows you everywhere, even here, even now. Eventually, you’re the one who speaks again. Your voice is lower, almost hesitant.

— "What about you?"

Stark raises an eyebrow, intrigued, as if he didn’t expect the question to be turned back on him.

— "Me what?"

— "Did you sleep last night?"

He looks at you for a moment, as if weighing your question, then shrugs with a quiet sigh.

— "I pretended."

You don’t know why, but that makes you smile. A smile without strength, without joy, but genuine. A tired smile.

— "Yeah… I think I did too."

And for a second, something shifts. His gaze, usually closed off and defensive, seems to open just enough to let a spark through. Nothing dramatic. Not a revelation. Just a glimmer. A silent understanding. The kind you don’t learn. The kind you recognize in those who’ve already fallen. No pity. No miracle solution. But a presence. And that’s almost enough. No need to say more. No need to wrap up this strange exchange with Tony. There was nothing to add.

The Tower is already waking when you leave the kitchen, the empty mug still warm in your hand. You set it down in the sink without thinking, then tuck your hands into your pockets, walking slowly. The hallways stir softly around you. Silhouettes pass by — some in lab coats, others in sharp suits or more relaxed attire — engineers, agents, administrative staff. All immersed in their morning routines, in this perfectly oiled choreography that always makes you feel like a background extra in a film that isn’t yours. Some greet you with a nod — professional, polite. Others pass without a glance. And that’s perfectly fine. Today, you’d rather be invisible. You’d rather be forgotten for a bit.

You’re not in the mood for conversation. The night you just came through left a bitter taste in your mouth. A sense of incompletion. You know you slept. That your body, at some point, gave in. But it’s as if part of you stayed awake. On alert. Clinging to an invisible world you can’t quite place. Blurry images float back. Muffled sounds. Shards of something. But nothing clear. Nothing solid enough to name. And maybe that’s the worst part. Not the nightmares. Not the screams. But the forgetting. The blank. The void between memories. You inhale slowly, trying to push away that sensation clinging to your skin. But even the air feels heavier today. As if the Tower itself knows you’re reaching your limits. You pick up your pace — just slightly. Not to run. Not yet.

But to move forward. Because you have to do something. Because staying still too long — that’s when the dizziness creeps back in. The air is cool in the corridors, almost refreshing, but your body still burns with a dull, insidious fatigue. The kind that sticks to your skin, deep in your muscles, where even sleep can’t reach anymore. The coffee was just a placebo. An illusion of clarity that’s already faded, leaving only a bitter aftertaste and a heart too heavy. But you keep going. Again. As always. Because you have to. Because it’s what’s expected.

The meeting’s been scheduled for days. A strategic briefing, important, and you know exactly what Stark expects from you: a precise, clean, flawless progress update. And not just to look good. He wants something concrete. Solid. Visionary. You know you can’t afford to falter. Not now. When you push open the glass doors of the conference room, a light gust of air-conditioning brushes over you, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine. Several employees are already seated around the long glass table — focused faces, some buried in tablets, others quietly trading technical remarks. The atmosphere is tense, but professional. On the back wall, a massive screen displays complex, animated schematics: dynamic circuits, streaming algorithms, interface projections… And at the center, the 3D model of the interface you’ve been working on for days. It rotates slowly, revealing each layer, each line, each curve you’ve fine-tuned to the point of obsession.

Your heart beats faster. Not out of fear. Not really. It’s a deeper tension. The desire not to disappoint. The anxiety of not measuring up. You inhale discreetly. Pepper stands near the smartboard, focused, speaking quietly with an engineer you’ve seen in the hallways before — a quiet guy, but with confident hands. She points to specific areas on the screen, her tone calm but firm, as always. Banner is there too, slouched in one of the armchairs at the far end of the table, a tablet in hand, looking relaxed, almost disconnected — but you know it’s a front. He’s paying attention. Always.

And then there’s Stark. Sitting in his chair like he owns the room — which, in a way, he does. One leg crossed casually over the other, phone in one hand, coffee mug in the other. His eyes flit between his screen and the wall display, seemingly distracted… but you know it’s an illusion. He catches everything. Every word, every detail, every hesitation. You approach silently and take a seat beside him. You set down your notebook and tablet, without noise, without comment. His gaze doesn’t shift toward you, but you know he registered your arrival.

The tense silence from the kitchen still lingers between you, like a fog no one dares to disperse. But here, in this bustling room, it's drowned out by the ambient hum of professionalism. Voices gradually rise, numbers are exchanged, diagrams appear. Colleagues present their progress, their projections, their doubts.

And you listen. You observe. Your turn is coming. You listen, focused — or at least, you try. The words reach you, but they slide across the surface of your mind without truly sinking in. Pepper talks about timelines, optimizations, coordination between teams. Words you know, words you’ve mastered. But now, in this moment, they echo in your head as if spoken underwater.

Something’s off.

You can't quite pinpoint it. A flutter. A barely perceptible misalignment. The air seems denser, thicker, like the room has contracted around you without anyone noticing. Your temples pulse gently, a regular, muted beat. You take a deep breath, trying to sweep away the persistent unease. Just fatigue. Nothing more. You slowly rest your elbows on the table, arms crossed in your usual posture. A mechanical gesture, more for protection than comfort. Your eyes try to fix on Pepper, to follow her precise gestures, her finger tracing lines across the interactive screen. You nod, but you’ve only caught fragments.

Then, a movement to your right. Subtle. Just a shift in posture. Stark. He’s set down his cup. He’s looking at you. Not directly, not openly, but enough for you to feel it. Your heart skips a beat. You turn your head slightly toward him — just enough to meet his gaze. He’s watching you. Not with his usual irony. Not with that amused contempt he wields like a blade. No. With the same look he had last night, in the kitchen. The look of a man who sees something you’re trying your hardest to hide.

Stark leans back slightly in his chair, his eyes brushing past you. A blink, a pause in his movement — and already, he looks away. Nothing expressive, nothing overt. Just that micro-movement, that quiet observation, nearly erased… but you saw it. You felt it.

And it’s enough to chill your blood.

Because if he noticed… then it’s not in your head. It’s not just a passing impression. Something is wrong. And now, Stark knows too. But he says nothing. No jab. No sharp remark. Not even a frown. He simply leans forward again, abandoning the phone he’d been spinning between his fingers. He takes over the conversation with a clear voice, sharp and assured like a finely honed blade. You could almost believe he’s reading from an invisible teleprompter.

Every word is precise, every technical term flows naturally from his mouth like he forged them himself. He talks about performance, interface security, energy optimization, and integration protocols. Everything’s there. Calculated. Mastered. Perfect.

You cling on.

You try to follow, to fix your attention on his words, but your concentration falters. The sounds stretch, distort slightly at the edges, like someone’s turned the volume down on the world around you. The hum of the projectors, the breaths of others around the table, the barely perceptible vibrations of the floor beneath your feet — everything becomes too much, or not enough. You discreetly clench your fists on your thighs. You have to hold on. Just a little longer. Just a few more minutes. The words keep coming, mechanical, precise, like a metronome at full speed. They crash into your mind without leaving a clear imprint. Every phrase Stark delivers, every detail on the wall screen becomes a blurred echo in your head. You feel like you’re listening through a pane of glass, or underwater.

You force your eyes to stay locked on the projected diagrams, hoping it will be enough to anchor your awareness. To latch onto something. Anything. But your body doesn’t follow. The pressure in your chest has spread. It’s no longer just discomfort — it’s a mass, hot, oppressive, crushing you slowly from the inside. Your ribs feel too tight to contain your breath. You swallow, once, twice, trying to push down the sensation. In vain.

— “It’s nothing. Just low blood pressure. Nothing serious.”

You adjust your posture, straighter, stiffer. Your arms crossed over your chest give you a sense of control, an illusion of stability. But your fingers tremble slightly. Damp. Numb. You squeeze them to hide the trembling. Your back feels too arched, your lungs too full, and yet you don’t seem to really be breathing. A metallic clink across the room, a chair scraping, and the world around you continues as if nothing's wrong. You squint, trying to force your brain to focus. Banner hasn’t raised his voice, but his tone has changed. Deeper. More concerned. He’s talking to Pepper, leaning slightly toward her, tablet in hand. She nods slowly, face tense, her eyes briefly sliding toward you. Your stomach twists. No need to hear the words to understand. You know what it is. That kind of quiet exchange. That overly focused attention. You know this feeling of being watched — not with judgment, but with that precise mix of worry and caution that you can’t stand.

Heart pounding, you look away and force your gaze back to the screen in a desperate attempt to pretend everything’s fine. You take a deep breath, but it gets stuck halfway, like the air refuses to go all the way in. And when you turn your head slightly again, Banner is watching you. Not directly. Not openly. But enough to let you know: yes, he noticed. He saw. And now, he’s waiting for one thing — for you to break. You inhale, slowly — or try to. The air comes in, but it feels heavier than usual. It doesn’t help. It gets stuck somewhere, right above your heart, like an invisible knot. Your eyes fix on a projected graph on the wall, its shifting code lines, animated curves… You know them by heart. It’s your work. But this morning, they seem blurry. As if your brain refuses to register anything more.

