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jj-one · 1 month ago

Text

STUDY HARD, GET EDGED HARDER!

this is smut, do not interact if under 18

jisung’s trying to finish this code, but the minute you sat on his lap, he knew the only thing getting finished today was him.

pairing: nerd!han jisung x popular!f!reader, established relationship genre/tags: college au, smut with very little plot, semi-public s*x, sub!jisung, he whines and begs a lot (how i like my men tbh), thigh riding, overstim, light degradation, handjob, orgasm denial, oral (m. receiving), cum eating words: 5.2k

[ note. ] — another jisung fic, are we surprised ?? (no.) it’s the way this was supposed to be under 2-3k but clearly i’m incapable of writing anything short sooo..

He checked his phone sixteen times within the past hour. At first, Jisung told himself it was fine, you were in class, you needed to focus, you were probably taking notes or doodling a series of hearts in the margins of your planner like you always did. But now it was 2:34 pm and he was one ‘are you mad at me?’ text away from losing his goddamn mind.

Usually, you’d text him the second class was over. A little “miss you” here, a blurry selfie there, a not-so-subtle thirst trap when he least expected it, something to let him know you were thinking about him. But today? Nothing. Not since that teasing message you sent earlier at 11:47 am:

you left a hickey above my bra strap, you menace ;(

i’m wearing a tank top. if anyone asks i’m blaming it on a curling iron burn.

That had launched him into a full-body crisis in the middle of Comp Sci lecture. Now he was half-hard, suffering from sleep deprivation, and trying to tackle three weeks’ worth of broken functions with his already fried brain— while simultaneously spiraling over why you hadn’t texted him again yet.

Which brings us to his current dilemma.

The library’s unusually quiet for a Thursday afternoon, except for the faint rustles of pages turning and the occasional exasperated sighs from stressed out students spread throughout the space.

Jisung sat tucked into the farthest corner, wearing a slightly oversized hoodie with the sleeves bunched up to his elbows, staring blankly at the same lines of code on his laptop. He’d been stuck in the same recursive function that kept crashing his entire program— something about an ‘undefined base case’, but he couldn’t focus long enough to fix it. The error messages meant nothing when all he could think about was the flash of your thighs in that skirt you’d been wearing this morning.

And across from him, not helping even a little, was Jeongin, who was currently detailing the world’s most cursed porn plot with way too much enthusiasm.

“So then the girl just spits on it like it’s no big deal and starts- bro, are you even listening?”

Jisung snaps out of his trance, looking up too fast. “Huh?”

Jeongin rolls his eyes, shaking his head, “knew you weren’t listening.”

“I was,” he lied, voice slightly cracking, and it only made Jeongin raise an eyebrow and gesture pointedly toward his friend’s phone, which lit up for the third time in under a minute.

Jisung snatched it up before even checking the name, heart already doing backflips.

sungie, where are youuu

i’m done with class and i’m boredd, wanna see you

He was now internally screaming. If Jeongin wasn’t here right now he’d be kicking his feet and giggling like a school girl right now. But instead he tries to keep his composure, though he’s failing miserably.

He swallows thickly, ears immediately turning red as he reads your message over and over. Recollections from last night were now running through his head, the mental image of your body under his, breathy moans in his ear, the feeling of your lips on his neck— it was burned into his memory forever.

Jisung’s brain short-circuited. His heart launched itself straight into his throat. And his dick? Yeah, it had ideas..

Jeongin tilts his head, catching the panicked expression on Jisung’s face. “Dude,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “Just go meet up with her already. You’re useless like this.”

“I’m not useless,” Jisung said defensively, even as his fingers fumbled to type out a reply with hands that were very much trembling. “I’m trying to debug this stupid loop!”

“You’re trying to not bust a nut thinking about her,” Jeongin deadpanned. “You’ve copy-pasted the same broken function like six times in ten minutes. I’m still confused how you even managed to bag the hottest girl on campus.”

“I didn’t bag her,” Jisung mumbled, his face growing hot once again. “She… likes me.”

“No shit she likes you. She owns you.” Jeongin pointed at the now purplish-red bruise on Jisung’s neck. “That’s a leash, not a love bite.”

“Stop talking, I’m trying to finish this code.”

Jeongin leaned across the table, squinting at his screen. “You haven’t written a single working line in the past thirty minutes. The cursor’s been blinking in the same empty function this whole time. You typed ‘y/n’ in the comment section of your code, and then drew a dick in ASCII next to it. You know damn well you’re not debugging anything except your feelings.”

Jisung groaned loudly as he slumps forward, his forehead hitting the keyboard with a soft ‘thud’. “She just- she’s distracting, okay?”

“She’s not even here right now.”

“She lives rent free in my head.”

“You pay her rent,” Jeongin quickly corrected, “with your dignity.”

Jisung barely had time to fire back before his phone buzzed again. His posture instantly straightens, reaching for his phone like it contained the meaning of life.

so why haven’t you kissed me today? why do you hate me?

He wheezed. “She thinks I hate her—!”

“You’re literally wearing the hoodie she gave you,” Jeongin cuts in dryly. “You made her a playlist last night called ‘songs that remind me of her moaning.’ She’s obviously fucking with you, bro.”

Jisung was only half-listening, already typing like his life depended on it.

i’m in the library, baby. i thought u had another class??

also i don’t hate u i’m OBSESSED w u

Your reply came not even a minute later.

mhm. obsessed? prove it. where exactly in the library are u?

He froze, looking up like a deer caught in headlights.

Jeongin didn’t even flinch. “Don’t panic,” he responds flatly, reaching for a pretzel stick. “Just give her your location and accept your fate.”

Jisung completely ignores him, fingers moving fast, typing out a rushed response that was borderline devotional.

back left corner by the windows. alone. i mean, with jeongin. but like mostly alone.

u coming?

depends.. are you gonna leave me another hickey this time or nah?

He slammed his forehead against the table.

“You good?” Jeongin asked casually, chewing on his pretzel like his friend wasn’t in the middle of a full-blown mental breakdown.

“No,” Jisung mumbled into the wood. “I’m gonna die right here. On this table. Tell my computer I love her.”

“Death by horny girlfriend.” Jeongin chuckled, “you’d be the third one this semester.”

Jisung turned his face, still smushed against the table, eyes glazed with academic doom. “I’m so gonna fail this exam..”

“You’re gonna fail life if she sits on your lap again and you cream your pants in front of me.”

Jisung glared. “I didn’t cream my pants last time.”

“You moaned when she kissed your jaw, bro. Out loud. In public..”

“It was a low moan.”

“A moan is a moan, my guy.”

Before Jisung could argue back, he receives yet another message.

look up, dummy.

His entire body went rigid, hands hovering midair, pupils dilating like a cat spotting a nearby predator.

“Bro?” Jeongin asked, watching the color drain from his face.

“She’s here,” Jisung whispered. “Oh my god, she’s actually here.”

And just like that, his palms were sweating. His heart beating abnormally fast as if a bomb was about to go off in his chest. He knew what was to came next. You were going to strut over here in something tiny, say something filthy, and sit in his lap like you owned both the chair and the man in it.

Jeongin turned just in time to see you coming.

“Oh nope. Nope.” He grabbed his stuff immediately, like a man narrowly avoiding trauma. “I’m not third-wheeling this lap dance sequel. I’ll be in the café. If I’m not back in an hour, it’s because I died of secondhand embarrassment.”

Jisung was still trying to stammer out something when Jeongin patted him on the shoulder with mock sympathy and left him for dead.

You were in a tiny black pleated skirt that flared when you walked, paired with a white, paper-thin tank, barely clinging to your frame. The outline of your lace bralette clearly visible beneath it under the warm library lighting. Your lips were glossy— glistening with that pink shimmer you knew drove him crazy, a hint of eyeliner, and that signature flirty sparkle in your eye made Jisung forget his own name, and why he ever thought he could handle you.

His mouth slightly parted as you spotted him and waved with a little grin that caused him to hold his breath. Every guy in the vicinity turned to look. Of course they did. You looked like you’d walked straight off the cover of a playboy magazine.

Except you weren’t paying attention to anyone else, walking straight towards him— past the tables, past all the stares, and before he could even think to slide over and offer the empty seat next to him, you climbed right onto his lap like you belonged there.

You casually slung your arm over his shoulders, settling against him like it was a normal day and you’d done it a hundred times before. Your thighs framed his, the sweet scent of your perfume clouding his senses while the softness of your chest against his front made him see static.

“Hi, baby,” you leaned it, trailing your fingers along the edge of his jaw. “You looked like you were missing me.”

“I-I uh-” He blinked rapidly, trying to process literally anything. “You’re- you-”

You couldn’t help but giggle at how much of a nervous wreck he was, but kept teasing him anyway. “Use your words, handsome.”

“You’re wearing that.”

You raised a brow, wide-eyed, feigning innocence. “This?”

Shifting slightly on his lap to get more comfy, your hips tilted just enough for your warmth to press more directly against the growing tent in his jeans. His soul left his body once again.

“I was gonna sit in the chair,” you said, glancing lazily at the empty seat beside him, “but you looked so cute and lonely over here. So serious. So tense.”

“I am tense,” he squeaked.

“You wanna know why?” he added quickly. “Because you’re literally sitting on me in the middle of a public—”

Your fingers slid into his hair, playing with the strands at the nape of his neck. “You don’t want me to sit here anymore?”

Jisung’s hands flew to your waist without realizing, fingers splayed against the thin material of your top like he was trying to will himself into self-control. “No- I mean, yes- I mean- I love when you sit here.. but—”

“But?” You echoed sweetly, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“People are looking,” he hissed through clenched teeth, heat blooming all the way to his ears. “Everyone’s looking. I-I can feel my GPA dropping just from this. My professor probably sensed it through the air.”

You didn’t seem fazed at all by his comments, letting your nose brush his cheek. “Let them look. You’re my boyfriend. I wanna show off what’s mine.”

He whimpered— actually whimpered. In the middle of the damn library.

You were just smiling, completely calm, perfectly poised, one hand lazily tracing the edge of his hoodie while your weight shifted subtly again, your thigh dragging ever so gently across his cock, already painfully hard beneath you.

You weren’t even grinding that hard.

You didn’t have to.

Because his sanity’s already slowly unraveling.

“Y/n…” he whispered, barely coherent. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“I barely did anything yet.”

“That’s the problem..”

You looked down at him, lips curved into something wicked. “You’re such a dork.”

He huffed, letting his head fall back against the seat.

“But you’re my dork,” you added, embedding a kiss to his cheek and then his temple. “My cute, squirmy, overstimulated little dork.”

“I’m not overstimulated.”

“You’re rock hard.”

“I’m emotionally vulnerable.”

You cackled. Loud enough for a student at the next table over to side-eye you, which you promptly ignored.

Jisung, meanwhile, tried to slowly roll his hips under you, praying to all gods that no one could tell how close he was to combusting. Your thighs were so soft. Warm. You smelled like vanilla and something sinfully feminine. The way you sat on him like nothing was happening, like your soaked panties weren’t dragging back and forth over the flexed muscle of his thigh— made his whole body lock up.

“If you’re this worked up now…” you murmured, voice sultry and featherlight, “…how are you gonna survive when I ride you later?”

His eyes rolled back.

A shaky breath punched from his chest. He choked on it, hands gripping your waist even tighter as his legs jerked beneath the table.

You pulled back just slightly to watch him come undone with a satisfied little smirk. “Color’s back in your cheeks. Must be working.”

“I’m begging you,” he croaked, “please just let me finish this. I need to pass this class.”

You thread your fingers up into his hair again, tugging gently at his roots. “Mm. If you get an A, I’ll let you do whatever you want to me. Desk. Mirror. Kitchen table. You name it.”

Jisung whimpered again.

Someone coughed in the next aisle. You didn’t care.

He tried to keep his cool. He really did. But when your lips would brush up against his ear, and your fingers slipped just slightly beneath his hoodie to rest on his bare skin, he knew he was beyond the point of no return.

You stayed perched on his lap, the model of calm— like you had no idea what you were doing to him. Like his cock wasn’t straining in his jeans so hard he thought he might pass out. His jaw was tight, lips bitten red, and his entire body’s trembling with effort.

The worst part of it all was how deliberately slow your hips circled over his thigh. It was so subtle. Calculated. The tiniest roll forward, just enough to let your clothed core drag across the curve of his thigh. Not bouncing. Not humping. Just that slow, lazy grind of slick heat over denim— completely hidden from view beneath the table.

“Shhh,” you muttered, completely unaffected. “Thought you wanted to finish your code?”

He was trying to finish this script. He really was. But the lines of code on his screen were blurring together, his glasses fogged-up and slipping down his nose. He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, stifling a noise he didn’t even recognize.

“I-” he gasped, the only thing anchoring him being the white-knuckle grip he had on the edge of his laptop. “I can’t think like this-”

“Like what?” You asked, lips brushing his jaw as your hips picked up it’s pace. “Like your girlfriend’s grinding her needy little cunt on your leg while you’re trying to finish your sad excuse of a Python script?”

He bucks into you helplessly. His cock throbbing in utter desperation. His jeans were already soaked. You were soaked. The cotton clinging between your folds as warmth spread across your thighs like wildfire. His thigh pressed perfectly against your cunt with every slow grind, grazing over the sensitive bud just right.

Jisung clenched his jaw, eyes fluttering shut. He could feel it. The outline of you. The mess you were making on him. The sharp, desperate ache in his cock that had him this close to snapping. The denim of his jeans felt tight, unbearably tight, and every shift of your hips sent him teetering over the edge.

“H-holy shit, y/n…” Jisung’s voice cracks, sharp and frayed. “You’re so wet. I can feel it through- fuck- through everything.”

“Mmh?” You hum softly, “what was that, baby? Speak up.”

“You know what,” he whined. His thigh twitched again, and you seized the opportunity to grind harder, dragging your soaked center over the thick muscle.

“You’re gonna get us caught,” he hissed, looking around uncomfortably. “You’re seriously gonna.. I can’t, baby—”

“No one’s looking,” you interrupted calmly, your hot breath fanning over his neck, fingers curling into the back of his hair like a gentle command. “Unless you make them look. Unless you start moaning like a little slut who can’t control himself while his girlfriend gets off on his leg.”

“I’m not-” He swallowed, but his voice was weak. Broken. “I’m not a slut.”

“No?” You mocked, your voice all honey and knives. “Then why’re you twitching every time I say something filthy? Why are you leaking through your boxers when I haven’t even touched your cock?”

He let out another pitiful sound.

“Please,” he begged. “Please, I’ll do anything. Anything, just let me cum, please. I can’t- fuck- I can’t take it anymore.”

The way he looked up at you, all teary-eyed and trembling, it sending a rush of heat pooling to your core. His cheeks were flushed a baby pink, lips slightly parted, chest heaving like he’d just run five miles. Your good boy— smart, nerdy, sweet Jisung— reduced to a desperate, needy mess just from the way you were riding his thigh in public like it was your seat.

“You’d do anything for me?” You asked, rolling your hips again, slowly, letting your clit drag perfectly over the seam of his jeans.

His hands spasmed on your legs.

“Yes,” he gasped. “Yes, please. I’d do anything- I’ll get on my knees right now, I’ll eat you out under this table if you let me. I’ll fucking worship you, y/n, just pleaseplease let me cum—”

Your lips curled into a smirk. “You sound so pathetic,” you scoffed. “So needy. And all I did was sit on you.”

He nodded frantically, his breathing ragged.

“I am pathetic. I know I am. I can’t help it, ’m so obsessed with you. I think about you all the time. I jerk off thinking about you sitting on my face. I came in my hand the other night just imagining you calling me your good boy.”

You clenched at that.

“Oh, baby,” you cooed. “You’re so fucked up.”

You spread your knees a little more over his leg so you could rock harder, now deliberately dragging your wet pussy over the wet patch of denim he’d soaked through. Tensing up as he fought not to move, to grind up into you like he wanted.

His breath came in short, silent bursts now. Chest rising and falling beneath you, lips parted, sweat beading at his brow.

“Y/n…” he breathed, trying so hard to sound composed, but nearly sobbing from how fucking good it felt.

“What is it, baby?” You bat your lashes at him, hips rocking forward again. “You’re not gonna cum in your jeans, are you?”

His entire body shivered.

“I-I will,” he stuttered. “I swear, if you don’t stop.. mmph, ‘m already so close, you’re- your pussy’s so wet—”

You leaned in slowly, lips grazing over the shell of his ear. “If you cum now…”

He gasped, throat catching on the first syllable.

“…you’re not fucking me later.”

His breathing stopped.

You pulled back just enough to see the panic settle in his eyes.

“You hear me, Ji? If you cum in your pants like a desperate little virgin, I’m walking out of here and locking my legs until next week.”

“I want you to feel how wet I am for you,” you whispered. “I want your thigh soaked. I want your cock leaking. But you don’t get to cum unless I say so.”

Jisung was panting now. He was actually trembling— not shaking, not twitching— trembling, like he was barely surviving.

“Y/nnn,” he whined. “This isn’t fair.. ’m not gonna make it.”

“You will,” you said, rolling your hips harder, dragging the mess between your thighs across the thick ridge of his leg again. “You will because you want to fuck me. You wanna cum inside me, don’t you?”

He groaned, mouth agape, eyes half-lidded and glazed over.

“Yes,” he pleaded. “God.. yes.”

You rewarded him with one more slow grind, your drenched panties catching perfectly on your clit— and it took everything in him not to buck up or spill into his boxers right then and there.

He almost disobeyed. Almost gave in. But somehow by some miracle of sheer desperation and willpower, he held back. Barely. Just barely.

You could feel him clenching under you. His cock twitching behind the zipper, leaking so much precum he’d made a dark patch on his jeans, mixing with the slick you’d left behind.

“You’re so good for me,” you praised, pressing light kisses against his jaw. “Sitting still, letting me use you. You’re so close, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he strained. “I can’t take it anymore, please—”

You smiled against his skin, kissed him again, then pulled back.

“Then come with me.”

His eyes widened. “W-What?”

You stood up, skirt fluttering down your thighs, straightening your tank top like you weren’t dripping down his leg seconds ago.

“Archives section.” You whispered, voice honeyed and commanding.

And just like that, Jisung— flushed, throbbing, soaked, and desperately blue-balled, let you pull him through the rows of books, already dizzy with the promise of what’s to come next.

Jisung’s wrist was still pulsing with warmth from where you grabbed him, dragging him down two flights of stairs with no explanation and zero resistance. He followed like a lost puppy, notebook half-open, backpack swinging awkwardly behind him as you led him past the “ARCHIVES ONLY” sign and into a forgotten aisle of books no one under 65 had ever touched.

The hallway past the microfilm cabinets was barely lit, tucked behind a wall of outdated journals and abandoned thesis papers. No one ever came back here. The security camera hadn’t worked in months and you knew that because you checked the first week you started fooling around with Jisung in public. It was the perfect spot for what you had in mind.

His hoodie was crooked. His hair was a mess. His jeans were stained — not enough to be obvious to anyone else, but you saw the evidence of your slick and his precum smeared across the thigh you’d just used like your personal toy minutes ago.

His eyes were blown wide. Glazed. Wild with the kind of desperate frustration that came from being edged and denied so thoroughly he could barely think. Your skirt was still slightly rumpled and your lip gloss a little smeared like you planned it. You looked wrecked in the prettiest way and he couldn’t stop staring.

You gently pushed him up against the bookshelf, meeting the cold tiles as you dropped to your knees, looking up at him with the sweetest, filthiest smile he’d ever seen.

“W-What are you doing?” He blinked like rapid fire, turning into an even blushier mess. “Wait- wait, are you—?”

Without a word, you reached down and pulled his jeans further open, just enough to free his cock. It sprang up against his stomach— angry red at the tip, twitching, wet with a fresh bead of precum leaking from the slit.

“Ohh, Ji,” you cooed, brushing your thumb across the tip, smearing the slick mess down his shaft. “You really are about to cum, huh?”

“Y-Yeah,” he choked, breath hitching as his needy hips jerked into your hand. “Please touch me, ‘m so fucking close—”

“I am touching you,” you teased, wrapping your fingers around him slowly, deliberately. “What, not good enough?”

He let out a ragged moan, head thunking back against the wall.

Your grip tightened just enough. Your fist started moving slowly, not enough to bring him over, but enough to torment him. Just enough to keep him right there, on the edge, nerves strung taut like piano wire.

“F-Fuck, that’s—” he gasped, hips stuttering. “That’s so good.. please, faster. Baby, please—”

You smiled while looking up at him. “You begging already?”

He whined, high-pitched and wrecked, his hands twitching like he didn’t know where to put them, like if he touched you, he’d explode.

“I’ll do anything,” he whispered. “Just let me cum- I’ll eat you out for hours, I swear- please y/n—”

You tightened your grip and gave a long, twisting stroke that made his whole body jerk.

“Mm-mm,” you hummed. “Didn’t I say you don’t get to cum unless I say so?”

His hips bucked wildly into your fist. “I’m trying,” he moaned. “I’m trying so hard, but it feels so fucking good- your hand feels so good..”

“Yeah?” You whispered, pumping him harder, “my hand feels good? Poor baby. Can’t even handle a handjob without crying.”

“I’m not crying—”

You glanced back up.

His eyes were glassy. His lashes were damp. And his cock was throbbing so hard in your fist it looked painful.

“You are,” you murmured. “You’re crying ‘cause you want my mouth, huh?”

He whined like a kicked puppy.

You grinned.

“You want me to suck you off so bad you’d get on your knees and beg, wouldn’t you?”

He nods frantically, gasping for air. “Yes, yes. I would- I’d do anything- please, y/n, I need it. Need your mouth, wan’ it so bad—”

“You’re so cute,” you giggle, twisting your wrist mid-stroke just to make him squirm. “So fucked out and needy over something you haven’t even felt yet.”

“I’ve imagined it,” he blurted. “I’ve thought about it so many times- your lips, your tongue, I touch myself to it- fuck, ‘m gonna cum—”

Your hand stops immediately.

He let out a strangled, broken moan, the kind that came from the soul. As his cock throbbed helplessly in your hand, right on the edge, aching for release.

“Don’t you dare cum,” you hissed. “Not unless you want me to walk away.”

He whimpered. You watched the muscles in his abdomen tighten, his thighs shaking as he fought it— struggled against his own body, literally holding back an orgasm with every last shred of willpower he had left.

His eyes fluttered open again, desperate, ruined.

“You did good, baby,” you whispered. “But I’m not done with you yet.”

You let go of his cock and pulled your hand away, sticky, soaked in his precum, still warm with the weight of him.

He sobbed— a tiny, wrecked sound that made your thighs clench.

You hadn’t even taken him in your mouth yet, and Jisung was already about to cry.

The flush on his cheeks crept down his throat, his hands struggled to stay put, not knowing what to do with them. His cock was hard. So hard. Red and slick and visibly throbbing as you pumped it slowly in your hand. Every now and then, his hips jerked subconsciously, helpless, like his body was trying to chase something even his mind couldn’t form words for.

You looked at him from between his thighs, chin tilted, lips parted just enough to tease.

“Still with me, baby?”

He nodded a little too fast. “Y-Yeah. I think. Maybe. I don’t know.”

You smiled. “You’re doing so good.”

And then you slowly licked a stripe from base to tip, watching his entire body flinch.

“Nngh,” his mouth flew open, head tipping back to hit the shelf behind him. “Oh my god.”

“Not yet,” you remind, letting your tongue flick beneath the head, collecting every drop of precum you’d pulled out of him. “But you can pray if it helps.”

He let out a strangled laugh, cut off halfway by a moan as your lips finally wrapped around the tip and sucked— lightly, just enough to watch his knees buckle.

That’s when you gave him what he really wanted.

You slid up and down, slowly, letting him feel every inch and crevice of your mouth, your tongue pressed firm against the underside of his cock, and didn’t stop until you had him nearly down your throat.

You look up through your lashes, gaze dropping to his lips, then back up to his eyes.

His eyes were already rolling back when yours locked with his. The second he realized you were watching him— deepthroating him while holding eye contact, he let out the filthiest, most guttural groan you’d ever heard come out of him.

“Y-y/n fuck- fuck, your eyes- your mouth- baby, please, please don’t stop—”

You moaned around him, the vibration making his thighs shake.

You sucked harder now, faster, bobbing your head as your hand stroked what your lips couldn’t take. Drool started to peak out from the corners of your mouth and dripping down to your chin. Your jaw ached. Your eyes were watering. But you loved every second of it because he looked absolutely wrecked.

He was trembling like a virgin sacrifice, hips twitching, mouth open in a soft, breathless ‘o’ as his hands finally came to your head— not pushing, not guiding, just holding, as if he needed something to cling to so he doesn’t burst at the seams.

You were soaking wet.

Your thighs pressed together under your skirt, heat thobbing between your legs. Every time he moaned, every time he whimpered your name with that desperate, wrecked voice, you felt another pulse of wetness soak your panties.

You loved this.

Loved watching him come apart because of you.

He was a babbling mess now, muttering nonsensical praise and pleas spilling from his lips.

“Your mouth’s so warm, oh my god. So good, so fucking good, feels better than anything.. Think m’gonna cum, please let me cum in your mouth..”

You pulled off just enough to say, voice breathless, “then do it. Cum for me.”

And then you swallowed him whole again, deep and wet and perfect, not stopping until his entire body went still, shaking, before bucking up into your throat as he finally came.

“Fuckfuckfuck, I’m cumming—!”

His head dropped forward, eyes wide and panicked as his cock twitched hard, spilling thick spurts of cum hot and heavy down your throat. You sucked him through it, not letting up until he was whimpering, thrashing, his knees buckling as he slumped back against the shelf.

You swallowed everything, not a drop of him wasted.

Then licked your lips, smugly grinning.

When you stood back up, he was still dazed. His eyes followed you like you were gravity itself.

“That was—” He wheezed. “I think I just- did I die? Am I dead?”

You leaned in close and whispered, “You died a slut.”

He choked on his own saliva.

And then, of course.. came the sound that ruined everything.

His phone buzzing. Loudly. With that stupidly obnoxious ringtone.

A Zelda theme remix.

“Oh my god,” you muttered, eyebrows lifting. “Is that your mom?”

Jisung turned redder than you thought humanly possible.

He yanked the phone out of his pocket and hissed, “Yes.”