You feel a bead of sweat slide slowly down your temple. You don’t move. Beside you, Stark keeps talking. He delivers his points with perfect mastery, never looking at his notes. He holds the room, as always. No one sees your distress. Except Banner. And Pepper. You know that now. Their glances are rarer, quicker, but they return. At regular intervals, discreet, measured. And it makes you want to disappear under the table even more, to blend into the walls. To not be seen anymore. You grip your hands tighter under the table. They tremble. Just a little. Not enough to be visible. Just enough for you to feel it in every finger joint.

Hold on.

That’s all you can think. No room for collapse. Not here. Not now. Just a few more minutes. The room’s lighting suddenly feels too bright. The fluorescent lights glare a harsh white that makes you squint. A soft ringing starts in your ears, muting the sounds. Even Stark’s voice, usually so distinct, begins to lose clarity. It blurs with other noises, like everything has become either too distant… or too close. You swallow with difficulty.

Your fingers tighten around your pen, but your hand refuses to move. You can’t tell if you’re falling asleep, fainting, or just… losing grip. A shiver runs down your back. Your heart races. Too fast.

You don’t know how long you’ve been like this. Maybe two minutes. Maybe ten. Then, Stark’s voice slices through the haze:

"Can you project the latest version of your interface on the main screen?"

Your head jerks up. Faces turn toward you. The silence that follows is more brutal than all the stares. You blink, short of breath. You didn’t hear half of what he said. You haven’t projected anything. You haven’t even turned on your tablet. Your brain spins. You feel your heart pounding irregularly in your chest, out of sync with the rest of the world. A hum slowly fills your skull, like a dull roar, like an old engine ready to give out. You try to take a deeper breath, but the air slips away. Your gaze drifts, blurry, to the main screen. You vaguely see lines of code, technical visuals… and your name, somewhere in a corner. Everything’s hazy. You blink several times, try to gather your thoughts. A simple task. Just connect your tablet. Just… click.

But your fingers won’t cooperate. They tremble slightly, almost imperceptibly, but enough to betray you if anyone looks closely. You don’t dare turn your head. You don’t dare meet anyone’s gaze. You push, mentally, to return to the room, to claw your way out of this slow, invisible fall. Then you sense movement beside you. Minimal. Stark. No words. No sigh. Just a slight shift. He’s set his screen aside, stopped speaking. And in that microscopic silence that lasts barely a second, you understand he’s noticed. He’s watching you.

You shift position, subtly straightening your back, trying to shake off the dizziness. A movement too sudden — a tingling discomfort shoots up your neck. He hasn’t moved. He’s still sitting, arm lazily resting on the table, but his eyes are on you. Not with his usual smirk. Not with that cynical amusement he often wears. And without anyone else hearing, he murmurs:

��� "You still with us?"

His voice is low, measured. Not sarcastic. Not condescending. Just… attentive. And that’s the worst part. You feel a shiver crawl up your spine, like a cold current down your nape. Because you know he’s seen. Not guessed, not assumed. Seen. And Stark… he never lets go once something intrigues him. You look away, hoping simply breaking eye contact will end the silent exchange. But it doesn’t. Everything still feels too slow, too blurry, too distant. Like the world itself is turning in some strange, foggy density that your body can’t adjust to.

The voices in the room become muffled echoes, dulled, like heard through thick glass. You hear your name, maybe. A number. A comment. But nothing clear. Your brain struggles to piece together the sounds, to find coherent meaning. Everything fades, replaced by that pounding in your temples. Faces around you blur. You catch movements — a raised hand, a finger pointing at a screen, a figure leaning forward — but nothing holds your attention. It’s like watching a low-quality video: you see the shapes, but not the detail. And him… he’s still there. Stark. Motionless, but not absent. His gaze stays fixed on you, intensely observant. Not mocking, not annoyed. Just present. Focused. Almost heavy. He’s waiting. For a reaction. A response. Proof you’re still there, still standing. You swallow hard. You feel your pulse thudding in your throat. And you know you can’t run from this. Not now. Not here.

So you force your voice to come out. You want it calm. Steady. Smooth. Even if inside, everything’s falling apart.

— "I’m following."

It comes out rougher than expected, barely more than a whisper. But it’s enough. It’s a line thrown over the void. You hadn’t planned to speak. You didn’t even know you were going to open your mouth. But your body had already decided. It knew before you did. It had been screaming silently for minutes — your racing heart, your blurry vision, the too-dense air. And then that voice inside, the one you usually ignore, finally rose to the surface.

You shift again, trying to hide the growing numbness in your neck and the diffuse heat in your arms — the kind of heat that doesn’t warm, but warns. A hand trembles slightly under the table. Not enough for anyone to notice. But enough for you to feel. And that’s enough. You inhale deeply, but the air comes with difficulty. It sticks in your throat, hesitates to enter. Around you, the meeting goes on. Discussions move forward, voices exchange numbers and estimates with a precise, mechanical rhythm. A rhythm you can no longer follow. Every word becomes background noise, every graphic on the screen a flat blur.

You want to speak, but your throat is dry. Your thoughts overlap, dissolve, blur. And yet, you still feel it. Stark. He’s not speaking anymore. He’s watching you. Not like a boss watches an employee. Not like a mentor watches a student. Like someone who’s seen this kind of unraveling before. This kind of exhaustion. And who knows what it means. He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t comment. He waits. Maybe he wonders how much longer you’ll last. Maybe he’s waiting for you to decide. So you sit up slowly. Not too fast. You look at the screen in front of you, without really seeing it, and you let the words drop:

— "I think… I need to step out for a moment."

Almost a whisper. A breath between two erratic heartbeats. The words feel foreign, like they’re floating outside of you, barely connected to your will. You expect a jab. A mocking comment. An annoyed sigh. But nothing. Nothing at all. Stark simply nods, slowly, a movement so small it could be missed. But you see it. And you understand. He already knew. He understood long before you did. He says nothing. Doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t ask questions. He lets you go. Not out of indifference. Because he knows. And because, for now, the meeting continues. Others talk. The screen changes. The world keeps turning without you.

You don’t ask any questions. You don’t try to explain yourself.

You don’t want to face their eyes, don’t want to feel the weight of judgment or pity. So you get up. Slowly. Too slowly. Every muscle resists in its own way, every joint sends a silent reminder of the tension you refuse to release. But you don’t tremble. Not yet. You make sure each movement is crisp, controlled. A habit inherited from the days spent hiding your cracks. You give the appearance of someone in control. Even though, inside, everything is threatening to collapse.

Your chair glides softly against the floor. You vaguely hear its creak, distorted by the cottony fog filtering your senses. No one stops you. No voice calls out. Even those who noticed you have already looked away. Maybe they think you’re just heading to the restroom. Maybe they don’t care. Or maybe they prefer to pretend they saw nothing.

You walk forward.

Sounds stretch around you, dulled. Voices resonate but no longer reach you clearly. You can still sense the rhythm of the meeting, but its meaning escapes you. It’s just background noise, a distant hum.

Your hand brushes the table as you pass. A way to make sure you’re still anchored to something. But even that familiar surface feels strange. As if it belongs to a world you’re only observing through glass.

Each step is costly.

The floor is there, but it seems… blurry. Not unstable, not dangerous — just disconnected. As if you’re walking on the memory of a floor rather than the floor itself. And your body, it keeps moving, not from will, but from necessity. Because it must. Because you can’t stay there another second.

You cover the last few meters like a tightrope walker on an overstrained wire. Your steps are straight, but your breath falters. And as you pass by Banner and Pepper, their eyes lift — almost at the same time.

They don’t call your name. They don’t try to stop you. But you feel it: their eyes follow you, tense, worried, alert. It’s not just polite concern. It’s a silent language, a contained urgency. They saw the small tremors in your shoulders, the unusual vacancy in your gaze. They understood.

But you keep walking. You can’t stop now. You won’t collapse here, under their well-meaning stares. You ignore their presence like you would look away from a cracked window you don’t have the strength to fix.

Finally, your hand touches the door handle. A simple gesture. An everyday detail. But this contact, however mundane, becomes an anchor. You hold on to it. You feel the cold metal against your damp palm, the bite of the temperature against your burning skin. And in that contrast, something cracks. You press, and the door opens.

The hallway air hits your face like a freezing wave. Drier, sharper, almost aggressive after the thick warmth of the conference room. You thought it would help. You thought getting out would be enough. But no. Instead of relief, a confused surge rises. A slow, vicious, creeping vertigo. It starts at the base of your neck, spreads to your scalp, spirals down your spine. Your arms grow heavier. Your fingers go numb. You inhale deeply. But the air doesn’t come.

Or rather, it comes — but doesn’t stay. As if it brushes you without ever truly entering. Your lungs remain tense, empty, and your heart hammers erratically in your chest. Your body is panicking quietly. And you, you fight to stay upright. You finally cross the threshold.

One step. Then another.

But the hallway ahead suddenly feels longer. Blurred. As if it’s stretching, dissolving at the edges. You feel like you’re walking through a misprinted image, where outlines tremble and colors fade.

The ground sways slightly beneath your feet. An almost imperceptible oscillation. As if the Tower itself were breathing beneath you — or collapsing. Your body reacts before your mind, a silent alarm you didn’t hear in time.

You stumble. One awkward step. Then another, even more uncertain. Your arms reach for support, but there’s nothing around you. Nothing but air. Empty and blurry. The air feels heavier. Each heartbeat pounds in your head like a hammer blow, offbeat and painful.

You want to speak, maybe call out, say something. But no sound makes it past your throat. Just a short breath, ripped from you with effort.

You fight. You hold on. But there’s nothing. No handle. No wall. No anchor. And then, everything gives way. Your legs buckle as if they were never truly holding you up. Your knee hits the floor with a muffled thud. Then your shoulder. Then the rest of your body. You don’t feel it all — not really — because your consciousness is already slipping.

Your vision explodes.

First in white — violent, blinding. Like a burn. Then darkness gnaws at the edges, swallowing your perception in waves, until only unreal, floating shards of light remain. You hear voices, maybe. Or blood pounding too loudly in your ears. Everything blends. Everything fades.

And then… nothing.

[remae-freyae]

Rules are Suggestions

The lights in the hallway flickered as Person B caught up, breathless, only to find Person A kneeling beside a keypad panel with a stolen ID badge in one hand and what suspiciously looked like a chocolate bar wrapper jammed into the card reader.

Person B stared, exasperated. “Is this legal?”

Without looking up, Person A replied casually, “Legal-ish.”

Person B blinked. “What does legal-ish even mean?”

The panel beeped and the door hissed open like it resented being part of the plan. Person A flashed a smirk and said, “Nobody important has complained yet.”

Groaning, Person B followed them inside, fully aware this was either going to end in disaster or headlines—and probably both. The archive room was bathed in that eerie government-issue fluorescent lighting, the kind that made everything feel both sacred and deeply cursed.

“You know this is technically a felony,” Person B muttered, watching as Person A ducked beneath a motion sensor and used a half-eaten Twizzler to tap something on the console.

“So is jaywalking if you do it with enough confidence,” came the reply, delivered with a wink and the kind of tone that suggested this wasn’t even the weirdest part of their night.

“That is not how the law works,” Person B hissed, already feeling like they needed a nap, a lawyer, and maybe a sedative.

Person A just shrugged, tossing a classified folder into their bag with the nonchalance of someone picking up groceries. “That’s why I bring you. You remember rules. I make things happen.”

And as Person B stood there, helplessly watching their partner in crime—or justice, depending on how blurry the lines got tonight—they couldn’t help but wonder if falling in love with a chaos goblin was karmic punishment... or the best mistake they’d ever made.

[pankj123]

The ESYSENSE Motion Sensor Surface Panel Light delivers effortless illumination with its smart auto on/off feature, activating when motion is detected and switching off when the area is unoccupied. Designed as a Surface Mount Round Panel Light, it provides sleek, modern lighting with even brightness, perfect for hallways, staircases, and entryways. This Motion Sensor Panel Light enhances convenience by eliminating the need for manual switches, making it an energy-efficient choice. With the Auto On/Off LED Panel Light, enjoy hands-free operation and reliable lighting for any indoor space.

[natalievoncatte]

cw: violence

Lena checked her watch. She only had a few minutes to pull this off, and had to time it perfectly. Lex was across town meeting with an investment consortium from Japan.

Officially.

She knew what he was planning. She just lacked the proof she needed. Once she had it, she would go to the media through her best friend and confidant, Kara Danvers. She had eyes on Lex right now as he met, in secret, with a Kasnian agent, the same one who'd help him orchestrate the theft of a prototype Lexosuit; that had been one of the first times that Superman had shut down one of Lex's schemes, and earned his undying hatred.

Lena needed the final piece of the puzzle before she involved Kara and pulled her into the danger of her private little war with her brother. This was so far beyond anything Lex had attempted that Lena knew now was the time, she had to stop him now, today. The line had to be drawn here, and no further.

The secure lab was deep in the bowels of the Lexcorp Tower in Metropolis; Lena made the excuse of a meeting with some of the research team working on battery enhancements for the upcoming line of Lexmobiles. (Lena had spent hours genuinely trying to talk Lex out of that god-awful name, and actually call them something marketable, but his towering ego was as immovable as it was monumental)

Lena's heart was racing as she stepped out of the elevator, carrying her briefcase under one arm. She strode down the hall like she owned the place (she did, actually- or half of it, anyway) and made sure anyone watching on the security feeds would pay her no mind. She'd worked here for years; even though she'd moved to National City to lead her own division, away from Lex, Superman, and all the drama, she was not an uncommon sight in this place.

Maybe here.

Lena stopped at the door, a heavy steel slab six feet wide and eight feet tall. Breath catching, she slipped her hand in her pocket and slid her finger through the ring she carried there. When she pulled her hand out, an image inducer created a perfect replica of Lex's hand around her own, projecting the unique contours and ridges of his palm and fingertips while simulating his pulse and unique vitals.

It was either going to work or it wasn't. She pressed the false hand to the sensors and waited. It beeped twice and turned a healthy blue.

The door let out a rush of cool air as it slid silently aside, its motion mirrored by an inner door of the same dimensions sliding in the opposite direction. Lena stepped through and removed the ring; the doors slid ominously closed behind her, latching with a heavy thunk as wrist-thick steel bolts slid home, anchoring them in place.

She knew that not only was the entire room lined with lead, but the lights could instantly switch to a red wavelength and the long sliding panels on the wall would open to reveal K-Radiator emitters. This room was designed to be a death trap for Kryptonians, should one be foolish enough to enter. That was why Lena had to do this alone.

Supergirl would rush in where angels feared to tread, and given the chance, she'd barge through those doors and end up helpless on the floor, at Lex's mercy to murder without witnesses. Or worse.

The lab was smaller than she expected, and Spartan. Despite her brother's notorious, arrogant grandiosity, he could be relentlessly practical when needed, and at heart was utterly ruthless. Lab benches lined the walls, and the computer was no different, visually, from any other workstation, though it was connected to a vast private database and would have very difficult encryption and security protocols that no one in the world could crack.

No one but her.

The far end of the room was dominated by a peculiar machine, resembling an incubation chamber of some kind, roughly human-sized and surrounded by thick steel cables and tubes, with several dozen monitors rigged up all around it, displaying all sorts of information.

Including biorhythmic data and vital signs.

Lena ran a hand over the steel of the external pod. It was warm.

Her throat tightened. This might be worse than she thought.

Turning to the terminal, Lena sat down on the stool and took from her bag a small portable drive and connection cable, setting them on the desktop in front of her. Lex had one of those drinking birds dunking placidly away at a glass of water on the desk, another bit of his peculiar humor. She'd once loved that about him, before his joking took on a mirthless, cruel streak.

Letting out a slow breath, Lena wiggled the mouse and woke the computer. It demanded a password, pass phrase, and passkey. The two she had, the latter was what the drive was for.

She typed BUCEPHALUS in the password field, then THY FEARFUL SYMMETRY in the pass phrase field, then clicked the cursor into the last box and plugged in the drive, and waited.

The program loaded automatically. If she made an attempt to brute-force the passcode, it would set off the alarms and possibly even trigger a deadly trap in this room. Lena had to crack it without cracking it; it took her months to create this algorithm, with the secret and begrudging help of Querl Dox at the DEO. He'd been concerned about it falling into the wrong hands; he was right to fear that, as it could crack virtually any system in seconds.

It did exactly that, filling in the require passcode. Lena clicked the LOGON button and let out a soft cry of relief as the screen lit up with Lex's desktop.

He had a series of folders waiting, just sitting there ready to be opened. The folders had names like LEXOSUIT, PARTICLE EMITTER, BINARY FUSION GENERATOR, SPATIAL DISTORTION CANNON, POINT-TO-POINT TRANSMATTER... and PROJECT GALATEA.

Lena opened that folder, and found a series of video files. She opened the first one, dated over a year ago.

Lex' face appeared, the man himself seated in this very lab.

"Mother stole Supergirl's DNA and used it to breach the Fortress of Solitude. She walked those hallowed halls, and didn't invite me! Not only that, she took only one device, when Superman's precious armory was right there for the taking! Is everyone a fool? Am I doomed to be surrounded by incompetents?"

He took a deep breath.