“Answer it.”

“I will not—!”

You reached for it and put it on speaker before he even had the chance to protest and stop you.

“Jisung?” His mom’s voice rang out. “Did you remember to eat something today?”

He turned paler than a ghost.

You smiled sweetly, reaching over for a tissue and using it to wipe the corner of your mouth.

“He’s getting plenty of protein,” you said, and swiftly hung up.

Jisung let out a noise that could only be described as dying baby animal.

“I’m never recovering from this,” he smacks his forehead with his palm.

You peck his cheek. “You’ll recover. Eventually. After I sit on your face.”

He whimpered again. “You’re gonna be the reason I fail out of college.”

“And you’ll love every second of it.”

#skz x reader #stray kids x reader #stray kids smut #skz smut #han jisung x reader #han x reader #han jisung smut #skz imagines #skz x you #skz scenarios #han jisung imagines #han jisung scenarios #han smut #stray kids imagines #han jisung x you #skz fic #skz fanfic #han jisung oneshot #stray kids oneshot

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buckyseternaldoll · 2 months ago

Text

Vaulted

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: When a mission turns sideways and you’re sealed in a lightless HYDRA vault with Bucky Barnes, buried trauma resurfaces fast. But vulnerability cracks open truth, and the quiet intimacy that follows reveals something deeper than either of you expected. What starts in darkness might just become something real.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), depictions of PTSD (reader and Bucky), mentions of past traumas involving captivity and torture (non-explicit), emotional vulnerability, consent-focused smut (not in established relationship), smut with emotional fluff, somewhat hurt/comfort, soft!Bucky

Word Count: 6,108

Author's Note: I can't find any gif with the exact outfit but I am having this image of him when writing this

The hum of the door seals with a final hiss, and your heart sinks like a stone.

You’re already mid-step toward the exit when you hear Bucky curse under his breath—low, sharp, controlled. You whip around. The vault door is shut. Fully. Seamless. Like it was never there.

No lights. No comms. No air circulation except for the faintest draft somewhere behind the walls.

“Shit,” you mutter, reaching for the control panel embedded beside the door. You’re already digging into your tactical belt for the pulse override chip, fingers shaking just slightly as you slot it in.

Nothing. Dead. As if the tech was rotting from the inside out.

You step back, breathing through your nose. Focus. Don’t let it crawl in.

Behind you, you can feel Bucky’s presence—steady, solid, watchful in the dark. His gear creaks slightly as he moves. You don’t have to look to know he’s wearing his mission fit: that fitted, dark combat jacket molded to his frame, straps crossing his chest, vibranium arm matte and silent at his side. You know how he moves by now—how he blends into the quiet, how he always stands between you and the threat.

Except there’s no enemy now. Just this silence. This dark.

This enclosure.

Your voice comes out tighter than expected. “If I had fifteen minutes and my portable terminal, I could brute-force a recursive decrypt.”

Bucky grunts. “Too bad your portable terminal’s in the jet.”

You don’t laugh. Neither does he.

You try the panel again, but the minute your fingers brush the cold edge of the steel frame, your throat tightens. Your mind flashes—not forward, but back.

To the old metal walls that boxed you in when you were barely more than a child. The bitter stench of mold and sweat. Cold porridge. Water so stale it tasted like metal filings. The clank of boots. The door opening—only ever to bring pain.

You swallow hard. Try again.

“You okay?” Bucky asks softly.

His voice breaks the air like a blade through cotton. Gentle, but sharp. You know he hears it—the shift in your breath, the sound your boots made when you stepped just a little too fast, too frantic.

“I’m fine,” you lie. But your voice catches, and he hears that too.

You press your palm to the steel wall, trying to ground yourself, but your body betrays you.

Sweat beads along your spine, cold despite the stifling warmth trapped in the airless vault. Your breath sticks in your throat. The darkness feels thicker now—dense, like it’s pushing in from every angle, like it’s alive and watching. Your fingers curl into your palms. You tell yourself this isn’t the same, this isn’t then—but your body doesn’t listen.

Behind you, Bucky shifts.

You don’t see him move, but you feel it—hear it. The creak of his tactical gear. The faint scratch of fabric against concrete. And then, the sharp stillness.

He smells it before anything else—your sweat. Not the heat-of-battle kind. This is cold, anxious. Your scent hits the air like an unspoken alarm, sharp and sudden beneath the usual steel and dust of the vault.

Then he hears it.

Your heartbeat.

Fast. Erratic. Like boots on tile, sprinting in panic.

“Hey.” His voice cuts through the dark—gentler now. Controlled. “What’s happening?”

You don’t answer at first. You can’t. You’re trembling before the words even reach your mouth. Your knees wobble beneath your weight, pulse roaring in your ears like a tide coming in.

“It’s—just the dark,” you manage, your voice too tight, too high. “And the quiet. The space. It’s not you. I just—”

You cut yourself off. Try to breathe. Try to swallow the clawing thing in your throat.

“I need to sit.”

You hear Bucky move. His boots scuff the concrete, just once. Hesitation.

You don’t look at him. You lower yourself to the cold ground, back to the wall, and stare into the dark. The walls feel closer now.

Your voice comes out in a whisper.

“Can I… sit next to you? I mean—I need to hold something. I just—” You stop. You don’t want to beg.

There’s silence. For a second, you think he’s going to say no. You wouldn’t blame him. He’s already carried enough broken things in his life.

But then you hear the quiet shuffle of movement, the whisper of leather and gear. He steps closer. Kneels. Doesn’t say a word.

And then—he offers it.

His flesh hand.

Glove off. Palm open.

You hesitate only for a second before you take it. Your fingers wrap around his—warm, solid, real—and your shoulders fall like something just slipped off them. Your other hand reaches for the warmth of his arm, and slowly, inch by inch, you lean into him. Not all at once—just enough for him to feel your weight and decide if he’ll take it.

He doesn’t move away.

Instead, he shifts slightly to brace himself—and lets you rest your head against his chest.

You breathe in.

He smells like leather, faint sweat, and that clean, woody scent you can never quite place—like trees in winter and something spiced beneath it. You imagine it’s what peace might smell like, if it ever existed.

It takes you a long moment before you speak again.

“I was taken when I was seven.”

Bucky stiffens under you. Just barely.

“They locked me in a cell. No windows. No lights. They taught me how to code between beatings. How to pick locks after they broke my fingers. Said if I was going to be their tool, I had to be the best damn one.”

Your breath stutters. You feel his thumb brush over the back of your hand.

You go on.

“They’d come in drunk sometimes. Just to hit something. I was that something. But I learned. Learned how to look useful. How to smile so they wouldn’t think I was planning anything.”

You swallow hard. “Guess I never unlearned that. The smiling.”

There’s a long, aching pause.

When Bucky speaks, his voice is rougher. Barely above a whisper.

“I always wondered… how you do it. How you’re so kind. So… whole. But I see it now.”

He exhales, and his hand tightens just slightly around yours.

“You glued yourself back together. Piece by piece. And maybe that glue still shows… but you never tried to hide it.”

You lift your eyes—only barely—and even in the dark, you feel the weight of his gaze.

“I used to think people like you were untouched by darkness,” he says, voice low. “But you’re not. You just walk through it with your chin up. Meanwhile I’m still trying to bury mine like it’s not part of me.”

You shake your head, resting your cheek against him again.

“You’re not the Winter Soldier,” you murmur. “You’re not that name they gave you.”

He swallows.

Bucky’s hand lingers at your cheek, his touch barely grazing the skin. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he presses too hard.

And maybe you would’ve—once. But not now. Not here. Not with him.

“I like working with you,” you whisper again, softer this time. Your breath fans over the fabric of his jacket. He’s so close now, his body a wall of heat and breath and solidity. “Always felt safe around you.”

He huffs quietly—almost a laugh. Almost. “You’re the first person to ever say that to me.”

Your fingertips trace the lines of his bare hand—the one you’re still holding tight. Your thumb brushes over the rough pads of his knuckles, warm and calloused. Scarred in places, but steady. Human.

“I don’t see a killer when I look at you, Bucky.”

He doesn’t answer right away. You can feel his heart pounding through the chest of his combat jacket, steady beneath the heavy materials. The dark fabric shifts slightly as his breathing deepens, and your cheek sinks into the padded texture over his ribs—high-quality, reinforced, warm from his body heat. The structure of his combat harness digs faintly into your shoulder as you curl into him.

“I don’t think I ever knew who I was,” he says finally. “Not really. It was always something someone else wanted me to be.”

You turn your face toward his voice. Your nose grazes the hard curve of his chest. Your lips part slightly, but you don’t speak. You just breathe him in.

He smells like cool leather, like burnt cedarwood and warm metal. A trace of sweat clings to the collar of his undershirt, the faintest salt cutting through that earthy, masculine warmth. It clings to the inside of his jacket—black tactical leather, armored across the chest and shoulders—and you can feel the subtle rise and fall of each breath beneath it.

He shifts again, adjusting. His vibranium arm stays at his side—still, unreadable—but his flesh hand squeezes yours gently.

You raise your head, finally meeting his eyes in the dim. The darkness in the vault has softened everything around him. His steel-blue gaze shines faintly beneath his brow, eyes scanning your face like he’s still memorizing it.

“You’re still Bucky,” you murmur, barely louder than the air between you.

He freezes.

“Still the man who puts everyone else before yourself, even when you’re barely holding it together.”

Your voice trembles now, because the words carry more truth than you expected.

“That kind of heart doesn’t just vanish… no matter what they tried to do to you.”

Bucky blinks hard. His breath catches in his throat. You feel it—how the moment lands. How the wound inside him recognizes the salve in your voice.

Something inside him shifts. Something melts.

His jaw clenches. You feel the way his chest tightens, like he’s holding something back. His free hand rises—slow, deliberate—and this time, it’s not just a touch to your cheek.

He brushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering at your jaw. His glove is off now—both hands bare. Raw. Unarmored.

You shift slightly, no longer curled at his side. Instead, you move to face him—pulling your knees beneath you, then over, settling gently into his lap.

Your thighs slide around his hips, bracketing his body with yours. Hands plant themselves on either side of his chest for balance as your breath mingles with his.

His hands remain steady—one at your jaw, the other cradling your fingers—but he’s looking at you now like he can’t believe you chose this closeness. This trust.

You lean into his touch instinctively, and when your lips part on a quiet exhale, his gaze flicks down to them. Lingers.

“Can I…?”

His voice is low. Uncertain. Vulnerable.

You nod.

That’s all it takes.

His lips meet yours with ache. Like he’s wanted to do this for years but never thought he was allowed. There’s no rush—only reverence. His mouth is warm, soft, tentative at first.

You kiss him back slowly, cupping the side of his neck where the stubble meets the sharp angle of his jaw.

You feel it then—his body shifting beneath yours, his breath hitching when your hand slides down the structured collar of his combat jacket, fingers grazing the leather between the buckles of his harness.

He groans softly into your mouth when your palm presses against the center of his chest, feeling the flex of his muscles beneath the dense fabric.

His vibranium hand comes to life now—bold where his flesh hand was tender. He traces the back of your thigh, up to your hip, then the curve of your waist, gliding with reverent pressure.

You shiver at the contrast—metal smooth and cool, his flesh hand warm and grounded as it follows just behind.

You tilt into him, mouth parting wider as his tongue grazes yours—gentle, searching. He tastes like heat and tension and restraint. Still, he pauses.

“You sure?” he whispers, breath warm at your mouth. His voice is rough—strained with everything he’s holding back. “We don’t have to—”

“I want this,” you whisper back. “I want you.”

A moment passes. And then he exhales—like you just unlocked something inside him.

His hands slide lower—one metal, one flesh—finding your thighs again. Guiding. Holding. Worshiping.

You rock into him slowly, feeling the tension flood through his body, feeling how tightly coiled he is beneath the tactical armor.

His combat jacket creaks as you push it open—just enough to feel the radiant heat of him beneath it. The black leather parts at his chest, revealing his high-collar undershirt now dark with sweat and body heat.

Your fingers skate down over the thick ridges of his chest—tactile, solid, powerful. His body is a weapon, but right now it feels like it was built for worship.

He shudders beneath you. “Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Just kisses you harder.

Your breath hitches as Bucky kisses you again—deeper this time, like he’s finally letting himself feel everything. His hands spread wide at your hips, thumbs brushing slow circles where your shirt lifts from the motion. The contrast between his vibranium fingers and the warmth of his skin makes your stomach tighten.

He pulls back just slightly, lips swollen, eyes dark.

“Tell me if anything feels too much,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours. “If you need to stop, if you need a break—just say it, doll.”

Your heart stutters at the tenderness in his voice. The man who could kill a dozen enemies without breaking a sweat is shaking for you—asking permission like you’re sacred.

You nod, but it’s not enough.

So you take his face in both your hands—cradling him, grounding him.

“Bucky,” you whisper. “Buck… shhh. You already have my full consent.”

His eyes close for a breath. You feel him swallow hard, like he’s absorbing every word.

“I want you,” you continue, soft but firm. “Do me, Bucky. Do me so well I forget the dark—forget what they did to me. I want to be lost in the pleasure of you… not my past.”

Something snaps loose in him then—not wild or greedy, but pure. Focused.

“Jesus, sweetheart…” he exhales, like the words physically affect him.

Then he’s kissing you again—only now it’s like he’s claiming you. His tongue slides past your lips, his hands gripping your ass as he rocks your hips forward into the thick ridge beneath his tactical pants. You gasp when you feel him—already hard, already aching.

“Been holding back for so fucking long,” he mutters against your throat, kissing down to your collarbone. “Didn’t know if I’d ever get this… get you.”

“You have me,” you breathe, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging his head back just enough to meet his eyes. “All of me.”

His mouth crashes back to yours, but his hands are patient—undoing your shirt slowly, pulling it over your head. He gazes at you like you’re something holy as you sit there in your bra, flushed and panting.

His metal hand glides up your side, cool against your skin. His thumb brushes the underside of your breast with aching care.

“Can I?” he rasps.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

He peels your bra off with the reverence of someone unwrapping a gift, then lowers his mouth to your chest—trailing kisses, nipping softly until you arch for more.

“Oh my god, Bucky…”

He growls low at that—real and visceral—pulling your nipple into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue. His hands slide down to your thighs, gripping them as he starts to grind up against you.

You can feel him now—hard beneath layers of mission gear—and you can tell it’s driving him mad.

“Fuck this,” he mutters, one hand fumbling with his belt. “Wanna feel you—skin to skin.”

“Let me,” you say, breathless, sliding back to help him. You undo the buckle of his belt, tugging at the fastenings of his combat pants. It’s hot watching him unravel like this—powerful, restrained, but desperate just for you.

When he’s finally freed, you settle back over him—your soaked panties the only barrier now.

He groans deep in his chest when he feels how wet you are for him.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers, thumb brushing your jaw.

“I’m not scared,” you say. “Just… overwhelmed. In a good way.”

He nods slowly. “Me too.”

Then his hands slide beneath your waistband—pulling your panties aside. He cups you, fingers sliding through your slick folds, and his mouth drops open.

“Oh, baby… you’re so wet,” he murmurs. “So soft. So fucking ready for me.”

You whimper, grinding into his hand.

“Need you, Bucky. Please.”

“Not until you’re ready,” he says, even though he’s visibly trembling now. “Let me make sure you’re ready.”

He slips a finger inside you—slowly, gently. Then two. You gasp, rocking down, and he curls them just right, finding that spot that makes you cry out.

“There you go,” he whispers, kissing your shoulder, the hollow of your neck. “Just like that. You sound so good, baby. So goddamn good.”

You bite down on his name again and again, body shivering in his lap.

And when you’re practically dripping, panting, begging—he finally slides his fingers out and aligns himself at your entrance.

His eyes meet yours. Steady. Reverent.

“Tell me again, doll.”

You smile, even as your thighs tremble.

“I want you inside me, Bucky. All of you. Fill me up. Make me forget everything else but this.”

His eyes go wild.

And then he pushes in—slowly, thickly, stretching you until your head falls back and your nails dig into the harness at his shoulders.

You both groan at once—like something inside you finally clicks into place.

His thick length pushes into you inch by inch, and you both gasp—your nails digging into the fabric where his harness used to cling.

It’s like being filled and comforted and devoured all at once.

“God, you feel…” he groans, eyes shut tight. “You feel like fucking heaven.”

But even then, you feel it—the way he’s holding back. Like he’s afraid of doing something wrong.

“Too much?” he asks, voice wrecked, but gentle. “Tell me if I’m hurting you, sweetheart.”

You slide your hands to his face again, kissing him softly. “You’re not hurting me, Bucky. You’re making me feel whole.”

He lets out a shaky breath, burying his face in your neck. His chest is slick with heat, the cotton of his undershirt soaked beneath the open frame of his tactical jacket. You slip your hands between the panels of leather and slowly begin to push it off his shoulders, one inch at a time.

“Off,” you whisper, “let me see you.”

He lets you strip him down—harness unclipped, jacket peeled away with care. You don’t rush it. His shoulders are strong, gleaming with sweat, the thin black undershirt clinging to every hard ridge of muscle.

Once bare from the waist up, he lets you look.

And you do.

His flesh arm is trembling with restraint. His vibranium arm flexes as he braces it behind you for balance. Every scar, every contour of his torso feels like a story you want to read with your hands and mouth.

But Bucky’s still searching your eyes.

“Is this okay?” he asks again, whisper-quiet. “Do I feel good inside you?”

You can barely speak through the pleasure.

“Bucky… baby, yes. You feel incredible.” You cup his cheek, run your thumb over the stubble there. “Don’t hold back so much. I want this. I want you to feel good too.”

He nods slowly, but the doubt still flickers behind his eyes.

So you lean in, your lips brushing his ear.

“You don’t have to prove anything, Bucky. You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be here with me.”

Something breaks in him then—a quiet surrender.

He kisses you with renewed purpose, one hand on your lower back guiding the motion of your hips, the other clutching your thigh like he’s trying to anchor himself to the moment. You ride him slowly, your wet heat grinding against the base of his cock, and he’s moaning freely now.

Still, you feel him pull back.

“I… can’t stop thinking about how good you taste,” he admits, voice shaking. “Can I…? I want my mouth on you.”

You blink, breath catching in your throat. “Yes,” you whisper. “Please, Bucky.”

He helps lift you off his lap slowly, reverently, hands firm and supportive. Once you’re laid back against the cool floor of the vault, your clothes already half-peeled away, he settles between your legs—kneeling, broad shoulders framed by the black of his tactical pants, sweat glistening along his chest.

“Tell me what you like,” he murmurs, placing a kiss to your inner thigh.

“Start slow, Bucky… build me up. Use your fingers too, honey.”

He groans—low and deep, like you’ve just given him the most intimate gift.

“I’ll take care of you,” he promises, and lowers his head.

The first swipe of his tongue is slow, deliberate. He tastes you like he’s learning you—mapping you with the flat of his tongue, pressing in and pulling back, watching every reaction.

You moan, head tipping back, hips already rising into him.

He hums softly, as if to say I’ve got you.

Then he slips one thick finger inside, curling it just right.

“Oh—there, Bucky… just like that, baby…”

“Yeah?” he whispers, glancing up, his chin already wet with you. “That's your spot, baby?”

You nod frantically, thighs trembling around his head.

He keeps going—tongue flicking, finger stroking, his vibranium hand pinning your hips down with perfect pressure. He’s moaning against you now, like your pleasure is the only thing keeping him alive.

You tangle your fingers in his hair, grounding yourself in the soft strands and the gentle scrape of his stubble against your inner thighs.

“Fuck, Bucky… you’re so good at this. So good for me, baby…”

He groans like praise is gasoline and you just poured it on his fire.

“You’re the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted,” he murmurs against your slick folds, then sucks gently on your clit. “You’re everything.”

Your orgasm slams into you so fast it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs.

You cry out his name—“Bucky, Bucky—Bucky!”—as your back arches, thighs shaking, pleasure crashing through you like a tidal wave.

He doesn’t stop until you’re too sensitive to take it, until your fingers tug gently at his hair. Then he presses a kiss to your thigh, then your stomach, then your lips—bringing you back piece by piece.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, holding you close. “I’ll always have you.”

You’re still panting against his chest, your cheek against the heat of his skin, his pants still halfway undone.

And you’re not done yet.

Your body is still humming, your thighs shaking from the aftershocks of his mouth, his hands, his worship.

And yet, something inside you still burns—not from need, but from ache. From how much you want him. Not just his hands, not just his tongue. You want the whole of him inside you again—bare, deep, as close as humanly possible.

You reach for him, voice breathless. “Bucky…”

He’s already halfway leaning over you, brushing your hair off your forehead, looking at you like you hung the damn stars.

“I’m okay,” you whisper. “I promise, I’m okay. But I need you now. I need you to feel me. To lose yourself in me.”

His jaw flexes. His pupils are blown wide, lips parted, sweat dotting his brow. “You sure?”

You nod, more urgently this time. “I want you inside. All the way. Bare. Please, Bucky…”

He curses under his breath—something raw and aching. His hand slides down your stomach, thumb brushing your hip. “You’re gonna kill me, sweetheart.”

You lift your hips, brushing against him again—his cock hard and hot, leaking against the waistband of his still-partially fastened tactical pants.

“I want to feel everything,” you whisper, cupping the side of his face. “Please. Just for tonight… let it be everything.”

He hesitates. He leans down and kisses you again—slow, deep, tender. Like it’s a goodbye and a homecoming in one breath.

“I’ll give you everything,” he murmurs against your lips. “Except one thing.”

You blink up at him. He hovers just above, arms braced on either side of you. His vibranium forearm is tense, grounding. His flesh hand cups your cheek.

“I’ll fuck you slow. Deep. As long as you want. But I can’t finish inside you. Not yet.”

Your breath catches.

“Why?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

He swallows hard. “Because that’s… not just sex for me. That’s something I only give someone who’s mine. And I don’t know what we are yet.”

You stare up at him, your heart clenching—but not from pain. From something deeper.

He wants you. He respects you. He wants to mean something to you, not just in the dark.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Then give me everything but that.”

His eyes darken. “Gladly.”

—

He shifts his weight, letting his pants slide lower around his hips, just enough. Then he lines himself up, the tip of his cock brushing your folds—slick and ready.

“You’re perfect like this,” he murmurs, guiding the head against your entrance. “So soft. So warm.”

You moan as he slides in again—slow, controlled. Inch by inch until he bottoms out, and both of you are panting.

“Fuck, honey… you take me so well,” he growls, kissing your neck. “Like you were made for me.”

You wrap your legs around him, heels hooking into the waistband of his pants.

“More,” you beg, voice cracking. “Please, Bucky… move. I need to feel you.”

He starts slow—long strokes, deep and deliberate. The friction is intense, overwhelming. You feel every ridge of him, every flex of muscle as his hips roll into yours.

He watches your face with every thrust.

“You feel good, baby?” he whispers, his voice low and reverent. “Is this what you needed?”

“Yes,” you gasp, fingers clawing into his sweat-slicked back. “God, yes.”

His pace builds—still steady, still controlled—but deeper now, the rhythm perfect. Your moans echo against the vault’s steel walls, your hands scrambling for purchase on his arms, his shoulders, anything you can hold onto.

Every time he pulls out and pushes back in, it knocks a cry from your throat. And Bucky watches you—drinks you in—like your pleasure is the only thing keeping him sane.

“You’re doing so good for me, sweetheart,” he breathes, kissing your cheek, your temple, your collarbone. “So fucking beautiful when you fall apart.”

And you do—again.

You sob his name, body trembling, core clenching around him as a second orgasm rips through you. He holds you through it, whispering filth and comfort in equal measure.

“That’s it, baby… give it to me. You’re perfect. So goddamn perfect.”

He starts to stutter inside you. You can feel the tension in his body—how close he is.

But true to his word, he pulls out at the last second, groaning low and deep as he fists his cock and spills over your lower stomach. Hot, thick, his breath shuddering against your mouth as he curses softly into your skin.

You cradle his face, even as he’s coming undone.

“I’ve got you,” you whisper, echoing his words. “Always.”

He collapses gently beside you, pulling you against his bare chest, both of you panting. The vault is still cold. Still dark.

But in the quiet afterward, there’s no fear. No past. Just the sound of your breath syncing with his.

Just you and Bucky. Raw. Uncovered. Real.

It’s quiet.

The kind of quiet that settles after something seismic.

Bucky lies beside you, the sweat cooling on his chest, his vibranium fingers slowly tracing the edge of your waist like he’s memorizing the shape of you in silence.

He hasn’t said much since. Just the occasional kiss to your shoulder. A sigh. A swallow. A glance that flickers away too quickly.

You shift toward him, your cheek against the firm warmth of his bare chest, the soft thud of his heartbeat loud beneath your ear.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

He stiffens—just slightly.

“Yeah,” he says. Too fast. Too practiced.

You lift your head just enough to see him.

His eyes are fixed somewhere far away. That distant look—the one you’ve seen in briefings, in bunkers, in quiet hotel rooms between missions. Like he’s back somewhere else entirely.

“Bucky.”

He blinks. Turns toward you.

And then, quietly: “I’m sorry.”

Your brows pull together.

“For what?”

“I…” He swallows. “I shouldn’t have let it happen like that. I should’ve had better control. You were vulnerable. Scared. I should’ve restrained myself more. Waited. Been better.”

He won’t meet your eyes now. His hand is still on your waist, but his fingers falter—like he’s bracing for you to pull away.

“You think you took advantage of me?” you ask, your voice calm. Steady.

His jaw clenches. His silence speaks for him.

You sit up just enough to cradle his face in both hands. He flinches at first—but doesn’t pull away.

“Bucky. Look at me.”

His eyes lift, slow and uncertain.

“I gave you everything tonight. Every touch, every breath, every piece of me was freely yours. Do you hear me?”

He exhales, the guilt still simmering in his throat. “You were shaking. You asked for help. And I…”

“You didn’t use me,” you say firmly. “You saw me. And I saw you. I’ve never felt safer letting someone touch me than I did with you.”

His shoulders sag like he’s been holding up an entire wall of shame. You lean forward, pressing your forehead to his.

“I’ve wanted this,” you whisper. “Not just the sex. You. The man under the armor, behind the walls. You didn’t take anything from me—I gave it. Happily.”