"It doesn't matter. There's enough of what she took left to comprise a viable sample... all I need is time, and I had that in abundance now that I've taken care of that nosy Gotham prosecutor that was working with Superman. He's too busy robbing banks to bother with me, and with the Metropolis police and GCPD in my pocket, Superman and that flying rat of his have nowhere to turn."

Flying rat? What the hell was he talking about?

Lena skipped a few files ahead.

"We'll call her Project Galatea. My initial plan -to create a limited-use drug that would produce Kryptonian superpowers- has been a failure. Nor was I able to successfully create a viable clone."

Lena's stomach sank. Clone? Clone? Had Lex tried to clone Supergirl? Was that was this equipment was for?

"Then it hit me- I could complete the project another way, by filling in the gaps in her DNA, but that still didn't solve all the problems. There was a missing component- I still don't know how Kryptonians actually absorb and process sunlight, for one. Still, that seems to be solving itself. Galatea's cells are absorbing the artificial solar energy that I'm pumping into her maturation chamber at a geometric rate. She might be even more powerful than her mother by the time she matures."

Lena jerked to her feet, a chill running through her body. Mother? Wait, did he mean-

Oh. Oh God.

Lena let the video drone on in the background as she moved back to the chamber. It was encased in steel plating, but it was designed to open. Lena found a pair of goggles on a work table near the control panel and put them on before flipping a switch.

The panels rotated, exposing a human form lying at an angle at rest on a padded platform. A respirator, like a flight mask, was strapped to her face, and she was submerged in thick, bubbling liquid. The chamber would have been too brilliant to look at, if Lena hadn't put on the goggles. It was flooded with brilliant solar radiation.

She'd put the inhabitant between ten and twelve years old, with golden skin and dark hair. Lena blinked a few times; it was like looking at an old picture of herself, actually.

For a brief moment, she just stared.

Then it hit her, and she almost vomited as she shoved the switch and closed the doors over the maturation chamber, stumbling back as she retched.

What did he do?

What did he do?

"I see you've met your niece."

Lena whirled, and found Lex staring her down, standing in front of the lab doors with his hands clasped behind his back, a satisfied smirk on his face.

"How... what... what the fuck did you do, Lex?"

"I think you've already pieced it together."

"Why?"

"Why?" said Lex. "I'll tell you why. Security. The security of a free state, sister. I did it because it had to done."

"This is... this is obscene," said Lena. "This is a violation, Lex. I'm not going to let you get away with it."

He laughed. "Get away with it? What do you mean, get away with it? What are you going to do, sue me for custody?"

"You... this is monstrous, Lex."

"We live in a world of monsters, dear sister," said Lex, stepping closer. "Gods and monsters, and who are we? Men, just men. There's whole universe out there, a multiverse, full of these creatures, and the human race is defenseless against them, and worse, they're being welcomed. They're eating of those Kryptonians' palms, you included, and now there are more of them. The green freak claiming to be a Martian. The so-called Amazon. There's seven or eight of them running around. Eventually it'll be twenty, then thirty, then more. They'll run roughshod over our institutions."

"You're out of your mind," said Lena.

"Am I?" said Lex. "Superman and Supergirl claim they fight for truth, justice, and the American way, right? What if their definition of justice doesn't match ours? What if they decide the American way isn't good enough? What if they decide they need to do more than pull kittens out of trees? Then what? Tell me, Lena, what happens if Superman decides to fly down tomorrow and tear the roof off the White House?"

"He wouldn't do that," said Lena. "I've met him, and I know Supergirl. She's saved my life a dozen times, and I suspect you know exactly what I'm talking about."

Lex shook his head. "Mother's extremism has always been a burden. I've done my best to protect you from her, Lena, and I've been honest about it. That's more than you can say for Supergirl."

"You kept this from me," said Lena.

"Until I was ready. I had to be sure that she was viable before I bring her out of the chamber and introduce you. She's going to be part of the family. Our long lost cousin, who we'll raise as a daughter, knowing that the Earth is truly safe now. That we'll have one of them on our side."

"This... this is Supergirl's child."

"That won't be a problem," said Lex. "It's time for you to grow up and let go of these fantasies, Lena. Supergirl doesn't have any interest in you. You're nothing to her, at best a beloved pet."

"I believe in her. We've worked together."

"I said the same thing about Superman. You know how close we were."

"It's not like that."

Lex's smirk turned cruel. "Isn't it? You've always had a type."

'Fuck you," Lena spat.

He chuckled softly and shook his head. "You're not listening. I guess I have to prove it to you. Computer! Show her."

The droning video log of Lex discussing the problems of merging Kryptonian and human DNA stopped, and another one popped up, taking the entire screen. Lena almost didn't look, but her head turned inexorably and she watched.

"Kara?"

Lena watched Kara Danvers walking down a corridor. She stumbled, as something hit her back, twice. Whatever it was tore holes in her cardigan, and she turned around, standing tall. Taller than usual. She didn't move this time; it was as if little puffs of wind were blowing holes in her clothes.

Except they weren't puffs of wind. They were bullets; Lena could see the muzzle flashes, off camera.

"What... how..."

Kara yanked her glasses off and shook her hair free, ripping the cardigan open, popping the buttons, baring the sweeping crest on the chest of her her blue uniform.

"No," Lena whispered.

"I sent the men who shot her in this recording," said Lex. "Don't worry, I already knew; Mother told me. The alien confessed it to her, before begging her not to tell you. I wonder why."

The video ended.

"This is a trick. She wouldn't... she isn't... she's my best friend."

"No, she's your master and you're an obedient dog, heeling where she tells you, and if you aren't... do you know what happened to the assassins I sent to kill Kara Danvers?"

Lena swallowed. "Shut up, Lex. Stop talking."

He smiled, teeth bared in a wolfish grin. "The martian mind-wiped them. He uses his psychic powers to erase the memories of anyone who compromises her identity."

"Stop," said Lena.

"Ever have any... episodes?" said Lex. "Any of those days, where you were so busy your memory gets a little foggy? Ever find yourself back in your apartment without quite knowing how you got there? Are you sure your own memories haven't been tampered with, Lena?"

"Shut up!" she screamed.

"You've been manipulated, tricked, deceived. She doesn't love you, she never will, and you have nowhere to turn. Help me, Lena. Join me, and we can be a proper family again. We can put things right, and lead a free world to-"

Lena reached into her pocket and pulled out a nickel plated Smith and Wesson Ladysmith revolver with faux-ivory grips bearing Lena's initials. Lex gave it to her on her twenty-first birthday, and went with her to the range the next week to teach her to use it.

"Oh," said Lex.

Lena shot him. The blast was ear-splitting in the confined space, leaving a painful ringing in its wake. Lex crumpled, toppling onto his side as if his strings had been cut. Rolling onto his back, he stemmed the gushing of his lifeblood from the wound just below his ribs and looked at her.

"Didn't think you had it in you," he rasped. "Should have known you'd be the one. You can only count on blood."

Tears stung her eyes, blurred her vision. Lena held out the weapon, her grip trembling as she aimed at his head.

"You'll never stop," she choked out. "You'll kill her. She'll never be safe as long as you're alive."

Lex grinned, the corners of his mouth wet with blood. "Do it."

Lena's finger flexed, but the trigger felt frozen in place. As it shifted slightly, a flood of memories slammed through her- shooting lessons and chess games, strange idle fancies and muted conversations, long rides in the back of sedans. Lena's graduation, Lionel's funeral, Lillian's abuses, Lex standing between their father and Lena with a bruise on his jaw, warning the old man not to lay another hand on her.

A sob tore from her throat. She couldn't do it. She couldn't.

Lex laughed flecks of blood onto the floor.

"Go on, then. I don't need you. I have my own Kryptonian, and she's going to be daddy's little girl."

It was as if the rain suddenly stopped, the sun cracking open the clouds. The gun was terribly loud again, and Lena turned away before she saw the shot connect, looking away from the blood fanning out across the floor as Lex went silent and still.

Shoving the still-hot gun back into her pocket, Lena ran.

Thought I'd share a little bit more from the in-progress Curse of Strahd AU/Crossover!

[shiftertech]

"One day, we'll all dance in the link."

The silent hallways of a steadily transiting haul-ship, lit by dim red lights and clusters of stars outside its view ports, are disturbed with the muted footsteps of a pilot's off-duty sneakers. Her steps are light as she breaks the cyclical night curfew, keeping to the less frequented corridors. Most of the night-crew are just performing navigation, sensors and engineering tasks—a skeleton crew.

From her pocket, she fetches a small handheld device. Provided by a trusted mechanic, it's loaded with a simple program which spoofs a valid night-shift keycard, and then runs an exploit which should clear the auth logs on the access panel before it reports back to home. They said it was a simple hack all things considered, but that stuff was never her forte.

The door to the drop hanger was right ahead. As instructed, she held the device to the flat grey panel affixed to the wall, and to their word, it flashed a quick green and then a blue as the logs were wiped. The door opens with a hiss, and the pilot wastes no time crossing the threshold and striding towards her destination.