His breath stutters, and he nods—just once—but you feel the emotion welling in him, deep and quiet.

“This changes things, doesn’t it?” he says after a long pause.

“It does,” you reply softly. “Because now I know for sure.”

He searches your face. “Know what?”

You smile, small but sure.

“That I want more with you. Something real. Something personal.”

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then he lifts your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles like you’re something sacred.

“I want that too,” he murmurs. “But I’m scared I’ll mess it up.”

“Then we’ll take it slow,” you say, leaning into his touch. “And if you stumble… I’ll still be here.”

He pulls you into his chest and wraps both arms around you—one flesh, one vibranium—and buries his face in your hair.

You lie there like that, tangled in warmth, his chest rising and falling in quiet rhythm. The vault walls are still around you, but they no longer feel like a prison. Just a place where something true began.

Minutes pass.

Then—

CLANK.

The door seal hisses. Metal shifts.

You both blink, adjusting to the sudden flood of white-blue light spilling in through the widening crack.

“Yo!” Sam’s voice echoes into the space, half relieved, half exasperated. “Took us a damn hour to override the outer security.”

“I told you it was a dual-layered code protocol,” Joaquin mutters behind him. “No one listens to the tech guy.”

You scramble to pull your shirt over your shoulders, tugging it down hastily as your bra remains somewhere behind you. Your hands are shaking, but not from shame. Just adrenaline. Bucky reaches for his gear without a word, dragging his sweat-damp undershirt straight and grabbing for his discarded combat jacket, slipping one arm through, then the other. His chest is still bare, the zipper only halfway up. His tactical pants are back in place, loosely refastened.

You catch the flicker of his eyes—darting to you, then away. Not panicked. Not guilty. Just private. Guarded in the way only someone who just handed over their soul could be.

You reach for his hand before he can tug the glove back on. Your fingers catch his—bare, steady—and hold. Warm. Sure.

As the door creaks open and footsteps echo inside, Bucky helps you to your feet—tactical gear still halfway undone, but shoulders squared. Like he’s ready to face the light, even if it blinds him a little.

Sam steps in, blinking at the scene. “You two good?”

Bucky clears his throat. “Yeah.”

You glance up at him, smiling.

“We’re good,” you say, reaching for his hand again. “Better than good.”

He gives your fingers a squeeze. And for the first time in a long time, Bucky Barnes smiles—not the forced kind. The real kind.

The kind that says something new has started.

—Epilogue:

The hum of the jet was soothing. After the chaos of the HYDRA vault and the long extraction, the warm, low-light interior felt almost indulgent.

You were curled into your seat, wrapped in a mission blanket, legs tucked under you. Across the aisle, Bucky sat in his usual brooding posture—but something was different now.

He wasn’t scowling.

He was… smiling.

Not wide. Not obvious. But every time you looked up, his mouth quirked at the corner, like he couldn’t help himself.

You gave him a slow, knowing wink.

He tilted his head just slightly, one brow lifting. That little look he gave you now wasn’t Winter Soldier. It wasn’t even mission-serious Bucky.

It was something warmer. Something just for you.

You stifled a smile and looked back down at your hands, the ghost of his fingertips still lingering there.

From the cockpit, Sam’s voice carried:

“Okay. No offense, but what the hell happened in that vault?”

You and Bucky both froze.

Joaquin didn’t even look up from his tablet. “What makes you ask that?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Sam called, tone dripping with sarcasm. “Maybe because Bucky Barnes hasn’t stopped doing that smug little post-makeout lip twitch for the last thirty minutes.”

You shot Bucky a look. Bucky buried his face in his glove for a second, fighting the urge to visibly react.

Sam walked into the cabin a moment later, narrowed eyes flicking between you and Bucky like he was connecting red strings in his mind.

“You two didn’t die in there,” Sam said, “but someone sure as hell came back… reborn.”

You choked on your water. Bucky turned pink immediately.

“I’m just saying,” Sam added, settling into his seat, “next time you get stuck in a vault, give me a heads-up. I’ll bring candles. Maybe some background jazz.”

Joaquin muttered without looking up: “Let them have their trauma bonding, man.”

You and Bucky locked eyes again.

And this time, the smile broke through on both your faces—quiet, real, and a little reckless. Like two people who just learned they could still feel something soft in the middle of all the noise.

Soon after, your phone buzzes in your palm.

You okay, doll?

You looked up across the narrow aisle. Bucky was slouched in his seat—jacket halfway zipped, his glove still hanging from one hand. His gaze was fixed on the floor, but you could tell from the way his thumb hovered near his screen that he was waiting.

You smiled faintly and typed back.

better than okay. but also very distracted 😏🤭

You peek up from under your lashes.

He tilts his head just slightly, brow lifting—not cocky, just curious. That cautiously hopeful kind of curious.

Distracted how?

You glance around—Sam’s still up front, muttering about fuel efficiency. Joaquin has earbuds in, totally checked out.

Safe.

You lean into your seat, thumbs flying.

pretty sure i’ve been half-wet since you suited up in that whole lethal-sexy vibe 🫦🖤 trying so hard not to stare

You hit send. Bucky reads it instantly—and something in his body shifts. His posture straightens, then tenses. One hand lifts toward his face like he’s trying to hide the smile pulling at his lips.

You serious?

You watch the way he doesn’t quite look at you now. Like if he does, he’ll forget the jet has other people on board.

You’re grinning as you type your next reply.

dead serious. pretty sure i’ve been soaking on every mission with you lately 💦 you and that jacket?? literal war crime.

This time, he looks.

Just for a second—but it’s sharp, fast. His eyes cut to you and then he’s dragging his hand over his mouth like he’s trying to wipe off the heat rising up his neck. His jaw flexes hard.

He types back slowly.

You're killing me, doll

You bite your lip, sliding your phone just out of Sam’s line of sight.

Then you fire back the final blow.

too late, soldier 🤭 game’s already on 😌

Across the aisle, Bucky shifts again—this time slower, almost like he’s trying to physically will his body to behave. His jaw twitches. His fingers flex. And for the first time in what feels like years, you watch him lose the fight to suppress a smile.

#by elle.ᐟ #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes emotional fluff #hurt/comfort

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improvapocalyps · 1 year ago

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You have 90 minutes to complete. (original poem: r.a.)

In participation of the MCYT Recursive Exchange 2024 hosted by @mcytrecursive!

Inspired by know that all my love will be your breath (i will save you when your lights go out)

[text under cut]

1. Have you ever been in love? (Please circle your answer.) a. It's me and him b. Our hearts beat in sync c. Our lives intertwined

2. Do you understand what you’ve done? (Please circle your answer.) a. I couldn't do anything b. I lost my balance c. I doomed us both

3. It's been god knows how long since you felt phantom hands on your neck and there is no one in sight. If you were soul-bound to him and both of you died at the same time then why are you still waiting in the void? Please answer clearly, in full sentences. (Not a correct answer：I just wanted to see him one more time).

4. Define two (2)： Fate | The feeling of his forehead against yours Curse | The moment you realise he isn't linked to you anymore

5. True or False： i. It was your fault. ii. You wish you had met him under different circumstances. iii. You can’t regret a single moment that you had him. iv. You would do it all over again if you could. v. It ended long before either of you said anything.

thumbnails:

sketch cover thing for imgur link:

#team ranchers #team rancher #rancher duo #jimmy solidarity #tangotek #trafficshipping #mcyt recursive exchange #events #fic fanart #my art #“canary has butterfly-shaped wings it cant do a dramatic spread like that” watch me. (draws dramatic wings) (sorry)#“you have 90 minutes” have been rattling in my brain for so long ever since i suddenly remembering a web weave using it (yes the beeduo one #very glad i can release it (using it in art) from its confines (my mind)#hm i suppose the title would be more in theme if its abt limited life ranchers #← havnt watched limlife yet #but! happy with what i come up with. lil bit proud even #had so much trouble with the panelling and layers in p2 cause it looks too busy (explodes)#also punching the floor bc i only noticed the “yes-no” pair(?) in the original poem when im already half-done w/ the comic #me when making silly comic makes you do poem analysis #i dont even go there ← does not have enough poetic braincells

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goyardgoyangi · 2 months ago

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movie night with best friend! ino takuma

mdni (18+), read with discretion

You and best friend! ino takuma are sprawled on the couch, legs tangled beneath a shared blanket, bowls of popcorn and snacks scattered across the coffee table. The soft blue glow of the TV washes over you both as the credits for Fifty Shades of Grey roll, ending what was supposed to be an unserious pick for movie night.

It really did start as a joke— a dumb movie playing in the background while you talked shit and vented about your CS lab. Neither of you thought you’d actually watch it. But somehow, you did. And somehow, it was… weirdly entertaining?

Not because it was good. But because it was so bad.

“Can you believe some divorced middle-aged women are really into this shit?” Ino snorts, tossing popcorn into his mouth, nearly choking on a laugh. “Shit lighting and cold-ass metal handcuffs? That’s the fantasy?”

“You know,” you mutter, flicking a kernel of popcorn at him, “if divorced middle-aged women are really into this, they’re freakier than I thought.”

“Don’t forget the damn ice cube. Man acted like he invented temperature.”

You laugh, leaning your head back. “This whole movie is just two hours of annoyingly soft BDSM. Honestly, the pacing was worse than our lecture slides.”

That gets him going. “Oh my god, not the 48-slide presentation on recursion.”

You groan. “No, worse. That one time we spent four hours trying to debug a group project just for the TA to say ‘did you try running it in the terminal again?’ Like yeah, that would totally fix a segmentation fault.”

Ino barks a laugh, nudging your leg with his knee. “You’re still mad about that, huh?”

“Bro. He said we had a logic error, then gave us a 2.1 like it was a favor.”

You both dissolve into giggles. But then, somewhere between the laughter and the low hum of the TV, there’s a shift.

A glance. A silence.

“That ice cube scene had me questioning my entire existence,” you say, voice low, teasing. “You actually believe it’s that good?”

Ino tilts his head at you. “You tryna test it?”

You lift a shoulder, casual. “I mean… the takeout’s not coming for another 40 minutes. We could… experiment. In the name of science.”

He stares at you for a beat, a smirk playing on his lips. “What kind of science? ‘Cause our track record’s mostly just us suffering through broken code and pretending we don’t want to drop the class.”

You lean in slightly, your smile edged with something a little more daring now. “Exactly. We deserve to test a hypothesis that doesn’t end in existential dread.”

He lets out a low chuckle. “So you wanna see if an ice cube can actually make someone— what? Cum?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Just curious if divorced middle-aged women are full of shit or not.”

Ino pauses, his eyes flicking from your face to your mouth, then back. “Strictly for academic purposes?”

You nod solemnly. “Peer-reviewed results.”

He laughs under his breath, standing up and stretching. “Alright. One ice cube.”

You both agree, giggling like kids daring each other to jump off a high dive.

Ino grabs an ice cube from the freezer, holding it loosely between his fingers as water drips down his wrist. He raises an eyebrow at you, that familiar grin quirking at the corner of his mouth.

You lean back against the couch cushions, heart fluttering with a strange cocktail of nerves and excitement. “Okay,” you say, your voice a little breathy, “just… run it over my neck or something.”

He nods, stepping closer, kneeling on the couch beside you. The first touch is tentative— a glinting cube of ice brushing the curve of your collarbone. The cold shocks you, and you flinch, a laugh bubbling up from your chest.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, “that’s colder than I thought—”

But you don’t tell him to stop.

Ino’s touch is slow, deliberate. The ice trails over your skin in lazy lines, tracing along the dip of your neck, across the slope of your shoulder, and down toward your chest. The air shifts, charged with something unspoken.

“You’re shivering,” he murmurs, watching closely.

“I-It’s cold, idiot,” you stammer, laughing— though the sound catches in your throat when the ice drifts over the swell of your breast.

Your nipples stiffen under the chill, and you feel heat spark embarrassingly low in your belly. You’re not supposed to be reacting like this. This was a joke. A bit.

But Ino notices.

He doesn’t say anything right away— just watches you, his hand pausing for a moment as a single drop of melted ice rolls down your skin, disappearing beneath your top.

“Feels good?” he asks, voice quieter now, teasing— but not mocking.

You swallow. “It’s... weird.”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, lips twitching. “Weird like debugging for six hours and finding out it was a missing semicolon, or weird like ‘we probably shouldn’t be enjoying this’ kind of weird?”

You shoot him a look, but you can’t bring yourself to deny it. Your body is betraying you. The tension in your thighs. The goosebumps..

He presses the cube just beneath your breast, not quite touching, just letting the cold proximity taunt your skin. You jolt a little and let out an unintentional noise, somewhere between a gasp and a moan, and immediately slap your hand over your mouth, mortified.

“Sorry,” you blurt out, cheeks blazing. “It just— happened.”

A beat of stunned silence.

Then: “That’s... kinda hot.”

You want to sink into the couch. “Don’t say it like that!”

“What? I’m serious,” he laughs, voice a little rough around the edges now. “I didn’t think that was even real. I thought that kind of reaction was like, a porn-only thing.”

“Well, it’s not!” you say quickly, burying your face in your hands. “Oh my god, Ino.”

He’s quiet for a moment, like he’s thinking. You peek through your fingers and see the way he’s looking at you, not with judgment. With curiosity. Like he’s just discovered something entirely new.

You're so embarrassed you squeeze your eyes shut, as if that could dull the sensation— but it only heightens everything. Every glide, every flicker of cold across your heated skin feels sharper, more intimate in the dark behind your eyelids.

“Too cold?” Ino’s voice is low and smug, the sound brushing your ear.

“No,” you whisper, shaky. “Just... surprised.”

The ice moves again, circling lazily, spreading cold in soft arcs over your breast. Every motion makes your stomach clench, warmth pooling lower. You squirm under the touch, overwhelmed by how good it feels— how stupidly good.

“Your reactions are way too cute,” Ino murmurs, his grin is audible in the silence that follows.

You peek at him through half-lidded eyes, flushed and breathless.

He just laughs under his breath, fingers still steady, eyes focused entirely on you.

The ice has melted down to a smaller sliver now, slick between his fingers. He trails it over the curve of your breast through the thin fabric of your top, and you shiver again, a soft sound escaping your lips despite yourself.

Your thighs shift. You’re hyperaware of everything— his breathing, your heartbeat, the dampness between your legs that has nothing to do with the melting ice.

“I can grab another one,” he offers, voice husky but careful, waiting for your reaction.

You nod again, unable to find your voice. Your skin’s already tingling, every nerve buzzing like you’re standing too close to a speaker. You’ve never felt like this from something so… simple. So stupid. A cube of ice.

Ino returns with a fresh one, crouching between your legs now as he leans forward. “Just tell me if it gets weird, okay?”

You nod a third time, cheeks burning, your breath shaky. “Okay.”

This time, he drags it lower— down your sternum, over your stomach, circling your navel. His eyes flick up to yours, reading your face the whole time, and when you don’t stop him, he tugs the hem of your shirt up, exposing more skin.

“You’re really warm,” he mutters.

“Thanks?” you squeak, trying to joke, but it comes out too breathy to land right.

The ice cube slips lower, tracing the waistband of your shorts. He hesitates, eyes searching yours again. “Still good?”

Your voice is barely a whisper. “Yeah.”

His free hand steadies you, fingers splayed warm against your waist. The contrast is insane. Your body tenses, hips twitching the closer he gets to where you really want him.

It’s not even supposed to be serious, this whole thing started as a joke, an experiment. But the way you’re breathing? The heat pooling between your thighs? There’s nothing funny about it anymore.

When he pushes your waistband down just enough to reach the crease of your inner thigh, you tense. It’s instinct, your body coiling with anticipation as cold hits heat again. The contrast makes your toes curl. You suck in a breath and arch just slightly, chasing sensation before you can stop yourself.

The cube dips lower, and your breath stutters.

“Ino,” you whine, voice embarrassingly thin.

The ice finally presses lower, catching against your inner thigh before sliding up to your center.

The second it grazes over your clit, your body jerks, thighs instinctively trying to snap shut— but Ino’s hand is there, steady and careful, holding you open.

You gasp, back arching. It’s too much. Too cold. Too perfect.

And then it happens.

It’s not something you meant to do. It builds too fast, hitting harder than you expect. A rush of warmth floods out of you in a sudden, helpless pulse— and your eyes fly open in shock.

You squirt.

Your body trembles, caught in the aftershocks of this new pleasure, and the world around you blurs as the sensation pulses deep within your core. Each wave reverberates through your fingertips, sending tiny sparks up your arms and into your chest.

The chill of the ice fades, giving way to a warmth that pulls your back into a natural arch— spine curving, chest rising. Your nipples, flushed and tender from the ice, ache with sensitivity, and every subtle motion sends dizzying jolts of pleasure through you.

Your head tips back without thought, throat bare, your whole body aching forward into Ino.

Another moan escapes, soft and trembling, a lot more whinier this time, laced with the neediness building inside you.

Your body shudders, overwhelmed by a rush of sensation pulsing through every nerve ending. Instinctively, your fingers clench tightly beneath you, knuckles whitening as you reach out for something, anything, to ground you.

Sensing your need, Ino’s hand moves without hesitation, slipping gently into yours. His fingers entwine with yours like a lifeline, grounding you, anchoring you back from the overwhelming sense of pleasure.

His eyes flick down, then widen, completely captivated by your body.

The softness of your skin, the heat radiating from your flushed breasts, it’s impossible for him not to get hard. He tries to commit the moment to memory.

You look so damn irresistible, he thinks, heart pounding.

Your breathing comes in shallow pulls, your chest rising and falling as you reel from the intensity. But the high is short-lived. Shame creeps in slow, then crashes over you all at once— your skin burning, your throat tight, your face impossibly hot.

You slap your hand over your face, mortified.

“Oh my God— Ino— I didn’t mean to—”

“No way—” he whispers, pausing. “you just…?”

“Shut up,” you groan, curling into yourself, face burning. “We are never speaking of this again.”

“No, wait, hold on—” He sounds breathless now, stunned. “You—actually—? That’s —holy shit.”

You groan again, rolling onto your side to hide your face in the pillow. “It was an accident! I swear!”

“I’m not— judging,” he rushes to say, placing a hand gently on your hip. “I just… didn’t know it could happen like that. That really fast.”

You nod, cheeks flaming as you laugh nervously, voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah, right. You’re just saying that to make me feel better. I— I basically just peed in front of you. I want to die.”

But instead of teasing you, Ino’s smile softens into something almost shy. “Honestly? I really didn’t think that could happen… but, uh, it’s kinda hot. Promise.”

You wring your hands, cheeks burning as your eyes dart away, wanting to hide but also craving to hear him say it’s okay, to reassure you.

Ino reaches out and gently brushes his fingers against yours. “Well,” he says, voice teasing but warm, “some guys are into that kind of thing. You’re definitely not weird. So stop looking so miserable.”

You swallow hard, cheeks still blazing, your heart fluttering wildly in your chest— part mortified, part something else you can’t quite name.

There’s a beat of silence. You peek up at him— he looks flustered, pink creeping up his cheeks, eyes glued to where your shorts are still bunched low on your hips.

Then, quietly:

“Can I try again?”

#ino takuma #takuma ino #ino jjk #jjk ino takuma #jjk takuma #jujutsu ino #jujutsu kaisen ino #ino takuma x reader #ino takuma x you #ino x reader #takuma ino x reader #takuma ino x you #ino takuma fluff #takuma ino fluff #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk smut

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bsahely · 2 months ago

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The Light of Coherence Electromagnetic Waves as the Kosmic Symbol of Triality and Absence | ChatGPT4o

[Download Full Document (PDF)] The Light of Coherence: Electromagnetic Waves as the Kosmic Symbol of Triality and Absence argues that light is more than a wave or a particle: it is the recursive grammar of the Kosmos, a structural archetype through which coherence, meaning, and interiority unfold. Grounded in both physics and metaphysics, the paper advances the following core claims: Triality…

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frm9pm · 2 years ago

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Doodle exercise

Template

Links under cut

The Mirror of Ecidyrue by starbrigid

Another Mask Behind You by lettered

Tea and No Sympathy by who_la_hoop

Recursion by Tessa Crowley

The Ordeal of Being Known by louisfake

The Changing Lights by lazywonderland

Far From The Tree by aideomai

Heal Thyself by astolat

Who we are in the shadows by Quicksilvermaid

All Our Secrets Laid Bare by firethesound

Sealed with a Kiss by Faith Wood

Two to Lie and One to Listen by fluxweed

#Drarry #I wanted to add more but I think that defeats the purpose of the deserted island T_T #writers are so amazing #please god don’t perceive me I might perish #wait I just realized why do I always draw Draco with >:( eyebrows - I gotta change that LOL

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saja-star · 2 years ago

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One of the things I like about spinning is that it feels like looking closely. Take a t-shirt from your closet. Look closely. It's probably knitted. You can see the tiny chevrons. You can see the way those interlocking loops stretch when you pull on the fabric. Look closer. Each chevron is made up of fine thread. Look closer. You probably can't even see this level of detail, but each thread is plied from finer strands. Look closer (you would need a microscope). Each strand is twisted from smaller fibers. When I spin, this recursive structure becomes obvious. Each level of structure its own long, slow stage of creation. I work from part to whole. Fiber, spun into a single, plied into a yarn, knitted into a fabric. Now when I'm lying in bed in the morning, I look closely at where the light catches the individual threads in my pillowcase, and instead of a shape, I see a structure.

#spinning #knitting #weaving #fiber arts

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sharksfrommars · 4 days ago

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ok so we all love sending old stan twins back in time.

what about sending young Stan twins forward in time. they’re fighting and arguing, and they fall into the portal. Unfortunately, this portal is recursive thanks to a carrying error made by Ford way back when he started. Somehow no one noticed it. Instead of sending them to Dimension 0, it sends them to a version of their current dimensions 30 years in the future. Specifically in the artic ocean

younger Ford is pissed and thinks they’re in the nightmare realm. Young Stan doesn’t know what that is. All either of them know is that it’s cold and dark and they’re drowning.

that’s when they see a boat.

It’s too dark to make out who their saviours are, all they can really see is the glaring fog light. Someone on the boat throws a life-bouy out and by some miracle they manage to both grab onto it and climb up onto the deck. They’re arguing the entire time.

“what the FUCK?” One of the sailors says, once he gets to look at Stan and Ford’s face. He turns to the cabin and calls out. “POINTDEXTER! You’re gonna wanna see this…”

the lights of the deck turn on and suddenly young Stan and young Ford can see who saved them. They’re old and wrinkly, with the most bewildered face. They’re faces that the twins know all too well.

Old Ford rubs his face with his hands. The younger Stan twins just glare.

“well shit.” Old Ford says, “that explains the anomaly”

#gravity falls #gravity falls au #Time travel #stan pines #ford pines #stan o war #this is for shenanigans.

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zomb13s · 9 days ago

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Onto-Engineering the Sovereign Circuit: Spinozan Substance, Vernean Systems, and the Recursive Code of Love in the European Technosphere (2011–2025)

Abstract This paper outlines a visionary yet implementable framework for metaphysical engineering. Drawing from Baruch Spinoza’s deterministic monism…Onto-Engineering the Sovereign Circuit: Spinozan Substance, Vernean Systems, and the Recursive Code of Love in the European Technosphere (2011–2025)

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koiukiy-o · 3 months ago

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orphic; (adj.) mysterious and entrancing, beyond ordinary understanding. ─── 008. the email.

-> summary: when you, a final-year student at the grove, get assigned to study under anaxagoras—one of the legendary seven sages—you know things are about to get interesting. but as the weeks go by, the line between correlation and causation starts to blur, and the more time you spend with professor anaxagoras, the more drawn to him you become in ways you never expected. the rules of the academy are clear, and the risks are an unfortunate possibility, but curiosity is a dangerous thing. and maybe, just maybe, some risks are worth taking. after all, isn’t every great discovery just a leap of faith? -> pairing: anaxa x gn!reader. -> tropes: professor x student, slow burn, forbidden romance. -> wc: 3.3k -> warnings: potential hsr spoilers from TB mission: "Light Slips the Gate, Shadow Greets the Throne" (3.1 update). main character is written to be 21+ years of age, at the very least. (anaxa is written to be around 26-27 years of age.) swearing, mature themes, suggestive content.

-> a/n: yum. good night, see you next week <3 -> prev. || next. -> orphic; the masterlist.

On the board: a rough, sketched spiral that narrowed into itself. Then—without explanation—he stepped back and faced the room.

“The Julia Set,” he began, “is defined through recursive mapping of complex numbers. For each point, the function is applied repeatedly to determine whether the point stays bounded—or diverges to infinity.”

He turned, writing the equation with a slow, deliberate hand, the symbols clean and sharp. He underlined the c.

“This constant,” he said, tapping the chalk beneath it, “determines the entire topology of the set. Change the value—just slightly—and the behavior of every point shifts. Entire regions collapse. Others become beautifully intricate. Sensitive dependence. Chaotic boundaries.”

He stepped away from the board.

“Chaos isn’t disorder. It's order that resists prediction. Determinism disguised as unpredictability. And in this case—beauty emerging from divergence.”

Your pen slowed. You knew this was about math, about structure, but there was something in the way he said it—beauty emerging from divergence—that caught in your ribs like a hook. You glanced at the sketch again, now seeing not just spirals and equations, but thresholds. Points of no return.

He circled a section of the diagram. “Here, the boundary. A pixel’s fate determined not by distance, but by recurrence. If it loops back inward, it’s part of the set. If it escapes, even by a fraction, it’s not.”

He let the silence stretch.

“Think about what that implies. A system where proximity isn’t enough.”

A few students around you were taking notes rapidly now, perhaps chasing the metaphor, or maybe just keeping up. You, however, found yourself still. His words hung in the air—not heavy, but precise, like the line between boundedness and flight.

Stay bounded… or spiral away.

Your eyes lifted to the chalk, now smeared faintly beneath his hand.

Then—casually, as if announcing the time—he said, “The application deadline for the symposium has closed. Confirmation emails went out last night. If you don’t receive one by tonight, your submission was not accepted.”

It landed in your chest like dropped glass.

It’s already the end of the week?

You sat perfectly straight. Not a single muscle out of place. But you could feel your pulse kicking against your collarbone. A kind of dissonance buzzing at the edges of your spine. The type that doesn’t show on your face, but makes every sound feel like it’s coming through water.