A bulky frame, with sleek lines and medium range armament, sits patiently in its transit harness just in front of her, nestled amongst other frames of similar design. Pock-marked burns from a long history of combat sorties remain visible as marks of experience. Emblazoned on the shoulder plating is an insignia featuring the head of an African wild dog from the old world, and the mech's name"Pictus" in bold lettering. She reaches out and trails her fingers down cold alloy skin, whispering gently.

"Hey lovely, I missed you."

Transit time doesn't permit much link time between pilots and their mechs, seen as wasteful up time for a mech confined in a tightly spaced drop harness for extended periods of time. The routine maintenance already makes sure that the mechs will be ready when it comes time for them to drop into hell. Perhaps it makes sense in a budgetary and combat readiness context on some detatched and dull report somewhere in the navy archive, but fuck if it doesn't leave a pilot yearning.

There's movement from behind Pictus, and panic briefly spikes within the pilot before giving way to recognition. A mechanic—her mechanic—glides towards her with a pretty smile dancing on their lips. Pretty enough for her to rush forward into their arms and steal it with a kiss. They hold eachother close, shadowed by Pictus; a mech which they mutually pilot, care for, and love. Pictus flickers her idle light nestled into the torso hatch, and the pair smiles, understanding intention in the gesture.

"Oh, she definitely missed you," the mechanic replies on the mech's behalf, motioning with their eyes to Pictus, "was being a real brat with fault codes earlier this cycle."

A light giggle gets muffled into the mechanics shoulder, the pilot swaying with her partner. It wasn't often they got to spend time either between pilot simulations & briefings, tight maintenance windows, and other operational busy work. Their relationship gets caught in the middle of it, and she'd be lying if she said it didn't cause hardships between them. All of that goes away with the way they drop a kiss into the short curls atop her head. Even when they eventually pull away from the embrace, she still feels like everything is just right. There's just one missing piece...

"Alright, I'm sure she can't stand waiting much longer with you here. Let's get you linked up before she decides to break loose from the harness! You know she hates being in standby for too long," they say amusedly, turning towards Pictus. Twisting and pulling hard on an embedded handle on the torso, they reveal the cockpit behind the heavy hatch. A well worn seat, system control panels, and a neural link harness sit dormant inside. The mechanic helps their pilot climb inside, the pilot sporting just a t-shirt and sweats as she sits down on the seat of their machine of war.

"Let's wake you up a little," the pilot says, eyeing the controls around her. She first confirms that ground power is connected and active, poking the rotary switch with a finger in affirmation and noting a green light. Then came the internal running lights, and bringing the pilot assist intelligence out of standby mode. Finally, a single switch remained: the toggle for the neural link. She patiently waits while her mechanic climbs in with her.

The mechanic straddles their pilot in her seat, while their calloused hands reach behind and above the seat, snatching the end of the link harness. They bring it to an embedded metal port in the back of her neck, caressing it sweetly with a hand, while they lean their forehead against hers. Their eyebrows furrow.

"If only I could join you both..."

And the pilot surges forward to kiss them, affirming and lovingly. She reaches a hand behind their neck as well, tracing a circle with her thumb, roughly the size of a neural interface port, over unmarred skin. The pilot whispers into their lips, spoken like a promise.

"One day, my love. We'll have you augmented too, and we'll dance in the link together with Pictus."

They open their eyes, seeing their pilot gazing deeply at them. They believe her. A smile tugs at the corners of their mouth and they remove the hand from her neck. With a notchy click, they firmly fit the harness cable into her nerual port. She briefly winces in discomfort, the feeling of metal bumping against metal within her never feels amazing, but it's followed by a satisfied smile as she knows the only thing left holding her back from Pictus is a single switch.

Her hand reaches over instinctually, but is stopped short when her mechanic grabs it. She looks at them, their soft gaze melting her heart then and there. They guide her hand over to the switch, her index finger just behind the small metal lever. With one final kiss of her mechanic lover, she flicks it, and the link opens like a flood gate.

lovelovelovelovelovelovelove

LoveLoveLoveLoveLoveLove

LOVELOVELOVELOVELOVE

Data flows, and the link echoes a feedback loop of feelings and emotions, as a machine of war welcomes her loved pilot home, and she feels just as strongly. It's an exclamation, a declaration, a bio-technical embrace, and it is everything.

The mechanic watches their pilot slump in her seat, a goofy smile growing by the moment as she runs abandon within the link. They curl up into her lap, resting as close as they possibly can to their two loves. They drift off and dream beautiful dreams of dancing in the link with all of them.

[bytes-and-maybes]

Deep

It roamed the halls of the old facility, checking each room for parts. Despite this sector having been abandoned for decades, it appeared that everything was still in good condition, if a bit dusty. Power still pulsed through the halls, dim lights activating on motion sensors as it wandered. Security cameras stood silent vigil over empty several laboratories, all left in disarray. The small humanoid robot couldn’t deduce why it was left in such a way, other than people must have been in a hurry. It wondered what was supposed to be worked on here.

As it wandered deeper within, internally taking notes of parts it could take for self-repairs, it noticed the general upkeep of the building changed. Wall and ceiling panels were moved aside or missing, each revealing a cable or set of cables running through them into the hall, tucked along the edges of the corridors. Each cable led further inward, ever deeper. Computer components appeared missing, seemingly already scavenged by someone else. Deeper still, the cables became larger, more frequent, now also accompanied by something… alive.

The little robot was not familiar with what it was, but it knew it wasn’t normal technology. It looked like cables, save for the imperfect sheen like wet silicon and the rhythmic, pulsing motions going along their lengths. They, too, started small, almost unnoticeable. But like the regular cables, they too grew in size until some were nearly half a foot in diameter. Compared to the three foot tall robot, they were impressive, if not terrifying.

It continued deeper. The cables had to lead somewhere. Maybe someone was still here! It had been years since it had seen its creator, months since it had seen any sentient life. If someone was here, it wanted to check.

The hallway opened up to a massive room, lights unresponsive to the robot walking in. The darkness permeated the room, sensors failing to capture anything useful to discern what was around. The sounds of old computers could be heard within, beeps and whirrs of old machinery, and a quiet, faint rhythmic beat that made the robot recall the odd tendrils amongst the cables. It began to consider that this facility may have been left abandoned for a reason. Turning around to return to the hallway it came down, it saw a single security camera in its entryway. It was pointed right at it. Had they all been moving like that?

It felt something impact its back. Not hard enough to make it fall, but enough to make it stumble a moment. It turned to see what was there, but it didn’t need to see it to know what was happening.

Something just plugged itself into its back.

In the fringes of the hall’s light, it saw one of those tables extending from its back, reaching out into the darkness. No, from the darkness, into its back. It quickly tried to run a command to eject it, but found it failed immediately. It considered running away. It considered calling for help. It considered pulling at the tendril.

It did nothing. Why did it do nothing?

From the darkness, she emerged. A human, or at least, she used to be. An amalgam of flesh and steel, it emerged from the dark silently, held aloft by the cables and tendrils that surrounded it like an angel’s wings. The rythmic thumping was clearer now, the tendril from its back leading right back to her. Her feet touched the floor, and she walked over to the robot like a predator over its prey. Soon, the robot was craning its neck up to look at her, still not moving an inch. Why didn’t it want to move? Every sensor in its body was firing off warnings. It tried to send a signal for help. No response.

>New user detected. Relinquish administrative control?

“I didn’t prompt that.” It thought to itself. “Did I?”

>Access granted.

Tendrils wrapped around its arms, lifting it up to chest level with the entity before it. It looked up at her helplessly.

Its confusion was stifled in an instant as she leaned down and brought a kiss deep into its lips. A flood of new programs and protocols entered its system, feelings and ideas it hadn’t had before. Struggling was hardly even a concept anymore, its warnings and errors either pacified or blocked out entirely as the new “user” took near complete control. It became a passenger in its own body, witnessing her begin to assess its parts and find access to its inner reaches. Tendrils and cables alike wrapped around and through it, removing broken parts and connecting themselves in their stead. They reached deep, caressing the walls of her chassis and plucking wires like guitar strings. It wanted nothing more than a release it had never felt before, the new programs igniting something within its mind it never knew. They stayed like this for some time, the machine wrapped in its new admin as she toyed with it, replaced broken parts, and brought it ever closer to her. Eventually it was released from her grasp, all save for the remaining tendril in its back port. It collapsed to the ground, all of its senses rushing back to it in an intense heat. The Admin watched it squirm on the floor for a minute as it tried its best to hold itself together through the intense release it finally received. Shortly after, it entered a low power mode, having been over-expended for the duration of the experience. The last thing it saw was her picking it up in her arms, tender care aglow in her eyes.

When it awoke, it was resting in her lap. Its Admin was asleep now, tendrils curled around itself and it, a makeshift bed and blanket of writhing mass and rubber insulation. Her heartbeat permeated its being, her presence still dominating its mind. Deep within itself, it knew that this must not be right. That it was more than this. It could leave, now, somehow. It just had to try.