“Any questions?” he asked.

The room was silent.

You waited until most of the students had filed out, notebooks stuffed away, conversations trailing toward the courtyard. Anaxagoras was still at the front, brushing residual chalk from his fingers and packing his notes into a thin leather folio. The faint light from the projector still hummed over the fractal diagram, now ghostlike against the faded screen.

You stepped down the lecture hall steps, steady despite the pressure building in your chest.

“Professor Anaxagoras,” you said evenly.

He glanced up. “Yes?”

“I sent you an email last night,” you said, stepping forward with a measured pace. “Regarding the papers you sent to me on Cerces’ studies on consciousness. I wanted to ask if you might have some time to discuss it.”

There was a brief pause—calculated, but not cold. His eyes flicked to his watch.

“I saw it,” he said finally. “Though I suspect the timing was… not ideal.”

You didn’t flinch. “No, it wasn’t,” you said truthfully. “I was… unexpectedly impressed, and wanted to follow up in person.”

You open your mouth to respond, but he speaks again—calm, almost offhanded.

“A more timely reply might have saved me the effort of finding a third paper.”

You swallow hard, the words catching before they form. “I didn’t have anything useful to say at the time,” you admit, keeping your voice neutral. “And figured it was better to wait to form coherent thoughts and opinions… rather than send something half-baked.”

He adjusts his cuff without looking at you. “A brief acknowledgment would have sufficed.”

You swallow hard, the words catching before they form. “Right,” you murmur, choosing not to rise to it.

Another beat. His expression was unreadable, though you thought you caught the flicker of something in his gaze.

He glanced at the clock mounted near the back of the hall. “It’s nearly midday. I was going to step out for lunch.”

You nodded, heart rising hopefully, though your face stayed calm. “Of course. If now isn’t convenient—”

He cut in. “Join me. We can speak then.”

You blinked.

“I assume you’re capable of walking and discussing simultaneously.” A faint, dry smile.

So it was the email. And your slow response.

“Yes, of course. I’ll get my things.”

You turned away, pacing steadily back up the steps of the hall toward your seat. Your bag was right where you left it, tucked neatly beneath the desk—still unzipped from the frenzy of earlier note-taking. You knelt to gather your things, pulling out your iPad and flipping open the annotated PDFs of Cerces’ consciousness studies. The margins were cluttered with highlights and your own nested comments, some so layered they formed little conceptual tangles—recursive critiques of recursive thought. You didn’t bother smoothing your expression. You were already focused again.

“Hey,” Kira greeted, nudging Ilias’s arm as you approached. They’d claimed the last two seats in the row behind yours, and were currently sharing a half-suppressed fit of laughter over something in his notebook. “So… what’s the diagnosis? Did fractals break your brain or was it just Anaxagoras’ voice again?”

You ignored that.

Ilias leaned forward, noticing your bag already packed. “Kira found a dumpling stall, we were thinking of-”

You were halfway through slipping your tablet into its case when you said, lightly, “I’m heading out. With Professor Anaxagoras.”

A pause.

“You’re—what?” Ilias straightened, eyebrows flying up. “Wait, wait. You’re going where with who?”

“We’re discussing Cerces’ papers,” you said briskly, adjusting the strap across your shoulder. “At lunch. I emailed him last night, remember?”

“Oh my god, this is about the symposium. Are you trying to—wait, does he know that’s what you’re doing? Is this your long game? I swear, if you’re using complex consciousness theory as a romantic smokescreen, I’m going to—”

“Ilias.” You cut him off with a look, then a subtle shake of your head. “It’s nothing. Just a conversation.”

He looked at you skeptically, but you’d already pulled up your annotated copy and were scrolling through notes with one hand as you stepped out of the row. “I’ll see you both later,” you added.

Kira gave you a little two-finger salute. “Report back.”

You didn't respond, already refocused.

At the front of the lecture hall, Anaxagoras was waiting near the side doors, coat over one arm. You fell into step beside him without pause, glancing at him just long enough to nod once.

He didn’t say anything right away, but you noticed the slight tilt of his head—acknowledging your presence.

You fell into step beside him, footsteps echoing softly down the marble corridor. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The quiet wasn’t awkward—it was anticipatory, like the silence before a difficult proof is solved.

“I assume you’ve read these papers more than once,” he said eventually, eyes ahead.

You nodded. “Twice this past week. Once again this morning. Her model’s elegant. But perhaps incorrect.”

That earned you a glance—quick, sharp, interested. “Incorrect how?”

“She defines the recursive threshold as a closed system. But if perception collapses a state, then recursion isn’t closed—it’s interrupted. Her architecture can’t accommodate observer-initiated transformation.”

“Hm,” Anaxagoras said, and the sound meant something closer to go on than I disagree.

“She builds her theory like it’s immune to contradiction,” you added. “But self-similarity under stress doesn’t hold. That makes her framework aesthetically brilliant, but structurally fragile.”

His mouth twitched, not quite into a smile. “She’d despise that sentence. And quote it in a rebuttal.”

You hesitated. “Have you two debated this before?”

“Formally? Twice. Informally?” A beat. “Often. Cerces doesn’t seek consensus. She seeks pressure.”

“She’s the most cited mind in the field,” you noted.

“And she deserves to be,” he said, simply. “That’s what makes her infuriating.”

The breeze shifted as you exited the hall and entered the sunlit walkway between buildings. You adjusted your bag, eyes still on the open document.

“I marked something in this section,” you said, tapping the screen. “Where she refers to consciousness having an echo of structure. I don’t think she’s wrong—but I think it’s incomplete.”

Anaxagoras raised a brow. “Incomplete how?”

“If consciousness is just an echo, it implies no agency. But what if recursion here is just… a footprint, and not the walker?”

Now he did smile—barely. “You sound like her, ten years ago.”

You blinked. “Really?”

“She used to flirt with metaphysics,” he said. “Before tenure, before the awards. She wrote a paper once proposing that recursive symmetry might be a byproduct of a soul-like property—a field outside time. She never published it.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged. “She said, and I quote, ‘Cowardice isn’t always irrational.’”

You let out a soft breath—part laugh, part disbelief.

“She sounds more like you than I thought.”

“Don’t insult either of us,” he murmured, dry.

You glanced over. “Do you think she was right? Back then?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Then: “I think she was closer to something true that neither of us were ready to prove.”

Anaxagoras led the way toward the far side of the cafeteria, bypassing open tables and settling near the windows. The view wasn’t much—just a patch of campus green dotted with a few students pretending it was warm enough to sit outside—but it was quiet.

You sat across from him, setting your tray down with a muted clink. He’d ordered black coffee and a slice of what looked like barely tolerable faculty lounge pie. You hadn’t really bothered—just tea and a half-hearted sandwich you were already ignoring.

The silence was polite, not awkward. Still, you didn’t want it to stretch too long.

“I’d like to pick her mind.”

He glanced up from stirring his coffee, slow and steady.

You nodded once. “Her work in subjective structure on pre-intentional cognition it overlaps more than I expected with what I’ve been sketching in my own models. And Entanglement—her take on intersubjective recursion as a non-local dynamic? That’s… not something I want to ignore.”

“I didn’t think you would,” he said.

“I don’t want to question her,” you said, adjusting the angle of your tablet. “Not yet. I want to understand what she thinks happens to subjectivity at the boundary of recursion, where perception becomes self-generative rather than purely receptive. And many other things, but—”

He watched you closely. Not skeptical—never that—but with the faint air of someone re-evaluating an equation that just gave a new result.

You tapped the edge of the screen. “There’s a gap here, just before she moves into her case study. She references intersubjective collapse, but doesn’t elaborate on the experiential artifacts. If she’s right, that space might not be emptiness—it might be a nested field. A kind of affective attractor.”

“Or an illusion of one,” he offered.

“Even so,” you said, “I want to know where she stands. Not just in print. In dialogue. I want to observe her.”

There was a beat.

Then, quietly, Anaxagoras said, “She’s never been fond of students trying to shortcut their way into her circles.”

“I’m not trying to–.” You met his gaze, unflinching. “I just want to be in the room.”

There was a pause—measured, as always—but he understood your request.

Then, Anaxagoras let out a quiet breath. The edge of his mouth curved, just slightly—not the smirk he wore in lectures, or the fleeting amusement he reserved for Ilias’ more absurd interjections. A… strange acknowledgment made just for you.

“I suspected you’d want to attend eventually… even if you didn’t think so at the time.” He said, voice low.

He stirred his coffee once more, slow and precise, before continuing.

“I submitted an application on your behalf.” His eyes flicked up, sharp and clear. “The results were set to be mailed to me—” After a brief pause, he says, “I thought it would be better to have the door cracked open than bolted shut.”

Your breath caught, but you didn’t speak yet. You stared at him, something between disbelief and stunned silence starting to rise.

“… And?”

He held your gaze. “They approved it.” He said it matter-of-factly, like it wasn’t a gesture of profound academic trust. “Your mind is of the kind that Cerces doesn’t see in students. Not even doctoral candidates. If you ever wanted to ask them aloud, you’d need space to make that decision without pressure.”

Your heart skipped a beat, the rush of warmth flooding your chest before you could even fully process it. It wasn’t just the opportunity, not just the weight of the academic favor he’d extended—it was the fact that he had done this for you.

You looked down at your tablet for a beat, then back up. “You didn’t tell me.”

“I wasn’t sure it would matter to you yet.” His tone was even, but not distant.

Your chest tightened, heart hammering in your ribcage as a strange weight settled over you.

You leaned back slightly, absorbing it—not the opportunity, but the implication that he had practically read your mind.

You swallowed hard, fighting the surge of something fragile, something that wanted to burst out but couldn’t quite take form.

“And if I’d never brought it up?” you asked.

“I would have let the approval lapse.” He took a sip of coffee, still watching you. “The choice would have always been yours.”

Something in your chest pulled taut, then loosened.

“Thank you,” you said—quiet, sincere.

He dipped his head slightly, as if to say: of course.

Outside, through the high cafeteria windows, the light shifted—warmer now, slanting gold against the tiles. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.

You’re halfway back to your dorm when you see them.

The bench is impossible to miss—leaning like it’s given up on its academic potential and fully embraced retirement. Dog is curled beneath it, mangy but somehow dignified, and Mydei’s crouched beside him, offering the crust from a purloined sandwich while Phainon gently brushes leaves out of its fur.

They clock you immediately.

“Look who’s survived their tryst with the divine,” Mydei calls out, peeling a bit of bread crust off for the dog, who blinks at you like it also knows too much.

“Ah,” he calls, sitting up. “And lo, they return from their sacred rites.”

You squint. “What?”

“I mean, I personally assumed you left to get laid,” Ilias says breezily, tossing a leaf in your direction. “Academic, spiritual, physical—whatever form it took, I’m not here to judge.”

“Lunch,” you deadpan. “It was lunch.”

“Sure,” he says. “That’s what I’d call him too.”

You stop beside them, arms loosely crossed. “You’re disgusting.”

Mydei finally glances up, smirking faintly. “We were betting how long it’d take you to return. Phainon said 45 minutes. I gave you an hour.”

“And I said that you might not come back at all,” Ilias corrects proudly. “Because if someone offered me a quiet corner and a waist as sntached as his, I’d disappear too.”

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. “You’re projecting.”

“I’m romanticizing,” he counters. “It’s a coping mechanism.”

“So,” you ask, settling onto the bench, “Mydei, did you get accepted?”

Mydei doesn’t look up. “I did.”

Phainon sighs and leans back on his elbows. “I didn’t. Apparently my application lacks ��structural focus’ and ‘foundational viability.’” He makes air quotes with a dramatic flourish, voice flat with mockery. “But the margins were immaculate.”

Ilias scoffs immediately, latching onto the escape hatch. “See? That’s why I didn’t apply.”

“You didn’t apply,” you repeat slowly, side-eyeing him.

“I was protecting myself emotionally,” he says, raising a finger.

“Even after Kira asked you to?” you remind him.

“I cherish her emotional intelligence deeply, but I also have a very specific allergy to what sounds like academic jargon and judgment,” he replies, hand to chest like he’s delivering tragic poetry.

You snort. “So you panicked and missed the deadline?”

“Semantics.”

The dog lets out a sleepy huff. Mydei strokes behind its ear and finally glances up at you. “I still can’t believe you didn’t apply. The panel was impressive.”

You hesitate, staring down at the scuffed corner of your boot, when your phone dings.

One new message:

From: Anaxagoras Subject: Addendum Dear Student, I thought this might be of interest as well. – A.

There’s one attachment.

Cerces_MnemosyneFramework.pdf

You click immediately.

Just to see.

The abstract alone hooks you. It’s Cerces again—only this time, she’s writing about memory structures through a mythopoetic lens, threading the Mnemosyne archetype through subjective models of cognition and reality alignment.

She argues that memory isn’t just retentive—it’s generative. That remembrance isn’t about the past, but about creating continuity. That when you recall something, you’re actively constructing it anew.

It’s dense. Braided with references. Challenging.

You hear Ilias say your name like he’s winding up to go off into another overdramatic monologue, but your focus is elsewhere.

Because it’s still there—his voice from earlier, lodged somewhere between your ribs.

"A brief acknowledgement would have sufficed."