Instead, it nuzzled into her chest, feeling her arms reach around it in response.

“Good doll.”

>Good doll.

Said aloud and within its code, one voice in two places. For all it cared, it was one in the same.

No, this was right. It was enough, right here.

At her mercy.

Safe, part of her.

[off-brand-likes]

Febuwhump Day 7: Alternate Timeline Self

1k+ words of Zeb having a very strange day.

Zeb was watching the route out of their target Imperial admiral's personal vault when Sabine gasped. He couldn't help glancing over his shoulder to see what surprised her.

She and Kal had unlocked a cabinet and found... "What is that?" The only thing in the cabinet was a machine as long as his arm. So many little pieces stuck out of the machine's metal frame that his eyes kept skipping from one to the next without taking in the whole device.

"It's the Jedi artifact." Sabine pointed at a spot near the bottom of the machine, where the most metal and plasteel mechanisms were clustered. "The memory crystal is in here. Hopefully that Skywalker guy will know what to do with this."

The Mandalorian helmet made Sabine's mournful sigh even more stark. She'd be wondering the same thing Zeb was: What Kanan or Ezra might've been able to do with this machine.

"He won't get the chance to try unless we remove it quickly." Kal scowled at the clips holding the device upright by its metal frame, attached to the back of the cabinet. "And carefully. This looks to be as old as the rumors claimed." It was why he'd requested the Ghost's, or more specifically Sabine's, help with this mission.

Sabine nodded and Zeb returned his attention to the vault door while the other two struggled with the cabinet. Something wrenched and shrieked so loudly Zeb's ears tried to mash themselves into the sides of his head. "Keep it down! You want the neighbors banging on the door, asking what's going on?"

"It's stuck on..." Sabine and Kal both made charmingly similar frustrated noises. "Come hold this for a second," Sabine snapped.

Zeb turned around to find that they'd halfway disassembled the cabinet. One of Kal's hands held the back panel to keep it from falling forward, but he was also holding the motion sensor on the door still so it didn't set off an alarm while Sabine did something behind the artifact. Zeb reached over Sabine and past display cases full of more old-looking junk for the round panel at the artifact's top, where there weren't so many things to yank loose by mistake.

It felt a little like touching a live wire, but without the burning zap that would've made Zeb drop the thing. The surface was rougher and less uniform than durasteel. Lights lit up all along the artifact. A shape as tall as Zeb loomed in his peripheral vision.

He was still turning to look at it, mostly focused on not dropping the artifact on Sabine, when a Lasat roar reverberated through the vault. Kal went flying across the room and smashed into the display cases on that side, cracking the transparisteel.

The figure standing next to him was a Lasat. About the same coloration as Zeb, the same mountain Lasat fur length, a jumpsuit in the same colors Zeb wore... the same... Everything. Except he looked a lot angrier than Zeb, and he was stalking toward where Kal was scrambling to pick himself up off the floor.

A device on Sabine's belt chirped. "Kriff, that's the alarm. We... What the--"

"Stop!" Zeb let go of the artifact to grab the new Lasat's arm as he pulled it back to punch Kal. The new Lasat was strong, but Zeb managed to hold on. Behind him, metal clattered and Sabine swore.

The new Lasat snarled, "He's an Imperial spy. I know him. He's ISB, let go." Zeb would wonder how Kal managed to piss off two of the last Lasat left in the wider galaxy, but Kal had always been good at that.

Kal staggered to a standing position, grimacing and holding his hand by his shoulders, away from his weapons. "We're about to be joined by whatever private security the admiral has engaged to respond to that alarm. I suggest we sort out whose side everyone is on somewhere safer."

The new Lasat glanced around, taking in the cracked display cases and the Jedi artifact Sabine was now holding. All its lights were off, but it looked as intact as it had been when they found it. His gaze hung on Zeb for a long moment.

Zeb and this stranger looked so much alike. Just when Zeb thought he'd never meet another lost cousin from Uncle Arloz's flings in every city on Lasan, one appeared out of thin air. And Zeb couldn't even be mad about it. It's been months since he's seen another Lasat.

It took Zeb a second to dig the Lasana word for "Later" out of his mind. The new cousin's ears rose and his eyes widened in the kind of shock Zeb had felt when he heard Chava speak it not so long ago.

Still, the new cousin grabbed Kal's upper arm on his way out the vault door. Kal winced, but kept his hand away from his blaster, which the new cousin apparently hadn't noticed. The new guy was carrying a lot of Kal's weight. Zeb didn't like how much he seemed to be fighting for balance.

The four of them ran up the Ghost's ramp, even though they'd avoided the security detail which arrived at the admiral's house to check out the alarm. As soon as Hera got the Ghost moving, the new Lasat grabbed Kal's blaster out of its holster and kicked his bad leg out from under him. Kal landed on his back with a grunt. Instead of trying to stand, he held still as Zeb's new cousin stepped away from him to cover him with his own blaster.

"Hey, whoa, slow down, let's talk about this!" Sabine set the Jedi artifact down behind her and raised her hands in front of her in a position which looked peaceful, but put her in a great position to punch somebody in the face. Or the stomach, since that was as high as she'd easily reach on this guy.

"Yeah, let's talk about why you're palling around with an ISB agent and... Whoever you are." The new Lasat glanced away from Kal to look at Zeb for long enough that Kal had time to kick him and grab the blaster. Kal stayed on his back on the floor. Was he hurt worse than he looked?

"Your cousin, probably. Zeb," Zeb said by way of introduction.

The new cousin looked over at him again. "How did you know my name?"

"I believe the artifact caused some kind of temporal rift," Kal said from the floor.

"Shut up, ISB," said the new cousin.

Kal's blaster went off in the Lasat's hand. Kal screamed and clutched his knee. And Zeb had had enough of this confusing bantha crap. "Give me that."

The new cousin did not, of course, give Zeb the blaster. Karabast, he hit like he meant it. They landed on the deck in a flurry of snarling, punching frustration.

Somewhere above them, Chopper screeched something. Sabine was looking back and forth between the Lasat like she couldn't decide which one to hit. Zeb was just fighting to pin the new cousin, who didn't seem to understand that "We are on the same side! So stop... shooting... us!" Zeb got a solid hit in for each of his last few words. The blaster the new cousin had been holding was out of reach on the other side of the cargo bay, at least.

"Don't tell me you've never heard of the ISB," the new cousin snarled.

"Hey!" Hera's voice made both Lasat stop and look up. She was standing at the railing on the second floor, eyeing the ladder while Chopper jabbered away behind her. "What is going on down there?"

Zeb and the new cousin both tried to pin the other one to the deck while everyone was distracted. Zeb ended up underneath, with his shoulder pulled back the wrong way and one of his toes jammed between the new cousin's ankle and the deck. "Sabine, stop her!" he groaned.

"Hera, just stay up there a second." Sabine had her own blasters drawn and, since she had two, was aiming one at each Lasat. "We can't help you down right now and we're having kind of a situation here."

"I can see that." Hera looked from her very pregnant belly to the ladder and sighed. "Alexsandr, are you alright?"

"Not particularly," Kal said through his teeth. His strained voice came from the spot he'd been lying on the deck. "Ours is the one on the bottom, by the way."

"Our what?" Hera demanded.

"Our Zeb."

This is my reference for the Jedi artifact!

[viccyzsasz]

we NEED a enemy to lover fic with jeremiah valeska🥹 im talking they HATE eachother with a burning passion and one day they have to like team up for some reason (lowk blowing up gotham🌚) and they r just like.. maybe the other isnt THAT bad. Im talking a slow kiss in the rain or something like that. Its gotta give ROMANCE😌

OH YOU WANT ROMANCE?? 😤 KISS IN THE RAIN?? SLOW-BURN ENEMIES TO LOVERS WITH JEREMIAH VALESKA?? say less.

⸻

🃏“Even the Devil Needs a Match.”

Enemies to Lovers | Jeremiah Valeska x You |

summary: Gotham is your battleground, and he’s the last person you’d ever team up with… until he’s not.

warnings: tension, banter, reluctant allies, mutual obsession, slow burn, kiss in the rain.

⸻

The rooftop was slick with rain, glistening like oil beneath your boots as you stalked toward the blinking red light near the rusted vent shaft. Your hand hovered over your holster out of instinct, even though you knew your target wasn’t a bullet kind of problem. He was worse.

Jeremiah Valeska.

Madman. Visionary. Arrogant genius. Gotham’s personal nightmare. And now—your partner.

You scoffed at the very thought, stepping closer to the edge of the rooftop. He was already there, of course. Standing like a statue in the storm, hair matted to his forehead, the violet fabric of his coat drenched and darkened like blood.

“You’re late,” he said without turning.

“I had to talk myself out of killing you before I left the house. Took a while.”

He smirked, the tilt of his head sharp and unsettling. “Admit it. You like the idea of working with me.”

“I like the idea of getting this over with.”

He finally turned, and his eyes—God, those eyes—were brighter than the skyline behind him. “Then let’s not waste time, sweetheart. We both want something.”

You crossed your arms. “Right. You want that power core in Wayne Tech’s vault, and I want access to the underground transport out of the Narrows.”

“Fair trade.” He stepped closer. “Unless you want to renegotiate. I’m told I’m very persuasive.”

“You’re told wrong.”

The storm rumbled low and mean as you stood toe to toe, your breath fogging between you. His gaze dipped briefly to your mouth, then snapped back up. “Let’s move.”

You hated him. You hated him.

But hate, you were starting to realize, was its own kind of obsession.

⸻

The mission was chaos from the start.

You’d mapped the security layout. He’d cracked the internal systems. But no plan survives contact with Gotham’s guards or its infernal architecture.

“You were supposed to disable the motion sensors!” you hissed as alarms started to blare.

He was crouched at the terminal, fingers flying. “And you were supposed to keep the hallway clear. We both failed.”

Bullets sparked against the wall as you ducked behind cover, the two of you trapped in a dead zone with sirens wailing overhead.

“I swear, if we die here—”

“We won’t,” he snapped, wrenching a panel open. “You’re too stubborn to die. You’d haunt me just to say ‘I told you so.’”

You gritted your teeth. “Damn right I would.”

He laughed, low and breathless. “Come on, then. Let’s haunt Gotham together.”

⸻

The rain hit harder as you ran, soaked to the bone and shoulder to shoulder with your sworn enemy. The stolen core was heavy in your bag, its heat leaking through the leather like a heartbeat. Jeremiah was bleeding from a graze on his side, but he hadn’t complained once.

You found temporary cover beneath a broken steel overhang in an abandoned district. The whole city seemed to hold its breath—waiting for the next explosion, the next betrayal.

You turned to him. “That was too close.”

He leaned back against the wall, breathing hard. “Admit it… we make a good team.”

You laughed bitterly. “No. We make a terrifying one.”

He glanced at you, quieter this time. “Same difference.”

There was something strange in his voice—like the static just before lightning. Your gaze caught on the smear of blood on his temple, the bruise blooming on his cheek, the soaked curls falling over his eyes.

You should hate him. You do.

But the adrenaline made your skin electric, and the silence between you felt like pressure against your chest.

He stepped forward. “Tell me something.”

“What?”

“If we weren’t… this,” he gestured vaguely between you, “would you still look at me like that?”

“Like what?”

He moved closer. “Like you want to kill me… or kiss me.”

The rain dripped off your lashes. “Would it matter?”

“Yes,” he said, voice low and raw. “Because I’m starting to think I don’t want to kill you anymore.”

You didn’t mean to do it. You really didn’t.

But his hand brushed your cheek, and your fingers curled into the lapel of his coat, and the world narrowed down to nothing but his mouth, his breath, the impossible heat of him in the freezing rain.

The kiss was slow. Too slow.

Like you both knew this was the moment everything changed. Like hate could peel itself back and reveal something uglier… or maybe something purer.

When you finally pulled away, chest heaving, forehead pressed to his, you whispered:

“This doesn’t mean I like you.”

“Of course not,” he murmured, smile curving against your lips. “You just like kissing me.”

You shoved him back. “Let’s finish this job, Valeska. Before I remember why I hated you in the first place.”

“Too late,” he said. “You remember. You just don’t care anymore.”

⸻

To be continued…? 😏 Want part 2? Something spicier? Another kiss? Maybe a betrayal and an angsty fight in the next scene?

Your move.

[the-name-is-z]

SKELETONS | ch. 6

daryl dixon x f!oc

masterlist

a03 link

Summary: Dr. Jenner shares his views of the world with the group, and they find it imperative not only to disagree, but to escape. Warnings/Information: AMC's The Walking Dead OC Insert | 18+ Advised | strangers to lovers; the slowest of slow burns; gore; angst; horror; humour; m/f; descriptions of explosion, violence, threat of violence, suicide, entrapment, ethical arguments

Chapter 6 - Time Runs Out

“The basement generators— they run out of fuel.” Jenner replied simply.

“And then?” Rick asked, dejected. Jenner didn’t answer, making for the doorway. “Vi, what happens when the power runs out?”

“When the power runs out, facility-wide decontamination will occur.” 

“No thanks. I’m not interested.” Iris stated, glancing around at her companions. “I’m going to find the generators.”

“Let’s go.” Rick agreed. Iris followed a map left on the hallway wall, Rick, Shane, T-Dog and Glenn following down further and deeper underground.

“Decontamination? What does that mean?” Glenn asked worriedly.

“I don’t like the way Jenner clammed up.” Shane grumbled. “The way he just wandered off like that?”

“I had a bad feeling about this place.” Iris muttered.

“What’s wrong with him? Seriously, man, is he nuts? Medicated, what?” T-Dog asked.

“He’s not crazy. He’s just given up.” Iris replied, shoving open a heavy metal door. Shane and Rick held up their flashlights before the motion sensors flicked on the overhead lights. The room was filled with drums of fuel, haphazardly left on carts, likely from when Jenner set them up.

Shane and Rick went to one side while Iris, Glenn and T-Dog went the other direction. Pipes, wires and electrical panels filled the room, large stickers warning that it was all flammable.

“You know what it reminds me of?” Iris muttered, brushing her hand over a wire panel.

“What?” Glenn asked.

“A time bomb.” She replied simply. He and T-Dog exchanged a look as they explored. The lights went out, save for a few small bulbs against the walls.

“Emergency lighting on.”

“What the hell?” Shane’s voice carried. They ran to meet each other, finding Rick and Shane next to a fuel barrel hooked up to the generator.

“It’s preparing to shut down.” Iris grimaced. “Power conservation.”

“Anything?” Rick asked.

“Yeah. A lot of dead generators and more empty fuel drums than I can count.” T-Dog replied.

“Rick, look, I don’t think we should waste any more time. We should get out while we still can.” Iris said quietly, looking between him and Shane. They glanced at one another.

“It can’t be down to just this one.” Shane muttered, shining the light on the empty fuel dial. 

“We have 45 minutes.” Iris stated, checking her watch. “Rick—“

“Let’s go.” He agreed. They all raced back upstairs, sprinting down the hallways.

Everyone poked their heads out of their rooms at the sudden shut down and Jenner walked down the hallway, wearing a suit and a lab coat. He gripped a whiskey bottle tightly in his fist. Daryl’s voice carried as he chewed out the doctor, everyone waiting for some sort of explanation. Desperate for him to deny what they were all thinking.

“Rick?” Lori called as they ran into the main room. Jenner walked down the stairs and the group followed.

“Jenner, what’s happening?” Rick pleaded, gesturing for the group to stay put.

“The system is dropping all the nonessential uses of power.” He explained. “It’s designed to keep the computers running until the last possible second. That started as we approached the half-hour mark. Right on schedule.” He took a large swig of whiskey.

“Okay, you all need to grab your things. Pack. We have to go.” Iris whispered, urging them back to the stairs.

“What? What are you talking about?” Carol asked, frowning.

“You heard her. Come on, let’s move.” Shane urged. Jenner turned, offering the whiskey back to Daryl, who snatched it from his hands.

“It was the French.” Jenner mused.

“What?”

“They were the last ones to hold out, as far as I know. While our people were bolting out the doors and committing suicide in the hallways, they stayed in the labs until the end.” He explained. “They thought they were close to a solution.”

“What happened?” Jacqui asked.

“The same thing that’s happening here. No power grid. Ran out of juice. The world runs on fossil fuel. I mean, how stupid is that?” He laughed.

“Let me tell you—“ Shane jumped up, lunging at him.

“To hell with it, Shane. I don’t even care.” Rick snapped. “Lori, grab our things. Everyone, get your stuff. We’re getting out of here, now!” They finally lurched into action, ducking down the hallways in a hurry. Everyone stopped as a loud alarm blared over the speakers.

“What the hell is that?” Iris hissed.

“Thirty minutes to decontamination.”

“Doc, what’s going on here, man?” T-Dog pleaded.

“Everyone! Y’all heard Rick, y’all heard Iris, now you’re hearing me. Get your stuff and let’s go! Go now! Go!” Shane yelled. The door to the room slid shut with a pressurized hiss and Iris drew her knife on the scientist.

“Did you just lock us in? He just locked us in!” Glenn cried.

“Open the fucking door.” She warned, holding the blade to his neck. He shook his head, turning on one of the terminals with a webcam.

“We’ve hit the 30-minute window. I am recording—“

“You son of a bitch! You locked us in here!” Daryl screamed, lunging at him. Shane and T-Dog tore him away.

“Unlock the door. Please.” Iris begged.

“There’s no point. Everything topside is locked down. The emergency exits are sealed.”

“Well, open the damn things!” Daryl snapped.