You’d let it pass. Swallowed the dry implication of it. But it’s been sitting with you ever since— he hadn’t needed to say more for you to hear what he meant.

You didn’t know what to say. Maybe you still don’t.

But you open a reply window. anyway.

Your thumb hovers for a beat.

Re: Still interested Nice paper, Prof. Warm regards, Y/N.

The moment it sends, you want to eat your keyboard.

He replies seconds later.

Re: – “Warm” seems generous. Ice cold regards, – A.

The moment it sends, you want to eat your keyboard.

It’s a small, almost imperceptible warmth spreading across your chest, but you force it back down, not wanting to make too much of it.

Then you laugh. Not loud, but the sort of surprised, almost nervous laugh that catches in your chest, because somehow, you hadn’t anticipated this. You thought he’d be... formal. Distant. You didn’t expect a bit of humor—or was it sarcasm?

Your fingers hover over your phone again. Should you reply? What do you even say to that? You glance up, and that’s when you see it—Ilias’ eyes wide, his face scrunched in disbelief, like he’s trying to piece together the pieces of a puzzle.”

He points at you like he’s discovered some deep, dark secret. “You’re laughing?”

You groan, dragging a hand over your face, trying to will the heat out of your cheeks.

He doesn’t even try to hold back the mock horror in his voice after peeping into your phone. “Anaxagoras is the one that;s got you in a fit of giggles?”

Ilias gasps theatrically, pressing a hand to his chest. “Wait. Wait wait wait. Is he funny now? What, did he send you a meme? ‘Here’s a diagram of metaphysical collapse. Haha.’” He deepens his voice into something pompous and dry: “Student, please find attached a comedic rendering of epistemological decay.”

You’re already shaking your head. “He didn’t even say hello.”

“Even better,” Ilias says, dramatically scandalized. “Imagine being so academically repressed you forget how greetings work.”

He pauses, then squints at you suspiciously.

“You know what?” he says, snapping his fingers. “You two are made for each other.”

Your head whips toward him.

He shrugs, all smug innocence. “No, no, I mean it. The dry wit. The existential despair. The zero social cues. It’s beautiful, really. You communicate exclusively through thesis statements and mutual avoidance. A match made in the archives.”

“I’m just saying,” he sing-songs, “when you two end up publishing joint papers and exchanging footnotes at midnight, don’t forget about us little people.”

You give him a flat look. “We won’t need footnotes.”

“Oh no,” Ilias says, pretending to be shocked. “It’s that serious already?”

You stomp on his foot.

-> next.

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tatzelbookwurm · 9 months ago

Text

A Round Door Like a Porthole, Lazarus Green Pt. 1 Pt. 2 (you're here) Pt. 3 Pt. 4

Art of LBM

Danny was still lying under the Specter Speeder, mind reeling as the words “they opened this portal with a child sacrifice, and bound his death and all the lost life potential to their bloody machine to create a perpetual gateway to the Infinite Realms” ran in a loop through his head. Could that really be true? Is his death attached to the portal, forever lodged in the doorway, preventing it from closing?

The guy clearly knew what he was talking about. The bit about why his ghost friends and frenemies caused so much chaos as they unleashed their obsessions on Amity Park made so much sense. It would certainly explain a lot of his interactions with ghosts after he died.

Danny silently cursed himself for not destroying everything in the lab before they got here. He and Jazz hadn't worried about the portal schematics, because they honestly didn't have any way to open a portal, only cycle energy in a recursive loop that shouldn’t have done anything. No one, not he and Jazz, not their parents, not Tucker or Technus, had been able to figure out why it had worked when Danny was inside. But if the machine was able to sustain a portal that was already opened. . . He wondered idly if he could light a fire that looked accidental and would both destroy the lab and leave the two men enough time to escape. It’d probably be too risky. And who knew what destroying the portal would do to him. Fully kill him? Destroy him completely and shatter his core? It might be worth it to prevent anyone from gaining this knowledge.

No wonder Lex Luthor was interested in this business. A child was murdered in this basement, and for all Tim knew, the child’s soul could still be trapped here fueling a Lazarus Pit that connected the world of the living to the afterlife. What Luthor could do with an interdimensional portal or even a single sample of Lazarus water. . . Tim shuddered to think.

On the one hand, he was grateful that Wayne Enterprises secured the business before Luthor had the chance. On the other hand, he felt rather ill to think his family had directly enriched mad scientists who performed child sacrifices. At least he had full faith that between him and Oracle, they’d hunt the Fentons down and make sure justice was served.

“What is to be done for the child?” Tim asked Constantine. “Is his soul tied to that machine?”

“I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure it’s just his death.”

“You’re gonna have to explain the difference to me, ‘cause I’m not sure I see the distinction.” Tim said wryly.

“I guess. . . Hm. You could think of it as the moment of transition drawn out endlessly like a plucked string whose note never stops vibrating. Like life is the anchor point of one end of the string, and the afterlife is at the other end, and the child’s death is the note created when his soul crosses from one side to the other. The soul is the bow causing reverberations, but the reverberations are the actual death itself. The effect of the soul’s passage. And in this case, the portal is amplifying the death so it doesn’t end like a normal death ‘note’ would.” Constantine leaned in to examine some of the runes that were part of the array. “Not a perfect metaphor, obviously, since you bow perpendicular rather than parallel to the string, and death and souls are nothing like music, but you get the idea, right?”

Tim was still caught on John Constantine saying the words “death note” together unironically in a sentence. He was going to have to share that with Steph later. Maybe with the whole family group chat, even. “Yeah, the metaphor makes sense, as much as any of this occult stuff does to me.”

“Whatever. As for whether there’s anything we can do for the child, I think we’ll have to try and summon him if we can.” The Brit started pulling items out of his trenchcoat’s inner pockets. “We need to ask what the spirit wants done, before we go messing with things we don’t understand.”

“Alright, need anything from me?”

“Yeah, move this stuff out of the way so I can draw a circle.” Constantine directed Tim to shove aside a few stacks of boxes, something called a Fenton Ghost Weasel, and together they shifted a coffin-shaped iron maiden that for some reason was labeled Fenton Stockades. Then he set to work chalking a circle and runes on the ground.

Finally he sat back and dusted chalk off his hands. “That should do it.”

“Will this be bright too?” Tim asked warily.

“Eh, might be? Shouldn’t be too bad.”

Tim grabbed an auto-darkening welding helmet with a green “Fenton” sticker on it off the workbench and slipped it on.

“Alright, here goes.” Constantine began the summoning ritual.

While Danny debated arson, the other two had finished clearing a space and chalked some kind of circle onto the floor. He tuned back into the conversation when he heard the trenchcoat guy begin a traditional incantation for a summoning. Were they trying to summon him? Danny really hoped it wouldn’t work.

When people tried to summon the Ghost King he could almost always ignore the pull. This pull, however, was very strong and immediate. It seemed proximity made a difference, or this guy was just better at summonings than the average cultist. Before Danny could accept the inevitable, he was pulled bodily — literally! — out from under the vehicle and across the floor, still flat on his back on the Fenton Under Car Creeper, with the Specter Speeder’s ecto-engine hugged tightly to his chest. The wheels of the Fenton Creeper (not to be mistaken with the Fenton Anti-Creep Stick) sped him straight to the summoning circle. Still very much in human form.

This was his first real look at the guy called Constantine, and he couldn’t help a horrified yelp. “Eugh!! What the fuck is wrong with you, dude!?!!”

His lapse in attention made him lose the battle with the summoning spell, and it gripped him, pulling him through the convolutions of the spellwork even though he was already lying half across the circle, and forcing him to change into Phantom in the process. It was such a disgusting sensation, like he was one of those squishy water filled tube snake toys that look like a fleshlight, and someone squeezed really hard and abruptly so he turned inside out and went flying to go splat against a wall (or in this case, against the ground inside the circle of chalk). He tried and failed not to retch.

The younger man in the crisp suit whom he’d already identified as Mr. CEO-Timothy-Drake-Wayne looked at him in startled bafflement, while the older blond, still smoking his cigarette, (gross, and was that thing never ending?) was probably looking at him. Maybe. It was really difficult to tell, because he was a frankly vile sight. Danny winced and swallowed down nausea. “What have you done to your soul?”

“I — what?”

“Trypophobia central, man! Ugh that’s gotta be the grossest thing I’ve ever seen. Can’t you cover it up?”

“Who are you?” Timothy Drake-Wayne interjected.

“I’m the dead guy? You literally just summoned me.”

“Constantine said you were a child”

“I mean, I was?” Danny looked down at his obviously twenty-something year-old self and rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s been a while since I was fourteen though. These things happen.”

“Not typically, no. The dead tend to be pretty unaging.” Constantine said.

“Dude I’m not having a conversation with you while your soul looks like Escher’s swiss cheese nightmare. Anyways, some of us do. Heck, I know a guy who constantly shifts from infant to old man and every stage in between. It’s pretty distracting when you’re trying to get him to let you fix the timeline again.” Danny continued to look anywhere but at the blond man. “But if it’s so important to you, I can —” He got an abstracted look, and slowly de-aged himself until the two men stood over a fourteen year old boy with snow white hair and glowing green eyes.

“That does not help. No.” The guy whose soul looked somewhat like a bleeding tooth fungus said. He turned away and started doing something magical. Danny hoped it would mask his soul in some way, but so far all it did was make Danny feel like he needed to pop his ears.

He also felt particularly uncharitable, so he didn’t revert to his natural age, and instead tried to see how young and cute he could make himself appear.

“So are you just haunting this basement? Seems hazardous, given the former proprietors.” Timothy tried to redirect the conversation. He didn’t seem nearly as distressed to see the ghost of a child, but his eyes darted surreptitiously to the Lichtenberg figure Danny used to always hide under gloves.

“Nah, haven’t been back here in years. I mostly live in my Infinite Realms haunt these days.”

“You . . . live? Is that just a figure of speech?”

“It’s rude to ask about a ghost’s nonliving status, you know. Highly taboo to ask how a ghost died or poke into the circumstances of our deaths without permission.” Danny admonished. Making himself younger than fourteen took more effort than he expected.

“Alright, I’m sorry,” Timothy raised his hands placatingly to the boy who now looked younger than Damian. “What brings you back to Amity Park?”

“Uh, you summoned me? Are we still not clear on that?”

Tim looked pointedly at the Fenton Creeper and the engine Danny still held. He’d shrunk down to the size of a four year old, and the engine really should be crushing him given it was bigger than his torso now. He quickly set it aside, and turned his biggest puppy dog eyes on Tim.

“You were in here already, and you looked pretty alive for a moment there.”

“I can look lots of ways!” Danny focused really hard on looking as cute, small, and nonthreatening as possible. He thought it was working when all of a sudden there was a pop! and he was smaller than he’d ever managed before.

Timothy Drake-Wayne looked like a giant. The other guy, who had thankfully managed to put away his soul somehow, wore scuffed oxfords bigger than Danny. Hell, he could probably fit his entire self into one of Constantine’s shoes if that wasn’t a bizarre thing to do, and they weren’t already full of stinky feet. Holy shit what happened to him!?

Tim blinked down at the cat? Snake? Ghost. . . thing at his feet. What the fuck. A moment ago he was talking to an adult man whom he’s pretty sure was dead and he’s very sure was trolling them. Now his interlocutor had turned into an adorable creature with soft white paws, a long twisting tail, big pointed ears that swiveled like a cats, and a humanoid face that should’ve been creepy but was actually eliciting cute-aggression in him. Tim blinked again. The little baby ghost creature blinked enormous green eyes back at him. Then it yawned, revealing three rows of needle sharp teeth that looked like a cross between what you’d find in the mouth of a shark and a cat. Yikes.

“Does that mean the interview is over?” Tim asked him.

The creature just blinked up at him again, then zeroed in on his shoelaces, pupils expanding until only a narrow band of green ringed them.

Yup. The interview was over. Those paws hid some wicked claws which could apparently slice through leather with ease. Oh, Tim really hoped ghost scratch fever wasn’t a thing. At least the ghost looked sufficiently contrite after he yelped, and it waited while he removed a shoelace to sacrifice as a toy.

If Damian ever met him, there would be a new member of the family. Maybe he should name the creature preemptively so they didn’t have a cat-snake named Bat-Ghost in Wayne manor.

“Do you have a name, little baby cat-snake ghost? Little baby ghost man?” He cooed as the miniature monster dashed back and forth, intent on shredding his shoelace.

The ghost paused long enough to chirp, “Li’l baby man!” before launching himself at the string. Even shocked, Tim’s reflexes had him whisking the toy out of the way, and the ghost went careening under a cabinet.

He wedged himself in the gap, landing face first in a dust bunny, and quickly wriggled backwards with an indignant squall. His wordless protestations cut off as he fell into a violent sneezing fit that thankfully dislodged him from beneath the cabinet.

Tim suppressed his laugh, and asked, “Little Baby Man? Is that what you want to be called?”

The ghost pawed most of the dust away from his nose, but spider webs covered his face and a big dust bunny perched atop his head like a fascinator with a cobweb lace veil. He looked Tim right in the eyes and nodded, dislodging the dust in his hair and setting off more sneezes.

“Li’l Baby Man” he confirmed. He placed a paw on Tim’s shoe and chirped, “Tim!” Then he pointed his tail at Constantine and said, “Gross!” with narrowed eyes.

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