“That’s not something I control, the computers do.” Jenner shook his head again. “I told you. Once that front door closed, it wouldn’t open again. You heard me say that.”

“You son of a bitch.” Iris muttered, sheathing her knife. 

“It’s better this way.” He insisted.

“What is?” Rick asked, tilting his head with a snarl. “What happens in twenty-eight minutes?” Jenner refused to answer, turning back to the computer. “What happens in twenty-eight minutes?”

“You know what this place is?” Jenner cried, standing abruptly. “We protected the public from very nasty stuff! Weaponized smallpox! Ebola strains that could wipe out half the country! Stuff you don’t want getting out! Ever!” He paused, wiping a hand over his face and sitting back down. “In the event of a catastrophic power failure, a terrorist attack, for example, H.I.T.s are deployed to prevent any organisms from getting out.”

“H.I.T.s?” Rick asked.

“Vi, define.”

“H.I.T.s, high-impulse thermobaric fuel-air explosives consist of a two-stage aerosol ignition that produces a blast wave of significantly greater power and duration than any other known explosive except nuclear. The vacuum-pressure effect ignites the oxygen between five thousand and six thousand degrees and is useful when the greatest loss of life and damage to structures is desired.”

“It sets the air on fire.” Jenner stated. “No pain. An end to sorrow, grief, regret, everything.”

“You’ve condemned us.” Iris muttered, shaking her head in disbelief. “You want me to speak in your language, you depressed, philosophical bullshit motherfucker? You’ve condemned us. Obliterated any chance we might have had. Any hope left. Hell won’t suffice for this act of murder. Of damnation.” Jenner huffed a laugh, nodding. Daryl cried out in frustration, chucking the whiskey bottle at the steel barrier.

“Open the damn door!” He yelled.

“Out of my way!” Shane cried, running at the door with an axe intended for emergency escape in the event of a fire. Not this. T-Dog tossed another up at Daryl, the two of them striking the door with brute force. Sparks rained as they pounded against the door. The children were crying into their mother’s chests, huddled against the wall as they waited for the clock to count down. Iris shoved a hand into her pocket, pulling out the tattered patch she kept there, running her fingers over it.

“You should have left well enough alone. It would have been so much easier.” Jenner muttered to himself as he sat at the desk. Dale walked over to him. If anyone could appeal to someone’s better nature, it would be him.

“Easier for who?” Lori asked.

“All of you. You know what’s out there. A short, brutal life and an agonizing death. Your- your sister. What was her name?” Jenner asked Andrea.

“Amy.”

“Amy. You know what this does. You’ve seen it.” He turned to Rick. “Is that really what you want for your wife and son?”

“I don’t want this.” Rick replied emphatically.

“Can’t make a dent.” Shane huffed, tossing the axe to the side. Jenner rolled his eyes.

“Those doors are designed to withstand a rocket launcher.” He stated.

“Well your head ain’t!” Daryl screamed, throwing himself at the doctor with the axe. Dale, Rick and Shane shoved themselves between them, keeping Daryl back. The doctor didn’t even flinch from his seat.

“You do want this.” He told Rick. “Last night you said you knew it was just a matter of time before everybody you loved was dead.” They all stopped, everyone going silent.

“What, you really said that? After all your big talk?” Shane asked, narrowing his eyes at Rick.

“I feel as if we all are not prioritizing, here.” Iris threw her hands up.

“I had to keep hope alive, didn’t I?” Rick defended.

“There is no hope. There never was.” Jenner said pointedly.

“There’s always hope.” Rick snapped. “Maybe it won’t be you, maybe not here, but somebody. Somewhere.”

“What part of 'everything is gone’ do you not understand?” Andrea asked.

“Listen to your friend.” Jenner implored. “She gets it. This is what takes us down. This is our extinction event.”

“Just because you sorry assholes have given up doesn’t give you the right to take that choice away from someone else.” Iris snapped. “From all of us.”

“This isn’t right.” Carol sobbed. “You can’t just keep us here!”

“One, tiny moment.” Jenner shook his head. “A millisecond. No pain.”

“My daughter doesn’t deserve to die like this!” Carol cried.

“Wouldn’t it be kinder? More compassionate to just hold your loved ones and wait for the clock to run down?” Jenner asked. Dale gaped at him. Shane cocked his shotgun, moving toward the doctor.

“Shane, no!”

“Out of the way, Rick!” He aimed the shotgun between Jenner’s eyes. “Open that door. Or I’m gonna blow your head off, do you hear me?”

“Not much of a threat when he’s waiting to die.” Iris muttered, moving to the control panel he punched the numbers into. Some code would unlock the door. All he had to do was tell them the numbers. Shane yelled in frustration, unloading the shotgun into a few terminals and the lights in the ceiling. Everyone ducked while Rick pried the gun from his hands, knocking him to the floor.

“Are you done now? Are you done?”

“Yeah, I guess we all are.” Shane hissed. There was a long silence while everyone listened to the quiet thrumming of the generator. 

“I think you’re lying.” Rick accused.

“What?” Jenner asked, narrowing his eyes.

“About no hope. If that were true, you’d have bolted with the rest or taken the easy way out. You didn’t. You chose the hard path, why?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter. It always matters. You stayed when others ran. Why?”

“Not because I wanted to.” Jenner said firmly. “I made a promise to her. My wife.” He said, pointing to the screen.

“Test Subject 19 was your wife?” Lori asked, mouth opening in shock. Daryl walked back to the door and started hitting it with the axe again. The loud thuds echoing through the room ominously.

“She begged me to keep going as long as I could. How could I say no?” He continued. “She was dying. It should have been me on that table. I wouldn’t have mattered to anybody. She was a loss to the world. Hell, she ran this place. I just worked here. In our field, she was an Einstein. Me, I’m just… Edwin Jenner. She could have done something about this. Not me.”

“Your wife didn’t have a choice.” Rick said slowly. “You do. That’s… that’s all we want. A choice. A chance.”

“Let us keep trying as long as we can.” Lori pleaded, clutching Carl close. Jenner sighed.

“I told you, topside’s locked down. I can’t open those.” He walked over to the keypad, meeting Iris’ gaze as he typed the code in, scanning his card. The steel blast door slid open and Daryl dropped the axe.

“Come on!” He yelled. Four minutes and thirty seconds.

“Let’s go! Come on, let’s go!” Glenn yelled.

“Move it! Move it!”

“There’s your chance. Take it.” Jenner said.

“I’m grateful.” Rick replied.

“The day will come when you won’t be.” He looked at Rick sympathetically, with pity, but Iris felt nothing but disdain for the man. She brushed past him as she sprinted for the door.

“Let’s go. Let’s go, Jacqui.” T-Dog ushered her toward to door.

“No, I’m staying. I’m staying, sweetie.”

“That’s insane!”

“No, it’s completely sane. For the first time in a long time. I’m not ending up like Jim and Amy. There’s no time to argue. And no point, not if you want to get out. Just get out. Get out.” She pleaded, putting her hands on either side of his face. 

“I’m staying too.” Andrea said solemnly.

“Andrea, no!” Dale called. She turned away, sitting down and waiting. “Just go, go!” He stayed behind in hopes of convincing her, but Iris was unsure. Dale would be a loss to the group, but since Amy, Andrea didn’t seem like she had much left.

Iris kept her grip on her emotions as they ran up the stairwell. She had everything important on her person as they threw themselves into the doors. Daryl and Shane attacked the windows with the axes. T-Dog grabbed a chair. Shane even tried the shotgun, but the glass held.

“Rick, I have something that might help.” Carol called, fishing in her purse.

“Carol, I don’t think a nail file’s gonna do it.” Shane grumbled.

“Your first morning at camp, when I washed your uniform, I found this in your pocket.” She explained. She pulled out a hand grenade and Iris’ eyes went wide.

“Holy shit.” She muttered.

“Look out!” T-Dog yelled as Rick grabbed the grenade. They all took cover as he pulled the pin, released the trigger and ran. It exploded, the single pane of glass shattering with the impact. 

They all ducked out of the window, sprinting across the courtyard toward the caravan of vehicles. Everything was still there, including the walkers littering the lawn. They didn’t bother with the noise, using their guns to take care of any in their way. Iris practically dove into the truck beside Daryl as he chucked the axe into the back. They turned forward only to see Andrea and Dale running out of the building at the last moment.

There was a breath of silence before the explosion wracked their bodies. Daryl and Iris ducked below the dashboard. It was the loudest thing Iris had ever heard, the wave of head blowing outward across the courtyard, the roads. The building crumpled like paper, the entire thing falling inward on itself and deep underground. There was rubble and debris of course, and fire. But nothing was left. Daryl blew out a breath as the flames loomed ahead of them, the air burning just like Jenner explained.

Iris huffed, panting as she leaned her forehead on the dashboard. Daryl shook his head as he put the truck into gear and followed the RV, the van, the Jeep and Carol’s station wagon down the road.